title: three young pioneers by author: john theodore mueller subtitle: a story of the early settlement of our country contents chapters i. on the atlantic ii. the new home iii. a new brother iv. a happy surprise v. a wonderful journey vi. the curse of greed vii. in the throes of war viii. pequot indians ix. the remains of the log house x. capture and escape xi. back again and agnes xii. agnes' story and hartford xiii. the victory over the pequots xiv. christmas at the trading post chapter i on the atlantic "come to me, children," said mrs. bradley invitingly; "i will be a mother to you, my darlings. you shall not be a burden to the community, but i will take care of you myself." having said this, she seized the little boy and his sister and pressed them to her heart, while tears trickled down her full, rosy cheeks. "now you little sweethearts," she said soothingly, "you must not be afraid of me. let me wipe your tears, and then you will come with me to my quarters, and i will give you something very, very good to eat. but by all means don't cry anymore." the children snuggled up to her and she took them by their hands, away from the crowd which had frightened them by their curious stares. there was a sigh of relief when the woman had promised to take care of them, for all on shipboard were glad that the two orphans had found a protector. "god bless thee, sister clara," said the minister; "the lord will reward thee, after thy goodness, both here and hereafter. nor will he ever forsake or leave thee with the extra burden imposed on thee." "the children are no burden," the woman replied; "but rather a godsend, for both my husband and i have longed for two little angels like these long ago. how they will comfort our hearts in those weary hours of winter when the days are so short and the nights so long! and, please you, sir, there will be enough for us to eat, for the good lord has blessed us abundantly. but i must not delay to attend to them; so kindly excuse me, i must go." the minister looked after her with grateful eyes, and then turned to the men and women standing around him. "a pious woman she is," he said; "a rich reward will be hers for her great kindness." then the congregation dispersed, each family departing for the cabins and quarters where they lodged during the long, long voyage over the atlantic. traveling at that time was not as comfortable as it is now, for the conversation that we just related took place just three hundred years ago, to be exact in the year of our lord 1630. since that time many and great changes have taken place in the world, and should the people of that time rise from their graves, they would be amazed at the transformation that has taken place. at that time the voyage across the ocean was slow and dangerous; the ships were small and propelled by the wind, so that when the weather was contrary, it took the emigrants a long time to reach america. usually the food was poor, and quite often the water gave out, so that the people on shipboard suffered extremely. at the time of our story there were many who wished to settle in america, and in consequence the vessels were usually crowded to the utmost of their capacity. the result was that sickness spread among the passengers, and many did not reach the country where they hoped to find liberty of conscience. among these was the mother of the two children, of whom we just spoke. the boy's name was fred, and he was eight years old; the name of his sister was agnes, and she was seven. they were strong and healthy children, but their frail mother could not stand the hardships of the voyage. for six years she had lived in anxiety, for in 1624 her husband had left england to settle in the plymouth colony, which the pilgrims had established in 1620. he was very sincere in his faith, and rather than stay in good old england and do what his conscience forbade him, he joined the sturdy emigrants who left their homes for the lord's sake, as they were fully convinced. he arrived safely in plymouth colony and at first sent cheering letters to his wife. but suddenly these ceased, and she worried day and night over her far-away husband. she toiled diligently, so that her children did not suffer for lack of bread, but the worry broke her heart, and when she had saved a little sum of money, enough to pay for her voyage, she left england and joined the colonists who in ever larger numbers sought the land of freedom across the sea. she did not live to set her foot on that strange, unknown land, but the good lord called her out of all trouble, and she was buried in the sea. fred was old enough to realize what the death of his beloved mother meant, and agnes, too, wept bitterly when they took away her mother and softly and slowly laid her away in the rolling waves. the little band of emigrants at first worried considerably about what to do with the children. the majority of them were poor and blessed with large families so that they did not have any food to spare. hence their joy was great when clara bradley volunteered to adopt the children as her own. she herself was on the way to meet her husband, who two years before, in 1628, had left england with the puritans to settle in the new territory granted by the king to the massachusetts company. the puritans, as you know, differed from the pilgrims in many respects; in consequence, they wished to establish their own settlements far enough away from the plymouth colony to avoid misunderstanding and trouble. as soon as mr. bradley had arrived in the new settlement he wrote a long letter to his wife in which he described the wonderful country in which he had found a new home. but he begged her to wait for some time until he had built a house, cleared a small piece of land, and made other preparations to welcome his young and beautiful wife. in england mr. bradley had been a merchant, and his wife came from a rich family so that he did not care to burden her with the hardships of primitive pioneer life. but she was a sensible woman, who was not afraid to work, and since she loved her husband dearly, she insisted that she would come and share with him the woe and weal of his life. when, therefore, in 1630, the massachusetts company gave the people in the colony the right to govern themselves, and in consequence, thousands of puritans were willing to go to america, she would stay in england no longer, but sold her property, collected her belongings, and sailed with the first band of emigrants, in whose midst was also john winthrop, the new governor. it was by accident that she met the poor mother with her two little children, and when she heard her story, she pitied her very much. she, too, made friends with the children, and later when their mother was confined to her cabin, she took them on deck and told them many interesting stories of land and sea, and of kings and queens, and of the indians that roved in the forests of their new country. as she was blessed with sufficient funds, she had richly provided herself with special and delectable food so that the children received many a dainty morsel which they had never tasted in their lives. in this way the children very soon became attached to the strange, fine lady, who wore such rich clothes and had such winning ways; and while she could never take the place of their mother, they nevertheless were comforted when their mother grew so ill that they were not allowed to see her. when finally she died, they clung with cordial confidence to their new friend, who now taught them to call her mother. at night mrs. bradley would point them to the heavens, when the skies were clear, and told them of the blessedness of their mother who was now with the holy angels and beheld the glory of the lord jesus. "you see the beautiful stars up there?" she asked them. "oh, how many there are! when i was young my mother told me that each was a window in heaven through which the angels looked to see whether all was well with god's people. every time a star twinkled, she said, an angel looked down, and it was the glory of his face that shone so brightly." "but is that true?" fred asked, for he was well instructed, as all puritans were, in the bible. "our teacher told us that the angels are ministering spirits. that is what the bible says, and we must not add thereunto." he said it almost sternly and quite reprovingly, for the puritans were very religious and followed the bible closely. mrs. bradley had been raised in a rich home, and although her parents had joined the puritans, they remained much more genial than were their sterner brethren. "well, yes," the lady admitted; "perhaps you are right, but isn't it a good story, nevertheless? i love to think of the stars as being so many messengers of god watching over me in this poor life. but the angels are much nearer to us than the stars, and our lord is still much nearer than they." "is he here on the ocean, too?" asked little agnes who was a bright girl and very mature for her age. "it seems to me that we are here all, all alone with nothing but water around us, and it never ends, never!" "yes," said the good woman, "jesus is here, too, though we cannot see him. he is here at our services and prayer meetings, and he is in our hearts. when we pray, he hears us, and when we sing, our songs rise up to his throne. every thought in our heart he knows. so we need not fear, my dear children." then she would kiss them tenderly, and give them a piece of ginger bread or some other dainty, so that they would forget all their sorrows and troubles. on board the ship her solicitude for the children was soon noticed by everybody, and even governor winthrop at times turned to mrs. bradley and spoke to her about the children. "you are doing very well as a mother, mrs. bradley," he teased her; "the children are very happy under your care, and they are not a whit sorrowful any more. the lord bless you for your kindness! it is cheering to know that we have such pious folk in our company. god bless us all that his name may be glorified." mrs. bradley blushed deeply when she perceived that her good work was thus graciously acknowledged. she cared for no praise, and insisted that the children were only a blessing sent to her by the lord to comfort her and assign to her a worthy task. as often as the emigrants gathered for worship, she was present with the children, and joined in the singing, for she had a fine, melodious voice. there was no organ on board the ship, neither did the colonists have musical instruments. yet they sang so wondrously that it was a pleasure to listen to them. the hymns were learned by heart, not only by the older members, but also by the children, who joined their clear young voices with those of their fathers and mothers. so also they learned the bible, and while not all had copies of that holy book, the majority of them knew whole portions by heart; especially the psalms which they sang every day. furthermore, there was instruction in the catechism each day, so that the children were well occupied, as were also their elders. for when they were not worshiping god by song and prayer, they served him by doing useful work, of which there was much to do. the colonists, knowing that they would settle in a primitive country, had brought plenty of wool, which the women spun into cloth from which to make garments. at that time there were no readymade clothes. everything had to be made at home. this kept the women busy almost all day, and kept them from brooding over their trials and difficulties. after all, it was not easy for them to leave their homes and settle in a new, uncivilized country. there, as they knew, the winters were much longer and harder; the woods were filled with indians, who at times were hostile, and before the soil could be tilled, trees had to be cut down and stones had to be removed. the future, therefore, was not promising. the life that awaited them, was not one of ease. yet they were resolved to carry out their plan and secure a home in inhospitable america, where at least they were not persecuted on account of their religious beliefs. but also the men were busy in various ways. some of them were skilful in weaving and spinning, and these helped the women in providing necessary garments. very often father and mother with their children labored at one piece of work, and there was much jollity, as the parents related many a good story to their children. others who were skilled in carpentering, made implements which could be used on the farm, in the woods, or in the homes. others again attended to the sick, of whom there were many at all times, while still others joined in instructing the young. in short, each emigrant was given some task to do, and the whole activity was superintended by governor winthrop, who led the men in wisely employing their time. he was genial and affable, and even the humblest could go and speak to him. though he was still a young man, yet he was like a father to every one. in spite of storms and many unpleasant things, the voyage was not altogether dreary, and when the emigrants finally landed, they thanked god heartily for the innumerable blessings bestowed upon them. yet they were glad when land was in sight and when the ship passed out of the region of tumultuous waves into the quiet and peaceful harbor of massachusetts bay. chapter ii the new home six years had swiftly passed by since that memorable landing, and the massachusetts company had in this time made fine progress. the band of emigrants, numbering about a thousand people, had settled in various places, some in salem, but the majority in the new colony of boston, which governor winthrop made the capital. he was an excellent leader, and as soon as he had established his colony, a steady stream of immigrants poured in from england, though there were troubles and hardships enough for the settlers. mr. bradley came over from salem, and selling his little farm in the forest clearing, started a business in boston, where he dealt with the indians, of whom he bought rich and costly furs, which they exchanged for such articles as the white people had to offer. the indians wanted cooking utensils, guns, and above all fire-water; guns were more effective than their bows and arrows when they were hunting wild animals, though later, when they became hostile to the white people, the governors did all in their power to prevent traders from furnishing them rifles and ammunition. they also forbade them to sell to the indians the much-desired fire-water or whiskey, for this insidious poison worked great havoc among them. so anxious were they to obtain it, that they sold their last fur blanket to the white trader, and when they got their whisky they drank to excess, and in their fits of drunkenness committed outrages both upon their own people and the whites. mr. bradley was a true christian, and therefore refrained from selling to the indians such things as might harm them. they were like children, and would have given in exchange for worthless beads and trinkets the most expensive and valuable furs. in this way, mr. bradley could have made much money, but his heart was not covetous, and he tried his best to teach the indians what articles were really of use to them. so he prospered, but not as much as did the wicked traders who only considered their gain, and who without qualms of conscience sold to the indians worthless and even harmful things. his home was near the fort, and it was substantially built of huge logs which he had felled in the forest. since his wife was accustomed to luxuries and comforts, he tried to make his home as pleasant as possible, though she proved herself a good pioneer, who did not grumble when she did not have the many fine things to which she was used in england, and which could not be obtained in the colony. "god has given me so much that is precious," she would say as her husband expressed his regrets that he could not do more for her. "i have you, my dear husband, and god has sent us two obedient and pious children, though we have none of our own. so while not giving us all we want, he has nevertheless filled our cup of happiness to overflowing." "and to me he has given a most godly and faithful wife," mr. bradley would then say as he caught her up into his arms. "how shall i ever be able to thank him enough for his tender mercies!" "and we have here so many friends and good neighbors," mrs. bradley would say; "the whole colony is like one big family, though at times they do quarrel over religion and other things. yet in general they are truly christian people who desire to do what is right." the husband assented. "yes, our massachusetts colony is the most prosperous of them all. every vessel brings hundreds of settlers, and the indians live with us in peace and harmony. may god continue his blessings upon us, for we are not worthy of them." of course, there were also hard times when food was scarce, and when sickness and trouble afflicted many hearts. yet god had given to the colony a man of great piety and wisdom who in all matters of general and private administration conducted himself with prudence and vision. the winthrops were great friends of the bradleys, and often in the winter evenings they would sit together and discuss weighty matters pertaining to the welfare of the colony. in this way, our friends became intimately acquainted with that great and good man. but every settler acknowledged his sterling virtues, and up to the time of his death in 1649, he was elected almost continually governor of the colony. for contrary to the prevailing custom, the massachusetts colonists could elect their own governors, as provided by their charter. governor winthrop dressed very plainly so that when you met him, you could not at all tell by his clothes that he was governor. he was also a very humble man, and labored with his hands among his servants, since he was not ashamed of working. this put zest into those that were inclined to be indolent and who shirked the many toils that were necessitated by the upbuilding of the colony. in order to spread the principles of temperance governor winthrop drank little but water, and also in other respects he encouraged the habits of temperance and sobriety. this was very necessary since peace and prosperity attend a people only if it is temperate in all things. when the colony had little food, he liberally gave to the poor people of his own store. once his last bread was in the oven, yet when hungry people came to him, and begged for flour, he dispensed to them the small remainder. fortunately, that very day a shipload of provisions arrived, and for a time the distress was alleviated. governor winthrop also encouraged his fellow colonists in the christian virtue of forgiveness. one time a leading man of the colony wrote him an angry letter, but this he sent back at once with the note appended: "i am not willing to keep such a provocation to ill-feeling by me." the offender, a man of great influence, replied immediately: "your overcoming yourself, has overcome me." he became one of his warmest friends and from that time diligently assisted him in his arduous tasks. the governor was not desirous of vainglory, though according to the custom of the time, he might have demanded absolute submission and obedience. but he was a man who rather desired the love of his fellowmen than their slavish fear, and in all things he guided them so, that they could well govern themselves. his greatest boast was that he had a "loving and dutiful son," who followed in his father's footsteps and was as pious and sincere in his religion as he was. this son grew up to be a man of excellent virtues, and he became the first governor of the colony of connecticut. no wonder that under such a governor the colony prospered and became stronger from year to year! and what a blessing it was for our two little friends that they were brought up in such a christian atmosphere and home! it is true, sometimes fred longed to find out what became of his father, but in spite of all efforts made to ascertain anything about him, nothing was heard of him. in those early times many a settler disappeared, and no one ever learned what had become of him. the woods were full of fierce animals, the indians at times were hostile, and took revenge for real or imagined injuries which they suffered by killing innocent persons, for they regarded the colonies as so many units, so that the wrongs inflicted by individuals were regarded as having been done by the whole community. in the long and dreary winters storms and tempests would rage, and many a settler lost his way in the forests, and perished miserably in the deep snow. then when spring came, forest streams would wash away the bodies, or wild animals would devour them. in short, there were many ways to account for the disappearance of fred's father, as the boy learned when he grew up. yet he was not a boy to brood over matters that could not be changed, and the rich and varied life in the colony gave him little time for dreaming idle dreams. in the mornings he rose early, and went with mr. bradley to his fine store, which was near the house. there the indians gathered, and brought their furs and other goods of barter and sale. fred soon learned to trust the indians and to like them, and in a short time he was able to attend to many a sale himself. he knew the value of furs, and the prices for all articles in his foster-father's store. though the language of the indians was difficult for the white people to learn, the bright lad made rapid progress in it, especially as he played with the indian children, who did not know a word of english. this knowledge helped him considerably in his dealings with the indians who trusted the white people the more as they used their language. agnes in the meanwhile stayed in the house with mrs. bradley, helping her in the many duties which the housewife of that time had to perform. every colonist raised some corn and garden vegetables, and such things as contributed to the food supply of the community; for the food question was of great importance to them. the corn they planted after indian fashion, placing two fish into the holes into which the kernels were dropped. the indians connected with this act some superstitious rite, but the white people knew that the fish were necessary to fertilize the sterile soil. soon they used improved methods, and their harvests were much greater than those of the indians. in the course of time agnes learned from mrs. bradley every art of managing a home. she could sew garments, make moccasins, heal bruises and wounds, cook the various dishes which the puritans liked, and in short, attend to the many tasks of managing a home. mrs. bradley never had occasion to be sorry for having adopted the children, and often she would thank god for them as she considered that she had none of her own. how lonely the large house of the trader would have been had not fred and agnes brought life into it! but their life was not all work. their foster parents were very conscientious in giving them a good education, and for this purpose they hired master henry, a young theologian who had studied in england, and now continued his studies privately under the instruction of the learned reverend john davenport. in the meanwhile he earned a few shillings by instructing children, visiting the sick, and doing other useful things for the busy minister, whose tasks increased as the colony became larger from year to year. master henry's teaching was not the kind which was practiced by pedagogues of little learning and experience, who ruled with the rod and inculcated their lessons by blows and punishments. fred and his sister liked to learn, and their lessons were always prepared thoroughly the evening before. so when shortly after midday the young minister would come to mr. bradley's home, he was welcomed by the children with great joy. mrs. bradley always kept a bowl of rich, hot soup for him, or some dainty which he liked. but master henry was a man of frugal habits, and while he enjoyed his meal, he partook of the food very sparingly. the instruction would continue till four o'clock, the children were given a vacation during which they might divert themselves. these were the golden hours of unqualified joy when they amused themselves to their heart's delight. as mr. bradley was becoming wealthy, he could allow them many pleasures which poor parents had to deny their children. as soon as they were old enough, he bought them two small horses which they could use very well, as the means of transportation were very primitive. so they rode out into the forests and made friends with the indians, or they visited the other colonies which were not far away. to the north there was the salem colony, and to the south, the old colony of plymouth, which was the mother colony of all the english settlements. on these trips they not only made many friends, but also became acquainted with the country and learned to lose all fear of white men and indians. one summer fred, with the help of young indian friends, made a boat, and he and agnes rowed up the rivers and streams of which there were many. at first their only weapons were bows and arrows and home-made spears which they could use with the skill of the indians. however, when they became older, mr. bradley allowed them small firearms for their hunting expeditions. thus fred and agnes spent a very happy life in the boston colony, and they grew up to be strong and healthy, with a wisdom not gotten out of books merely, but which their varied experience taught them. they could swim, skate, cover long distances over the snow by means of snow-shoes, shoot, ride horseback, and do almost all the things which the pioneers did. like all the puritans they were well versed in the bible, and they knew many hymns by heart, so that when they joined the church, they did this of their own accord and with firm convictions. thus six years passed by with rapidity, and before he realized it, fred was fourteen years old, while agnes was thirteen. their life had been very happy, and in mind and body they had matured so, that they appeared to be much older than they really were. mr. bradley could trust fred with almost any task that he would assign to a man, while agnes was a regular little tom boy, who was skilled not only in the duties of a good young lady, but also in those of young men. whether she was in the house, or outside, she could always be depended upon. there was not a better rider in the whole community than she, and she handled every sort of weapon with great skill. life in the colony was pleasant indeed! chapter iii a new brother one evening when mr. bradley and his happy family were gathered around the fire-side, he seemed to be in a very meditative mood. the family had just finished its evening devotion and the open bible lay upon the huge table which stood near the hearth. "why are you musing so intently?" mrs. bradley asked. "it seems your forehead is more wrinkled with furrows than ever, and you are altogether too young a man to look so worried." this she said with a smile, and as she said it, she lovingly stroked his cheeks. "i am not worrying, my dear," he replied, "but only thinking, and i wonder whether that which i think, will please you." "what pleases you," mrs. bradley said, "always pleases me. we are two of a kind, and i am sure i am going to agree to what you say. pray, now tell me what troubles you." "the matter pertains to another little youngster in our home," he replied; "though the youngster is not so very young any more. he is a year older than fred, and i think, he would prove a good companion to him." fred listened with much interest, and also agnes laid aside her book. "what about the young lad?" mrs. bradley asked. "is he the son of a poor family in the colony?" "his case is worse," the husband replied. "yesterday when the good ship 'hope' came into port, the authorities found a stranger in the band of immigrants. he was a stowaway, though some of the people discovered him during the voyage and supported him with food. otherwise the poor fellow would have starved." "and what are they going to do with the lad?" mrs. bradley inquired. "that is the trouble," her husband said. "according to the law the boy must be returned to england. but he has begged the authorities not to send him back. he comes from a poor family, and his father is dead. in england there are no opportunities for him; so he decided to go to america. and now he is here." "and you decided to take him into your home!" the woman said smilingly. "that looks just like you." "well," the man answered, looking at fred and agnes, "you were lucky to find these, so i must make another contribution." "nor do i object," consented the woman. "the lord has blessed us abundantly with all good things, and we can surely give him a good home. only, i would ask, is he worthy of it?" "that we must see," mr. bradley said; "but he seems to be a good pious boy, and he knows his catechism well. i hardly blame him for leaving england." "then the matter is settled," mrs. bradley said; "but where is the boy now?" "governor winthrop has provisionally taken him into his home," the man said; "though he cannot very well adopt the lad. but when he spoke to me about it, i promised to ask you, and i have guaranteed the ship company to pay his fare." "what a fine samaritan you are!" mrs. bradley said, as she kissed him. "surely, the lord will bless you for it, and we shall be the richer for having taken him in." fred who had listened eagerly, could no longer restrain himself. stepping up to his foster-father he asked: "and what is the boy's name?" "his name is matthew bunyan," mrs. bradley said; "but what about you, fred? do you want to have the new brother? and will you treat him kindly?" "that i will," fred responded gladly. "i have always wished for a brother, who could work and play with me. and matthew bunyon is such a fine name! when can i see him?" "you may this very evening, if you care to go to the governor's house," said the kind father. "oh, then, let us go, agnes," fred said. "it will do him a world of good to let him know that he has a sister and a brother." "and could he not come over this very evening?" mrs. bradley asked. "i surely would like to see him. fred's bed is large enough for two to sleep in." "yes, bring him with you, fred," mr. bradley said. "only you must wait until i have written a note to governor winthrop, telling him of our resolution." as mr. bradley was a merchant, the writing materials were always kept ready for use, and in a few moments the note was finished. while the man was penning the note, fred and agnes dressed themselves warmly in their furs, for while march had come, the weather was still cold, and heavy snow had fallen. at that time the winters in new england were much severer than they are now. so they strapped on their snow-shoes, and fred took down his gun from the wall. the evening was quiet, and on the way he might see some game. in winter the deer and elk often stole into the village in search of food, and sometimes the settlers could shoot them from their open windows. in a few moments the children were off, having kissed their parents good-by. then they stepped out into the clear, cold night, where they at once disappeared in the woods. "how beautiful it is tonight," agnes said as she laughingly passed her brother. "it makes me feel gay. i think i can beat you to the governor's house." "stay behind me, agnes," fred warned her; "there might be a deer running out from behind the brush that i might shoot." "do not shoot on such a beautiful night," the girl pleaded; "everything is so peaceful, and the poor animals ought to enjoy their life, too, and not always be in danger of being killed by men, beasts, and indians." "you are a little samaritan," fred laughed, "and a poet, too; well, if i don't see anything, i won't shoot." but nothing came in sight, and so within half an hour the children were rapping at the door of the governor's home. here they were kindly, received by the governor and his wife, who urged them at once to lay off their wraps and make themselves at home. "we do not care to stay this evening, kind sir," fred said; "for at home father and mother are waiting for matthew." he handed the governor the note, which he took and read. "i see," he said; "so your father has declared his willingness to adopt matthew. that is very fine of him. i shall see him tomorrow and draw up the papers." "where is matthew now?" agnes asked a little impatiently. "he is at the home of the reverend mr. davenport," mr. winthrop said; "the good parson wanted to examine him with respect to his religious opinions. but i trow they will be back soon, for they left quite a time ago." fortunately the children did not have to wait long for matthew, who with the governor's son john had gone to the pastor's manse. in the meanwhile mrs. winthrop regaled them with baked apples and sweet cider. "well, father," john said, as he came in, "matthew has passed the test, and the parson has found him efficient in faith and morals." "good, my son," governor winthrop replied; "it pleases me to hear that. come forward, matthew, for i have good news for you." fred and agnes looked with deep interest at the boy. he was somewhat taller than fred, but did not seem to be as strong as he. evidently the lad had starved a good deal on the voyage, for he looked haggard and wan. also he was dressed quite poorly. the visit to the minister had, no doubt, been a great strain on him. he was timid and bashful, and as the governor addressed him, his cheeks became scarlet. "come on, my son," governor winthrop said, "and be not afraid. we shall not send you back, for you will have a good home with the bradleys. god has provided for you a dwelling place." fred liked his new brother right away, for his blue eyes had an honest and straight forward look. "you will go with us right now to your new home" he told him after he had shaken hands with him. "here is my sister agnes," he added. agnes was a bit timid for a moment, but her sweet good nature asserted itself. "i believe we must carry you," she said smilingly, "since you have no snow-shoes. where we live is a good ways off, and we must wade through heavy snow." "i cannot walk on snow-shoes," matthew said bashfully, "but i wilt try my best to follow you." "the snow is frozen pretty hard," fred mused, "and i do not think you will break through. so let us go." with a word of caution the governor sent them on their way, and soon they were lost from view in the dark woods. the children traveled slowly in order that their young friend might follow them with ease. he seemed to be very tired, and no wonder, for the trip across the ocean and the rude experiences after landing on the strange shore had worn him out. nevertheless, he walked bravely through the deep snow, happy to be in company of children so kind and good. but he was very glad when finally the lights of mr. bradley's large log house greeted them and the weary trip was over. mr. and mrs. bradley greeted the new-corner warmly, and soon he had lost his fear, and felt quite at home. after a cup of refreshing tea he related his story, which explained why he had left england and come to america. "you see," he said, "my father died, and it was hard for me to secure work, so that i was only a burden to my dear mother, who had all she, could do to feed the other children who are smaller than i. a friend of my father's had promised to advance the fare, but when my parent died, he withdrew the offer. my mother was willing that i should go. as soon as i have earned enough money, i shall send it to england and have her come here." "that is a fine boy," mrs. bradley encouraged him; "but in the meanwhile you will stay with us and shall be like a son to us." "but by all means write to your mother in england," mr. bradley said, and the lad at once promised to do so, being happy to be able to report so wondrous an outcome of the venture. however, the children were not allowed much time for conversation, for by this time it had become quite late, and they had to repair to bed. so they bade their elders good-night, and hurried off to their room. fred was glad when the new-comer after undressing and jumping into bed, folded his hands and prayed his evening prayer. "i am pleased that you do this," he said after he had finished his own prayer; "now i can trust you the more and feel much more cordial toward you." "father always insisted that we pray and read the bible," matthew responded, "and when one has passed through the many experiences which were crowded of late into my life, he needs no prompting. there is so much comfort in it." soon the boys were fast asleep, each anxious to know what the next day would bring to them. only agnes did not at once fall asleep. it was mrs. bradley's custom to accompany her to her sleeping chamber and to pray with her and cover her with the warm bed clothes. it was usually at this time that the girl voiced whatever wish she had to communicate. so when mrs. bradley kissed her good-night, she clasped her head and whispered into her ear: "will you not also get a little baby sister for me, so that i can play with her?" mrs. bradley smiled as she answered, "if the good lord will send another little orphan, we shall surely adopt her." then with a happy smile on her face the girl fell asleep. chapter iv a happy surprise events moved swiftly along in the colony, and in a short time two fleeting months had passed. june came with sunshine, breaking buds, rich, green grass, and general joy among the colonists. after the long winter they set out with grateful hearts to clear more land and plant more corn. the colony was increasing from month to month and required more ample supplies with which to feed the many hungry mouths. almost every week a ship from england would come in with new immigrants, for the colony enjoyed an enviable reputation, and in england the persecution of puritans and separatists continued. between 1630 and 1640 more than twenty thousand people came to the massachusetts colony, as the historians of our country tell us. the vessels brought supplies and immigrants and took back with them such raw products as the colony could produce. the furs which the traders obtained from the indians and their own trappers were very valuable, and brought high prices in old england. but england needed also timber, and this was found abundantly in the new country where thousands of giant trees covered the land. mr. bradley was happy that he had gained another helper for his store. in fact, matthew proved himself an excellent clerk in the trading post. he was not forward, but at the same time possessed courage enough to mingle undauntedly with the indians, who liked the "pale face" very much because of his frankness and honesty. the boy had received a good education, and whatever he knew, he turned to good use, so that mr. bradley more than once trusted him with important negotiations. "god has given me a fine helper," he said one evening to his wife, as they were closing the store. "fred and matthew are good business men, and will in course of time be of invaluable service to me." "as soon as possible we must write to his mother and ask her to come over to america," mrs. bradley suggested. "i can use her in the house, since my work is increasing." to this her husband assented; yet this promise was never carried out, for in the course of the summer matthew received the news that she had found a trustworthy and loving husband, who after their marriage insisted that they stay in england and seek their fortune there. he was a small merchant who was doing well in business, so that matthew's mother had no reason to complain. "and now you will return to england," fred said sadly after he had read the letter to the family. "i might just as well bid you good-by right now." "never," matthew answered; "this is my country and shall remain my country. here god has given me work to do and dear friends with whom i am happy. so why should i return?" all rejoiced in matthew's resolution, and they promised to make life as pleasant for him as possible. certainly to him life was not a drudgery. mr. bradley wisely allowed the children sufficient time for recreation, especially in summer when the fur trade was not active. he was anxious that the lads should become thoroughly acquainted with the country and its inhabitants, as his business depended much on the good will of the white men and the indians. so he sent them far into the interior with little gifts and trinkets which the boys were to give to the indians, in order that they might establish trade connections with the "house of bradley." these trips were very pleasant to the boys, and as they sometimes took agnes with them, they formed a merry party, for the girl was full of fun and laughter, and though the boys were much taller than she, she could endure much more fatigue than they. how the indians adored her! when the three pilgrims of the woods came to the indian villages, fred, who was thoroughly versed in the language and customs of the red men, would seek out the chief and broach his mission to him. the chief called together his men and a council was held, in which every one smoked the peace pipe, including fred and matthew, who had to submit to this ordeal for business reasons. then the matter of trading with the "house of bradley" was discussed, and fred told them what prices his great white father, who dwelled in the large wigwam by the sea, paid for furs, much more than the french and other traders. this he could say with truth, for mr. bradley indeed was thoroughly honest in his business and never deceived the guileless indians. after the promise was made, that they would turn their furs over to the "house of bradley," the boys would open their treasures and give to each man some gift which he liked. all of them liked tobacco, though many asked for fire-water, which, however, fred never offered them. some, however, preferred cups and kettles which fred supplied as long as the store lasted. usually, however, these were reserved for the mighty men among the indians, the chiefs and leaders, since only a limited supply of them could be carried on horseback. in the meanwhile agnes would approach the wigwams of the women, and by her winsome smiles, her hearty laughter and gayety soon won their confidence. she spoke the language of the indians fluently, and sang many of the puritan hymns in their tongue, so that they were "much entertained," as the old chronicle says. on her trips she carried her lute with her, and on this she played so well that not only the women, but also the men were attracted to her entertainment. then she would sit down in their midst, and tell them interesting stories of the white men and women, and their kings and queens, and their gold and silver, and big wigwams, and when they had become thoroughly interested, she told them of their religion, and of god's son who had become man to save sinners. the indians loved to hear stories, and never tired of them, especially when agnes told them about the miracles of jesus, how he had healed the sick and fed the hungry multitudes with bread. it had taken the girl a long time until she had learned how to tell these stories to the indians. in general, the puritans did not trouble themselves about the salvation of the indians; but in 1631 a young minister had come from england, who for sometime had stayed with the bradley's in boston, where agnes became well acquainted with him. his name was john eliot, and from the very start this pious minister was interested in the spiritual welfare of the indians. "they have immortal souls, too," he said to mr. bradley, "and we must tell them of the salvation which god has prepared for all men." mr. bradley was not much interested in the project, though he was a true christian; but like other puritans he never believed that the indians could be converted to christianity. agnes, however, listened to the minister with keen interest, and often she would converse with him on this matter. at first, john eliot had no congregation, nor did he know the language of the indians. but in 1632 he was elected pastor of christ church, in roxbury, massachusetts. he at once suggested to his congregation to preach also to the indians, but at first the men would not permit him to do this blessed work. but he secretly studied the language of the indians, and at last in 1646, he engaged in mission work among them "amid much opposition and vexation," as we are told by the historians. at the time when agnes with fred and matthew made their summer trips in the indian country. pastor eliot was not yet preaching to them; but the girl had learned from him how to tell the story of christ in simple words which all could understand. agnes thus became the first missionary among the mohican indians in massachusetts. later, john eliot became famous as the "apostle of the indians", for besides preaching to them, he translated into their language the bible and many other fine books. usually the children spent a week on their trip but at times when they had drifted far away from the colony, they stayed away for two and even three weeks. their foster-parents, however, never worried about them, for they knew that fred was a brave leader, and that agnes would not lose her way even in the densest forest. by this time all three could handle such weapons as were used at that time, and though the guns were heavy and clumsy, none of them missed the object at which they aimed. so by the grace of god they always returned safe, and then they had many interesting stories to tell. one evening as they had just related their tale of adventure, mr. bradley said, "i must secure some trustworthy person who can attend to my business when i am away. so far, i have not cared to entrust my store to any one here, but i must find some one, for i, too, must venture out to establish more trading posts. the furs are not coming in as fast as they should; there are too many traders elsewhere." just then some one rapped at the door, and when fred opened he saw a huge man standing in front of him. "good evening," said the stranger somewhat timidly; "does mr. bradley dwell here? i was directed to this house." no sooner had mr. bradley heard the man's voice, when he jumped from the chair and hastened to the door. "do my ears deceive me?" he cried. "can it be you, john rawlins?" "well, i declare," the man answered; "really, it _is_ you, john bradley!" the two men shook hands warmly, and then the stranger was invited in. "where do you come from?" asked mrs. bradley after she had welcomed the man to the home. "you are an unexpected visitor, forsooth!" "from the good ship 'hope,' which is in the harbor," the man explained. "i could not wait till tomorrow, and so i prevailed upon the captain set me ashore. i just had to see my old mate this evening." "so the good ship 'hope' arrived?" mr. brad asked. "that is fine, for the colonists are eagerly waiting for supplies; and i know there is a shipment for me." "yes, so the captain tells me," the stranger said and he at once began to relate why he had come america. this he did upon the urgent request of mr. bradley who was much surprised at so unexpected a visit. "well, it was this way," the stranger began, after he had lighted his pipe and taken a few draughts of the tea which mrs. bradley set before him. "in england they are all talking about the wonderful success of the colony, and there are thousands of people ready to come over, if only they could pay their fare." "i hope they do not come over without funds" mr. bradley said, "for we have difficulties of our own; and i hope, too, that they will not send us worthless and lazy fellows. we cannot use them here." "i understand, i understand," john rawlins said; "well, when you sold the business and came over here, mrs. bradley, i stayed over in the old, country, and this, as you know, for mrs. rawlins sake, who was an invalid. but the days of her earthly pilgrimage are over, and she rests under the flowers of old england. what should i do, a widower and a lonely man? so i bethought myself of you, and lo, here i am seeking work, as in the days of yore." "and you are exceedingly welcome," mr. bradley said warmly; "your faithful services are worth gold to me. if you seek employment, you are hired at your own price this very evening." "praise god from whom all blessings flow," mr. rawlins replied ardently, for he was a devout christian. "i had never expected such a welcome." "i just talked about help when you rapped at the door," mr. bradley explained, "telling the boys that i must venture out on expeditions myself in search of trade. with an old servant like you in the store, i shall now carry out my plan." we must explain to our readers that while john bradley was still in england, john rawlins was his most trustworthy clerk and helper. he was now an old man, who had lived more than three score years, yet he was hale and hearty, and as enterprising as when he had served mr. bradley in england. it was only after he had related his tale that mr. rawlins took notice of the children. "what fine children you have, mrs. bradley," he said, "and how tall for their age! why you never had any children when you left old england!" he looked at her with surprise. "these are children which god sent us," the woman explained, telling the story in words that would not offend the children. "how wonderful!" the man exclaimed when he had heard the tale. "if such children like these grow here in the woods, i'll adopt a whole dozen. come, now, tell me your names." in a short time the children had become acquainted with the queer, old man who was so peculiar and yet so good. "we are going to be playmates, my lads," said after a while, "and i will teach you some tricks from old england." "and you, young lady," he continued, "i suppose you are a real miss, not afraid of indians and lions and such like." "please, sir," agnes replied, "there are no lions in the colony, but if there were they would soon fall dead before my trusty musket." with mock dignity she took down the heavy musket and aiming it at the man, said, "and, sir, here is how the women of america defend their honor. hold on, sir, or you will be a dead man." they all laughed, but mrs. bradley urged agnes to put away the gun, which was a fine specimen that mr. bradley had especially imported from england for the girl. "you are going to teach me a trick or two," the old man said laughing boisterously. "i surely must guard my tongue, or the days of my earthly pilgrimage will be cut short." it was a lovely evening, and never for a long time was there so much jollity in the house. however, when finally mr. bradley took down the large family bible to read the evening chapter, all were serious and listened to the word of god with devotion. the service was closed with a hymn of praise, which agnes accompanied on her lute. tears crept over the rough cheeks of the old man, and as he bade his friends good-night, he said, "never was the heart of john rawlins so happy as tonight. the lord has verily blessed my pilgrimage to america, nor is it altogether a rough country, but one where there is much piety and delight." chapter v a wonderful journey mr. bradley was glad that he had his old reliable clerk with him in america, for he was anxious to leave the colony, and establish trading posts along the connecticut river, west of the massachusetts colony. already the year before, in the summer of 1685, many settlers had left the boston colony and gone west through the unbroken wilderness to the connecticut river. they were courageous men and women, for the journey was very tedious and dangerous, and by no means inviting. yet they were dissatisfied with many things in the colony, especially with the farms allotted to them, for they were sterile and did not produce rich crops. every one had the pioneer spirit in full measure; for the men who had come from england, braving many dangers, would not linger helplessly in a place where they did not find what they wanted. the country was immensely large, and opportunities welcomed them everywhere. the first adventurers, who blazed the trail, reported rich and fertile lands along the connecticut river, with fine opportunities for fishing and trading; for this river, which in the north divides the two states of vermont and new hampshire, flows through massachusetts and connecticut, where it pours rich deposits of silt into the ocean. for the early settlers the rivers were means of travel and traffic, and we need not be surprised that so many of the boston colony left their homes and sought out this new country. in the course of time three settlements were made, the towns of windsor, whethersfield, and hartford. the last is now a flourishing city and the capital of the state of connecticut. as soon as john rawlins had acquainted himself with the intricacies of mr. bradley's business, and knew all the prices of the various articles, and could converse somewhat in the language of the indians, mr. bradley prepared for the expedition. at first he wanted to go alone, but after a while he decided to take fred with him, who was well acquainted with the interior of the country. agnes begged so long, until she, too, was permitted to go. then matthew hung his head and looked sorrowful, because he had to remain behind. so he, too, was included. finally mrs. bradley insisted on going also, and so, what was originally planned as a little trip of one, became, in the words of john rawlins, a "huge earthly pilgrimage." after all, however, mr. bradley would not have permitted the family to go, had the expedition been connected with serious dangers, or had the fur season been on. but as it was, the season was dull, and john rawlins did not have many customers. he was one of the singular men of whom it is said that to know them is to love them. his age gave him a certain dignity, and his height made him tower above the heads of all ordinary persons. the indians called him the "tall oak," a name of which he was quite proud. he was kind to the poor and humble but a terror to the bully, who tried to bluff him. every one who came to the store was treated with cordiality and fairness, and mr. bradley knew that as long as john rawlins was in charge of the business, the management was in safe hands. so on one bright morning in august the party started out on the expedition. two large, faithful dogs ran ahead, barking and jumping with glee. then came fred and matthew who knew the trail somewhat, though for safety's sake they had secured a reliable indian guide, who walked alongside the boys. next came agnes and mrs. bradley, while mr. bradley followed in the rear, superintending the five pack horses, which were in charge of three trustworthy indian servants. all the white men were armed, and even agnes carried her gun at the side of the saddle. besides the muskets they had also bows and arrows, which were useful for shooting birds and light game of which the forests were full. on these they depended for their provisions, for the large amount of wares which mr. bradley carried with him, prevented them from loading on the pack horses rich supplies of food. nor was this necessary, for on the way they passed through many indian villages, and in these they could purchase corn meal, which besides meat was the staple food of the pioneers when away from home. the distance to hartford, for which the expedition was bound, was about one hundred and fifty miles, which mr. bradley hoped to cover within a week's time. this made the journey quite comfortable, though at times it was arduous enough, since often the trail was very narrow, and many streams and rivers had to be crossed. toward evening the expedition would halt. the indian guides would unload the pack horses, and start a huge fire. fred and matthew then erected the tent for the ladies, while they laid around it rich fur blankets on which the men slept. the indians camped near by, one of them watching over the horses which grazed on the tender grass, with their front feet tied so that they could not roam away too far. while the men were busy preparing the camp, the women cooked the food in a large kettle which hung over the fire. this usually contained a turkey or partridges shot by one of the men on the way. in addition, there were primitive spits on which were broiled huge pieces of meat, while in the hot ashes mrs. bradley skillfully baked small loaves of delicious corn bread. in a smaller kettle agnes cooked the tea, of which the pioneers were very fond, and which was the only beverage the white people drank while on the journey. for while the indians drank freely of the streams, the pioneers were careful to refrain from it, as it might prove a cause of sickness, which would delay the trip. after the meal was finished, mr. bradley read from the bible, which was the constant companion of the puritans, and after that the whole company joined in singing a hymn or two. the service was simple, but sublime, and the indians listened with delight to the pious worshipers. fred and agnes, who spoke the mohican language as fluently as their mother tongue, would then explain to the indians the contents of the chapter read, in their native language, and sometimes agnes would sing one of the fine songs which she had cleverly translated into their language. finally, when the service was over, the ladies crept into their tent, the men stretched out on the warm blankets, and with the exception of the indian guard and fred or matthew, who watched over the camp, all were soon fast asleep. through the thick foliage the stars gleamed down upon the quiet world, and fred, looking up to the heavens, was absorbed in deep thought as he listened to the breezes that rocked the crowns of the trees, or to the strange, weird noises that came from out of the forest in which beasts of prey were looking for their food. on the other side of the camp the indian servant watched over the horses, while the indian guide, ever wary and cautious, would at times raise his head as he listened to strange sounds like the hooting of the owls, or the weary wail of the whippoorwill. and over all rested that strange peace of god which is found in the forest or on the prairie, where god is near and wicked men are far away. chapter vi the curse of greed in hartford, where the expedition arrived safe and well after a week of steadfast traveling, mr. bradley encountered much that surprised him. sometimes we judge the world by our own standards, thinking that everybody moves as rapidly or slowly as we ourselves; suddenly we are brought face to face with the real situation, and we find ourselves outwitted and outrun. it so happened to mr. bradley, who up to this time had made no efforts to extend his trade as far as the connecticut river. when finally he arrived on the scene, he discovered that competitors had established themselves long ago in this paradise of the huntsman and the trapper. the englishmen from massachusetts colony, who had come here in the previous year, had erected themselves sturdy log huts with a strong fort in the midst, to protect them against a possible attack of the indians, and all along the river traders were plying their craft. however, others had been there even before them. from the south, dutch trappers had come from new york, and these had gained the good will of the indians, from whom they purchased their furs. the dutch were very cunning, and while they did not always treat the indians fairly, they nevertheless maintained their friendship and cooperation. the land along the connecticut river was very fertile, and the pequot indians, who sided with the dutch, had driven away the original tribes which had dwelled there. these expelled tribes were friendly to the puritans, and when the puritan settlers seized the land, they brought back the indians whom the pequots had just driven away. at this the pequots were enraged, and they now took revenge by killing english traders where they had opportunity. the english at once punished the indians by hanging a few of their representative men, and they threatened them with war, should they engage in other punitive measures. the dutch, however, whom the invading englishmen crowded out, incited the indians to rebellion war against the puritans, and thus there was sown the seed of hatred and war which in time brought forth vicious fruits. when mr. bradley arrived at hartford, he at once met several friends who encouraged him not to turn back, but to establish a trading post up the river, near enough to the fort to enjoy its protection. this he did, and the venture gave the children no little pleasure. indian help was readily obtained, and in addition several skilled carpenters, who urged the indians to work hard and rapidly, so that within a month a large and strong log house was completed. it stood on the west bank of the river, about ten miles from the fort, which could easily be reached by the boat. as hostilities might be expected, it was built much like a small fort, the second story jutting out over the first so that it could the more easily be defended. the log house had no windows, but there were a number of small, narrow apertures through which the inmates could shoot in case of attack. the furs and stores were provided for in the first story, while in the second there were three rooms in which the traders might live and sleep. no sooner was the trading post established when mr. bradley left with his wife to return to boston, where important business negotiations had to be attended to by himself. he promised to send john rawlins, and put fred and matthew in charge of the log house. agnes was to return to the boston colony, but she begged her parents to permit her to remain, and this permission was finally granted. so after a last service, mr. and mrs. bradley left, and the three children remained in the wilderness alone, amply supplied with provisions and articles of trade. for their traffic mr. bradley had purchased a fine, strong boat, in which they could easily reach hartford whenever they cared to go there. in the barn which was built to the house, stood three horses, accustomed to traveling in the woods, and altogether faithful and reliable. fred, who till the arrival of john rawlins was in charge of everything, at once made preparations to become acquainted with the indians and to gain their friendship, for on them he depended for furs. he secured a pequot indian boy, from whom he could learn the native language, and he won his confidence and good will by little gifts which he gave him. the task of learning the language of the indians was the most important one, and each morning several hours were set aside for that purpose. the work proved itself a very delightful one, for the method was simple. each of the three white children had a little notebook into which they would write the words which the indian boy mentioned to them, and although many mistakes occurred at first which caused a good deal of laughter, they progressed very fast so that in a short time they knew the indian words for the most important articles. but also on their expeditions the indian boy had to serve as teacher, and so he was troubled with perpetual questions which his inquisitive friends asked him. as the pequot indians had long associated with the dutch, not a few dutch words were added to their vocabulary, though strangely changed by the lips of the indians. the visits to the indians, whether made by boat or on horseback, also proved themselves a source of pleasure. it is true, they did not find them in the same friendly mood as the mohicans, but since open hostilities had not been declared, there was still a chance to win them over. and how could the indians resist the three children, who came to them so boldly, and yet so innocently and kindly! not a village they left without having enriched it with treasures which the indians prized very much. wherever they went, they spread the spirit of peace and good will. agnes was of great help to the two boys, for by her fine singing and her alluring playing on her faithful lute, she endeared herself to the indian women, who gave to her the name "little bird of the woods." when the indians came to the trading post, they were received kindly, and when they brought furs, they were paid the highest prices possible. in addition, fred doled out to them little sacks of tobacco, while agnes usually won over the women and children by some sweets of sugar or fruit. thus it happened that when winter came, the trading post became a center of much activity. furs came in aplenty, which were stored away first in the log house, and then were taken to hartford, where they were secured in the fort, in which they were safe against a possible attack by the indians. that winter john rawlins did not come, for no sooner had mr. bradley returned when he took sick, and was confined to his bed for many months with a lingering illness. the children heard of this through messengers at hartford, which, in view of impending troubles, kept in close contact with the stronger colonies in massachusetts. though they longed to see their foster-father, yet they realized that their presence in connecticut was absolutely necessary, and they knew that they could serve his interest best by staying where they were and doing their duty. however, they did more. one evening when the work was done and they were gathered around the table, agnes said, "we have forgotten one important duty." "and what is that?" asked fred who in all things was most conscientious. "we have not included mr. bradley in our prayers," the girl replied. "let us do so right away." this they did at once, and from that time on they never omitted the holy work of praying for their foster-parents, whom they loved dearly and to whom they were sincerely grateful, as they had bestowed upon them so many and great kindnesses. of course, not a day passed on which they did not study the bible. in those early times attention was not drawn away from the spiritual values by all kinds of worldly interests. there were no daily papers, no trashy books, and at the trading post, where the three children lived, they did not come in contact with men whose influence was bad. the work was hard; traps had to be set and examined; the furs had to be cured and prepared for trade; the indian trappers who were in the employment of the post, had to be superintended; supplies had to be bought at the fort, and so the children were kept incessantly busy. when the evenings came, the children were glad to be alone, and to find comfort and strength for their daily tasks in that book, which was found in almost every settler's home,---the holy bible. however, as the winter continued, and the snow depended, shutting them off from the outside world, and at times interrupting their work, they sought new activities in which they could exercise themselves profitably. the thought was really suggested by matthew, who was keenly interested in spiritual things, and who chafed under the monotony of the dreary sundays which the children spent alone in the wilderness. while the river was still open, they had worshiped at hartford, but now heavy snow covered the ice that they could reach that settlement neither by boat nor on their skates. "well, what do you suggest that we should do?" fred asked. "my idea is that we gather the indian children on sundays and instruct them in the bible and psalmody." "that's a fine thought!" agnes exclaimed; "and i know that we shall always get enough children to attend." that same week they invited a number of children through tom, the indian boy, who always stayed with them, and on the following sunday several indian children gathered in the house. several of them had brought their mothers, who were glad to have an occasion to hear agnes sing and play, and at once the sunday school was opened. the children were instructed in bible stories, agnes sang many of her fine hymns which she had crudely translated into the indian language, and afterwards the children were treated to such dainties as they had in the house. the venture proved so successful that after that several classes were arranged for, which kept the little teachers so busy all day that they no longer complained of monotony. the new venture, however, also cemented the friendship with the adult indians, and during the whole winter the furs came in from everywhere so that the supply in the fort increased from week to week. when finally spring came and the trapping ceased, the children found themselves richly repaid by their work, and when at last mr. rawlins arrived with a number of pack horses to convey the furs to the boston colony, there were so many of them that more pack horses had to be secured. so with grateful hearts fred locked the door of the trading house, turned the key over to an old, friendly trapper, who spent his summers in hartford, and returned to massachusetts. the children as well as john rawlins were in high spirits, and had it not been for the heavily loaded pack horses, they would have galloped all the way to massachusetts. but they had to be patient, while day after day they covered small distances through the thick woods. they were dressed oddly enough, and looked more like indians than like white people. agnes was dressed like the boys, with a fur cap on her head, fur coats and trousers on her body, and her feet covered with moccasins. yet no one took notice of that, for many of the settlers were clothed in this way, since it was hard to obtain woolen cloth from the old country. when they returned to massachusetts, they were greeted with great joy, not only by their foster parents, but also by the other villagers, who marveled that children so young had undertaken so serious a venture. yet we must not judge the children of that time by standards of our own day. their life was lived largely outdoors where they grew up like the trees of the ever present forest. their daily experiences made them alert and self confident, and while they were behind the children of our time in school learning, they knew a thousand arts which the children of our later times have never heard of. life was hard, and the struggle for existence made them strong, hardy, and enterprising. had those early pioneers been of a weaker fiber, the history of our country would never have been written in glory. but let us not forget that the pioneers were mostly men of deep piety, whose rugged strength was rooted in true faith and the fear of god. let those who scoff at religion, remember that without it our country would never have become what it is today. the fear of god is not only the beginning of wisdom, but also the keynote to prosperity and a nation's success. chapter vii in the throes of war the brief new england summer passed much too quickly for our three friends, for whom summer time meant a long and pleasant vacation. as usual they made trips on horseback or on boat to the other colonies, which were being planted in new england in ever greater number. in this way they widened their circle of acquaintances, and enjoyed many pleasant hours in company with other good new england youths. mr. bradley, in view of the fact that the children had so successfully carried out their mission, excused them from all work, and gave them unlimited time in which to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. yet they were not of the class of young people that wished to be idle, and they were heartily glad when the prospect of continuing their work at the connecticut river trading post was discussed. "of course, we will go, mr. bradley," fred said when the question was put to them. "we have established friendship with the indians; we speak their language, and our little sunday school scholars are surely waiting for us," matthew commented; "so why should we stay? we do not fear the indians!" nevertheless, mrs. bradley was much alarmed at the report of indian hostilities, and she objected to the trip in gentle but emphatic words. "we must not send them," she urged, "until we have heard that the country is safe." "you are right, darling," her husband assented after a while; "money does not mean much to me. the good lord has blessed us abundantly, and while my fur business is falling off somewhat, my trade in general merchandise is increasing among the settlers." so the matter was postponed, much to the dissatisfaction of the three children who would have left for connecticut that very day, had not their parents restrained them. "wait, until we get news from mr. rawlins," mr. bradley finally suggested, and to this all agreed. after a few days the indian guide, who was in mr. bradley's service, arrived, and the letter was immediately read and discussed by the whole family at the dinner table. the message was encouraging. while mr. rawthis reported that the indians were becoming more surly from day to day, he also expressed the opinion that there was no immediate danger, since the settlements were well protected, and the militia was well armed for war. but what was better than all this, was that the englishmen were trying to conciliate the pequots and to win their good will. "that decides the matter," said fred gleefully; "we shall leave as soon as we can get ready." "but you, agnes, must stay at home this time," mrs. bradley affirmed; "i won't let you go. the boys might escape, if danger should arise, but how can you bear the hardships which follow an indian war?" "i must go along, mrs. bradley," agnes pleaded; "why, how could the boys get along without me? please, mother, let me go." "no, agnes," mrs. bradley objected; "we must not tempt god, and i would wish that also you boys would not go. it is safer here than in connecticut." "but, mother," fred said; "there is no danger, and if we wait, until the world is a paradise of peace, we shall never accomplish anything at all in life." the upshot was that mrs. bradley finally permitted agnes to go, and she was happy at the thought. when she was alone with fred, she said to him, "brother, your life is linked with mine, and i will never let you go alone. where thou goest, i will go. united we will do what the good lord will give us to do in this life." fred kissed his sister tenderly. "you are as true as gold," he said, "and i would miss you greatly if you would stay at home." "there is no danger to fear," agnes said; "the good lord is everywhere, and we are in his hand. but i do not fear the indians either; yes, i feel it to be my mission to conciliate and help them." so after a few days when their preparations were completed, they left the safe and comfortable home to take the trail that led to the forests. their departure was somewhat delayed by the arrival of good pastor eliot, who came with his young wife to visit the bradleys. he was a pious and good man, and he discussed the proposition, which the children had in mind, with conscientious care. "if we were living in england," he said, "i, no doubt, would dissuade the children from making so hazardous a trip. but since i have lived in america, i have learned many a lesson. here the people are different. they are men and women, while in years they still are boys and girls. they think in terms which in old england only mature men and women use. they are not afraid of anything. the forest is their home. hard work is their pleasure. enterprises are the topic of their conversation. the spirit of adventure is bred into their hearts. what shall we say of this peculiar and heroic generation? may the lord keep them in piety; otherwise, we, trusting in our strength, will perish." "your words are very true," mrs. bradley said; "but these children, thank god, are pious and unspoiled. they honor and respect their superiors; they are devout in their prayers and bible studies; they care nothing for the sinful pleasures of the world; but i wish they would not go to dangerous connecticut." "we must entrust them to the lord," said the good pastor; "perhaps some good will come out of this mission." so after many a prayer and with many blessings, our three friends left their new england home, accompanied by an indian guide and an indian servant who had charge of the three pack horses. chapter viii pequot indians "hm," fred muttered to himself, as he gazed around in wonder. "what is this?" he immediately ran to the camp and called matthew who was just rolling away the blankets in which they had slept. "look, what i have found!" he said to the boy. "it's an indian arrow!" "where was it?" matthew asked. "it was driven tightly into a tree, right next to where the indian guide slept." "and where is the guide?" matthew asked, growing pale. "i don't know," said fred while his lips trembled. "let us look for him," matthew suggested. "no, let us go back to the camp, and get ready to leave," said agnes. "this looks dangerous to me. something is wrong." the children had traveled for six days without having been molested by any one. it was late in august, and all nature seemed bathed in peace. they had not met a single indian, but found the villages deserted. this had somewhat surprised them, yet as nothing happened, they had not attached to it any importance. only the guide had been suspicious. he was a mohican, and a man of middle age, who was well acquainted with the ways of the pequots whom he hated thoroughly. the old indian servant who had attended to the horses had observed nothing, and he was greatly surprised when he was informed that the guide was missing. "i will look for him," he said. "no, you quickly pack the horses and get things in readiness, while agnes and i will look for the guide. matthew, you saddle the horses." "come, sister," fred said, "let us investigate this mystery. perhaps the guide has only gone after a rabbit, wishing to prepare us a dainty surprise for breakfast." but agnes shook her head. "it is not a mohican arrow, but a pequot one," she said. "it was driven into the tree by a warbow. see, how deeply it entered the tree! and how strong the flint is and how well preserved, in spite of its being driven into the hard wood. that arrow was sent to kill a man." "we must not paint the devil on the wall," fred said cheerfully; but suddenly he became pale, for at his feet the grass was crushed down, and two forms were lying on the ground covered with blood. one was that of the guide, whose hand gripped the throat of his foe, a large and burly pequot indian. the pequot was dead, choked by the steel clasp of his enemy's hand. all around, the grass was trodden down, and the ground showed what a fierce struggle had been carried on in silence, while the rest slept in peace. suddenly agnes bent over the form of the mohican and pointed to a knife which his opponent had thrust into his back, to the heft. "ah," exclaimed fred; "brave and good guide! i understand it all now. first the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. you, as a hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until he was dead. brave mohican!" tears gathered in the eyes of agnes. "oh, fred," she whispered; "this is terrible. let's go away." "sister," the boy said, "you must not talk that way; we will go away as soon as we can. but you have fear in your heart, and that is bad. only courage and boldness will now by the grace of god save us. be brave." "pardon me," agnes stammered; "it was wrong of me to show fright. i will never do it again. god is with us, all is well." "thank you, dear sister," fred said; "that makes it easier for me. and now let us bury our good guide." softly he touched the body, when suddenly the indian moved. the wound in the back was serious, but the knife had not struck a vital organ. only the loss of blood had been severe, as without flinching he held his foe in the death grip. "the mohican is alive!" agnes exclaimed; "perhaps we can save his life." tenderly they lifted his body and laid it on the grass. the mohican opened his eyes, but there was in them a glassy stare. agnes rubbed his arms and patted his hair. after a few moments a smile stole over the guide's face. he had recognized the girl. "my good friend and brother," fred spoke to him in the mohican language; "i am so sorry. we thank you---we thank you---as the rain falls from the sky in summer. the pale face children are safe because of your valor. the mohican fought like the brave warrior he always was. the men will sing of his bravery in the wigwam, and the women will tell his tale when the dusk falls. never will be forgotten the brave mohican guide who fought and conquered his foe in battle." the mohican tried to speak, but his tongue would not move. he grasped the lad's hand firmly. agnes bent over him. she remembered that he was a christian. her missionary heart overflowed with love for the guide's soul. "samowat," she tenderly pronounced his indian name. "samowat, friend of the white men, protector of the weak, brave and noble warrior that knows no fear, hear the voice of the little 'bird in the woods' that sings of jesus. samowat dies for his little friends that they might be safe. jesus died for samowat that he may be saved. samowat, the blood of jesus christ cleanses you from all sin. samowat, jesus will come right away and take samowat home to where happiness is. samowat, hear my voice." the indian breathed heavily and he fought hard to speak. his native mohican, pronounced with infinite tenderness by agnes, had made a deep impression on him. "samowat," he stammered weakly, "has saved his little 'bird of the woods.' samowat loves jesus, and is not afraid to die." for a moment he struggled in silence to gain strength for speech. fred poured some cold tea into his mouth which he sipped eagerly. "it is well," he said after a few moments. "samowat is going home to jesus. but---but little white warrior---must go---go---north. pequots on war path---they south. hurry, little paleface warrior. kill horses---go indian fashion---walk." fred bent over him for his voice was weak. yet the indian struggled bravely to finish his speech. "he---scout---kill me. pequots come soon. flee." these were his last words. exhausted by the terrific loss of blood, his heart failed, and he died peacefully without even a trace of agony. agnes wept bitterly, as she pressed the guide's hand. also fred was overcome with emotion, and he bit his lips until the blood flowed. "sister," he said, "call matthew and the indian servant; we must bury the brave guide." the task was assigned to the indian servant, who alone knew how to bury him in a manner that would hide him from the curious and keen eyes of the indians. the servant covered the graves with leaves and so skillfully did he conceal the resting place that not even fred could see where it was. "we must now kill the horses," the boy said when all was finished. "but why kill the horses?" agnes asked. "why, we can cover more ground on horseback than on foot." "we must leave the trail," fred answered, "and in the woods they will betray us. also on horseback the indians can see us the better and shoot us before we know they are near." "let's not kill them now," agnes pleaded. "jenny is so true an animal. i can never see her die here." "all right, sister," fred assented; "we shall try to preserve their lives. only i don't know how to get through the woods with them." chapter ix the remains of the log house in obedience to the instructions of the dying indian guide, fred left the trail and pursued a northern route. traveling along the trail was bad, but finding away through the woods was impossible. fred realized this when the party had traveled for several hours through the dense forest. from the position of the sun he could tell what time of the day it was, yet he knew, too, that they had not covered more than a mile. there were creeks to cross, swamps to circumvent, fallen trees to avoid, and difficulties of all kinds. at noon the three held a council and considered what to do. "the guide was right in saying that we cannot travel through the woods on horseback," fred began; "i fear we must get rid of the steeds." "but how are we to walk through this mass of entanglement," agnes asked. "we certainly won't make headway without the horses." "agnes is right," matthew ventured to say. "i don't know where we are going, but i do know that on foot we will not get anywhere. so let's keep the horses." "i fear you are right," fred meditated, "but i am sure the horses won't benefit us." suddenly agnes exclaimed: "i know what we are going to do! we'll get back to the trail, and follow that to the next settlement. samowat said that the indians are south of us. very well by this time they may be west of us, and we might escape them since we go east. let's try it; at least then we know where we are going." "i am in favor of it," matthew replied; "if we are attacked, we can fight; but who is going to fight with conditions as we find them in this dense underbrush." after some delay fred gave in, and so the three adventurers turned the heads of their horses south, and after a few hours found the trail which they had left in the morning. quickly they pushed east, spurring on their horses who by this time were quite exhausted. they traveled until dusk, and they were about to leave the trail and hide in the woods when suddenly fred's steed neighed. "what's the matter with you?" the boy reproved his horse. "you will never get any oats if you make such a noise like that." to his great horror, however, the neighing was answered by another horse at some distance. "it's time for us to hide!" fred cried. "away into the woods! the indians are coming." fortunately they found a deep ravine in the woods were they could conceal the horses. "you stay here, till i come back," fred said. "i will see who they are." "i am coming along," agnes ventured; "you cannot go alone on so perilous a mission." "stay back," the lad urged her; "this is a job for one man." but the girl would not listen, and so the two stole along the edge of the ravine hiding themselves as best they could. near the trail they climbed a huge tree from which they could look down conveniently. in a short time they saw a horse, followed by several others. they were loaded heavily, and fred saw at once that this was a troop of indians carrying supplies. in fact, he could not see a single warrior, for ugly women and children followed the train. "the indians are marching west," fred whispered to his sister, "this is a troop of women and children. that means that the warriors are ahead of them. we are lucky to be informed of their movements, because we can now follow a definite course." agnes nodded, as she intently looked upon the passing horses and people. the women and children were in a jolly mood, and did not make any efforts to keep silence. for about half an hour the indians were moving along the road. suddenly agnes gave a start, and nimbly as a squirrel she slid down the huge tree, were she crept silently through the brush. soon fred heard the hooting of an owl, and he perceived how at this cry one of the indian girls, of the age of agnes, detached herself from the crowd. "it is time for me to join," he muttered to him self; "sister cannot attend to that alone." in a few moments he was near enough to hear what the girls were talking about. the girl was one of the sunday school scholars whom agnes had befriended by many acts of kindness. "pequots---go---west," she said to agnes; "will go around big bend south and come back and take settlements. 'little bird of the woods' go to big log house, and take boat and tell white men at hartword. but quick, i must go." in a few moment she was off, treading softly over the grass and joining the other indians, as if nothing serious had happened. at once agnes stood by her brother's side. "the path is clear, fred," she breathed to "now for the horses; we are not far away from the trading post." they reached the log house just as the sun was setting, but as they approached, matthew emitted a cry of despair. "the indians have burned down the log house," he said sadly. "the smoke is still breaking through the woods." cautiously they made their way through the woods, and soon stood beside the remains of their log house, where during the previous year they had spent so many happy hours. "what a pity," agnes said; "so this is the fruit of war and hatred." tears welled into her eyes. "and our sunday school classes have become our enemies, no doubt," matthew reflected; "all of love's labor is lost." "war destroys, and peace builds up," fred spoke calmly; "we must expect all this, and more. the end is not yet." "what do you mean?" agnes asked as she watched her brother's furrowed brow. "do you expect trouble?" "the indians who burned this log house, are not far away," he whispered to her. "we must try to get to hartford before they detect us." "let's talk it over quickly," matthew suggested who in hours of danger was always impatient. "yes, let's do that," agnes assented; "we'll hide our horses in the deep woods along the river. i know a fine place, where we may conceal ourselves." "how about our boat?" matthew asked. "wouldn't it be better if we go to hartford by way of the river?" "pst," fred warned him, "you and agnes are talking too loudly and excitedly. i am afraid that these woods have ears, as the dutch say. let's get away from here." fred was right. the children had not seen the indians who, hidden behind the trees, observed every movement they made. so of this they were unaware, and in a moment they disappeared in the thick bush, drawing their horses after them. the indians did not disturb them, for they knew that they could not escape, though they were not many in number, since they constituted only a scouting party, left behind the main body which had moved west to come back from the south and thus surprise the white men. as soon as the children had hidden their horses, they sought a small cave which they had discovered the year before, and here they held a council. "first," said fred, "let us kneel down in prayer; for if the lord will not guide our thoughts, we shall never escape." they prayed fervently, as people do who are in great trouble, and closed their devotion with a lord's prayer in unison. "and now you wait here, till i return," fred said; "but don't make any noise. i must find out whether our boat is still here." he slipped away from them, carrying his rifle, but avoiding every possible noise. "how clever fred is!" matthew said; "i wish i could be like him. but i fear i can never overcome my fright on expeditions such as these. i was not born to be a soldier." agnes smiled. "the lord has wisely not made all people alike," she said; "some he wants to be soldiers, other ministers, and others statesmen. each has his peculiar gift. but oh, how i wish that i had been born a boy! i don't mind this at all." matthew looked at her with surprise. "aren't you, too, a bit afraid?" he asked her "it seems to me as if you really enjoyed this kind of frolic." agnes looked at him seriously. "indeed," she said, "i do not, for i hate war. war is of satan, and peace is of god. it is dreadful that people should kill each other, and this for the sake of money and gain. had these indians been treated kindly, they never would have gone on the war path. but the english traders deceived them, and the dutch incited them to blooodshed. so here we are!" "it _is_ a pity," matthew said; "and what a fine sunday school we had! the children could sing, and praise jesus as well as the white people. there is no reason why they should not be true christians, every one of them. it is the fault of the white men, as you say. i deeply regret that there are rascals who disgrace our religion." agnes did not answer. her eyes were riveted to the entrance of the cave where she anxiously watched the fading light of day. "it is getting to be night," she said, "and i am hungry as a bear. i wish fred would come." "i wonder where he can be," matthew said wearily; "this business of waiting doesn't strike me as a very opportune thing just now. if i had my way, i would be running like a rabbit, until we were back at boston. and never will i leave that place again! we did wrong in not obeying our parents." agnes looked at him reprovingly. "that does not solve our problems now," she ventured. "i, too, wish we were back, but we are here now, and we must make the best of it. but oh, if only fred were here." "let's go and look for him," matthew broke in. "no," agnes replied, "we must stay and wait. they also serve who only stand and wait." yet she also became tired as the moments crept on slowly and wearily. darkness covered the cave, and she could hardly see the opening any more. "matthew," she whispered as she walked forward, "you remain here with the guns. i will go and look for fred. it is dark now!" in a moment she was gone, while matthew almost wept for anguish of heart. yet he had learned to obey both fred and agnes, though he was older than they. there was something indescribably firm in their voices and conduct which he never could understand, and often he himself wondered what made him stand in awe of them. just now he bitterly reproved himself for not having followed agnes. "she is a girl and you are a boy," he scolded himself; "but she is a heroine, and you are a coward. how could you let her go alone!" he waited impatiently, but neither agnes nor fred returned. overcome with fear, he knelt down in prayer, for he was a very pious boy. "good lord," he prayed, "help fred and agnes and me, and let us not perish in this wilderness. show us a way to escape out of this trouble that we may praise thy glorious name. help us for jesus' sake." then as the dreary hours passed slowly and monotonously, his strength gave way, and he soon was fast asleep. chapter x capture and escape how long matthew slept, he could not tell, but suddenly he was awake, and some one was holding his hand over his mouth. in the darkness the form seemed large and grotesque, and his first impulse was to cast aside the hand and to cry out. but then he heard a soft voice spoken almost in a whisper, and he recognized fred. "matthew," fred whispered, "come to yourself; awake, and sit up. i have something to tell you. where is agnes?" "she went away to look for you," matthew replied; "she left a long, long time ago." fred could not suppress a painful cry. "and she didn't come back?" he asked excitedly. "no," matthew muttered. "then she, too, was captured," fred explained sorrowfully, "and she is in the hands of the indians." "oh! oh!" matthew cried bursting into tears. "what have i done?" "be silent now," fred warned him. "the indians are following me. let me briefly tell you how it all came about. i crept up to the place where the boat was hidden, but found it one. there was no noise, and so i thought i was safe. the boat might have slipped down into the stream. i stood up and looked, when suddenly the indians seized me, tied me, muzzled me, and carried me off up the bank." matthew looked at him with dread written all over his face. "fred," he said, "you were captured?" "yes," the other replied, "i was, and those cowards at once took me into the woods, where quite a large band of pequots were assembled." "i thought there were only a few," matthew interrupted him; "just a mere scouting party." "there was originally," fred continued, "but it seems as if they were joined by another scouting party, and there were even women with them. the indians are shrewd and clever, much more than we white people think. while the main troop is going west, scouting parties are all over the woods, watching the movements of the whites, and killing off individuals or families as they find them. they are mopping up the woods, ridding them of the white foes. they are doing thorough work." "but how did you escape?" matthew asked. "that wasn't hard," fred answered; "as soon as they had taken me into the woods, i became very angry, and as well as i could i commanded them to remove the gag from my mouth. i spoke to them in the pequot language, and this made an impression on them." "how fortunate that we know that tongue!" matthew exclaimed. "if i am caught, i know what to do." "you never will be caught," fred said emphatically; "i won't let you. if i hadn't been dreaming and forgetting the danger i was in, they never would have got me. but i learned a lesson." "but tell me your story to the end," matthew begged. "it is so interesting." "well," fred started, "when they had removed the gag, i first fumed and scolded, much to their delight, for they kept on laughing as i rebuked them." "i called them cowards who could do nothing else but seize little boys, and them unarmed. this amused them very much, and finally one after another stole away to the fire where the women were broiling large pieces of meat. seeing that, i demanded food also, and at last an old squaw had pity on me and brought me a rich supply. here is some of it; we may need it on our way. lucky, that we have at least one musket! mine the indians took." "but what then?" matthew asked inquisitively. "how did you get away?" "when the darkness fell over the camp," fred related, "they simply lay down to sleep, after they had tied me to a tree. the indian who attended to the work, must have liked me, for he took pains that the sinews were not strung too tightly. so what could i do? while they were sleeping, i cleared my hands, cut the bands, and slipped away from them. and look what i took along?" he held up a large scalping knife. "where did you get that?" matthew exclaimed in astonishment. "that knife will be very valuable to us." "the scout was sleeping," fred said, "though he was supposed to watch, and i crept up to him and removed it for safety's sake." "you are quite a hero," matthew praised him; "i could never be so brave as that." "there was little bravery," fred said contemptuously; "the indians are not careful; they just began the war; later they will take more care of their prisoners. now they still despise the whites." "but what shall we do now?" matthew asked. "we cannot stay here all night." "that is true," fred answered; "we must be going; but first let us thank the lord for his goodness. without him we can do nothing. it is he who hitherto has helped us, and may he bring agnes back to us." after a brief pause in which both thanked the lord, they departed, fred carrying the musket, while matthew held on to the knife. silently they crept up the high bank of the river through the deep brushwood, until they could see the indian camp. but though they looked hard, the indians were gone. "what is the matter?" matthew asked, as he looked at fred with deep concern in his eyes. "i see no indians." "lie low," fred admonished him, "and follow me." the boys crept on, but the indians were gone, not a trace could be found of them. "perhaps it is a trap," matthew commented; "we must be careful." deeper and deeper they pierced the woods. dawn came, and day light, and the boys were still walking, but not a trace of the indians could be seen. they had disappeared completely. "well, if they don't bother us," fred remarked, "we shall not bother them. we are angels of peace, and don't want war. so if they leave us alone, we are satisfied." "i should say so," matthew assented. "no war for me, if i can help it." "suppose we lie down here," fred said after a while; "i am dead tired, and so are you. my head is spinning, and i cannot think clearly. 'he giveth his beloved sleep,' says the holy word." "you are right," matthew responded; "nothing could be more welcome to me than a good bed at this time, though i am still hungry." "if you are," fred said, "have some more indian meat; it is very good, although it is rather rare. but the indians like it that way." matthew ate ravenously despite of the fact that the meat was only half done. but hunger is the best cook, as the proverb says, and he was not very fastidious. anything would have tasted good to him just then. "but don't eat it all," fred admonished him; "we may need of it for dinner, though i hope that by that time we may have something better." "i will mind your admonition," matthew said smiling, as he plunged his teeth into the juicy bear meat. then they lay down and slept, as if they were at home and not in the indian infested woods. yet they were safe, for the good lord to whom they commended themselves before falling asleep, watched over them, better than they knew. chapter xi back again and agnes "don't bother me," said fred half awake; "it's not time for breakfast; just let me sleep a little more." matthew pinched his nose so that he could not breathe, and this brought fred to his feet. "oh, i clean forgot!" he said laughing. "my, but that sleep was good! what time of the day is it anyway? we must have slept all day." they looked to the sky, though the huge trees were much in their way, and noticed that the sun was far in the west. "we are great heroes," fred said laughing; "we sleep while the enemy is around us. let us go." the boys were in high spirits, and thanked god heartily for having preserved them so wonderfully. "who knows what was going on around us while we slept?" matthew reflected. "perhaps the indians were in our vicinity, and we were shielded from their view. we have much to be grateful for." "if only i knew where agnes is!" fred said; "she is a bright girl, and if they don't take better care of her than they did of me, i fear that she will escape them. she is as spry as a squirrel." "we must find her," matthew urged eagerly; "but where shall we go? i must confess that i am completely bewildered. why, even that sun has turned. before it was in the west, and now it is in the north. what's happening to me?" "you need some more bear's meat," fred said; "you are starved. so let us first eat and then think." after eating a little of the meat, they found themselves wonderfully refreshed. a little brook furnished them a cool, welcome drink, and with renewed spirits they set forth on their trip. they walked all day and long after the sun had set, they were still groping in the dark. "this will never do," matthew finally said; "we are getting nowhere." "you are right," fred answered; "as long as the sun was shining, i knew the way, but now i am completely lost. we better lie down and sleep until it is day. then we can see where we are." they prayed still more fervently than they had done before, for their strength was exhausted and they were bewildered. "if the lord will not help us out of this," matthew said, "we are completely lost." "the greater the need, the nearer is god, indeed," fred said; and after eating a little of the bear's meat, the boys lay down on the soft grass, creeping close to each other, for the nights were cool. they slept soundly until dawn, when fred awoke and awakened his companion. "brother," he said; "listen, there are indians in the neighborhood. i hear them. and now see, they are making a fire!" the boys crept through the woods, and when they had reached the top of a low ridge, they saw the camp before them. "it's the same band of indians that burned down the log house," fred suggested; "i recognize some of them." "then let's go, for it is not safe to be near them," matthew urged. "i don't care to fall into their hands just now." "the sun is rising," fred said cheerfully, "and now we can again find our way through the woods. here is the direction; we go east to the river." they walked away swiftly, but they had not gone more than a few rods, when suddenly they saw two large dogs running after them. "shoot them," matthew ordered his companion, "they look wild and hungry." "not by any means," fred answered; "a shot in the woods will bring the whole indian band on our tracks." "but what shall we do?" matthew asked. "run," fred replied. they ran as fast as they could, looking around occasionally to see whether they were followed by indians, but only the dogs came after them, gaining a little more on them as the boys became weaker. "i am through," matthew finally said; "i cannot run any more." "neither can i," replied fred; "but see, here is a hollow log; let us creep into it." at once they remembered that this act was foolish, for the dogs, barking at their prey, would eventually attract the indians. but they had no time to change their minds; they were dead tired, and no sooner had they slipped into the tree when the animals were upon them. for a moment the boys were silent, while the dogs endeavored to follow them into the hollow log. "say, we are company enough," fred muttered; "we don't need you in here. what shall i do, matthew? slip me the knife." "if those dogs are as hungry, as i am," matthew said, "a little bear's meat might do us good service." "that's a great idea," fred answered; "well, hand me some of what is left. it is unfit for us to eat anyway." the plan worked out well. the dogs swallowed the pieces of meat greedily, and when fred coaxed them with friendly words, spoken in pequot, they wagged their tails and showed signs of conciliation. slowly fred crawled out of the log, still feeding the hungry animals of the meat that remained. soon he had succeeded in winning their friendship, and when matthew finally came out from the retreat, the dogs were completely won over. together they walked on, the dogs following them, as if they had been friends for many years. "if we could only get rid of these beasts," matthew sighed; "they will finally betray us." "we'll give them the slip soon enough, just as we did to their masters," fred smiled; "wait." the opportunity was soon granted them, for when suddenly a rabbit jumped out of the thicket, fred sent them leaping after it, for he was well acquainted with the indian way of hunting with dogs. "now we run straight forward, and the dogs will forget us and finally return to their masters." they walked rapidly, and to their joy arrived after some time at the place where the log house had stood. while they had made no progress, they at least knew where they were, and could manage a way to reach hartford. "we must see whether our horses are still here," fred said, as he hurried down the bank. to his astonishment the horses were just coming out of the woods, feeding hungrily on the thick grass. "indians!" he muttered. but then he cried out with joy. "agnes!" he cried; "agnes, you here?" the girl, who had released the horses and was driving them out of their hiding place, smiled as she saw the boys. "brother," she said cheerfully, "oh, what a surprise!" then she fell around his neck and kissed him ardently. chapter xii agnes' story and hartford "we must not stay," the girl said, as soon as she had greeted her brothers. "the indians will surely come back, and we must reach the other side of the river. i am glad you are here. oh, how good the lord is! i prayed for your deliverance ever since i was captured, but did not believe that the good lord would hear my prayers and grant my request so soon." "what do you want to do?" asked fred. "tie the horses together, and swim the river. there are no indians on the other side, and we can make hartford easily." "how do you know that?" matthew asked. "don't ask foolish questions," the girl pleaded; "help me get these horses roped together. then i will leap into the river with the end of the rope tied to my saddle, and the horses must follow. you bring up the rear." she was so resolute that the boys did not resist, but did her bidding. "but where did you get that fine indian pony?" fred asked when the work was done. "no questions, until we are on the other side," agnes said; "that belonged to a pequot chief once; now it is mine by right of spoils." she mounted her pony and at once drove it into the stream; the other horses followed, urged on by the showers of blows which fred and matthew gave them. the crossing was dangerous, for the river was wide and the current swift. but after much struggling they got across and spurred their mounts up the bank. "there is a trail that leads north," agnes said; "let's find it. loose the horses, and let me ride ahead." "what a wonderful girl she is!" matthew exclaimed; "she is a veritable leader." soon the boys heard the hooting of an owl, and they whipped their horses into a trot. agnes had found the trail. "come now," she admonished them, "we must do some fast riding, until we are safe. then i will tell you my story." for two hours they rode in silence, agnes taking the lead on her piebald pony which was a wonderful traveler in the woods, much more clever and docile than their own horses. sometimes the trail was hard to find, but the indian pony followed his sense of smell and walked on and on. "we are making good time, thanks to my pony," agnes said jubilantly. "come on with your steeds, gentlemen; don't mind it, if they are a little tired." however, the horses were showing signs of fatigue, since they had not eaten for two days. "very well," agnes said; "look!" the river made a sweeping bend, and from the high bank they could see the fort. "hurrah!" matthew cried; "how good it is to see the dwellings of white men." "we shall rest now," agnes suggested, "and allow the horses their meal. look at my pony; isn't it a wonder? and it was gotten by just a little trick." "yes, tell us the story," matthew begged. "not until the fire is burning, and the meat is cooking, and the horses are eating!" the girl said with a roguish smile. soon the log fire blazed brightly, and the horses were tied to ropes, enjoying the rest and the grazing abundantly. "where did you get that meat from?" fred asked; "why, you have stacks of it." "all indian meat," the girl laughed; "spoils of war." "oh, tell us the story," matthew asked again. "wait, until we are eating." afterwards, while they were sitting around the fire with the juicy meat stuck on bits of wood, and eating as if they had fasted for a week, agnes told her story. "you see," she began, "i ventured out very bravely, but i made the mistake which others made, and did not look out for the indians." "your brother is guilty," fred smiled; "the same fool head rests on us both. we are flesh of one flesh." "well," the girl went on; "the first thing i felt, were two arms around me, and then a band which pinned my hands together. a rude hand was thrust before my mouth, so that i could not cry out. the indians then carried me up the bank, and brought me to the camp, where they quartered me with the women, quite comfortably, but nevertheless a prisoner." "just my story," fred interposed, "only they did not trust me with the women." "you don't belong there either," agnes said; "they might have made you marry one of their number." they all laughed while fred shook his head. "never in my life," he affirmed. "but where did the women come from?" matthew queried. "i thought it was a scouting party, consisting only of men." "that is true," agnes explained; "but the scouting party was supplemented by other indians from across the river. that is the reason why i urged you to cross the stream. the indians are all over the other side, headed for the south where they are going to unite and attack the white men conjointly. i heard it all, for the women spoke about it, not knowing that i understood the pequot language. it is always good to know many languages." "that is true," matthew agreed; "and if we get out of this, i am going to study all kinds of languages, until i am a regular babel. that's the way." "go on with your story, agnes," fred urged her; "you just finished chapter one, and i am anxious to hear the rest. the reader is always looking for the climax." "there is no climax to my story," agnes smiled; "it is all the wonderful grace of god which freed me. you know, the women were very impolite. after i had been lying in the tent for some time, trying in vain to sleep, for the bands were cutting into my flesh and causing me much discomfiture, the women all left the tent and went out where a huge fire was burning and the men were eating. in fact, the men had eaten, for they were as impolite to their women, as these were to me. well, the women went out to eat, and i thought that i ought to have some meat, too." "so you stole away and got some," fred interrupted. "that is just the way i acted." "no, i did not," agnes replied; "i was too firmly bound for getting away. but while i was thus lying in the tent, feeling miserable, suddenly a young indian girl came in, who addressed me in the pequot language. talk about indian ingratitude! when the war is over; i am going to locate right here, and start a huge indian school, and invite them all to sunday school every sunday. why, it pays wonderfully to teach the indians religion!" "that is what i believe," matthew joined in; "i am going to be an indian missionary like the good pastor john eliot. we must not destroy the indians, but save them." "that is true," fred joined in; "and in order that you two missionaries may continue your work and not starve, i am going to build up the trading post again, and you shall be my guests as long as you live, and whatever expenses you have, i will repay." "we shall hold you to your promise," agnes replied, "shall we not, matthew?" "not one word shall he have spoken in vain," matthew said. "he must pay every cent. but now continue with your story." "this good indian girl," agnes said, "had attended our sunday school, and she was very grateful. silently she cut my fetters and freed me. then she told me to escape. it was not yet quite light, and so no one noticed me, as i lifted the rear part of the tent and crept through. but that was not all. my dear benefactress led me herself, and in order that i might not starve, she showed me the indian kitchen, where large supplies of meat were kept, smoked sufficiently to keep it from spoiling. after i had taken all i could carry, she showed me where the horses were, and urged me to take the one belonging to the chief, since it was clever and gentle. at first i had compunctions of conscience, but no choice was left me, and i had to do it. i made a rude bridle of birch bark, and jumping on the horse, came here just a little before you." "but what about the indians?" the boys asked; "where did they go?" "the girl told me," agnes replied; "they were on their way west to join the other indians, having received orders to come as soon as possible." "then we would have been safe on the other side!" matthew stated. "why was it necessary for us to cross? i am all wet from the task." "there are many stray indians on the other side," agnes replied; "but, no doubt, they will soon be gone; the whites are gathering their forces together, and then they will strike a speedy blow. but now we had better move on." they tied the horses together, and after a while found a place where they could cross the river. they arrived safely, much to the surprise of the settlers who had gathered at the fort, which was filled to its capacity so that the stockade had to be enlarged to accommodate the fleeing settlers that left their homes in haste when they heard of the hostilities of the indians. a number of outrages had been perpetrated already, and the pioneers were lashed into fury over the horrid tales which were related. our three friends were received with open arms; no one manifested greater surprise than john rawlins, who had gotten as far as hartford, where he was confined to his bed by a severe attack of rheumatism, which made him as helpless as a child. he had now recovered sufficiently to limp about, but he was still in a bad shape so that he could not be of much service to any one. "your presence here will make me well in a short time," he exclaimed joyfully as he embraced the children. "and i am sure you have a real story to tell." but how great was his surprise when he learned from the children the war plan of the indians. why, that is real news, for which we have been looking all this while. we were all interested in what the indians would do. tomorrow you must go to good captain mason and relate to him what you know. that will greatly help him in freeing the country from the indian pest. "yes, tomorrow," said agnes; "for tonight we are too tired, and the matter does not press." for the first time after a long, long trip they slept as white men do, in real beds, protected by american soldiers. chapter xiii the victory over the pequots the next morning the children had occasion to meet captain john mason, that gallant indian fighter, who was to suppress the indian uprising. he was a trained soldier, and thoroughly understood the principles of warfare, not only among the whites, but also as these could be best applied to the indians. he was a rough and burly man, though kind to the helpless and weak. at present he was busy with reforming the colonial methods of defense against the indians. so far the white men had failed to meet the indians successfully because they were reluctant to adopt their war methods. the soldiers were heavily armed, cased in armor, and could therefore not accomplish anything against the red men who were light of foot, and easily got away from them. the white men moved slowly, and while they had redoubtable musketry, the indians would not stand still, until their opponents got ready to shoot them. to load, aim, and fire was a tedious business, and the indians with their swift movements and their reliable bows and arrows had much the advantage over the white troops who really were trained to fight only their fellow europeans. captain mason was anxious to change all this. much of the heavy armor was discarded, and many of the fighting habits of the indians were adopted. every day the soldiers, together with the volunteer trappers and settlers, drilled and trained for the fight that would soon take place. that something decisive had to be done to check the indian outrages, was clear to all, and every man who could bear a gun was drafted into service. from massachusetts even many volunteers appeared, and they were gladly received into service by captain mason. our three young friends found the captain surrounded by his officers, as soon as he had learned that the children had an important message for him. he delighted in hearing their stories, and when he was told that the indians were massing their forces in the eastern part of the country, he at once had his plan ready. "i am still expecting some troops," he said, "but as soon as these arrive, i shall march out to prevent our foes from getting too near the settlements. you boys, of course, will follow me, because you are well acquainted with the country and the ways of the indians. besides, you speak the mohican and pequot language, and that is worth a great deal. in the meanwhile, you shall be my personal guests, and whatever you need, shall be given you. you shall eat and sleep in the officers' tents." fred and matthew at once joined the troops, and drilled with them. among the soldiers they found many boys, who were not much older than they, and so they had good companions, with whom they romped, played, discussed warfare methods, and diverted themselves in a profitable manner in the few hours of leisure left to them. old john rawlins could, of course, not take part in the work of the soldiers, but there was nevertheless much for him to do. his recovery was rapid, and while he still limped somewhat, he was of great assistance to the quartermaster in distributing and managing the supplies. agnes, who was a born missionary, soon found occasion to exert her talents. in the fort there were gathered not only men, but also women and children, and the latter she gathered into little groups and instructed them in the bible. for this the mothers were very grateful, for the children now had something worthwhile to do, and quarrels and strifes were thus obviated. in short, everybody said that the three children proved themselves valuable to the inhabitants of the fort in many ways, and soon the topic of general conversation was nothing else than their varied and useful activity. but the longer john mason waited, the less could he repress the strong desire of his men to go and fight the indians. news arrived every day of settlers captured and tortured to death, and the blood of the soldiers boiled with wrath as they heard of this. so finally when october came, and the ground was frozen and covered with snow, the troops set out, led by faithful mohican guides, to attack the pequots in their own village. from a european point of view the army presented a pitiable appearance, being little more than a rabble of men. but they all burned with a desire to punish the indians, and every one of them could handle his gun with precision. slowly and carefully the whites proceeded to the indian village at mystic, where the fierce pequot chief sassacus had gathered almost a thousand indians, the majority of whom could fight. the indian village was well concealed in a huge swamp, and had not the ground been frozen, the white men could never have approached it. but the cold winter, of which usually the colonists stood in dread, now proved their best friend, for they could march over the hard ground with ease and reach the indian village in spite of the swamp which surrounded it. one day, at noon, it was reported to captain mason that they had almost reached the village of mystic. the troops were gathered in the thick woods, in a little valley, which shut them off from the inquisitive eyes of the pequot scouts. it was a cold, unpleasant day, and a fierce storm was raging, which drove the sharp, icy flakes into the faces of the men as they moved forward. hurriedly john mason called together his officers and discussed with them the matter of attack. both the officers and the men desired to go forward at once, since the indian village was only about seven miles away. "we can make that in two hours," one of the men said; "and there will be sufficient time left to punish the redskins thoroughly." to this all seemed to agree. "and what do you think of the situation?" the captain asked fred. "do you think we should attack right now?" the eyes of all were turned upon the boy with eager expectancy, for not one had expected that so great a fighter as mason should ask him for his advice. yet he answered briefly and truthfully. "i would not do it, captain," fred said calmly; "if i were in command of the troops. your men are worn out by the march, while the indians are no doubt ready for an attack. then, too, if the attack should fail, the night would intervene and disconcert us. my advice would be to give the troops a thorough rest, start out when darkness has set in, and attack the pequot village toward the morning. this will not give them any time to gather their forces." "that advice seems good to me," the captain says; "i myself entertained similar thoughts. but pray, tell us more of the plan." "we may start fires," fred resumed, "since the storm rages and the woods hide the smoke. also from the indian village the smoke can not be seen, since it is closed in by trees. so the soldiers can thoroughly rest. when we attack i would supply a number of brave and enterprising men with burning fire brands. these will proceed to the village and set it on fire. the rest is a matter for all of us who fight." the plan was adopted, and the march was not resumed until late at night. just before daybreak the white men surrounded the slumbering village. due to the severe storm the indians had not even placed guards around the village, since they did not expect the enemy to attack them. so it happened that the attack worked out successfully. fred himself led those who carried the fire brands, and they succeeded in entering the palisaded village and setting it on fire. eggleston in his "history of the united states and its people" reports the battle, and says: "in the war which followed this attack, the whole pequot tribe was broken up, and the other indians were so terrified that new england had peace for many years after." all this is true, for eggleston is a fine historian, who always relates the events truthfully and accurately. yet the matter was not as simple as all that. in fact, there was much marching and lighting and suffering, before peace was restored. fred and matthew took part in it, until all was ended, and the troops returned to the settlements. but they were heartily glad that the fight was over, for war was very distasteful to them, and their aim in life was not to be good soldiers and kill, but to be useful citizens who could serve both whites and indians with the more blessed and valuable arts and pursuits of peace. how eager they were to accomplish these, will be learned from the last chapter of our story, in which we find our three young pioneers back at the trading post on the connecticut river. chapter xiv christmas at the trading post christmas day is always a day of great joy and blessed peace. fred was glad that it could be celebrated in a peaceful manner, the only way which becomes this great peace day of the prince of peace. let us note how fred with matthew and agnes, spent this day in glorifying their lord. the log house had been rebuilt, but it was much larger than the old one which the indians had burned. in fact, it was a little fort with palisades surrounding it, for never again would they find themselves without the means of defense in a war with the indians. the main building was the trading post proper, which was twice as large as the old one and could accommodate all the furs and articles of trade which the increasing merchant ventures required. south of it on the bank of the river, with a wonderful view to the other side, stood a spacious dwelling house, consisting of two stories, very conveniently built. west of these two buildings stood a school, which agnes intended for the indian children that would return with their elders to their old haunts. in fact, even now some of the tribes had come back, very sorry for the war in which they had engaged. but not far up the river a settlement of white people had been made, and even now log houses were being built for the settlers. agnes was anxious to have in her school also such white children as would come. john rawlins had superintended the erection of the fort, and as he was clever in making plans, he had done his work well. "shall we proceed with our christmas program?" agnes asked her brother; "the school is filled with people, and they are becoming impatient." "no, let us wait," fred replied; "our friends from boston must be here any minute. they started early from hartford this morning, and i expect them every moment, for it is almost noon." to his great joy, he soon heard the barking of dogs, and as the children ran forward toward the trail, they heard the hoofs of horses stamping the hard ground. "they are coming," matthew cried. in a short time the visitors were welcomed by the men, women, and children of the trading post. there were mr. and mrs. bradley, who where anxious to see the children, a young puritan pastor, who had recently come from england, and to whom the new settlement in the woods was assigned, and among other great and distinguished men, captain john mason, the hero of mystic. the joy of every one was great beyond words, and every one felt like talking, but agnes urged them to come to the school, where the celebration was to take place. we shall not enter into detail in describing the service, which was attended alike by white men and indians. the new pastor preached a long and edifying sermon, and then agnes with her class of little ones sang hymns about the little lord jesus and his wondrous love. though the time was short, agnes and matthew had drilled the story of the nativity well, and the children answered promptly. the service lasted three hours. then each child received a small gift, and the whole company was treated royally with a feast that all remembered for a long time after. john rawlins, clever and resourceful, had arranged this in his usual thorough way. for many days before he had sent out his trappers and hunters, and these brought huge supplies of game,---turkeys, ducks, geese, partridges, bears, and what ever else could be found in the connecticut woods, beautiful to behold and pleasant for food. when finally the settlers and indians had left, and darkness shrouded the woods, the children with their parents, john rawlins, john mason, and the new pastor gathered in the large living room of the new dwelling. here they related what had happened during the last months, and they united once more in giving thanks to the good lord who doeth all things well. they spoke also of the future. "now, you children must return to boston," mrs. bradley said, "and never leave us again; for we miss you so much. the home seems dead to us since you left." but the children demurred, very respectfully, but firmly. "we shall always return to boston and spend a number of weeks with you during the summer," agnes said; "but this is our home, and you must promise to visit us often." "and what will you do here?" mr. bradley asked. "i will be a trapper and trader," fred said proudly, "and will serve you faithfully und john rawlins, so that agnes and matthew, who are not interested in this work, may have food and clothing." "and i will be a school teacher," agnes said, "and teach all the children that come, white or indian, the blessed story of jesus, besides other things. it is a noble calling, and one which deserves that many good children dedicate themselves to it with heart and soul." "and i," matthew finally said, "will study theology under our new pastor, until i, too, may preach and teach and win souls for jesus." there were tears in the eyes of all, even in those of the rough soldier john mason. "if our young people are thus minded," he said, "we shall have no fear for the future of our colonies. we shall become a strong and powerful nation." "if our young people are thus minded," said old, genial john rawlins, "we shall have a large city here in the woods some time, with plenty of happiness and peace and wealth." "if you are thus minded," mrs. bradley finally said, "i shall die in peace and thank god eternally for having bestowed upon me such dear children. god bless you richly in time and eternity." "and that is also my prayer," mr. bradley joined in, as he gathered his arms around the children and kissed them. "well, well," john rawlins finally said, when no one knew exactly just what to say. "all day long i thought of something which would not come into my fool head, because we were so busy and happy. i never forgot it in england, but here my poor head is so addled that i am forgetful of even the most important thing. "what is that?" they all asked. "i forgot to wish you all a merry, merry christmas," the old servant said, as he bowed himself out of the room to go to bed. the end the puritan twins by lucy fitch perkins illustrated by the author [illustration] houghton mifflin company boston new york chicago san francisco the riverside press cambridge by lucy fitch perkins * * * * * _geographical series_ the dutch twins primer. _grade i._ the dutch twins. _grade iii._ the eskimo twins. _grade ii._ the filipino twins. _grade iv._ the japanese twins. _grade iv._ the swiss twins. _grade iv._ the irish twins. _grade v._ the italian twins. _grades v and vi._ the scotch twins. _grades v and vi._ the mexican twins. _grade vi._ the belgian twins. _grade vi._ the french twins. _grade vii._ _historical series_ the cave twins. _grade iv._ the spartan twins. _grades v-vi._ the puritan twins. _grades vi-vii._ * * * * * _each volume is illustrated by the author_ * * * * * houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge massachusetts printed in the u.s.a. [illustration] contents i. the pepperells and the captain 3 ii. two days 39 iii. on board the lucy ann 63 iv. a forest trail 87 v. the new home 113 vi. harvest home 157 suggestions to teachers 181 [illustration: map] i the pepperells and the captain one bright warm noonday in may of the year 1638, goodwife pepperell opened the door of her little log cabin, and, screening her eyes from the sun with a toilworn hand, looked about in every direction, as if searching for some one. she was a tall, spare woman, with a firm mouth, keen blue eyes, and a look of patient endurance in her face, bred by the stern life of pioneer new england. far away across the pasture which sloped southward from the cabin she could see long meadow grass waving in the breeze, and beyond a thread of blue water where the charles river flowed lazily to the sea. westward there was also pasture land where sheep were grazing, and in the distance a glimpse of the thatched roofs of the little village of cambridge. goodwife pepperell gazed long and earnestly in this direction, and then, making a trumpet of her hands, sent a call ringing across the silent fields. "nancy! daniel!" she shouted. she was answered only by the tinkle of sheep bells. a shade of anxiety clouded the blue eyes as she went round to the back of the cabin and looked toward the dense forest which bounded her vision on the north. stout-hearted though she was, goodwife pepperell could never forget the terrors which lay concealed behind that mysterious rampart of green. not only were there wolves and deer and many other wild creatures hidden in its depths, but it sheltered also the perpetual menace of the indians. toward the east, at some distance from the cabin, corn-fields stretched to salt meadows, and beyond, across the bay, she could see the three hills of boston town.[1] [footnote 1: see map.] as no answering shout greeted her from this direction either, the goodwife stepped quickly toward a hollow stump which stood a short distance from the cabin. beside the stump a slender birch tree bent beneath the weight of a large circular piece of wood hung to its top by a leather thong. this was the samp-mill, where their corn was pounded into meal. seizing the birch tree with her hands, she brought the wooden pestle down into the hollow stump with a resounding thump. the birch tree sprang back lifting the block with it and again she pulled it down and struck the stump another blow, then paused to listen. this time there was, beside the echo, an answering shout, and in a few moments two heads appeared above the rows of young corn just peeping out of the ground, two pairs of lively bare feet came flying across the garden patch, and a breathless boy and girl stood beside their mother. they were a sturdy pair of twelve-year-olds, the boy an inch or more taller than his sister, and both with the blue eyes, fair skin, and rosy cheeks which proclaimed their english blood. there was a gleam of pride in goodwife pepperell's eye as she looked a her children, but not for the world would she have let them see it; much less would she have owned it to herself, for she was a puritan mother, and regarded pride of any kind as altogether sinful. "where have you been all the morning?" she said. "you were nowhere to be seen and the corn is not yet high enough to hide you." "i was hoeing beyond that clump of bushes," said daniel, pointing to a group of high blueberries that had been allowed to remain in the cleared field. "and i was keeping away the crows," said nancy, holding out her wooden clappers. "only i fell asleep. it was so warm i just could n't help it." "so shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth and thy want as an armed man," quoted the mother sternly. "night is the time for sleep. go now and eat the porridge i have set for you in your little porringers, and then go down to the bay with this basket and fill it with clams. put a layer of seaweed in the basket first and pack the clams in that. they will keep alive for some time if you bed them so, and be sure to bring back the shovel." this was a task that suited the twins much better than either hoeing corn or scaring crows, and they ran into the house at once, ate their porridge with more haste than good manners, and dashed joyfully away across the fields toward the river-mouth, a mile away. they followed a path across the wide stretch of pasture, where wild blackberry vines and tall blueberry bushes grew, then through a strip of meadow land, and at last ran out on the bare stretch of sand and weed left by the ebb tide toward the narrow channel cut by the clear water of the charles. here they set down the basket and began looking about for the little holes which betray the hiding-places of clams. [illustration] "oh, look, dan," cried nancy, stopping to admire the long line of foot-prints which they had left behind them. "dost see what a pretty border we have made? 't is just like a pattern." she walked along the edge of the stream with her toes turned well out, leaving a track in the sand like this: [illustration] then the delightful flat surface tempted her to further exploits. she picked up a splinter of driftwood and, making a wide flourish, began to draw a picture. "see," she called rapturously to dan, "this is going to be a pig! here 's his nose, and here 's his curly tail, and here are his little fat legs." she clapped her hands with admiration. "now i shall do something else," she announced as she finished the pig with a round red pebble stuck in for the eye. "let me see. what shall i draw? oh, i know! a picture of gran'ther wattles! look, dan." she made a careful stroke. "here 's his nose, and here 's his chin. they are monstrous near together because he has nothing but gums between! and here 's his long tithing-stick with the squirrel-tail on the end!" [illustration] "it doth bear a likeness to him!" admitted dan, laughing in spite of himself, "but, sister, thou shouldst not mock him. he is an old man, and we should pay respect to gray hairs. father says so." "truly i have as much of respect as he hath of hair," answered naughty nancy. "his poll is nearly as bald as an egg." "i know the cause of thy displeasure," declared dan. "gran'ther wattles poked thee for bouncing about during the sermon last sunday. but it is unseemly to bounce in the meeting-house, and besides, is he not the tithing-man? 't is his duty to see that people behave as they should." "he would mayhap have bounced himself if a bee had been buzzing about his nose as it did about mine," said nancy, and, giving a vicious dab at the pictured features, she drew a bee perched on the end of gran'ther wattles's nose. "here now are all the gray hairs he hath," she added, making three little scratches above the ear. "nancy pepperell!" cried her brother, aghast, "dost thou not remember what happened to the forty and two children that said 'go up, thou bald head' to elijah? it would be no marvel if bears were to come out of the woods this moment to eat thee up!" [illustration] "'t was n't elijah, 't was elisha," nancy retorted with spirit, "but it matters little whether 't was one or t' other, for i don't believe two bears could possibly hold so much, and besides dost thou not think it a deal worse to cause a bear to eat up forty and two children than to say 'go up, thou bald head'?" "nancy!" exclaimed her horrified brother, glancing fearfully toward the forest and clapping his hand on her mouth to prevent further impiety, "thou art a wicked, wicked girl! dost thou not know that the eye of the lord is in every place? without doubt his ear is too, and he can hear every word thy saucy tongue sayeth. come, let us rub out this naughty picture quickly, and mayhap god will take no notice this time." he ran across gran'ther wattles's portrait from brow to chin, covering it with foot-prints. "besides," he went on as he trotted back and forth, "thou hast broken a commandment! thou hast made a likeness of something that 's in the earth, and that 's gran'ther wattles! nancy, thou dost take fearful chances with thy soul." nancy began to look a little anxious as she considered her conduct. "at any rate," she said defensively, "it is n't a graven image, and i have neither bowed down to it nor served it! i do try to be good, dan, but it seemeth that the devil is ever at my elbow." [illustration] "'t is because thou art idle," said dan, shaking his head as gravely as gran'ther wattles himself. "busy thyself with the clams, and satan will have less chance at thy idle hands, and thy idle tongue too." nancy obediently took hold of the basket which dan thrust into her hands, and together they walked for some distance over the sandy stretches. suddenly a tiny stream of water spouted up beside dan's feet. "here they be!" he shouted, plunging his shovel into the sand, "and what big ones!" nancy surveyed the clams with disfavor. they were thrusting pale thick muscles out between the lobes of their shells. "they look as if they were sticking out their tongues at us," said nancy as she picked one up gingerly and dropped it into the basket. "but, dan, mother said we were to bed them in seaweed!" "i see none here," said dan, leaning on his shovel and looking about him. "the tide hath swept everything as clean as a floor." "i 'll seek for some while thou art busy with the digging," said nancy, glad to escape the duty of picking up the clams, and off she trotted without another word. the flats, seamed and grooved with channels where pools of water still lingered, sloped gently down to the lower level of the bay, and farther out a range of rocks lifted themselves above the sandy waste. [illustration] "i 'll surely find seaweed on the rocks," thought nancy to herself as she sped along, and in a few moments she had reached them, had tossed up the basket, and was climbing their rugged sides. "there 's a mort o' seaweed here," she said, nodding her head wisely as she picked up a long string of kelp; "i can fill my basket in no time at all." there was no need for haste, she thought, so she sat down beside a pool of water left in a hollow of the rocks, to explore its contents. the first thing she found was a group of tiny barnacles, and for a while she amused herself by washing salt water over them to see them open their tiny cups of shell. in the pool itself a beautiful lavender-colored jelly-fish was floating about, and just beyond lay a star-fish clinging to a bunch of seaweed. she found other treasures scattered about by the largess of the tide--tiny spiral shells, stones of all colors, and a horseshoe crab, besides seaweed with pretty little pods which popped delightfully when she squeezed them with her fingers. then she heard the cries of gulls overhead and watched them as they wheeled and circled between her and the sky. when they flew out to sea she sat with her hands clasping her knees and gazed across the bay at the three hills of boston town. she could see quite plainly the tall beacon standing like a ship's mast on top of beacon hill, and farther north she strained her eyes to pick out governor winthrop's dwelling from the cluster of houses which straggled up the slope of copp's hill and which made all there was of the city of boston in that early day. [illustration] for some time she sat there hugging her knees and thinking long, long thoughts, and it was not until the sound of little waves lapping against the rocks roused her that she woke from her day dream and realized with terror that the tide had turned. the channels and lower levels of the bay were already brimming over, and the water was deep about the rocks on which she perched. at almost the same moment dan had been surprised by a cold wave which washed over his bare feet, and, turning about, was dismayed to find a sheet of blue water covering the bay and to see nancy standing on the topmost rock shouting "dan! dan!" at the top of her lungs. for one astonished instant he looked at her, then, throwing down his shovel, he plunged unhesitatingly into the icy bath. and now nancy, realizing that there was not a moment to lose if she hoped to reach the shore in safety, let herself slowly down off the rocks, leaving the basket behind her, and started toward her brother. the water was already so deep in the channels that their progress toward each other was slow, but they ploughed bravely on, feeling the bottom carefully at each step lest they sink in some sand-pocket or hollow washed out by the tide. some distance away toward charlestown a fishing schooner rocked on the deeper water of the bay, and a fisherman in a small boat, attracted by the shouting, looked up, and, seeing the two struggling figures, instantly bent to his oars and started toward them. though he rowed rapidly, it was some minutes before he could reach the children, who were now floundering about in water nearly up to their necks. [illustration] "hold fast to my shoulder, nancy," he heard dan cry. "i can float, and i can swim a little. keep thy nose above water and let thy feet go where they will." nancy, spluttering and gurgling, was trying hard to follow dan's directions, when the boat shot alongside, and a cheery voice cried, "ahoy, there! come aboard, you young porpoises!" to the children it was like a voice straight from heaven. dan immediately helped nancy to get into the boat, and then she balanced it while he climbed aboard. when they were safely bestowed among the lobster-pots with which the boat was laden, the man leaned on his oars and eyed them critically. "short of sense, ain't ye?" he remarked genially. "nigh about drownded that time or i 'm no skipper! if ye ain't bent on destruction ye 'd better get into dry clothes. ye 're as wet as a mess of drownded kittens. tell me where you live and i 'll take you home." he flung a tarpaulin over the shivering figures and tucked it around them as he scolded. "'t is all my fault," sobbed poor nancy. "dan came in just to get me out." "very commendable of him, i 'm sure," said the stranger, nodding approvingly at dan, "and just what he 'd ought to do, and doubtless you 're worth saving at that, though a hen-headeder young miss i never see in all my days!" "she went to find seaweed to bed the clams," explained dan, coming to his sister's defense, "and the tide caught her. thou art kind indeed to pick us up, sir." "oh," groaned remorseful nancy, her teeth chattering, "it 's all because i 'm such a sinner! i made a likeness of gran'ther wattles in the sand and said dreadful things about the prophet elijah, or mayhap 't was elisha, and dan said a bear might come to eat me up just like the forty and two children, and instead of a bear we both were almost swallowed by the tide!" "well, now," said the stranger, comfortingly, "ye see instead of sending bears the lord sent me along to fish ye out, just the same as he sent the whale to swallow jonah when he was acting contrary! looks like he meant to let ye off with a scare this time. come now, my lass, there 's salt water enough aboard and if ye cry into the boat, ye 'll have to bail her out. besides," he added whimsically, looking up at the sky, "there 's another squall coming on, and two at a time is too many for any sailor. if i 'm to cast you up on the shore same as the whale, ye 'll have to tell me which way to go, and who ye are." "our father is josiah pepperell," answered dan, "and our house is almost a mile back from shore near cambridge." "so you 're josiah pepperell's children! to be sure, to be sure! might have known it. ye do favor him some," said the fisherman. "well! well! the ways of the lord are surely past finding out! why, i knew your father way back in england. he came over here for religion and i came for fish. not that i ain't a god-fearing man," he added hastily, noticing a look of horror on nancy's face, "but i ain't so pious as some. i 'm a seafaring man, captain sanders of the lucy ann, marblehead. ye can see her riding at anchor out there in the bay. i have n't set eyes on your father since he left boston and settled in the back woods up yonder." he sent the boat flying through the water with swift, sure strokes as he talked, and brought it ashore at the first landing-place they found. here they drew it up on the bank and, taking out the lobster-pots, turned it upside down so the rain would not fill it. two great green lobsters with goblin-like eyes were hidden away under the pots, and when the boat was overturned they tumbled out and started at a lively pace for the water. "hi, there!" shouted the captain, seizing them by their tails, "where are your manners? by jolly, i like to forgot ye! come along now and take supper with the pepperells. i invite ye! they 're short of clams and they 'll be pleased to see ye, or i miss my reckoning." there were pegs stuck in the scissor-like claws, so the creatures were harmless, and, swinging along with one kicking vigorously in each hand, the captain plunged into the long meadow grass, the children following close at his heels. the clouds grew darker and darker; there was a rumble of thunder, and streaks of lightning tore great rents in the sky as they hurried across the open meadow and struck into the pasture land beyond. "head into the wind there and keep going," shouted the captain as the children struggled along, impeded by their wet clothing. "it 's from the north, and we 're pointed straight into it." past bushes waving distractedly in the wind, under the boughs of young oak trees, over stones and through briars they sped, and at last they came in sight of the cabin just as the storm broke. goodwife pepperell was standing in the door gazing anxiously toward the river, when they dashed out of the bushes and, scudding past her, stood dripping on the hearth-stone. her husband was just hanging his gun over the chimney-piece, and the noise of their entrance was drowned out by a clap of thunder; so when he turned about and saw the three drenched figures it was no wonder that for an instant he was too surprised to speak. "well, of all things!" he said at last, holding out his hand to captain sanders. "what in god's providence brings thee here, thomas? thou art welcome indeed. 't is a long time since i have seen thee." "god's providence ye may call it," answered the captain, shaking the goodman's hand as if he were pumping out the hold of a sinking ship, "and i 'll not gainsay it. the truth is i overhauled these small craft floundering around in the tide-wash with water over their scuppers 'n' all but wrecked, so i took 'em in tow and brought 'em ashore!" their mother, meanwhile, had not waited for explanations. seeing how chilled they were, she had hurried the children to the loft above the one room of the cabin and was already giving them a rub-down and getting out dry clean clothes while they told her their adventure. "thank god you are safe," she said, clasping them both in her arms, when the tale was told. "thank captain sanders as well, mother," said daniel. "had it not been for him, i doubt if we could have reached the shore." "let this be a lesson to you, then," said the goodwife, loosening her clasp and picking up the wet clothing. "you know well about the tide! nancy, child, why art thou so wild and reckless? thou art the cause of much anxiety." at her mother's reproof, gentle though it was, poor nancy flopped over on her stomach, and, burying her face in her hands, gave way to tears. "it 's all because i am so wicked," she moaned. "my sins are as scarlet! oh, mother, dost think god will cause the lightning to strike us dead to punish me?" she shuddered with fear as a flash shone through the chinks of the logs and for an instant lighted the dim loft. her mother put down the wet clothes and, lifting her little daughter tenderly in her arms, laid her on her bed. "god maketh the rain to fall on both the just and the unjust," she said soothingly. "rest here while i go down and get supper." she covered her warmly with a homespun blanket, and, accompanied by dan, made her way down the ladder. she found her husband putting fresh logs on the fire and stirring the coals to a blaze, while the captain hung his coat on the corner of the mantel-shelf to dry. she went up to him and held out her hand. "captain sanders," she said, "but for thee this might be a desolate household indeed this night." the captain's red face turned a deeper shade, and he fidgeted with embarrassment, as he took her hand in his great red paw, then dropped it suddenly as if it were hot. "oh, stow it, ma'am, stow it," he begged. "that is, i mean to say--why, by jolly, ma'am, a pirate could do no less when he see a fine bit of cargo like that going to the bottom!" to the captain's great relief the lobsters at this moment created a diversion. he had dropped them on the hearth when he came in, and they were now clattering briskly about the room, butting into anything that came in their way in an effort to escape. he made a sudden dash after them and held them out toward goodwife pepperell. "here they be, ma'am," he said. "i 'd saved them for my supper, and i 'd take it kindly if ye 'd cook them for me, and help eat them, too. it 's raining cats and dogs, and if i was to start out now, i 'd have a hard time finding the lucy ann. ye can't see a rod ahead of ye in such a downpour." "we shall be glad to have thee stay as long as thou wilt," said the goodwife heartily. "put the lobsters in this while i set the kettle to boil." she held out a wooden puncheon as she spoke, and the captain dropped them in. then he sat down with goodman pepperell on the settle beside the fireplace, and the two men talked of their boyhood in england, while she hung the kettle on the crane over the fire and began to prepare the evening meal. "daniel, sit thee down by the fire and get a good bed of coals ready while i mix the johnny-cake," she said as she stepped briskly about the room, and daniel, nothing loath, drew a stool to the captain's side and fed the fire with chips and corn-cobs while he listened with all his ears to the talk of the two men. [illustration] "well, thomas, how hast thou prospered since i saw thee last?" asked goodman pepperell. "tolerable, tolerable, josiah," answered the captain. "i 've been mining for sea gold." daniel wondered what in the world sea gold might be. "ye see," he went on, turning to include daniel in the conversation, "my father was a sea captain before me, and my gran'ther too. why, my gran'ther helped send the spanish armada to the bottom where it belonged. many and many 's the time i 've heard him tell about it, and i judge from what he said he must have done most of the job himself, though i reckon old cap'n drake may have helped some." (here the captain chuckled.) "he never came back from his last voyage,--overhauled by pirates more 'n likely. that was twenty years ago, and i 've been following the sea myself ever since. i was wrecked off the spanish main on my first voyage, and i 've run afoul of pirates and come near walking the plank more times than one, i 'm telling ye, but somehow i always had the luck to get away! and here i be, safe and sound." at this point the lobsters made a commotion in the wooden puncheon, and the captain turned his attention to them. "jest spilin' to get out, ain't ye?" he inquired genially. "look here, boy," to daniel, "that water's bilin'. heave 'em in." daniel held his squirming victims over the pot, and not without a qualm of pity dropped them into the boiling water. then he ventured to ask a question. "what is sea gold, captain sanders?" "things like them," answered the captain, jerking his thumb at the lobsters, which were already beginning to turn a beautiful red color as they boiled in the pot; "as good gold as any that was ever dug out of mines ye can get for fish, and there never was such fishing in all the seas as there is along this coast! my! my! i 've seen schools of cod off the cape making a solid floor of fish on the water so ye could walk on it if ye were so minded, and as for lobsters, i 've caught 'em that measured six and seven feet long! farther down the coast there are oysters so big one of 'em will make a square meal for four or five people. it 's the truth i 'm telling ye." goodman pepperell smiled. "thomas," he said, "thou hast not lost thy power of narration!" captain sanders for an instant looked a bit dashed, then he said, "well, believe it or not, josiah, it 's the truth for all that. why, talk about the land of canaan flowin' with milk and honey! this here water 's just alive with money! any boy could go out and haul up a shilling on his own hook any time he liked." daniel, his eyes shining and his lips parted, was just making up his mind that he would rather be the captain of a fishing-smack than anything else in the world, since he knew he could n't be a pirate, when his mother came to the fireplace with a layer of corn-meal dough spread on a baking-board. she placed the board in a slanting position against an iron trivet before the glowing bed of coals, and set a pot of beans in the ashes to warm. "keep an eye on that johnny-cake," she said to daniel, "and don't let it burn." then she turned away to set the table. [illustration] this task took but little time, for in those days there were few things to put on it. she spread a snowy cloth of homespun linen on the plank which served as a table, and laid a knife and spoon at each place; there were no forks, and for plates only a square of wood with a shallow depression in the middle. beside each of these trenchers she placed a napkin and a mug, and at the captain's place, as a special honor, she set a beautiful tankard of wrought silver. it was one of the few valuable things she had brought with her from her english home, and it was used only on great occasions. when these preparations were complete, she took the lobsters from the pot, poured the beans into a pewter dish, heaped the golden johnny-cake high upon a trencher, and, sending dan to fetch nancy, called the men to supper. the storm was over by this time, the last rays of the setting sun were throwing long shadows over the fields, and the robins were singing their evening song. the goodwife stepped to the window and threw open the wooden shutters. "see," she said. "there 's a rainbow." "the sign of promise," murmured goodman pepperell, rising and looking over his wife's shoulder. "fine day to-morrow," said the captain. "maybe i can plant my lobster-pots after all." nancy, looking pale and a little subdued, crept down the ladder and took her place with daniel at the foot of the board. then they all stood, while goodman pepperell asked a blessing on the food, and thanked god for his mercy in delivering them from danger and bringing them together in health and safety to partake of his bounty. [illustration] ii two days the grace finished (it was a very long one and the beans were nearly cold before he said amen), goodman pepperell broke open the lobsters and piled the trenchers with johnny-cake and beans, and the whole family fell to with a right good will. all but nancy. she was still a bit upset and did not feel hungry. "thou hast not told me, captain, what voyage thou art about to undertake next," said the goodman, sucking a lobster-claw with relish. the captain loved to talk quite as well as he loved to eat, but his mouth was full at this moment, and he paused before replying. "i 'm getting too old for long voyages, josiah," he said at last with a sigh. "kind o' losing my taste for adventure. pirates is pretty plentiful yet, and for all i 'm a sailor i 'd like to die in my bed, so i have settled at marblehead. they 're partial to fishermen along this coast. the town gives 'em land for drying their fish and exempts 'em from military dooty. but i can't stay ashore a great while before my sea legs begin to hanker for the feel of the deck rolling under 'em, so i 'm doing a coasting trade all up and down the length of massachusetts bay. i keep a parcel of lobster-pots going, some here and some plymouth way, and sell them and fish, besides doing a carrying trade for all the towns along-shore. it 's a tame kind o' life. there, now," he finished, "that 's all there is to say about me, and i 'll just take a turn at these beans and give ye a chance to tell about yourself, josiah." "'t is but a short tale," answered the goodman, "god hath prospered me. i have an hundred acres of good farm land along this river, and i have a cow, and a flock of sheep to keep us in wool for the good wife to spin. i have set out apple trees, and there is wood for the cutting; the forest furnishes game and the sea is stored with food for our use; but the truth is there is more to do than can be compassed with one pair of hands. the neighbors help each other with clearing the land, log-rolling, building walls, and such as that, but if this country is to be developed we must do more than make a living. there are a thousand things calling to be done if there were but the men to do them." the captain skillfully balanced a mouthful of beans on his knife as he considered the problem. finally he said, "well, here 's dan'el, and, judging by the way he waded right into the tide after his sister, i calculate he 'd be a smart boy to have round." "he is," said the goodman, and daniel blushed to his eyes, for his father seldom praised him, "but he is not yet equal to a man's work, and moreover i want him to get some schooling. the reverend john harvard hath promised his library and quite a sum of money to found a college for the training of ministers right here in cambridge. the hand of the lord hath surely guided us to this place, where he may receive an education, and it may even be that daniel will be a minister, for the colony sorely needs such." "there, now," said the captain. "farming ain't such plain sailing; is it? have ye thought of getting an indian slave to help ye?" "truly i have thought of that," said the goodman, "but they are a treacherous lot and passing lazy. there was a parcel of pequot women and girls brought up from beyond plymouth way last year after the uprising. the settlers had killed off all the men and sold the boys in the bermudas. i might have bought one of the women but i need a man, or at least a boy that will grow into one. the pequots are about all gone now, but the narragansetts are none too friendly. they helped fight the pequots because they hate them worse than they hate the english, but they are only biding their time, and some day it 's likely we shall have trouble with them. nay, i could never trust an indian slave. roger williams saith they are wolves with men's brains, and he speaks the truth." "well, then," said the captain, "why don't ye get a black? they are more docile than indians, and the woods about are not full of their friends." "aye," agreed the goodman, "the plan is a good one and well thought out, but they are hard to come by. there are only a few, even in boston." "there will soon be more, i 'm thinking," said the captain. "a ship was built in marblehead last year on purpose for the trade. captain pierce is a friend of mine, and he 's due at providence any time now with a cargo of blacks from guinea. ye could sail down the bay with me, and there 's a trail across the neck of the cape to providence, where the desire will come to port. i expect to spend the sabbath here, but i lift anchor on monday. ye can tell captain pierce ye 're a friend of mine, and 't will do ye no harm." [illustration] "oh, father," breathed dan, "may i go, too?" the captain chuckled. "art struck with the sea fever, son?" he said, looking down into the boy's eager face. "well, there 's room aboard. i might take ye along if so be thy parents are willing and thou art minded to see a bit of the world." up to this time goodwife pepperell had said no word, but now she spoke. "are there not dangers enough on land without courting the dangers of the sea?" she asked. her husband looked at her with gentle disapproval. "hold thy peace," he said. "what hath a pioneer lad to do with fear? moreover, if he goes i shall be with him." nancy leaned forward and gazed imploringly at the captain. "dost thou not need some one to cook on thy boat?" she gasped. "i know well how to make johnny-cake and i--" then, seeing her father's stern look and her mother's distress, she wilted like a flower on its stem and was silent. the captain smiled at her. "ye 're a fine cook, i make no doubt," he said genially, "but ye would n't go and leave mother here all alone, now, i 'll be bound!" "nay," said nancy faintly, looking at her mother. then the goodwife spoke. "it pains me," she said, "to think of children torn from their parents and sold into slavery, even though they be but indians or blacks. i doubt not they have souls like ourselves." "read thy bible, susanna," answered her husband. "cursed be canaan. a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren--thus say the scriptures." "well, now," broke in the captain, "if they have souls, they 've either got to save 'em or lose 'em as i jedge it; and if they never have a chance to hear the plan of salvation, they 're bound to be lost anyway. bringin' 'em over here gives them their only chance to escape damnation, according to my notion." "hast thou ever brought over a cargo of slaves thyself?" asked the goodwife. "nay," admitted the captain, "but i sailed once on a slaver, and i own i liked not to see the poor critters when they were lured away. it seemed they could n't rightly sense that 't was for their eternal welfare, and i never felt called to set their feet in the way of salvation by that means myself. i reckon i 'm not more than chicken-hearted, if ye come to that." the meal was now over, the dusk had deepened as they lingered about the table, and goodwife pepperell rose to light a bayberry candle and set it on the chimney-piece. "sit ye down by the fire again, while nancy and i wash the dishes," she said cordially. "thank ye kindly," said the captain, "but i must budge along. it 's near dark, and timothy--that 's my mate--will be wondering if i 've been et up by a shark. it 's going to be a clear night after the storm." the children slept so soundly after the adventures of the day that their mother called them three times from the foot of the ladder in the early dawn of the following morning without getting any response. then she mounted to the loft and shook daniel gently. "wake thee," she said. "'t is long past cock-crow, and saturday at that." daniel opened his eyes feebly and was off to sleep again at once. "daniel," she said, shaking him harder, "thy father is minded to take thee to plymouth." before the words were fairly out of her mouth daniel had popped out of bed as if he had been shot from a gun. "oh, mother," he shouted, "am i really to go? shall i go clear to providence? doth captain sanders know? when do we start?" "thy father arranged it with the captain last night," answered his mother. "he will come for thee in the little boat on monday morning and will row thee and thy father to the sloop, which will sail at high tide. while thy father makes the journey across the cape thou wilt go on to provincetown with the captain, or mayhap, if visitors are now permitted in the colony, my aunt, the governor's lady, will keep thee with her until thy father returns. she would like well to see my son, i know, and i trust thou wilt be a good lad and mind thy manners. come, nancy, child, i need thy help!" then she disappeared down the ladder to stir the hasty pudding, which was already bubbling in the pot. when she was gone, nancy flung herself upon the mattress and buried her face in the bed-clothes. "oh, daniel," she cried, smothering a sob, "what if the p-p-pirates should get thee?" daniel was at her side in an instant. "give thyself no concern about pirates, sister," he said, patting her comfortingly. "i have thought how to deal with them! i shall stand by the rail with my cutlass in my hand, and when they seek to board her i will bring down my cutlass so,"--here he made a terrific sweep with his arm,--"and that will be the end of them." "oh," breathed nancy, much impressed, "how brave thou art!" "well," said daniel modestly, "there 'd be the captain and father to help, of course, and, i suppose, the mate too. there will be four of us men anyway." "_nancy!_--_daniel!_"--it was their father's voice this time, and the two children jumped guiltily and began to dress as if the house were on fire and they had but two minutes to escape. in a surprisingly short time they were downstairs and attending to their morning tasks. nancy, looking very solemn, fed the chickens, and dan brought water from the spring, while their father milked the cow; and by six o'clock their breakfast of hasty pudding and milk had been eaten, prayers were over, and the whole family was ready for the real work of the day. there was a great deal of it to do, for nothing but "works of necessity and mercy" could be performed on the sabbath, the sabbath began at sundown saturday afternoon, and the travellers were to make an early start on monday morning. a fire was built in the brick oven beside the fireplace, and while it was heating the goodwife made four pies and six loaves of brown-bread, and prepared a pot of pork and beans for baking. [illustration] when the coals had been raked out and the oven filled, she washed clothes for daniel and his father, while nancy hurried to finish a pair of stockings she was knitting for her brother. daniel himself, meanwhile, had gone down to the bay to see if he could find the shovel and the basket. he came home in triumph about noon with both, and with quite a number of clams beside, which the goodwife cooked for their dinner. when they were seated at the table, and the goodman had asked the blessing, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the ceiling of the cabin. from the rafters there hung long festoons of dried pumpkin and golden ears of corn. there were also sausages, hams, and sides of bacon. "i doubt not you will fare well while we are gone," he said. "there is plenty of well-cured meat, and meal enough ground to last for some time. the planting is done and the corn well hoed; there is wood cut, and gran'ther wattles will call upon you if he knows i am away. i am leaving the fowling-piece for thee, wife. the musket i shall take with me." "why must gran'ther wattles come?" interrupted nancy in alarm. "i am sure mother and i do not need him." "children should be seen and not heard," said her father. "it is gran'ther wattles's duty to oversee the congregation at home as well as in the meeting-house." nancy looked at her trencher and said no more, but she thought there was already enough to bear without having gran'ther wattles added to her troubles. daniel, meanwhile, had attacked his porringer of clams, and in his excitement over the journey was gobbling at a fearful rate. his mother looked at him despairingly. "daniel," she said, "thou art pitching food into thy mouth as if thou wert shoveling coals into the oven! take thy elbows off the table and eat more moderately." daniel glued his elbows to his side. "sit up straight," she went on, "or thou wilt grow up as crooked as a ram's horn." daniel immediately sat up as if he had swallowed the poker. "i wish thee to practice proper manners at home, lest my aunt should think thee a person of no gentility. remember thou must not ask for anything at the table. wait until it is offered thee, and then do not stuff it down as if thine eyes had not looked upon food for a fortnight!" "but," protested poor dan, who was beginning to feel that the journey might not be all his fancy had painted, "suppose they should n't offer it?" "i do not fear starvation for thee," his mother answered briefly; "and oh, daniel, i beg of thee to wash thy hands before going to the table! the governor is a proper man and my aunt is very particular." she paused for breath, and to get more brown-bread for the table. when she sat down again, daniel said, "if you please, i think i 'd rather go on to provincetown with the captain." "that must be as we are guided at the time," said his father. the busy day passed quickly, and before sunset a fine array of pies and brown loaves were cooling on the table, the chores were done, and a sabbath quiet had settled down over the household, not to be broken until sunset of the following day. when daniel opened the cabin door the next morning, he was confronted by a wall of gray mist which shut the landscape entirely from view. he had hoped to catch a glimpse of the lucy ann, in order to assure himself that he had not merely dreamed the events of the day before, but nothing could he see, and he began dispirited preparations for church. they had no clock, and on account of the fog they could not tell the time by the sun, so the whole family started early to cross the long stretch of pasture land which lay between them and the meeting-house in the village. they reached it just as gran'ther wattles, looking very grave and important, came out on the church steps and beat a solemn tattoo upon a drum to call the people together. they came from different directions across the fields and through the one street of the village, looking anxious for fear they should be late, yet not daring to desecrate the sabbath by any appearance of haste. among the rest, red-faced and short of wind, who should appear but captain sanders? sabbath decorum forbade any show of surprise; so goodman pepperell and his wife merely bowed gravely, and the captain, looking fairly pop-eyed in his effort to keep properly solemn, nodded in return, and they passed into the meeting-house together. the captain sat down with the goodman on the men's side of the room, while daniel went to his place among the boys, leaving nancy and his mother seated with the women on the opposite side. it is hard to believe that a boy could sit through a sermon two hours long with his friends all about him and such a secret buttoned up inside his jacket without an explosion, but daniel did it. he did n't dare do otherwise, for gran'ther wattles ranged up and down the little aisle with his tithing-rod in hand on the lookout for evil-doers. once, indeed, during the sermon there was a low rumbling snore, and daniel was horrified to see gran'ther wattles lean over and gently tickle the captain's nose with the squirrel-tail. the captain woke with a start and sneezed so violently that the boy next daniel all but tittered outright. gran'ther wattles immediately gave him a smart rap on the head with the knob end of his stick, so it is no wonder that after that daniel sat with his eyes nearly crossed in his effort to keep them fixed on the minister, though his thoughts were far away ranging massachusetts bay with the lucy ann of marblehead. at last, however, the sermon ended, the final psalm was sung, and after the benediction the minister passed out of the church and the congregation dispersed to eat a bite of brown-bread in the church-yard before assembling again for another two-hour sermon. the sun was now shining brightly, and, once outside the door, after the first sermon, the captain wiped his brow as if exhausted, and a few moments later daniel saw him quietly disappearing in the direction of the river. he was not of the cambridge parish, so no discipline could be exercised upon him, but gran'ther wattles set him down at once as a dangerous character, and even goodwife pepperell shook her head gently when she noted his absence. [illustration] somehow, although it was a breach of sabbath decorum to tell it, the great news leaked out during the intermission, and daniel was the center of interest to every boy in the congregation during the afternoon. when the second long sermon was over and the exhausted minister had trailed solemnly down the aisle, the equally exhausted people walked sedately to their houses, discussing the sermon as they went. all that day daniel kept a tight clutch on his manners, but the moment the sun went down, he heaved a great sigh of relief and turned three somersaults and a handspring behind the cabin to limber himself up after the fearful strain. [illustration] iii on board the lucy ann the family rose at daybreak the next morning, tasks were quickly performed, and after breakfast the goodman read a chapter in the bible and prayed long and earnestly that god would bless their journey, protect those who were left behind, and bring them all together again in safety. then he and daniel started down the path to the river, with nancy and her mother, both looking very serious, following after. the tide was already coming in, and the bay stretched before them a wide sheet of blue water sparkling in the sun. in the distance they could see the sails of the lucy ann being hoisted and captain sanders in his small boat rowing rapidly toward the landing-place. "ship ahoy!" shouted daniel, waving his cap as the boat approached. "ahoy, there!" answered the captain, and in a moment the keel grated on the sand, and the goodman turned to his wife and daughter. "the lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from the other," he said reverently, and "amen!" boomed the captain. then there were kisses and good-byes, and soon nancy and her mother were alone on the shore, waving their hands until the boat was a mere speck on the dancing blue waters. as it neared the lucy ann, they went back to the cabin, and there they watched the white sails gleaming in the sun until they disappeared around a headland. "come, nancy," said her mother when the ship was quite out of sight, "idleness will only make loneliness harder to bear. here is a task for thee." she handed her a basket of raw wool. "take this and card it for me to spin." nancy hated carding with all her heart, but she rose obediently, brought the basket to the doorway, and, sitting down in the sunshine, patiently carded the wool into little wisps ready to be wound on a spindle and spun into yarn by the mother's skillful hands. meanwhile daniel was standing on the deck of the lucy ann, drinking in the fresh salt breeze and eagerly watching the shores as the boat passed between charlestown and boston and dropped anchor in the harbor to set the captain's lobster-pots. all the wonderful bright day they sailed past rocky islands and picturesque headlands, with the captain at the tiller skillfully keeping the vessel to the course and at the same time spinning yarns to daniel and his father about the adventures which had overtaken him at various points along the coast. at governor's island he had caught a giant lobster. he had been all but wrecked in a fog off thompson's island. "ye see that point of land," he said, waving his hand toward a rocky promontory extending far out into the bay. "that 's squantum. miles standish of plymouth named it that after an indian that was a good friend of the colony in the early days. well, right off there i was overhauled by a french privateer once. 'privateer' is a polite name for a pirate ship. she was loaded with molasses, indigo, and such from the west indies, and i had a cargo of beaver-skins. if it had n't been that her sailors was mostly roarin' drunk at the time, it 's likely that would have been the end of thomas sanders, skipper, sloop, and all, but my boat was smaller and quicker than theirs, and, knowing these waters so well, i was able to give 'em the slip and get out into open sea; and here i be! ah, those were the days!" the captain heaved a heavy sigh for the lost joys of youth and was silent for a moment. then his eyes twinkled and he began another story. "one day as we was skirtin' the shores of martha's vineyard," he said, "we were followed by a shark. now, there 's nothing a sailor hates worse than a shark; and for good reasons. they 're the pirates of the deep; that 's what they are. they 'll follow a vessel for days, snapping up whatever the cook throws out, and hoping somebody 'll fall overboard to give 'em a full meal. well, sir, there was a sailor aboard on that voyage that had a special grudge against sharks. he 'd been all but et up by one once, and he allowed this was his chance to get even; so he let out a hook baited with a whole pound of salt pork, and the shark gobbled it down instanter, hook and all. they hauled him up the ship's side, and then that sailor let himself down over the rails by a rope, and cut a hole in the shark's gullet, or whatever they call the pouch the critter carries his supplies in, and took out the pork. then he dropped him back in the water and threw the pork in after him. well, sir, believe it or not, that shark sighted the pork bobbing round in the water; so he swallowed it again. of course it dropped right out through the hole in his gullet, and, by jolly! as long as we could see him that shark was continuing to swallow that piece of pork over and over again. i don't know as i ever see any animal get more pleasure out of his rations than that shark got out of that pound of pork. i believe in bein' kind to dumb critters," he finished, "and i reckon the shark is about the dumbdest there is. anyhow that one surely did die happy." here the captain solemnly winked his eye. "what became of the sailor?" asked dan. "that sailor was me," admitted the captain. "that 's what became of him, and served him right, too." they slept that night on the deck of the sloop, and before light the next morning dan was awakened by the groaning of the chain as the anchor was hauled up, and the flapping of the sails as timothy hoisted them to catch a stiff breeze which was blowing from the northeast. the second day passed like the first. the weather was fine, the winds favorable, and that evening they rounded duxbury point and entered plymouth bay just as the sun sank behind the hills back of the town. "here 's the spot where the mayflower dropped anchor," said the captain, as the sloop approached a strip of sandy beach stretching like a long finger into the water. "i generally bring the lucy ann to at the same place. she can't go out again till high tide to-morrow, for the harbor is shallow and we 'd likely run aground; so ye 'll have the whole morning to spend with your relations, and that 's more than i 'd want to spend with some of mine, i 'm telling ye," and he roared with laughter. "relations is like victuals," he went on. "some agrees with ye, and some don't." "our relations are the bradfords," said goodman pepperell with dignity. "and a better man than the governor never trod shoe-leather," said the captain heartily. "he and captain standish and mr. brewster and edward winslow--why, those four men have piloted this town through more squalls than would overtake most places in a hundred years! if anything could kill 'em they would have been under ground years ago. they 've had starvation and indians and the plague followin' after 'em like a school of sharks ever since they dropped anchor here well nigh on to twenty years ago, and whatever happens they just thank the lord as if 't was a special blessing and go right along! by jolly!" declared the captain, blowing his nose violently, "they nigh about beat old job for patience! 'though he slay me, yet will i trust in him,' says old job, but his troubles was all over after a bit, and he got rewarded with another full set of wives and children and worldly goods, so he could see plain as print that righteousness paid. but these men,--their reward for trouble is just more trouble, fer 's i can see. they surely do beat all for piety." "'whom the lord loveth he chasteneth,'" quoted the goodman. "the lord must be mighty partial to plymouth, then," answered the captain as he brought the sloop gently round the point, "for she 's been shown enough favor to spile her, according to my way of thinkin'." [illustration] it was too late to go ashore that night, and from the deck dan watched the stars come out over the little village, not dreaming that it held in its humble keeping the brave spirit of a great nation that was to be. when daniel opened his eyes next morning, his father and the captain were already stowing various packages in the small boat, and from the tiny forecastle came an appetizing smell of frying fish. "here ye be," said the captain cheerily to dan, "bright as a new shilling and ready to eat i 'll be bound. as soon as we 've had a bite we 'll go ashore. i 've got to row clear over to duxbury after i do my errands in plymouth, but i 'll hunt ye up when i get back. nobody can get lost in this town without he goes out of it! i could spot ye from the deck most anywhere on the map. then, my lad, if your father says the word, i 'll bring ye back to the lucy ann while he goes across the neck. ye 'll get a taste of mackerel-fishing if ye come along o' me. ye can make yourself handy on deck and keep a quarter of your own catch for yourself if you 're lively. a tub of salt fish would be a tidy present to your mother when you get back home." "oh, i want to go with you," cried daniel, remembering with terror what was expected of him in the way of manners should he be invited to stay at the governor's. he looked questioningly at his father, but was answered only by a grave smile, and he knew better than to plead. "here, now," cried the captain, as timothy appeared with a big trencher of smoking fish and corn bread, "tie up to the dock and stow away some of this cargo in your insides." neither daniel nor his father needed a second invitation, for the keen salt air had given them the appetite of wolves, and the breakfast was soon disposed of according to directions. then the two followed the captain over the side and into the boat, which had been lowered and was now bobbing about on the choppy waves of the bay. when they were settled and the boat was properly trimmed, the captain rowed toward a small stream of clear water which flowed down from the hills back of the town, and landed them at the foot of the one little street of the village. the captain drew the boat well up on the shore and stowed letters and parcels in various places about his person, and the three started up the hill together. they had not gone far, when a childish voice shouted, "there 's captain sanders," and immediately every child within hearing came tumbling down the hill till they swarmed about him like flies about a honey-pot. [illustration] "pirates!" cried the captain, holding up his hands in mock terror. "i surrender. come aboard and seize the cargo!" he held open the capacious pocket which hung from his belt, and immediately half a dozen small hands plunged into it and came out laden with raisins. "here, now, divide fairly," shouted the captain. "no pigs!" and with children clinging to his hands and coat-tails he made a slow progress up the hill, daniel and his father following closely in his wake. as they were nearing the common house, two more children caught sight of him and came racing to meet him. the captain dived into his pocket for more raisins and found it empty, but he was equal to the emergency. "here, you, mercy and joseph bradford," he cried, "i 've brought you something i have n't brought to any one else. i 've brought you a new cousin." the other children had been so absorbed in their old friend they had scarcely noticed the strangers hitherto, but now they turned to gaze curiously at daniel and his father. joseph and mercy were both a little younger than daniel, and all three were shy, but no one could stay shy long when the captain was about, and soon they were walking along together in the friendliest manner. "where 's thy father, young man?" said the captain, speaking to joseph. "i have a letter for him, and i have brought a relation for him too." "i wish you would bring me a cousin," said one little girl enviously. "well, now," roared the captain, "think of that! i have a few relations of my own left over that i 'd be proper glad to parcel out amongst ye if i 'd only known ye was short, but i have n't got 'em with me." "father 's in there," said joseph, pointing to the common house. "they 're having a meeting. elder brewster 's there, too, and mr. winslow and captain standish and governor prence." it was evident that some matter of importance was being discussed, for a little knot of women had gathered before the door as if waiting for some decision to be announced. they had almost reached the group, when suddenly from the north there came a low roaring noise, and the earth beneath their feet shook and trembled so violently that many of the children were thrown to the ground, while the bundles goodman pepperell was carrying for the captain flew in every direction. those who kept their feet at all reeled and staggered in a strange, wild dance, and every child in the group screamed with all his might. the women screamed, too, calling frantically to the children, and the men came pouring out of the door of the common house, trying to steady themselves as they were flung first one way, then another by the heaving ground. it lasted but a few dreadful moments, and the captain was the first to recover his speech. "there, now," said he, a little breathlessly, "ain't it lucky i had my sea legs on! 't wa'n't anything but an earthquake, anyway." the instant they could stay on their feet, the children ran to their mothers, who were also running to them, and in less time than it takes to tell it the whole village was gathered before the common house. as daniel, with the captain and his father, joined the stricken company, governor bradford was speaking. he had been governor of the colony for so long that in time of sudden stress the people still turned to him for counsel though mr. prence was really the governor. "think ye not that the finger of the lord would direct us by this visitation?" he said to the white-faced group. "we were met together in council because some of our number wish to go away from plymouth to find broader pastures for their cattle, even as jacob separated from esau with all his flocks and herds. in this i see a sign of god's displeasure at our removals one from another." john howland now found his voice. "nay, but," he said, "shall we limit the bounty of the lord and say, 'only here shall he prosper us'?" "what say the scriptures to him who was not content with abundance, but must tear down his barns to build bigger?" answered the governor. "'this night thy soul shall be required of thee.'" there was no reply, and the pale faces grew a shade paler as a second rumble was heard in the distance, the earth again began to tremble, and a mighty wave, rolling in from the sea, crashed against the shore. above the noise of the waters rose the voice of governor bradford. "he looketh upon the earth and it trembleth. he toucheth the hills and they smoke. the lord is merciful and gracious. he will not always chide, neither will he keep his anger forever. he hath not dealt with us after our sins." seeing how frightened the people were, the captain broke the silence which fell upon the trembling group after the governor's words. "lord love ye!" he cried heartily. "this wa'n't no earthquake to speak of. 't wa'n't scarcely equal to an ague chill down in the tropics! they would n't have no respect for it down there. 't would n't more than give 'em an appetite for their victuals." his laugh which followed cheered many hearts, and was echoed in faint smiles on the pale faces of the colonists. governor bradford himself smiled and, turning to the captain, held out his hand. "thou art ever a tonic, thomas," he said, "and there is always a welcome for thee in plymouth and for thy friends, too," he added, turning to the goodman. "though thou knowest him not, he is haply more thy friend than mine," said the captain, pushing the goodman and daniel forward to shake hands with the governor, "he is married to mistress bradford's niece and his name is pepperell." "josiah pepperell, of cambridge?" said the governor's lady, coming forward to welcome him. "at your service, madam," answered the goodman, bowing low, "and this is my son daniel." daniel bowed in a manner to make his mother proud of him if she could have seen him, and then mercy and joseph swarmed up, bringing their older brother william, a lad of fifteen, to meet his new cousin, and the four children ran away together, all their tongues wagging briskly about the exciting event of the day. the earthquake had now completely passed, and the people, roused from their terror, hastened to their homes to repair such damage as had been done and to continue the tasks which it had interrupted. meanwhile the captain distributed his letters and parcels, leaving the governor to become acquainted with his new relative, learn his errand, and help him on his journey, while his wife hastened home to prepare a dinner for company. it was a wonderful dinner that she set before them. there were succotash and baked codfish, a good brown loaf, and pies made of blueberries gathered and dried the summer before. oh, if only daniel's mother could have been there to see his table manners on that occasion! he sat up as straight as a ramrod, said "please" and "thank you," ate in the most genteel manner possible, even managing blueberry pie without disaster, and was altogether such an example of behavior that mistress bradford said before the meal was half over, "thou 'lt leave the lad with us, cousin pepperell, whilst thou art on thy journey?" "i fear to trouble thee," said the goodman. "and the captain hath a purpose to take him to provincetown and meet me here on my return." "the land is mayhap safer than the sea should another earthquake visit us," said the governor gravely, "and he will more than earn his keep if he will but help william with the corn and other tasks. like thyself we are in sad need of more hands." daniel looked eagerly at his father, for he already greatly admired his cousin william and longed to stay with him. moreover, the earthquake had somewhat modified his appetite for adventure. "his eyes plead," said the goodman, "and i know it would please his mother. so by your leave he may stay." a whoop of joy from the three young bradfords was promptly suppressed by their mother. "for shame!" she said. "thy cousin daniel will think thou hast learned thy manners from the savages. thou shouldst take a lesson from his behavior." poor daniel squirmed on his stool and thought if he must be an example every moment of his stay he would almost choose being swallowed up by a tidal wave at sea after all. the matter had been settled, however, and that very afternoon the goodman set off on a hired horse, with his musket across his saddle-bow, and a head full of instructions from the governor about the dangers of the road, and houses where he might spend the nights. there was a queer lump in daniel's throat as he caught the last glimpse of his father's sturdy back as it disappeared down the forest trail, and that night, when he went to bed with william in the loft of the governor's log house, he thought long and tenderly of his mother and nancy. if he had only had a magic mirror such as beauty had in the palace of the beast, he might have looked into it and seen them going patiently about their daily tasks with nothing to break the monotonous routine of work except a visit from gran'ther wattles, who came to see if nancy knew her catechism. the earthquake had been felt there so very slightly that they did not even know there had been one, until the captain stopped on his return voyage the next week to bring them word of the safe journey to plymouth. iv a forest trail to daniel the days of his stay in plymouth passed quickly. he hoed corn with his cousin william and pulled weeds in the garden with joseph and mercy, and in the short hours allowed them for play there was always the sea. they ran races on the sand when the tide was out and were never tired of searching for the curious things washed ashore by the waves. one day they gathered driftwood and made a fire on the shore, hung a kettle over it and cooked their own dinner of lobsters fresh from the water. another day william and daniel went together in a rowboat nearly to duxbury, and caught a splendid codfish that weighed ten pounds. on another wonderful day john howland took the two boys hunting with him. it was the first time daniel had ever been allowed to carry a gun quite like a man, and he was the proudest lad in all plymouth that night when the three hunters returned bringing with them two fine wild turkeys, and a hare which daniel had shot. he loved the grave, wise, kindly governor and his brave wife, and grew to know, by sight at least, most of the other people of the town. more than ten days passed in this way, and they were beginning to wonder why the goodman did not return. the captain had come back from provincetown and had been obliged to go on to boston without waiting for him, and there was no knowing when the lucy ann would appear again in plymouth harbor. then one day, as dan and william were working in the corn-field, they saw a tired horse with two people on his back come out of the woods. daniel took a long look at the riders, then, throwing down his hoe and shouting, "it 's father!" tore off at top speed to meet him. william picked up his hoe and followed at a slower pace. when he reached the group, dan was up behind his father on the pillion with his arms about him, and standing before them on the ground was a black boy about william's own size and age. he had only a little ragged clothing on, and what he had seemed to make him uneasy, perhaps because he had been used to none at all in his native home far across the sea. his eyes were rolling wildly from one face to another, and it was plain that he was in a great state of fear. "he is but a savage as yet," said goodman pepperell. "he was doubtless roughly handled on the voyage and hath naught but fear and hatred in his heart. it will take some time to make a christian of him! thou must help in the task, daniel, for thou art near his age and can better reach his darkened mind. as yet he understands but one thing. he can eat like a christian, or rather like two of them! we must tame him with food and kindness." "what is his name?" asked daniel, still gazing at the boy with popping eyes, for never before had he seen a skin so dark. [illustration] "call him zeb," said his father. "come, zeb," said william, taking the boy gently by the arm, and looking compassionately into the black face. "food!" he shouted the word at him as if he were deaf, but poor zeb, completely bewildered by these strange, meaningless sounds, only shrank away from him and looked about as if seeking a way of escape. daniel immediately sprang from the pillion and seized zeb's other arm. "yes, zeb, _food_--_good_," he howled, pointing down his own throat and rubbing his stomach with an ecstatic expression. it is probable that poor zeb understood from this pantomime that he was about to be eaten alive, for he made a furious effort to get away. the boys held firmly to his arms, smiling and nodding at him in a manner meant to be reassuring, but which only convinced the poor black that they were pleased with the tenderness of his flesh and were enjoying the prospect of a cannibal feast. with the slave boy between them, "hanging back and digging in his claws like a cat being pulled by the tail," as dan told his mother afterward, they made slow progress toward the village. news of the return spread quickly, and a curious crowd of children gathered to gaze at zeb, for many of them had never seen a negro before in their lives. goodman pepperell went at once to the governor's house, and when he learned that the captain had come and gone, he decided to push on to boston at once by land. "'t is an easier journey than the one i have just taken," he said. "there are settlements along the way, and time passes. i have been gone now longer than i thought. the farm work waits, and susanna will fear for our safety. i must start home as soon as i can return this horse to the owner and secure another. i would even buy a good mare, for i stand in need of one on my farm." "at least thou must refresh thyself before starting," said the governor's wife cordially, and she set about getting dinner at once. while his father went with the governor to make arrangements for the journey, daniel and his cousins took charge of zeb. with mistress bradford's permission they built a fire on the shore and cooked dinner there for themselves and the black boy, who was more of a show to them than a whole circus with six clowns would be to us. as he watched the boys lay the sticks and start the blaze, zeb's eyes rolled more wildly than ever. no doubt he thought that he himself was to be roasted over the coals, and when at last he saw william lay a big fish on the fire instead, his relief was so great that for the first time he showed a row of gleaming teeth in a hopeful grin. daniel brought him a huge piece of it when the fish was cooked, and from that moment zeb regarded him as his friend. it was early afternoon before all the preparations were completed and the little caravan was ready to start on its perilous journey. there were two horses, and john howland, who knew the trail well and was wise in woodcraft, was to go with them as far as marshfield, where he knew of a horse that was for sale. half the town gathered to see them off. john howland mounted first, and daniel was placed on the pillion behind him. then zeb was made to get up behind the goodman, and off they started, followed by a volley of farewells and messages from the group of plymouth friends left behind. for a little distance they followed the shore-line, then, plunging into the woods, they were soon lost to view. the road was a mere blazed trail through dense forests, and it was necessary to keep a sharp lookout lest they lose their way and also because no traveler was for a moment safe from possible attack by indians. hour after hour they plodded patiently along, sometimes dismounting and walking for a mile or so to stretch their legs and rest the horses. there was little chance for talk, because the path was too narrow for them to go side by side. the day was warm, and if it had not been for slapping the mosquitoes which buzzed about them in swarms, daniel would have fallen asleep sitting in the saddle. in the late afternoon, as they came out upon an open moor, daniel was roused by hearing a suppressed exclamation from john howland and felt him reach for the pistol which hung from his belt. his horse pricked up his ears and whinnied, and the horse on which the goodman and zeb were riding answered with a loud neigh. daniel peered over john howland's broad shoulder just in time to see a large deer disappearing into a thicket of young birches some distance ahead of them. "oh!" cried daniel, pounding on john howland's ribs in his excitement, "let 's get him!" "not so fast, not so fast," said john in a low voice, pinning with his elbow the hand that was battering his side. "let be! thou hast seen but half. there was an indian on the track of that deer. should we step in and take his quarry, he might be minded to empty his gun into us instead! i saw him standing nigh the spot where the trail enters the wood again yonder, and when he saw us he slipped like a shadow into the underbrush." he stopped his horse, the goodman came alongside, and the two men talked together in a low tone. "shall we go on as if we had not seen him?" asked the goodman. john howland considered. "if we turn back, the savage will be persuaded we have seen him and are afraid," he said. "we must e'en take our chance. it may be he hath no evil intent, though the road be lonely and travelers few. whatever his purpose, it is safer to go on than to stand still," and, tightening his rein, he boldly urged his horse across the open space. daniel's heart thumped so loudly against his ribs that it sounded to his ears like a drum-beat as they crossed the clearing and entered the forest on the other side. they had gone but a short distance into the woods when they were startled by the report of a gun, and poor zeb fell off his horse and lay like one dead in the road. for a moment they thought he had been shot, and the two men were about to spring to his rescue, when zeb scrambled to his feet and began to run like one possessed. "he is but scared to death. haply he hath never heard a gun go off before," said john howland, and, sticking his spurs into his horse, he gave chase. fleet of foot though he was, zeb was no match for a horse and was soon overtaken. "'t was but the indian shooting the deer," said john howland, laughing in spite of himself at poor zeb's wild-eyed terror. "'t is a promise of safety for the present at least. nevertheless i like not the look of it. the red-skin saw us; make no doubt of that; for when i first beheld him he was peering at us as though to fix our faces in his mind." "i, too, marked how he stared," answered the goodman, as he seized the cowering zeb and swung him again to his seat on the pillion. "i have it," he said, stopping short as he was about to mount. "the savage is without doubt of the narragansett tribe. he caught a glimpse of the dark skin of this boy and mistook him for an indian lad--one of the hated pequots, who they thought were either all dead or sold out of the country. 't is likely they have no knowledge of other dark-skinned people than themselves." "it may be so," said john howland, doubtfully, "but 't is as likely they mistook him for a devil. it once befell that some indians, finding a negro astray in the forest, were minded to destroy him by conjuring, thinking him a demon. to be sure 't is but a year since the narragansetts helped the english destroy the pequot stronghold, and the few pequots who were neither killed nor sold they still hold in subjection. whatever their idea, it bodes no good either to zeb or to us, for their enmity never sleeps." zeb, meantime, sat clutching the pillion and looking from one grave face to the other as if he knew they were talking of him, and the goodman patted his shoulder reassuringly as he mounted again. they were now nearing a small settlement, and the path widened so the two horses could walk abreast. "thou 'lt have a special care in the stretch from well beyond mount dagon," said john howland, "for thou knowest of the notorious morton, who founded there the settlement called merry mount. it was the worshipful endicott who wiped it out. much trouble hath morton to answer for. he hath corrupted the savages, adding his vices to theirs. he hath also sold them guns and taught them to use them, for which cause the indians of this region are more to be feared than any along the coast. they are drunken, armed, and filled with hate for any whom they esteem their enemies." daniel's hair fairly stood on end. he had felt prepared for pirates, but indians lurking in dark forests were quite another matter! he wished with all his heart that john howland were going with them all the way to cambridge, but he well knew that could not be. his spirits rose somewhat as they came in sight of the settlement, and a hearty supper at the house of goodman richards put such life and courage into his heart that before it was over the indians were no more to him than pirates! then, while his father and john howland arranged with goodman richards for the purchase of a horse to take them the rest of their journey, goodwife richards stowed dan away in an attic bed, while zeb, worn out with fear and fatigue, slept soundly on the hearth. courage is always highest in the morning, and daniel felt bold as a lion the next day, as he and his father bade john howland and the richards family good-bye and, with zeb, again entered the forest trail. the two boys walked on ahead, while the goodman became acquainted with the new horse, whose name, goodman richards had told him, was penitence, but which they shortened to penny. later, when he had assured himself that the animal was trustworthy, goodman pepperell put the two boys in the saddle and walked beside them, leading penny by the bridle. taking turns in this way, they went on for some miles without incident, until dan almost forgot his fears, and even zeb--watching his face and echoing its expression on his own--grew less and less timid. [illustration] they had passed the place which howland had called mount dagon and which is now known as wollaston, and had crossed the neponset river by a horse bridge and were walking along quite cheerfully, the two boys at some distance ahead of penny, when they saw a little way ahead of them an indian standing motionless beside the trail. dan immediately drew zeb behind a bush, and when an instant later his father came up, the indian disappeared as suddenly as he had come. the goodman looked troubled. "it is the same one we saw yesterday, i feel sure!" he said. "i like not his following us in this way, daniel. i must trust thee even as though thou wert a man. do thou get upon the horse's back with zeb behind thee. i will walk ahead with my gun ready. should the savage attack us, do thou speed thy horse like the wind to the next village, and bring back help. remember it is thy part to obey. three lives may hang on it." with his heart pounding like a trip-hammer dan mounted penny. zeb was placed on the pillion behind him with both arms clutching his waist, and the goodman strode ahead, his keen eyes watching in every direction for any sign of danger. there was not a sound in the forest except the soft thud of the horse's feet, the cawing of a crow circling out of sight over the tree-tops, and the shrill cry of a blue jay. "confound thee, thou marplot, thou busy-body of the wood," muttered the goodman to himself as he listened. "wert thou but a human gossip, i 'd set thee in the stocks till thou hadst learned to hold thine evil tongue!" but the blue jay only kept up his squawking, passing the news on to his brethren until the forest rang with word of their approach. it did not need the blue jays to tell of their progress, however, for though no other sound had betrayed their advance, two indians were creeping stealthily through the underbrush, keeping pace with the travelers, and when they had reached a favorable spot in a small clearing, they suddenly sprang from their hiding-place. with a blood-curdling cry they leaped forward, and, seizing one of zeb's legs, tried to drag him from the horse's back. the yells of the indians were as nothing to those that zeb then let loose! the air was fairly split by blood-curdling shrieks, and the horse, terrified in turn, leaped forward, tearing zeb from the grasp of the indian and almost unseating dan by the jerk. but dan dug his knees into the horse's sides, flung his arms about her neck, and, holding on for dear life, tore away up the trail with zeb clinging like a limpet to his waist. never was a ride like that. even john gilpin's was a mild performance beside it, for zeb shrieked every minute of the way as they sped along, with the horse's tail streaming out behind like the tail of a comet, and the daylight showing between the bouncing boys and penny's back at every wild leap. even if daniel had not been minded to obey his father's command, he could not have helped himself, for penny took matters into her own four hoofs, and never paused in her wild career until, covered with foam, she dashed madly into a little hamlet where the village of neponset now stands. samuel kittredge was just starting for the forest with his axe on his shoulder, when his ears were smitten by the frantic shrieks of zeb, and, thinking it must be a wildcat on the edge of the clearing, he started back to the house for his gun. before he reached it, penitence, with the two boys on her back, came thundering toward him at full gallop, and stopped at his side. "what in tarnation is the matter with ye?" he exclaimed, gazing in amazement at the strange apparition. "i declare for it, that nigger is all but scared plumb white! what ails ye?" "indians!" gasped dan, pointing toward the trail. "my father--quick!" no more words were needed. samuel kittredge dashed into his house, snatched his gun from the chimney, and, dashing out again, fired it into the air. poor zeb! he slid off over the horse's tail on to the ground and lay there in a heap, while a knot of men, responding to the signal of sam kittredge's gun, gathered hurriedly before his house and started at once down the trail. "you stay here," said sam to dan as he started away. "we 'll be back soon with your father if the pesky red-skins have n't got him." "or if they have," added another man grimly, and off they went. goodwife kittredge now took charge of dan and zeb, while her son, a boy of eleven, tied penny to a tree beside their cabin. zeb recovered at once when she offered him a generous slice of brown-bread, but dan was too anxious about his father to eat. he stood beside penny, rubbing her neck and soothing her, with his eyes constantly on the trail and his ears eagerly listening for the sound of shots. it seemed an age, but really was not more than half an hour, before he saw the men come out of the woods, and, oh joy! his father was with them! leaving penny nibbling grass, he ran to meet them and threw his arms about his father's neck, crying, "oh, dear father, art thou hurt?" "nay; the lord was merciful," answered the goodman. "i fired but one shot, and hit one of the red-skins, i am sure, for they both dived back into the woods at once. i hid myself in the thick underbrush on the other side of the trail and waited, thinking perhaps i could creep along beside it out of sight, but zeb's roaring must have frighted the indians. doubtless they knew it would rouse the countryside. at any rate i saw no more of them, and when these good samaritans came along i knew i was safe." "the lungs of that blackamoor are worth more to thee than many guns," laughed sam kittredge. "'t is a pity thou couldst not bottle up a few of his screeches to take with thee when thou goest abroad. they are of a sort to make a wildcat sick with envy." the men laughed heartily, and, leaving the goodman and daniel with sam, returned to their interrupted tasks. goodwife kittredge insisted on their resting there for the night before resuming their journey. "you must be proper tired," said she, with motherly concern, "and if you go on now 't is more than likely those rascally knaves will follow you like your shadow. you 'll stand a sight better chance of safety if you make an early start in the morning." "your horse needs rest, too," added sam. "i 'll rub her down and give her a measure of corn when she 's cooled off. get to bed with the chickens, and start with the sun, and to-morrow night will find you safe in your own home again." to this plan the travelers gladly agreed. early next morning, after a hearty breakfast in the kittredges' cheerful kitchen they set forth once more. the roosters in the farmyard were still crowing, and the air was sweet with the music of robins, orioles, and blackbirds when they again plunged into the forest trail. all day they plodded steadily along, delayed by bad roads, and it was not until late that evening that they at last came in sight of the little house, where nancy and her mother slept, little dreaming how near they were to a happy awakening. when, at last they reached the cabin, the goodman, fearing to alarm his wife, stopped on the door-stone and gently called her name. he had called but once when a shutter was thrown open and the goodwife's head was thrust through it. "husband, son!" she cried joyfully. "nancy!--awake child!--it is thy father and brother!" and in another moment the door flew open, and nancy and her mother flung their arms about the necks of the wanderers. when the horse had been cared for, they went into the cabin. nancy raked the coals from the ashes, the fire blazed up, and the goodwife gave them each a drink of hot milk. zeb blinked sleepily at the reunited and happy family, as dan and his father told their adventures, and when at last they had gone to their beds in the loft he sank down on a husk mattress which the goodwife had spread for him on the floor, and in two minutes was sound asleep. [illustration] v the new home goodman pepperell and his wife rose early the next morning, and, leaving the two children still sleeping; crept down the ladder to the floor below. there lay zeb, also sound asleep, with his toes toward the ashes like a little black cinderella. the goodwife's mother heart was stirred with pity as she looked down at him. perhaps she imagined her own boy a captive in a strange land, unable to speak the language, with no future but slavery and no friends to comfort his loneliness. "poor lad--let him sleep a bit, too," she said to her husband. they unbolted the door and stepped out into the sunlight of a perfect june morning. the dew was still on the grass; robins and bobolinks were singing merrily in the young apple trees, which, owing to a late, cold spring, were still in bloom, and the air hummed with the music of bees' wings. the goodman drew a deep breath as he gazed at the beauty about him. "'t is good to be at home again," he said to his wife. "and 't is a goodly land--aye, better even than old england! there 's space here, room enough to grow." he looked across the river to the hills of boston town. "i doubt not we shall live to see a city in place of yon village," he said; "more ships seek its port daily, and there are settlements along the whole length of the bay. 't is a marvel where the people come from. the plymouth folk are scattering to the north and south, and already villages are springing up between plymouth and new amsterdam. god hath prospered us, wife." "praise be to his holy name," said the goodwife, reverently. "but, husband," she added, "what shall we do with our increase? thou hast brought home a horse and the black lad. the horse can stay out of doors during the summer, but there is not room for him in the cow-shed, and the lad cannot sleep always before the fire." "i have thought of that," said the goodman, "and when the crops are in i purpose to build a larger house." "verily it will be needed," she answered. "the crops grow like weeds in this new soil. if there were but a place for storage, i could put away much for winter use that now is wasted. go thou and look at the garden, while i uncover the coals and set the kettle to boil." "wait a moment, wife," said the goodman, "i have somewhat to tell thee. there is ever a black spot in our sunshine. though the danger grows less all the while as the settlements increase, it is still true that the indians are ever a menace, and i fear they are over watchful of us." then he told her of the attack in the forest. "i have reason to think the red-skins spied upon us all the way to boston town," he finished. "i did not tell daniel, but twice i saw savages on our trail after we left kittredge's. i wounded one in the encounter, and they will not forget that. i know not why they should plot against the black boy, unless it is to revenge themselves upon me, but it is certain they tried to drag him away with them into the woods." the goodwife listened with a pale face. "'t is well, then, that we have a watchdog added to our possessions," she said at last. "gran'ther wattles's shepherd hath a litter of pups, and he hath promised one to the children. nancy hath waited until dan came home that he might share the pleasure of getting it with her." "she hath a generous heart," said her father, tenderly. "aye,--she is a good lass, though headstrong." when their mother reached the cabin, she found the twins up and dressed and daniel trying to rouse the sleeping zeb. "wake up," he shouted, giving him a shake. zeb rolled over with a grunt and opened his eyes. "take him outdoors while i get breakfast," said the goodwife. "mercy upon me, what shall i do with a blackamoor and a dog both underfoot!" "a dog!" cried daniel. "what dog? where is he?" "nancy will tell thee," said his mother, and, not able to wait a moment to hear and tell such wonderful news, the two children rushed out at once, followed by zeb. when their mother called the family to breakfast half an hour later, zeb had been shown the garden, the corn-field, the cow-shed, the pig-sty, the straw-stack where eggs were to be found, the well with its long well-sweep, and the samp-mill. he had had the sheep pointed out to him, and been introduced to eliza, the cow, and allowed to give penny a measure of corn. the children had shouted the name of each object to him as they had pointed it out, and zeb had shown his white teeth and grinned and nodded a great many times, as if he understood. [illustration] "i know he 's seen eggs before, for he sucked one," dan told his mother. zeb was given his breakfast on the door-stone, and dan tried to teach him the use of a spoon, without much success; and afterwards he was brought in to family prayers. his eyes rolled apprehensively as he looked from one kneeling figure to another, but, obeying dan's gesture, he knelt beside him, and for ten minutes he stuck it out: then, as the prayer continued to pour in an uninterrupted stream from the goodman's lips, he quietly crawled out on all fours and disappeared through the door. dan found him afterwards out by the straw-stack, and as there was a yellow streak on his black face, concluded he had learned his lesson about the hen's nest altogether too well. he was given a hoe and taken to the corn-field at once. here daniel showed him just how to cut out the weeds with the hoe and loosen the earth about the roots of the corn. zeb nodded and grinned so cheerfully that, after watching him a few moments, daniel called nancy and they started for gran'ther wattles's house in the village to get the puppy. they had gone but a short distance when nancy, glancing around, saw zeb following them, grinning from ear to ear. "no--no--no--go back," bawled daniel, pointing to the corn-field. zeb nodded with the utmost intelligence and followed right along. "oh, dear!" groaned daniel. "i 've taught him to do things by showing how, and now he thinks he must do _everything_ that i do." [illustration] he sat down on a stone and gazed despairingly at zeb. zeb promptly sat down on another stone and beamed at him! in vain daniel pointed and shouted, and shook his head. zeb nodded as cheerfully as ever and conscientiously imitated dan's every move. in spite of all they could do he followed them clear to gran'ther wattles's house. "oh, dear!" said nancy, "it 's just like having your shadow come to life! you 'll have to work all the time, dan, or zeb won't work at all!" even with the wonderful new puppy in his arms dan took a gloomy view of the situation. "i 'm sick of being an example," he said. "i had to be one at aunt bradford's all the time, for she told mercy and joseph to watch how i behaved, and now here 's this crazy blackamoor mocking everything i do! i guess father 'll wish he had n't bought him." the days that followed were trying ones for everybody. the goodwife was nearly distracted trying to house her family and do her work in such crowded quarters. zeb followed dan like a nightmare, and the goodman delved early and late to catch up with the work which had waited for his return. among other duties there were berries to be picked in the pasture and dried for winter use, and this task fell to the children. it was work which zeb thoroughly enjoyed, but alas, he ate more than he brought home. on one occasion he ate green fruit along with the ripe, and spent a noisy night afterward holding on to his stomach and howling at each new pain. in vain the goodwife tried to cure him with a dose of hot pepper tea. zeb took just enough to burn his mouth and, finding the cure worse than the disease, roared more industriously than ever. she was at her wit's end and finally had to leave him to groan it out alone beside the fire. it was weeks before he learned to understand the simplest sentences, and meanwhile poor dan had to go on being an example. finally one day the goodman brought home a large saw from boston, and he and dan showed zeb how to use it. then day after day dan and zeb sawed together, making boards for the new house, while nancy brought her carding or knitting and sat on a stump near by with the puppy at her feet or nosing about in the bushes. they had named the dog nimrod, "because," as nancy said, "he is surely a mighty hunter before the lord, just like nimrod in the bible. he sniffs around after field mice all the time, and if he only sees a cat he barks his head off and tears after her like lightning!" [illustration] * * * * * [illustration] the summer passed quickly away, with few events to take them outside the little kingdom of home in which they lived. twice the captain stopped to see them when the lucy ann put in at boston harbor, and it was from him they got such news as they had of the world without. by october, nimrod had grown to be quite a large dog and was already useful with the sheep, and zeb could understand a good deal of what was said to him, though it was noticeable that he was very dull when it concerned tasks he did not like. with dan to guide him he was able to help shock the corn and pile the pumpkins in golden heaps between the rows. he could feed the cattle and milk the cow and draw water for them from the well. while the goodman and the two boys worked in the fields gathering the crops, nancy and her mother dried everything that could be dried and preserved everything that could be preserved, until there was a wonderful store of good things for the winter. one day when all the rafters were festooned with strings of crook-necked squashes, onions, and seed corn braided in long ropes by the husks, the goodman appeared in the doorway with another load of seed corn and looked in vain for a place to put it. "there is no place," said the goodwife. "the lord hath blessed us so abundantly there is not room to receive it. as it is, i can hardly do my work without stepping on something. if it is not anything else, it is sure to be either zeb or nimrod. truly i can no longer clean and sand my floor properly for the things that are standing about." the goodman sat down on the settle and looked long and earnestly at the crowded room, whistling softly to himself. then he rose and went to the village, and as a result the neighbors gathered the very next week to help build the new house. they came early in the morning, the men with axes and saws on their shoulders and the women carrying cooking-utensils. then while the men worked in the forest felling trees, cutting and hauling timbers, and putting them in place, the women helped the goodwife make whole battalions of brown loaves and regiments of pies, beside any number of other good things to eat. nancy, dan, and zeb ran errands and caught fish and dug clams and gathered nuts to supply materials for them, and were promptly on hand when meal time came. there were so many helpers that in a wonderfully short time the frame-work was up, the roof boards were on, and a great fireplace had been built into the chimney in the new part of the house. also a door had been cut through to connect the new part with the old cabin, which was now to be used for storage and as a stable for penny and eliza, and a sleeping-space for zeb. when all this was done and the roof on, the neighbors returned to their own tasks, leaving the pepperells to lay the floors, cover the outside with boards, and do whatever was necessary to finish the house. it was late in the fall before this was accomplished and the family had settled down to the enjoyment of their new quarters. one day as dan and zeb were bringing in boards to sheathe the room on the inside, they were startled to see two indians peering out at them from the shelter of the near-by woods. dropping the board they were carrying, they ran like deer to the house, and dan told his father what they had seen. the goodman looked thoughtful as he went on with his task of sheathing, and that very evening he worked late building a secret closet between the chimney and the wall. "it will be a handy place to hide thy preserves," he said to his wife, "and a refuge should the indians decide to give us trouble." he cut a small square window high up in the outside wall and contrived a spring, hidden in the chimney, to open the door. when this spring was pressed a hole would suddenly appear in what seemed a solid wall, revealing the well-stored shelves. this closet was the goodwife's special pride, but to zeb it was a continuous mystery. at one moment there was the solid wall; the next, without touch of human hands, a door would fly open, giving a tantalizing glimpse of things to eat which he could never touch, for if he came near, the door would close again as mysteriously as it had opened. dan loved to tease him with it, and zeb, fearing magic, would take to his heels whenever this marvel occurred. one day the goodman said to his wife: "thanksgiving draws near, and surely we have much cause for thankfulness this year, for the lord hath exceedingly blessed us. there are yet some things to be done before the day comes, and i wish to meet it with my task finished. i hear there is a ship in the harbor loaded with english merchandise, and to-morrow i go to boston, and if thou art so minded, thou canst go with me." this put the goodwife in quite a flutter of excitement, for she had not been away from home except to go to church for many months. she got out her best gown that very evening, to be sure it was in proper order, and while she got supper gave nancy and dan an endless string of directions about their tasks in her absence. early the next morning she mounted the pillion behind her husband, and the three children watched their departure, dan clutching nimrod, who was determined to go with them, and the goodwife calling back last instructions to the little group until penny was well on the road to charlestown. the house seemed strangely lonely without the mother in it, but there was no time for the children to mope, for there was all the work to do in their parents' absence. dan took command at once. "you 'll both have to mind me now," he said to nancy and zeb. "i 'm the man of the house." "if thou 'rt the man of it, i 'm the woman, and thou and zeb will both have to do as _i_ say," retorted nancy, "or else mayhap i 'll get thee no dinner! mother said i could make succotash, and thou lov'st that better than anything. mother said above all things not to let the fire go out, for it would be hard to bring a fire-brand all the way from the village. so do thou bring in a pile of wood and set zeb to chopping more." [illustration] dan counted his chances. "very well," he said at last, with condescension, "thou art a willful baggage but i 'll give thee thy way! only make the big kettle full." all that day nancy bustled importantly about the house, with her sleeves rolled up and her skirts looped back under her apron in imitation of her mother. she was better than her word and made johnny-cake besides the succotash for dinner, and after they had eaten it said to dan, "if thou wilt go out to the field and bring in a pumpkin, i 'll make thee some pies for supper." dan dearly loved pumpkin pie, and in his zeal to carry out the plan brought in two great yellow globes from the corn-field instead of the one nancy had asked for. "mercy upon us," said nancy when he appeared, beaming, with one under each arm, "those would make pies enough for all cambridge. thine eyes hold more than thy stomach." "there 's no such thing as too many pies," said daniel stoutly, "and if there 's any pumpkin left over, i 'll feed it to the pig." "i 'll tell thee what we will do," said nancy. "we will make a great surprise for mother and father. when they come home they will be tired and hungry and ready for a grand supper. do thou and zeb run down to the bay and bring back a mess of clams. we 'll have the table all spread and a bright fire burning to welcome them!" dan agreed to this plan and went out at once to call zeb. he found him by the straw-stack with an egg in each hand. "take them in to nancy," commanded dan, pointing sternly toward the house. zeb had meant to dispose of them otherwise, for he had a bottomless appetite for eggs, but he trotted obediently to the house at dan's order, and then the two boys started together for the bay, with nimrod barking joyfully and running about them in circles all the way. [illustration] the fall days were short, and it was dusk before the evening chores were done, and dan came in to the bright kitchen with zeb and nimrod both at his heels, and announced that he had a hole in his stomach as big as a bushel basket. for answer nancy pointed to four golden-brown pies cooling on a shelf, and dan smacked his lips in anticipation. zeb came alongside and, copying dan, smacked his lips too. "go away, both of you," said nancy. "you can only look at them now, for i have everything ready for father and mother, and we must n't eat until they come." dan looked about the room to see what nancy's surprise might be. it was a cheerful picture that met his eye. first of all there was nancy herself with her neat cap and white apron, putting the finishing touches to the little feast she had prepared. she had spread the table with the best linen and decorated it with a bunch of red berries. she had even brought out the silver tankard from its hiding-place under the eaves of the loft and placed it beside her father's trencher. the clams were simmering on the fire, sending out an appetizing smell, and the brown loaf was cut. the hickory logs snapped and sputtered, and the flames danced gayly in the fireplace, setting other little flames dancing in the shining pewter dishes arranged on a dresser across the room. nimrod was lying before the fire with his head on his paws, asleep, and zeb, squatted down beside him, was rolling his eyes hungrily in the direction of the pies. "i hope they 'll come soon," said daniel, lifting the cover of the kettle and sniffing. "if they do not 't is likely they 'll find me as dead as a salt herring when they get here." nancy laughed and, breaking a slice of brown-bread in two, gave a piece to each boy. "take that to stay your stomachs," she said, "and, for the rest, have patience." for a long time they waited, and still there was no sound of hoofs upon the road. dusk deepened into darkness, and the harvest moon came out from behind a cloud and shed a silvery light over the landscape. nancy went to the door and gazed toward the road. "dost think, brother, the indians have waylaid them?" she asked dan at last. "nay," answered dan. "they are likely delayed at the ferry. should the ferry-man be at his supper wild horses could not drag him from it, i 'll be bound. they 'll come presently, never fear, but it will doubtless grieve them much to see me lying stiff and cold on the hearth! nancy, thou takest a fearful chance in denying thy brother food." [illustration] but nancy only laughed at his woebegone face. "thou art indeed a valiant trencher-man," she said. then, suddenly inspired, she brought him the extra pumpkin, which she had not used for the pies, set it before him upon the hearth-stone, and gave him a knife. "carve thyself a jack-o'-lantern," she said. "'t will take up thy mind, and make thee forget thy stomach." dan took the knife, cut a cap from the top of the pumpkin, and scooped out the seeds. then he cut holes for the eyes and nose, and a fearful gash, bordered with pointed teeth, for the mouth, and nancy brought him the stub of a bayberry candle to put inside. zeb watched the process with eyes growing wider and wider as the thing became more and more like some frightful creature of his pagan imagination. they were just about to light the candle when nimrod gave a sharp bark; there was a creaking noise outside, and nancy, springing joyfully to her feet, shouted, "they 've come!--they 've come!" she was halfway to the door, when suddenly she stopped, stiff with fright. there, looking in through the open shutter, was the face of an indian! dan and zeb saw it at the same moment, and nimrod, barking madly, rushed forward and leaped at the window. giving one of his wildcat shrieks, zeb instantly went up the ladder to the loft with the agility of a monkey. the head had bobbed out of sight so quickly that for an instant nancy hardly believed her own eyes, but in that instant dan had been quick to act. he pressed the catch concealed in the fireplace, and, springing to his feet, seized nancy and dragged her back into the secret closet. they nearly fell over the pumpkin, which lay directly in their path, and it rolled before them into the closet. once inside, they instantly closed the door, and, with wildly beating hearts, sank down in the darkness. about a foot above the floor there was a small knot-hole in the door, which the goodman had purposely left for a peep-hole, and to this dan now glued his eyes. in spite of nimrod's frantic barking the house door was quietly opened, and when the dog flew at the intruder, he was stunned by a blow from the butt end of a musket, and his senseless body sent flying out of the door by a kick from a moccasined foot. then two indians crept stealthily into the room. they were surprised to find it empty. where could the children have gone? they prowled cautiously about, looking under the table and behind everything that might afford a hiding-place, and, finding no trace of them, turned their attention in another direction. dan was already near to bursting with rage and grief over nimrod, and now he had the misery of seeing the larger of the two indians take his father's musket from the deer-horn on the chimney-piece, while the other, who already had a gun, with grunts of satisfaction took the silver tankard from the table and hid it under his deer-skin jacket. at first they did not seem to notice the ladder to the loft. soon, however, they paused beside it, and after they had exchanged a few grunts the larger indian began to mount. it was plain they meant to make a thorough search for the children who had so miraculously disappeared. dan remembered what his father had said about the pequots; nancy, with sick fear in her heart for zeb, was shivering in a heap on the floor, her hands over her eyes, though that was quite unnecessary, since the closet was pitch dark. dan found her ear and whispered into it a brief report of what he had seen. they could now hear the stealthy tread of moccasined feet above them on the floor of the loft. "while they 're upstairs," whispered dan, "i 'm going to slip out and get father's pistol. it 's hanging behind a string of onions, and they have n't found it." "oh, no!" gasped nancy. she clung to him, and in trying to get up he struck the pumpkin, which rolled away toward the outside wall of the closet. just then there was a fearful outburst of noise overhead. there was the sound of something being dragged from under a bed across the floor, something which clawed and shrieked and fought like a wildcat. there were grunts and the thump of moccasined feet dancing about in a lively struggle. "now is my chance," said dan to himself, and, opening the door cautiously, he made a dash for the pistol and snatched it from its hiding-place. as he was leaping back to the closet, he saw the bayberry candle lying on the hearth, and in that instant a wonderful idea flashed into his mind. he picked up the candle, lit it from the flames, and scurried back to his hiding-place just as the legs of an indian appeared at the top of the ladder. he shut the door swiftly behind him, and, giving the candle to nancy, told her to set it inside the pumpkin. crawling to the other end of the closet, nancy did as she was bid, while dan, with his eye at the peep-hole, watched the two indians drag poor zeb between them down the ladder and out the door. eager to see where they went, dan climbed up to the little window of the closet and peered out into the night. by the moonlight he could see the two men dragging zeb in the direction of the straw-stack. they were having a hard time of it, for zeb struggled fiercely, and they had their guns and the tankard to take care of as well, and in addition, to dan's horror, one of them was waving a burning brand which he had snatched from the fire in passing! dan trembled so with excitement that he nearly fell from his perch, but kept his wits about him. "give me the pumpkin," he said to nancy, and when she reached it up to him, he set the lurid, grinning face in the window. "now the pistol," he said, and, sticking the muzzle through the opening beside the jack-o'-lantern, he fired it into the air. the shot was answered by a chorus of yells from the three figures by the straw-stack. scared out of their wits by the unexpected shot and by the frightful apparition which suddenly glared at them out of the darkness, the indians took to their heels and ran as only indians can run, dragging poor zeb with them. "they 're gone," shouted dan, dropping to the floor, "but they 've set the straw-stack afire!" [illustration] by the dim light of the jack-o'-lantern grinning in the window, he found the catch of the door, and the two children burst out of the closet. seizing a bucket of water which stood by the hand-basin in the corner, dan dashed out of doors, followed by nancy, whose fear of indians was now overmastered by fear of fire. if their beautiful new house should be burned! she ran to the well-sweep, and while dan worked like a demon, stamping on burning straws with his feet, and pouring water on the spreading flames, she swiftly plunged first one bucket, then another, into the well and filled dan's pail as fast as it was emptied. in spite of these heroic efforts the fire spread. all they could do was to keep the ground wet about the stack and watch the flying sparks lest they set fire to the house. over the lurid scene the jack-o'-lantern grinned down at them until the candle sputtered and went out. [illustration] the straw-stack was blazing fiercely, lighting the sky with a red glare, when in the distance they heard the beat of a drum. gran'ther wattles had seen the flames and was rousing the village. then there were hoof-beats on the road, and into the fire-light dashed penny with the terrified goodman and his wife on her back. once they knew their children were safe, they did not stop for questions, but at once set to work to help them check the fire, which was now spreading among the dry leaves. the goodwife ran for her broom, which she dipped in water and then beat upon the little flames as they appeared here and there in the grass. the goodman mounted to the roof at once, and, with dan to fetch water and nancy to bring up buckets from the well, they managed to keep it too wet for the flying sparks to set it afire. at last the neighbors, roused by gran'ther wattles's frantic alarm, came hurrying across the pastures; but the distance was so great that the flames had died down and the danger was nearly over before they arrived. [illustration] there was now time for explanations, and, surrounded by an eager and grim-visaged circle, nancy and dan told their story. "there 's a brave lad for you!" cried stephen day, when the tale was finished, patting dan on the shoulder. "aye, and a brave lass, too," added another. their father and mother said no words of praise, but there was a glow of pride in their faces as they looked at their children and silently thanked god for their safety. "we can do nothing to-night," said goodman pepperell at last, "but, neighbors, if you are with me, to-morrow we will go into the woods and see if we can find any trace of the black boy. doubtless by stealing him and burning the house they thought to revenge themselves for the indian whom i wounded on my way home from plymouth. they must have been watching the house, and, seeing us depart this morning, knew well that they had naught but children to deal with." "aye, but such children!" said stephen day, who had been greatly impressed by the story of the jack-o'-lantern. "we 'll follow them, indeed, and if we find them"--his jaw shut with a snap and he said no more. [illustration] while the men laid their plans for the morrow, the children and their mother stole round to the front of the house, and dan began a search for nimrod. he had been neither seen nor heard since the indian had given him that fearful blow and thrown him out. they found him lying a few feet from the house still half stunned, and dan lifted him tenderly in his arms, brought him into the house, and laid him down before the fire, where he had slept so peacefully only one short hour before. nimrod licked his hand, and rapped his tail feebly on the hearthstone. nancy wept over him, while dan bathed his wounded head, and tried to find out if any bones were broken. "poor nimrod," said the goodwife, as she set a bowl of milk before the wounded dog, "thou art a brave soldier. drink this and soon thou wilt be wagging thy tail as briskly as ever." she stirred the fire and lit the candles, and when the goodman came in a few moments later, the little family looked about their new home to see what damage had been done. nancy's little feast was a sad wreck. there were the pies, to be sure, but the table-cloth was awry and the flowers were tipped over and strewn about the floor, which was covered with the tracks of muddy feet. in the scuffle with zeb the spinning-wheel had been overturned and the settle was lying on its back on the floor. the room looked as if a hurricane had passed through it. the goodman mourned the loss of his gun, and the goodwife grieved for her tankard, but all smaller losses were forgotten in their distress about zeb. not only had he cost the goodman a large sum of money, but in the weeks he had been with them he had found his own place in the household, where he would be sadly missed. worst of all was their anxiety about his fate at the hands of the indians. "come," said the goodwife at last, when they had heard every event of the day twice over, "we must eat, or we shall have scant courage for the duties of the morrow. we have none of us tasted food since noon." the clams were still simmering gently in the pot, and she gave them each a porringer of broth, which they ate sitting in a circle about the hearth-stone. then she put the room in order, and though her heart was heavy, tried to talk of the events of their day in boston as if nothing had happened. [illustration] "we saw captain sanders in town," she said to the children. "he hath brought the lucy ann to port with a load of cod for the market and with fish and game for thanksgiving. i have his promise that he will dine with us if god wills. he hath not yet seen our new house. alas! i shall have no tankard to set before him; yet, ungrateful that i am, we are still rich in blessings! 't is well we have a day set aside to remind us of them." it was very late when at last the excitement had died down enough to think of sleep. the goodman went out to make sure there was no fire left lurking in the grass, and to take a look at the horse and cow. as he passed the smoking ashes of the straw-stack, his foot struck something which rang like metal, and in the moonlight something glistened in the path before him. stooping, he felt for it, and was overjoyed to grasp the tankard, which the indian had lost in the struggle with zeb. he carried it in to his wife at once. she seized it with a cry of joy. "'t is a good omen," she said. "mayhap thou 'lt find thy musket too." her husband shook his head gravely. "i 'll have need of one to-morrow," he said. "'t is well i still have my fowling-piece and my pistol." then he called the family together and, kneeling beside the settle, committed them to god's keeping for the night. [illustration] vi harvest home before daylight the next morning the goodwife stood in the door of the new house and watched her husband set forth with the men of cambridge to search the forest for zeb, and to punish his captors if they should catch them. she had given him a good breakfast and filled his pockets with bread for the journey, and when the men came from the village, she cut nancy's pies and gave them each a generous piece to eat before starting. there were eight men in the party, all armed. the goodwife's lip trembled a little and then moved in prayer as she saw them disappear into the dark forest. "god grant that they may all return in safety," she murmured, and then, giving herself a little shake, she turned back into the house and resolutely set herself at the duties of the day. nimrod whined and tried to follow his master as the men marched away with their guns on their shoulders, but, finding himself too weak, lay down again on the hearth and went to sleep. the goodwife cleaned the kitchen, removing the last traces of the intruders, and then began a patient march back and forth, back and forth, beside the whirling spinning-wheel. now that the harvest was over and their food provided for the winter, her busy hands must spin the yarn and weave the cloth to keep them warm. though she had meant to let the children sleep after the excitement of the previous day, it was still early when they were awakened by the whir of the wheel and came scuttling down from the loft as bright-eyed as if the adventures of the night before had been no more than a bad dream. they helped themselves to hasty pudding and milk and took a dishful to nimrod, who was now awake and looking much more lively, and then their mother set them their tasks for the day. "nancy," said she, "i gave all thy pies to the men who have gone with father to hunt for zeb. to-morrow will be thanksgiving day and we shall need more. the mince pies are already prepared and put away on the shelves, and thou canst make apple and pumpkin both to set away beside them in the secret closet." "that makes me think," said daniel, and, touching the secret spring, he opened the door and rescued the jack-o'-lantern from the window-sill. it was only a wilted and blackened old pumpkin that he brought to his mother, but she smiled at it and patted the hideous head. "he hath been a good friend to us, dan," she said, "e'en as say the scriptures, 'god hath chosen the weak things of the earth to confound the mighty.' david went out against goliath with a sling and a stone, and thou hast overcome savages with naught but a foolish pumpkin." [illustration] nancy took the grinning head and set it on the chimney-piece. "dear old jacky," she said, "thou shalt come to our thanksgiving feast. 't is no more than thy due since thou hast saved us from the savages." "nay, daughter," said her mother. "that savoreth of idolatry. give thy praise unto god, who useth even things which are not to bring to naught the things that are. 't is but a pumpkin after all, and will make an excellent feast for the pig on the morrow. daniel, go to the field and bring thy sister a fresh one for the pies and then hasten to thine own tasks. they wait for thee. while thy father is away searching for zeb, thou must do his work as well as thine own." "dost think, mother, that he will surely bring zeb back in time for the feast?" asked nancy anxiously. "let us pray, nothing doubting," answered the mother. "if it be god's will, they will return." there was a tremor in her voice even as she spoke her brave words, for she knew well the perils of their search. all day long they worked, praying as they prepared the feast that they might share it a united family. nancy made the pies, and dan dressed a fowl, while their mother got ready a pot of beans, made brown-bread to bake in the oven with the pies, and steamed an indian pudding. all day they watched the forest for sign of the returning men. all day they listened for the sound of guns, but neither sight nor sound rewarded their vigilance. [illustration] dusk came on. the goodwife set a candle in the window, and when her other tasks were finished, went back to her spinning. not a moment was she idle, nor did she appear to her children to be anxious, but as she walked back and forth beside her wheel nancy heard her murmuring, "because thou hast made the lord, which is my refuge, even the most high, thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling." over and over she said it to herself, never slacking her work meanwhile. the supper which nancy prepared waited--one hour--two--after dan had fed the cattle and brought in the milk, and still there was no sign of the searching party. suddenly nimrod, from his place on the hearth, gave a short sharp bark, and, leaping to the window, stood with his paws on the sill, peering out into the darkness and whining. dan was beside him in an instant. "i see them," he cried joyfully, "a whole parcel of them. they are just coming out from behind the cow-shed." nancy and her mother reached the window almost at the same moment, and as the shadowy figures emerged from behind the cow-shed the mother counted them breathlessly, "one--two--three--four--five--" "there 's father!" shrieked nancy. "he 's carrying something. oh, dost think it is zeb?" "six--seven--eight--_nine! ten!_ there are ten men, when but eight set forth. praise god, they have all come back!" cried the mother. turning swiftly to the fireplace, she snatched from it a brand of burning pitch pine and, holding it high above her head for a beacon, ran out to meet them, with dan, nancy, and nimrod all at her heels. the torch-light shone on stern and weary faces as the men drew near. "all 's well, wife," came the voice of the goodman. "hast found the lad?" she called back to him. "nay--not yet," he answered, "but we think we have his captors. hold thy torch nearer and have no fear. the savages cannot hurt thee. nancy, daniel, have you ever seen these faces before?" as he spoke he thrust forward two indians with their hands securely tied behind them. "oh," shuddered nancy, "i saw them at the window," and dan added, "aye, 't was this one that kicked nimrod." nimrod confirmed his statement by growling fiercely and snapping at the heels of the taller of the two indians. "call off thy dog," said the goodman sternly, and though dan felt it would be no more than fair to allow nimrod one good bite, considering all he had suffered, he obediently collared nimrod and shut him inside the kitchen. the faces of the indians were like stone masks as they stood helpless before their captors with the light of the flaming torch shining upon them. "go in with thy family, neighbor pepperell," said stephen day. "there are enough of us and to spare to guard the savages. mayhap a night in the stocks will cool their hot blood and help them to remember what they have done with the slave lad. if not, the judge will mete out to them the punishment they deserve." "right willingly will i leave them in your hands," answered the goodman, "for truly i am spent." whether the indians understood their words, or not, they knew well the meaning of pointed guns, for they marched off toward the village without even a grunt of protest when stephen day gave the word of command. the goodman was so weary that his wife and children forbore asking questions until he was a little rested and refreshed. he sank down upon the settle with nimrod beside him, and dan removed his muddy boots, and brought water for him to wash in, while nancy and her mother hastened to put the long-delayed supper on the table. "this puts new life into me," declared the father when he had eaten a few spoonfuls of hotchpot, "and now i 'll tell somewhat of the day's work. there was no general uprising among the indians. at least we saw no evidence of it. 't is more likely as i feared--they are the same indians that followed us from plymouth, meaning to revenge themselves upon me for wounding one of them when they set upon us in the forest." "but how is it the lad was not with them?" asked his wife. "that is a question which as yet hath no answer," replied her husband. "it may be they have killed him and hidden the body." at this fearful thought nancy shuddered and covered her face with her hands. "it may be," went on the goodman, "that they passed him on to some one else to avoid suspicion. at any rate he was not with them, and we could find no trace. though the savages undoubtedly know some english, they refuse to say a word, and so his fate remains a mystery." "what further shall you do to find him?" asked the goodwife. "see if we cannot force the indians to confess, for the first thing," answered her husband. his wife sighed. "i fear no hope lieth in that direction," she said. "their faces were like the granite of the hills." "what of the gun, father?" asked daniel. "didst thou find it?" "nay," answered his father. "they had it not, and that causes me to think they have passed it as well as the boy on to others of their tribe. there is naught to be done now but wait until after thanksgiving day." "'t will be but a sad holiday," said the goodwife. "though he is but a blackamoor, the lad hath found a place in my heart, and i grieve that evil hath befallen him." "when i saw thee come out from behind the cow-shed i thought thou hadst a burden," said daniel. "i thought it was zeb--wounded, or mayhap dead." "aye," answered the goodman. "i did carry a burden and had like to forgot it. i dropped it by the door of the cow-shed. go thou and bring it in." dan ran out at once and returned a moment later carrying a huge wild turkey by the legs. his mother rose and felt its breastbone with her fingers. "'t is fine and fat, and young withal," she answered. "'t will make a brave addition to our feast on the morrow, for, truth to tell, our preparations have been but half-hearted thus far. our minds were taken up with thy danger and fear for the lad." "dwell rather on our deliverance," said her husband. "the lord hath not brought us into this wilderness to perish. let us not murmur, as did the children of israel. the lord still guides us." "aye, and by a pillar of fire, too," said nancy, remembering the straw-stack. "and instead of manna he hath sent this turkey," added dan. supper was now over, and after it was cleared away, and they had had prayers, the mother sent the rest of the family to bed, while she busied herself with final preparations for the next day. she plucked and stuffed the great turkey, first cutting off the long wing-feathers for hearth-brooms, and set it away on the shelf in the secret closet along with nancy's array of pies. it was late when at last she lit her candle, covered the ashes, and climbed wearily to bed. the wind changed in the night and when they looked out next morning the air was full of great white snow-flakes, and the blackened ruins of the straw-stack were neatly covered with a mantle of white. the family was up betimes, and as they ate their good breakfast of sausages, johnny-cake, and maple syrup, they sent many a thought toward poor zeb, wandering in the forest or perhaps lying dead in its depths. it was a solemn little party that later left the cabin in the care of nimrod and started across the glistening fields to attend the thanksgiving service in the meeting-house. they were made more solemn still by the sight of the two indians sitting with hands and feet firmly fixed in the stocks, apparently as indifferent to the falling snow as though they were images of stone. the first snowfall, usually such a joy to nancy and daniel, now only seemed to make them more miserable, and they were glad to see the sun when they came out of the meeting-house after the sermon and turned their steps toward home. at least zeb would not perish of cold if it continued to shine. they were just beginning to climb the home hill, when they were surprised to see nimrod come bounding to meet them, barking a welcome. "how in the world did that dog get out?" said the goodwife wonderingly. "i shut him in the kitchen the last thing before we left the house." leaving their father and mother to follow at a slower pace, nancy and dan tore up the hill and threw open the kitchen door. there, comfortably dozing on the settle by the fire, sat the captain! at his feet lay zeb--also sound asleep with the wreckage of several blackened eggs strewn round him on the hearth-stone! the captain woke with a start as the children burst into the room and for an instant stood staring in amazement and delight at the scene before them. zeb, utterly worn out, slept on, and the captain, as usual, was the first to find his tongue. "well, well," he shouted, rubbing his nose to a bright red to wake himself up, "here ye be! and mighty lucky, too, for i 'm hungry enough to eat a bear alive. if i could have found out where ye hide your supplies, i might have busted 'em open to save myself and this poor lad from starvation. he appeared nigh as hungry as i be, but he knew better how to help himself. he found these eggs cooked out there in the ashes of the straw-stack, and all but et 'em shells and all. never even offered me a bite! don't ye ever feed him?" before the children could get in a word edgewise their father and mother, followed by nimrod, came in, and, what with the dog barking, the children screaming explanations to the captain, and their own astonished exclamations, there was such a babel of noise that at last zeb woke up, too, and stared about him like one dazed. nimrod jumped on him and licked his face, and zeb put his arms around the dog as if glad to find so cordial a welcome. the captain stared from one face to another, quite unable to make head or tail of the situation. [illustration] "well, by jolly!" he shouted at last, "what ails ye all? ye act like a parcel of lunatics!" the goodman commanded silence, and briefly told the whole story to the captain. "where did you find the lad?" he asked, when he had finished. "he was here when i came," said the captain. "settin' on the hearth-stone eatin' them eggs as if he had n't seen food fer a se'nnight and never expected to see any again. the dog busted out of the house when i came in, and as i could n't get any word out of the lad, i just set down by the fire and took forty winks. it was too late for meeting, and besides i reckoned i could sleep better here." he finished with his jolly laugh. zeb, meanwhile, sat hugging the dog and rolling his eyes from one face to another as if in utter bewilderment. perhaps he wondered if the captain meant to capture him, too, for life must have seemed to the poor black boy just a series of efforts to escape being carried off to some place where he did not wish to go, by people whom he had never seen before. the goodman at last sat down before zeb on the settle and tried to get from him some account of what had happened in the forest. but zeb was totally unable to tell his story. his few words of english were inadequate to the recital of the terrors of the past twenty-four hours. "let the lad be," said the goodwife at last. "he 's safe, praise god, and we shall just have to wait to find out how he managed to escape from the savages and make his way back here." she went to the secret closet and brought out a huge piece of pumpkin pie. zeb's eyes gleamed as he seized it. "he must n't eat too much at once," said she. "as nearly as i can make out by the shells, he 's had six eggs already. that will do for a time. dan, build a fire in the fireplace in the old kitchen. there 's warm water in the kettle, and do thou see that zeb takes a bath. he is crusted with mud. he must have wallowed in it. nancy and i will get dinner the while." dan beckoned to zeb, and the two boys disappeared. zeb had never bathed before except in the ocean, and the new process did not please him. "i believe he wished he 'd stayed with the indians," said dan when he appeared an hour later followed by a well-polished but somewhat embittered zeb. "i 've just about taken his skin off and i 'm all worn out. oh, mother, is n't dinner almost ready?" "almost," said his mother, as she opened the oven door to take a peep at the turkey, which had been cooking since early morning. "it only needs browning before the fire while i make the gravy." the table was already spread, and nancy was at that very moment giving an extra polish to the tankard before placing it beside the captain's trencher. the spiced drink to fill it was already mulling beside the fire with a huge kettle of vegetables steaming beside it. the closet door was open, giving a tantalizing glimpse of glories to come. "so there 's where ye keep 'em," observed the captain, regarding the pies with open admiration. "'t is a sight to make a man thankful for the room in his hold. by jolly, it 'll take careful loading to stow this dinner away proper!" he called nancy to his side and opened the bulging leather pocket which hung from his belt. "feel in there," he said. "i brought along something to fill in the chinks." nancy thrust in her hand, and brought it out filled with raisins. "i got 'em off a ship just in from the indies," explained the captain. raisins were a great luxury in the wilderness, and the delighted nancy hastened to find a dish and to place them beside the pies. "all ready," said the mother at last. "come to dinner." there was no need of a second invitation, and the response to the summons looked like a stampede. the goodman and his wife took their places at the head of the table with the captain on one side and the children on the other, and because it was thanksgiving, and because he had had such a hard day and night, and most of all because he was so clean, zeb was allowed a place at the foot of the board. the goodman asked a blessing and then heaped the trenchers high with what he called the bounty of the lord. there was only one cloud on dan's sunshine during the meal. on account of zeb, who when in doubt still faithfully imitated him, he was obliged to be an example all through the dinner. even with such a model to copy, zeb had great trouble with his spoon and showed a regrettable tendency to feed himself with both hands at once. the turkey was a wonder of tenderness, the vegetables done to a turn, the indian pudding much better than its name, and as for the pies, the captain declared they were "fit to be et by the angels and most too good for a sinner like him." beside each plate the goodwife had placed a few kernels of corn, and at the end of the feast, when the goodman rose to return thanks, he took them in his hand. "in the midst of plenty," he said to his children, "let us not forget the struggles of the past and what we owe to the pioneers who first adventured into this wilderness and made a path for those of us who have followed them. though they nearly perished of hunger and cold in the beginning, they failed not in faith. when they had but a few kernels of corn to eat, they still gave thanks, choosing like daniel to live on pulse with a good conscience rather than to eat from a king's table. as the lord prospered daniel, so hath he prospered us." then they all stood with folded hands and bent heads, while he gave thanks for the abundant harvest and prayed that they might be guided to use every blessing to the honor and glory of god. and the captain said, "amen." [illustration] * * * * * suggestions to teachers the puritan twins will admirably supplement the study of american history and geography in grades 6 and 7. the nation-wide revival of interest in all that concerns the pilgrim fathers, begun at the time of the tercentenary in 1920, will continue for many years. whether children are able to trace their ancestry back to the little band that crossed the atlantic in the mayflower, or whether they trace it to voyagers of a less remote period--and the other volumes in the twins series are closely linked with many of these later ones--their interest in the days of the forefathers of our country should be the same; for these early settlers gave to america the spirit of liberty, a respect for law and organized government, and a standard of clean living and right thinking which it is our duty to preserve and to pass on to coming generations. the best suggestions to teachers consist of brief and helpful references to authoritative books that will give an accurate picture of the early days of our country in the making and of the pilgrim country as it is to-day. properly presented to pupils, the material gleaned from these books will help them to form a more definite idea of what every american should do to preserve intact the national peace and prosperity which is their heritage. in the following list, titles marked with an asterisk contain material which can be understandingly read by the pupils themselves. it will be better to have the teacher read to the class from the others. readings in american history and government *tappan's _elementary history of our country_, chapters 4 to 9 inclusive. these deal with the whole period of colonization. thwaites and kendall's _history of the united states for schools_. chapters 3 to 9 inclusive. this is a more advanced book which amplifies the story. there are valuable suggestions for reading in standard literature. guitteau's _preparing for citizenship_. chapter 19 is of great inspirational value. *webster's _americanization and citizenship_. the following paragraphs set forth american ideals in their origin and development: 44, 52, 53, 54, 55, 63, 73, 117-121. *tappan's _our european ancestors_. chapters 16-20 inclusive. these describe the european rivalries which influenced the colonization of america. *tappan's _little book of our flag_. particularly chapters 1 and 2 respectively, "the flags that brought the colonists," and "the pine tree flag and others." griffis's _young people's history of the pilgrims_. the conditions which led to the sailing of the pilgrims are clearly sketched and emphasis is laid on the viewpoint of the pilgrim boys and girls. *griffis's _the pilgrims in their three homes: england, holland, and america_. the life of the pilgrims in church and school, at work and play, including their flight and refuge, is fully described. *tappan's _american hero stories_. five stories center around the colonists, of whom, of course, miles standish is one. *tappan's _letters from colonial children_. these letters give an idea of life in representative american colonies seen through a child's eyes. they present a vivid and historically accurate picture of the times. *hawthorne's _grandfather's chair_. these stories have never grown old or tiresome to children--and probably never will. no stories ever gave a better introduction to our history from the settlement of new england to the war for independence. *deming and bemis's _stories of patriotism_. a series of stirring tales of patriotic deeds by americans from the time of the colonists to the present. *bemis's _the patriotic reader_. the selections cover the history of our country from the discovery of america to our entrance into the great war. they give one a familiarity with literature--new and old--that presents the highest ideals of freedom and justice. *longfellow's _courtship of miles standish_. a well annotated edition is published in the riverside literature series. jane g. austin's _the old colony stories_. these novels, dealing with the early settlers of plymouth, have taken their place among the american classics, and their combination of romantic interest, real literary quality, and historical accuracy has won for them wide popularity. the titles alone bring before the mind a vision of the most famous colonists: _betty alden_, _a nameless nobleman_, _standish of standish_, _dr. lebaron and his daughters_, _david alden's daughter and other stories_. fiske's _the beginnings of new england_. this is one of the most readable of the authoritative histories. readings in geography edwards's _the old coast road_. the south shore road from boston to plymouth is one of the most historic roads in the country. starting from boston, miss edwards guides her readers through dorchester heights, milton and the blue hills, quincy with its shipbuilding, weymouth, hingham, cohasset, the scituate shore, marshfield, the home of daniel webster, duxbury and kingston. she concludes with an informing chapter on plymouth. edwards's _cape cod, new and old_. delightful essays on the cape--brief, entertaining, and containing precisely those facts which every reader wants to know. dramatizations *longfellow's _courtship of miles standish_. dramatized. this is equipped with suggestions for stage settings, properties and costumes. *austin's _standish of standish_. dramatized. historically true portrayals of character and atmosphere. there are suggestions for costumes and other details of acting. baker's _the pilgrim spirit_. this book contains the words spoken by the characters in the various episodes comprising the pageant presented at plymouth, massachusetts, during the summer of 1921. it re-creates in masterly fashion the atmosphere of old colony times. the devil's disciple bernard shaw act i at the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry morning in the year 1777, mrs. dudgeon, of new hampshire, is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm house on the outskirts of the town of websterbridge. she is not a prepossessing woman. no woman looks her best after sitting up all night; and mrs. dudgeon's face, even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into which the barren forms and observances of a dead puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a fierce pride. she is an elderly matron who has worked hard and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial. this conception is easily extended to others--denial, and finally generalized as covering anything disagreeable. so mrs. dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. short of flat felony, she enjoys complete license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently, without knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed a sunday at the presbyterian church. the year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the breaking off of the american colonies from england, more by their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the shooting being idealized to the english mind as suppression of rebellion and maintenance of british dominion, and to the american as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the rights of man. into the merits of these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have convinced both americans and english that the most high minded course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing, morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of god on their arms. under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable mrs. dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news. like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. mrs. dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. the plain kitchen table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. the room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom door. between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are no hats or coats on them. on the other side of the window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and brass pendulum. between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery. on the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. an inspection of its stridulous surface shows that mrs. dudgeon is not alone. a girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. she is a wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. her frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means scrupulously clean. it hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of underclothing. suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the sleepers. then knocking, which disturbs mrs. dudgeon a little. finally the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once. mrs. dudgeon (threateningly). well, why don't you open the door? (she sees that the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) well, dear, dear me! now this is-(shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear? the girl (sitting up). what is it? mrs. dudgeon. wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his grave. the girl (half asleep still). i didn't mean to. i dropped off-mrs. dudgeon (cutting her short). oh yes, you've plenty of excuses, i daresay. dropped off! (fiercely, as the knocking recommences.) why don't you get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night for him! (she pushes her rudely off the sofa.) there: i'll open the door: much good you are to wait up. go and mend that fire a bit. the girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. mrs. dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also her second son christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. he hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving mrs. dudgeon to shut the door. christy (at the fire). f--f--f! but it is cold. (seeing the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) why, who are you? the girl (shyly). essie. mrs. dudgeon. oh you may well ask. (to essie.) go to your room, child, and lie down since you haven't feeling enough to keep you awake. your history isn't fit for your own ears to hear. essie. i-mrs. dudgeon (peremptorily). don't answer me, miss; but show your obedience by doing what i tell you. (essie, almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.) and don't forget your prayers. (essie goes out.) she'd have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if i'd let her. christy (phlegmatically). well, she can't be expected to feel uncle peter's death like one of the family. mrs. dudgeon. what are you talking about, child? isn't she his daughter--the punishment of his wickedness and shame? (she assaults her chair by sitting down.) christy (staring). uncle peter's daughter! mrs. dudgeon. why else should she be here? d'ye think i've not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle's bastards-christy (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by which essie went out). sh! she may hear you. mrs. dudgeon (raising her voice). let her hear me. people who fear god don't fear to give the devil's work its right name. (christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of good and evil, stares at the fire, warming himself.) well, how long are you going to stare there like a stuck pig? what news have you for me? christy (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang them up). the minister is to break the news to you. he'll be here presently. mrs. dudgeon. break what news? christy (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with callous placidity, considering the nature of the announcement). father's dead too. mrs. dudgeon (stupent). your father! christy (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother). well, it's not my fault. when we got to nevinstown we found him ill in bed. he didn't know us at first. the minister sat up with him and sent me away. he died in the night. mrs. dudgeon (bursting into dry angry tears). well, i do think this is hard on me--very hard on me. his brother, that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own family, goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. after sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (she plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears.) it's sinful, so it is; downright sinful. christy (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). i think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. mrs. dudgeon (railing at him). a fine morning! and your father newly dead! where's your feelings, child? christy (obstinately). well, i didn't mean any harm. i suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even if his father's dead. mrs. dudgeon (bitterly). a nice comfort my children are to me! one son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's left his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains, the scum of the earth! someone knocks. christy (without moving). that's the minister. mrs. dudgeon (sharply). well, aren't you going to let mr. anderson in? christy goes sheepishly to the door. mrs. dudgeon buries her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with grief. christy opens the door, and admits the minister, anthony anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready presbyterian divine of about 50, with something of the authority of his profession in his bearing. but it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing other-worldliness. he is a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. no doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better with it than a sound presbyterian ought. anderson (to christy, at the door, looking at mrs. dudgeon whilst he takes off his cloak). have you told her? christy. she made me. (he shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across to the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep.) anderson looks compassionately at mrs. dudgeon. then he hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. mrs. dudgeon dries her eyes and looks up at him. anderson. sister: the lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you. mrs. dudgeon (with intensely recalcitrant resignation). it's his will, i suppose; and i must bow to it. but i do think it hard. what call had timothy to go to springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being hanged?--and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did. anderson (gently). they were brothers, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon. timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we were married: he had too much respect for me to insult me with such a brother. would such a selfish wretch as peter have come thirty miles to see timothy hanged, do you think? not thirty yards, not he. however, i must bear my cross as best i may: least said is soonest mended. anderson (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to it). your eldest son was present at the execution, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon (disagreeably surprised). richard? anderson (nodding). yes. mrs. dudgeon (vindictively). let it be a warning to him. he may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless-(she suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread) did timothy see him? anderson. yes. mrs. dudgeon (holding her breath). well? anderson. he only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (mrs. dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her ease again.) your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. (mrs. dudgeon sneers. anderson breaks off to demand with some indignation) well, wasn't it only natural, mrs. dudgeon? he softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. he sent for him to come to see him. mrs. dudgeon (her alarm renewed). sent for richard! anderson. yes; but richard would not come. he sent his father a message; but i'm sorry to say it was a wicked message--an awful message. mrs. dudgeon. what was it? anderson. that he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against his good parents, in this world and the next. mrs. dudgeon (implacably). he will be punished for it. he will be punished for it--in both worlds. anderson. that is not in our hands, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon. did i say it was, mr. anderson. we are told that the wicked shall be punished. why should we do our duty and keep god's law if there is to be no difference made between us and those who follow their own likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their maker's word? anderson. well, richard's earthly father has been merciful and his heavenly judge is the father of us all. mrs. dudgeon (forgetting herself). richard's earthly father was a softheaded-anderson (shocked). oh! mrs. dudgeon (with a touch of shame). well, i am richard's mother. if i am against him who has any right to be for him? (trying to conciliate him.) won't you sit down, mr. anderson? i should have asked you before; but i'm so troubled. anderson. thank you-(he takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. when he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult subject.) has christy told you about the new will? mrs. dudgeon (all her fears returning). the new will! did timothy--? (she breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the question.) anderson. yes. in his last hours he changed his mind. mrs. dudgeon (white with intense rage). and you let him rob me? anderson. i had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own son. mrs. dudgeon. he had nothing of his own. his money was the money i brought him as my marriage portion. it was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. he dare not have done it if i had been with him; and well he knew it. that was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. the more shame on you, mr. anderson,--you, a minister of the gospel--to act as his accomplice in such a crime. anderson (rising). i will take no offence at what you say in the first bitterness of your grief. mrs. dudgeon (contemptuously). grief! anderson. well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your heart to think that the better word. mrs. dudgeon. my heart! my heart! and since when, pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us? anderson (rather guiltily). i--er-mrs. dudgeon (vehemently). don't lie, mr. anderson. we are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. my heart belonged, not to timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his days with a rope round his neck--aye, to peter dudgeon. you know it: old eli hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. he warned me and strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a godfearing man--as he thought. what else but that discipline has made me the woman i am? and you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of what i find in my heart. go home to your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. (she turns from him and leans with her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of him.) anderson (willing enough to escape). the lord forbid that i should come between you and the source of all comfort! (he goes to the rack for his coat and hat.) mrs. dudgeon (without looking at him). the lord will know what to forbid and what to allow without your help. anderson. and whom to forgive, i hope--eli hawkins and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against his law. (he fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.) just one word--on necessary business, mrs. dudgeon. there is the reading of the will to be gone through; and richard has a right to be present. he is in the town; but he has the grace to say that he does not want to force himself in here. mrs. dudgeon. he shall come here. does he expect us to leave his father's house for his convenience? let them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly. they shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day's work. i shall be ready, never fear. anderson (coming back a step or two). mrs. dudgeon: i used to have some little influence with you. when did i lose it? mrs. dudgeon (still without turning to him). when you married for love. now you're answered. anderson. yes: i am answered. (he goes out, musing.) mrs. dudgeon (to herself, thinking of her husband). thief! thief!! (she shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing anderson's chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to the window. then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) christy. (no answer: he is fast asleep.) christy. (she shakes him roughly.) get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself--sleeping, and your father dead! (she returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads.) christy (rising reluctantly). well, do you suppose we are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning? mrs. dudgeon. i want none of your sulks. here: help me to set this table. (they place the table in the middle of the room, with christy's end towards the fireplace and mrs. dudgeon's towards the sofa. christy drops the table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the final adjustments of its position.) we shall have the minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will before you have done toasting yourself. go and wake that girl; and then light the stove in the shed: you can't have your breakfast here. and mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company. (she punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she sets on the table. also two green ware plates, on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. on the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and counting the rest.) now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there be ten there when i come back after dressing myself. and keep your fingers off the raisins in that cake. and tell essie the same. i suppose i can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? (she replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully.) christy (lingering at the fire). you'd better put the inkstand instead, for the lawyer. mrs. dudgeon. that's no answer to make to me, sir. go and do as you're told. (christy turns sullenly to obey.) stop: take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in: you can't expect me to do all the heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about. christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; then opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. mrs. dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf. christy (looking through the window). here's the minister's wife. mrs. dudgeon (displeased). what! is she coming here? christy. yes. mrs. dudgeon. what does she want troubling me at this hour, before i'm properly dressed to receive people? christy. you'd better ask her. mrs. dudgeon (threateningly). you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head. (he goes sulkily towards the door. she comes after him, plying him with instructions.) tell that girl to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. and tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. (christy goes out and slams the door in her face.) nice manners, that! (someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries inhospitably.) come in. (judith anderson, the minister's wife, comes in. judith is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though she will never be as young as he in vitality. she is pretty and proper and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her instead of strength. she has a pretty taste in dress, and in her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams. even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child's vanity. rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how rough a place the world is. one feels, on the whole, that anderson might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better.) oh, it's you, is it, mrs. anderson? judith (very politely--almost patronizingly). yes. can i do anything for you, mrs. dudgeon? can i help to get the place ready before they come to read the will? mrs. dudgeon (stiffly). thank you, mrs. anderson, my house is always ready for anyone to come into. mrs. anderson (with complacent amiability). yes, indeed it is. perhaps you had rather i did not intrude on you just now. mrs. dudgeon. oh, one more or less will make no difference this morning, mrs. anderson. now that you're here, you'd better stay. if you wouldn't mind shutting the door! (judith smiles, implying "how stupid of me" and shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and becoming.) that's better. i must go and tidy myself a bit. i suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until i'm ready. judith (graciously giving her leave). oh yes, certainly. leave them to me, mrs. dudgeon; and take your time. (she hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.) mrs. dudgeon (half sneering). i thought that would be more in your way than getting the house ready. (essie comes back.) oh, here you are! (severely) come here: let me see you. (essie timidly goes to her. mrs. dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself--results which show little practice and less conviction.) mm! that's what you call doing your hair properly, i suppose. it's easy to see what you are, and how you were brought up. (she throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily.) now you listen to me and do as you're told. you sit down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don't dare to speak until you're spoken to. (essie creeps away to the fireplace.) your father's people had better see you and know you're there: they're as much bound to keep you from starvation as i am. at any rate they might help. but let me have no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their equal. do you hear? essie. yes. mrs. dudgeon. well, then go and do as you're told. (essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from the door.) never mind her, mrs. anderson: you know who she is and what she is. if she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and i'll settle accounts with her. (mrs. dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.) judith (patronizing essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more becomingly). you must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. she is a very good woman, and desires your good too. essie (in listless misery). yes. judith (annoyed with essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark). you are not going to be sullen, i hope, essie. essie. no. judith. that's a good girl! (she places a couple of chairs at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than mrs. dudgeon.) do you know any of your father's relatives? essie. no. they wouldn't have anything to do with him: they were too religious. father used to talk about dick dudgeon; but i never saw him. judith (ostentatiously shocked). dick dudgeon! essie: do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct? essie (very half-heartedly). yes. judith. then you must never mention the name of richard dudgeon--never even think about him. he is a bad man. essie. what has he done? judith. you must not ask questions about him, essie. you are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. but he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays games on sunday instead of going to church. never let him into your presence, if you can help it, essie; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men. essie. yes. judith (again displeased). i am afraid you say yes and no without thinking very deeply. essie. yes. at least i mean-judith (severely). what do you mean? essie (almost crying). only--my father was a smuggler; and-(someone knocks.) judith. they are beginning to come. now remember your aunt's directions, essie; and be a good girl. (christy comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he places on the table.) good morning, mr. dudgeon. will you open the door, please: the people have come. christy. good morning. (he opens the house door.) the morning is now fairly bright and warm; and anderson, who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. he is accompanied by lawyer hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. he and anderson are allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. after them comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, william dudgeon, a large, shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. his clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a prosperous man. the junior uncle, titus dudgeon, is a wiry little terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both free from the cares of the william household. hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest the sofa, christy having left the inkstand there. he puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. uncle william comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving mrs. william derelict near the door. uncle titus, who is the lady's man of the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his brother's. anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with judith. judith. she will be here in a moment. ask them to wait. (she taps at the bedroom door. receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes through.) anderson (taking his place at the table at the opposite end to hawkins). our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. are we all here? christy (at the house door, which he has just shut). all except dick. the callousness with which christy names the reprobate jars on the moral sense of the family. uncle william shakes his head slowly and repeatedly. mrs. titus catches her breath convulsively through her nose. her husband speaks. uncle titus. well, i hope he will have the grace not to come. i hope so. the dudgeons all murmur assent, except christy, who goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out. hawkins smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it. anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his nature. judith appears at the bedroom door. judith (with gentle impressiveness). friends, mrs. dudgeon. (she takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for mrs. dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. all rise, except essie. mrs. titus and mrs. william produce equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. it is an affecting moment.) uncle william. would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer? uncle titus. or sing a hymn? anderson (rather hastily). i have been with our sister this morning already, friends. in our hearts we ask a blessing. all (except essie). amen. they all sit down, except judith, who stands behind mrs. dudgeon's chair. judith (to essie). essie: did you say amen? essie (scaredly). no. judith. then say it, like a good girl. essie. amen. uncle william (encouragingly). that's right: that's right. we know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it. we are all equal before the throne. this republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced that the throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded. christy (at the window). here's dick. anderson and hawkins look round sociably. essie, with a gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. christy grins and gapes expectantly at the door. the rest are petrified with the intensity of their sense of virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting vice. the reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sunlight. he is certainly the best looking member of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. only his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic. richard (on the threshold, taking off his hat). ladies and gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. (with this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to christy with a suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and deliberately surveys the company.) how happy you all look! how glad to see me! (he turns towards mrs. dudgeon's chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of undisguised hatred.) well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual? that's right, that's right. (judith pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from contamination. uncle titus promptly marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit down upon.) what! uncle william! i haven't seen you since you gave up drinking. (poor uncle william, shamed, would protest; but richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding) you have given it up, haven't you? (releasing him with a playful push) of course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (he turns away from uncle william and makes for the sofa.) and now, where is that upright horsedealer uncle titus? uncle titus: come forth. (he comes upon him holding the chair as judith sits down.) as usual, looking after the ladies. uncle titus (indignantly). be ashamed of yourself, sir-richard (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him). i am: i am; but i am proud of my uncle--proud of all my relatives (again surveying them) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? (uncle titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. richard turns to the table.) ah, mr. anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark. come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the decanter) clink a glass with me, pastor, for the sake of old times. anderson. you know, i think, mr. dudgeon, that i do not drink before dinner. richard. you will, some day, pastor: uncle william used to drink before breakfast. come: it will give your sermons unction. (he smells the wine and makes a wry face.) but do not begin on my mother's company sherry. i stole some when i was six years old; and i have been a temperate man ever since. (he puts the decanter down and changes the subject.) so i hear you are married, pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks. anderson (quietly indicating judith). sir: you are in the presence of my wife. (judith rises and stands with stony propriety.) richard (quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners). your servant, madam: no offence. (he looks at her earnestly.) you deserve your reputation; but i'm sorry to see by your expression that you're a good woman. (she looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy from his relatives. anderson, sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored.) all the same, pastor, i respect you more than i did before. by the way, did i hear, or did i not, that our late lamented uncle peter, though unmarried, was a father? uncle titus. he had only one irregular child, sir. richard. only one! he thinks one a mere trifle! i blush for you, uncle titus. anderson. mr. dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief. richard. it touches me profoundly, pastor. by the way, what has become of the irregular child? anderson (pointing to essie). there, sir, listening to you. richard (shocked into sincerity). what! why the devil didn't you tell me that before? children suffer enough in this house without-(he hurries remorsefully to essie.) come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. (she looks up gratefully at him. her tearstained face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) who has been making her cry? who has been ill-treating her? by god-mrs. dudgeon (rising and confronting him). silence your blasphemous tongue. i will hear no more of this. leave my house. richard. how do you know it's your house until the will is read? (they look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. richard goes boldly up past anderson to the window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand.) ladies and gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this household, i bid you welcome. by your leave, minister anderson: by your leave, lawyer hawkins. the head of the table for the head of the family. (he places the chair at the table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air.) we meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (he shakes his head deploringly. the relatives freeze with horror.) that's right: pull your longest faces (his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on essie) provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. (briskly.) now then, lawyer hawkins: business, business. get on with the will, man. titus. do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, mr. hawkins. hawkins (very politely and willingly). mr. dudgeon means no offence, i feel sure. i will not keep you one second, mr. dudgeon. just while i get my glasses-(he fumbles for them. the dudgeons look at one another with misgiving). richard. aha! they notice your civility, mr. hawkins. they are prepared for the worst. a glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. (he pours out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself.) hawkins. thank you, mr. dudgeon. your good health, sir. richard. yours, sir. (with the glass half way to his lips, he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint intensity.) will anyone oblige me with a glass of water? essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises stealthily and slips out behind mrs. dudgeon through the bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as possible. hawkins. the will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology. richard. no: my father died without the consolations of the law. hawkins. good again, mr. dudgeon, good again. (preparing to read) are you ready, sir? richard. ready, aye ready. for what we are about to receive, may the lord make us truly thankful. go ahead. hawkins (reading). "this is the last will and testament of me timothy dudgeon on my deathbed at nevinstown on the road from springtown to websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of september, one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven. i hereby revoke all former wills made by me and declare that i am of sound mind and know well what i am doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections." richard (glancing at his mother). aha! hawkins (shaking his head). bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. "i give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son christopher dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to sarah wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to the number of five." richard. how if she won't have him? christy. she will if i have fifty pounds. richard. good, my brother. proceed. hawkins. "i give and bequeath to my wife annie dudgeon, born annie primrose"--you see he did not know the law, mr. dudgeon: your mother was not born annie: she was christened so--"an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life (mrs. dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own money"--there's a way to put it, mr. dudgeon! her own money! mrs. dudgeon. a very good way to put god's truth. it was every penny my own. fifty-two pounds a year! hawkins. "and i recommend her for her goodness and piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood between them and her as far as i could to the best of my ability." mrs. dudgeon. and this is my reward! (raging inwardly) you know what i think, mr. anderson you know the word i gave to it. anderson. it cannot be helped, mrs. dudgeon. we must take what comes to us. (to hawkins.) go on, sir. hawkins. "i give and bequeath my house at websterbridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son and heir, richard dudgeon." richard. oho! the fatted calf, minister, the fatted calf. hawkins. "on these conditions--" richard. the devil! are there conditions? hawkins. "to wit: first, that he shall not let my brother peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil life." richard (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). agreed. mrs. dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at essie, misses her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully. hawkins. "second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse jim"-(again slacking his head) he should have written james, sir. richard. james shall live in clover. go on. hawkins. "--and keep my deaf farm laborer prodger feston in his service." richard. prodger feston shall get drunk every saturday. hawkins. "third, that he make christy a present on his marriage out of the ornaments in the best room." richard (holding up the stuffed birds). here you are, christy. christy (disappointed). i'd rather have the china peacocks. richard. you shall have both. (christy is greatly pleased.) go on. hawkins. "fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it." richard (dubiously). hm! anything more, mr. hawkins? hawkins (solemnly). "finally i gave and bequeath my soul into my maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that i have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour in this strange place." anderson. amen. the uncles and aunts. amen. richard. my mother does not say amen. mrs. dudgeon (rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle). mr. hawkins: is that a proper will? remember, i have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me. hawkins. this is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, mrs. dudgeon; though (turning politely to richard) it contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property. anderson (interposing before mrs. dudgeon can retort). that is not what you are asked, mr. hawkins. is it a legal will? hawkins. the courts will sustain it against the other. anderson. but why, if the other is more lawfully worded? hawking. because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man--and that man the eldest son--against any woman, if they can. i warned you, mrs. dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy until he revoked it. but you wouldn't take advice; and now mr. richard is cock of the walk. (he takes his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.) this is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. anderson takes his hat from the rack and joins uncle william at the fire. uncle titus fetches judith her things from the rack. the three on the sofa rise and chat with hawkins. mrs. dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike insignificance. for at this time, remember, mary wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her vindication of the rights of women is still fourteen years off. mrs. dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by essie, who comes back with the jug full of water. she is taking it to richard when mrs. dudgeon stops her. mrs. dudgeon (threatening her). where have you been? (essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) how dare you go out by yourself after the orders i gave you? essie. he asked for a drink-(she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate with terror). judith (with gentler severity). who asked for a drink? (essie, speechless, points to richard.) richard. what! i! judith (shocked). oh essie, essie! richard. i believe i did. (he takes a glass and holds it to essie to be filled. her hand shakes.) what! afraid of me? essie (quickly). no. i-(she pours out the water.) richard (tasting it). ah, you've been up the street to the market gate spring to get that. (he takes a draught.) delicious! thank you. (unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of judith's face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. his mocking expression returns instantly. he puts down the glass; deliberately winds his arm round essie's shoulders; and brings her into the middle of the company. mrs. dudgeon being in essie's way as they come past the table, he says) by your leave, mother (and compels her to make way for them). what do they call you? bessie? essie. essie. richard. essie, to be sure. are you a good girl, essie? essie (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her in this way) yes. (she looks doubtfully at judith.) i think so. i mean i--i hope so. richard. essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil? anderson (revolted). shame on you, sir, with a mere child-richard. by your leave, minister: i do not interfere with your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. (to essie.) do you know what they call me, essie? essie. dick. richard (amused: patting her on the shoulder). yes, dick; but something else too. they call me the devil's disciple. essie. why do you let them? richard (seriously). because it's true. i was brought up in the other service; but i knew from the first that the devil was my natural master and captain and friend. i saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. i prayed secretly to him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in this house of children's tears. i promised him my soul, and swore an oath that i would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in the next. (solemnly) that promise and that oath made a man of me. from this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil? judith (coming to essie and throwing a protecting arm about her). i will. you should be burnt alive. essie. but i don't want to. (she shrinks back, leaving richard and judith face to face.) richard (to judith). actually doesn't want to, most virtuous lady! uncle titus. have a care, richard dudgeon. the law-richard (turning threateningly on him). have a care, you. in an hour from this there will be no law here but martial law. i passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon major swindon's gallows for rebels will be up in the market place. anderson (calmly). what have we to fear from that, sir? richard. more than you think. he hanged the wrong man at springtown: he thought uncle peter was respectable, because the dudgeons had a good name. but his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring home a rebellious word. well, we're all rebels; and you know it. all the men (except anderson). no, no, no! richard. yes, you are. you haven't damned king george up hill and down dale as i have; but you've prayed for his defeat; and you, anthony anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. they mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the devil's disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them. but a minister! (judith, dismayed, clings to anderson) or a lawyer! (hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) or an upright horsedealer! (uncle titus snarls at him in rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (uncle william, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? would that show that king george meant business--ha? anderson (perfectly self-possessed). come, my dear: he is only trying to frighten you. there is no danger. (he takes her out of the house. the rest crowd to the door to follow him, except essie, who remains near richard.) richard (boisterously derisive). now then: how many of you will stay with me; run up the american flag on the devil's house; and make a fight for freedom? (they scramble out, christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) ha ha! long live the devil! (to mrs. dudgeon, who is following them) what mother! are you off too? mrs. dudgeon (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a deathblow). my curse on you! my dying curse! (she goes out.) richard (calling after her). it will bring me luck. ha ha ha! essie (anxiously). mayn't i stay? richard (turning to her). what! have they forgotten to save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? oh yes: you may stay. (he turns excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. his left fist, also clenched, hangs down. essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. he starts and looks at it.) tears! the devil's baptism! (she falls on her knees, sobbing. he stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, saying) oh yes, you may cry that way, essie, if you like. act ii minister anderson's house is in the main street of websterbridge, not far from the town hall. to the eye of the eighteenth century new englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the dudgeons; but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at about the same rent. the chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. the door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. the table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of american cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. the tea service on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block of butter in a crock. the big oak press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament; and the minister's house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there. his big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and rather proud of themselves. in fact, the evolution of the minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered period, he is no better off than the dudgeons. but there is a difference, for all that. to begin with, mrs. anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than mrs. dudgeon. to which mrs. dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that mrs. anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the minister's house as it is hard at the farm. this is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit mrs. anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. the outward and visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though not upholstered, are stained and polished. the fine arts are represented by a mezzotint portrait of some presbyterian divine, a copperplate of raphael's st. paul preaching at athens, a rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. a pretty feature of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. there is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. on the whole, it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of mr. philip webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago. the evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain. as the town clock strikes the quarter, judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. she goes to the window and peers into the street. the first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the rain. she gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. judith (running to him). oh, here you are at last, at last! (she attempts to embrace him.) anderson (keeping her off). take care, my love: i'm wet. wait till i get my cloak off. (he places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to judith.) now! (she flies into his arms.) i am not late, am i? the town clock struck the quarter as i came in at the front door. and the town clock is always fast. judith. i'm sure it's slow this evening. i'm so glad you're back. anderson (taking her more closely in his arms). anxious, my dear? judith. a little. anderson. why, you've been crying. judith. only a little. never mind: it's all over now. (a bugle call is heard in the distance. she starts in terror and retreats to the long seat, listening.) what's that? anderson (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with him). only king george, my dear. he's returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. soldiers don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town. judith. do you think there is really any danger? anderson. not the least in the world. judith. you say that to comfort me, not because you believe it. anderson. my dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it. there's a danger that the house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for that. judith. yes, i know what you always say; and you're quite right. oh, quite right: i know it. but--i suppose i'm not brave: that's all. my heart shrinks every time i think of the soldiers. anderson. never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little pain. judith. yes, i suppose so. (embracing him again.) oh how brave you are, my dear! (with tears in her eyes.) well, i'll be brave too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife. anderson. that's right. now you make me happy. well, well! (he rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.) i called on richard dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn't in. judith (rising in consternation). you called on that man! anderson (reassuring her). oh, nothing happened, dearie. he was out. judith (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to her). but why did you go there? anderson (gravely). well, it is all the talk that major swindon is going to do what he did in springtown--make an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. he pounced on peter dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the general belief that he will pounce on richard as the worst here. judith. but richard said-anderson (goodhumoredly cutting her short). pooh! richard said! he said what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. he said what perhaps (god forgive him!) he would like to believe. it's a terrible thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. i felt that i must warn him. i left a message for him. judith (querulously). what message? anderson. only that i should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome. judith (aghast). you asked that man to come here! anderson. i did. judith (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). i hope he won't come! oh, i pray that he may not come! anderson. why? don't you want him to be warned? judith. he must know his danger. oh, tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain? i do hate him! i can't get him out of my mind: i know he will bring harm with him. he insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his mother. anderson (quaintly). well, dear, let's forgive him; and then it won't matter. judith. oh, i know it's wrong to hate anybody; but-anderson (going over to her with humorous tenderness). come, dear, you're not so wicked as you think. the worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity. after all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (she starts, strangely touched--even appalled. he is amused at her.) yes: i'm quite in earnest. think of how some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can't bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. think of those very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one another--pooh! haven't you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. eh? judith. oh, don't say that: don't say that, tony, even in jest. you don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. anderson (laughing). well, well: never mind, pet. he's a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. and you're going to make the tea, aren't you? judith (remorsefully). oh yes, i forgot. i've been keeping you waiting all this time. (she goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.) anderson (going to the press and taking his coat off). have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? judith. yes, dear. (she goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.) anderson (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). did anyone call when i was out? judith. no, only-(someone knocks at the door. with a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming) who's that? anderson (going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder). all right, pet, all right. he won't eat you, whoever he is. (she tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. he goes to the door and opens it. richard is there, without overcoat or cloak.) you might have raised the latch and come in, mr. dudgeon. nobody stands on much ceremony with us. (hospitably.) come in. (richard comes in carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy.) is it still raining? (he shuts the door.) richard. raining like the very (his eye catches judith's as she looks quickly and haughtily up)--i beg your pardon; but (showing that his coat is wet) you see--! anderson. take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. judith: put in another spoonful of tea for mr. dudgeon. richard (eyeing him cynically). the magic of property, pastor! are even you civil to me now that i have succeeded to my father's estate? judith throws down the spoon indignantly. anderson (quite unruffled, and helping richard off with his coat). i think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so bad an opinion of it. sit down. (with the coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat. anderson pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs richard's coat on the back in its place.) richard. i come, sir, on your own invitation. you left word you had something important to tell me. anderson. i have a warning which it is my duty to give you. richard (quickly rising). you want to preach to me. excuse me: i prefer a walk in the rain. (he makes for his coat.) anderson (stopping him). don't be alarmed, sir; i am no great preacher. you are quite safe. (richard smiles in spite of himself. his glance softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly.) mr. dudgeon: you are in danger in this town. richard. what danger? anderson. your uncle's danger. major swindon's gallows. richard. it is you who are in danger. i warned you-anderson (interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively). yes, yes, mr. dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. and even if i were in danger, i have duties here i must not forsake. but you are a free man. why should you run any risk? richard. do you think i should be any great loss, minister? anderson. i think that a man's life is worth saving, whoever it belongs to. (richard makes him an ironical bow. anderson returns the bow humorously.) come: you'll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold? richard. i observe that mrs. anderson is not quite so pressing as you are, pastor. judith (almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting her husband to share and express for her at every insult of richard's). you are welcome for my husband's sake. (she brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.) richard. i know i am not welcome for my own, madam. (he rises.) but i think i will not break bread here, minister. anderson (cheerily). give me a good reason for that. richard. because there is something in you that i respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my enemy. anderson. that's well said. on those terms, sir, i will accept your enmity or any man's. judith: mr. dudgeon will stay to tea. sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by the fire. (richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his throat.) i was just saying to my wife, mr. dudgeon, that enmity-(she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) well, well, i mustn't tell you, i see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse friend--enemies, i mean. judith is a great enemy of yours. richard. if all my enemies were like mrs. anderson i should be the best christian in america. anderson (gratified, patting her hand). you hear that, judith? mr. dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. the latch is lifted from without. judith (starting). who is that? christy comes in. christy (stopping and staring at richard). oh, are you here? richard. yes. begone, you fool: mrs. anderson doesn't want the whole family to tea at once. christy (coming further in). mother's very ill. richard. well, does she want to see me? christy. no. richard. i thought not. christy. she wants to see the minister--at once. judith (to anderson). oh, not before you've had some tea. anderson. i shall enjoy it more when i come back, dear. (he is about to take up his cloak.) christy. the rain's over. anderson (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the fender). where is your mother, christy? christy. at uncle titus's. anderson. have you fetched the doctor? christy. no: she didn't tell me to. anderson. go on there at once: i'll overtake you on his doorstep. (christy turns to go.) wait a moment. your brother must be anxious to know the particulars. richard. psha! not i: he doesn't know; and i don't care. (violently.) be off, you oaf. (christy runs out. richard adds, a little shamefacedly) we shall know soon enough. anderson. well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. judith: will you give mr. dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until i return? judith (white and trembling). must i-anderson (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation). my dear: i can depend on you? judith (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). yes. anderson (pressing her hand against his cheek). you will not mind two old people like us, mr. dudgeon. (going.) i shall not say good evening: you will be here when i come back. (he goes out.) they watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly, quite disconcerted. richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the first to pull himself together. richard. mrs. anderson: i am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments towards me. i shall not intrude on you. good evening. (again he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.) judith (getting between him and the coat). no, no. don't go: please don't go. richard (roughly). why? you don't want me here. judith. yes, i-(wringing her hands in despair) oh, if i tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me. richard (indignantly). torment! what right have you to say that? do you expect me to stay after that? judith. i want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry child) it is not because i like you. richard. indeed! judith. yes: i had rather you did go than mistake me about that. i hate and dread you; and my husband knows it. if you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that i disobeyed him and drove you away. richard (ironically). whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that i only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh? judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears. richard. stop, stop, stop, i tell you. don't do that. (putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) he wrung my heart by being a man. need you tear it by being a woman? has he not raised you above my insults, like himself? (she stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.) there: that's right. (sympathetically.) you're better now, aren't you? (he puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. she instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. he at once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) ah, that's better. you are yourself again: so is richard. well, shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband's return? judith (rather ashamed of herself). if you please. i--i am sorry to have been so foolish. (she stoops to take up the plate of toast from the fender.) richard. i am sorry, for your sake, that i am--what i am. allow me. (he takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.) judith (following with the teapot). will you sit down? (he sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. there is a plate and knife laid there. the other plate is laid near it; but judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) do you take sugar? richard. no; but plenty of milk. let me give you some toast. (he puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. the action shows quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him as possible.) judith (consciously). thanks. (she gives him his tea.) won't you help yourself? richard. thanks. (he puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out tea for herself.) judith (observing that he tastes nothing). don't you like it? you are not eating anything. richard. neither are you. judith (nervously). i never care much for my tea. please don't mind me. richard (looking dreamily round). i am thinking. it is all so strange to me. i can see the beauty and peace of this home: i think i have never been more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet i know quite well i could never live here. it's not in my nature, i suppose, to be domesticated. but it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. (he muses a moment, and then laughs softly.) judith (quickly). why do you laugh? richard. i was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us for man and wife. judith (taking offence). you mean, i suppose, that you are more my age than he is. richard (staring at this unexpected turn). i never thought of such a thing. (sardonic again.) i see there is another side to domestic joy. judith (angrily). i would rather have a husband whom everybody respects than--than-richard. than the devil's disciple. you are right; but i daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad one. judith. my husband has been very good to you. he has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. can you not forgive him for being so much better than you are? how dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his place? richard. did i? judith. yes, you did. you said that if anybody came in they would take us for man and-(she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) the english soldiers! oh, what do they-richard (listening). sh! a voice (outside). halt! four outside: two in with me. judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an english sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. he comes promptly to the table between them. the sergeant. sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! anthony anderson: i arrest you in king george's name as a rebel. judith (pointing at richard). but that is not-(he looks up quickly at her, with a face of iron. she stops her mouth hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly.) the sergeant. come, parson; put your coat on and come along. richard. yes: i'll come. (he rises and takes a step towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning his head until he sees anderson's black coat hanging up on the press. he goes composedly to it; takes it down; and puts it on. the idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at judith, whose white face shows him that what she is painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror. he turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) did you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, sergeant? the sergeant (instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to richard's good breeding). well, no sir. at least, only an army chaplain. (showing the handcuffs.) i'm sorry, sir; but duty-richard. just so, sergeant. well, i'm not ashamed of them: thank you kindly for the apology. (he holds out his hands.) sergeant (not availing himself of the offer). one gentleman to another, sir. wouldn't you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go? richard (smiling). oh, we shall meet again before--eh? (meaning "before you hang me.") sergeant (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). oh, of course, of course. no call for the lady to distress herself. still-(in a lower voice, intended for richard alone) your last chance, sir. they look at one another significantly for a moment. than richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards judith. richard (very distinctly). my love. (she looks at him, pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot--tries also to come to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the support of the table.) this gallant gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (the sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door.) he is trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. are you listening to me? (she signifies assent.) do you understand that i am going to my death? (she signifies that she understands.) remember, you must find our friend who was with us just now. do you understand? (she signifies yes.) see that you get him safely out of harm's way. don't for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out, tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would not spare me. and tell him that i am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (he turns to go, and meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. he considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to judith with something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) and now, my dear, i am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before i go. he approaches her and holds out his arms. she quits the table and almost falls into them. judith (the words choking her). i ought to--it's murder-richard. no: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake. judith. i can't. you must-richard (folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her distress). my poor girl! judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss had killed her. richard (going quickly to the sergeant). now, sergeant: quick, before she comes to. the handcuffs. (he puts out his hands.) sergeant (pocketing them). never mind, sir: i'll trust you. you're a game one. you ought to a bin a soldier, sir. between them two, please. (the soldiers place themselves one before richard and one behind him. the sergeant opens the door.) richard (taking a last look round him). goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. muffle the drums, and quick march! the sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. they file out quickly. * * * * * when anderson returns from mrs. dudgeon's he is astonished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its last flicker. anderson. why, what on earth--? (calling) judith, judith! (he listens: there is no answer.) hm! (he goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. then he sticks it in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. this action causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and there he sees judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. he runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) judith. judith (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion after suffering). yes. did you call? what's the matter? anderson. i've just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. what has happened? judith (still astray). i don't know. have i been asleep? i suppose-(she stops blankly) i don't know. anderson (groaning). heaven forgive me, i left you alone with that scoundrel. (judith remembers. with an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. he clasps her tenderly in his arms.) my poor pet! judith (frantically clinging to him). what shall i do? oh my god, what shall i do? anderson. never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, are you? (he takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) there: that's right, that's right. if only you are not hurt, nothing else matters. judith. no, no, no: i'm not hurt. anderson. thank heaven for that! come now: (leading her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. or, (misunderstanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you. there, there! (cheerfully.) i'll make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (he goes to the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl.) judith (in a strained tone). tony. anderson. yes, dear? judith. do you think we are only in a dream now? anderson (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot). perhaps so, pet. but you may as well dream a cup of tea when you're about it. judith. oh, stop, stop. you don't know-(distracted she buries her face in her knotted hands.) anderson (breaking down and coming to her). my dear, what is it? i can't bear it any longer: you must tell me. it was all my fault: i was mad to trust him. judith. no: don't say that. you mustn't say that. he--oh no, no: i can't. tony: don't speak to me. take my hands--both my hands. (he takes them, wondering.) make me think of you, not of him. there's danger, frightful danger; but it is your danger; and i can't keep thinking of it: i can't, i can't: my mind goes back to his danger. he must be saved--no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (she springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) oh, heaven help me! anderson (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure). calmly, calmly, my pet. you're quite distracted. judith. i may well be. i don't know what to do. i don't know what to do. (tearing her hands away.) i must save him. (anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. it is opened in her face by essie, who hurries in, full of anxiety. the surprise is so disagreeable to judith that it brings her to her senses. her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) what do you want? essie. i was to come to you. anderson. who told you to? essie (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). are you here? judith. of course. don't be foolish, child. anderson. gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. (going between them.) come here, essie. (she comes to him.) who sent you? essie. dick. he sent me word by a soldier. i was to come here at once and do whatever mrs. anderson told me. anderson (enlightened). a soldier! ah, i see it all now! they have arrested richard. (judith makes a gesture of despair.) essie. no. i asked the soldier. dick's safe. but the soldier said you had been taken-anderson. i! (bewildered, he turns to judith for an explanation.) judith (coaxingly) all right, dear: i understand. (to essie.) thank you, essie, for coming; but i don't need you now. you may go home. essie (suspicious) are you sure dick has not been touched? perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. (anxiously.) mrs. anderson: do you think it can have been that? anderson. tell her the truth if it is so, judith. she will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. (judith turns away and covers her eyes with her hands.) essie (wailing). but what will they do to him? oh, what will they do to him? will they hang him? (judith shudders convulsively, and throws herself into the chair in which richard sat at the tea table.) anderson (patting essie's shoulder and trying to comfort her). i hope not. i hope not. perhaps if you're very quiet and patient, we may be able to help him in some way. essie. yes--help him--yes, yes, yes. i'll be good. anderson. i must go to him at once, judith. judith (springing up). oh no. you must go away--far away, to some place of safety. anderson. pooh! judith (passionately). do you want to kill me? do you think i can bear to live for days and days with every knock at the door--every footstep--giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you? anderson. do you think it would be better to know that i had run away from my post at the first sign of danger? judith (bitterly). oh, you won't go. i know it. you'll stay; and i shall go mad. anderson. my dear, your duty-judith (fiercely). what do i care about my duty? anderson (shocked). judith! judith. i am doing my duty. i am clinging to my duty. my duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently.) my instinct is the same as hers--to save him above all things, though it would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! but i know you will take your own way as he took it. i have no power. (she sits down sullenly on the railed seat.) i'm only a woman: i can do nothing but sit here and suffer. only, tell him i tried to save you--that i did my best to save you. anderson. my dear, i am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of mine. judith. stop; or i shall hate you. anderson (remonstrating). come, am i to leave you if you talk like this! your senses. (he turns to essie.) essie. essie (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). yes? anderson. just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: mrs. anderson is not well. (essie looks doubtful.) never fear: i'll come to you presently; and i'll go to dick. essie. you are sure you will go to him? (whispering.) you won't let her prevent you? anderson (smiling). no, no: it's all right. all right. (she goes.) that's a good girl. (he closes the door, and returns to judith.) judith (seated--rigid). you are going to your death. anderson (quaintly). then i shall go in my best coat, dear. (he turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) where--? (he stares at the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts richard's coat.) why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in my best coat. judith (still motionless). yes. anderson. did the soldiers make a mistake? judith. yes: they made a mistake. anderson. he might have told them. poor fellow, he was too upset, i suppose. judith. yes: he might have told them. so might i. anderson. well, it's all very puzzling--almost funny. it's curious how these little things strike us even in the most-(he breaks off and begins putting on richard's coat) i'd better take him his own coat. i know what he'll say-(imitating richard's sardonic manner) "anxious about my soul, pastor, and also about your best coat." eh? judith. yes, that is just what he will say to you. (vacantly.) it doesn't matter: i shall never see either of you again. anderson (rallying her). oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (he sits down beside her.) is this how you keep your promise that i shan't be ashamed of my brave wife? judith. no: this is how i break it. i cannot keep my promises to him: why should i keep my promises to you? anderson. don't speak so strangely, my love. it sounds insincere to me. (she looks unutterable reproach at him.) yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. just nonsense. (her face darkens into dumb obstinacy. she stares straight before her, and does not look at him again, absorbed in richard's fate. he scans her face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety.) i wish i knew what has frightened you so. was there a struggle? did he fight? judith. no. he smiled. anderson. did he realise his danger, do you think? judith. he realised yours. anderson. mine! judith (monotonously). he said, "see that you get him safely out of harm's way." i promised: i can't keep my promise. he said, "don't for your life let him know of my danger." i've told you of it. he said that if you found it out, you could not save him--that they will hang him and not spare you. anderson (rising in generous indignation). and you think that i will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words might make him die like a christian? i'm ashamed of you, judith. judith. he will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. he said so. anderson. god forgive him! what else did he say? judith. he said goodbye. anderson (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). poor fellow, poor fellow! you said goodbye to him in all kindness and charity, judith, i hope. judith. i kissed him. anderson. what! judith! judith. are you angry? anderson. no, no. you were right: you were right. poor fellow, poor fellow! (greatly distressed.) to be hanged like that at his age! and then did they take him away? judith (wearily). then you were here: that's the next thing i remember. i suppose i fainted. now bid me goodbye, tony. perhaps i shall faint again. i wish i could die. anderson. no, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be sensible. i am in no danger--not the least in the world. judith (solemnly). you are going to your death, tony--your sure death, if god will let innocent men be murdered. they will not let you see him: they will arrest you the moment you give your name. it was for you the soldiers came. anderson (thunderstruck). for me!!! (his fists clinch; his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. still, she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of richard's stead-fastness.) judith. he took your place: he is dying to save you. that is why he went in your coat. that is why i kissed him. anderson (exploding). blood an' owns! (his voice is rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) here! essie, essie! essie (running in). yes. anderson (impetuously). off with you as hard as you can run, to the inn. tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have (judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously)--the chestnut mare, if she's fresh--without a moment's delay. go into the stable yard and tell the black man there that i'll give him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting for me when i come, and that i am close on your heels. away with you. (his energy sends essie flying from the room. he pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling them on.) judith (unable to believe such a thing of him). you are not going to him! anderson (busy with the boots). going to him! what good would that do? (growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a wrench) i'll go to them, so i will. (to judith peremptorily) get me the pistols: i want them. and money, money: i want money--all the money in the house. (he stoops over the other boot, grumbling) a great satisfaction it would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (he pulls on the boot.) judith. you are deserting him, then? anderson. hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (she goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached to it. she throws it on the table. then she unlocks a drawer in the press and takes out a purse. anderson grabs the belt and buckles it on, saying) if they took him for me in my coat, perhaps they'll take me for him in his. (hitching the belt into its place) do i look like him? judith (turning with the purse in her hand). horribly unlike him. anderson (snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the table). hm! we shall see. judith (sitting down helplessly). is it of any use to pray, do you think, tony? anderson (counting the money). pray! can we pray swindon's rope off richard's neck? judith. god may soften major swindon's heart. anderson (contemptuously--pocketing a handful of money). let him, then. i am not god; and i must go to work another way. (judith gasps at the blasphemy. he throws the purse on the table.) keep that. i've taken 25 dollars. judith. have you forgotten even that you are a minister? anderson. minister be--faugh! my hat: where's my hat? (he snatches up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot haste.) now listen, you. if you can get a word with him by pretending you're his wife, tell him to hold his tongue until morning: that will give me all the start i need. judith (solemnly). you may depend on him to the death. anderson. you're a fool, a fool, judith (for a moment checking the torrent of his haste, and speaking with something of his old quiet and impressive conviction). you don't know the man you're married to. (essie returns. he swoops at her at once.) well: is the horse ready? essie (breathless). it will be ready when you come. anderson. good. (he makes for the door.) judith (rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily). won't you say goodbye? anderson. and waste another half minute! psha! (he rushes out like an avalanche.) essie (hurrying to judith). he has gone to save richard, hasn't he? judith. to save richard! no: richard has saved him. he has gone to save himself. richard must die. essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her face. judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in front of her, at the vision of richard, dying. act iii early next morning the sergeant, at the british headquarters in the town hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room, and invites judith to enter. she has had a bad night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held. the sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is sympathetic in an encouraging military way. being a fine figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. sergeant. you can have a quiet word with him here, mum. judith. shall i have long to wait? sergeant. no, mum, not a minute. we kep him in the bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here for the court martial. don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast. judith (incredulously). he is in good spirits! sergeant. tip top, mum. the chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. he spent it among us like the gentleman he is. duty's duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here. (the tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.) there: i think he's coming. (richard comes in, without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. the sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. they withdraw.) your good lady, sir. richard (going to her). what! my wife. my adored one. (he takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.) how long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, sergeant? sergeant. as long as we can, sir. we shall not disturb you till the court sits. richard. but it has struck the hour. sergeant. so it has, sir; but there's a delay. general burgoyne's just arrived--gentlemanly johnny we call him, sir--and he won't have done finding fault with everything this side of half past. i know him, sir: i served with him in portugal. you may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your leave i won't waste any more of them. (he goes out, locking the door. richard immediately drops his raffish manner and turns to judith with considerate sincerity.) richard. mrs. anderson: this visit is very kind of you. and how are you after last night? i had to leave you before you recovered; but i sent word to essie to go and look after you. did she understand the message? judith (breathless and urgent). oh, don't think of me: i haven't come here to talk about myself. are they going to--to-(meaning "to hang you")? richard (whimsically). at noon, punctually. at least, that was when they disposed of uncle peter. (she shudders.) is your husband safe? is he on the wing? judith. he is no longer my husband. richard (opening his eyes wide). eh! judith. i disobeyed you. i told him everything. i expected him to come here and save you. i wanted him to come here and save you. he ran away instead. richard. well, that's what i meant him to do. what good would his staying have done? they'd only have hanged us both. judith (with reproachful earnestness). richard dudgeon: on your honour, what would you have done in his place? richard. exactly what he has done, of course. judith. oh, why will you not be simple with me--honest and straightforward? if you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night? richard (gaily). upon my life, mrs. anderson, i don't know. i've been asking myself that question ever since; and i can find no manner of reason for acting as i did. judith. you know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man than yourself. richard (laughing). oho! no: that's a very pretty reason, i must say; but i'm not so modest as that. no: it wasn't for his sake. judith (after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing painfully). was it for my sake? richard (gallantly). well, you had a hand in it. it must have been a little for your sake. you let them take me, at all events. judith. oh, do you think i have not been telling myself that all night? your death will be at my door. (impulsively, she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) if i could save you as you saved him, i would do it, no matter how cruel the death was. richard (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm's length). i am very sure i shouldn't let you. judith. don't you see that i can save you? richard. how? by changing clothes with me, eh? judith (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). don't (meaning "don't jest"). no: by telling the court who you really are. richard (frowning). no use: they wouldn't spare me; and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. they are determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. well, let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to the death. that is the only force that can send burgoyne back across the atlantic and make america a nation. judith (impatiently). oh, what does all that matter? richard (laughing). true: what does it matter? what does anything matter? you see, men have these strange notions, mrs. anderson; and women see the folly of them. judith. women have to lose those they love through them. richard. they can easily get fresh lovers. judith (revolted). oh! (vehemently) do you realise that you are going to kill yourself? richard. the only man i have any right to kill, mrs. anderson. don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (smiling) bless you, nobody cares for me. have you heard that my mother is dead? judith. dead! richard. of heart disease--in the night. her last word to me was her curse: i don't think i could have borne her blessing. my other relatives will not grieve much on my account. essie will cry for a day or two; but i have provided for her: i made my own will last night. judith (stonily, after a moment's silence). and i! richard (surprised). you? judith. yes, i. am i not to care at all? richard (gaily and bluntly). not a scrap. oh, you expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. what happened may have softened you for the moment; but believe me, mrs. anderson, you don't like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head. i shall be as good a riddance at 12 today as i should have been at 12 yesterday. judith (her voice trembling). what can i do to show you that you are mistaken? richard. don't trouble. i'll give you credit for liking me a little better than you did. all i say is that my death will not break your heart. judith (almost in a whisper). how do you know? (she puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.) richard (amazed--divining the truth). mrs. anderson!!! (the bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. he collects himself, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) excuse me: they will be here for me presently. it is too late. judith. it is not too late. call me as witness: they will never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted. richard (with some scorn). indeed! but if i don't go through with it, where will the heroism be? i shall simply have tricked them; and they'll hang me for that like a dog. serve me right too! judith (wildly). oh, i believe you want to die. richard (obstinately). no i don't. judith. then why not try to save yourself? i implore you--listen. you said just now that you saved him for my sake--yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) a little for my sake. well, save yourself for my sake. and i will go with you to the end of the world. richard (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him, looking steadily at her). judith. judith (breathless--delighted at the name). yes. richard. if i said--to please you--that i did what i did ever so little for your sake, i lied as men always lie to women. you know how much i have lived with worthless men--aye, and worthless women too. well, they could all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love. (the word love comes from him with true puritan scorn.) that has taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out red hot. what i did last night, i did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) as i do for myself. i had no motive and no interest: all i can tell you is that when it came to the point whether i would take my neck out of the noose and put another man's into it, i could not do it. i don't know why not: i see myself as a fool for my pains; but i could not and i cannot. i have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature; and i may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (she has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.) i should have done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man's wife. (releasing her.) do you understand that? judith. yes: you mean that you do not love me. richard (revolted--with fierce contempt). is that all it means to you? judith. what more--what worse--can it mean to me? (the sergeant knocks. the blow on the door jars on her heart.) oh, one moment more. (she throws herself on her knees.) i pray to you-richard. hush! (calling) come in. (the sergeant unlocks the door and opens it. the guard is with him.) sergeant (coming in). time's up, sir. richard. quite ready, sergeant. now, my dear. (he attempts to raise her.) judith (clinging to him). only one thing more--i entreat, i implore you. let me be present in the court. i have seen major swindon: he said i should be allowed if you asked it. you will ask it. it is my last request: i shall never ask you anything again. (she clasps his knee.) i beg and pray it of you. richard. if i do, will you be silent? judith. yes. richard. you will keep faith? judith. i will keep-(she breaks down, sobbing.) richard (taking her arm to lift her). just--her other arm, sergeant. they go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men. meanwhile, the council chamber is ready for the court martial. it is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram g. r. in front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. several chairs are set at the table. the door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. major swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. he is alone until the sergeant announces the general in a subdued manner which suggests that gentlemanly johnny has been making his presence felt rather heavily. sergeant. the general, sir. swindon rises hastily. the general comes in, the sergeant goes out. general burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. he is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high military distinction. his eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a first rate general. just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. burgoyne. major swindon, i presume. swindon. yes. general burgoyne, if i mistake not. (they bow to one another ceremoniously.) i am glad to have the support of your presence this morning. it is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister. burgoyne (throwing himself onto swindon's chair). no, sir, it is not. it is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have done if he had been a member of the church of england? martyrdom, sir, is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become famous without ability. however, you have committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged the better. swindon. we have arranged it for 12 o'clock. nothing remains to be done except to try him. burgoyne (looking at him with suppressed anger). nothing--except to save our own necks, perhaps. have you heard the news from springtown? swindon. nothing special. the latest reports are satisfactory. burgoyne (rising in amazement). satisfactory, sir! satisfactory!! (he stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity) i am glad you take that view of them. swindon (puzzled). do i understand that in your opinion-burgoyne. i do not express my opinion. i never stoop to that habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens our profession. if i did, sir, perhaps i should be able to express my opinion of the news from springtown--the news which you (severely) have apparently not heard. how soon do you get news from your supports here?--in the course of a month eh? swindon (turning sulky). i suppose the reports have been taken to you, sir, instead of to me. is there anything serious? burgoyne (taking a report from his pocket and holding it up). springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (he throws the report on the table.) swindon (aghast). since yesterday! burgoyne. since two o'clock this morning. perhaps we shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning. have you thought of that? swindon (confidently). as to that, general, the british soldier will give a good account of himself. burgoyne (bitterly). and therefore, i suppose, sir, the british officer need not know his business: the british soldier will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. in future, sir, i must ask you to be a little less generous with the blood of your men, and a little more generous with your own brains. swindon. i am sorry i cannot pretend to your intellectual eminence, sir. i can only do my best, and rely on the devotion of my countrymen. burgoyne (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). may i ask are you writing a melodrama, major swindon? swindon (flushing). no, sir. burgoyne. what a pity! what a pity! (dropping his sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously) do you at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between us and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness of these colonists? they are men of the same english stock as ourselves: six to one of us (repeating it emphatically), six to one, sir; and nearly half our troops are hessians, brunswickers, german dragoons, and indians with scalping knives. these are the countrymen on whose devotion you rely! suppose the colonists find a leader! suppose the news from springtown should turn out to mean that they have already found a leader! what shall we do then? eh? swindon (sullenly). our duty, sir, i presume. burgoyne (again sarcastic--giving him up as a fool). quite so, quite so. thank you, major swindon, thank you. now you've settled the question, sir--thrown a flood of light on the situation. what a comfort to me to feel that i have at my side so devoted and able an officer to support me in this emergency! i think, sir, it will probably relieve both our feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further delay (he strikes the bell), especially as i am debarred by my principles from the customary military vent for my feelings. (the sergeant appears.) bring your man in. sergeant. yes, sir. burgoyne. and mention to any officer you may meet that the court cannot wait any longer for him. swindon (keeping his temper with difficulty). the staff is perfectly ready, sir. they have been waiting your convenience for fully half an hour. perfectly ready, sir. burgoyne (blandly). so am i. (several officers come in and take their seats. one of them sits at the end of the table furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the court, making notes of the proceedings. the uniforms are those of the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, 53rd, and 62nd british infantry. one officer is a major general of the royal artillery. there are also german officers of the hessian rifles, and of german dragoon and brunswicker regiments.) oh, good morning, gentlemen. sorry to disturb you, i am sure. very good of you to spare us a few moments. swindon. will you preside, sir? burgoyne (becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic and urbane now that he is in public). no, sir: i feel my own deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. if you will kindly allow me, i will sit at the feet of gamaliel. (he takes the chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated before sitting himself.) swindon (greatly annoyed). as you please, sir. i am only trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. (he takes his place in the chair of state.) burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down and begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and swindon's uselessness. richard is brought in. judith walks beside him. two soldiers precede and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. they cross the room to the wall opposite the door; but when richard has just passed before the chair of state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts himself behind him, at his elbow. judith stands timidly at the wall. the four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her. burgoyne (looking up and seeing judith). who is that woman? sergeant. prisoner's wife, sir. swindon (nervously). she begged me to allow her to be present; and i thought-burgoyne (completing the sentence for him ironically). you thought it would be a pleasure for her. quite so, quite so. (blandly) give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable. the sergeant fetches a chair and places it near richard. judith. thank you, sir. (she sits down after an awe-stricken curtsy to burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his head.) swindon (to richard, sharply). your name, sir? richard (affable, but obstinate). come: you don't mean to say that you've brought me here without knowing who i am? swindon. as a matter of form, sir, give your name. richard. as a matter of form then, my name is anthony anderson, presbyterian minister in this town. burgoyne (interested). indeed! pray, mr. anderson, what do you gentlemen believe? richard. i shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. i cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than a fortnight. swindon (snubbing him). we are not here to discuss your views. burgoyne (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate swindon). i stand rebuked. swindon (embarrassed). oh, not you, i as-burgoyne. don't mention it. (to richard, very politely) any political views, mr. anderson? richard. i understand that that is just what we are here to find out. swindon (severely). do you mean to deny that you are a rebel? richard. i am an american, sir. swindon. what do you expect me to think of that speech, mr. anderson? richard. i never expect a soldier to think, sir. burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost reconciles him to the loss of america. swindon (whitening with anger). i advise you not to be insolent, prisoner. richard. you can't help yourself, general. when you make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. why should i be civil to you? i may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. swindon. you have no right to assume that the court has made up its mind without a fair trial. and you will please not address me as general. i am major swindon. richard. a thousand pardons. i thought i had the honor of addressing gentlemanly johnny. sensation among the officers. the sergeant has a narrow escape from a guffaw. burgoyne (with extreme suavity). i believe i am gentlemanly johnny, sir, at your service. my more intimate friends call me general burgoyne. (richard bows with perfect politeness.) you will understand, sir, i hope, since you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. richard. oh, quite so. that makes all the difference in the world, of course. they all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger officers burst out laughing. judith (her dread and horror deepening at every one of these jests and compliments). how can you? richard. you promised to be silent. burgoyne (to judith, with studied courtesy). believe me, madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest obligation by taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman. sergeant: give mr. anderson a chair. (the sergeant does so. richard sits down.) now, major swindon: we are waiting for you. swindon. you are aware, i presume, mr. anderson, of your obligations as a subject of his majesty king george the third. richard. i am aware, sir, that his majesty king george the third is about to hang me because i object to lord north's robbing me. swindon. that is a treasonable speech, sir. richard (briefly). yes. i meant it to be. burgoyne (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still polite). don't you think, mr. anderson, that this is rather--if you will excuse the word--a vulgar line to take? why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and a tea duty and so forth? after all, it is the essence of your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. richard. it is not the money, general. but to be swindled by a pig-headed lunatic like king george. swindon (scandalised). chut, sir--silence! sergeant (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). silence! burgoyne (unruffled). ah, that is another point of view. my position does not allow of my going into that, except in private. but (shrugging his shoulders) of course, mr. anderson, if you are determined to be hanged (judith flinches), there's nothing more to be said. an unusual taste! however (with a final shrug)--! swindon (to burgoyne). shall we call witnesses? richard. what need is there of witnesses? if the townspeople here had listened to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town against you to the last man. but you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the talking stage; and then it was too late. swindon (severely). well, sir, we shall teach you and your townspeople a lesson they will not forget. have you anything more to say? richard. i think you might have the decency to treat me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me like a dog. burgoyne (sympathetically). now there, mr. anderson, you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. have you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of his majesty king george the third? if we make you up a firing party, what will happen? half of them will miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. whereas we can hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. (kindly) let me persuade you to be hanged, mr. anderson? judith (sick with horror). my god! richard (to judith). your promise! (to burgoyne) thank you, general: that view of the case did not occur to me before. to oblige you, i withdraw my objection to the rope. hang me, by all means. burgoyne (smoothly). will 12 o'clock suit you, mr. anderson? richard. i shall be at your disposal then, general. burgoyne (rising). nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (they all rise.) judith (rushing to the table). oh, you are not going to murder a man like that, without a proper trial--without thinking of what you are doing--without-(she cannot find words.) richard. is this how you keep your promise? judith. if i am not to speak, you must. defend yourself: save yourself: tell them the truth. richard (worriedly). i have told them truth enough to hang me ten times over. if you say another word you will risk other lives; but you will not save mine. burgoyne. my good lady, our only desire is to save unpleasantness. what satisfaction would it give you to have a solemn fuss made, with my friend swindon in a black cap and so forth? i am sure we are greatly indebted to the admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your husband. judith (throwing the words in his face). oh, you are mad. is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a gentleman? is it nothing to you whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat? (desperately) you shall not hang him: that man is not my husband. the officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has said. burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by judith's reproach, recovers himself promptly at this new development. richard meanwhile raises his voice above the buzz. richard. i appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. she will not believe that she cannot save me. break up the court. burgoyne (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence at once). one moment, mr. anderson. one moment, gentlemen. (he resumes his seat. swindon and the officers follow his example.) let me understand you clearly, madam. do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or merely--i wish to put this with all delicacy--that you are not his wife? judith. i don't know what you mean. i say that he is not my husband--that my husband has escaped. this man took his place to save him. ask anyone in the town--send out into the street for the first person you find there, and bring him in as a witness. he will tell you that the prisoner is not anthony anderson. burgoyne (quietly, as before). sergeant. sergeant. yes sir. burgoyne. go out into the street and bring in the first townsman you see there. sergeant (making for the door). yes sir. burgoyne (as the sergeant passes). the first clean, sober townsman you see. sergeant. yes sir. (he goes out.) burgoyne. sit down, mr. anderson--if i may call you so for the present. (richard sits down.) sit down, madam, whilst we wait. give the lady a newspaper. richard (indignantly). shame! burgoyne (keenly, with a half smile). if you are not her husband, sir, the case is not a serious one--for her. (richard bites his lip silenced.) judith (to richard, as she returns to her seat). i couldn't help it. (he shakes his head. she sits down.) burgoyne. you will understand of course, mr. anderson, that you must not build on this little incident. we are bound to make an example of somebody. richard. i quite understand. i suppose there's no use in my explaining. burgoyne. i think we should prefer independent testimony, if you don't mind. the sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns conducting christy, who is much scared. sergeant (giving burgoyne the packet). dispatches, sir. delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. dead beat with hard riding, sir. burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in them. they are so serious as to take his attention completely from the court martial. sergeant (to christy). now then. attention; and take your hat off. (he posts himself in charge of christy, who stands on burgoyne's side of the court.) richard (in his usual bullying tone to christy). don't be frightened, you fool: you're only wanted as a witness. they're not going to hang you. swindon. what's your name? christy. christy. richard (impatiently). christopher dudgeon, you blatant idiot. give your full name. swindon. be silent, prisoner. you must not prompt the witness. richard. very well. but i warn you you'll get nothing out of him unless you shake it out of him. he has been too well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense or manhood left in him. burgoyne (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling voice). where is the man who brought these? sergeant. in the guard-room, sir. burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging looks. swindon (to christy). do you know anthony anderson, the presbyterian minister? christy. of course i do. (implying that swindon must be an ass not to know it.) swindon. is he here? christy (staring round). i don't know. swindon. do you see him? christy. no. swindon. you seem to know the prisoner? christy. do you mean dick? swindon. which is dick? christy (pointing to richard). him. swindon. what is his name? christy. dick. richard. answer properly, you jumping jackass. what do they know about dick? christy. well, you are dick, ain't you? what am i to say? swindon. address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. tell us who the prisoner is. christy. he's my brother dudgeon. swindon. your brother! christy. yes. swindon. you are sure he is not anderson. christy. who? richard (exasperatedly). me, me, me, you-swindon. silence, sir. sergeant (shouting). silence. richard (impatiently). yah! (to christy) he wants to know am i minister anderson. tell him, and stop grinning like a zany. christy (grinning more than ever). you pastor anderson! (to swindon) why, mr. anderson's a minister---a very good man; and dick's a bad character: the respectable people won't speak to him. he's the bad brother: i'm the good one, (the officers laugh outright. the soldiers grin.) swindon. who arrested this man? sergeant. i did, sir. i found him in the minister's house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at home. if he isn't married to her, he ought to be. swindon. did he answer to the minister's name? sergeant. yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. you ask the chaplain, sir. swindon (to richard, threateningly). so, sir, you have attempted to cheat us. and your name is richard dudgeon? richard. you've found it out at last, have you? swindon. dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? richard. yes: peter dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle. swindon. hm! (he compresses his lips and looks at richard with vindictive gravity.) christy. are they going to hang you, dick? richard. yes. get out: they've done with you. christy. and i may keep the china peacocks? richard (jumping up). get out. get out, you blithering baboon, you. (christy flies, panicstricken.) swindon (rising--all rise). since you have taken the minister's place, richard dudgeon, you shall go through with it. the execution will take place at 12 o'clock as arranged; and unless anderson surrenders before then you shall take his place on the gallows. sergeant: take your man out. judith (distracted). no, no-swindon (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). take that woman away. richard (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and seizing swindon by the throat). you infernal scoundrel. the sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers from the other. they seize richard and drag him back to his place. swindon, who has been thrown supine on the table, rises, arranging his stock. he is about to speak, when he is anticipated by burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a blue dispatch. burgoyne (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). what is this? what's happening? mr. anderson: i'm astonished at you. richard. i am sorry i disturbed you, general. i merely wanted to strangle your understrapper there. (breaking out violently at swindon) why do you raise the devil in me by bullying the woman like that? you oatmeal faced dog, i'd twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. (he puts out his hands to the sergeant) here: handcuff me, will you; or i'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. the sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to burgoyne for instructions. burgoyne. have you addressed profane language to the lady, major swindon? swindon (very angry). no, sir, certainly not. that question should not have been put to me. i ordered the woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. put away those handcuffs. i am perfectly able to take care of myself. richard. now you talk like a man, i have no quarrel with you. burgoyne. mr. anderson-swindon. his name is dudgeon, sir, richard dudgeon. he is an impostor. burgoyne (brusquely). nonsense, sir; you hanged dudgeon at springtown. richard. it was my uncle, general. burgoyne. oh, your uncle. (to swindon, handsomely) i beg your pardon, major swindon. (swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. burgoyne turns to richard) we are somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. well, mr. dudgeon, what i wanted to ask you is this: who is (reading the name from the letter) william maindeck parshotter? richard. he is the mayor of springtown. burgoyne. is william--maindeck and so on--a man of his word? richard. is he selling you anything? burgoyne. no. richard. then you may depend on him. burgoyne. thank you, mr.--'m dudgeon. by the way, since you are not mr. anderson, do we still--eh, major swindon? (meaning "do we still hang him?") richard. the arrangements are unaltered, general. burgoyne. ah, indeed. i am sorry. good morning, mr. dudgeon. good morning, madam. richard (interrupting judith almost fiercely as she is about to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely). not one word more. come. she looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his determination. they are marched out by the four soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky, walking between swindon and richard, whom he watches as if he were a dangerous animal. burgoyne. gentlemen: we need not detain you. major swindon: a word with you. (the officers go out. burgoyne waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears. then he becomes very grave, and addresses swindon for the first time without his title.) swindon: do you know what this is (showing him the letter)? swindon. what? burgoyne. a demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come here and arrange terms with us. swindon. oh, they are giving in. burgoyne. they add that they are sending the man who raised springtown last night and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance. swindon. pooh! burgoyne. he will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of--guess what. swindon. their surrender, i hope. burgoyne. no: our evacuation of the town. they offer us just six hours to clear out. swindon. what monstrous impudence! burgoyne. what shall we do, eh? swindon. march on springtown and strike a decisive blow at once. burgoyne (quietly). hm! (turning to the door) come to the adjutant's office. swindon. what for? burgoyne. to write out that safe-conduct. (he puts his hand to the door knob to open it.) swindon (who has not budged). general burgoyne. burgoyne (returning). sir? swindon. it is my duty to tell you, sir, that i do not consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way. burgoyne (imperturbable). suppose i resign my command to you, what will you do? swindon. i will undertake to do what we have marched south from boston to do, and what general howe has marched north from new york to do: effect a junction at albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces. burgoyne (enigmatically). and will you wipe out our enemies in london, too? swindon. in london! what enemies? burgoyne (forcibly). jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and red tape. (he holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice) i have just learnt, sir, that general howe is still in new york. swindon (thunderstruck). good god! he has disobeyed orders! burgoyne (with sardonic calm). he has received no orders, sir. some gentleman in london forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday, i believe. to avoid upsetting his arrangements, england will lose her american colonies; and in a few days you and i will be at saratoga with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position. swindon (appalled). impossible! burgoyne (coldly). i beg your pardon! swindon. i can't believe it! what will history say? burgoyne. history, sir, will tell lies, as usual. come: we must send the safe-conduct. (he goes out.) swindon (following distractedly). my god, my god! we shall be wiped out. as noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. the gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. its ladder, too, has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. the websterbridge townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread that it is the devil's disciple and not the minister that the continentals (so they call burgoyne's forces) are about to hang: consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place without a struggle. there is even some fear of a disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. but at last reassuring shouts of here they come: here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half british infantry, half hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides. sergeant. halt. front. dress. (the soldiers change their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners.) now then! out of it with you: out of it. some o' you'll get strung up yourselves presently. form that square there, will you, you damned hoosians. no use talkin' german to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they'll understand that. get out of it, will you? (he comes upon judith, standing near the gallows.) now then: you've no call here. judith. may i not stay? what harm am i doing? sergeant. i want none of your argufying. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's not your husband. and he's no better than yourself. i told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed majesty a lunatic. so out of it with you, double quick. judith. will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay? the sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket. then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation. sergeant. me take money in the execution of my duty! certainly not. now i'll tell you what i'll do, to teach you to corrupt the king's officer. i'll put you under arrest until the execution's over. you just stand there; and don't let me see you as much as move from that spot until you're let. (with a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting) now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you? cries of hush and silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound of a military band, playing the dead march from saul, is heard. the crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of soldiers. first come burgoyne and swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side. then mr. brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book open in his hand, walking beside richard, who is moody and disorderly. he walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a little in front of it. behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. following him, two soldiers haul a light military waggon. finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and finishes the dead march. judith, watching richard painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its right post. during the conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point backwards. the executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. then he climbs the tall ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he descends. richard (with suppressed impatience, to brudenell). look here, sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. hadn't you better go away? swindon. i appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. the chaplain (gently reproving richard). try to control yourself, and submit to the divine will. (he lifts his book to proceed with the service.) richard. answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices here (indicating burgoyne and swindon): i see little divinity about them or you. you talk to me of christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies. was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (to swindon, more rudely) you've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity--handel's music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! do you suppose i am going to help you? you've asked me to choose the rope because you don't know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. well, hang away and have done with it. swindon (to the chaplain). can you do nothing with him, mr. brudenell? chaplain. i will try, sir. (beginning to read) man that is born of woman hath-richard (fixing his eyes on him). "thou shalt not kill." the book drops in brudenell's hands. chaplain (confessing his embarrassment). what am i to say, mr. dudgeon? richard. let me alone, man, can't you? burgoyne (with extreme urbanity). i think, mr. brudenell, that as the usual professional observations seem to strike mr. dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you had better omit them until--er--until mr. dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them. (brudenell, with a shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows.) you seem in a hurry, mr. dudgeon. richard (with the horror of death upon him). do you think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? you've made up your mind to commit murder: well, do it and have done with it. burgoyne. mr. dudgeon: we are only doing this-richard. because you're paid to do it. swindon. you insolent-(he swallows his rage.) burgoyne (with much charm of manner). ah, i am really sorry that you should think that, mr. dudgeon. if you knew what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, you would think better of me. i should be glad to part from you on friendly terms. richard. hark ye, general burgoyne. if you think that i like being hanged, you're mistaken. i don't like it; and i don't mean to pretend that i do. and if you think i'm obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong there too. i take the whole business in devilish bad part; and the only satisfaction i have in it is that you'll feel a good deal meaner than i'll look when it's over. (he turns away, and is striding to the cart when judith advances and interposes with her arms stretched out to him. richard, feeling that a very little will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) what are you doing here? this is no place for you. (she makes a gesture as if to touch him. he recoils impatiently.) no: go away, go away; you'll unnerve me. take her away, will you? judith. won't you bid me good-bye? richard (allowing her to take his hand). oh good-bye, good-bye. now go--go--quickly. (she clings to his hand--will not be put off with so cold a last farewell--at last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws herself on his breast in agony.) swindon (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at judith's movement, has come from the back of the square to pull her back, and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too late). how is this? why is she inside the lines? sergeant (guiltily). i dunno, sir. she's that artful can't keep her away. burgoyne. you were bribed. sergeant (protesting). no, sir-swindon (severely). fall back. (he obeys.) richard (imploringly to those around him, and finally to burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). take her away. do you think i want a woman near me now? burgoyne (going to judith and taking her hand). here, madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and don't look. richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him and turns to burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into it. the executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. judith (resisting burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away). no: i must stay. i won't look. (she goes to the right of the gallows. she tries to look at richard, but turns away with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer. brudenell comes towards her from the back of the square.) burgoyne (nodding approvingly as she kneels). ah, quite so. do not disturb her, mr. brudenell: that will do very nicely. (brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching her sympathetically. burgoyne resumes his former position, and takes out a handsome gold chronometer.) now then, are those preparations made? we must not detain mr. dudgeon. by this time richard's hands are bound behind him; and the noose is round his neck. the two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, ready to pull it away. the executioner, standing in the cart behind richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. sergeant (to burgoyne). ready, sir. burgoyne. have you anything more to say, mr. dudgeon? it wants two minutes of twelve still. richard (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the bitterness of death). your watch is two minutes slow by the town clock, which i can see from here, general. (the town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. involuntarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from them.) amen! my life for the world's future! anderson (shouting as he rushes into the market place). amen; and stop the execution. (he bursts through the line of soldiers opposite burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) i am anthony anderson, the man you want. the crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. judith, half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose dearest prayer has been granted. swindon. indeed. then you are just in time to take your place on the gallows. arrest him. at a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize anderson. anderson (thrusting a paper under swindon's nose). there's my safe-conduct, sir. swindon (taken aback). safe-conduct! are you--! anderson (emphatically). i am. (the two soldiers take him by the elbows.) tell these men to take their hands off me. swindon (to the men). let him go. sergeant. fall back. the two men return to their places. the townsfolk raise a cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as they see their pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate. anderson (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). thank god, i was in time! burgoyne (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). ample time, sir. plenty of time. i should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an american clock. (he puts up his watch.) anderson. yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, general. now tell them to take the rope from the neck of that american citizen. burgoyne (to the executioner in the cart--very politely). kindly undo mr. dudgeon. the executioner takes the rope from richard's neck, unties his hands, and helps him on with his coat. judith (stealing timidly to anderson). tony. anderson (putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her affectionately). well what do you think of your husband, now, eh?--eh??--eh??? judith. i am ashamed-(she hides her face against his breast.) burgoyne (to swindon). you look disappointed, major swindon. swindon. you look defeated, general burgoyne. burgoyne. i am, sir; and i am humane enough to be glad of it. (richard jumps down from the cart, brudenell offering his hand to help him, and runs to anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being occupied by judith.) by the way, mr. anderson, i do not quite understand. the safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. i understand you are a-(he looks as pointedly as his good manners permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and richard's coat, and adds) a clergyman. anderson (between judith and richard). sir: it is in the hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. this foolish young man (placing his hand on richard's shoulder) boasted himself the devil's disciple; but when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be faithful to the death. i thought myself a decent minister of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, i found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. so i am starting life at fifty as captain anthony anderson of the springtown militia; and the devil's disciple here will start presently as the reverend richard dudgeon, and wag his paw in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine (putting his other hand on her shoulder. she steals a glance at richard to see how the prospect pleases him). your mother told me, richard, that i should never have chosen judith if i'd been born for the ministry. i am afraid she was right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and i'll keep yours. richard. minister--i should say captain. i have behaved like a fool. judith. like a hero. richard. much the same thing, perhaps. (with some bitterness towards himself) but no: if i had been any good, i should have done for you what you did for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice. anderson. not vain, my boy. it takes all sorts to make a world--saints as well as soldiers. (turning to burgoyne) and now, general, time presses; and america is in a hurry. have you realized that though you may occupy towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation? burgoyne. my good sir, without a conquest you cannot have an aristocracy. come and settle the matter at my quarters. anderson. at your service, sir. (to richard) see judith home for me, will you, my boy? (he hands her over to him.) now general. (he goes busily up the market place towards the town hall, leaving judith and richard together. burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and turns to richard.) burgoyne. oh, by the way, mr. dudgeon, i shall be glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. (he pauses a moment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness) bring mrs. anderson, if she will be so good. (to swindon, who is fuming) take it quietly, major swindon: your friend the british soldier can stand up to anything except the british war office. (he follows anderson.) sergeant (to swindon). what orders, sir? swindon (savagely). orders! what use are orders now? there's no army. back to quarters; and be d-(he turns on his heel and goes.) sergeant (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat). 'tention. now then: cock up your chins, and show 'em you don't care a damn for 'em. slope arms! fours! wheel! quick march! the drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up british grenadiers; and the sergeant, brudenell, and the english troops march off defiantly to their quarters. the townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing yankee doodle. essie, who comes in with them, runs to richard. essie. oh, dick! richard (good-humoredly, but wilfully). now, now: come, come! i don't mind being hanged; but i will not be cried over. essie. no, i promise. i'll be good. (she tries to restrain her tears, but cannot.) i--i want to see where the soldiers are going to. (she goes a little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd.) judith. promise me you will never tell him. richard. don't be afraid. they shake hands on it. essie (calling to them). they're coming back. they want you. jubilation in the market. the townsfolk surge back again in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist richard on their shoulders, cheering him. curtain. notes to the devil's disciple burgoyne general john burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time (as far as i am aware) on the english stage, is not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. his objection to profane swearing is not borrowed from mr. gilbert's h. m. s. pinafore: it is taken from the code of instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he introduced light horse into the english army. his opinion that english soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that discredited sport. his military reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that of family influence. as a parliamentary candidate, burgoyne took our common expression "fighting an election" so very literally that he led his supporters to the poll at preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and denounced by junius, for the pistols. it is only within quite recent years that any general recognition has become possible for the feeling that led burgoyne, a professed enemy of oppression in india and elsewhere, to accept his american command when so many other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve in a civil war against the colonies. his biographer de fonblanque, writing in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. nowadays, it is sufficient to say that burgoyne was an imperialist. he sympathized with the colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disruption of the empire, he regarded that as a step backward in civilization. as he put it to the house of commons, "while we remember that we are contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the british empire." eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican conquerors themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their union. in 1885 the whigs who represented the anti-burgoyne tradition of american independence in english politics, abandoned gladstone and made common cause with their political opponents in defence of the union between england and ireland. only the other day england sent 200,000 men into the field south of the equator to fight out the question whether south africa should develop as a federation of british colonies or as an independent afrikander united states. in all these cases the unionists who were detached from their parties were called renegades, as burgoyne was. that, of course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of the fact that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics, accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. whether burgoyne or washington, lincoln or davis, gladstone or bright, mr. chamberlain or mr. leonard courtney was in the right will never be settled, because it will never be possible to prove that the government of the victor has been better for mankind than the government of the vanquished would have been. it is true that the victors have no doubt on the point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only part of the human comedy. the american unionist is often a separatist as to ireland; the english unionist often sympathizes with the polish home ruler; and both english and american unionists are apt to be disruptionists as regards that imperial ancient of days, the empire of china. both are unionists concerning canada, but with a difference as to the precise application to it of the monroe doctrine. as for me, the dramatist, i smile, and lead the conversation back to burgoyne. burgoyne's surrender at saratoga made him that occasionally necessary part of our british system, a scapegoat. the explanation of his defeat given in the play is founded on a passage quoted by de fonblanque from fitzmaurice's life of lord shelburne, as follows: "lord george germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way to the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to howe had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his projected visit to kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten on his return home." these were the dispatches instructing sir william howe, who was in new york, to effect a junction at albany with burgoyne, who had marched from boston for that purpose. burgoyne got as far as saratoga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, boer fashion, by the american farmer-sharpshooters. his own collar was pierced by a bullet. the publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated at home by the fact that lord george's trip to kent had not been interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the dispatch. the policy of the english government and court for the next two years was simply concealment of germain's neglect. burgoyne's demand for an inquiry was defeated in the house of commons by the court party; and when he at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it by a prorogation. when burgoyne realized what had happened about the instructions to howe (the scene in which i have represented him as learning it before saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn on him until many months afterwards) the king actually took advantage of his being a prisoner of war in england on parole, and ordered him to return to america into captivity. burgoyne immediately resigned all his appointments; and this practically closed his military career, though he was afterwards made commander of the forces in ireland for the purpose of banishing him from parliament. the episode illustrates the curious perversion of the english sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the aristocracy are at stake. mr. frank harris said, after the disastrous battle of modder river, that the english, having lost america a century ago because they preferred george iii, were quite prepared to lose south africa to-day because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones. horace walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a critical period of the war of independence, said that the lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant shooting for the sake of america. in the working class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out of his job." at bottom, of course, this apparently shameless sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones, is simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things he can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his capacity. it is stupidity, not dishonesty. burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. not only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid people because of their dread of ironic criticism. long after his death, thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in his defeat. that sneer represents the common english attitude towards the burgoyne type. every instance in which the critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all right," is popular in england. but burgoyne's failure was not the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid temperament. what man could do under the circumstances he did, and did handsomely and loftily. he fell, and his ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but because sir george germain overestimated the importance of his kentish holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those remote and inferior creatures, the colonists. and king george and the rest of the nation agreed, on the whole, with germain. it is a significant point that in america, where burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he was admired and praised. the climate there is no doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity. i have described burgoyne's temperament as rather histrionic; and the reader will have observed that the burgoyne of the devil's disciple is a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high comedian. if he had been killed at saratoga, with all his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning as you like it into a beggar's opera unconceived, i should still have painted the same picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by his american conqueror general gates. here they are: proposition. 1. general burgoyne's army being reduced by repeated defeats, by desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their military horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their retreat cut off, and their camp invested, they can only be allowed to surrender as prisoners of war. answer. 1. lieut.-general burgoyne's army, however reduced, will never admit that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in their hands. proposition. 2. the officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to them. the generals of the united states never permit individuals to be pillaged. answer. 2. noted. proposition. 3. the troops under his excellency general burgoyne will be conducted by the most convenient route to new england, marching by easy marches, and sufficiently provided for by the way. answer. 3. agreed. proposition. 4. the officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated with the liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, by proper behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are apprehended having broke their parole, as some british officers have done, must expect to be close confined. answer. 4. there being no officer in this army, under, or capable of being under, the description of breaking parole, this article needs no answer. proposition. 5. all public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, horses, etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed to receive them. answer. 5. all public stores may be delivered, arms excepted. proposition. 6. these terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his excellency's, general burgoyne's command, may be drawn up in their encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their arms, and may thereupon be marched to the river-side on their way to bennington. answer. 6. this article is inadmissible in any extremity. sooner than this army will consent to ground their arms in their encampments, they will rush on the enemy determined to take no quarter. and, later on, "if general gates does not mean to recede from the 6th article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit to that article." here you have the man at his burgoynest. need i add that he had his own way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, he would have played poor general gates off the stage, had not that commander risen to the occasion by handing him back his sword. in connection with the reference to indians with scalping knives, who, with the troops hired from germany, made up about half burgoyne's force, i may mention that burgoyne offered two of them a reward to guide a miss mccrea, betrothed to one of the english officers, into the english lines. the two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the other, tomahawked the young lady. the usual retaliations were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the canadian frontier, burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense disgust of indignant christendom. brudenell brudenell is also a real person. at least an artillery chaplain of that name distinguished himself at saratoga by reading the burial service over major fraser under fire, and by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by burgoyne, with lady harriet ackland. lady harriet's husband achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his adversary, in a duel. he overbalanced himself in the heat of his swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. lady harriet then married the warrior chaplain, who, like anthony anderson in the play, seems to have mistaken his natural profession. the rest of the devil's disciple may have actually occurred, like most stories invented by dramatists; but i cannot produce any documents. major swindon's name is invented; but the man, of course, is real. there are dozens of him extant to this day. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net st. paul & protestantism "we often read the scripture without comprehending its full meaning; however, let us not be discouraged. the light, in god's good time, will break out, and disperse the darkness; and we shall see the mysteries of the gospel." bishop wilson. "with them (the puritans) nothing is more familiar than to plead in their causes _the law of god, the word of the lord_; who notwithstanding, when they come to allege what word and what law they mean, their common ordinary practice is to quote by-speeches, and to urge them as if they were written in most exact form of law. what is to add to the law of god if this be not?" hooker. "it will be found at last, that unity, and the peace of the church, will conduce more to the saving of souls, than the most specious sects, varnished with the most pious, specious pretences." bishop wilson. * * * * * st. paul and protestantism _with an essay on puritanism and the church of england_ by matthew arnold formerly professor of poetry in the university of oxford and fellow of oriel college _third edition_ london smith, elder, & co., 15 waterloo place 1875 (_the right of translation is reserved_) * * * * * preface. (1870.) the essay following the treatise on st. paul and protestantism, was meant to clear away offence or misunderstanding which had arisen out of that treatise. there still remain one or two points on which a word of explanation may be useful, and to them this preface is addressed. the general objection, that the scheme of doctrine criticised by me is common to both puritanism and the church of england, and does not characterise the one more essentially than the other, has been removed, i hope, by the concluding essay. but it is said that there is, at any rate, a large party in the church of england,--the so-called _evangelical_ party,--which holds just the scheme of doctrine i have called puritan; that this large party, at least, if not the whole church of england, is as much a stronghold of the distinctive puritan tenets as the nonconformists are; and that to tax the nonconformists with these tenets, and to say nothing about the evangelical clergy holding them too, is injurious and unfair. the evangelical party in the church of england we must always, certainly, have a disposition to treat with forbearance, inasmuch as this party has so strongly loved what is indeed the most loveable of things,--religion. they have also avoided that unblessed mixture of politics and religion by which both politics and religion are spoilt. this, however, would not alone have prevented our making them jointly answerable with the puritans for that body of opinions which calls itself scriptural protestantism, but which is, in truth, a perversion of st. paul's epistle to the romans. but there is this difference between the evangelical party in the church of england and the puritans outside her;--the evangelicals have not added to the first error of holding this unsound body of opinions, the second error of separating for them. they have thus, as we have already noticed, escaped the mixing of politics and religion, which arises directly and naturally out of this separating for opinions. but they have also done that which we most blame nonconformity for not doing;--they have left themselves in the way of development. practically they have admitted that the christian church is built, not on the foundation of lutheran and calvinist dogmas, but on the foundation: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity._[1] mr. ryle or the dean of ripon may have as erroneous notions as to what _truth_ and _the gospel_ really is, as mr. spurgeon or the president of the wesleyan conference; but they do not tie themselves tighter still to these erroneous notions, nor do their best to cut themselves off from outgrowing them, by resolving _to have no fellowship with the man of sin_ who holds different notions. on the contrary, they are worshippers in the same church, professors of the same faith, ministers of the same confraternity, as men who hold that their _scriptural protestantism_ is all wrong, and who hold other notions of their own quite at variance with it. and thus they do homage to an ideal of christianity which is larger, higher, and better than either their notions or those of their opponents, and in respect of which both their notions and those of their opponents are inadequate; and this admission of the relative inadequacy of their notions is itself a stage towards the future admission of their positive inadequacy. [footnote 1: ii _timothy_, ii, 19.] in fact, the popular protestant theology, which we have criticised as such a grave perversion of the teaching of st. paul, has not in the so-called evangelical party of the church of england its chief centre and stronghold. this party, which, following in the wake of wesley and others, so felt in a day of general insensibility the power and comfort of the christian religion, and which did so much to make others feel them, but which also adopted and promulgated a scientific account so inadequate and so misleading of the religion which attracted it,--this great party has done its work, and is now undergoing that law of transformation and development which obtains in a national church. the power is passing from it to others, who will make good some of the aspects of religion which the evangelicals neglected, and who will then, in their turn, from the same cause of the scientific inadequacy of their conception of christianity, change and pass away. the evangelical clergy no longer recruits itself with success, no longer lays hold on such promising subjects as formerly. it is losing the future and feels that it is losing it. its signs of a vigorous life, its gaiety and audacity, are confined to its older members, too powerful to lose their own vigour, but without successors to whom to transmit it. it was impossible not to admire the genuine and rich though somewhat brutal humour of the dean of ripon's famous similitude of the two lepers.[2] but from which of the younger members of the evangelical clergy do such strokes now come? the best of their own younger generation, the soldiers of their own training, are slipping away from them; and he who looks for the source whence popular puritan theology now derives power and perpetuation, will not fix his eyes on the evangelical clergy of the church of england. [footnote 2: in a letter to the _times_ respecting dr. pusey and dr. temple, during the discussion caused by dr. temple's appointment to the see of exeter. dr. temple was the total leper, so evidently a leper that all men would instinctively avoid him, and he ceased to be dangerous; dr. pusey was the partial leper, less deeply tainted, but on that very account more dangerous, because less likely to terrify people from coming near him. a piece of polemical humour, racy, indeed, but hardly urbane, and still less christian!] another point where a word of explanation seems desirable is the objection taken on a kind of personal ground to the criticism of st. paul's doctrine which we have attempted. 'what!' it is said, 'if this view of st. paul's meaning, so unlike the received view, were the true one, do you suppose it would have been left for you to discover it? are you wiser than the hundreds of learned people who for generation after generation have been occupying themselves with st. paul and little else? has it been left for you to bring in a new religion and found a new church?' now on this line of expostulation, which, so far as it draws from unworthiness of ours its argument, appears to have, no doubt, great force, there are three remarks to be offered. in the first place, even if the version of st. paul which we propound were both new and true, yet we do not, on that account, make of it a new religion or set up a new church for its sake. that would be _separating for opinions_, heresy, which is just what we reproach the nonconformists with. in the seventh century, there arose near the euphrates a sect called paulicians, who professed to form themselves on the pure doctrine of st. paul, which other christians, they said, had misunderstood and corrupted. and we, i suppose, having discovered how popular protestantism perverts st. paul, are expected to try and make a new sect of paulicians on the strength of this discovery; such being just the course which our puritan friends would themselves eagerly take in like case. but the christian church is founded, not on a correct speculative knowledge of the ideas of paul, but on the much surer ground: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_; and, holding this to be so, we might change the current strain of doctrinal theology from one end to the other, without, on that account, setting up any new church or bringing in any new religion. in the second place, the version we propound of st. paul's line of thought is not new, is not of our discovering. it belongs to the 'zeit-geist,' or _time-spirit_, it is in the air, and many have long been anticipating it, preparing it, setting forth this and that part of it, till there is not a part, probably, of all we have said, which has not already been said by others before us, and said more learnedly and fully than we can say it. all we have done is to take it as a whole, and give a plain, popular, connected exposition of it; for which, perhaps, our notions about culture, about the many sides to the human spirit, about making these sides help one another instead of remaining enemies and strangers, have been of some advantage. for most of those who read st. paul diligently are hebraisers; they regard little except the hebraising impulse in us and the documents which concern it. they have little notion of letting their consciousness play on things freely, little ear for the voice of the 'zeit-geist;' and they are so immersed in an order of thoughts and words which are peculiar, that, in the broad general order of thoughts and words, which is the life of popular exposition, they are not very much at home. thirdly, and in the last place, we by no means put forth our version of st. paul's line of thought as true, in the same fashion as puritanism put forth its _scriptural_ _protestantism_, or _gospel_, as true. their truth the puritans exhibit as a sort of cast-iron product, rigid, definite, and complete, which they have got once for all, and which can no longer have anything added to it or anything withdrawn from it. but of our rendering of st. paul's thought we conceive rather as of a product of nature, which has grown to be what it is and which will grow more; which will not stand just as we now exhibit it, but which will gain some aspects which we now fail to show in it, and will drop some which we now give it; which will be developed, in short, farther, just in like manner as it has reached its present stage by development. thus we present our conceptions, neither as something quite new nor as something quite true; nor yet as any ground, even supposing they were quite new and true, for a separate church or religion. but so far they are, we think, new and true, and a fruit of sound development, a genuine product of the 'zeit-geist,' that their mere contact seems to make the old puritan conceptions look unlikely and indefensible, and begin a sort of re-modelling and refacing of themselves. let us just see how far this change has practically gone. the formal and scholastic version of its theology, calvinist or arminian, as given by its seventeenth-century fathers, and enshrined in the trust-deeds of so many of its chapels,--of this, at any rate, modern puritanism is beginning to feel shy. take the calvinist doctrine of election. 'by god's decree a certain number of angels and men are predestinated, out of god's mere free grace and love, without any foresight of faith or good works in them, to everlasting life; and others foreordained, according to the unsearchable counsel of his will, whereby he extends or withholds mercy as he pleases, to everlasting death.' in that scientific form, at least, the doctrine of election begins to look dubious to the calvinistic puritan, and he puts it a good deal out of sight. take the arminian doctrine of justification. 'we could not expect any relief from heaven out of that misery under which we lie, were not god's displeasure against us first pacified and our sins remitted. this is the signal and transcendent benefit of our free justification through the blood of christ, that god's offence justly conceived against us for our sins (which would have been an eternal bar and restraint to the efflux of his grace upon us) being removed, the divine grace and bounty may freely flow forth upon us.' in that scientific form, the doctrine of justification begins to look less satisfactory to the arminian puritan, and he tends to put it out of sight. the same may be said of the doctrine of election in its plain popular form of statement also. 'i hold,' says whitefield, in the forcible style which so took his hearers' fancy,--'i hold that a certain number are elected from eternity, and these must and shall be saved, and the rest of mankind must and shall be damned.' a calvinistic puritan now-a-days must be either a fervid welsh dissenter, or a strenuous particular baptist in some remote place in the country, not to be a little staggered at this sort of expression. as to the doctrine of justification in its current, popular form of statement, the case is somewhat different. 'my own works,' says wesley, 'my own sufferings, my own righteousness, are so far from reconciling me to an offended god, so far from making any atonement for the least of those sins which are more in number than the hairs of my head, that the most specious of them need an atonement themselves; that, having the sentence of death in my heart and nothing in or of myself to plead, i have no hope but that of being justified freely through the redemption that is in jesus. the faith i want is a sure trust and confidence in god, that through the merits of christ my sins are forgiven and i reconciled to the favour of god. believe and thou shalt be saved! he that believeth is passed from death to life. faith is the free gift of god, which he bestows not on those who are worthy of his favour, not on such as are previously holy and so fit to be crowned with all the blessings of his goodness, but on the ungodly and unholy, who till that hour were fit only for everlasting damnation. look for sanctification just as you are, as a poor sinner that has nothing to pay, nothing to plead but _christ died_.' deliverances of this sort, which in wesley are frequent and in wesley's followers are unceasing, still, no doubt, pass current everywhere with puritanism, are expected as of course, and find favour; they are just what puritans commonly mean by _scriptural protestantism, the truth, the gospel-feast_. nevertheless they no longer quite satisfy; the better minds among puritans try instinctively to give some fresh turn or development to them; they are no longer, to minds of this order, an unquestionable word and a sure stay; and from this point to their final transformation the course is certain. the predestinarian and solifidian dogmas, for the very sake of which our puritan churches came into existence, begin to feel the irresistible breath of the 'zeit-geist;' some of them melt quicker, others slower, but all of them are doomed. under the eyes of this generation puritan dissent has to execute an entire change of front, and to present us with a new reason for its existing. what will that new reason be? there needs no conjuror to tell us. it will be the rev. mr. conder's reason, which we have quoted in our concluding essay. it will be scriptural protestantism in _church-order_, rather than scriptural protestantism in _church-doctrine_. 'congregational nonconformists can never be incorporated into an organic union with anglican episcopacy, because there is not even the shadow of an outline of it in the new testament, and it is our assertion and profound belief that christ and the apostles have given us all the laws that are necessary for the constitution and government of the church.' this makes church-government not a secondary matter of form, growth, and expediency, but a matter of the essence of christianity and ordained in scripture. expressly set forth in scripture it is not; so it has to be gathered from scripture by collection, and every one gathers it in his own way. unity is of no great importance; but that every man should live in a church-order which he judges to be scriptural, is of the greatest importance. this brings us to mr. miall's standard-maxim: _the dissidence of dissent, and the protestantism of the protestant religion_! the more freely the sects develop themselves, the better. the church of england herself is but _the dominant sect_; her pretensions to bring back the dissenters within her pale are offensive and ridiculous. what we ought to aim at is perfect equality, and that the other sects should balance her. on the old, old subject of the want of historic and philosophic sense shown by those who would make church-government a matter of scriptural regulation, i say nothing at present. a wesleyan minister, the rev. mr. willey, said the other day at leeds: 'he did not find anything in either the old or new testament to the effect that christian ministers should become state-servants, like soldiers or excisemen.' he might as well have added that he did not find there anything to the effect that they should wear braces! but on this point i am not here going to enlarge. what i am now concerned with is the relation of this new ground of existence, which more and more the puritan churches take and will take as they lose their old ground, to the christian religion. in the speech which mr. winterbotham[3] made on the education bill, a speech which i had the advantage of hearing, there were uncommon facilities supplied for judging of this relation; indeed that able speech presented a striking picture of it. [footnote 3: mr. winterbotham has since died. nothing in my remarks on his speech need prevent me from expressing here my high esteem for his character, accomplishments, oratorical faculty and general promise, and my sincere regret for his loss.] and what a picture it was, good heavens! the puritans say they love righteousness, and they are offended with us for rejoining that the righteousness of which they boast is the righteousness of the earlier jews of the old testament, which consisted mainly in smiting the lord's enemies and their own under the fifth rib. and we say that the newer and specially christian sort of righteousness is something different from this; that the puritans are, and always have been, deficient in the specially christian sort of righteousness; that men like st. francis of sales, in the roman catholic church, and bishop wilson, in the church of england, show far more of it than any puritans; and that st. paul's signal and eternally fruitful growth in righteousness dates just from his breach with the puritans of his day. let us revert to paul's list of fruits of the spirit, on which we have so often insisted in the pages which follow: _love_, _joy_, _peace_, _long-suffering_, _kindness_, _goodness_, _faith_, _mildness_, _self-control_.[4] we keep to this particular list for the sake of greater distinctness; but st. paul has perpetually lists of the kind, all pointing the same way, and all showing what he meant by christian righteousness, what he found specially in christ. they may all be concluded in two qualities, the qualities which jesus christ told his disciples to learn of him, the qualities in the name of which, as specially christ's qualities, paul adjured his converts. 'learn of me,' said jesus, '_that i am mild and lowly in heart_.' 'i beseech you,' said paul, '_by the mildness and gentleness of christ_.'[5] the word which our bibles translate by 'gentleness' means more properly 'reasonableness with sweetness,' 'sweet reasonableness.' 'i beseech you by _the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ_.' this mildness and sweet reasonableness it was, which, stamped with the individual charm they had in jesus christ, came to the world as something new, won its heart and conquered it. every one had been asserting his ordinary self and was miserable; to forbear to assert one's ordinary self, to place one's happiness in mildness and sweet reasonableness, was a revelation. as men followed this novel route to happiness, a living spring opened beside their way, the spring of charity; and out of this spring arose those two heavenly visitants, charis and irene, _grace_ and _peace_, which enraptured the poor wayfarer, and filled him with a joy which brought all the world after him. and still, whenever these visitants appear, as appear for a witness to the vitality of christianity they daily do, it is from the same spring that they arise; and this spring is opened solely by the mildness and sweet reasonableness which forbears to assert our ordinary self, nay, which even takes pleasure in effacing it. [footnote 4: _gal._, v, 22, 23.] [footnote 5: +dia tãªs praã¼tãªtos kai epieikeias tou christou.+ ii _cor._, x, 1.] and now let us turn to mr. winterbotham and the protestant dissenters. he interprets their very inner mind, he says; that which he declares in their name, they are all feeling, and would declare for themselves if they could. '_there was a spirit of watchful jealousy on the part of the dissenters, which made them prone to take offence; therefore statesmen should not introduce the established church into all the institutions of the country._' that is positively the whole speech! 'strife, jealousy, wrath, contentions, backbitings,'[6]--we know the catalogue. and the dissenters are, by their own confession, so full of these, and the very existence of an organisation of dissent so makes them a necessity, that the state is required to frame its legislation in consideration of them! was there ever such a confession made? here are people existing for the sake of a religion of which the essence is mildness and sweet reasonableness, and the forbearing to assert our ordinary self; and they declare themselves so full of the very temper and habits against which that religion is specially levelled, that they require to have even the occasion of forbearing to assert their ordinary self removed out of their way, because they are quite sure they will never comply with it! [footnote 6: ii _cor._, xii, 20.] never was there a more instructive comment on the blessings of separation, which we are so often invited by separatists to admire. why does not dissent forbear to assert its ordinary self, and help to win the world to the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ, without this vain contest about machinery? why does not the church? is the dissenter's answer. what an answer for a christian! we are to defer giving up our ordinary self until our neighbour shall have given up his; that is, we are never to give it up at all. but i will answer the question on more mundane grounds. why are we to be more blamed than the church for the strife arising out of our rival existences? asks the dissenter. because the church cannot help existing, and you can! therefore, _contra ecclesiam nemo pacificus_, as baxter himself said in his better moments. because the church is there; because strife, jealousy, and self-assertion are sure to come with breaking off from her; and because strife, jealousy, and self-assertion are the very miseries against which christianity is firstly levelled;--therefore we say that a christian is inexcusable in breaking with the church, except for a departure from the primal ground of her foundation: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_. the clergyman,--poor soul!--cannot help being the parson of the parish. he is there like the magistrate; he is a national officer with an appointed function. if one or two voluntary performers, dissatisfied with the magisterial system, were to set themselves up in each parish of the country, called themselves magistrates, drew a certain number of people to their own way of thinking, tried differences and gave sentences among their people in the best fashion they could, why, probably the established magistrate would not much like it, the leading people in the parish would not much like it, and the newcomers would have mortifications and social estrangements to endure. probably the established magistrate would call them interlopers; probably he would count them amongst his difficulties. on the side of the newcomers 'a spirit of watchful jealousy,' as mr. winterbotham says, would thus be created. the public interest would suffer from the ill blood and confusion prevailing. the established magistrate might naturally say that the newcomers brought the strife and disturbance with them. but who would not smile at these lambs answering: 'away with that wolf the established magistrate, and all ground for jealousy and quarrel between us will disappear!' and it is a grievance that the clergyman talks of dissent as one of the spiritual hindrances in his parish, and desires to get rid of it! why, by mr. winterbotham's own showing, the dissenters live 'in a spirit of watchful jealousy,' and this temper is as much a spiritual hindrance,--nay, in the view of christianity it is even a more direct spiritual hindrance,--than drunkenness or loose living. christianity is, first and above all, a temper, a disposition; and a disposition just the opposite to 'a spirit of watchful jealousy.' once admit a spirit of watchful jealousy, and christianity has lost its virtue; it is impotent. all the other vices it was meant to keep out may rush in. where there is jealousy and strife among you, asks st. paul, _are ye not carnal_?[7] are ye not still in bondage to your mere lower selves? but from this bondage christianity was meant to free us; therefore, says he, get rid of what causes divisions, and strife, and 'a spirit of watchful jealousy.' 'i exhort you by the name of our lord jesus christ that ye all speak the same thing, and that there be not divisions among you, but that ye all be perfectly joined in the same mind and the same judgment.'[8] [footnote 7: i _cor._, iii, 3.] [footnote 8: i _cor._, i, 10.] well, but why, says the dissenting minister, is the clergyman to impress st. paul's words upon me rather than i upon the clergyman? because the clergyman is the one minister of christ in the parish who did not invent himself, who cannot help existing. he is not asserting his ordinary self by being there; he is placed there on public duty. he is charged with teaching the lesson of christianity, and the head and front of this lesson is to get rid of 'a spirit of watchful jealousy,' which, according to the dissenter's own showing, is the very spirit which accompanies dissent. how he is to get rid of it, how he is to win souls to the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ, it is for his own conscience to tell him. probably he will best do it by never speaking against dissent at all, by treating dissenters with perfect cordiality and as if there was not a point of dispute between them. but that, so long as he exists, it is his duty to get rid of it, to win souls to the unity which is its opposite, is clear. it is not the bishop of winchester[9] who classes dissent, full of 'a spirit of watchful jealousy,' along with spiritual hindrances like beer-shops,--a pollution of the spirit along with pollutions of the flesh;[10] it is st. paul. it is not the clergyman who is chargeable with wishing to 'stamp out' this spirit; it is the christian religion. [footnote 9: the late bishop wilberforce.] [footnote 10: i _cor._, vii, 1.] but what is to prevent the dissenting minister from being joined with the clergyman in the same public function, and being his partner instead of his rival? episcopal ordination.[11] if i leave the service of a private company, and enter the public service, i receive admission at the hands of the public officer designated to give it me. sentiment and the historic sense, to say nothing of the religious feeling, will certainly put more into ordination than this, though not precisely what the bishop of winchester, perhaps, puts; this which we have laid down, however, is really all which the law of the land puts there. a bishop is a public officer. why should i trouble myself about the name his office bears? the name of his office cannot affect the service or my labour in it. ah, but, says mr. winterbotham, he holds opinions which i do not share about the sort of character he confers upon me! what can that matter, unless he compels you, too, to profess the same opinions, or refuses you admission if you do not? but i should be joined in the ministry with men who hold opinions which i do not share! what does that matter either, unless they compel you also to hold these opinions, as the price of your being allowed to work on the foundation: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_? to recur to our old parallel. it is as if a man who desired the office of a public magistrate and who was fitted for it, were to hold off because he had to receive institution from a lord-lieutenant, and he did not like the title of lord-lieutenant; or because the lord-lieutenant who was to institute him had a fancy about some occult quality which he conferred on him at institution; or because he would find himself, when he was instituted, one of a body of magistrates of whom many had notions which he thought irrational. the office itself, and his own power to fill it usefully, is all which really matters to him. [footnote 11: it has been inferred from what is here said that we propose to make re-ordination a condition of admitting dissenting ministers to the ministry of the church of england. elsewhere i have said how undesirable it seems to impose this condition; and to what respectful treatment and fair and equal terms, in case of reunion, protestant nonconformity is, in my opinion, entitled. see the preface to _culture and anarchy_. what is said in the text is directed simply against the objection to episcopal ordination as something wrong in itself and a ground for schism.] the bishop of winchester believes in apostolical succession;--therefore there must be dissenters. mr. liddon asserts the real presence;--therefore there must be dissenters. mr. mackonochie is a ritualist;--therefore there must be dissenters. but the bishop of winchester cannot, and does not, exclude from the ministry of the church of england those who do not believe in apostolical succession; and surely not even that acute and accomplished personage is such a magician, that he can make a puritan believe in apostolical succession merely by believing in it himself! in the same way, eloquent as is mr. liddon, and devoted as is mr. mackonochie, their gifts cannot yield them the art of so swaying a brother clergyman's spirit as to make him admit the real presence against his conviction, or practise ritualism against his will; and official, material control over him, or power of stipulating what he shall admit or practise, they have absolutely none. but can anything more tend to make the church what the puritans reproach it with being,--a mere lump of sacerdotalism and ritualism,--than if the puritans, who are free to come into it with their disregard of sacerdotalism and ritualism and so to leaven it, refuse to come in, and leave it wholly to the sacerdotalists and ritualists? what can be harder upon the laity of the national church, what so inconsiderate of the national good and advantage, as to leave us at the mercy of one single element in the church, and deny us just the elements fit to mix with this element and to improve it? the current doctrines of apostolical succession and the real presence seem to us unsound and unedifying. to be sure, so does the current doctrine of imputed righteousness. for us, sacerdotalism and solifidianism stand both on the same footing; they are, both of them, erroneous human developments. but as in the ideas and practice of sacerdotalists or ritualists there is much which seems to us of value, and of great use to the church, so, too, in the ideas and practice of nonconformists there is very much which we value. to take points only that are beyond controversy: they have cultivated the gift of preaching much more than the clergy, and their union with the church would renovate and immensely amend church preaching. they would certainly bring with them, if they came back into the church, some use of what they call _free prayer_; to which, if at present they give far too much place, it is yet to be regretted that the church gives no place at all. lastly, if the body of british protestant dissenters is in the main, as it undoubtedly is, the church of the philistines, nevertheless there could come nothing but health and strength from blending this body with the establishment, of which the very weakness and danger is that it tends, as we have formerly said, to be an appendage to the barbarians. so long as the puritans thought that the essence of christianity was their doctrine of predestination or of justification, it was natural that they should stand out, at any cost, for this essence. that is why, when the 'zeit-geist' and the general movement of men's religious ideas is beginning to reveal that the puritan gospel is not the essence of christianity, we have been desirous to spread this revelation to the best of our power, and by all the aids of plain popular exposition to help it forward. because, when once it is clear that the essence of christianity is not puritan solifidianism, it can hardly long be maintained that the essence of christianity is puritan church-order. when once the way is made clear, by removing the solifidian heresy, to look and see what the essence of christianity really is, it cannot but soon force itself upon our minds that the essence of christianity is something not very far, at any rate, from this: _grace and peace by the annulment of our ordinary self through the mildness and sweet reasonableness of jesus christ_. this is the more particular description of that general ground, already laid down, of the christian church's existence: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_. if this general ground, particularised in the way above given, is not 'the sincere milk' of the evangelical word, it is, at all events, something very like it. and matters of machinery and outward form, like church-order, have not only nothing essentially to do with the sincere milk of christianity, but are the very matters about which this sincere milk should make us easy and yielding. if there were no national and historic form of church-order in possession, a genuine christian would regret having to spend time and thought in shaping one, in having so to encumber himself with serving, to busy himself so much about a frame for his religious life as well as about the contents of the frame. after all, a man has only a certain sum of force to spend; and if he takes a quantity of it for outward things, he has so much the less left for inward things. it is hardly to be believed, how much larger a space the mere affairs of his denomination fill in the time and thoughts of a dissenter, than in the time and thoughts of a churchman. now all machinery-work of this kind is, to a man filled with a real love of the essence of christianity, something of a hindrance to him in what he most wants to be at, something of a concession to his ordinary self. when an established and historic form exists, such a man should be, therefore, disposed to use it and comply with it. but,--as if it were not satisfied with proving its unprofitableness by corroding us with jealousy and so robbing us of the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ, which is our mainstay,--political dissent, dissent for the sake of church-polity and church-management, proves it, too, by stimulating our ordinary self through over-care for what flatters this. in fact, what is it that the everyday, middle-class philistine,--not the rare flower of the dissenters but the common staple,--finds so attractive in dissent? is it not, as to discipline, that his self-importance is fomented by the fuss, bustle, and partisanship of a private sect, instead of being lost in the greatness of a public body? as to worship, is it not that his taste is pleased by usages and words that come down to _him_, instead of drawing him up to _them_; by services which reflect, instead of the culture of great men of religious genius, the crude culture of himself and his fellows? and as to doctrine, is it not that his mind is pleased at hearing no opinion but its own, by having all disputed points taken for granted in its own favour, by being urged to no return upon itself, no development? and what is all this but the very feeding and stimulating of our ordinary self, instead of the annulling of it? no doubt it is natural; to indulge our ordinary self is the most natural thing in the world. but christianity is not natural; and if the flower of christianity be the grace and peace which comes of annulling our ordinary self, then to this flower it is fatal. so that if, in order to gratify in the dissenters one of the two faults against which christianity is chiefly aimed, a jealous, contentious spirit, we were to sweep away our national and historic form of religion, and were all to tinker at our own forms, we should then just be flattering the other chief fault which christianity came to cure, and serving our ordinary self instead of annulling it. what a happy furtherance to religion! for my part, so far as the best of the nonconformist ministers are concerned, of whom i know something, i disbelieve mr. winterbotham's hideous confession. i imagine they are very little pleased with him for making it. i do not believe that they, at any rate, live in the ulcerated condition he describes, fretting with watchful jealousy. i believe they have other things to think of. but why? because they are men of genius and character, who react against the harmful influences of the position in which they find themselves placed, and surmount its obvious dangers. but their genius and character might serve them still better if they were placed in a less trying position. and the rank and file of their ministers and people do yield to the influences of their position. of these, mr. winterbotham's picture is perfectly true. they are more and more jealous for their separate organisation, pleased with the bustle and self-importance which its magnitude brings them, irritably alive to whatever reduces or effaces it; bent, in short, on affirming their ordinary selves. however much the chiefs may feel the truth of modern ideas, may grow moderate, may perceive the effects of religious separatism upon worship and doctrine, they will probably avail little or nothing; the head will be overpowered and out-clamoured by the tail. the wesleyans, who used always to refuse to call themselves dissenters, whose best men still shrink from the name, the wesleyans, a wing of the church, founded for godliness, the wesleyans more and more, with their very growth as a separate denomination, feel the secular ambition of being great as a denomination, of being effaced by nobody, of giving contentment to this self-importance, of indulging this ordinary self; and i should not wonder if within twenty years they were keen political dissenters. a triumph of puritanism is abundantly possible; we have never denied it. what we, whose greatest care is neither for the church nor for puritanism, but for human perfection, what we labour to show is, that the triumph of puritanism will be the triumph of our ordinary self, not the triumph of christianity; and that the type of hebraism it will establish is one in which neither general human perfection, nor yet hebraism itself, can truly find their account. elsewhere we have drawn out a distinction between hebraism and hellenism,[12]--between the tendency and powers that carry us towards doing, and the tendency and powers that carry us towards perceiving and knowing. hebraism, we said, has long been overwhelmingly preponderant with us. the sacred book which we call the word of god, and which most of us study far more than any other book, serves hebraism. moses hebraises, david hebraises, isaiah hebraises, paul hebraises, john hebraises. jesus christ himself is, as st. paul truly styles him, 'a minister _of the circumcision_ to the truth of god.'[13] that is, it is by our powers of moral action, and through the perfecting of these, that christ leads us 'to be partakers of the divine nature.'[14] by far our chief machinery for spiritual purposes has the like aim and character. throughout europe this is so. but, to speak of ourselves only, the archbishop of canterbury is an agent of hebraism, the archbishop of york is an agent of hebraism, archbishop manning is an agent of hebraism, the president of the wesleyan conference is an agent of hebraism, all the body of the church clergy and dissenting ministers are agents of hebraism. now, we have seen how we are beginning visibly to suffer harm from attending in this one-sided way to hebraism, and how we are called to develop ourselves more in our totality, on our perceptive and intelligential side as well as on our moral side. if it is said that this is a very hard matter, and that man cannot well do more than one thing at a time, the answer is that here is the very sign and condition of each new stage of spiritual progress,--_increase of task_. the more we grow, the greater is the task which is given us. this is the law of man's nature and of his spirit's history. the powers we have developed at our old task enable us to attempt a new one; and this, again, brings with it a new increase of powers. [footnote 12: see _culture and anarchy_ (2nd edition), chap. iv.] [footnote 13: _romans_, xv, 8.] [footnote 14: ii _peter_, i, 4.] hebraism strikes too exclusively upon one string in us. hellenism does not address itself with serious energy enough to morals and righteousness. for our totality, for our general perfection, we need to unite the two; now the two are easily at variance. in their lower forms they are irreconcileably at variance; only when each of them is at its best, is their harmony possible. hebraism at its best is beauty and charm; hellenism at its best is also beauty and charm. as such they can unite; as anything short of this, each of them, they are at discord, and their separation must continue. the flower of hellenism is a kind of amiable grace and artless winning good-nature, born out of the perfection of lucidity, simplicity, and natural truth; the flower of christianity is grace and peace by the annulment of our ordinary self through the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ. both are eminently _humane_, and for complete human perfection both are required; the second being the perfection of that side in us which is moral and acts, the first, of that side in us which is intelligential and perceives and knows. but lower forms of hebraism and hellenism tend always to make their appearance, and to strive to establish themselves. on one of these forms of hebraism we have been commenting;--a form which had its first origin, no doubt, in that body of impulses whereby we hebraise, but which lands us at last, not in the mildness and sweet reasonableness of christ, but in 'a spirit of watchful jealousy.' we have to thank mr. winterbotham for fixing our attention on it; but we prefer to name it from an eminent and able man who is well known as the earnest apostle of the dissidence of dissent and the protestantism of the protestant religion, and to call it _mialism_. mialism is a sub-form of hebraism, and itself a somewhat spurious and degenerated form; but this sub-form always tends to degenerate into forms lower yet, and yet more unworthy of the ideal flower of hebraism. in one of these its further stages we have formerly traced it, and we need not enlarge on them here.[15] [footnote 15: see _culture and anarchy_ (2nd edition), chap. ii.] hellenism, in the same way, has its more or less spurious and degenerated sub-forms, products which may be at once known as degenerations by their deflexion from what we have marked as the flower of hellenism,--'a kind of humane grace and artless winning good-nature, born out of the perfection of lucidity, simplicity, and natural truth.' and from whom can we more properly derive a general name for these degenerations, than from that distinguished man, who, by his intelligence and accomplishments, is in many respects so admirable and so truly hellenic, but whom his dislike for 'the dominant sect,' as he calls the church of england,--the church of england, in many aspects so beautiful, calming, and attaching,--seems to transport with an almost feminine vehemence of irritation? what can we so fitly name the somewhat degenerated and inadequate form of hellenism as _millism_? this is the hellenic or hellenistic counterpart of mialism; and like mialism it has its further degenerations, in which it is still less commendable than in its first form. for instance, what in mr. mill is but a yielding to a spirit of irritable injustice, goes on and worsens in some of his disciples, till it becomes a sort of mere blatancy and truculent hardness in certain millites, in whom there appears scarcely anything that is truly sound or hellenic at all. mankind, however, must needs draw, however slowly, towards its perfection; and our only real perfection is our totality. mialism and millism we may see playing into one another's hands, and apparently acting together; but, so long as these lower forms of hellenism and hebraism prevail, the real union between hellenism and hebraism can never be accomplished, and our totality is still as far off as ever. unhappy and unquiet alternations of ascendency between hebraism and hellenism are all that we shall see;--at one time, the indestructible religious experience of mankind asserting itself blindly; at another, a revulsion of the intellect of mankind from this experience, because of the audacious assumptions and gross inaccuracies with which men's account of it is intermingled. at present it is such a revulsion which seems chiefly imminent. give the churches of nonconformity free scope, cries an ardent congregationalist, and we will renew the wonders of the first times; we will confront this modern bugbear of physical science, show how hollow she is, and how she contradicts herself! in his mind's eye, this nonconforming enthusiast already sees professor huxley in a white sheet, brought up at the surrey tabernacle between two deacons,--whom that great physicist, in his own clear and nervous language, would no doubt describe like his disinterred roman the other day at westminster abbey, as 'of weak mental organisation and strong muscular frame,'--and penitently confessing that _science contradicts herself_. alas, the real future is likely to be very different! rather are we likely to witness an edifying solemnity, where mr. mill, assisted by his youthful henchmen and apparitors, will burn all the prayer books. rather will the time come, as it has been foretold, when we shall desire to see one of the days of the son of man, and shall not see it; when the mildness and sweet reasonableness of jesus christ, as a power to work the annulment of our ordinary self, will be clean disregarded and out of mind. then, perhaps, will come another re-action, and another, and another; and all sterile. therefore it is, that we labour to make hebraism raise itself above mialism, find its true self, show itself in its beauty and power, and help, not hinder, man's totality. the endeavour will very likely be in vain; for growth is slow and the ages are long, and it may well be that for harmonising hebraism with hellenism more preparation is needed than man has yet had. but failures do something, as well as successes, towards the final achievement. the cup of cold water could be hardly more than an ineffective effort at succour; yet it counted. to disengage the religion of england from unscriptural protestantism, political dissent, and a spirit of watchful jealousy, may be an aim not in our day reachable; and still it is well to level at it. * * * * * contents. st. paul and protestantism puritanism and the church of england * * * * * st. paul and protestantism. i. m. renan sums up his interesting volume on st. paul by saying:--'after having been for three hundred years, thanks to protestantism, the christian doctor _par excellence_, paul is now coming to an end of his reign.' all through his book m. renan is possessed with a sense of this close relationship between st. paul and protestantism. protestantism has made paul, he says; pauline doctrine is identified with protestant doctrine; paul is a protestant doctor, and the counterpart of luther. m. renan has a strong distaste for protestantism, and this distaste extends itself to the protestant paul. the reign of this protestant is now coming to an end, and such a consummation evidently has m. renan's approval. _st. paul is now coming to an end of his reign._ precisely the contrary, i venture to think, is the judgment to which a true criticism of men and of things, in our own country at any rate, leads us. the protestantism which has so used and abused st. paul is coming to an end; its organisations, strong and active as they look, are touched with the finger of death; its fundamental ideas, sounding forth still every week from thousands of pulpits, have in them no significance and no power for the progressive thought of humanity. but the reign of the real st. paul is only beginning; his fundamental ideas, disengaged from the elaborate misconceptions with which protestantism has overlaid them, will have an influence in the future greater than any which they have yet had,--an influence proportioned to their correspondence with a number of the deepest and most permanent facts of human nature itself. elsewhere[16] i have pointed out how, for us in this country, puritanism is the strong and special representative of protestantism. the church of england existed before protestantism, and contains much besides protestantism. remove the schemes of doctrine, calvinistic or arminian, which for protestantism, merely as such, have made the very substance of its religion, and all that is most valuable in the church of england would still remain. these schemes, or the ideas out of which they spring, show themselves in the prayer book; but they are not what gives the prayer book its importance and value. but puritanism exists for the sake of these schemes; its organisations are inventions for enforcing them more purely and thoroughly. questions of discipline and ceremonies have, originally at least, been always admitted to be in themselves secondary; it is because that conception of the ways of god to man which puritanism has formed for itself appeared to puritanism superlatively true and precious, that independents and baptists and methodists in england, and presbyterians in scotland, have been impelled to constitute for inculcating it a church-order where it might be less swamped by the additions and ceremonies of men, might be more simply and effectively enounced, and might stand more absolute and central, than in the church-order of anglicans or roman catholics. [footnote 16: see _culture and anarchy_, chap. iv.] of that conception the cardinal points are fixed by the terms _election_ and _justification_. these terms come from the writings of st. paul, and the scheme which puritanism has constructed with them professes to be st. paul's scheme. the same scheme, or something very like it, has been, and still is, embraced by many adherents of the churches of england and rome; but these churches rest their claims to men's interest and attachment not on the possession of such a scheme, but on other grounds with which we have for the present nothing to do. puritanism's very reason for existing depends on the worth of this its vital conception, derived from st. paul's writings; and when we are told that st. paul is a protestant doctor whose reign is ending, a puritan, keen, pugnacious, and sophisticating simple religion of the heart into complicated theories of the brain about election and justification, we in england, at any rate, can best try the assertion by fixing our eyes on our own puritans, and comparing their doctrine and their hold on vital truth with st. paul's. this we propose now to do, and, indeed, to do it will only be to complete what we have already begun. for already, when we were speaking of hebraism and hellenism,[17] we were led to remark how the over-hebraising of puritanism, and its want of a wide culture, do so narrow its range and impair its vision that even the documents which it thinks all-sufficient, and to the study of which it exclusively rivets itself, it does not rightly understand, but is apt to make of them something quite different from what they really are. in short, no man, we said, who knows nothing else, knows even his bible. and we showed how readers of the bible attached to essential words and ideas of the bible a sense which was not the writer's; and in particular how this had happened with regard to the pauline doctrine of resurrection. let us take the present opportunity of going further in the same road; and instead of lightly disparaging the great name of st. paul, let us see if the needful thing is not rather to rescue st. paul and the bible from the perversions of them by mistaken men. [footnote 17: see _culture and anarchy_, chap. v.] so long as the well-known habit, on which we have so often enlarged, prevails amongst our countrymen, of holding mechanically their ideas themselves, but making it their chief aim to work with energy and enthusiasm for the organisations which profess those ideas, english puritanism is not likely to make such a return upon its own thoughts, and upon the elements of its being, as to accomplish for itself an operation of the kind needed; though it has men whose natural faculties, were they but free to use them, would undoubtedly prove equal to the task. the same habit prevents our puritans from being reached by philosophical works, which exist in sufficient numbers and of which m. reuss's history of the growth of christian theology[18] is an admirable specimen,--works where the entire scheme of pauline doctrine is laid out with careful research and impartial accuracy. to give effect to the predominant points in paul's teaching, and to exhibit these in so plain and popular a manner as to invite and almost compel men's comprehension, is not the design of such works; and only by writings with this design in view will english puritanism be reached. [footnote 18: _histoire de la thã©ologie chrã©tienne au siã¨cle apostolique_, par edouard reuss; strasbourg et paris (in 2 vols. 8vo.) there is now (1875) an english translation of m. reuss's work.] our one qualification for the business in hand lies in that belief of ours, so much contested by our countrymen, of the primary needfulness of seeing things as they really are, and of the greater importance of ideas than of the machinery which exists for them. if by means of letting our consciousness work quite freely, and by following the methods of studying and judging thence generated, we are shown that we ought in real truth neither to abase st. paul and puritanism together, as m. renan does, nor to abase st. paul but exalt puritanism, nor yet to exalt both puritanism and st. paul together, but rather to abase puritanism and exalt st. paul, then we cannot but think that even for puritanism itself, also, it will be the best, however unpalatable, to be shown this. puritanism certainly wishes well to st. paul; it cannot wish to compromise him by an unintelligent adhesion to him and a blind adoption of his words, instead of being a true child to him. yet this is what it has really done. what in st. paul is secondary and subordinate, puritanism has made primary and essential; what in st paul is figure and belongs to the sphere of feeling, puritanism has transported into the sphere of intellect and made formula. on the other hand, what is with st. paul primary, puritanism has treated as subordinate: and what is with him thesis, and belonging (so far as anything in religion can properly be said thus to belong) to the sphere of intellect, puritanism has made image and figure. and first let us premise what we mean in this matter by primary and secondary, essential and subordinate. we mean, so far as the apostle is concerned, a greater or less approach to what really characterises him and gives his teaching its originality and power. we mean, so far as truth is concerned, a greater or less agreement with facts which can be verified, and a greater or less power of explaining them. what essentially characterises a religious teacher, and gives him his permanent worth and vitality, is, after all, just the scientific value of his teaching, its correspondence with important facts, and the light it throws on them. never was the truth of this so evident as now. the scientific sense in man never asserted its claim so strongly; the propensity of religion to neglect those claims, and the peril and loss to it from neglecting them, never were so manifest. the license of affirmation about god and his proceedings, in which the religious world indulge, is more and more met by the demand for verification. when calvinism tells us: 'it is agreed between god and the mediator jesus christ, the son of god, surety for the redeemed, as parties-contractors, that the sins of the redeemed should be imputed to innocent christ, and he both condemned and put to death for them, upon this very condition, that whosoever heartily consents unto the covenant of reconciliation offered through christ, shall, by the imputation of his obedience unto them, be justified and holden righteous before god;'--when calvinism tells us this, is it not talking about god just as if he were a man in the next street, whose proceedings calvinism intimately knew and could give account of, could verify that account at any moment, and enable us to verify it also? it is true, when the scientific sense in us, the sense which seeks exact knowledge, calls for that verification, calvinism refers us to st. paul, from whom it professes to have got this history of what it calls 'the covenant of redemption.' but this is only pushing the difficulty a stage further back. for if it is st. paul, and not calvinism, that professes this exact acquaintance with god and his doings, the scientific sense calls upon st. paul to produce the facts by which he verifies what he says; and if he cannot produce them, then it treats both st. paul's assertion, and calvinism's assertion after him, as of no real consequence. no one will deny that such is the behaviour of science towards religion in our day, though many may deplore it. and it is not that the scientific sense in us denies the rights of the poetic sense, which employs a figured and imaginative language. but the language we have just been quoting is not figurative and poetic language, it is scholastic and scientific language. assertions in scientific language must stand the tests of scientific examination. neither is it that the scientific sense in us refuses to admit willingly and reverently the name of god, as a point in which the religious and the scientific sense may meet, as the least inadequate name for that universal order which the intellect feels after as a law, and the heart feels after as a benefit. 'we, too,' might the men of science with truth say to the men of religion--'we, too, would gladly say _god_, if only, the moment one says _god_, you would not pester one with your pretensions of knowing all about him.' that _stream of tendency by which all things strive to fulfil the law of their being_, and which, inasmuch as our idea of real welfare resolves itself into this fulfilment of the law of one's being, man rightly deems the fountain of all goodness, and calls by the worthiest and most solemn name he can, which is god, science also might willingly own for the fountain of all goodness, and call god. but however much more than this the heart may with propriety put into its language respecting god, this is as much as science can with strictness put there. therefore, when the religious world, following its bent of trying to describe what it loves, amplifying and again amplifying its description, and guarding finally this amplified description by the most precise and rigid terms it can find, comes at last, with the best intentions, to the notion of a sort of magnified and non-natural man, who proceeds in the fashion laid down in the calvinistic thesis we have quoted, then science strikes in, remarks the difference between this second notion and the notion it originally admitted, and demands to have the new notion verified, as the first can be verified, by facts. but this does not unsettle the first notion, or prevent science from acknowledging the importance and the scientific validity of propositions which are grounded upon the first notion, and shed light over it. nevertheless, researches in this sphere are now a good deal eclipsed in popularity by researches in the sphere of physics, and no longer have the vogue which they once had. i have related how an eminent physicist with whose acquaintance i am honoured, imagines me to have invented the author of the _sacra privata_; and that fashionable newspaper, the _morning post_, undertaking,--as i seemed, it said, very anxious about the matter,--to supply information as to who the author really was, laid it down that he was bishop of calcutta, and that his ideas and writings, to which i attached so much value, had been among the main provocatives of the indian mutiny. therefore it is perhaps expedient to refresh our memory as to these schemes of doctrine, calvinistic or arminian, for the upholding of which, as has been said, british puritanism exists, before we proceed to compare them, for correspondence with facts and for scientific validity, with the teaching of st. paul. calvinism, then, begins by laying down that god from all eternity decreed whatever was to come to pass in time; that by his decree a certain number of angels and men are predestinated, out of god's mere free grace and love, without any foresight of faith or good works in them, to everlasting life; and others foreordained, according to the unsearchable counsel of his will, whereby he extends or withholds mercy as he pleases, to everlasting death. god made, however, our first parents, adam and eve, upright and able to keep his law, which was written in their hearts; at the same time entering into a contract with them, and with their posterity as represented in them, by which they were assured of everlasting life in return for perfect obedience, and of everlasting death if they should be disobedient. our first parents, being enticed by satan, a fallen angel speaking in the form of a serpent, broke this _covenant of works_, as it is called, by eating the forbidden fruit; and hereby they, and their posterity in them and with them, became not only liable to eternal death, but lost also their natural uprightness and all ability to please god; nay, they became by nature enemies to god and to all spiritual good, and inclined only to evil continually. this, says calvinism, is our original sin; the bitter root of all our actual transgressions, in thought, word, and deed. yet, though man has neither power nor inclination to rise out of this wretched fallen state, but is rather disposed to lie insensible in it till he perish, another covenant exists by which his condition is greatly affected. this is the _covenant of redemption_, made and agreed upon, says calvinism, between god the father and god the son in the council of the trinity before the world began. the sum of the covenant of redemption is this: god having, by the eternal decree already mentioned, freely chosen to life a certain number of lost mankind, gave them before the world began to god the son, appointed redeemer, on condition that if he humbled himself so far as to assume the human nature in union with the divine nature, submit himself to the law as surety for the elect, and satisfy justice for them by giving obedience in their name, even to suffering the cursed death of the cross, he should ransom and redeem them from sin and death, and purchase for them righteousness and eternal life. the son of god accepted the condition, or _bargain_ as calvinism calls it; and in the fulness of time came, as jesus christ, into the world, was born of the virgin mary, subjected himself to the law, and completely paid the due ransom on the cross. god has in his word, the bible, revealed to man this covenant of grace or redemption. all those whom he has predestinated to life he in his own time effectually calls to be partakers in the release offered. man is altogether passive in this call, until the holy spirit enables him to answer it. the holy spirit, the third person in the trinity, applies to the elect the redemption purchased by christ, through working faith in them. as soon as the elect have faith in jesus christ, that is, as soon as they give their consent heartily and repentantly, in the sense of deserved condemnation, to the covenant of grace, god justifies them by imputing to them that perfect obedience which christ gave to the law, and the satisfaction also which upon the cross christ gave to justice in their name. they who are thus called and justified are by the same power likewise sanctified; the dominion of carnal lusts being destroyed in them, and the practice of holiness being, in spite of some remnants of corruption, put in their power. good works, done in obedience to god's moral law, are the fruits and evidences of a true faith; and the persons of the faithful elect being accepted through christ, their good works also are accepted in him and rewarded. but works done by other and unregenerate men, though they may be things which god commands, cannot please god and are sinful. the elect can after justification and sanctification no more fall from the state of grace, but shall certainly persevere to the end and be eternally saved; and of this they may, even in the present life, have the certain assurance. finally, after death, their souls and bodies are joyfully joined together again in the resurrection, and they remain thenceforth for ever with christ in glory; while all the wicked are sent away into hell with satan, whom they have served. we have here set down the main doctrines of calvinistic puritanism almost entirely in words of its own choosing. it is not necessary to enter into distinctions such as those between sublapsarians and supralapsarians, between calvinists who believe that god's decree of election and reprobation was passed in foresight of original sin and on account of it, and calvinists who believe that it was passed absolutely and independently. the important points of calvinism,--original sin, free election, effectual calling, justification through imputed righteousness,--are common to both. the passiveness of man, the activity of god, are the great features in this scheme; there is very little of what man thinks and does, very much of what god thinks and does; and what god thinks and does is described with such particularity that the figure we have used of the man in the next street cannot but recur strongly to our minds. the positive protestantism of puritanism, with which we are here concerned, as distinguished from the negative protestantism of the church of england, has nourished itself with ardour on this scheme of doctrine. it informs and fashions the whole religion of scotland, established and nonconforming. it is the doctrine which puritan flocks delight to hear from their ministers. it was puritanism's constant reproach against the church of england, that this essential doctrine was not firmly enough held and set forth by her. at the hampton court conference in 1604, in the committee of divines appointed by the house of lords in 1641, and again at the savoy conference in 1661, the reproach regularly appeared. 'some have defended,' is the puritan complaint, 'the whole gross substance of arminianism, that the act of conversion depends upon the concurrence of man's free will; some do teach and preach that good works are concauses with faith in the act of justification; some have defended universal grace, some have absolutely denied original sin.' as puritanism grew, the calvinistic scheme of doctrine hardened and became stricter. of the calvinistic confessions of faith of the sixteenth century,--the helvetic confession, the belgic confession, the heidelberg catechism,--the calvinism is so moderate as to astonish any one who has been used only to its later developments. even the much abused canons of the synod of dort no one can read attentively through without finding in parts of them a genuine movement of thought,--sometimes even a philosophic depth,--and a powerful religious feeling. in the documents of the westminster assembly, twenty-five years later, this has disappeared; and what we call the british philistine stands in his religious capacity, sheer and stark, before us. seriousness is the one merit of these documents, but it is a seriousness too mixed with the alloy of mundane strife and hatred to be called a religious feeling. not a trace of delicacy of perception, or of philosophic thinking; the mere rigidness and contentiousness of the controversialist and political dissenter; a calvinism exaggerated till it is simply repelling; and to complete the whole, a machinery of covenants, conditions, bargains, and parties-contractors, such as could have proceeded from no one but the born anglo-saxon man of business, british or american. however, a scheme of doctrine is not necessarily false because of the style in which its adherents may have at a particular moment enounced it. from the faults which disfigure the performance of the westminster divines the profession of faith prefixed to the congregational _year-book_ is free. the congregationalists form one of the two great divisions of english puritans. 'congregational churches believe,' their _year-book_ tells us, 'that the first man disobeyed the divine command, fell from his state of innocence and purity, and involved all his posterity in the consequences of that fall. they believe that all who will be saved were the objects of god's eternal and electing love, and were given by an act of divine sovereignty to the son of god. they believe that christ meritoriously obtained eternal redemption for us, and that the holy spirit is given in consequence of christ's mediation.' the essential points of calvinism are all here. to this profession of faith, annually published in the _year-book_ of the independents, subscription is not required; puritanism thus remaining honourably consistent with the protests which, at the restoration, it made against the call for subscription. but the authors of the _year-book_ say with pride, and it is a common boast of the independent churches, that though they do not require subscription, there is, perhaps, in no religious body, such firm and general agreement in doctrine as among congregationalists. this is true, and it is even more true of the flocks than of the ministers, of whom the abler and the younger begin to be lifted by the stream of modern ideas. still, up to the present time, the protestantism of one great division of english puritans is undoubtedly calvinist; the baptists holding in general the scheme of calvinism yet more strictly than the independents. the other great division of english puritanism is formed by the methodists. wesleyan methodism is, as is well known, not calvinist, but arminian. the _methodist magazine_ was called by wesley the _arminian magazine_, and kept that title all through his life. arminianism is an attempt made with the best intentions, and with much truth of practical sense, but not in a very profound philosophical spirit, to escape from what perplexes and shocks us in calvinism. the god of calvinism is a magnified and non-natural man who decrees at his mere good pleasure some men to salvation and other men to reprobation; the god of arminianism is a magnified and non-natural man who foreknows the course of each man's life, and who decrees each of us to salvation or reprobation in accordance with this foreknowledge. but so long as we remain in this anthropomorphic order of ideas the question will always occur: why did not a being of infinite power and infinite love so make all men as that there should be no cause for this sad foreknowledge and sad decree respecting a number of them? in truth, calvinism is both theologically more coherent, and also shows a deeper sense of reality than arminianism, which, in the practical man's fashion, is apt to scrape the surface of things only. for instance, the arminian remonstrants, in their zeal to justify the morality, in a human sense, of god's ways, maintained that he sent his word to one nation rather than another according as he saw that one nation was more worthy than another of such a preference. the calvinist doctors of the synod of dort have no difficulty in showing that moses and christ both of them assert, with respect to the jewish nation, the direct contrary; and not only do they here obtain a theological triumph, but in rebutting the arminian theory they are in accordance with historical truth and with the real march of human affairs. they allow more for the great fact of the _not ourselves_ in what we do and are. the calvinists seize, we say, that great fact better than the arminians. the calvinist's fault is in his scientific appreciation of the fact; in the reasons he gives for it. god, he says, sends his word to one nation rather than another at _his mere good pleasure_. here we have again the magnified and non-natural man, who likes and dislikes, knows and decrees, just as a man, only on a scale immensely transcending anything of which we have experience, and whose proceedings we nevertheless describe as if he were in the next street for people to verify all we say about him. arminian methodism, however, puts aside the calvinistic doctrine of predestination. the foremost place, which in the calvinist scheme belongs to the doctrine of predestination, belongs in the methodist scheme to the doctrine of justification by faith. more and more prominently does modern methodism elevate this as its essential doctrine; and the era in their founder's life which methodists select to celebrate is the era of his conversion to it. it is the doctrine of anselm, adopted and developed by luther, set forth in the confession of augsburg, and current all through the popular theology of our day. we shall find it in almost any popular hymn we happen to take, but the following lines of milton exhibit it classically. by the fall of our first parents, says he:- man, losing all, to expiate his treason hath nought left, but to destruction sacred and devote he with his whole posterity must die; die he or justice must; unless for him some other able, and as willing, pay the rigid satisfaction; death for death. by adam's fall, god's justice and mercy were placed in conflict. god could not follow his mercy without violating his justice. christ by his satisfaction gave the father the right and power (_nudum jus patri acquirebat_, said the arminians) to follow his mercy, and to make with man the covenant of free justification by faith, whereby, if a man has a sure trust and confidence that his sins are forgiven him in virtue of the satisfaction made to god for them by the death of christ, he is held clear of sin by god, and admitted to salvation. this doctrine, like the calvinist doctrine of predestination, involves a whole history of god's proceedings, and gives, also, first and almost sole place to what god does, with disregard to what man does. it has thus an essential affinity with calvinism; indeed, calvinism is but this doctrine of original sin and justification, _plus_ the doctrine of predestination. nay, the welsh methodists, as is well known, have no difficulty in combining the tenet of election with the practices and most of the tenets of methodism. the word _solifidian_ points precisely to that which is common to both calvinism and methodism, and which has made both these halves of english puritanism so popular,--their _sensational_ side, as it may be called, their laying all stress on a wonderful and particular account of what god gives and works for us, not on what we bring or do for ourselves. 'plead thou singly,' says wesley, 'the blood of the covenant, the ransom paid for thy proud stubborn soul.' wesley's doctrines of conversion, of the new birth, of sanctification, of the direct witness of the spirit, of assurance, of sinless perfection, all of them thus correspond with doctrines which we have noticed in calvinism, and show a common character with them. the instantaneousness wesley loved to ascribe to conversion and sanctification points the same way. 'god gives in a moment such a faith in the blood of his son as translates us out of darkness into light, out of sin and fear into holiness and happiness.' and again, 'look for sanctification just as you are, as a poor sinner that has nothing to pay, nothing to plead but _christ died_.' this is the side in wesley's teaching which his followers have above all seized, and which they are eager to hold forth as the essential part of his legacy towards them. it is true that from the same reason which prevents, as we have said, those who know their bible and nothing else from really knowing even their bible, methodists, who for the most part know nothing but wesley, do not really know even wesley. it is true that what really characterises this most interesting and most attractive man, is not his doctrine of justification by faith, or any other of his set doctrines, but is entirely what we may call his _genius for godliness_. mr. alexander knox, in his remarks on his friend's life and character, insists much on an entry in wesley's journal in 1767, where he seems impatient at the endless harping on the tenet of justification, and where he asks 'if it is not high time to return to the plain word: "he that feareth god and worketh righteousness is accepted with him."' mr. knox is right in thinking that the feeling which made wesley ask this is what gave him his vital worth and character as a man; but it is not what gives him his character as the teacher of methodism. methodism rejects mr. knox's version of its founder, and insists on making the article of justification the very corner-stone of the wesleyan edifice. and the truth undoubtedly is, that not by his assertion of what man brings, but by his assertion of what god gives, by his doctrines of conversion, instantaneous justification and sanctification, assurance, and sinless perfection, does wesley live and operate in methodism. 'you think, i must first be or do thus or thus (for sanctification). then you are seeking it by works unto this day. if you seek it by faith, you may expect it as you are; then expect it now. it is of importance to observe that there is an inseparable connection between these three points: expect it _by faith_, expect it _as you are_, and expect it _now_. to deny one of them is to deny them all; to allow one is to allow them all.' this is the teaching of wesley, which has made the great methodist half of english puritanism what it is, and not his hesitations and recoils at the dangers of his own teaching. no doubt, as the seriousness of calvinism, its perpetual conversance with deep matters and with the bible, have given force and fervency to calvinist puritans, so the loveliness of wesley's piety, and what we have called his genius for godliness, have sweetened and made amiable numberless lives of methodist puritans. but as a religious teacher, wesley is to be judged by his doctrine; and his doctrine, like the calvinistic scheme, rests with all its weight on the assertion of certain minutely described proceedings on god's part, independent of us, our experience, and our will; and leads its recipients to look, in religion, not so much for an arduous progress on their own part, and the exercise of their activity, as for strokes of magic, and what may be called a sensational character. in the heidelberg catechism, after an answer in which the catechist rehearses the popularly received doctrine of original sin and vicarious satisfaction for it, the catechiser asks the pertinent question: '_unde id scis?_'--how do you know all that? the apostle paul is, as we have already shown, the great authority for it whom formal theology invokes; his name is used by popular theology with the same confidence. i open a modern book of popular religion at the account of a visit paid to a hardened criminal seized with terror the night before his execution. the visitor says: '_i now stand in paul's place_, and say: in christ's stead we pray you, be ye reconciled to god. i beg you to accept the pardon of all your sins, which christ has purchased for you, and which god freely bestows on you for his sake. if you do not understand, i say: god's ways are not as our ways.' and the narrative of the criminal's conversion goes on: 'that night was spent in singing the praises of the saviour who had purchased his pardon.' both calvinism and methodism appeal, therefore, to the bible, and, above all, to st. paul, for the history they propound of the relations between god and man; but calvinism relies most, in enforcing it, on man's fears, methodism on man's hopes. calvinism insists on man's being under a curse; it then works the sense of sin, misery, and terror in him, and appeals pre-eminently to the desire to flee from the wrath to come. methodism, too, insists on his being under a curse; but it works most the sense of hope in him, the craving for happiness, and appeals pre-eminently to the desire for eternal bliss. no one, however, will maintain that the particular account of god's proceedings with man, whereby methodism and calvinism operate on these desires, proves itself by internal evidence, and establishes without external aid its own scientific validity. so we may either directly try, as best we can, its scientific validity in itself; or, as it professes to have paul's authority to support it, we may first inquire what is really paul's account of god's proceedings with man, and whether this tallies with the puritan account and confirms it. the latter is in every way the safer and the more instructive course to follow. and we will follow puritanism's example in taking st. paul's mature and greatest work, the epistle to the romans, as the chief place for finding what he really thought on the points in question. we have already said elsewhere,[19] indeed, what is very true, and what must never be forgotten, that what st. paul, a man so separated from us by time, race, training and circumstances, really thought, we cannot make sure of knowing exactly. all we can do is to get near it, reading him with the sort of critical tact which the study of the human mind and its history, and the acquaintance with many great writers, naturally gives for following the movement of any one single great writer's thought; reading him, also, without preconceived theories to which we want to make his thoughts fit themselves. it is evident that the english translation of the epistle to the romans has been made by men with their heads full of the current doctrines of election and justification we have been noticing; and it has thereby received such a bias,--of which a strong example is the use of the word _atonement_ in the eleventh verse of the fifth chapter,--that perhaps it is almost impossible for any one who reads the english translation only, to take into his mind paul's thought without a colouring from the current doctrines. but besides discarding the english translation, we must bear in mind, if we wish to get as near paul's real thought as possible, two things which have greatly increased the facilities for misrepresenting him. [footnote 19: see _culture and anarchy_, chap. v.] in the first place, paul, like the other bible-writers, and like the semitic race in general, has a much juster sense of the true scope and limits of diction in religious deliverances than we have. he uses within the sphere of religious emotion expressions which, in this sphere, have an eloquence and a propriety, but which are not to be taken out of it and made into formal scientific propositions. this is a point very necessary to be borne in mind in reading the bible. the prophet nahum says in the book of his vision: '_god is jealous, and the lord revengeth_;'[20] and the authors of the westminster confession, drawing out a scientific theology, lay down the proposition that god is a jealous and vengeful god, and think they prove their proposition by quoting in a note the words of nahum. but this is as if we took from a chorus of ã�schylus one of his grand passages about guilt and destiny, just put the words straight into the formal and exact cast of a sentence of aristotle, and said that here was the scientific teaching of greek philosophy on these matters. the hebrew genius has not, like the greek, its conscious and clear-marked division into a poetic side and a scientific side; the scientific side is almost absent. the bible utterances have often the character of a chorus of ã�schylus, but never that of a treatise of aristotle. we, like the greeks, possess in our speech and thought the two characters; but so far as the bible is concerned we have generally confounded them, and have used our double possession for our bewilderment rather than turned it to good account. the admirable maxim of the great mediã¦val jewish school of biblical critics: _the law speaks with the tongue of the children of men_,--a maxim which is the very foundation of all sane biblical criticism,--was for centuries a dead letter to the whole body of our western exegesis, and is a dead letter to the whole body of our popular exegesis still. taking the bible language as equivalent with the language of the scientific intellect, a language which is adequate and absolute, we have never been in a position to use the key which this maxim of the jewish doctors offers to us. but it is certain that, whatever strain the religious expressions of the semitic genius were meant, in the minds of those who gave utterance to them, to bear, the particular strain which we western people put upon them is one which they were not meant to bear. [footnote 20: _nahum_ i, 2.] we have used the word _hebraise_[21] for another purpose, to denote the exclusive attention to the moral side of our nature, to conscience, and to doing rather than knowing; so, to describe the vivid and figured way in which st. paul, within the sphere of religious emotion, uses words, without carrying them outside it, we will use the word _orientalise_. when paul says: 'god hath concluded them all in unbelief _that he might_ have mercy upon all,'[22] he orientalises; that is, he does not mean to assert formally that god acted with this set design, but, being full of the happy and divine end to the unbelief spoken of, he, by a vivid and striking figure, represents the unbelief as actually caused with a view to this end. but when the calvinists of the synod of dort, wishing to establish the formal proposition that faith and all saving gifts flow from election and nothing else, quote an expression of paul's similar to the one we have quoted, 'he hath chosen us,' they say, 'not because we were, but _that we might be_ holy and without blame before him,' they go quite wide of the mark, from not perceiving that what the apostle used as a vivid figure of rhetoric, they are using as a formal scientific proposition. [footnote 21: see _culture and anarchy_, chap. iv.] [footnote 22: _rom._ xi, 32.] when paul orientalises, the fault is not with him when he is misunderstood, but with the prosaic and unintelligent western readers who have not enough tact for style to comprehend his mode of expression. but he also judaises; and here his liability to being misunderstood by us western people is undoubtedly due to a defect in the critical habit of himself and his race. a jew himself, he uses the jewish scriptures in a jew's arbitrary and uncritical fashion, as if they had a talismanic character; as if for a doctrine, however true in itself, their confirmation was still necessary, and as if this confirmation was to be got from their mere words alone, however detached from the sense of their context, and however violently allegorised or otherwise wrested. to use the bible in this way, even for purposes of illustration, is often an interruption to the argument, a fault of style; to use it in this way for real proof and confirmation, is a fault of reasoning. an example of the first fault may be seen in the tenth chapter of the epistle to the romans, and in the beginning of the third chapter. the apostle's point in either place,--his point that faith comes by hearing, and his point that god's oracles were true though the jews did not believe them,--would stand much clearer without their scaffolding of bible-quotation. an instance of the second fault is in the third and fourth chapters of the epistle to the galatians, where the biblical argumentation by which the apostle seeks to prove his case is as unsound as his case itself is sound. how far these faults are due to the apostle himself, how far to the requirements of those for whom he wrote, we need not now investigate. it is enough that he undoubtedly uses the letter of scripture in this arbitrary and jewish way; and thus puritanism, which has only itself to blame for misunderstanding him when he orientalises, may fairly put upon the apostle himself some of its blame for misunderstanding him when he judaises, and for judaising so strenuously along with him. to get, therefore, at what paul really thought and meant to say, it is necessary for us modern and western people to translate him. and not as puritanism, which has merely taken his letter and recast it in the formal propositions of a modern scientific treatise; but his letter itself must be recast before it can be properly conveyed by such propositions. and as the order in which, in any series of ideas, the ideas come, is of great importance to the final result, and as paul, who did not write scientific treatises, but had always religious edification in direct view, never set out his doctrine with a design of exhibiting it as a scientific whole, we must also find out for ourselves the order in which paul's ideas naturally stand, and the connexion between one of them and the other, in order to arrive at the real scheme of his teaching, as compared with the schemes exhibited by puritanism. we remarked how what sets the calvinist in motion seems to be the desire to flee from the wrath to come; and what sets the methodist in motion, the desire for eternal bliss. what is it which sets paul in motion? it is the impulse which we have elsewhere noted as the master-impulse of hebraism,--_the desire for righteousness._ 'i exercise myself,' he told felix, '_to have a conscience void of offence towards god and men continually_.'[23] to the hebrew, this moral order, or righteousness, was pre-eminently the universal order, the law of god; and god, the fountain of all goodness, was pre-eminently to him the giver of the moral law. the end and aim of all religion, _access to god_,--the sense of harmony with the universal order--the partaking of the divine nature--that our faith and hope might be in god--that we might have life and have it more abundantly,--meant for the hebrew, access to the source of the _moral_ order in especial, and harmony with it. it was the greatness of the hebrew race that it felt the authority of this order, its preciousness and its beneficence, so strongly. 'how precious are thy thoughts unto me, o god!'--'the law of thy mouth is better than thousands of gold and silver.'--'my soul is consumed with the very fervent desire that it hath alway unto thy judgments.'[24] it was the greatness of their best individuals that in them this feeling was incessantly urgent to prove itself in the only sure manner,--in action. 'blessed are they who hear the word of god, and _keep_ it.' 'if thou wouldst enter into life, _keep_ the commandments.' 'let no man deceive you, he that _doeth_ righteousness is righteous.'[25] what distinguishes paul is both his conviction that the commandment is holy, and just, and good; and also his desire to give effect to the commandment, to _establish_ it. it was this which gave to his endeavour after a clear conscience such meaning and efficacity. it was this which gave him insight to see that there could be no radical difference, in respect of salvation and the way to it, between jew and gentile. 'upon every soul of man that _worketh evil_, whoever he may be, tribulation and anguish; to every one that _worketh good_, glory, honour, and peace!'[26] [footnote 23: _acts_, xxiv, 16.] [footnote 24: _ps._ cxxxix, 7; cxix, 72; _ibid._, 20.] [footnote 25: _luke_, xi, 28; _matth._, xix, 17; i _john_, iii, 7.] [footnote 26: _rom._, ii, 9, 10.] st. paul's piercing practical religious sense, joined to his strong intellectual power, enabled him to discern and follow the range of the commandment, both as to man's actions and as to his heart and thoughts, with extraordinary force and closeness. his religion had, as we shall see, a preponderantly mystic side, and nothing is so natural to the mystic as in rich single words, such as faith, light, love, to sum up and take for granted, without specially enumerating them all good moral principles and habits; yet nothing is more remarkable in paul than the frequent, nay, incessant lists, in the most particular detail, of moral habits to be pursued or avoided. lists of this sort might in a less sincere and profound writer be formal and wearisome; but to no attentive reader of st. paul will they be wearisome, for in making them he touched the solid ground which was the basis of his religion,--the solid ground of his hearty desire for righteousness and of his thorough conception of it,--and only on such a ground was so strong a superstructure possible. the more one studies these lists, the more does their significance come out. to illustrate this, let any one go through for himself the enumeration, too long to be quoted here, in the four last verses of the first chapter of the epistle to the romans, of 'things which are not convenient;' or let him merely consider with attention this catalogue, towards the end of the fifth chapter of the epistle to the galatians, of fruits of the spirit: 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faith, mildness, self-control.'[27] the man who wrote with this searching minuteness knew accurately what he meant by sin and righteousness, and did not use these words at random. his diligent comprehensiveness in his plan of duties is only less admirable than his diligent sincerity. the sterner virtues and the gentler, his conscience will not let him rest till he has embraced them all. in his deep resolve 'to make out by actual trial what is that good and perfect and acceptable will of god,'[28] he goes back upon himself again and again, he marks a duty at every point of our nature, and at points the most opposite, for fear he should by possibility be leaving behind him some weakness still indulged, some subtle promptings to evil not yet brought into captivity. [footnote 27: verses 22, 23.] [footnote 28: _rom._, xii, 2.] it has not been enough remarked how this incomparable honesty and depth in paul's love of righteousness is probably what chiefly explains his conversion. most men have the defects, as the saying is, of their qualities. because they are ardent and severe they have no sense for gentleness and sweetness; because they are sweet and gentle they have no sense for severity and ardour. a puritan is a puritan, and a man of feeling is a man of feeling. but with paul the very same fulness of moral nature which made him an ardent pharisee, 'as concerning zeal, persecuting the church, touching the righteousness which is in the law, blameless,' was so large that it carried him out of pharisaism and beyond it, when once he found how much needed doing in him which pharisaism could not do. every attentive regarder of the character of paul, not only as he was before his conversion but as he appears to us till his end, must have been struck with two things: one, the earnest insistence with which he recommends 'bowels of mercies,' as he calls them: meekness, humbleness of mind, gentleness, unwearying forbearance, crowned all of them with that emotion of charity 'which is the bond of perfectness;' the other, the force with which he dwells on the _solidarity_ (to use the modern phrase) of man,--the joint interest, that is, which binds humanity together,--the duty of respecting every one's part in life, and of doing justice to his efforts to fulfil that part. never surely did such a controversialist, such a master of sarcasm and invective, commend, with such manifest sincerity and such persuasive emotion, the qualities of meekness and gentleness! never surely did a worker, who took with such energy his own line, and who was so born to preponderate and predominate in whatever line he took, insist so often and so admirably that the lines of other workers were just as good as his own! at no time, perhaps, did paul arrive at practising quite perfectly what he thus preached; but this only sets in a stronger light the thorough love of righteousness which made him seek out, and put so prominently forward, and so strive to make himself and others fulfil, parts of righteousness which do not force themselves on the common conscience like the duties of soberness, temperance, and activity, and which were somewhat alien, certainly, to his own particular nature. therefore we cannot but believe that into this spirit, so possessed with the hunger and thirst for righteousness, and precisely because it was so possessed by it, the characteristic doctrines of jesus, which brought a new aliment to feed this hunger and thirst,--of jesus whom, except in vision, he had never seen, but who was in every one's words and thoughts, the teacher who was meek and lowly in heart, who said men were brothers and must love one another, that the last should often be first, that the exercise of dominion and lordship had nothing in them desirable, and that we must become as little children,--sank down and worked there even before paul ceased to persecute, and had no small part in getting him ready for the crisis of his conversion. such doctrines offered new fields of righteousness to the eyes of this indefatigable explorer of it, and enlarged the domain of duty of which pharisaism showed him only a portion. then, after the satisfaction thus given to his desire for a full conception of righteousness, came christ's injunctions to make clean the inside as well as the outside, to beware of the least leaven of hypocrisy and self-flattery, of saying and not doing;--and, finally, the injunction to feel, after doing all we can, that, as compared with the standard of perfection, we are still unprofitable servants. these teachings were, to a man like paul, for the practice of righteousness what the others were for the theory;--sympathetic utterances, which made the inmost chords of his being vibrate, and which irresistibly drew him sooner or later towards their utterer. need it be said that he never forgot them, and that in all his pages they have left their trace? it is even affecting to see, how, when he is driven for the very sake of righteousness to put the law of righteousness in the second place, and to seek outside the law itself for a power to fulfil the law, how, i say, he returns again and again to the elucidation of his one sole design in all he is doing; how he labours to prevent all possibility of misunderstanding, and to show that he is only leaving the moral law for a moment in order to establish it for ever more victoriously. what earnestness and pathos in the assurance: 'if there had been a law given which could have given life, verily, righteousness should have been by the law!'[29] 'do i condemn the law?' he keeps saying; 'do i forget that the commandment is holy, just, and good? because we are no longer under the law, are we to sin? am i seeking to make the course of my life and yours other than a service and an obedience?' this man, out of whom an astounding criticism has deduced antinomianism, is in truth so possessed with horror of antinomianism, that he goes to grace for the sole purpose of extirpating it, and even then cannot rest without perpetually telling us why he is gone there. this man, whom calvin and luther and their followers have shut up into the two scholastic doctrines of election and justification, would have said, could we hear him, just what he said about circumcision and uncircumcision in his own day: 'election is nothing, and justification is nothing, but the keeping of the commandments of god.' [footnote 29: _gal._, iii, 21.] this foremost place which righteousness takes in the order of st. paul's ideas makes a signal difference between him and puritanism. puritanism, as we have said, finds its starting-point either in the desire to flee from eternal wrath or in the desire to obtain eternal bliss. puritanism has learned from revelation, as it says, a particular history of the first man's fall, of mankind being under a curse, of certain contracts having been passed concerning mankind in the council of the trinity, of the substance of those contracts, and of man's position under them. the great concern of puritanism is with the operation of those contracts on man's condition; its leading thought, if it is a puritanism of a gloomy turn, is of awe and fear caused by the threatening aspect of man's condition under these contracts; if of a cheerful turn, of gratitude and hope caused by the favourable aspect of it. but in either case, foregone events, the covenant passed, what god has done and does, is the great matter. what there is left for man to do, the human work of righteousness, is secondary, and comes in but to attest and confirm our assurance of what god has done for us. we have seen this in wesley's words already quoted: the first thing for a man is to be justified and sanctified, and to have the assurance that, without seeking it by works, he is justified and sanctified; then the desire and works of righteousness follow as a proper result of this condition. still more does calvinism make man's desire and works of righteousness mere evidences and benefits of more important things; the desire to work righteousness is among the saving graces applied by the holy spirit to the elect, and the last of those graces. _denique_, says the synod of dort, _last of all_, after faith in the promises and after the witness of the spirit, comes, to establish our assurance, a clear conscience and righteousness. it is manifest how unlike is this order of ideas to paul's order, who starts with the thought of a conscience void of offence towards god and man, and builds upon that thought his whole system. but this difference constitutes from the very outset an immense scientific superiority for the scheme of paul. hope and fear are elements of human nature like the love of right, but they are far blinder and less scientific elements of it. 'the bible is a divine revelation; the bible declares certain things; the things it thus declares have the witness of our hopes and fears;'--this is the line of thought followed by puritanism. but what science seeks after is a satisfying rational conception of things. a scheme which fails to give this, which gives the contrary of this, may indeed be of a nature to move our hopes and fears, but is to science of none the more value on that account. nor does our calling such a scheme _a revelation_ mend the matter. instead of covering the scientific inadequacy of a conception by the authority of a revelation, science rather proves the authority of a revelation by the scientific adequacy of the conceptions given in it, and limits the sphere of that authority to the sphere of that adequacy. the more an alleged revelation seems to contain precious and striking things, the more will science be inclined to doubt the correctness of any deduction which draws from it, within the sphere of these things, a scheme which rationally is not satisfying. that the scheme of puritanism is rationally so little satisfying inclines science, not to take it on the authority of the bible, but to doubt whether it is really in the bible. the first appeal which this scheme, having begun outside the sphere of reality and experience, makes in the sphere of reality and experience,--its first appeal, therefore, to science,--the appeal to the witness of human hope and fear, does not much mend matters; for science knows that numberless conceptions not rationally satisfying are yet the ground of hope and fear. paul does not begin outside the sphere of science; he begins with an appeal to reality and experience. and the appeal here with which he commences has, for science, undoubted force and importance; for he appeals to a rational conception which is a part, and perhaps the chief part, of our experience; the conception of the law of _righteousness_, the very law and ground of human nature so far as this nature is moral. things as they truly are,--facts,--are the object-matter of science; and the moral law in human nature, however this law may have originated, is in our actual experience among the greatest of facts. if i were not afraid of intruding upon mr. ruskin's province, i might point out the witness which etymology itself bears to this law as a prime element and _clue_ in man's constitution. our word righteousness means going straight, going the way we are meant to go; there are languages in which the word 'way' or 'road' is also the word for right reason and duty; the greek word for justice and righteousness has for its foundation, some say, the idea of describing a certain line, following a certain necessary orbit. but for these fanciful helps there is no need. when paul starts with affirming the grandeur and necessity of the law of righteousness, science has no difficulty in going along with him. when he fixes as man's right aim 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faith, mildness, self-control,'[30] he appeals for witness to the truth of what he says to an experience too intimate to need illustration or argument. [footnote 30: _gal._, v, 22, 23.] the best confirmation of the scientific validity of the importance which paul thus attaches to the law of righteousness, the law of reason and conscience, god as moral law, is to be found in its agreement with the importance attached to this law by teachers the most unlike him; since in the eye of science an experience gains as much by having universality, as in the eye of religion it seems to gain by having uniqueness. 'would you know,' says epictetus, 'the means to perfection which socrates followed? they were these: in every single matter which came before him he made the rule of reason and conscience his one rule to follow.' such was precisely the aim of paul also; it is an aim to which science does homage as a satisfying rational conception. and to this aim hope and fear properly attach themselves. for on our following the clue of moral order, or losing it, depends our happiness or misery; our life or death in the true sense of those words; our harmony with the universal order or our disharmony with it; our partaking, as st. paul says, of the wrath of god or of the glory of god. so that looking to this clue, and fearing to lose hold on it, we may in strict scientific truth say with the author of the imitation: _omnia vanitas, prã¦ter amare deum, et illi soli servire_. but to serve god, to follow that central clue in our moral being which unites us to the universal order, is no easy task; and here again we are on the most sure ground of experience and psychology. in some way or other, says bishop wilson, every man is conscious of an opposition in him between the flesh and the spirit. _video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor_, say the thousand times quoted lines of the roman poet. the philosophical explanation of this conflict does not indeed attribute, like the manichã¦an fancy, any inherent evil to the flesh and its workings; all the forces and tendencies in us are, like our proper central moral tendency the desire of righteousness, in themselves beneficent. but they require to be harmonised with this tendency, because this aims directly at our total moral welfare,--our harmony as moral beings with the law of our nature and the law of god,--and derives thence a pre-eminence and a right to moderate. and, though they are not evil in themselves, the evil which flows from these diverse workings is undeniable. the lusts of the flesh, the law in our members, _passion_, according to the greek word used by paul, _inordinate affection_, according to the admirable rendering of paul's greek word in our english bible,[31] take naturally no account of anything but themselves; this arbitrary and unregulated action of theirs can produce only confusion and misery. the spirit, the law of our mind, takes account of the universal moral order, the will of god, and is indeed the voice of that order expressing itself in us. paul talks of a man sowing to _his_ flesh,[32] because each of us has of his own this individual body, this _congeries_ of flesh and bones, blood and nerves, different from that of every one else, and with desires and impulses driving each of us his own separate way; and he says that a man who sows to this, sows to a thousand tyrants, and can reap no worthy harvest. but he talks of sowing to _the_ spirit; because there is one central moral tendency which for us and for all men is the law of our being, and through reason and righteousness we move in this universal order and with it. in this conformity to _the will of god_, as we religiously name the moral order, is our peace and happiness. [footnote 31: _col._, iii, 5.] [footnote 32: _gal._, vi, 8.] but how to find the energy and power to bring all those self-seeking tendencies of the flesh, those multitudinous, swarming, eager, and incessant impulses, into obedience to the central tendency? mere commanding and forbidding is of no avail, and only irritates opposition in the desires it tries to control. it even enlarges their power, because it makes us feel our impotence; and the confusion caused by their ungoverned working is increased by our being filled with a deepened sense of disharmony, remorse, and dismay. 'i was alive without the law once,'[33] says paul; the natural play of all the forces and desires in me went on smoothly enough so long as i did not attempt to introduce order and regulation among them. but the condition of immoral tranquillity could not in man be permanent. that natural law of reason and conscience which all men have, was sufficient by itself to produce a consciousness of rebellion and disquietude. matters became only worse by the exhibition of the mosaic law, the offspring of a moral sense more poignant and stricter, however little it might show of subtle insight and delicacy, than the moral sense of the mass of mankind. the very stringency of the mosaic code increased the feeling of dismay and helplessness; it set forth the law of righteousness more authoritatively and minutely, yet did not supply any sufficient power to keep it. neither the law of nature, therefore, nor the law of moses, availed to blind men to righteousness. so we come to the word which is the governing word of the epistle to the romans,--the word _all_. as the word _righteousness_ is the governing word of st. paul's entire mind and life, so the word _all_ is the governing word of this his chief epistle. the gentile with the law of nature, the jew with the law of moses, alike fail to achieve righteousness. '_all_ have sinned, and come short of the glory of god.'[34] all do what they would not, and do not what they would; all feel themselves enslaved, impotent, guilty, miserable. 'o wretched man that i am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?'[35] [footnote 33: _rom._, vii, 9.] [footnote 34: _rom._, iii, 23.] [footnote 35: _rom._, vii, 24.] hitherto, we have followed paul in the sphere of morals; we have now come with him to the point where he enters the sphere of religion. religion is that which binds and holds us to the practice of righteousness. we have accompanied paul, and found him always treading solid ground, till he is brought to straits where a binding and holding power of this kind is necessary. here is the critical point for the scientific worth of his doctrine. 'now at last,' cries puritanism, 'the great apostle is about to become even as one of us; there is no issue for him now, but the issue we have always declared he finds. he has recourse to our theurgy of election, justification, substitution, and imputed righteousness.' we will proceed to show that paul has recourse to nothing of the kind. ii. we have seen how puritanism seems to come by its religion in the first instance theologically and from authority; paul by his, on the other hand, psychologically and from experience. even the points, therefore, in which they both meet, they have not reached in the same order or by the same road. the miserable sense of sin from unrighteousness, the joyful witness of a good conscience from righteousness, these are points in which puritanism and st. paul meet. they are facts of human nature and can be verified by science. but whereas puritanism, so far as science is concerned, ends with these facts, and rests the whole weight of its antecedent theurgy upon the witness to it they offer, paul begins with these facts, and has not yet, so far as we have followed him, called upon them to prove anything but themselves. the scientific difference, as we have already remarked, which this establishes between paul and puritanism is immense, and is all in paul's favour. sin and righteousness, together with their eternal accompaniments of fear and hope, misery and happiness, can prove themselves; but they can by no means prove, also, puritanism's history of original sin, election and justification. puritanism is fond of maintaining, indeed, that paul's doctrines derive their sanction, not from any agreement with science and experience, but from his miraculous conversion, and that this conversion it was which in his own judgment gave to them their authority. but whatever sanction the miracle of his conversion may in his own eyes have lent to the doctrines afterwards propounded by paul, it is clear that, for science, his conversion adds to his doctrines no force at all which they do not already possess in themselves. paul's conversion is for science an event of precisely the same nature as the conversions of which the history of methodism relates so many; events described, for the most part, just as the event of paul's conversion is described, with perfect good faith, and which we may perfectly admit to have happened just in the manner related, without on that account attributing to those who underwent them any source of certitude for a scheme of doctrine which this doctrine does not on other and better grounds possess. surely this proposition has only to be clearly stated in order to be self-evident. the conversion of paul is in itself an incident of precisely the same order as the conversion of sampson staniforth, a methodist soldier in the campaign of fontenoy. staniforth himself relates his conversion as follows, in words which bear plainly marked on them the very stamp of good faith:- 'from twelve at night till two it was my turn to stand sentinel at a dangerous post. i had a fellow-sentinel, but i desired him to go away, which he willingly did. as soon as i was alone, i knelt down and determined not to rise, but to continue crying and wrestling with god till he had mercy on me. how long i was in that agony i cannot tell; but as i looked up to heaven i saw the clouds open exceeding bright, and i saw jesus hanging on the cross. at the same moment these words were applied to my heart: "thy sins are forgiven thee." all guilt was gone, and my soul was filled with unutterable peace: the fear of death and hell was vanished away. i was filled with wonder and astonishment. i closed my eyes, but the impression was still the same; and for about ten weeks, while i was awake, let me be where i would, the same appearance was still before my eyes, and the same impression upon my heart, _thy sins are forgiven thee_.' not the narrative, in the acts, of paul's journey to damascus, could more convince us, as we have said, of its own honesty. but this honesty makes nothing, as every one will admit, for the scientific truth of any scheme of doctrine propounded by sampson staniforth, which must prove itself and its own scientific value before science can admit it. precisely the same is it with paul's doctrine; and we repeat, therefore, that he and his doctrine have herein a great advantage over puritanism, in that, so far as we have yet followed them, they, unlike puritanism, rely on facts of experience and assert nothing which science cannot verify. we have now to see whether paul, in passing from the undoubted facts of experience, with which he begins, to his religion properly so called, abandons in any essential points of his teaching the advantage with which he started, and ends, as puritanism commences, with a batch of arbitrary and unscientific assumptions. we left paul in collision with a fact of human nature, but in itself a sterile fact, a fact on which it is possible to dwell too long, although puritanism, thinking this impossible, has remained intensely absorbed in the contemplation of it, and indeed has never properly got beyond it,--the sense of sin. sin is not a monster to be mused on, but an impotence to be got rid of. all thinking about it, beyond what is indispensable for the firm effort to get rid of it, is waste of energy and waste of time. we then enter that element of morbid and subjective brooding, in which so many have perished. this sense of sin, however, it is also possible to have not strongly enough to beget the firm effort to get rid of it, and the greeks, with all their great gifts, had this sense not strongly enough; its strength in the hebrew people is one of this people's mainsprings. and no hebrew prophet or psalmist felt what sin was more powerfully than paul. 'mine iniquities have taken hold upon me so that i am not able to look up; they are more than the hairs of mine head; therefore my heart faileth me.'[36] _they are more than the hairs of mine head._ the motions of what paul calls 'the law in our members' are indeed a hydrabrood; when we are working against one fault, a dozen others crop up without our expecting it; and this it is which drives the man who deals seriously with himself to difficulty, nay to despair. paul did not need james to tell him that whoever offends on one point is, so far at least as his own conscience and inward satisfaction are concerned, guilty of all;[37] he knew it himself, and the unrest this knowledge gave him was his very starting-point. he knew, too, that nothing outward, no satisfaction of all the requirements men may make of us, no privileges of any sort, can give peace of conscience;--of conscience, 'whose praise is not of men but of god.'[38] he knew, also, that the law of the moral order stretches beyond us and our private conscience, is independent of our sense of having kept it, and stands absolute and what in itself it is; even, therefore, though i may know nothing against myself, yet this is not enough, i may still not be just.[39] finally, paul knew that merely to know all this and say it, is of no use, advances us nothing; 'the kingdom of god is not in word but in power.'[40] [footnote 36: _ps._ xl, 12.] [footnote 37: _james_, ii, 10.] [footnote 38: _rom._, ii, 29.] [footnote 39: i _cor._, iv, 4.] [footnote 40: _ibid._, 20.] we have several times said that the hebrew race apprehended god,--the universal order by which all things fulfil the law of their being,--chiefly as the moral order in human nature, and that it was their greatness that they apprehended him as this so distinctly and powerfully. but it is also characteristic of them, and perhaps it is what mainly distinguishes their spirit from the spirit of mediã¦val christianity, that they constantly thought, too, of god as the source of life and breath and all things, and of what they called 'fulness of life' in all things. this way of thinking was common to them with the greeks; although, whereas the greeks threw more delicacy and imagination into it, the hebrews threw more energy and vital warmth. but to the hebrew, as to the greek, the gift of life, and health, and the world, was divine, as well as the gift of morals. 'god's righteousness,' indeed, 'standeth like the strong mountains, his judgments are like the great deep; he is a righteous judge, strong and patient, who is provoked every day.'[41] this is the hebrew's first and deepest conception of god,--as the source of the moral order. but god is also, to the hebrew, 'our rock, which is higher than we,' the power by which we have been 'upholden ever since we were born,' that has 'fashioned us and laid his hand upon us' and envelops us on every side, that has 'made us fearfully and wonderfully,' and whose 'mercy is over all his works.'[42] he is the power that 'saves both man and beast, gives them drink of his pleasures as out of the river,' and with whom is 'the well of life.'[43] in his speech at athens, paul shows how full he, too, was of this feeling; and in the famous passage in the first chapter of the epistle to the romans, where he asserts the existence of the natural moral law, the source he assigns to this law is not merely god in conscience, the righteous judge, but god in the world and the workings of the world, the eternal and divine power from which all life and wholesome energy proceed.[44] [footnote 41: _ps._ xxxvi, 6; vii, 11.] [footnote 42: _ps._ lxi, 2; lxii, 6; cxxxix, 5, 14; cxlv, 9.] [footnote 43: _ps._ xxxvi, 6, 8, 9.] [footnote 44: _rom._, i, 19-21.] this element in which we live and move and have our being, which stretches around and beyond the strictly moral element in us, around and beyond the finite sphere of what is originated, measured, and controlled by our own understanding and will,--this infinite element is very present to paul's thoughts, and makes a profound impression on them. by this element we are receptive and influenced, not originative and influencing; now, we all of us receive far more than we originate. our pleasure from a spring day we do not make; our pleasure, even, from an approving conscience we do not make. and yet we feel that both the one pleasure and the other can, and often do, work with us in a wonderful way for our good. so we get the thought of an impulsion outside ourselves which is at once awful and beneficent. 'no man,' as the hebrew psalm says, 'hath quickened his own soul.'[45] 'i know,' says jeremiah, 'that the way of man is not in himself; it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.'[46] most true and natural is this feeling; and the greater men are, the more natural is this feeling to them. great men like sylla and napoleon have loved to attribute their success to their fortune, their star; religious great men have loved to say that their sufficiency was of god.[47] but through every great spirit runs a train of feeling of this sort; and the power and depth which there undoubtedly is in calvinism, comes from calvinism's being overwhelmed by it. paul is not, like calvinism, overwhelmed by it; but it is always before his mind and strongly agitates his thoughts. the voluntary, rational, and human world, of righteousness, moral choice, effort, filled the first place in his spirit. but the necessary, mystical, and divine world, of influence, sympathy, emotion, filled the second; and he could pass naturally from the one world to the other. the presence in paul of this twofold feeling acted irresistibly upon his doctrine. what he calls 'the power that worketh in us,'[48] and that produces results transcending all our expectations and calculations, he instinctively sought to combine with our personal agencies of reason and conscience. [footnote 45: _ps._ xxii, 29.] [footnote 46: _jer._, x, 23.] [footnote 47: ii _cor._, iii, 5.] [footnote 48: _eph._, iii, 20.] of such a mysterious power and its operation some clear notion may be got by anybody who has ever had any overpowering attachment, or has been, according to the common expression, in love. every one knows how being in love changes for the time a man's spiritual atmosphere, and makes animation and buoyancy where before there was flatness and dulness. one may even say that this is the reason why being in love is so popular with the whole human race,--because it relieves in so irresistible and delightful a manner the tedium or depression of common-place human life. and not only does it change the atmosphere of our spirits, making air, light, and movement where before was stagnation and gloom, but it also sensibly and powerfully increases our faculties of action. it is matter of the commonest remark how a timid man who is in love will show courage, or an indolent man will show diligence. nay, a timid man who would be only the more paralysed in a moment of danger by being told that it is his bounden duty as a man to show firmness, and that he must be ruined and disgraced for ever if he does not, will show firmness quite easily from being in love. an indolent man who shrinks back from vigorous effort only the more because he is told and knows that it is a man's business to show energy, and that it is shameful in him if he does not, will show energy quite easily from being in love. this, i say, we learn from the analogy of the most everyday experience;--that a powerful attachment will give a man spirits and confidence which he could by no means call up or command of himself; and that in this mood he can do wonders which would not be possible to him without it. we have seen how paul felt himself to be for the sake of righteousness _apprehended_, to use his own expression, by christ. 'i seek,' he says, 'to apprehend that for which also i am apprehended by christ.'[49] this for which he is thus apprehended is,--still to use his own words,--_the righteousness of god_; not an incomplete and maimed righteousness, not a partial and unsatisfying establishment of the law of the spirit, dominant to-day, deposed to-morrow, effective at one or two points, failing in a hundred; no, but an entire conformity at all points with the divine moral order, the will of god, and, in consequence, a sense of harmony with this order, of acceptance with god. [footnote 49: _philipp._, iii, 12.] in some points paul had always served this order with a clear conscience. he did not steal, he did not commit adultery. but he was at the same time, he says himself, 'a blasphemer and a persecutor and an insulter,'[50] and the contemplation of jesus christ made him see this, impressed it forcibly upon his mind. here was his greatness, and the worth of his way of appropriating christ. we have seen how calvinism, too,--calvinism which has built itself upon st. paul,--is a blasphemer, when it speaks of good works done by those who do not hold the calvinist doctrine. there would need no great sensitiveness of conscience, one would think, to show that calvinism has often been, also, a persecutor, and an insulter. calvinism, as well as paul, professes to study jesus christ. but the difference between paul's study of christ and calvinism's is this: that paul by studying christ got to know himself clearly, and to transform his narrow conception of righteousness; while calvinism studies both christ and paul after him to no such good purpose. [footnote 50: i _tim._, i, 13.] these, however, are but the veriest rudiments of the history of paul's gain from jesus christ, as the particular impression mentioned is but the veriest fragment of the total impression produced by the contemplation of christ upon him. the sum and substance of that total impression may best be conveyed by two words,--_without sin_. we must here revert to what we have already said of the importance, for sound criticism of a man's ideas, of the order in which his ideas come. for us, who approach christianity through a scholastic theology, it is christ's divinity which establishes his being without sin. for paul, who approached christianity through his personal experience, it was jesus christ's being without sin which establishes his divinity. the large and complete conception of righteousness to which he himself had slowly and late, and only by jesus christ's help, awakened, in jesus he seemed to see existing absolutely and naturally. the devotion to this conception which made it meat and drink to carry it into effect, a devotion of which he himself was strongly and deeply conscious, he saw in jesus still stronger, by far, and deeper than in himself. but for attaining the righteousness of god, for reaching an absolute conformity with the moral order and with god's will, he saw no such impotence existing in jesus christ's case as in his own. for jesus, the uncertain conflict between the law in our members and the law of the spirit did not appear to exist. those eternal vicissitudes of victory and defeat, which drove paul to despair, in jesus were absent. smoothly and inevitably he followed the real and eternal order, in preference to the momentary and apparent order. obstacles outside him there were plenty, but obstacles within him there were none. he was led by the spirit of god; he was dead to sin, he lived to god; and in this life to god he persevered even to the cruel bodily death of the cross. as many as are led by the spirit of god, says paul, are the sons of god.[51] if this is so with even us, who live to god so feebly and who render such an imperfect obedience, how much more is he who lives to god entirely and who renders an unalterable obedience, the unique and only son of god? [footnote 51: _rom._, viii, 14.] this is undoubtedly the main line of movement which paul's ideas respecting jesus christ follow. he had been trained, however, in the scholastic theology of judaism, just as we are trained in the scholastic theology of christianity; would that we were as little embarrassed with our training as he was with his! the jewish theological doctrine respecting the eternal word or wisdom of god, which was with god from the beginning before the oldest of his works, and through which the world was created, this doctrine, which appears in the book of proverbs and again in the book of wisdom,[52] paul applied to jesus christ, and in the epistle to the colossians there is a remarkable passage[53] with clear signs of his thus applying it. but then this metaphysical and theological basis to the historic being of jesus is something added by paul from outside to his own essential ideas concerning him, something which fitted them and was naturally taken on to them; it is secondary, it is not an original part of his system, much less the ground of it. it fills a very different place in his system from the place which it fills in the system of the author of the fourth gospel, who takes his starting-point from it. paul's starting-point, it cannot be too often repeated, is the idea of righteousness; and his concern with jesus is as the clue to righteousness, not as the clue to transcendental ontology. speculations in this region had no overpowering attraction for paul, notwithstanding the traces of an acquaintance with them which we find in his writings, and notwithstanding the great activity of his intellect. this activity threw itself with an unerring instinct into a sphere where, with whatever travail and through whatever impediments to clear expression, directly practical religious results might yet be won, and not into any sphere of abstract speculation. [footnote 52: _prov._, viii, 22-31; and _wisd._, vii, 25-27.] [footnote 53: _col._, i, 15-17.] much more visible and important than his identification of jesus with the divine hypostasis known as the logos, is paul's identification of him with the messiah. ever present is his recognition of him as the messiah to whom all the law and prophets pointed, of whom the heart of the jewish race was full, and on whom the jewish instructors of paul's youth had dwelt abundantly. the jewish language and ideas respecting the end of the world and the messiah's kingdom, his day, his presence, his appearing, his glory, paul applied to jesus, and constantly used. of the force and reality which these ideas and expressions had for him there can be no question; as to his use of them, only two remarks are needed. one is, that in him these jewish ideas,--as any one will feel who calls to mind a genuine display of them like that in the apocalypse,--are spiritualised; and as he advances in his course they are spiritualised increasingly. the other remark is, that important as these ideas are in paul, of them, too, the importance is only secondary, compared with that of the great central matter of his thoughts: _the righteousness of god, the non-fulfilment of it by man, the fulfilment of it by christ_. once more we are led to a result favourable to the scientific value of paul's teaching. that jesus christ was the divine logos, the second person of the trinity, science can neither deny nor affirm. that he was the jewish messiah, who will some day appear in the sky with the sound of trumpets, to put an end to the actual kingdoms of the world and to establish his own kingdom, science can neither deny nor affirm. the very terms of which these propositions are composed are such as science is unable to handle. but that the jesus of the bible follows the universal moral order and the will of god, without being let and hindered as we are by the motions of private passion and by self-will, this is evident to whoever can read the bible with open eyes. it is just what any criticism of the gospel-history, which sees that history as it really is, tells us; it is the scientific result of that history. and this is the result which pre-eminently occupies paul. of christ's life and death, the all-importance for us, according to paul, is that by means of them, 'denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly;' should be enabled to 'bear fruit to god' in 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faith, mildness, self-control.'[54] of christ's life and death the scope was 'to redeem us from all iniquity, and make us purely zealous for good works.'[55] paul says by way of preface, that we are to live thus in the actual world which now is, 'with the expectation of the appearing of the glory of god and christ.'[56] by nature and habit, and with his full belief that the end of the world was nigh at hand, paul used these words to mean a messianic coming and kingdom. later christianity has transferred them, as it has transferred so much else of paul's, to a life beyond the grave, but it has by no means spiritualised them. paul, as his spiritual growth advanced, spiritualised them more and more; he came to think, in using them, more and more of a gradual inward transformation of the world by a conformity like christ's to the will of god, than of a messianic advent. yet even then they are always second with him, and not first; the essence of saving grace is always to make us righteous, to bring us into conformity with the divine law, to enable us to 'bear fruit to god.' [footnote 54: _tit._, ii, 12; _rom._, vii, 4; _gal._, v, 22, 23.] [footnote 55: _tit._, ii, 14.] [footnote 56: _ibid._, 13.] 'jesus christ gave himself for us that he might redeem us from iniquity.' first of all, he rendered an unbroken obedience to the law of the spirit; he served the spirit of god; he came, not to do his own will, but the will of god. now, the law of the spirit makes men one; it is only by the law in our members that we are many. secondly, therefore, jesus christ had an unfailing sense of what we have called, using an expressive modern term, the _solidarity_ of men: that it was not god's will that one of his human creatures should perish. thirdly, jesus christ persevered in this uninterrupted obedience to the law of the spirit, in this unfailing sense of human solidarity, even to the death; though everything befell him which might break the one or tire out the other. lastly, he had in himself, in all he said and did, that ineffable force of attraction which doubled the virtue of everything said or done by him. if ever there was a case in which the wonder-working power of attachment, in a man for whom the moral sympathies and the desire of righteousness were all-powerful, might employ itself and work its wonders, it was here. paul felt this power penetrate him; and he felt, also, how by perfectly identifying himself through it with jesus, and in no other way, could he ever get the confidence and the force to do as jesus did. he thus found a point in which the mighty world outside man, and the weak world inside him, seemed to combine for his salvation. the struggling stream of duty, which had not volume enough to bear him to his goal, was suddenly reinforced by the immense tidal wave of sympathy and emotion. to this new and potent influence paul gave the name of _faith_. more fully he calls it: 'faith that worketh _through love_.'[57] the word _faith_ points, no doubt, to 'coming by hearing,' and has possibly a reminiscence, for paul, of his not having with his own waking eyes, like the original disciples, seen jesus, and of his special mission being to gentiles who had not seen jesus either. but the essential meaning of the word is 'power of holding on to the unseen,' 'fidelity.' other attachments demand fidelity in absence to an object which, at some time or other, nevertheless, has been seen; this attachment demands fidelity to an object which both is absent and has never been seen by us. it is therefore rightly called not constancy, but faith; a power, pre-eminently, of _holding fast to an unseen power of goodness_. identifying ourselves with jesus christ through this attachment we become as he was. we live with his thoughts and feelings, and we participate, therefore, in his freedom from the ruinous law in our members, in his obedience to the saving law of the spirit, in his conformity to the eternal order, in the joy and peace of his life to god. 'the law of the spirit of life in christ jesus,' says paul, 'freed me from the law of sin and death.'[58] this is what is done for us by _faith_. [footnote 57: _gal._, v, 6.] [footnote 58: _rom._, viii, 2.] it is evident that some difficulty arises out of paul's adding to the general sense of the word faith,--_a holding fast to an unseen power of goodness_,--a particular sense of his own,--_identification with christ_. it will at once appear that this faith of paul's is in truth a specific form of holding fast to an unseen power of goodness; and that while it can properly be said of abraham, for instance, that he was justified by faith, if we take faith in its plain sense of holding fast to an unseen power of goodness, yet it cannot without difficulty and recourse to a strained figure be said of him, if we take faith in paul's specific sense of identification with christ. paul however, undoubtedly, having conveyed his new specific sense into the word faith, still uses the word in all cases where, without this specific sense, it was before applicable and usual; and in this way he often creates ambiguity. why, it may be asked, does paul, instead of employing a special term to denote his special meaning, still thus employ the general term faith? we are inclined to think it was from that desire to get for his words and thoughts not only the real but also the apparent sanction and consecration of the hebrew scriptures, which we have called his tendency to judaise. it was written of the founder of israel, abraham, that he _believed_ god and it was counted to him for righteousness. the prophet habakkuk had the famous text: 'the just shall live by _faith_.'[59] jesus, too, had used and sanctioned the use of the word _faith_ to signify cleaving to the unseen god's power of goodness as shown in christ.[60] peter and john and the other apostles habitually used the word in the same sense, with the modification introduced by christ's departure. this was enough to make paul retain for that vital operation, which was the heart of his whole religious system, the name of faith, though he had considerably developed and enlarged the name's usual meaning. fraught with this new and developed sense, the term does not always quite well suit the cases to which it was in its old sense, with perfect propriety, applied; this, however, paul did not regard. the term applied with undeniable truth, though not with perfect adequacy, to the great spiritual operation whereto he affixed it; and it was at the same time the name given to the crowning grace of the great father of the jewish nation, abraham; it was the prophet habakkuk's talismanic and consecrated term, _faith_. [footnote 59: _gen._, xv, 6; _habakkuk_, ii, 4.] [footnote 60: _mark_, xi, 22.] in this word _faith_, as used by st. paul,[61] we reach a point round which the ceaseless stream of religious exposition and discussion has for ages circled. even for those who misconceive paul's line of ideas most completely, faith is so evidently the central point in his system that their thoughts cannot but centre upon it. puritanism, as is well known, has talked of little else but faith. and the word is of such a nature, that, the true clue once lost which paul has given us to its meaning, every man may put into it almost anything he likes, all the fancies of his superstition or of his fanaticism. to say, therefore, that to have faith in christ means to be attached to christ, to embrace christ, to be identified with christ, is not enough; the question is, to be attached to him _how_, to embrace him _how_? [footnote 61: with secondary uses of the word, such as its use with the article, '_the_ faith,' in expressions like 'the words of the faith,' to signify the body of tenets and principles received by believers from the apostle, we need not here concern ourselves. they present no difficulty.] a favourite expression of popular theology conveys perfectly the popular definition of faith: _to rest in the finished work of the saviour_. in the scientific language of protestant theology, to embrace christ, to have saving faith, is 'to give our consent heartily to the covenant of grace, and so to receive the benefit of justification, whereby god pardons all our sins and accepts us as righteous for the righteousness of christ imputed to us.' this is mere theurgy, in which, so far as we have yet gone, we have not found paul dealing. wesley, with his genius for godliness, struggled all his life for some deeper and more edifying account of that faith, which he felt working wonders in his own soul, than that it was a hearty consent to the covenant of grace and an acceptance of the benefit of christ's imputed righteousness. yet this amiable and gracious spirit, but intellectually slight and shallow compared to paul, beat his wings in vain. paul, nevertheless, had solved the problem for him, if only he could have had eyes to see paul's solution. 'he that believes in christ,' says wesley, 'discerns spiritual things: he is enabled to taste, see, hear, and feel god.' there is nothing practical and solid here. a company of cornish revivalists will have no difficulty in tasting, seeing, hearing, and feeling god, twenty times over, to-night, and yet may be none the better for it to-morrow morning. when paul said, _in christ jesus neither circumcision availeth anything nor uncircumcision, but faith that worketh through love; have faith in christ!_ these words did not mean for him: 'give your hearty belief and consent to the covenant of grace; accept the offered benefit of justification through christ's imputed righteousness.' they did not mean: 'try and discern spiritual things, try and taste, see, hear, and feel god.' they did not mean: 'rest in the finished work of christ the saviour.' no, they meant: _die with him!_ the object of this treatise is not religious edification, but the true criticism of a great and misunderstood author. yet it is impossible to be in presence of this pauline conception of faith without remarking on the incomparable power of edification which it contains. it is indeed a crowning evidence of that piercing practical religious sense which we have attributed to paul. it is at once mystical and rational; and it enlists in its service the best forces of both worlds,--the world of reason and morals, and the world of sympathy and emotion. the world of reason and duty has an excellent clue to action, but wants motive-power; the world of sympathy and influence has an irresistible force of motive-power, but wants a clue for directing its exertion. the danger of the one world is weariness in well-doing; the danger of the other is sterile raptures and immoral fanaticism. paul takes from both worlds what can help him, and leaves what cannot. the elemental power of sympathy and emotion in us, a power which extends beyond the limits of our own will and conscious activity, which we cannot measure and control, and which in each of us differs immensely in force, volume, and mode of manifestation, he calls into full play, and sets it to work with all its strength and in all its variety. but one unalterable object is assigned by him to this power: _to die with christ to the law of the flesh, to live with christ to the law of the mind_. this is the doctrine of the _necrosis_,[62]--paul's central doctrine, and the doctrine which makes his profoundness and originality. his repeated and minute lists of practices and feelings to be followed or suppressed, now take a heightened significance. they were the matter by which his faith tried itself and knew itself. those multitudinous motions of appetite and self-will which reason and conscience disapproved, reason and conscience could yet not govern, and had to yield to them. this, as we have seen, is what drove paul almost to despair. well, then, how did paul's faith, working through love, help him here? it enabled him to reinforce duty by affection. in the central need of his nature, the desire to govern these motions of unrighteousness, it enabled him to say: _die to them! christ did._ if any man be in christ, said paul--that is, if any man identifies himself with christ by attachment so that he enters into his feelings and lives with his life,--he is a new creature;[63] he can do, and does, what christ did. first, he suffers with him. christ throughout his life and in his death presented his body a living sacrifice to god; every self-willed impulse blindly trying to assert itself without respect of the universal order, he died to. you, says paul to his disciple, are to do the same. never mind how various and multitudinous the impulses are; impulses to intemperance, concupiscence, covetousness, pride, sloth, envy, malignity, anger, clamour, bitterness, harshness, unmercifulness. die to them all, and to each as it comes! christ did. if you cannot, your attachment, your faith, must be one that goes but a very little way. in an ordinary human attachment, out of love to a woman, out of love to a friend, out of love to a child, you can suppress quite easily, because by sympathy you enter into their feelings, this or that impulse of selfishness which happens to conflict with them, and which hitherto you have obeyed. _all_ impulses of selfishness conflict with christ's feelings, he showed it by dying to them all; if you are one with him by faith and sympathy, you can die to them also. then, secondly, if you thus die with him, you become transformed by the renewing of your mind, and rise with him. the law of the spirit of life which is in christ becomes the law of your life also, and frees you from the law of sin and death. you rise with him to that harmonious conformity with the real and eternal order, that sense of pleasing god who trieth the hearts, which is life and peace, and which grows more and more till it becomes glory. if you suffer with him, therefore, you shall also be glorified with him. [footnote 62: ii _cor._, iv, 10.] [footnote 63: ii _cor._, v, 17.] the real worth of this mystical conception depends on the fitness of the character and history of jesus christ for inspiring such an enthusiasm of attachment and devotion as that which paul's notion of faith implies. if the character and history are eminently such as to inspire it, then paul has no doubt found a mighty aid towards the attainment of that righteousness of which jesus christ's life afforded the admirable pattern. a great solicitude is always shown by popular christianity to establish a radical difference between jesus and a teacher, like socrates. ordinary theologians establish this difference by transcendental distinctions into which science cannot follow them. but what makes for science the radical difference between jesus and socrates, is that such a conception as paul's would, if applied to socrates, be out of place and ineffective. socrates inspired boundless friendship and esteem; but the inspiration of reason and conscience is the one inspiration which comes from him, and which impels us to live righteously as he did. a penetrating enthusiasm of love, sympathy, pity, adoration, reinforcing the inspiration of reason and duty, does not belong to socrates. with jesus it is different. on this point it is needless to argue; history has proved. in the midst of errors the most prosaic, the most immoral, the most unscriptural, concerning god, christ, and righteousness, the immense emotion of love and sympathy inspired by the person and character of jesus has had to work almost by itself alone for righteousness; and it has worked wonders. the surpassing religious grandeur of paul's conception of faith is that it seizes a real salutary emotional force of incalculable magnitude, and reinforces moral effort with it. paul's mystical conception is not complete without its relation of us to our fellow-men, as well as its relation of us to jesus christ. whoever identifies himself with christ, identifies himself with christ's idea of the solidarity of men. the whole race is conceived as one body, having to die and rise with christ, and forming by the joint action of its regenerate members the mystical body of christ. hence the truth of that which bishop wilson says: 'it is not so much our neighbour's interest as our own that we love him.' jesus christ's life, with which we by faith identify ourselves, is not complete, his aspiration after the eternal order is not satisfied, so long as only jesus himself follows this order, or only this or that individual amongst us men follows it. the same law of emotion and sympathy, therefore, which prevails in our inward self-discipline, is to prevail in our dealings with others. the motions of sin in ourselves we succeed in mortifying, not by saying to ourselves that they are sinful, but by sympathy with christ in his mortification of them. in like manner, our duties towards our neighbour we perform, not in deference to external commands and prohibitions, but through identifying ourselves with him by sympathy with christ who identified himself with him. therefore, we owe no man anything but to love one another; and he who loves his neighbour fulfils the law towards him, because he seeks to do him good and forbears to do him harm just as if he was himself. mr. lecky cannot see that the command to speak the truth to one's neighbour is a command which has a natural sanction. but according to these pauline ideas it has a clear natural sanction. for, if my neighbour is merely an extension of myself, deceiving my neighbour is the same as deceiving myself; and than self-deceit there is nothing by nature more baneful. and on this ground paul puts the injunction. he says: 'speak every man truth to his neighbour, _for_ we are members one of another.'[64] this direction to identify ourselves in jesus christ with our neighbours is hard and startling, no doubt, like the direction to identify ourselves with jesus and die with him. but it is also, like that direction, inspiring; and not, like a set of mere mechanical commands and prohibitions, lifeless and unaiding. it shows a profound practical religious sense, and rests upon facts of human nature which experience can follow and appreciate. [footnote 64: _eph._, iv, 25.] the three essential terms of pauline theology are not, therefore, as popular theology makes them: _calling_, _justification_, _sanctification_. they are rather these: _dying with christ_, _resurrection from the dead_, _growing into christ_.[65] the order in which these terms are placed indicates, what we have already pointed out elsewhere, the true pauline sense of the expression, _resurrection from the dead_. in paul's ideas the expression has no essential connexion with physical death. it is true, popular theology connects it with this almost exclusively, and regards any other use of it as purely figurative and secondary. for popular theology, christ's resurrection is his bodily resurrection on earth after his physical death on the cross; the believer's resurrection is his bodily resurrection in a future world, the golden city of our hymns and of the apocalypse. for this theology, the force of christ's resurrection is that it is a miracle which guarantees the promised future miracle of our own resurrection. it is a common remark with biblical critics, even with able and candid biblical critics, that christ's resurrection, in this sense of a physical miracle, is the central object of paul's thoughts and the foundation of all his theology. nay, the preoccupation with this idea has altered the very text of our documents; so that whereas paul wrote, 'christ died and lived,' we read, 'christ died and rose again and revived.'[66] but whoever has carefully followed paul's line of thought as we have endeavoured to trace it, will see that in his mature theology, as the epistle to the romans exhibits it, it cannot be this physical and miraculous aspect of the resurrection which holds the first place in his mind; for under this aspect the resurrection does not fit in with the ideas which he is developing. [footnote 65: +apothanein syn christã´+, _col._, ii, 20; +exanastasis ek nekrã´n+, _philipp._, iii, 11; +auxãªsis eis christon+, _eph._, iv, 15.] [footnote 66: _rom._, xiv, 9.] not for a moment do we deny that in paul's earlier theology, and notably in the epistles to the thessalonians and corinthians, the physical and miraculous aspect of the resurrection, both christ's and the believer's, is primary and predominant. not for a moment do we deny that to the very end of his life, after the epistle to the romans, after the epistle to the philippians, if he had been asked whether he held the doctrine of the resurrection in the physical and miraculous sense, as well as in his own spiritual and mystical sense, he would have replied with entire conviction that he did. very likely it would have been impossible to him to imagine his theology without it. but:- below the surface-stream, shallow and light, of what we _say_ we feel--below the stream, as light, of what we _think_ we feel--there flows with noiseless current strong, obscure and deep, the central stream of what we feel indeed; and by this alone are we truly characterised. paul's originality lies in the effort to find a moral side and significance for all the processes, however mystical, of the religious life, with a view of strengthening, in this way, their hold upon us and their command of all our nature. sooner or later he was sure to be drawn to treat the process of resurrection with this endeavour. he did so treat it; and what is original and essential in him is his doing so. paul's conception of life and death inevitably came to govern his conception of resurrection. what indeed, as we have seen, is for paul life, and what is death? not the ordinary physical life and death. death, for him, is living after the flesh, obedience to sin; life is mortifying by the spirit the deeds of the flesh, obedience to righteousness. resurrection, in its essential sense, is therefore for paul, the rising, within the sphere of our visible earthly existence, from death in this sense to life in this sense. it is indubitable that, so far as the human believer's resurrection is concerned, this is so. else, how could paul say to the colossians (to take only one out of a hundred clear texts showing the same thing): '_if ye then be risen with christ_, seek the things that are above.'[67] but when paul repeats again and again, in the epistle to the romans, that the matter of our faith is 'that god raised jesus from the dead,' the essential meaning of this resurrection, also, is just the same. real life for paul, begins with the mystical death which frees us from the dominion of the external _shalls_ and _shall nots_ of the law.[68] from the moment, therefore, that jesus christ was content to do god's will, he died. paul's point is, that jesus christ in his earthly existence obeyed the law of the spirit and bore fruit to god; and that the believer should, in his earthly existence, do the same. that christ 'died to sin,' that he 'pleased not himself,' and that, consequently, through all his life here, he was risen and living to god, is what occupies paul. christ's physical resurrection after he was crucified is neither in point of time nor in point of character the resurrection on which paul, following his essential line of thought, wanted to fix the believer's mind. the resurrection paul was striving after for himself and others was a resurrection _now_, and a resurrection to _righteousness_.[69] [footnote 67: _col._, iii, 1.] [footnote 68: see _rom._, vii, 1-6.] [footnote 69: it has been said that this was the error of hymenã¦us and philetas (ii _tim._, ii, 17). it might be rejoined, with much plausibility, that their error was the error of popular theology, the fixing the attention on the past miracle of christ's physical resurrection, and losing sight of the continuing miracle of the christian's spiritual resurrection. probably, however, hymenã¦us and philetas controverted some of paul's tenets respecting the approaching messianic advent and the resurrection then to take place (i _thess._, iv, 13-17). if they rejected these tenets, they were right where paul was wrong. but if they disputed and separated on account of them, they were _heretics_; that is, they had their hearts and minds full of a speculative contention, instead of their proper chief-concern,--_putting on the new man_, and the imitation of christ.] but jesus christ's obeying god and not pleasing himself culminated in his death on the cross. all through his career, indeed, jesus christ pleased not himself and died to sin. but so smoothly and so inevitably, as we have before said, did he always appear to follow that law of the moral order, which to us it costs such effort to obey, that only in the very wrench and pressure of his violent death did any pain of dying, any conflict between the law of the flesh and the law of the spirit, in christ become visible. but the christian needs to find in christ's dying to sin a fellowship of suffering and a conformity of death. well, then, the point of christ's trial and crucifixion is the only point in his career where the christian can palpably touch what he seeks. in all dying there is struggle and weakness; in our dying to sin there is great struggle and weakness. but only in his crucifixion can we see, in jesus christ, a place for struggle and weakness.[70] that self-sacrificing obedience of jesus christ's whole life, which was summed up in this great, final act of his crucifixion, and which is palpable as sacrifice, obedience, dolorous effort, only there, is, therefore, constantly regarded by paul under the figure of this final act, as is also the believer's conformity to christ's obedience. the believer is crucified with christ when he mortifies by the spirit the deeds of unrighteousness; christ was crucified when he pleased not himself, and came to do not his own will but god's. [footnote 70: +estaurã´thãª ex astheneias+, ii _cor._, xiii, 4.] it is the same with life as with death; it turns on no physical event, but on that central concern of paul's thoughts, righteousness. if we have the spirit of christ, we live, as he did, by the spirit, 'serve the spirit of god,'[71] and follow the eternal order. the spirit of god, the spirit of christ is the same,--the one eternal moral order. if we are led by the spirit of god we are the sons of god, and share with christ the heritage of the sons of god,--eternal life, peace, felicity, glory. the spirit, therefore, is life _because of righteousness_. and when, through identifying ourselves with christ, we reach christ's righteousness, then eternal life begins for us;--a continuous and ascending life, for the eternal order never dies, and the more we transform ourselves into servants of righteousness and organs of the eternal order, the more we are and desire to be this eternal order and nothing else. even in this life we are 'seated in heavenly places,'[72] as christ is; so entirely, for paul, is righteousness the true life and the true heaven. but the transformation cannot be completed here; the physical death is regarded by paul as a stage at which it ceases to be impeded. however, at this stage we quit, as he himself says, the ground of experience and enter upon the ground of hope. but, by a sublime analogy, he fetches from the travail of the whole universe proof of the necessity and beneficence of the law of transformation. jesus christ entered into his glory when he had made his physical death itself a crowning witness to his obedience to righteousness; we, in like manner, within the limits of this earthly life and before we have yet persevered to the end, must not look for full adoption, for the glorious revelation in us of the sons of god.[73] [footnote 71: according to the true reading in _philipp._, iii, 3.] [footnote 72: _eph._, ii, 6.] [footnote 73: _rom._, viii, 18-25.] that paul, as we have said, accepted the physical miracle of christ's resurrection and ascension as a part of the signs and wonders which accompanied christianity, there can be no doubt. just in the same manner he accepted the eschatology, as it is called, of his nation,--their doctrine of the final things and of the summons by a trumpet in the sky to judgment; he accepted satan, hierarchies of angels, and an approaching end of the world. what we deny is, that his acceptance of the former gives to his teaching its essential characters, any more than his acceptance of the latter. we should but be continuing, with strict logical development, paul's essential line of thought, if we said that the true ascension and glorified reign of christ was the triumph and reign of his spirit, of his real life, far more operative after his death on the cross than before it; and that in this sense, most truly, he and all who persevere to the end as he did are 'sown in weakness but raised in power.' paul himself, however, did not distinctly continue his thought thus, and neither will we do so for him. how far paul himself knew that he had gone in his irresistible bent to find, for each of the data of his religion, that side of moral and spiritual significance which, as a mere sign and wonder, it had not and could not have,--what data he himself was conscious of having transferred, through following this bent, from the first rank in importance to the second,--we cannot know with any certainty. that the bent existed, that paul felt it existed, and that it establishes a wide difference between the earliest epistles and the latest, is beyond question. already, in the second epistle to the corinthians, he declares that, 'though he had known christ after the flesh, yet henceforth he knew him so no more;'[74] and in the epistle to the romans, shortly afterwards, he rejects the notion of dwelling on the miraculous christ, on the descent into hell and on the ascent into heaven, and fixes the believer's attention solely on the faith of christ and on the effects produced by an acquaintance with it.[75] in the same epistle, in like manner, the kingdom of god, of which to the thessalonians he described the advent in such materialising and popularly judaic language, has become 'righteousness, and peace, and joy in the holy spirit.'[76] [footnote 74: ii _cor._, v, 16.] [footnote 75: _rom._, x, 6-10.] [footnote 76: _rom._, xiv, 17.] these ideas, we repeat, may never have excluded others, which absorbed the most part of paul's contemporaries as they absorb popular religion at this day. to popular religion, the real kingdom of god is the new jerusalem with its jaspers and emeralds; righteousness and peace and joy are only the kingdom of god figuratively. the real sitting in heavenly places is the sitting on thrones in a land of pure delight after we are dead; serving the spirit of god is only sitting in heavenly places figuratively. science exactly reverses this process. for science, the spiritual notion is the real one, the material notion is figurative. the astonishing greatness of paul is, that, coming when and where and whence he did, he yet grasped the spiritual notion, if not exclusively and fully, yet firmly and predominantly; more and more predominantly through all the last years of his life. and what makes him original and himself, is not what he shares with his contemporaries and with modern popular religion, but this which he develops of his own; and this which he develops of his own is just of a nature to make his religion a theology instead of a theurgy, and at bottom a scientific instead of a non-scientific structure. 'die and come to life!' says goethe,--an unsuspected witness, assuredly, to the psychological and scientific profoundness of paul's conception of life and death:--'die and come to life! for, so long as this is not accomplished, thou art but a troubled guest upon an earth of gloom.'[77] [footnote 77: stirb und werde! denn so lang du das nicht hast, bist du nur ein trã¼ber gast auf der dunkeln erde.] the three cardinal points in paul's theology are not therefore, we repeat, those commonly assigned by puritanism, _calling_, _justification_, _sanctification_; but they are these: _dying with christ_, _resurrection from the dead_, _growing into christ_. and we will venture, moreover, to affirm that the more the epistle to the romans is read and re-read with a clear mind, the more will the conviction strengthen, that the sense indicated by the order in which we here class the second main term of paul's conception, is the essential sense which paul himself attaches to this term, in every single place where in that epistle he has used it. not tradition and not theory, but a simple impartial study of the development of paul's central line of thought, brings us to the conclusion, that from the very outset of the epistle, where paul speaks of christ as 'declared to be the son of god with power according to the spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead,'[78] to the very end, the essential sense in which paul uses the term _resurrection_ is that of a rising, in this visible earthly existence, from the death of obedience to blind selfish impulse, to the life of obedience to the eternal moral order;--in christ's case first, as the pattern for us to follow; in the believer's case afterwards, as following christ's pattern through identifying himself with him. [footnote 78: _rom._, i, 4.] we have thus reached paul's fundamental conception without even a glimpse of the fundamental conceptions of puritanism, which, nevertheless, professes to have learnt its doctrine from st. paul and from his epistle to the romans. once, for a moment, the term _faith_ brought us in contact with the doctrine of puritanism, but only to see that the essential sense given to this word by paul puritanism had missed entirely. other parts, then, of the epistle to the romans than those by which we have been occupied must have chiefly fixed the attention of puritanism. and so it has in truth been. yet the parts of the epistle to the romans that have occupied us are undoubtedly the parts which not our own theories and inclinations,--for we have approached the matter without any,--but an impartial criticism of paul's real line of thought, must elevate as the most important. if a somewhat pedantic form of expression may be forgiven for the sake of clearness, we may say that of the eleven first chapters of the epistle to the romans,--the chapters which convey paul's theology, though not, as we have seen, with any scholastic purpose or in any formal scientific mode of exposition,--of these eleven chapters, the first, second, and third are, in a scale of importance fixed by a scientific criticism of paul's line of thought, sub-primary; the fourth and fifth are secondary; the sixth and eighth are primary; the seventh chapter is sub-primary; the ninth, tenth, and eleventh chapters are secondary. furthermore, to the contents of the separate chapters themselves this scale must be carried on, so far as to mark that of the two great primary chapters, the sixth and the eighth, the eighth is primary down only to the end of the twenty-eighth verse; from thence to the end it is, however eloquent, yet for the purpose of a scientific criticism of paul's essential theology, only secondary. the first chapter is to the gentiles. its purport is: you have not righteousness. the second is to the jews; and its purport is: no more have you, though you think you have. the third chapter announces faith in christ as the one source of righteousness for all men. the fourth chapter gives to the notion of righteousness through faith the sanction of the old testament and of the history of abraham. the fifth insists on the causes for thankfulness and exultation in the boon of righteousness through faith in christ; and applies illustratively, with this design, the history of adam. the sixth chapter comes to the all-important question: 'what _is_ that faith in christ which i, paul, mean?'--and answers it. the seventh illustrates and explains the answer. but the eighth, down to the end of the twenty-eighth verse, develops and completes the answer. the rest of the eighth chapter expresses the sense of safety and gratitude which the solution is fitted to inspire. the ninth, tenth, and eleventh chapters uphold the second chapter's thesis,--so hard to a jew, so easy to us,--that righteousness is not by the jewish law; but dwell with hope and joy on a final result of things which is to be favourable to israel. we shall be pardoned this somewhat formal analysis in consideration of the clearness with which it enables us to survey the puritan scheme of original sin, predestination, and justification. the historical transgression of adam occupies, it will be observed, in paul's ideas by no means the primary, fundamental, all-important place which it holds in the ideas of puritanism. 'this' (the transgression of adam) 'is our original sin, the bitter root of all our actual transgressions in thought, word, and deed.' ah, no! paul did not go to the book of genesis to get the real testimony about sin. he went to experience for it. '_i see_,' he says, 'a law in my members fighting against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity.'[79] this is the essential testimony respecting the rise of sin to paul,--this rise of it in his own heart and in the heart of all the men who hear him. at quite a later stage in his conception of the religious life, in quite a subordinate capacity, and for the mere purpose of illustration, comes in the allusion to adam and to what is called original sin. paul's desire for righteousness has carried him to christ and to the conception of the righteousness which is of god by faith, and he is expressing his gratitude, delight, wonder, at the boon he has discovered. for the purpose of exalting it he reverts to the well-known story of adam. it cannot even be said that paul judaises in his use here of this story; so entirely does he subordinate it to his purpose of illustration, using it just as he might have used it had he believed, which undoubtedly he did not, that it was merely a symbolical legend, having the advantage of being perfectly familiar to himself and his hearers. 'think,' he says, 'how in adam's fall one man's one transgression involved all men in punishment; then estimate the blessedness of our boon in christ, where one man's one righteousness involves a world of transgressors in blessing![80] this is not a scientific doctrine of corruption inherited through adam's fall; it is a rhetorical use of adam's fall in a passing allusion to it. [footnote 79: _rom._, vii, 23.] [footnote 80: _rom._, v, 12-21.] we come to predestination. we have seen how strong was paul's consciousness of that power, not ourselves, in which we live and move and have our being. the sense of life, peace, and joy, which comes through identification with christ, brings with it a deep and grateful consciousness that this sense is none of our own getting and making. no, it is grace, it is the free gift of god, who gives abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, and calls things that are not as though they were. 'it is not of him that willeth or of him that runneth, but of god that showeth mercy.'[81] as moral agents, for whom alone exist all the predicaments of merit and demerit, praise and blame, effort and failure, vice and virtue, we are impotent and lost;--we are saved through that in us which is passive and involuntary; we are saved through our affections, it is as beings _acted upon_ and _influenced_ that we are saved! well might paul cry out, as this mystical but profound and beneficent conception filled his soul: 'all things work together for good to them that love god, to them who are the called according to his purpose.'[82] well might he say, in the gratitude which cannot find words enough to express its sense of boundless favour, that those who reached peace with god through identification with christ were vessels of mercy, marked from endless ages; that they had been foreknown, predestinated, called, justified, glorified. [footnote 81: _rom._, ix, 16.] [footnote 82: _rom._, viii, 28.] it may be regretted, for the sake of the clear understanding of his essential doctrine, that paul did not stop here. it might seem as if the word 'prothesis,' _purpose_, lured him on into speculative mazes, and involved him, at last, in an embarrassment, from which he impatiently tore himself by the harsh and unedifying image of the clay and the potter. but this is not so. these allurements of speculation, which have been fatal to so many of his interpreters, never mastered paul. he was led into difficulty by the tendency which we have already noticed as making his real imperfection both as a thinker and as a writer,--the tendency to judaise. already, in the fourth chapter, this tendency had led him to seem to rest his doctrine of justification by faith upon the case of abraham, whereas, in truth, it needs all the good will in the world, and some effort of ingenuity, even to bring the case of abraham within the operation of this doctrine. that righteousness is life, that all men by themselves fail of righteousness, that only through identification with jesus christ can they reach it,--these propositions, for us at any rate, prove themselves much better than they are proved by the thesis that abraham in old age believed god's promise that his seed should yet be as the stars for multitude, and that this was counted to him for righteousness. the sanction thus apparently given to the idea that faith is a mere belief, or opinion of the mind, has put thousands of paul's readers on a false track. but paul's judaising did not end here. to establish his doctrine of righteousness by faith, he had to eradicate the notion that his people were specially privileged, and that, having the mosaic law, they did not need anything farther. for us, this one verse of the tenth chapter: _there is no difference between jew and greek, for it is the same lord of all, who is rich to all that call upon him_,--and these four words of another verse: _for righteousness, heart-faith necessary!_--effect far more for paul's object than his three chapters bristling with old testament quotations. by quotation, however, he was to proceed, in order to invest his doctrine with the talismanic virtues of a verbal sanction from the law and the prophets. he shows, therefore, that the law and the prophets had said that only a remnant, an _elect remnant_, of israel should be saved, and that the rest should be blinded. but to say that peace with god through jesus christ inspires such an abounding sense of gratitude, and of its not being our work, that we can only speak of ourselves as _called_ and _chosen_ to it, is one thing; in so speaking, we are on the ground of personal experience. to say, on the other hand, that god has blinded and reprobated other men, so that they shall not reach this blessing, is to quit the ground of personal experience, and to begin employing the magnified and non-natural man in the next street. we then require, in order to account for his proceedings, such an analogy as that of the clay and the potter. this is calvinism, and st. paul undoubtedly falls into it. but the important thing to remark is, that this calvinism, which with the calvinist is primary, is with paul secondary, or even less than secondary. what with calvinists is their fundamental idea, the centre of their theology, is for paul an idea added to his central ideas, and extraneous to them; brought in incidentally, and due to the necessities of a bad mode of recommending and enforcing his thesis. it is as if newton had introduced into his exposition of the law of gravitation an incidental remark, perhaps erroneous, about light or colours; and we were then to make this remark the head and front of newton's law. the theological idea of reprobation was an idea of jewish theology as of ours, an idea familiar to paul and a part of his training, an idea which probably he never consciously abandoned. but its complete secondariness in him is clearly established by other considerations than those which we have drawn from the place and manner of his introduction of it. the very phrase about the clay and the potter is not paul's own; he does but repeat a stock theological figure. isaiah had said: 'o lord, we are the clay, and thou our potter, and we are all the work of thy hand.'[83] jeremiah had said, in the lord's name, to israel: 'behold, as the clay in the potter's hand, so are ye in mine hand, o house of israel.'[84] and the son of sirach comes yet nearer to paul's very words: 'as the clay is in the potter's hand to fashion it at his pleasure, so man is in the hand of him that made him, to render to them as liketh him best.'[85] is an original man's essential, characteristic idea, that which he adopts thus bodily from some one else? but take paul's truly essential idea. 'we are buried with christ through baptism into death, that like as he was raised up from the dead by the glory of the father, even so we also shall walk in newness of life.'[86] did jeremiah say that? is any one the author of it except paul? then there should calvinism have looked for paul's secret, and not in the commonplace about the potter and the vessels of wrath. a commonplace which is so entirely a commonplace to him, that he contradicts it even while he is judaising; for in the very batch of chapters we are discussing he says: 'whosoever shall call upon the name of the lord shall be saved.'[87] still more clear is, on this point, his real mind, when he is not judaising: 'god is the saviour of all men, specially of those that believe.'[88] and anything, finally, which might seem dangerous in the grateful sense of a calling, choosing, and leading by eternal goodness,--a notion as natural as the calvinistic doctrine of predestination is monstrous,--paul abundantly supplies in more than one striking passage; as, for instance, in that incomparable third chapter of the philippians (from which, and from the sixth and eighth chapters of the romans, paul's whole theology, if all his other writings were lost, might be reconstructed), where he expresses his humble consciousness that the mystical resurrection which is his aim, glory, and salvation, he does not yet, and cannot, completely attain. [footnote 83: _is._, lxiv, 8.] [footnote 84: _jer._, xviii, 6.] [footnote 85: _ecclesiasticus_, xxxiii, 13.] [footnote 86: _rom._, vi, 4.] [footnote 87: _rom._, x, 13.] [footnote 88: i _tim._, iv, 10.] the grand doctrine, then, which calvinistic puritanism has gathered from paul, turns out to be a secondary notion of his, which he himself, too, has contradicted or corrected. but, at any rate, 'christ meritoriously obtained eternal redemption for us.' 'if there be anything,' the quarterly organ of puritanism has lately told us in its hundredth number, 'that human experience has made certain, it is that man can never outgrow his necessity for the great truths and provisions of the incarnation and the sacrificial atonement of the divine son of god.' god, his justice being satisfied by christ's bearing according to compact our guilt and dying in our stead, is appeased and set free to exercise towards us his mercy, and to justify and sanctify us in consideration of christ's righteousness imputed to us, if we give our hearty belief and consent to the satisfaction thus made. this hearty belief being given, 'we rest,' to use the consecrated expression already quoted, 'in the finished work of a saviour.' this doctrine of imputed righteousness is now, as predestination formerly was, the favourite thesis of popular protestant theology. and, like the doctrine of predestination, it professes to be specially derived from st. paul. but whoever has followed attentively the main line of st. paul's theology, as we have tried to show it, will see at once that in st. paul's essential ideas this popular notion of a substitution, and appeasement, and imputation of alien merit, has no place. paul knows nothing of a sacrificial atonement; what paul knows of is a reconciling sacrifice. the true substitution, for paul, is not the substitution of jesus christ in men's stead as victim on the cross to god's offended justice; it is the substitution by which the believer, in his own person, repeats jesus christ's dying to sin. paul says, in real truth, to our puritans with their magical and mechanical salvation, just what he said to the men of circumcision: 'if i preach resting in the finished work of a saviour, _why am i yet persecuted? why do i die daily? then is the stumbling-block of the cross annulled._'[89] that hard, that well-nigh impossible doctrine, that our whole course must be a crucifixion and a resurrection, even as christ's whole course was a crucifixion and a resurrection, becomes superfluous. yet this is my central doctrine.' [footnote 89: _gal._, v, 2.] the notion of god as a magnified and non-natural man, appeased by a sacrifice and remitting in consideration of it his wrath against those who had offended him,--this notion of god, which science repels, was equally repelled, in spite of all that his nation, time, and training had in them to favour it, by the profound religious sense of paul. in none of his epistles is the reconciling work of christ really presented under this aspect. one great epistle there is, however, which does apparently present it under this aspect,--the epistle to the hebrews. paul's phraseology, and even the central idea which he conveys in that phraseology, were evidently well known to the writer of the epistle to the hebrews. nay, if we merely sought to prove a thesis, rather than to ascertain the real bearing of the documents we canvass, we should have no difficulty in making it appear, by texts taken from the epistle to the hebrews, that the doctrine of this epistle, no less than the doctrine of the epistle to the romans, differs entirely from the common doctrine of puritanism. this, however, we shall by no means do; because it is our honest opinion that the popular doctrine of 'the sacrificial atonement of the divine son of god' derives, if not a real, yet at any rate a strong apparent sanction from the epistle to the hebrews. even supposing, what is probably true, that the popular doctrine is really the doctrine neither of the one epistle nor of the other, yet it must be confessed that while it is the reader's fault,--a fault due to his fixed prepossessions, and to his own want of penetration,--if he gets the popular doctrine out of the epistle to the romans, it is on the other hand the writer's fault and no longer the reader's, if out of the epistle to the hebrews he gets the popular doctrine. for the author of that epistle is, if not subjugated, yet at least preponderantly occupied by the idea of the jewish system of sacrifices, and of the analogies to christ's sacrifice which are furnished by that system. if other proof were wanting, this alone would make it impossible that the epistle to the hebrews should be paul's; and indeed of all the epistles which bear his name, it is the only one which we may not, perhaps, in spite of the hesitation caused by grave difficulties, be finally content to leave in considerable part to him.[90] luther's conjecture, which ascribes to apollos the epistle to the hebrews, derives corroboration from the one account of apollos which we have; that 'he was an eloquent man and mighty in the scriptures.' the epistle to the hebrews is just such a performance as might naturally have come from an eloquent man and mighty in the scriptures; in whom the intelligence, and the powers of combining, type-finding, and expounding, somewhat dominated the religious perceptions. the epistle to the hebrews is full of beauty and power; and what may be called the exterior conduct of its argument is as able and satisfying as paul's exterior conduct of his argument is generally embarrassed. its details are full of what is edifying; but its apparent central conception of christ's death, as a perfect sacrifice which consummated the imperfect sacrifices of the jewish law, is a mere notion of the understanding, and is not a religious idea. turn it which way we will, the notion of appeasement of an offended god by vicarious sacrifice, which the epistle to the hebrews apparently sanctions, will never truly speak to the religious sense, or bear fruit for true religion. it is no blame to apollos if he was somewhat overpowered by this notion, for the whole world was full of it, up to his time, in his time, and since his time; and it has driven theologians before it like sheep. the wonder is, not that apollos should have adopted it, but that paul should have been enabled, through the incomparable power and energy of religious perception informing his intellectual perception, in reality to put it aside. figures drawn from the dominant notion of sacrificial appeasement he used, for the notion has so saturated the imagination and language of humanity that its figures pass naturally and irresistibly into all our speech. popular puritanism consists of the apparent doctrine from the epistle to the hebrews, set forth with paul's figures. but the doctrine itself paul had really put aside, and had substituted for it a better. [footnote 90: considerations drawn from date, place, the use of single words, the development of a church organisation, the development of an ascetic system, are not enough to make us wholly take away certain epistles from st. paul. the only decisive evidence, for this purpose, is that internal evidence furnished by the whole body of the thoughts and style of an epistle; and this evidence that paul was not its author the epistle to the hebrews furnishes. from the like evidence, the apocalypse is clearly shown to be not by the author of the fourth gospel. this clear evidence against the tradition which assigns them to st. paul, the epistles to timothy and titus do not offer. the serious ground of difficulty as to these epistles will to the genuine critic be, that much in them fails to produce that peculiarly _searching_ effect on the reader, which it is in general characteristic of paul's own real work to exercise. but they abound with pauline things, and are, in any case, written by an excellent man, and in an excellent and large spirit.] the term _sacrifice_, in men's natural use of it, contains three notions: the notion of winning the favour or buying off the wrath of a powerful being by giving him something precious; the notion of parting with something naturally precious; and the notion of expiation, not now in the sense of buying off wrath or satisfying a claim, but of suffering in that wherein we have sinned. the first notion is, at bottom, merely superstitious, and belongs to the ignorant and fear-ridden childhood of humanity; it is the main element, however, in the puritan conception of justification. the second notion explains itself; it is the main element in the pauline conception of justification. jesus parted with what, to men in general, is the most precious of things,--individual self and selfishness; he pleased not himself, obeyed the spirit of god, died to sin and to the law in our members, consummated upon the cross this death; here is paul's essential notion of christ's sacrifice. the third notion may easily be misdealt with, but it has a profound truth; in paul's conception of justification there is much of it. in some way or other, he who would 'cease from sin' must nearly always 'suffer in the flesh.' it is found to be true, that 'without shedding of blood is no remission.' 'if you can be good with pleasure,' says bishop wilson with his genius of practical religious sense, 'god does not envy you your joy; but such is our corruption, that every man cannot be so.' the substantial basis of the notion of expiation, so far as we ourselves are concerned, is the bitter experience that the habit of wrong, of blindly obeying selfish impulse, so affects our temper and powers, that to withstand selfish impulse, to do right, when the sense of right awakens in us, requires an effort out of all proportion to the actual present emergency. we have not only the difficulty of the present act in itself, we have the resistance of all our past; fire and the knife, cautery and amputation, are often necessary in order to induce a vital action, which, if it were not for our corrupting past, we might have obtained from the natural healthful vigour of our moral organs. this is the real basis of our personal sense of the need of expiating, and thus it is that man expiates. not so the just, who is man's ideal. he has no indurated habit of wrong, no perverse temper, no enfeebled powers, no resisting past, no spiritual organs gangrened, no need of the knife and fire; smoothly and inevitably he follows the eternal order, and hereto belongs happiness. what sins, then, has the just to expiate?--_ours._ in truth, men's habitual unrighteousness, their hard and careless breaking of the moral law, do so tend to reduce and impair the standard of goodness, that, in order to keep this standard pure and unimpaired, the righteous must actually labour and suffer far more than would be necessary if men were better. in the first place, he has to undergo our hatred and persecution for his justice. in the second place, he has to make up for the harm caused by our continual shortcomings, to step between us foolish transgressors and the destructive natural consequences of our transgression, and, by a superhuman example, a spending himself without stint, a more than mortal scale of justice and purity, to save the ideal of human life and conduct from the deterioration with which men's ordinary practice threatens it. in this way jesus christ truly 'became for our sakes poor, though he was rich,' he was truly 'bruised for our iniquities,' he 'suffered in our behoof,' 'bare the sin of many,' and 'made intercession for the transgressors.'[91] in this way, truly, 'he was sacrificed as a blameless lamb to redeem us from the vain conversation which had become our second nature;'[92] in this way, 'he was made to be sin for us, who knew no sin.'[93] such, according to that true and profound perception of the import of christ's sufferings, which, in all st. paul's writings, and in the inestimable first epistle of st. peter, is presented to us, is the expiation of christ. [footnote 91: ii _cor._, viii, 9; _is._, liii, 5; i _pet._, ii, 21; _is._, liii, 12.] [footnote 92: i _pet._, i, 18, 19.] [footnote 93: ii _cor._, v, 21.] the notion, therefore, of _satisfying and appeasing an angry god's wrath_, does not come into paul's real conception of jesus christ's sacrifice. paul's foremost notion of this sacrifice is, that by it jesus died to the law of selfish impulse, parted with what to men in general is most precious and near. paul's second notion is, that whereas jesus suffered in doing this, his suffering was not _his_ fault, but ours; not for _his_ good, but for ours. in the first aspect, jesus is the _martyrion_,--the testimony in his life and in his death, to righteousness, to the power and goodness of god. in the second aspect he is the _antilytron_ or ransom. but, in either aspect, jesus christ's solemn and dolorous condemnation of sin does actually loosen sin's hold and attraction upon us who regard it,--makes it easier for us to understand and love goodness, to rise above self, to die to sin. christ's sacrifice, however, and the condemnation of sin it contained, was made for us while we were yet sinners; it was made irrespectively of our power or inclination to sympathise with it and appreciate it. yet, even thus, in paul's view, the sacrifice reconciled us to god, to the eternal order; for it contained the means, the only possible means, of our being brought into harmony with this order. jesus christ, nevertheless, was delivered for our sins while we were yet sinners,[94] and before we could yet appreciate what he did. but presently there comes a change. grace, the goodness of god, _the spirit_,--as paul loved to call that awful and beneficent impulsion of things within us and without us, which we can concur with, indeed, but cannot create,--leads us to _repentance towards god_,[95] a change of the inner man in regard to the moral order, duty, righteousness. and now, to help our impulse towards righteousness, we have a power enabling us to turn this impulse to full account. now _the spirit_ does its greatest work in us; now, for the first time, the influence of jesus christ's pregnant act really gains us. for now awakens the sympathy for the act and the appreciation of it, which its doer dispensed with or was too benign to wait for; _faith working through love towards christ_[96] enters into us, masters us. we identify ourselves,--this is the line of paul's thought,--with christ; we repeat, through the power of this identification, christ's death to the law of the flesh and self-pleasing, his condemnation of sin in the flesh; the death how imperfectly, the condemnation how remorsefully! but we rise with him, paul continues, to life, the only true life, of imitation of god, of putting on the new man which after god is created in righteousness and true holiness,[97] of following the eternal law of the moral order which by ourselves we could not follow. then god justifies us. we have the righteousness of god and the sense of having it; we are freed from the oppressing sense of eternal order guiltily outraged and sternly retributive; we act in joyful conformity with god's will, instead of in miserable rebellion to it; we are in harmony with the universal order, and feel that we are in harmony with it. if, then, christ was delivered for our sins, he was raised for our justification. if by christ's death, says paul, we were reconciled to god, by the means being thus provided for our else impossible access to god, much more, when we have availed ourselves of these means and died with him, are we saved by his life which we partake.[98] henceforward we are not only justified but sanctified; not only in harmony with the eternal order and at peace with god, but consecrated[99] and unalterably devoted to them; and from this devotion comes an ever-growing union with god in christ, an advance, as st. paul says, from glory to glory.[100] [footnote 94: _rom._, v, 8.] [footnote 95: _acts_, xx, 21.] [footnote 96: _gal._, v, 6.] [footnote 97: _eph._, iv, 24.] [footnote 98: _rom._, v, 10.] [footnote 99: the endless words which puritanism has wasted upon _sanctification_, a magical filling with goodness and holiness, flow from a mere mistake in translating; +hagiasmos+ means _consecration_, a setting apart to holy service.] [footnote 100: ii _cor._, iii, 18.] this is paul's conception of christ's sacrifice. his figures of ransom, redemption, propitiation, blood, offering, all subordinate themselves to his central idea of _identification with christ through dying with him_, and are strictly subservient to it. the figured speech of paul has its own beauty and propriety. his language is, much of it, eastern language, imaginative language; there is no need for turning it, as puritanism has done, into the methodical language of the schools. but if it is to be turned into methodical language, then it is the language into which we have translated it that translates it truly. we have before seen how it fares with one of the two great tenets which puritanism has extracted from st. paul, the tenet of predestination. we now see how it fares with the other, the tenet of justification. paul's figures our puritans have taken literally, while for his central idea they have substituted another which is not his. and his central idea they have turned into a figure, and have let it almost disappear out of their mind. his essential idea lost, his figures misused, an idea essentially not his substituted for his,--the unedifying patchwork thus made, puritanism has stamped with paul's name, and called _the gospel_. it thunders at romanism for not preaching it, it casts off anglicanism for not setting it forth alone and unreservedly, it founds organisations of its own to give full effect to it; these organisations guide politics, govern statesmen, destroy institutions;--and they are based upon a blunder! it is to protestantism, and this its puritan gospel, that the reproaches thrown on st. paul, for sophisticating religion of the heart into theories of the head about election and justification, rightly attach. st. paul himself, as we have seen, begins with seeking righteousness and ends with finding it; from first to last, the practical religious sense never deserts him. if he could have seen and heard our preachers of predestination and justification, they are just the people he would have called 'diseased about questions and word-battlings.'[101] he would have told puritanism that every sunday, when in all its countless chapels it reads him and preaches from him, the veil is upon its heart. the moment it reads him right, a veil will seem to be taken away from its heart;[102] it will feel as though scales were fallen from its eyes. [footnote 101: i _tim._, vi, 4.] [footnote 102: ii _cor._, iii, 15, 16.] and now, leaving puritanism and its errors, let us turn again for a moment, before we end, to the glorious apostle who has occupied us so long. he died, and men's familiar fancies of bargain and appeasement, from which, by a prodigy of religious insight, paul had been able to disengage the death of jesus, fastened on it and made it their own. back rolled over the human soul the mist which the fires of paul's spiritual genius had dispersed for a few short years. the mind of the whole world was imbrued in the idea of blood, and only through the false idea of sacrifice did men reach paul's true one. paul's idea of dying with christ the _imitation_ elevates more conspicuously than any protestant treatise elevates it; but it elevates it environed and dominated by the idea of appeasement;--of the magnified and non-natural man in heaven, wrath-filled and blood-exacting; of the human victim adding his piacular sufferings to those of the divine. meanwhile another danger was preparing. gifted men had brought to the study of st. paul the habits of the greek and roman schools, and philosophised where paul orientalised. augustine, a great genius, who can doubt it?--nay, a great religious genius, but unlike paul in this, and inferior to him, that he confused the boundaries of metaphysics and religion, which paul never did,--augustine set the example of finding in paul's eastern speech, just as it stood, the formal propositions of western dialectics. last came the interpreter in whose slowly relaxing grasp we still lie,--the heavy-handed protestant philistine. sincere, gross of perception, prosaic, he saw in paul's mystical idea of man's investiture with the righteousness of god nothing but a strict legal transaction, and reserved all his imagination for hell and the new jerusalem and his foretaste of them. a so-called pauline doctrine was in all men's mouths, but the ideas of the true paul lay lost and buried. every one who has been at rome has been taken to see the church of st. paul, rebuilt after a destruction by fire forty years ago. the church stands a mile or two out of the city, on the way to ostia and the desert. the interior has all the costly magnificence of italian churches; oh the ceiling is written in gilded letters: '_doctor gentium_.' gold glitters and marbles gleam, but man and his movement are not there. the traveller has left at a distance the _fumum et opes strepitumque romã¦_; around him reigns solitude. there is paul, with the mystery which was hidden from ages and from generations, which was uncovered by him for some half score years, and which then was buried with him in his grave! not in our day will he relive, with his incessant effort to find a moral side for miracle, with his incessant effort to make the intellect follow and secure all the workings of the religious perception. of those who care for religion, the multitude of us want the materialism of the apocalypse; the few want a vague religiosity. science, which more and more teaches us to find in the unapparent the real, will gradually serve to conquer the materialism of popular religion. the friends of vague religiosity, on the other hand, will be more and more taught by experience that a theology, a scientific appreciation of the facts of religion, is wanted for religion; but a theology which is a true theology, not a false. both these influences will work for paul's re-emergence. the doctrine of paul will arise out of the tomb where for centuries it has lain buried. it will edify the church of the future; it will have the consent of happier generations, the applause of less superstitious ages. all will be too little to pay half the debt which the church of god owes to this 'least of the apostles, who was not fit to be called an apostle, because he persecuted the church of god.'[103] [footnote 103: i _cor._, xv, 9.] * * * * * puritanism and the church of england. in the foregoing treatise we have spoken of protestantism, and have tried to show, how, with its three notable tenets of predestination, original sin, and justification, it has been pounding away for three centuries at st. paul's wrong words, and missing his essential doctrine. and we took puritanism to stand for protestantism, and addressed ourselves directly to the puritans; for the puritan churches, we said, seem to exist specially for the sake of these doctrines, one or more of them. it is true, many puritans now profess also the doctrine that it is wicked to have a church connected with the state; but this is a later invention,[104] designed to strengthen a separation previously made. it requires to be noticed in due course; but meanwhile, we say that the aim of setting forth certain protestant doctrines purely and integrally is the main title on which puritan churches rest their right of existing. with historic churches, like those of england or rome, it is otherwise; these doctrines may be in them, may be a part of their traditions, their theological stock; but certainly no one will say that either of these churches was made for the express purpose of upholding these three theological doctrines, jointly or severally. a little consideration will show quite clearly the difference in this respect between the historic churches and the churches of separatists. [footnote 104: in his very interesting history, _the church of the restoration_, dr. stoughton says, most truly of both anglicans and puritans in 1660: 'it is necessary to bear in mind this circumstance, that _both parties were advocates for a national establishment of religion_.' vol. i, p. 113.] people are not necessarily monarchists or republicans because they are born and live under a monarchy or republic. they avail themselves of the established government for those general purposes for which governments and politics exist, but they do not, for the most part, trouble their heads much about particular theoretical principles of government. nay, it may well happen that a man who lives and thrives under a monarchy shall yet theoretically disapprove the principle of monarchy, or a man who lives and thrives under a republic, the principle of republicanism. but a man, or body of men, who have gone out of an established polity from zeal for the principle of monarchy or republicanism, and have set up a polity of their own for the very purpose of giving satisfaction to this zeal, are in a false position whenever it shall appear that the principle, from zeal for which they have constituted their separate existence, is unsound. so predestinarianism and solifidianism, calvinism and lutherism, may appear in the theology of a national or historic church, charged ever since the rise of christianity with the task of developing the immense and complex store of ideas contained in christianity; and when the stage of development has been reached at which the unsoundness of predestinarian and solifidian dogmas becomes manifest, they will be dropped out of the church's theology, and she and her task will remain what they were before. but when people from zeal for these dogmas find their historic church not predestinarian or solifidian enough for them, and make new associations of their own, which shall be predestinarian or solifidian absolutely, then, when the dogmas are undermined, the associations are undermined too, and have either to own themselves without a reason for existing, or to discover some new reason in place of the old. now, nothing which exists likes to be driven to a strait of this kind; so every association which exists because of zeal for the dogmas of election or justification, will naturally cling to these dogmas longer and harder than other people. therefore we have treated the puritan bodies in this country as the great stronghold here of these doctrines; and in showing what a perversion of paul's real ideas these doctrines commonly called pauline are, we have addressed ourselves to the puritans. but those who speak in the puritans' name say that we charge upon puritanism, as a sectarian peculiarity, doctrine which is not only the inevitable result of an honest interpretation of the writings of st. paul, but which is, besides, the creed held in common by puritans and by all the churches in christendom, with one insignificant exception. nay, they even declare that 'no man in his senses can deny that the church of england was meant to be a thoroughly protestant and evangelical, and it may be said calvinistic church.' to saddle puritanism in special with the doctrines we have called puritan is, they say, a piece of unfairness which has its motive in mere ill-will to puritanism, a device which can injure nobody but its author. now, we have tried to show that the puritans are quite wrong in imagining their doctrine to be the inevitable result of an honest interpretation of st. paul's writings. that they are wrong we think is certain; but so far are we from being moved, in anything that we do or say in this matter, by ill-will to puritanism and the puritans, that it is, on the contrary, just because of our hearty respect for them, and from our strong sense of their value, that we speak as we do. certainly we consider them to be in the main, at present, an obstacle to progress and to true civilisation. but this is because their worth is, in our opinion, such that not only must one for their own sakes wish to see it turned to more advantage, but others, from whom they are now separated, would greatly gain by conjunction with them, and our whole collective force of growth and progress be thereby immeasurably increased. in short, our one feeling when we regard them, is a feeling, not of ill-will, but of regret at waste of power; our one desire is a desire of comprehension. but the waste of power must continue, and the comprehension is impossible, so long as puritanism imagines itself to possess, in its two or three signal doctrines, what it calls _the gospel_; so long as it constitutes itself separately on the plea of setting forth purely _the gospel_, which it thus imagines itself to have seized; so long as it judges others as not holding _the gospel_, or as holding additions to it and variations from it. this fatal self-righteousness, grounded on a false conceit of knowledge, makes comprehension impossible; because it takes for granted the possession of the truth, and the power of deciding how others violate it; and this is a position of superiority, and suits conquest rather than comprehension. the good of comprehension in a national church is, that the larger and more various the body of members, the more elements of power and life the church will contain, the more points will there be of contact, the more mutual support and stimulus, the more growth in perfection both of thought and practice. the waste of power from not comprehending the puritans in the national church is measured by the number and value of elements which puritanism could supply towards the collective growth of the whole body. the national church would grow more vigorously towards a higher stage of insight into religious truth, and consequently towards a greater perfection of practice, if it had these elements; and this is why we wish for the puritans in the church. but, meanwhile, puritanism will not contribute to the common growth, mainly because it believes that a certain set of opinions or scheme of theological doctrine is _the gospel_; that it is possible and profitable to extract this, and that puritans have done so; and that it is the duty of men, who like themselves have extracted it, to separate themselves from those who have not, and to set themselves apart that they may profess it purely. to disabuse them of this error, which, by preventing collective life, prevents also collective growth, it is necessary to show them that their extracted scheme of theological doctrine is not really _the gospel_; and that at any rate, therefore, it is not worth their while to separate themselves, and to frustrate the hope of growth in common, merely for this scheme's sake. and even if it were true, as they allege, that the national and historic churches of christendom do equally with puritanism hold this scheme, or main parts of it, still it would be to puritanism, and not to the historic churches, that in showing the invalidity and unscripturalness of this scheme we should address ourselves, because the puritan churches found their very existence on it, and the historic churches do not. and not founding their existence on it, nor falling into separatism for it, the historic churches have a collective life which is very considerable, and a power of growth, even in respect of the very scheme of doctrine in question, supposing them to hold it, far greater than any which the puritan churches show, but which would be yet greater and more fruitful still, if the historic churches combined the large and admirable contingent of puritanism with their own forces. therefore, as we have said, it is out of no sort of malice or ill-will, but from esteem for their fine qualities and from desire for their help, that we have addressed ourselves to the puritans. we propose to complete now our dealings with this subject by showing how, as a matter of fact, the church of england (which is the historic church practically in question so far as puritanism is concerned) seems to us to have displayed with respect to those very tenets which we have criticised, and for which we are said to have unfairly made puritanism alone responsible, a continual power of growth which has been wanting to the puritan congregations. this we propose to show first; and we will show secondly, how, from the very theory of a historic or national church, the probability of this greater power of growth seems to follow, that we may try and commend that theory a little more to the thoughts and favour of our puritan friends. the two great puritan doctrines which we have criticised at such length are the doctrines of predestination and justification. of the aggressive and militant puritanism of our people, predestination has, almost up to the present day, been the favourite and distinguishing doctrine; it was the doctrine which puritan flocks greedily sought, which puritan ministers powerfully preached, and called others _carnal gospellers_ for not preaching. this geneva doctrine accompanied the geneva discipline. puritanism's first great wish and endeavour was to establish both the one and the other absolutely in the church of england, and it became nonconforming because it failed. now, it is well known that the high church divines of the seventeenth century were arminian, that the church of england was the stronghold of arminianism, and that arminianism is, as we have said, an effort of man's practical good sense to get rid of what is shocking to it in calvinism. but what is not so well known, and what is eminently worthy of remark, is the constant pressure applied by puritanism upon the church of england, to put the calvinistic doctrine more distinctly into her formularies, and to tie her up more strictly to this doctrine; the constant resistance offered by the church of england, and the large degree in which nonconformity is really due to this cause. everybody knows how far nonconformity is due to the church of england's rigour in imposing an explicit declaration of adherence to her formularies. but only a few, who have searched out the matter, know how far nonconformity is due, also, to the church of england's invincible reluctance to narrow her large and loose formularies to the strict calvinistic sense dear to puritanism. yet this is what the record of conferences shows at least as signally as it shows the domineering spirit of the high church clergy; but our current political histories, written always with an anti-ecclesiastical bias, which is natural enough, inasmuch as the church party was not the party of civil liberty, leaves this singularly out of sight. yet there is a very catena of testimonies to prove it; to show us, from elizabeth's reign to charles the second's, calvinism, as a power both within and without the church of england, trying to get decisive command of her formularies; and the church of england, with the instinct of a body meant to live and grow, and averse to fetter and engage its future, steadily resisting. the lambeth articles of 1595 exhibit calvinism potent in the church of england herself, and among the bishops of the church. true; but could it establish itself there? no; the lambeth articles were recalled and suppressed, and archbishop whitgift was threatened with the penalties of a _prã¦munire_ for having published them. again, it was usual from 1552 onwards to print in the english bibles a catechism asserting the calvinistic doctrine of absolute election and reprobation. in the first bibles of the authorised version this catechism appeared; but it was removed in 1615. yet the puritans had met james the first, at his accession in 1603, with the petition that _there may be an uniformity of doctrine prescribed_; meaning an uniformity in this sense of strict calvinism. thus from the very commencement the church, as regards doctrine, was for opening; puritanism was for narrowing. then came, in 1604, the hampton court conference. here, as usual, political historians reproach the church with having conceded so little. these historians, as we have said, think solely of the puritans as the religious party favourable to civil liberty, and on that account desire the preponderance of puritanism in its disputes with the church. but, as regards freedom of thought and truth of ideas, what was it that the church was pressed by puritanism to concede, and what was the character and tendency of the church's refusal? the first puritan petition at this conference was 'that the _doctrine_ of the church might be preserved in purity according to god's word.' that is, according to the calvinistic interpretation put upon god's word by calvin and the puritans after him; an interpretation which we have shown to be erroneous and unscriptural. this calvinistic doctrine of predestination the puritans wanted to plant hard and fast in the church's formularies, and the church resisted. the puritan foreman complained of the loose wording of the thirty-nine articles because it allowed an escape from the strict doctrine of calvinism, and moved that the lambeth articles, strictly calvinistic, might be inserted into the book of articles. the bishops resisted, and here are the words of their spokesman, the bishop of london. 'the bishop of london answered, that too many in those days, neglecting holiness of life, _laid all their religion upon predestination_,--"if i shall be saved, i shall be saved," which he termed a desperate doctrine, showing it to be contrary to good divinity, which teaches us to reason rather _ascendendo_ than _descendendo_, thus: "i live in obedience to god, in love with my neighbour, i follow my vocation, &c., therefore i trust that god hath elected me and predestinated me to salvation;" not thus, which is the usual course of argument: "god hath predestinated and chosen me to life, therefore, though i sin never so grievously, i shall not be damned, for whom he once loveth he loveth to the end."' who will deny that this resistance of the church to the puritans, who, _laying all their religion upon predestination_, wanted to make the church do the same, was as favourable to growth of thought and to sound philosophy, as it was consonant to good sense? we have already, in the foregoing treatise, quoted from the complaints against the church by the committee of divines appointed by the house of lords in 1641, when puritanism was strongly in the ascendent. some in the church teach, say the puritan complainers, 'that good works are concauses with faith in the act of justification; some have oppugned the certitude of salvation; some have maintained that the lord's day is kept merely by ecclesiastical constitution; some have defended the whole gross substance of arminianism, that the act of conversion depends upon the concurrence of men's free will; some have denied original sin; some have broached out of socinus a most uncomfortable and desperate doctrine, that late repentance,--that is, upon the last bed of sickness,--is unfruitful, at least, to reconcile the penitent to god.' what we insist upon is, that the growth and movement of thought, on religious matters, are here shown to be in the church; and that on these two cardinal doctrines of predestination and justification, with which we are accused of unfairly saddling puritanism alone, puritanism did really want to make the national religion hinge, while the church did not, but resisted. the resistance of the church was at that time vanquished, not by importing strict calvinism into the prayer book, but by casting out the prayer book altogether. by ordinance in 1645, the use of the prayer book, which for churches had already been forbidden, was forbidden also for all private places and families; all copies to be found in churches were to be delivered up, and heavy penalties were imposed on persons retaining them. we come to the occasion where the church is thought to have most decisively shown her unyieldingness,--the savoy conference in 1661, after king charles the second's restoration. the question was, what alterations were to be made in the prayer book, so as to enable the puritans to use it as well as the church party. having in view doctrine and free development of thought, we say again it was the puritans who were for narrowing, it was the churchmen who were for keeping open. their heads full of these tenets of predestination, original sin, and justification, which we are accused of charging upon them exclusively and unfairly, the puritans complain that the church liturgy seems very defective,--why? because 'the systems of doctrine of a church should summarily comprehend all such doctrines as are necessary to be believed,' and the liturgy does not set down these explicitly enough. for instance, 'the confession,' they say, 'is very defective, not clearly expressing original sin. the catechism is defective as to many necessary doctrines of our religion, some even of the essentials of christianity not being mentioned except in the creed, and there not so explicit as ought to be in a catechism.' and what is the answer of the bishops? it is the answer of people with an instinct that this definition and explicitness demanded by the puritans are incompatible with the conditions of life of a historic church. 'the church,' they say, 'hath been careful to put nothing into the liturgy but that which is either evidently the word of god, or what hath been generally received in the catholic church. the catechism is not intended as a whole body of divinity.' the puritans had requested that 'the church prayers might contain _nothing questioned by pious, learned, and orthodox persons_.' seizing on this expression, wherein is contained the ground of that _separatism for opinions_ which we hold to be so fatal not only to church life but also to the natural growth of religious thought, the bishops ask, and in the very language of good sense: 'who are _pious, learned, and orthodox persons_? are we to take for such all who shall confidently affirm themselves to be such? if by orthodox be meant those who adhere to scripture and the catholic consent of antiquity, we do not yet know that any part of our liturgy has been questioned by such. it was the wisdom of our reformers to draw up _such a liturgy as neither romanist nor protestant could justly except against_. persons want the book to be altered for their own satisfaction.' this allegation respecting the character of the liturgy is undoubtedly true, for the puritans themselves expressly admitted its truth, and urged this as a reason for altering the liturgy. it is in consonance with what is so often said, and truly said, of the thirty-nine articles, that they are _articles of peace_. this, indeed, makes the articles scientifically worthless. metaphysical propositions, such as they in the main are, drawn up with a studied design for their being vague and loose, can have no metaphysical value. but no one then thought of doing without metaphysical articles; so to make them articles of peace showed a true conception of the conditions of life and growth in a church. the readiness to put a lax sense on subscription is a proof of the same disposition of mind. chillingworth's judgment about the meaning of subscription is well known. 'for the church of england, i am persuaded that the constant doctrine of it is so pure and orthodox, that whosoever believes it and lives according to it, undoubtedly he shall be saved; and that there is no error in it which may necessitate or warrant any man to disturb the peace or renounce the communion of it. _this, in my opinion, is all that is intended by subscription._' and laud, a very different man from chillingworth, held on this point a like opinion with him. certainly the church of england was in no humour, at the time of the savoy conference, to deal tenderly with the puritans. it was too much disposed to show to the puritans the same sort of tenderness which the puritans had shown to the church. the nation, moreover, was nearly as ill-disposed as the church to the puritans; and this proves well what the narrowness and tyrannousness of puritanism dominant had really been. but the church undoubtedly said and did to puritanism after the restoration much that was harsh and bitter, and therefore inexcusable in a christian church. examples of churchmen so speaking and dealing may be found in the transactions of 1661; but perhaps the most offensive example of a churchman of this kind, and who deserves therefore to be studied, is a certain dr. jane, regius professor of divinity at oxford and dean of gloucester, who was put forward to thwart tillotson's projects of comprehension in 1689. a certain number of dr. janes there have always been in the church. there are a certain number of them in the church now, and there always will be a certain number of them. no church could exist with many of them; but one should have a sample or two of them always before one's mind, and remember how to the excluded party a few, and those the worst, of their excluders, are always apt to stand for the whole, in order to comprehend the full bitterness and resentment of puritanism against the church of england. else one would be inclined to say, after attentively and impartially observing the two parties, that the persistence of the church in pressing for conformity arose, not as the political historians would have it, from the lust of haughty ecclesiastics for dominion and for imposing their law on the vanquished, but from a real sense that their formularies were made so large and open, and the sense put upon subscription to them was so indulgent, that any reasonable man could honestly conform; and that it was perverseness and determination to impose their special ideas on the church, and to narrow the church's latitude, which made the puritans stand out. nay, and it was with the diction of the prayer book, as it was with its doctrine; the church took the side which most commands the sympathy of liberal-minded men. baxter had his rival prayer book which he proposed to substitute for the old one. and this is how the 'reformed liturgy' was to begin: 'eternal, incomprehensible and invisible god, infinite in power, wisdom and goodness, dwelling in the light which no man can approach, where thousand thousands minister unto thee, and ten thousand times ten thousand stand before thee,' &c. this, i say, was to have taken the place of our old friend, _dearly beloved brethren_; and here, again, we can hardly refuse approval to the church's resistance to puritan innovations. we could wish, indeed, the church had shown the same largeness in consenting to relax ceremonies, which she showed in refusing to tighten dogma, or to spoil diction. worse still, the angry wish to drive by violence, when the other party will not move by reason, finally no doubt appears; and the church has much to blame herself for in the act of uniformity. blame she deserves, and she has had it plentifully; but what has not been enough perceived is, that really the conviction of her own moderation, openness, and latitude, as far as regards doctrine, seems to have filled her mind during her dealings with the puritans; and that her impatience with them was in great measure impatience at seeing these so ill-appreciated by them. very ill-appreciated by them they certainly were; and, as far as doctrine is concerned, the quarrel between the church and puritanism undoubtedly was, that for the doctrines of predestination, original sin, and justification, puritanism wanted more exclusive prominence, more dogmatic definition, more bar to future escape and development; while the church resisted. and as the instinct of the church always made her avoid, on these three favourite tenets of puritanism, the stringency of definition which puritanism tried to force upon her, always made her leave herself room for growth in regard to them,--so, if we look for the positive beginnings and first signs of growth, of disengagement from the stock notions of popular theology about predestination, original sin, and justification, it is among churchmen, and not among puritans, that we shall find them. few will deny that as to the doctrines of predestination and original sin, at any rate, the mind of religious men is no longer what it was in the seventeenth century or in the eighteenth. there has been evident growth and emancipation; puritanism itself no longer holds these doctrines in the rigid way it once did. to whom is this change owing? who were the beginners of it? they were men using that comparative openness of mind and accessibility to ideas which was fostered by the church. the very complaints which we have quoted from the puritan divines prove that this was so. henry more, saying in the heat of the calvinistic controversy, what it needed insight to say then, but what almost every one's common sense says now, that 'it were to be wished the quinquarticular points were all reduced to this one, namely, _that none shall be saved without sincere obedience_;' jeremy taylor saying in the teeth of the superstitious popular doctrine of original sin: 'original sin, as it is at this day commonly explicated, was not the doctrine of the primitive church; but when pelagius had puddled the stream, st. austin was so angry that he stamped and puddled it more,'--this sort of utterance from churchmen it was, that first introduced into our religious world the current of more independent thought concerning the doctrines of predestination and original sin, which has now made its way even amidst puritans themselves. here the emancipation has reached the puritans; but it proceeded from the church. that puritanism is yet emancipated from the popular doctrine of justification cannot be asserted. on the contrary, the more it loosens its hold on the doctrine of predestination the more it tightens it on that of justification. we shall have occasion by and by to discuss wesley's words: '_plead thou solely the blood of the covenant, the ransom paid for thy proud stubborn soul!_' and to show how modern methodism glories in holding aloft as its standard this teaching of wesley's, and this teaching above all. the many tracts which have lately been sent me in reference to this subject go all the same way. like luther, they hold that 'all heretics have continually failed in this one point, that they do not rightly understand or know the article of _justification_:' 'do not see' (to continue to use luther's words,) 'that by none other sacrifice or offering could god's fierce anger be appeased, but by the precious blood of the son of god.' that this doctrine is founded upon an entire misunderstanding of st. paul's writings we have shown; that there is very visible a tendency in the minds of religious people to outgrow it, is true, but where alone does this tendency manifest itself with any steadiness or power? in the church. the inevitable movement of growth will in time extend itself to puritanism also. let it be remembered in that day that not only does the movement come to puritanism from the church, but it comes to churchmen of our century from a seed of growth and development inherent in the church, and which was manifest in the church long ago! that the accompaniments of the doctrine of justification, the tenets of conversion, instantaneous sanctification, assurance, and sinless perfection,--tenets which are not the essence of wesley, but which are the essence of wesleyan methodism, and which have in them so much that is delusive and dangerous,--that these should have been discerningly judged by that mixture of piety and sobriety which marks anglicans of the best type, such as bishop wilson,[105] will surprise no one. but years before wesley was born, the fontal doctrine itself,--wesley's '_plead thou solely the blood of the covenant!_'--had been criticised by hammond thus, and the signal of deliverance from the lutheran doctrine of justification given: 'the solifidian looks upon his faith as the utmost accomplishment and end, and not only as the first elements of his task, which is,--_the superstructing of good life_. the solifidian believes himself to have the only sanctified necessary doctrines, that having them renders his condition safe, and every man who believes them a pure christian professor. in respect of solifidianism it is worth remembering what epiphanius observes of the primitive times, that _wickedness was the only heresy_, that impious and pious living divided the whole christian world into erroneous and orthodox.' [footnote 105: for example, what an antidote to the perilous methodist doctrine of instantaneous sanctification is this saying of bishop wilson: 'he who fancies that his mind may effectually be changed in a short time, deceives himself.'] in point of fact, therefore, the historic church in england, not existing for special opinions, but proceeding by development, has shown much greater freedom of mind as regards the doctrines of election, original sin, and justification, than the nonconformists have; and has refused, in spite of puritan pressure, to tie herself too strictly to these doctrines, to make them all in all. she thus both has been and is more serviceable than puritanism to religious progress; because the separating for opinions, which is proper to puritanism, rivets the separatist to those opinions, and is thus opposed to that development and gradual exhibiting of the full sense of the bible and christianity, which is essential to religious progress. to separate for the doctrine of predestination, of justification, of scriptural church-discipline, is to be false to the idea of development, to imagine that you can seize the absolute sense of scripture from your own present point of view, and to cut yourself off from growth and gradual illumination. that a comparison between the course things have taken in puritanism and in the church goes to prove the truth of this as a matter of fact, is what i have been trying to show hitherto; in what remains i purpose to show how, as a matter of theory and antecedent likelihood, it seems probable and natural that so this should be. a historic church cannot choose but allow the principle of development, for it is written in its institutions and history. an admirable writer, in a book which is one of his least known works, but which contains, perhaps, even a greater number of profound and valuable ideas than any other one of them, has set forth, both persuasively and truly, the impression of this sort which church-history cannot but convey. 'we have to account,' says dr. newman, in his _essay on development_, 'for that apparent variation and growth of doctrine which embarrasses us when we would consult history for the true idea of christianity. the increase and expansion of the christian creed and ritual, and the variations which have attended the process in the case of individual writers and churches, are the necessary attendants on any philosophy or polity which takes possession of the intellect and heart, and has had any wide or extended dominion. from the nature of the human mind, time is necessary for the full comprehension and perfection of great ideas. the highest and most wonderful truths, though communicated to the world once for all by inspired teachers, could not be comprehended all at once by the recipients; but, as admitted and transmitted by minds not inspired, and through media which were human, have required only the longer time and deeper thought for their full elucidation.' and again: 'ideas may remain when the expression of them is indefinitely varied. nay, one cause of corruption in religion is the refusal to follow the course of doctrine as it moves on, and an obstinacy in the notions of the past. so our lord found his people precisians in their obedience to the letter; he condemned them for not being led on to its spirit,--that is, its development. the gospel is the development of the law; yet what difference seems wider than that which separates the unbending rule of moses from the grace and truth which came by jesus christ? the more claim an idea has to be considered living, the more various will be its aspects; and the more social and political is its nature, the more complicated and subtle will be its developments, and the longer and more eventful will be its course. such is christianity.' and yet once more: 'it may be objected that inspired documents, such as the holy scriptures, at once determine doctrine without further trouble. but they were intended to create _an idea_, and that idea is not in the sacred text, but in the mind of the reader; and the question is, whether that idea is communicated to him in its completeness and minute accuracy on its first apprehension, or expands in his heart and intellect, and comes to perfection in the course of time. if it is said that inspiration supplied the place of this development in the first recipients of christianity, still the time at length came when its recipients ceased to be inspired; and on these recipients the revealed truths would fall as in other cases, at first vaguely and generally, and would afterwards be completed by developments.' the notion thus admirably expounded of a gradual understanding of the bible, a progressive development of christianity, is the same which was in bishop butler's mind when he laid down in his _analogy_ that 'the bible contains many truths as yet undiscovered.' 'and as,' he says, 'the whole scheme of scripture is not yet understood, so, if it ever comes to be understood, before the restitution of all things and without miraculous interpositions, it must be in the same way as natural knowledge is come at,--by the continuance and progress of learning and of liberty, and by particular persons attending to, comparing, and pursuing intimations scattered up and down it, which are overlooked and disregarded by the generality of the world. for this is the way in which all improvements are made; by thoughtful men's tracing on obscure hints, as it were, dropped as by nature accidentally, or which seem to come into our minds by chance.' and again: 'our existence is not only successive, as it must be of necessity, but one state of our life and being is appointed by god to be a preparation for another, and that to be the means of attaining to another succeeding one; infancy to childhood, childhood to youth, youth to mature age. men are impatient and for precipitating things; but the author of nature appears deliberate throughout his operations, accomplishing his natural ends by slow successive steps. thus, in the daily course of natural providence, god operates in the very same manner as in the dispensation of christianity; making one thing subservient to another, this to somewhat further; and so on, through a progressive series of means which extend both backward and forward, beyond our utmost view. of this manner of operation everything we see in the course of nature is as much an instance as any part of the christian dispensation.' all this is indeed incomparably well said; and with dr. newman we may, on the strength of it all, beyond any doubt, 'fairly conclude that christian doctrine admits of formal, legitimate, and true developments;' that 'the whole bible is written on the principle of development.' dr. newman, indeed, uses this idea in a manner which seems to us arbitrary and condemned by the idea itself. he uses it in support of the pretensions of the church of rome to an infallible authority on points of doctrine. he says, with much ingenuity, to protestants: the doctrines you receive are no more on the face of the bible, or in the plain teaching of the ante-nicene church, which alone you consider pure, than the doctrines you reject. the doctrine of the trinity is a development, as much as the doctrine of purgatory. both of them are developments made by the church, by the post-nicene church. the determination of the canon of scripture, a thing of vital importance to you who acknowledge no authority but scripture, is a development due to the post-nicene church.--and thus dr. newman would compel protestants to admit that which is, he declares, in itself reasonable,--namely, 'the probability of the appointment in christianity of an external authority to decide upon the true developments of doctrine and practice in it, thereby separating them from the mass of mere human speculation, extravagance, corruption, and error, in and out of which they grow. this is the doctrine of the infallibility of the church, of faith and obedience towards the church, founded on the probability of its never erring in its declarations or commands.' now, asserted in this absolute way, and extended to doctrine as well as discipline, to speculative thought as well as to christian practice, dr. newman's conclusion seems at variance with his own theory of development, and to be something like an instance of what bishop butler criticises when he says: 'men are impatient, and for precipitating things.' but dr. newman has himself supplied us with a sort of commentary on these words of butler's which is worth quoting, because it throws more light on our point than butler's few words can throw on it by themselves. dr. newman says: 'development is not an effect of wishing and resolving, or of forced enthusiasm, or of any mechanism of reasoning, or of any mere subtlety of intellect; but comes of its own innate power of expansion within the mind in its season, though with the use of reflection and argument and original thought, more or less as it may happen, with a dependence on the ethical growth of the mind itself, and with a reflex influence upon it.' it is impossible to point out more sagaciously and expressively the natural, spontaneous, free character of true development; how such a development must follow laws of its own, may often require vast periods of time, cannot be hurried, cannot be stopped. and so far as christianity deals,--as, in its metaphysical theology, it does abundantly deal,--with thought and speculation, it must surely be admitted that for its true and ultimate development in this line more time is required, and other conditions have to be fulfilled, than we have had already. so far as christian doctrine contains speculative philosophical ideas, never since its origin have the conditions been present for determining these adequately; certainly not in the mediã¦val church, which so dauntlessly strove to determine them. and therefore on every creed and council is judgment passed in bishop butler's sentence: '_the bible contains many truths as yet undiscovered._' the christian religion has practice for its great end and aim; but it raises, as anyone can see, and as church-history proves, numerous and great questions of philosophy and of scientific criticism. well, for the true elucidation of such questions, and for their final solution, time and favourable developing conditions are confessedly necessary. from the end of the apostolic age and of the great fontal burst of christianity, down to the present time, have such conditions ever existed in the christian communities, for determining adequately the questions of philosophy and scientific criticism which the christian religion starts? _god_, _creation_, _will_, _evil_, _propitiation_, _immortality_,--these terms and many more of the same kind, however much they might in the bible be used in a concrete and practical manner, yet plainly had in themselves a provocation to abstract thought, carried with them the occasions of a criticism and a philosophy, which must sooner or later make its appearance in the church. it did make its appearance, and the question is whether it has ever yet appeared there under conditions favourable to its true development. surely this is best elucidated by considering whether questions of criticism and philosophy in general ever had one of their happy moments, their times for successful development, in the early and middle ages of christendom at all, or have had one of them in the christian churches, as such, since. all these questions hang together, and the time that is improper for solving one sort of them truly, is improper for solving the others. well, surely, historic criticism, criticism of style, criticism of nature, no one would go to the early or middle ages of the church for illumination on these matters. how then should those ages develop successfully a philosophy of theology, or in other words, a criticism of physics and metaphysics, which involves the three other criticisms and more besides? church-theology is an elaborate attempt at a philosophy of theology, at a philosophical criticism. in greece, before christianity appeared, there had been a favouring period for the development of such a criticism; a considerable movement of it took place, and considerable results were reached. when christianity began, this movement was in decadence; it declined more and more till it died quite out; it revived very slowly, and as it waxed, the mediã¦val church waned. the doctrine of universals is a question of philosophy discussed in greece, and re-discussed in the middle ages. whatever light this doctrine receives from plato's treatment of it, or aristotle's, in whatever state they left it, will anyone say that the nominalists and realists brought any more light to it, that they developed it in any way, or could develop it? for the same reason, st. augustine's criticism of god's eternal decrees, original sin, and justification, the criticism of st. thomas aquinas on them, the decisions of the church on them, are of necessity, and from the very nature of things, inadequate, because, being philosophical developments, they are made in an age when the forces for true philosophical development are waning or wanting. so when hooker says most truly: 'our belief in the trinity, the co-eternity of the son of god with his father, the proceeding of the spirit from the father and the son, with other principal points the necessity whereof is by none denied, are notwithstanding in scripture nowhere to be found by express literal mention, only deduced they are out of scripture by collection;'--when hooker thus points, out, what is undoubtedly the truth, that these church-doctrines are developments, we may add this other truth equally undoubted,--that being _philosophical_ developments, they are developments of a kind which the church has never yet had the right conditions for making adequately, any more than it has had the conditions for developing out of what is said in the book of genesis a true philosophy of nature, or out of what is said in the book of daniel, a true philosophy of history. it matters nothing whether the scientific truth was there, and the problem was to extract it; or not there, and the problem was to understand why it was not there, and the relation borne by what was there to the scientific truth. the church had no means of solving either the one problem or the other. and this from no fault at all of the church, but for the same reason that she was unfitted to solve a difficulty in aristotle's _physics_ or plato's _timã¦us_, and to determine the historical value of herodotus or livy; simply from the natural operation of the law of development, which for success in philosophy and criticism requires certain conditions, which in the early and mediã¦val church were not to be found. and when the movement of philosophy and criticism came with the renascence, this movement was almost entirely outside the churches, whether catholic or protestant, and not inside them. it worked in men like descartes and bacon, and not in men like luther and calvin; so that the doctrine of these two eminent personages, luther and calvin, so far as it was a philosophical and critical development from scripture, had no more likelihood of being an adequate development than the doctrine of the council of trent. and so it has gone on to this day. philosophy and criticism have become a great power in the world, and inevitably tend to alter and develop church-doctrine, so far as this doctrine is, as to a great extent it is, philosophical and critical. yet the seat of the developing force is not in the church itself, but elsewhere; its influences filter strugglingly into the church, and the church slowly absorbs and incorporates them. and whatever hinders their filtering in and becoming incorporated, hinders truth and the natural progress of things. while, therefore, we entirely agree with dr. newman and with the great anglican divines that the whole bible is written on the principle of development, and that christianity in its doctrine and discipline is and must be a development of the bible, we yet cannot agree that for the adequate development of christian doctrine, so far as theology exhibits this metaphysically and scientifically, the church, whether ante-nicene or post-nicene, has ever yet furnished a channel. thought and science follow their own law of development, they are slowly elaborated in the growth and forward pressure of humanity, in what shakspeare calls,- ... the prophetic soul of the wide world dreaming on things to come; and their ripeness and unripeness, as dr. newman most truly says, are not an effect of our wishing or resolving. rather do they seem brought about by a power such as goethe figures by the _zeit-geist_ or time-spirit, and st. paul describes as a divine power _revealing_ additions to what we possess already. but sects of men are apt to be shut up in sectarian ideas of their own, and to be less open to new general ideas than the main body of men; therefore st. paul in the same breath exhorts to unity. what may justly be conceded to the catholic church is, that in her idea of a continuous developing power in united christendom to work upon the data furnished by the bible, and produce new combinations from them as the growth of time required it, she followed a true instinct. but the right _philosophical_ developments she vainly imagined herself to have had the power to produce, and her attempts in this direction were at most but a prophecy of this power, as alchemy is said to have been a prophecy of chemistry. with developments of discipline and church-order it is very different. the bible raises, as we have seen, many and great questions of philosophy and criticism; still, essentially the church was not a corporation for speculative purposes, but a corporation for purposes of moral growth and of practice. terms like _god_, _creation_, _will_, _evil_, _propitiation_, _immortality_, evoke, as we have said, and must evoke, sooner or later, a philosophy; but to evoke this was the accident and not the essence of christianity. what, then, was the essence? an ingenious writer, as unlike dr. newman as it is possible to conceive, has lately told us. in an article in _fraser's magazine_,--an article written with great vigour and acuteness,--this writer advises us to return to paley, whom we were beginning to neglect, because the real important essence of christianity, or rather, to quote quite literally, 'the only form of christianity which is worthy of the serious consideration of rational men, is protestantism as stated by paley and his school.' and why? 'because this protestantism enables the saint to prove to the worldly man that christ threatened him with hell-fire, and proved his power to threaten by rising from the dead and ascending into heaven; _and these allegations are the fundamental assertions of christianity_.' now it may be said that this is a somewhat contracted view of 'the unsearchable riches of christ;' but we will not quarrel with it. and this for several reasons. in the first place, it is the view often taken by popular theology. in the second place, it is the view best fitted to serve its benthamite author's object, which is to get christianity out of the way altogether. in the third place, its shortness gives us courage to try and do what is the hardest thing in the world, namely, to pack a statement of the main drift of christianity into a few lines of nearly as short compass. what then was, in brief, the christian gospel, or 'good news'? it was this: _the kingdom of god is come unto you_. the power of jesus upon the multitudes who heard him gladly, was not that by rising from the dead and ascending into heaven he enabled the saint to prove to the worldly man the certainty of hell-fire (for he had not yet done so); but that _he talked to them about the kingdom of god_.[106] and what is the kingdom of god or kingdom of heaven? it is this: _god's will done, as in heaven so on earth_. and how was this come to mankind? because _jesus is come to save his people from their sins_. and what is being saved from our sins? this: _entering into the kingdom of heaven by doing the will of our father which is in heaven_. and how does christ enable us to do this? by teaching us _to take his yoke upon us, and learn of him to deny ourselves and take up our cross daily and follow him, and to lose our life for the purpose of saving it_. so that st. paul might say most truly that the seal of the sure foundation of god in christianity was this: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_: or, as he elsewhere expands it: _let him bring forth the fruits of the spirit,--love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faith, mildness, self-control._[107] [footnote 106: nothing can be more certain than that the _kingdom of god_ meant originally, and was understood to mean, a messianic kingdom speedily to be revealed; and that to this idea of the _kingdom_ is due much of the effect which its preaching exercised on the imagination of the first generation of christians. but nothing is more certain, also, than that while the end itself, the messianic kingdom, was necessarily something intangible and future, the _way_ to the end, the doing the will of god by intently following the voice of the moral conscience, in those duties, above all, for which there was then in the world the most crying need,--the duties of humbleness, self-denial, pureness, justice, charity,--became from the very first in the teaching of jesus something so ever-present and practical, and so associated with the essence of jesus himself, that the _way_ to the kingdom grew inseparable, in thought, from the kingdom itself, and was bathed in the same light and charm. then, after a time, as the vision of an approaching messianic kingdom was dissipated, the idea of the perfect accomplishment on earth of the will of god had to take the room of it, and in its own realisation to place the ideal of the true kingdom of god.] [footnote 107: ii _tim._, ii, 19; _gal._, v, 22, 23.] on this foundation arose the christian church, and not on any foundation of speculative metaphysics. it was inevitable that the speculative metaphysics should come, but they were not the foundation. when they came, the danger of the christian church was that she should take them for the foundation. the people who were built on the real foundation, who were united in the joy of christ's good news, naturally, as they came to know of one another's existence, as their relations with one another multiplied, as the sense of sympathy in the possession of a common treasure deepened,--naturally, i say, drew together in one body, with an organisation growing out of the needs of a growing body. it is quite clear that the more strongly christians felt their common business in setting forward upon earth, through christ's spirit, the kingdom of god, the more they would be drawn to coalesce into one society for this business, with the natural and true notion that the acting together in this way offers to men greater helps for reaching their aim, presents fewer distractions, and above all, supplies a more animating force of sympathy and mutual assurance, than the acting separately. only the sense of differences greater than the sense of sympathy could defeat this tendency. dr. newman has told us what an impression was once made upon his mind by the sentence: _securus judicat orbis terrarum_. we have shown how, for matters of philosophical judgment, not yet settled but requiring development to clear them, the consent of the world, at a time when this clearing development cannot have happened, seems to carry little or no weight at all; indeed, as to judgment on these points, we should rather be inclined to lay down the very contrary of dr. newman's affirmation, and to say: _securus delirat orbis terrarum_. but points of speculative theology being out of the question, and the practical ground and purpose of man's religion being broadly and plainly fixed, we should be quite disposed to concede to dr. newman, that _securus =colit= orbis terrarum_;--those pursue this purpose best who pursue it together. for unless prevented by extraneous causes, they manifestly tend, as the history of the church's growth shows, to pursue it together. nonconformists are fond of talking of the unity which may co-exist with separation, and they say: 'there are four evangelists, yet one gospel; why should there not be many separate religious bodies, yet one church?' but their theory of unity in separation is a theory palpably invented to cover existing facts, and their argument from the evangelists is a paralogism. for the four gospels arose out of no thought of divergency; they were not designed as corrections of one prior gospel, or of one another; they were concurring testimonies borne to the same fact. but the several religious bodies of christendom plainly grew out of an intention of divergency; clearly they were designed to correct the imperfections of one prior church and of each other; and to say of things sprung out of discord that they may make _one_, because things sprung out of concord may make _one_, is like saying that because several agreements may make a peace, therefore several wars may make a peace too. no; without some strong motive to the contrary, men united by the pursuit of a clearly defined common aim of irresistible attractiveness naturally coalesce; and since they coalesce naturally, they are clearly right in coalescing and find their advantage in it. all that dr. newman has so excellently said about development applies here legitimately and fully. existence justifies additions and stages in existence. the living edifice planted on the foundation, _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_, could not but grow, if it lived at all. if it grew, it could not but make developments, and all developments not inconsistent with the aim of its original foundation, and not extending beyond the moral and practical sphere which was the sphere of its original foundation, are legitimated by the very fact of the church having in the natural evolution of its life and growth made them. a boy does not wear the clothes or follow the ways of an infant, nor a man those of a boy; yet they are all engaged in the one same business of developing their growing life, and to the clothes to be worn and the ways to be followed for the purpose of doing this, nature will, in general, direct them safely. the several scattered congregations of the first age of christianity coalesced into one community, just as the several scattered christians had earlier still coalesced into congregations. why?--because such was the natural course of things. it had nothing inconsistent with the fundamental ground of christians, _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_; and it was approved by their growing and enlarging in it. they developed a church-discipline with a hierarchy of bishops and archbishops, which was not that of the first times; they developed church-usages, such as the practice of infant baptism, which were not those of the first times; they developed a church-ritual with ceremonies which were not those of the first times;--they developed all these, just as they developed a church-architecture which was not that of the first times, because they were no longer in the first times, and required for their expanding growth what suited their own times. they coalesced with the state because they grew by doing so. they called the faith they possessed in common the _catholic_, that is, the general or universal faith. they developed, also, as we have seen, dogma or a theological philosophy. both dogma and discipline became a part of the catholic faith, or profession of the general body of christians. now to develop a discipline, or form of outward life for itself, the church, as has been said, had necessarily, like every other living thing, the requisite qualifications; to develop scientific dogma it had not. but even of the dogma which the church developed it may be said, that, from the very nature of things, it was probably, as compared with the opposing dogma over which it prevailed, the more suited to the actual condition of the church's life, and to the due progress of the divine work for which she existed. for instance, whatever may be scientifically the rights of the question about grace and free-will, it is evident that, for the church of the fifth century, pelagianism was the less inspiring and edifying doctrine, and the sense of _being in the divine hand_ was the feeling which it was good for christians to be filled with. whatever may be scientifically the merits of the dispute between arius and athanasius, for the church of their time whatever most exalted or seemed to exalt jesus christ was clearly the profitable doctrine, the doctrine most helpful to that moral life which was the true life of the church. people, however, there were in abundance who differed on points both of discipline and of dogma from the rule which obtained in the church, and who separated from her on account of that difference. these were the heretics: _separatists_, as the name implies, _for the sake of opinions_. and the very name, therefore, implies that they were wrong in separating, and that the body which held together was right; because the church exists, not for the sake of opinions, but for the sake of moral practice, and a united endeavour after this is stronger than a broken one. valentinians, marcionites, montanists, donatists, manichã¦ans, novatians, eutychians, apollinarians, nestorians, arians, pelagians,--if they separated on points of discipline they were wrong, because for developing its own fit outward conditions of life the body of a community has, as we have seen, a real natural power, and individuals are bound to sacrifice their fancies to it; if they separated on points of dogma they were wrong also, because, while neither they nor the church had the means of determining such points adequately, the true instinct lay in those who, instead of separating for such points, conceded them as the church settled them, and found their bond of union, where it in truth really was, not in notions about the co-eternity of the son, but in the principle: _let every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity_. does any one imagine that all the church shared augustine's speculative opinions about grace and predestination? that many members of it did not rather incline, as a matter of speculative opinion, to the notions of pelagius? does any one imagine that all who stood with the church and did not join themselves to the arians, were speculatively athanasians? it was not so; but they had a true feeling for what purpose the gospel and the church were given them, and for what they were not given them; they could see that 'impious and pious living,' according to that sentence of epiphanius we have quoted from hammond, 'divided the whole christian world into erroneous and orthodox;' and that it was not worth while to suffer themselves to be divided for anything else. and though it will be said that separatists for opinions on points of discipline and dogma have often asserted, and sometimes believed, that piety and impiety were vitally concerned in these points; yet here again the true religious instinct is that which discerns,--what is seldom so very obscure,--whether they are in truth thus vitally concerned or not; and, if they are not, cannot be perverted into fancying them concerned and breaking unity for them. this, i say, is the true religious instinct, the instinct which most clearly seizes the essence and aim of the christian gospel and of the christian church. but fidelity to it leaves, also, the way least closed to the admission of true developments of speculative thought, when the time is come for them, and to the incorporation of these true developments with the ideas and practice of christians. is there not, then, any separation which is right and reasonable? yes, separation on plain points of morals. for these involve the very essence of the christian gospel, and the very ground on which the christian church is built. the sale of indulgences, if deliberately instituted and persisted in by the main body of the church, afforded a valid reason for breaking unity; the doctrine of purgatory, or of the real presence, did not. however, a cosmopolitan church-order, commenced when the political organisation of christians was also cosmopolitan,--when, that is, the nations of europe were politically one in the unity of the roman empire,--might well occasion difficulties as the nations solidified into independent states with a keen sense of their independent life; so that, the cosmopolitan type disappearing for civil affairs, and being replaced by the national type, the same disappearance and replacement tended to prevail in ecclesiastical affairs also. but this was a political difficulty, not a religious one, and it raised no insuperable bar to continued religious union. a church with anglican liberties might very well, the english national spirit being what it is, have been in religious communion with rome, and yet have been safely trusted to maintain and develop its national liberties to any extent required. the moral corruptions of rome, on the other hand, were a real ground for separation. on their account, and solely on their account, if they could not be got rid of, was separation not only lawful but necessary. it has always been the averment of the church of england, that the change made in her at the reformation was the very least change which was absolutely necessary. no doubt she used the opportunity of her breach with rome to get rid of several doctrines which the human mind had outgrown; but it was the immoral practice of rome that really moved her to separation. and she maintained that she merely got rid of roman corruptions which were immoral and intolerable, and remained the old, historic, catholic church of england still. the right to this title of _catholic_ is a favourite matter of contention between bodies of christians. but let us use names in their customary and natural senses. to us it seems that unless one chooses to fight about words, and fancifully to put into the word _catholic_ some occult quality, one must allow that the changes made in the church of england at the reformation impaired its catholicity. the word _catholic_ was meant to describe the common or general profession and worship of christendom at the time when the word arose. undoubtedly this general profession and worship had not a strict uniformity everywhere, but it had a clearly-marked common character; and this well-known type bede, or anselm, or wiclif himself, would to this day easily recognise in a roman catholic religious service, but hardly in an anglican; while, on the other hand, in a roman catholic religious service an ordinary anglican finds himself as much in a strange world and out of his usual course, as in a nonconformist meeting-house. something precious was no doubt lost in losing this common profession and worship; but the loss was, as we protestants maintain, incurred for the sake of something yet more precious still,--the purity of that moral practice which was the very cause for which the common profession and worship existed. now, it seems captious to incur voluntarily a loss for a great and worthy object, and at the same time, by a conjuring with words, to try and make it appear that we have not suffered the loss at all. so on the word _catholic_ we will not insist too jealously; but thus much, at any rate, must be allowed to the church of england,--that she kept enough of the past to preserve, as far as this nation was concerned, her continuity, to be still the _historic church of england_; and that she avoided the error, to which there was so much to draw her, and into which all the other reformed churches fell, of making improved speculative doctrinal opinions the main ground of her separation. a nonconformist newspaper, it is true, reproaching the church with what is, in our opinion, her greatest praise, namely, that on points of doctrinal theology she is 'a church that does not know her own mind,' roundly asserts, as we have already mentioned, that 'no man in his senses can deny that the church of england was meant to be a thoroughly protestant and evangelical, and it may be said calvinistic church.' but not only does the whole course of church-history disprove such an assertion, and show that this is what the puritans always wanted to make the church, and what the church would never be made, but we can disprove it, too, out of the mouths of the very puritans themselves. at the savoy conference the puritans urged that 'our first reformers out of their great wisdom did at that time (of the reformation) so compose the liturgy, as to win upon the papists, and to draw them into their church communion _by varying as little as they could from the romish forms before in use_;' and this they alleged as their great plea for purging the liturgy. and the bishops resisted, and upheld the proceeding of the reformers as the essential policy of the church of england; as indeed it was, and till this day has continued to be. no; the church of england did not give her energies to inventing a new church-order for herself and fighting for it; to singling out two or three speculative dogmas as the essence of christianity, and fighting for them. she set herself to carry forward, and as much as possible on the old lines, the old practical work and proper design of the christian church; and this is what left her mind comparatively open, as we have seen, for the admission of philosophy and criticism, as they slowly developed themselves outside the church and filtered into her; an admission which confessedly proves just now of capital importance. this openness of mind the puritans have not shared with the church, and how _should_ they have shared it? they are founded on the negation of that idea of development which plays so important a part in the life of the church; on the assumption that there is a divinely appointed church-order fixed once for all in the bible, and that they have adopted it; that there is a doctrinal scheme of faith, justification, and imputed righteousness, which is the test of a standing or falling church and the essence of the gospel, and that they have extracted it. these are assumptions which, as they make union impossible, so also make growth impossible. the church makes church-order a matter of ecclesiastical constitution, is founded on moral practice, and though she develops speculative dogma, does not allow that this or that dogma is the essence of christianity. 'congregational nonconformists,' say the independents, 'can never be incorporated into an organic union with anglican episcopacy, because there is not even the shadow of an outline of it in the new testament, and it is our assertion and profound belief that christ and the apostles have given us all the laws that are necessary for the constitution and government of the church.'[108] 'whatever may come,' says the president of the wesleyan conference, 'we are determined to be simple, earnest preachers of _the gospel_. whatever may come, we are determined to be true to _scriptural protestantism_. we would be friendly with all evangelical churches, but we will have no fellowship with the man of sin. we will give up life itself rather than be unfaithful to _the truth_. it is ours to cry everywhere: "come, sinners, to _the gospel-feast_!"' and this _gospel_, this _scriptural protestantism_, this _truth_, is the doctrine of justification by 'pleading solely the blood of the covenant,' of which we have said so much. methodists cannot unite with a church which does not found itself on this doctrine of justification, but which holds the doctrine of priestly absolution, of the real presence, and other doctrines of like stamp; congregationalists cannot unite with a church which, besides not resting on the doctrine of justification, has a church-order not prescribed in the new testament. [footnote 108: address of the rev. g. w. conder at liverpool, in the _lancashire congregational calendar_ for 1869-70.] now as hooker truly says of those who 'desire to draw all things unto the determination of bare and naked scripture,' as dr. newman, too, has said, and as many others have said, the bible does not exhibit, drawn out in black and white, the precise tenets and usages of any christian society; some inference and criticism must be employed to get at them. 'for the most part, even such as are readiest to cite for one thing five hundred sentences of scripture, what warrant have they that any one of them doth mean the thing for which it is alleged?' nay, 'it is not the word of god itself which doth, or possibly can, assure us that we do well to think it his word.' so says hooker, and what he says is perfectly true. a process of reasoning and collection is necessary to get at the scriptural church-discipline and the scriptural protestantism of the puritans; in short, this discipline and this doctrine are developments. and the first is an unsound development, in a line where there was a power of making a true development, and where the church made it; the second is an unsound development in a line where neither the church nor puritanism had the power of making true developments. but as it is the truth of its scriptural protestantism which in puritanism's eyes especially proves the truth of its scriptural church-order which has this protestantism, and the falsehood of the anglican church-order which has much less of it, to abate the confidence of the puritans in their scriptural protestantism is the first step towards their union, so much to be desired, with the national church. we say, therefore, that the doctrine: 'it is agreed between god and the mediator jesus christ the son of god, surety for the redeemed, as parties-contractors, that the sins of the redeemed should be imputed to innocent christ, and he both condemned and put to death for them upon this very condition, that whosoever heartily consents unto the covenant of reconciliation offered through christ shall, by the imputation of his obedience unto them, be justified and holden righteous before god,'--we say that this doctrine is as much a human development from the text, 'christ jesus came into the world to save sinners,' as the doctrine of priestly absolution is a human development from the text, 'whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them,' or the doctrine of the real presence from the text, 'take, eat, this is my body.' in our treatise on st. paul we have shown at length that the received doctrine of justification is an unsound development. it may be said that the doctrine of priestly absolution and of the real presence are unsound developments also. true, in our opinion they are so; they are, like the doctrine of justification, developments made under conditions which precluded the possibility of sound developments in this line. but the difference is here: the church of england does not identify christianity with these unsound developments; she does not call either of them _scriptural protestantism_, or _truth_, or _the gospel_; she does not insist that all who are in communion with her should hold them; she does not repel from her communion those who hold doctrines at variance with them. she treats them as she does the received doctrine of justification, to which she does not tie herself up, but leaves people to hold it if they please. she thus provides room for growth and further change in these very doctrines themselves. but to the doctrine of justification puritanism ties itself up, just as it tied itself up formerly to the doctrine of predestination; it calls it _scriptural protestantism_, _truth_, _the gospel_; it will have communion with none who do not hold it; it repels communion with any who hold the doctrines of priestly absolution and the real presence, because they seem to interfere with it. yet it is really itself no better than they. but how can growth possibly find place in this doctrine, while it is held in such a fashion? every one who perceives and values the power contained in christianity, must be struck to see how, at the present moment, the progress of this power seems to depend upon its being able to disengage itself from speculative accretions that encumber it. a considerable movement to this end is visible in the church of england. the most nakedly speculative, and therefore the most inevitably defective, parts of the prayer book,--the athanasian creed and the thirty-nine articles,--our generation will not improbably see the prayer book rid of. but the larger the body in which this movement works, the greater is the power of the movement. if the church of england were disestablished to-day it would be desirable to re-establish her to-morrow, if only because of the immense power for development which a national body possesses. it is because we know something of the nonconformist ministers, and what eminent force and faculty many of them have for contributing to the work of development now before the church, that we cannot bear to see the waste of power caused by their separatism and battling with the establishment, which absorb their energies too much to suffer them to carry forward the work of development themselves, and cut them off from aiding those in the church who carry it forward. the political dissent of the nonconformists, based on their condemnation of the anglican church-order as unscriptural, is just one of those speculative accretions which we have spoken of as encumbering religion. politics are a good thing, and religion is a good thing; but they make a fractious mixture. 'the nonconformity of england, and the nonconformity alone, has been the salvation of england from papal tyranny and kingly misrule and despotism.'[109] this is the favourite boast, the familiar strain; but this is really politics, and not religion at all. but righteousness is religion; and the nonconformists say: 'who have done so much for righteousness as we?' for as much righteousness as will go with politics, no one; for the sterner virtues, for the virtues of the jews of the old testament; but these are only half of righteousness and not the essentially christian half. we have seen how st. paul tore himself in two, rent his life in the middle and began it again, because he was so dissatisfied with a righteousness which was, after all, in its main features, puritan. and surely it can hardly be denied that the more eminently and exactly _christian_ type of righteousness is the type exhibited by church worthies like herbert, ken, and wilson, rather than that exhibited by the worthies of puritanism; the cause being that these last mixed politics with religion so much more than did the first. [footnote 109: the rev. g. w. conder, _ubi supra_.] paul, too, be it remembered, condemned disunion in the society of christians as much as he declined politics. this does not, we freely own, make against the puritans' refusal to take the law from their adversaries, but it does make against their allegation that it does not matter whether the society of christians is united or not, and that there are even great advantages in separatism. if anglicans maintained that their church-order was written in scripture and a matter of divine command, then, congregationalists maintaining the same thing, to the controversy between them there could be no end. but now, anglicans maintaining no such thing, but that their church-order is a matter of historic development and natural expediency, that it has _grown_,--which is evident enough,--and that the essence of christianity is in no-wise concerned with such matters, why should not the nonconformists adopt this moderate view of the case, which constrains them to no admission of inferiority, but only to the renouncing an imagined divine superiority and to the recognition of an existing fact, and allow church bishops as a development of catholic antiquity, just as they have allowed church music and church architecture, which are developments of the same? then might there arise a mighty and undistracted power of joint life, which would transform, indeed, the doctrines of priestly absolution and the real presence, but which would transform, equally, the so-called _scriptural protestantism_ of imputed righteousness, and which would do more for real righteousness and for christianity than has ever been done yet. tillotson's proposals for comprehension, drawn up in 1689, cannot be too much studied at the present juncture. these proposals, with which his name and that of stillingfleet, two of the most estimable names in the english church, are specially associated, humiliate no one, refute no one; they take the basis of existing facts, and endeavour to build on it a solid union. they are worth quoting entire, and i conclude with them. their details our present circumstances would modify; their spirit any sound plan of church-reform must take as its rule. '1. that the ceremonies enjoined or recommended in the liturgy or canons be left indifferent. '2. that the liturgy be carefully reviewed, and such alterations and changes be therein made as may supply the defects and remove as much as possible all ground of exception to any part of it, by leaving out the apocryphal lessons and correcting the translation of the psalms used in the public service where there is need of it, and in many other particulars. '3. that instead of all former declarations and subscriptions to be made by ministers, it shall be sufficient for them that are admitted to the exercise of their ministry in the church of england to subscribe one general declaration and promise to this purpose, viz.: _that we do submit to the doctrine, discipline, and worship of the church of england as it shall be established by law, and promise to teach and practise accordingly_. '4. that a new body of ecclesiastical canons be made, particularly with a regard to a more effectual provision for the reformation of manners both in ministers and people. '5. that there be an effectual regulation of ecclesiastical courts to remedy the great abuses and inconveniences which by degrees and length of time have crept into them; and particularly that the power of excommunication be taken out of the hands of lay officers and placed in the bishop, and not to be exercised for trivial matters, but upon great and weighty occasions. '6. that for the future those who have been ordained in any of the foreign churches be not required to be re-ordained here, to render them capable of preferment in the church. '7. that for the future none be capable of any ecclesiastical benefice or preferment in the church of england that shall be ordained in england otherwise than by bishops; and that those who have been ordained only by presbyters shall not be compelled to renounce their former ordination. but because many have and do still doubt of the validity of such ordination, where episcopal ordination may be had, and is by law required, it shall be sufficient for such persons to receive ordination from a bishop in this or the like form: "if thou art not already ordained, i ordain thee," &c.; as in case a doubt be made of any one's baptism, it is appointed by the liturgy that he be baptized in this form: "if thou art not baptized, i baptize thee."' these are proposals 'to be made by the church of england for the union of _protestants_.' who cannot see that the power of joint life already spoken of would be far greater and stronger if it comprehended roman catholics too. and who cannot see, also, that in the churches of the most strong and living roman catholic countries,--in france and germany,--a movement is in progress which may one day make a general union of christendom possible? but this will not be in our day, nor is it business which the england of this generation is set to do. what may be done in our day, what our generation has the call and the means, if only it has the resolution, to bring about, is the union of protestants. but this union will never be on the basis of the actual _scriptural protestantism_ of our puritans; and because, so long as they take this for the gospel or good news of christ, they cannot possibly unite on any other basis, the first step towards union is showing them that this is not the gospel. if we have succeeded in doing even so much towards union as to convince one of them of this, we have not written in vain. the end. transcriber's notes:text originally written in greek has been transliterated and framed between plus marks, thus: +hagiasmos+. minor punctuation errors and omissions corrected. transcribed from the 1888 walter scott edition by david price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk the life of john bunyan by edmund venables, m.a. chapter i. john bunyan, the author of the book which has probably passed through more editions, had a greater number of readers, and been translated into more languages than any other book in the english tongue, was born in the parish of elstow, in bedfordshire, in the latter part of the year 1628, and was baptized in the parish church of the village on the last day of november of that year. the year of john bunyan's birth was a momentous one both for the nation and for the church of england. charles i., by the extorted assent to the petition of right, had begun reluctantly to strip himself of the irresponsible authority he had claimed, and had taken the first step in the struggle between king and parliament which ended in the house of commons seating itself in the place of the sovereign. wentworth (better known as lord strafford) had finally left the commons, baffled in his nobly-conceived but vain hope of reconciling the monarch and his people, and having accepted a peerage and the promise of the presidency of the council of the north, was foreshadowing his policy of "thorough," which was destined to bring both his own head and that of his weak master to the block. the remonstrance of parliament against the toleration of roman catholics and the growth of arminianism, had been presented to the indignant king, who, wilfully blinded, had replied to it by the promotion to high and lucrative posts in the church of the very men against whom it was chiefly directed. the most outrageous upholders of the royal prerogative and the irresponsible power of the sovereign, montagu and mainwaring, had been presented, the one to the see of chichester, the other--the impeached and condemned of the commons--to the rich living montagu's consecration had vacated. montaigne, the licenser of mainwaring's incriminated sermon, was raised to the archbishopric of york, while neile and laud, who were openly named in the remonstrance as the "troublers of the english israel," were rewarded respectively with the rich see of durham and the important and deeply-dyed puritan diocese of london. charles was steadily sowing the wind, and destined to reap the whirlwind which was to sweep him from his throne, and involve the monarchy and the church in the same overthrow. three months before bunyan's birth buckingham, on the eve of his departure for the beleaguered and famine-stricken city of rochelle, sanguinely hoping to conclude a peace with the french king beneath its walls, had been struck down by the knife of a fanatic, to the undisguised joy of the majority of the nation, bequeathing a legacy of failure and disgrace in the fall of the protestant stronghold on which the eyes of europe had been so long anxiously fixed. the year was closing gloomily, with ominous forecasts of the coming hurricane, when the babe who was destined to leave so imperishable a name in english literature, first saw the light in an humble cottage in an obscure bedfordshire village. his father, thomas bunyan, though styling himself in his will by the more dignified title of "brazier," was more properly what is known as a "tinker"; "a mender of pots and kettles," according to bunyan's contemporary biographer, charles doe. he was not, however, a mere tramp or vagrant, as travelling tinkers were and usually are still, much less a disreputable sot, a counterpart of shakespeare's christopher sly, but a man with a recognized calling, having a settled home and an acknowledged position in the village community of elstow. the family was of long standing there, but had for some generations been going down in the world. bunyan's grandfather, thomas bunyan, as we learn from his still extant will, carried on the occupation of a "petty chapman," or small retail dealer, in his own freehold cottage, which he bequeathed, "with its appurtenances," to his second wife, ann, to descend, after her death, to her stepson, his namesake, thomas, and her own son edward, in equal shares. this cottage, which was probably john bunyan's birthplace, persistent tradition, confirmed by the testimony of local names, warrants us in placing near the hamlet of harrowden, a mile to the east of the village of elstow, at a place long called "bunyan's end," where two fields are still called by the name of "bunyans" and "further bunyans." this small freehold appears to have been all that remained, at the death of john bunyan's grandfather, of a property once considerable enough to have given the name of its possessor to the whole locality. the family of buingnon, bunyun, buniun, boynon, bonyon, or binyan (the name is found spelt in no fewer than thirty-four different ways, of which the now-established form, bunyan, is almost the least frequent) is one that had established itself in bedfordshire from very early times. the first place in connection with which the name appears is pulloxhill, about nine miles from elstow. in 1199, the year of king john's accession, the bunyans had approached still nearer to that parish. one william bunion held land at wilstead, not more than a mile off. in 1327, the first year of edward iii., one of the same name, probably his descendant, william boynon, is found actually living at harrowden, close to the spot which popular tradition names as john bunyan's birthplace, and was the owner of property there. we have no further notices of the bunyans of elstow till the sixteenth century. we then find them greatly fallen. their ancestral property seems little by little to have passed into other hands, until in 1542 nothing was left but "a messuage and pightell {1} with the appurtenances, and nine acres of land." this small residue other entries on the court rolls show to have been still further diminished by sale. the field already referred to, known as "bonyon's end," was sold by "thomas bonyon, of elstow, labourer," son of william bonyon, the said thomas and his wife being the keepers of a small roadside inn, at which their overcharges for their home-baked bread and home-brewed beer were continually bringing them into trouble with the petty local courts of the day. thomas bunyan, john bunyan's father, was born in the last days of elizabeth, and was baptized february 24, 1603, exactly a month before the great queen passed away. the mother of the immortal dreamer was one margaret bentley, who, like her husband, was a native of elstow and only a few months his junior. the details of her mother's will, which is still extant, drawn up by the vicar of elstow, prove that, like her husband, she did not, in the words of bunyan's latest and most complete biographer, the rev. dr. brown, "come of the very squalid poor, but of people who, though humble in station, were yet decent and worthy in their ways." john bunyan's mother was his father's second wife. the bunyans were given to marrying early, and speedily consoled themselves on the loss of one wife with the companionship of a successor. bunyan's grandmother cannot have died before february 24, 1603, the date of his father's baptism. but before the year was out his grandfather had married again. his father, too, had not completed his twentieth year when he married his first wife, anne pinney, january 10, 1623. she died in 1627, apparently without any surviving children, and before the year was half-way through, on the 23rd of the following may, he was married a second time to margaret bentley. at the end of seventeen years thomas bunyan was again left a widower, and within two months, with grossly indecent haste, he filled the vacant place with a third wife. bunyan himself cannot have been much more than twenty when he married. we have no particulars of the death of his first wife. but he had been married two years to his noble-minded second wife at the time of the assizes in 1661, and the ages of his children by his first wife would indicate that no long interval elapsed between his being left a widower and his second marriage. elstow, which, as the birthplace of the author of "the pilgrim's progress," has gained a world-wide celebrity, is a quiet little village, which, though not much more than a mile from the populous and busy town of bedford, yet, lying aside from the main stream of modern life, preserves its old-world look to an unusual degree. its name in its original form of "helen-stow," or "ellen-stow," the _stow_ or stockaded place of st. helena, is derived from a benedictine nunnery founded in 1078 by judith, niece of william the conqueror, the traitorous wife of the judicially murdered waltheof, earl of huntingdon, in honour of the mother of the emperor constantine. the parish church, so intimately connected with bunyan's personal history, is a fragment of the church of the nunnery, with a detached campanile, or "steeple-house," built to contain the bells after the destruction of the central tower and choir of the conventual church. few villages are so little modernized as elstow. the old half-timbered cottages with overhanging storeys, peaked dormers, and gabled porches, tapestried with roses and honeysuckles, must be much what they were in bunyan's days. a village street, with detached cottages standing in gardens gay with the homely flowers john bunyan knew and loved, leads to the village green, fringed with churchyard elms, in the middle of which is the pedestal or stump of the market-cross, and at the upper end of the old "moot hall," a quaint brick and timber building, with a projecting upper storey, a good example of the domestic architecture of the fifteenth century, originally, perhaps, the guestenhall of the adjacent nunnery, and afterwards the court house of the manor when lay-lords had succeeded the abbesses--"the scene," writes dr. brown "of village festivities, statute hirings, and all the public occasions of village life." the whole spot and its surroundings can be but little altered from the time when our hero was the ringleader of the youth of the place in the dances on the greensward, which he tells us he found it so hard to give up, and in "tip-cat," and the other innocent games which his diseased conscience afterwards regarded as "ungodly practices." one may almost see the hole from which he was going to strike his "cat" that memorable sunday afternoon when he silenced the inward voice which rebuked him for his sins, and "returned desperately to his sport again." on the south side of the green, as we have said, stands the church, a fine though somewhat rude fragment of the chapel of the nunnery curtailed at both ends, of norman and early english date, which, with its detached bell tower, was the scene of some of the fierce spiritual conflicts so vividly depicted by bunyan in his "grace abounding." on entering every object speaks of bunyan. the pulpit--if it has survived the recent restoration--is the same from which christopher hall, the then "parson" of elstow, preached the sermon which first awoke his sleeping conscience. the font is that in which he was baptized, as were also his father and mother and remoter progenitors, as well as his children, mary, his dearlyloved blind child, on july 20, 1650, and her younger sister, elizabeth, on april 14, 1654. an old oaken bench, polished by the hands of thousands of visitors attracted to the village church by the fame of the tinker of elstow, is traditionally shown as the seat he used to occupy when he "went to church twice a day, and that, too, with the foremost counting all things holy that were therein contained." the five bells which hang in the belfry are the same in which bunyan so much delighted, the fourth bell, tradition says, being that he was used to ring. the rough flagged floor, "all worn and broken with the hobnailed boots of generations of ringers," remains undisturbed. one cannot see the door, set in its solid masonry, without recalling the figure of bunyan standing in it, after conscience, "beginning to be tender," told him that "such practice was but vain," but yet unable to deny himself the pleasure of seeing others ring, hoping that, "if a bell should fall," he could "slip out" safely "behind the thick walls," and so "be preserved notwithstanding." behind the church, on the south side, stand some picturesque ivy-clad remains of the once stately mansion of the hillersdons, erected on the site of the nunnery buildings in the early part of the seventeenth century, with a porch attributed to inigo jones, which may have given bunyan the first idea of "the very stately palace, the name of which was beautiful." the cottage where bunyan was born, between the two brooks in the fields at harrowden, has been so long destroyed that even the knowledge of its site has passed away. that in which he lived for six years (1649-1655) after his first marriage, and where his children were born, is still standing in the village street, but modern reparations have robbed it of all interest. from this description of the surroundings among which bunyan passed the earliest and most impressionable years of his life, we pass to the subject of our biography himself. the notion that bunyan was of gipsy descent, which was not entirely rejected by sir walter scott, and which has more recently received elaborate support from writers on the other side of the atlantic, may be pronounced absolutely baseless. even if bunyan's inquiry of his father "whether the family was of israelitish descent or no," which has been so strangely pressed into the service of the theory, could be supposed to have anything to do with the matter, the decided negative with which his question was met--"he told me, 'no, we were not'"--would, one would have thought, have settled the point. but some fictions die hard. however low the family had sunk, so that in his own words, "his father's house was of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families in the land," "of a low and inconsiderable generation," the name, as we have seen, was one of long standing in bunyan's native county, and had once taken far higher rank in it. and his parents, though poor, were evidently worthy people, of good repute among their village neighbours. bunyan seems to be describing his own father and his wandering life when he speaks of "an honest poor labouring man, who, like adam unparadised, had all the world to get his bread in, and was very careful to maintain his family." he and his wife were also careful with a higher care that their children should be properly educated. "notwithstanding the meanness and inconsiderableness of my parents," writes bunyan, "it pleased god to put it into their hearts to put me to school, to learn both to read and write." if we accept the evidence of the "scriptural poems," published for the first time twelve years after his death, the genuineness of which, though questioned by dr. brown, there seems no sufficient reason to doubt, the little education he had was "gained in a grammar school." this would have been that founded by sir william harpur in queen mary's reign in the neighbouring town of bedford. thither we may picture the little lad trudging day by day along the mile and a half of footpath and road from his father's cottage by the brookside, often, no doubt, wet and miry enough, not, as he says, to "go to school to aristotle or plato," but to be taught "according to the rate of other poor men's children." the bedford schoolmaster about this time, william barnes by name, was a negligent sot, charged with "night-walking" and haunting "taverns and alehouses," and other evil practices, as well as with treating the poor boys "when present" with a cruelty which must have made them wish that his absences, long as they were, had been more protracted. whether this man was his master or no, it was little that bunyan learnt at school, and that little he confesses with shame he soon lost "almost utterly." he was before long called home to help his father at the harrowden forge, where he says he was "brought up in a very mean condition among a company of poor countrymen." here, with but little to elevate or refine his character, the boy contracted many bad habits, and grew up what coleridge somewhat too strongly calls "a bitter blackguard." according to his own remorseful confession, he was "filled with all unrighteousness," having "from a child" in his "tender years," "but few equals both for cursing, swearing, lying and blaspheming the holy name of god." sins of this kind he declares became "a second nature to him;" he "delighted in all transgression against the law of god," and as he advanced in his teens he became a "notorious sinbreeder," the "very ringleader," he says, of the village lads "in all manner of vice and ungodliness." but the unsparing condemnation passed by bunyan, after his conversion, on his former self, must not mislead us into supposing him ever, either as boy or man, to have lived a vicious life. "the wickedness of the tinker," writes southey, "has been greatly overrated, and it is taking the language of self-accusation too literally to pronounce of john bunyan that he was at any time depraved." the justice of this verdict of acquittal is fully accepted by coleridge. "bunyan," he says, "was never in our received sense of the word 'wicked.' he was chaste, sober, and honest." he hints at youthful escapades, such, perhaps, as orchard-robbing, or when a little older, poaching, and the like, which might have brought him under "the stroke of the laws," and put him to "open shame before the face of the world." but he confesses to no crime or profligate habit. we have no reason to suppose that he was ever drunk, and we have his own most solemn declaration that he was never guilty of an act of unchastity. "in our days," to quote mr. froude, "a rough tinker who could say as much for himself after he had grown to manhood, would be regarded as a model of self-restraint. if in bedford and the neighbourhood there was no young man more vicious than bunyan, the moral standard of an english town in the seventeenth century must have been higher than believers in progress will be pleased to allow." how then, it may be asked, are we to explain the passionate language in which he expresses his self-abhorrence, which would hardly seem exaggerated in the mouth of the most profligate and licentious? we are confident that bunyan meant what he said. so intensely honest a nature could not allow his words to go beyond his convictions. when he speaks of "letting loose the reins to his lusts," and sinning "with the greatest delight and ease," we know that however exaggerated they may appear to us, his expressions did not seem to him overstrained. dr. johnson marvelled that st. paul could call himself "the chief of sinners," and expressed a doubt whether he did so honestly. but a highlystrung spiritual nature like that of the apostle, when suddenly called into exercise after a period of carelessness, takes a very different estimate of sin from that of the world, even the decent moral world, in general. it realizes its own offences, venial as they appear to others, as sins against infinite love--a love unto death--and in the light of the sacrifice on calvary, recognizes the heinousness of its guilt, and while it doubts not, marvels that it can be pardoned. the sinfulness of sin--more especially their own sin--is the intensest of all possible realities to them. no language is too strong to describe it. we may not unreasonably ask whether this estimate, however exaggerated it may appear to those who are strangers to these spiritual experiences, is altogether a mistaken one? the spiritual instinct was very early awakened in bunyan. while still a child "but nine or ten years old," he tells us he was racked with convictions of sin, and haunted with religious fears. he was scared with "fearful dreams," and "dreadful visions," and haunted in his sleep with "apprehensions of devils and wicked spirits" coming to carry him away, which made his bed a place of terrors. the thought of the day of judgment and of the torments of the lost, often came as a dark cloud over his mind in the midst of his boyish sports, and made him tremble. but though these fevered visions embittered his enjoyment while they lasted, they were but transient, and after a while they entirely ceased "as if they had never been," and he gave himself up without restraint to the youthful pleasures in which his ardent nature made him ever the ringleader. the "thoughts of religion" became very grievous to him. he could not endure even to see others read pious books; "it would be as a prison to me." the awful realities of eternity which had once been so crushing to his spirit were "both out of sight and mind." he said to god, "depart from me." according to the later morbid estimate which stigmatized as sinful what were little more than the wild acts of a roystering dare-devil young fellow, full of animal spirits and with an unusually active imagination, he "could sin with the greatest delight and ease, and take pleasure in the vileness of his companions." but that the sense of religion was not wholly dead in him even then, and that while discarding its restraints he had an inward reverence for it, is shown by the horror he experienced if those who had a reputation for godliness dishonoured their profession. "once," he says, "when i was at the height of my vanity, hearing one to swear who was reckoned for a religious man, it had so great a stroke upon my spirit that it made my heart to ache." this undercurrent of religious feeling was deepened by providential escapes from accidents which threatened his life--"judgments mixed with mercy" he terms them,--which made him feel that he was not utterly forsaken of god. twice he narrowly escaped drowning; once in "bedford river"--the ouse; once in "a creek of the sea," his tinkering rounds having, perhaps, carried him as far northward as the tidal inlets of the wash in the neighbourhood of spalding or lynn, or to the estuaries of the stour and orwell to the east. at another time, in his wild contempt of danger, he tore out, while his companions looked on with admiration, what he mistakenly supposed to be an adder's sting. these providential deliverances bring us to that incident in his brief career as a soldier which his anonymous biographer tells us "made so deep an impression upon him that he would never mention it, which he often did, without thanksgiving to god." but for this occurrence, indeed, we should have probably never known that he had ever served in the army at all. the story is best told in his own provokingly brief words--"when i was a soldier i with others were drawn out to go to such a place to besiege it. but when i was just ready to go, one of the company desired to go in my room; to which when i consented, he took my place, and coming to the siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head with a musket bullet and died." here, as is so often the case in bunyan's autobiography, we have reason to lament the complete absence of details. this is characteristic of the man. the religious import of the occurrences he records constituted their only value in his eyes; their temporal setting, which imparts their chief interest to us, was of no account to him. he gives us not the slightest clue to the name of the besieged place, or even to the side on which he was engaged. the date of the event is left equally vague. the last point however we are able to determine with something like accuracy. november, 1644, was the earliest period at which bunyan could have entered the army, for it was not till then that he reached the regulation age of sixteen. domestic circumstances had then recently occurred which may have tended to estrange him from his home, and turn his thoughts to a military life. in the previous june his mother had died, her death being followed within a month by that of his sister margaret. before another month was out, his father, as we have already said, had married again, and whether the new wife had proved the proverbial _injusta noverca_ or not, his home must have been sufficiently altered by the double, if we may not say triple, calamity, to account for his leaving the dull monotony of his native village for the more stirring career of a soldier. which of the two causes then distracting the nation claimed his adherence, royalist or parliamentarian, can never be determined. as mr. froude writes, "he does not tell us himself. his friends in after life did not care to ask him or he to inform them, or else they thought the matter of too small importance to be worth mentioning with exactness." the only evidence is internal, and the deductions from it vary with the estimate of the counter-balancing probabilities taken by bunyan's various biographers. lord macaulay, whose conclusion is ably, and, we think, convincingly supported by dr. brown, decides in favour of the side of the parliament. mr. froude, on the other hand, together with the painstaking mr. offor, holds that "probability is on the side of his having been with the royalists." bedfordshire, however, was one of the "associated counties" from which the parliamentary army drew its main strength, and it was shut in by a strong line of defence from any combination with the royalist army. in 1643 the county had received an order requiring it to furnish "able and armed men" to the garrison at newport pagnel, which was then the base of operations against the king in that part of england. all probability therefore points to john bunyan, the lusty young tinker of elstow, the leader in all manly sports and adventurous enterprises among his mates, and probably caring very little on what side he fought, having been drafted to newport to serve under sir samuel luke, of cople, and other parliamentary commanders. the place of the siege he refers to is equally undeterminable. a tradition current within a few years of bunyan's death, which lord macaulay rather rashly invests with the certainty of fact, names leicester. the only direct evidence for this is the statement of an anonymous biographer, who professes to have been a personal friend of bunyan's, that he was present at the siege of leicester, in 1645, as a soldier in the parliamentary army. this statement, however, is in direct defiance of bunyan's own words. for the one thing certain in the matter is that wherever the siege may have been, bunyan was not at it. he tells us plainly that he was "drawn to go," and that when he was just starting, he gave up his place to a comrade who went in his room, and was shot through the head. bunyan's presence at the siege of leicester, which has been so often reported that it has almost been regarded as an historical truth, must therefore take its place among the baseless creations of a fertile fancy. bunyan's military career, wherever passed and under whatever standard, was very short. the civil war was drawing near the end of its first stage when he enlisted. he had only been a soldier a few months when the battle of naseby, fatal to the royal cause, was fought, june 14, 1645. bristol was surrendered by prince rupert, sept. 10th. three days later montrose was totally defeated at philiphaugh; and after a vain attempt to relieve chester, charles shut himself up in oxford. the royal garrisons yielded in quick succession; in 1646 the armies on both sides were disbanded, and the first act in the great national tragedy having come to a close, bunyan returned to elstow, and resumed his tinker's work at the paternal forge. his father, old thomas bunyan, it may here be mentioned, lived all through his famous son's twelve years' imprisonment, witnessed his growing celebrity as a preacher and a writer, and died in the early part of 1676, just when john bunyan was passing through his last brief period of durance, which was to give birth to the work which has made him immortal. chapter ii. it cannot have been more than two or three years after bunyan's return home from his short experience of a soldier's life, that he took the step which, more than any other, influences a man's future career for good or for evil. the young tinker married. with his characteristic disregard of all facts or dates but such as concern his spiritual history, bunyan tells us nothing about the orphan girl he made his wife. where he found her, who her parents were, where they were married, even her christian name, were all deemed so many irrelevant details. indeed the fact of his marriage would probably have been passed over altogether but for the important bearing it hid on his inner life. his "mercy," as he calls it, "was to light upon a wife whose father was counted godly," and who, though she brought him no marriage portion, so that they "came together as poor as poor might be," as "poor as howlets," to adopt his own simile, "without so much household stuff as a dish or a spoon betwixt" them, yet brought with her to the elstow cottage two religious books, which had belonged to her father, and which he "had left her when he died." these books were "the plain man's pathway to heaven," the work of arthur dent, the puritan incumbent of shoebury, in essex--"wearisomely heavy and theologically narrow," writes dr. brown--and "the practise of piety," by dr. lewis bayley, bishop of bangor, and previously chaplain to prince henry, which enjoyed a wide reputation with puritans as well as with churchmen. together with these books, the young wife brought the still more powerful influence of a religious training, and the memory of a holy example, often telling her young graceless husband "what a godly man her father was, and how he would reprove and correct vice both in his house and amongst his neighbours, and what a strict and holy life he lived in his days both in word and deed." much as bunyan tells us he had lost of the "little he had learnt" at school, he had not lost it "utterly." he was still able to read intelligently. his wife's gentle influence prevailed on him to begin "sometimes to read" her father's legacy "with her." this must have been entirely new reading for bunyan, and certainly at first not much to his taste. what his favourite reading had been up to this time, his own nervous words tell us, "give me a ballad, a newsbook, george on horseback, or bevis of southampton; give me some book that teaches curious arts, that tells of old fables." but as he and his young wife read these books together at their fireside, a higher taste was gradually awakened in bunyan's mind; "some things" in them he "found somewhat pleasing" to him, and they "begot" within him "some desires to religion," producing a degree of outward reformation. the spiritual instinct was aroused. he would be a godly man like his wife's father. he began to "go to church twice a day, and that too with the foremost." nor was it a mere formal attendance, for when there he tells us he took his part with all outward devotion in the service, "both singing and saying as others did; yet," as he penitently confesses, "retaining his wicked life," the wickedness of which, however, did not amount to more than a liking for the sports and games of the lads of the village, bell-ringing, dancing, and the like. the prohibition of all liturgical forms issued in 1645, the observance of which varied with the strictness or laxity of the local authorities, would not seem to have been put in force very rigidly at elstow. the vicar, christopher hall, was an episcopalian, who, like bishop sanderson, retained his benefice unchallenged all through the protectorate, and held it some years after the restoration and the passing of the act of uniformity. he seems, like sanderson, to have kept himself within the letter of the law by making trifling variations in the prayer book formularies, consistent with a general conformity to the old order of the church, "without persisting to his own destruction in the usage of the entire liturgy." the decent dignity of the ceremonial of his parish church had a powerful effect on bunyan's freshly awakened religious susceptibility--a "spirit of superstition" he called it afterwards--and helped to its fuller development. "i adored," he says, "with great devotion, even all things, both the high place"--altars then had not been entirely broken down and levelled in bedfordshire--"priest, clerk, vestment, service, and what else belonging to the church, counting all things holy that were therein contained, and especially the priest and clerk most happy, and without doubt greatly blessed because they were the servants of god and were principal in the holy temple, to do his work therein, . . . their name, their garb, and work, did so intoxicate and bewitch me." if it is questionable whether the act forbidding the use of the book of common prayer was strictly observed at elstow, it is certain that the prohibition of sunday sports was not. bunyan's narrative shows that the aspect of a village green in bedfordshire during the protectorate did not differ much from what baxter tells us it had been in shropshire before the civil troubles began, where, "after the common prayer had been read briefly, the rest of the day even till dark night almost, except eating time, was spent in dancing under a maypole and a great tree, when all the town did meet together." these sunday sports proved the battle-ground of bunyan's spiritual experience, the scene of the fierce inward struggles which he has described so vividly, through which he ultimately reached the firm ground of solid peace and hope. as a high-spirited healthy athletic young fellow, all kinds of manly sports were bunyan's delight. on week days his tinker's business, which he evidently pursued industriously, left him small leisure for such amusements. sunday therefore was the day on which he "did especially solace himself" with them. he had yet to learn the identification of diversions with "all manner of vice." the teaching came in this way. one sunday, vicar hall preached a sermon on the sin of sabbath-breaking, and like many hearers before and since, he imagined that it was aimed expressly at him. sermon ended, he went home "with a great burden upon his spirit," "sermon-stricken" and "sermon sick" as he expresses it elsewhere. but his sunday's dinner speedily drove away his self-condemning thoughts. he "shook the sermon out of his mind," and went out to his sports with the elstow lads on the village green, with as "great delight" as ever. but in the midst of his game of tip-cat or "sly," just as he had struck the "cat" from its hole, and was going to give it a second blow--the minuteness of the detail shows the unforgetable reality of the crisis--he seemed to hear a voice from heaven asking him whether "he would leave his sins and go to heaven, or keep his sins and go to hell." he thought also that he saw jesus christ looking down on him with threatening countenance. but like his own hopeful he "shut his eyes against the light," and silenced the condemning voice with the feeling that repentance was hopeless. "it was too late for him to look after heaven; he was past pardon." if his condemnation was already sealed and he was eternally lost, it would not matter whether he was condemned for many sins or for few. heaven was gone already. the only happiness he could look for was what he could get out of his sins--his morbidly sensitive conscience perversely identifying sports with sin--so he returned desperately to his games, resolved, he says, to "take my fill of sin, still studying what sin was yet to be committed that i might taste the sweetness of it." this desperate recklessness lasted with him "about a month or more," till "one day as he was standing at a neighbour's shop-window, cursing and swearing and playing the madman after his wonted manner, the woman of the house, though a very loose and ungodly wretch," rebuked him so severely as "the ungodliest fellow for swearing that ever she heard, able to spoil all the youth in a whole town," that, self-convicted, he hung down his head in silent shame, wishing himself a little child again that he might unlearn the wicked habit of which he thought it impossible to break himself. hopeless as the effort seemed to him, it proved effectual. he did "leave off his swearing" to his own "great wonder," and found that he "could speak better and with more pleasantness" than when he "put an oath before and another behind, to give his words authority." thus was one step in his reformation taken, and never retraced; but, he adds sorrowfully, "all this while i knew not jesus christ, neither did i leave my sports and plays." we might be inclined to ask, why should he leave them? but indifferent and innocent in themselves, an overstrained spirituality had taught him to regard them as sinful. to indulge in them wounded his morbidly sensitive conscience, and so they were sin to him. the next step onward in this religious progress was the study of the bible, to which he was led by the conversation of a poor godly neighbour. naturally he first betook himself to the historical books, which, he tells us, he read "with great pleasure;" but, like baxter who, beginning his bible reading in the same course, writes, "i neither understood nor relished much the doctrinal part," he frankly confesses, "paul's epistles and such like scriptures i could not away with." his bible reading helped forward the outward reformation he had begun. he set the keeping the ten commandments before him as his "way to heaven"; much comforted "sometimes" when, as he thought, "he kept them pretty well," but humbled in conscience when "now and then he broke one." "but then," he says, "i should repent and say i was sorry for it, and promise god to do better next time, and then get help again; for then i thought i pleased god as well as any man in england." his progress was slow, for each step involved a battle, but it was steadily onwards. he had a very hard struggle in relinquishing his favourite amusements. but though he had much yet to learn, his feet were set on the upward way, and he had no mind to go back, great as the temptation often was. he had once delighted in bell-ringing, but "his conscience beginning to be tender"--morbid we should rather say--"he thought such practise to be vain, and therefore forced himself to leave it." but "hankering after it still," he continued to go while his old companions rang, and look on at what he "durst not" join in, until the fear that if he thus winked at what his conscience condemned, a bell, or even the tower itself, might fall and kill him, put a stop even to that compromise. dancing, which from his boyhood he had practised on the village green, or in the old moot hall, was still harder to give up. "it was a full year before i could quite leave that." but this too was at last renounced, and finally. the power of bunyan's indomitable will was bracing itself for severe trials yet to come. meanwhile bunyan's neighbours regarded with amazement the changed life of the profane young tinker. "and truly," he honestly confesses, "so they well might for this my conversion was as great as for tom of bedlam to become a sober man." bunyan's reformation was soon the town's talk; he had "become godly," "become a right honest man." these commendations flattered is vanity, and he laid himself out for them. he was then but a "poor painted hypocrite," he says, "proud of his godliness, and doing all he did either to be seen of, or well spoken of by man." this state of self-satisfaction, he tells us, lasted "for about a twelvemonth or more." during this deceitful calm he says, "i had great peace of conscience, and should think with myself, 'god cannot choose but now be pleased with me,' yea, to relate it in mine own way, i thought no man in england could please god better than i." but no outward reformation can bring lasting inward peace. when a man is honest with himself, the more earnestly he struggles after complete obedience, the more faulty does his obedience appear. the good opinion of others will not silence his own inward condemnation. he needs a higher righteousness than his own; a firmer standing-ground than the shifting quicksand of his own good deeds. "all this while," he writes, "poor wretch as i was, i was ignorant of jesus christ, and going about to establish my own righteousness, and had perished therein had not god in mercy showed me more of my state by nature." this revolution was nearer than he imagined. bunyan's self-satisfaction was rudely shaken, and his need of something deeper in the way of religion than he had yet experienced was shown him by the conversation of three or four poor women whom, one day, when pursuing his tinker's calling at bedford, he came upon "sitting at a door in the sun, and talking of the things of god." these women were members of the congregation of "the holy mr. john gifford," who, at that time of ecclesiastical confusion, subsequently became rector of st. john's church, in bedford, and master of the hospital attached to it. gifford's career had been a strange one. we hear of him first as a young major in the king's army at the outset of the civil war, notorious for his loose and debauched life, taken by fairfax at maidstone in 1648, and condemned to the gallows. by his sister's help he eluded his keepers' vigilance, escaped from prison, and ultimately found his way to bedford, where for a time he practised as a physician, though without any change of his loose habits. the loss of a large sum of money at gaming awoke a disgust at his dissolute life. a few sentences of a pious book deepened the impression. he became a converted man, and joined himself to a handful of earnest christians in bedford, who becoming, in the language of the day, "a church," he was appointed its first minister. gifford exercised a deep and vital though narrow influence, leaving behind him at his death, in 1655, the character of a "wise, tolerant, and truly christian man." the conversation of the poor women who were destined to exercise so momentous an influence on bunyan's spiritual life, evidenced how thoroughly they had drunk in their pastor's teaching. bunyan himself was at this time a "brisk talker in the matters of religion," such as he drew from the life in his own talkative. but the words of these poor women were entirely beyond him. they opened a new and blessed land to which he was a complete stranger. "they spoke of their own wretchedness of heart, of their unbelief, of their miserable state by nature, of the new birth, and the work of god in their souls, and how the lord refreshed them, and supported them against the temptations of the devil by his words and promises." but what seems to have struck bunyan the most forcibly was the happiness which their religion shed in the hearts of these poor women. religion up to this time had been to him a system of rules and restrictions. heaven was to be won by doing certain things and not doing certain other things. of religion as a divine life kindled in the soul, and flooding it with a joy which creates a heaven on earth, he had no conception. joy in believing was a new thing to him. "they spake as if joy did make them speak; they spake with such pleasantness of scripture language, and with such appearance of grace in all they said, that they were to me as if they had found a new world," a veritable "el dorado," stored with the true riches. bunyan, as he says, after he had listened awhile and wondered at their words, left them and went about his work again. but their words went with him. he could not get rid of them. he saw that though he thought himself a godly man, and his neighbours thought so too, he wanted the true tokens of godliness. he was convinced that godliness was the only true happiness, and he could not rest till he had attained it. so he made it his business to be going again and again into the company of these good women. he could not stay away, and the more he talked with them the more uneasy he became--"the more i questioned my own condition." the salvation of his soul became all in all to him. his mind "lay fixed on eternity like a horse-leech at the vein." the bible became precious to him. he read it with new eyes, "as i never did before." "i was indeed then never out of the bible, either by reading or meditation." the epistles of st. paul, which before he "could not away with," were now "sweet and pleasant" to him. he was still "crying out to god that he might know the truth and the way to heaven and glory." having no one to guide him in his study of the most difficult of all books, it is no wonder that he misinterpreted and misapplied its words in a manner which went far to unsettle his brain. he read that without faith he could not be saved, and though he did not clearly know what faith was, it became a question of supreme anxiety to him to determine whether he had it or not. if not, he was a castaway indeed, doomed to perish for ever. so he determined to put it to the test. the bible told him that faith, "even as a grain of mustard seed," would enable its possessor to work miracles. so, as mr. froude says, "not understanding oriental metaphors," he thought he had here a simple test which would at once solve the question. one day as he was walking along the miry road between elstow and bedford, which he had so often paced as a schoolboy, "the temptation came hot upon him" to put the matter to the proof, by saying to the puddles that were in the horse-pads "be dry," and to the dry places, "be ye puddles." he was just about to utter the words when a sudden thought stopped him. would it not be better just to go under the hedge and pray that god would enable him? this pause saved him from a rash venture, which might have landed him in despair. for he concluded that if he tried after praying and nothing came of it, it would prove that he had no faith, but was a castaway. "nay, thought i, if it be so, i will never try yet, but will stay a little longer." "then," he continues, "i was so tossed betwixt the devil and my own ignorance, and so perplexed, especially at sometimes, that i could not tell what to do." at another time his mind, as the minds of thousands have been and will be to the end, was greatly harassed by the insoluble problems of predestination and election. the question was not now whether he had faith, but "whether he was one of the elect or not, and if not, what then?" "he might as well leave off and strive no further." and then the strange fancy occurred to him, that the good people at bedford whose acquaintance he had recently made, were all that god meant to save in that part of the country, and that the day of grace was past and gone for him; that he had overstood the time of mercy. "oh that he had turned sooner!" was then his cry. "oh that he had turned seven years before! what a fool he had been to trifle away his time till his soul and heaven were lost!" the text, "compel them to come in, and yet there is room," came to his rescue when he was so harassed and faint that he was "scarce able to take one step more." he found them "sweet words," for they showed him that there was "place enough in heaven for him," and he verily believed that when christ spoke them he was thinking of him, and had them recorded to help him to overcome the vile fear that there was no place left for him in his bosom. but soon another fear succeeded the former. was he truly called of christ? "he called to them when he would, and they came to him." but they could not come unless he called them. had he called him? would he call him? if he did how gladly would he run after him. but oh, he feared that he had no liking to him; that he would not call him. true conversion was what he longed for. "could it have been gotten for gold," he said, "what could i have given for it! had i a whole world, it had all gone ten thousand times over for this, that my soul might have been in a converted state." all those whom he thought to be truly converted were now lovely in his eyes. "they shone, they walked like people that carried the broad seal of heaven about them. oh that he were like them, and shared in their goodly heritage!" about this time bunyan was greatly troubled, though at the same time encouraged in his endeavours after the blessedness he longed for so earnestly but could not yet attain to, by "a dream or vision" which presented itself to him, whether in his waking or sleeping hours he does not tell us. he fancied he saw his four bedford friends refreshing themselves on the sunny side of a high mountain while he was shivering with dark and cold on the other side, parted from them by a high wall with only one small gap in it, and that not found but after long searching, and so strait and narrow withal that it needed long and desperate efforts to force his way through. at last he succeeded. "then," he says, "i was exceeding glad, and went and sat down in the midst of them, and so was comforted with the light and heat of their sun." but this sunshine shone but in illusion, and soon gave place to the old sad questioning, which filled his soul with darkness. was he already called, or should he be called some day? he would give worlds to know. who could assure him? at last some words of the prophet joel (chap. iii, 21) encouraged him to hope that if not converted already, the time might come when he should be converted to christ. despair began to give way to hopefulness. at this crisis bunyan took the step which he would have been wise if he had taken long before. he sought the sympathy and counsel of others. he began to speak his mind to the poor people in bedford whose words of religious experiences had first revealed to him his true condition. by them he was introduced to their pastor, "the godly mr. gifford," who invited him to his house and gave him spiritual counsel. he began to attend the meetings of his disciples. the teaching he received here was but ill-suited for one of bunyan's morbid sensitiveness. for it was based upon a constant introspection and a scrupulous weighing of each word and action, with a torturing suspicion of its motive, which made a man's ever-varying spiritual feelings the standard of his state before god, instead of leading him off from self to the saviour. it is not, therefore, at all surprising that a considerable period intervened before, in the language of his school, "he found peace." this period, which seems to have embraced two or three years, was marked by that tremendous inward struggle which he has described, "as with a pen of fire," in that marvellous piece of religious autobiography, without a counterpart except in "the confessions of st. augustine," his "grace abounding to the chief of sinners." bunyan's first experiences after his introduction to mr. gifford and the inner circle of his disciples were most discouraging. what he heard of god's dealings with their souls showed him something of "the vanity and inward wretchedness of his wicked heart," and at the same time roused all its hostility to god's will. "it did work at that rate for wickedness as it never did before." "the canaanites _would_ dwell in the land." "his heart hankered after every foolish vanity, and hung back both to and in every duty, as a clog on the leg of a bird to hinder her from flying." he thought that he was growing "worse and worse," and was "further from conversion than ever before." though he longed to let christ into his heart, "his unbelief would, as it were, set its shoulder to the door to keep him out." yet all the while he was tormented with the most perverse scrupulosity of conscience. "as to the act of sinning, i never was more tender than now; i durst not take a pin or a stick, though but so big as a straw, for my conscience now was sore, and would smart at every twist. i could not now tell how to speak my words, for fear i should misplace them. oh! how gingerly did i then go in all i did or said: i found myself in a miry bog, that shook if i did but stir, and was as those left both of god, and christ, and the spirit, and all good things." all the misdoings of his earlier years rose up against him. there they were, and he could not rid himself of them. he thought that no one could be so bad as he was; "not even the devil could be his equal: he was more loathsome in his own eyes than a toad." what then must god think of him? despair seized fast hold of him. he thought he was "forsaken of god and given up to the devil, and to a reprobate mind." nor was this a transient fit of despondency. "thus," he writes, "i continued a long while, even for some years together." this is not the place minutely to pursue bunyan's religious history through the sudden alternations of hopes and fears, the fierce temptations, the torturing illusions, the strange perversions of isolated scraps of bible language--texts torn from their context--the harassing doubts as to the truth of christianity, the depths of despair and the elevations of joy, which he has portrayed with his own inimitable graphic power. it is a picture of fearful fascination that he draws. "a great storm" at one time comes down upon him, "piece by piece," which "handled him twenty times worse than all he had met with before," while "floods of blasphemies were poured upon his spirit," and would "bolt out of his heart." he felt himself driven to commit the unpardonable sin and blaspheme the holy ghost, "whether he would or no." "no sin would serve but that." he was ready to "clap his hand under his chin," to keep his mouth shut, or to leap head-foremost "into some muckhill-hole," to prevent his uttering the fatal words. at last he persuaded himself that he had committed the sin, and a good but not overwise man, "an ancient christian," whom he consulted on his sad case, told him he thought so too, "which was but cold comfort." he thought himself possessed by the devil, and compared himself to a child "carried off under her apron by a gipsy." "kick sometimes i did, and also shriek and cry, but yet i was as bound in the wings of the temptation, and the wind would carry me away." he wished himself "a dog or a toad," for they "had no soul to be lost as his was like to be;" and again a hopeless callousness seemed to settle upon him. "if i would have given a thousand pounds for a tear i could not shed one; no, nor sometimes scarce desire to shed one." and yet he was all the while bewailing this hardness of heart, in which he thought himself singular. "this much sunk me. i thought my condition was alone; but how to get out of, or get rid of, these things i could not." again the very ground of his faith was shaken. "was the bible true, or was it not rather a fable and cunning story?" all thought "their own religion true. might not the turks have as good scriptures to prove their mahomet saviour as christians had for christ? what if all we believed in should be but 'a think-so' too?" so powerful and so real were his illusions that he had hard work to keep himself from praying to things about him, to "a bush, a bull, a besom, or the like," or even to satan himself. he heard voices behind him crying out that satan desired to have him, and that "so loud and plain that he would turn his head to see who was calling him;" when on his knees in prayer he fancied he felt the foul fiend pull his clothes from behind, bidding him "break off, make haste; you have prayed enough." this "horror of great darkness" was not always upon him. bunyan had his intervals of "sunshine-weather" when giant despair's fits came on him, and the giant "lost the use of his hand." texts of scripture would give him a "sweet glance," and flood his soul with comfort. but these intervals of happiness were but short-lived. they were but "hints, touches, and short visits," sweet when present, but "like peter's sheet, suddenly caught up again into heaven." but, though transient, they helped the burdened pilgrim onward. so vivid was the impression sometimes made, that years after he could specify the place where these beams of sunlight fell on him--"sitting in a neighbour's house,"--"travelling into the country,"--as he was "going home from sermon." and the joy was real while it lasted. the words of the preacher's text, "behold, thou art fair, my love," kindling his spirit, he felt his "heart filled with comfort and hope." "now i could believe that my sins would be forgiven." he was almost beside himself with ecstasy. "i was now so taken with the love and mercy of god that i thought i could have spoken of it even to the very crows that sat upon the ploughed lands before me, had they been capable to have understood me." "surely," he cried with gladness, "i will not forget this forty years hence." "but, alas! within less than forty days i began to question all again." it was the valley of the shadow of death which bunyan, like his own pilgrim, was travelling through. but, as in his allegory, "by and by the day broke," and "the lord did more fully and graciously discover himself unto him." "one day," he writes, "as i was musing on the wickedness and blasphemy of my heart, that scripture came into my mind, 'he hath made peace by the blood of his cross.' by which i was made to see, both again and again and again that day, that god and my soul were friends by this blood: yea, i saw the justice of god and my sinful soul could embrace and kiss each other. this was a good day to me. i hope i shall not forget it." at another time the "glory and joy" of a passage in the hebrews (ii. 14-15) were "so weighty" that "i was once or twice ready to swoon as i sat, not with grief and trouble, but with solid joy and peace." "but, oh! now how was my soul led on from truth to truth by god; now had i evidence of my salvation from heaven, with many golden seals thereon all banging in my sight, and i would long that the last day were come, or that i were fourscore years old, that i might die quickly that my soul might be at rest." at this time he fell in with an old tattered copy of luther's "commentary on the galatians," "so old that it was ready to fall piece from piece if i did but turn it over." as he read, to his amazement and thankfulness, he found his own spiritual experience described. "it was as if his book had been written out of my heart." it greatly comforted him to find that his condition was not, as he had thought, solitary, but that others had known the same inward struggles. "of all the books that ever he had seen," he deemed it "most fit for a wounded conscience." this book was also the means of awakening an intense love for the saviour. "now i found, as i thought, that i loved christ dearly. oh, methought my soul cleaved unto him, my affections cleaved unto him; i felt love to him as hot as fire." and very quickly, as he tells us, his "love was tried to some purpose." he became the victim of an extraordinary temptation--"a freak of fancy," mr. froude terms it--"fancy resenting the minuteness with which he watched his own emotions." he had "found christ" and felt him "most precious to his soul." he was now tempted to give him up, "to sell and part with this most blessed christ, to exchange him for the things of this life; for anything." nor was this a mere passing, intermittent delusion. "it lay upon me for the space of a year, and did follow me so continually that i was not rid of it one day in a month, no, not sometimes one hour in many days together, except when i was asleep." wherever he was, whatever he was doing day and night, in bed, at table, at work, a voice kept sounding in his ears, bidding him "sell christ" for this or that. he could neither "eat his food, stoop for a pin, chop a stick, or cast his eyes on anything" but the hateful words were heard, "not once only, but a hundred times over, as fast as a man could speak, 'sell him, sell him, sell him,'" and, like his own christian in the dark valley, he could not determine whether they were suggestions of the wicked one, or came from his own heart. the agony was so intense, while, for hours together, he struggled with the temptation, that his whole body was convulsed by it. it was no metaphorical, but an actual, wrestling with a tangible enemy. he "pushed and thrust with his hands and elbows," and kept still answering, as fast as the destroyer said "sell him," "no, i will not, i will not, i will not! not for thousands, thousands, thousands of worlds!" at least twenty times together. but the fatal moment at last came, and the weakened will yielded, against itself. one morning as he lay in his bed, the voice came again with redoubled force, and would not be silenced. he fought against it as long as he could, "even until i was almost out of breath," when "without any conscious action of his will" the suicidal words shaped themselves in his heart, "let him go if he will." now all was over. he had spoken the words and they could not be recalled. satan had "won the battle," and "as a bird that is shot from the top of a tree, down fell he into great guilt and fearful despair." he left his bed, dressed, and went "moping into the field," where for the next two hours he was "like a man bereft of life, and as one past all recovery and bound to eternal punishment." the most terrible examples in the bible came trooping before him. he had sold his birthright like esau. he a betrayed his master like judas--"i was ashamed that i should be like such an ugly man as judas." there was no longer any place for repentance. he was past all recovery; shut up unto the judgment to come. he dared hardly pray. when he tried to do so, he was "as with a tempest driven away from god," while something within said, "'tis too late; i am lost; god hath let me fall." the texts which once had comforted him gave him no comfort now; or, if they did, it was but for a brief space. "about ten or eleven o'clock one day, as i was walking under a hedge and bemoaning myself for this hard hap that such a thought should arise within me, suddenly this sentence bolted upon me, 'the blood of christ cleanseth from all sin,'" and gave me "good encouragement." but in two or three hours all was gone. the terrible words concerning esau's selling his birthright took possession of his mind, and "held him down." this "stuck with him." though he "sought it carefully with tears," there was no restoration for him. his agony received a terrible aggravation from a highly coloured narrative of the terrible death of francis spira, an italian lawyer of the middle of the sixteenth century, who, having embraced the protestant religion, was induced by worldly motives to return to the roman catholic church, and died full of remorse and despair, from which bunyan afterwards drew the awful picture of "the man in the iron cage" at "the interpreter's house." the reading of this book was to his "troubled spirit" as "salt when rubbed into a fresh wound," "as knives and daggers in his soul." we cannot wonder that his health began to give way under so protracted a struggle. his naturally sturdy frame was "shaken by a continual trembling." he would "wind and twine and shrink under his burden," the weight of which so crushed him that he "could neither stand, nor go, nor lie, either at rest or quiet." his digestion became disordered, and a pain, "as if his breastbone would have split asunder," made him fear that as he had been guilty of judas' sin, so he was to perish by judas' end, and "burst asunder in the midst." in the trembling of his limbs he saw cain's mark set upon him; god had marked him out for his curse. no one was ever so bad as he. no one had ever sinned so flagrantly. when he compared his sins with those of david and solomon and manasseh and others which had been pardoned, he found his sin so much exceeded theirs that he could have no hope of pardon. theirs, "it was true, were great sins; sins of a bloody colour. but none of them were of the nature of his. he had sold his saviour. his sin was point blank against christ." "oh, methought this sin was bigger than the sins of a country, of a kingdom, or of the whole world; not all of them together was able to equal mine; mine outwent them every one." it would be wearisome to follow bunyan through all the mazes of his selftorturing illusions. fierce as the storm was, and long in its duration--for it was more than two years before the storm became a calm--the waves, though he knew it not, in their fierce tossings which threatened to drive his soul like a broken vessel headlong on the rocks of despair, were bearing him nearer and nearer to the "haven where he would be." his vivid imagination, as we have seen, surrounded him with audible voices. he had heard, as he thought, the tempter bidding him "sell christ;" now he thought he heard god "with a great voice, as it were, over his shoulder behind him," saying, "return unto me, for i have redeemed thee;" and though he felt that the voice mocked him, for he could not return, there was "no place of repentance" for him, and fled from it, it still pursued him, "holloaing after him, 'return, return!'" and return he did, but not all at once, or without many a fresh struggle. with his usual graphic power he describes the zigzag path by which he made his way. his hot and cold fits alternated with fearful suddenness. "as esau beat him down, christ raised him up." "his life hung in doubt, not knowing which way he should tip." more sensible evidence came. "one day," he tells us, "as i walked to and fro in a good man's shop"--we can hardly be wrong in placing it in bedford--"bemoaning myself for this hard hap of mine, for that i should commit so great a sin, greatly fearing that i should not be pardoned, and ready to sink with fear, suddenly there was as if there had rushed in at the window the noise of wind upon me, but very pleasant, and i heard a voice speaking, 'did'st ever refuse to be justified by the blood of christ?'" whether the voice were supernatural or not, he was not, "in twenty years' time," able to determine. at the time he thought it was. it was "as if an angel had come upon me." "it commanded a great calm upon me. it persuaded me there might be hope." but this persuasion soon vanished. "in three or four days i began to despair again." he found it harder than ever to pray. the devil urged that god was weary of him; had been weary for years past; that he wanted to get rid of him and his "bawlings in his ears," and therefore he had let him commit this particular sin that he might be cut off altogether. for such an one to pray was but to add sin to sin. there was no hope for him. christ might indeed pity him and wish to help him; but he could not, for this sin was unpardonable. he had said "let him go if he will," and he had taken him at his word. "then," he says, "i was always sinking whatever i did think or do." years afterwards he remembered how, in this time of hopelessness, having walked one day, to a neighbouring town, wearied out with his misery, he sat down on a settle in the street to ponder over his fearful state. as he looked up, everything he saw seemed banded together for the destruction of so vile a sinner. the "sun grudged him its light, the very stones in the streets and the tiles on the house-roofs seemed to bend themselves against him." he burst forth with a grievous sigh, "how can god comfort such a wretch as i?" comfort was nearer than he imagined. "no sooner had i said it, but this returned to me, as an echo doth answer a voice, 'this sin is not unto death.'" this breathed fresh life into his soul. he was "as if he had been raised out of a grave." "it was a release to me from my former bonds, a shelter from my former storm." but though the storm was allayed it was by no means over. he had to struggle hard to maintain his ground. "oh, how did satan now lay about him for to bring me down again. but he could by no means do it, for this sentence stood like a millpost at my back." but after two days the old despairing thoughts returned, "nor could his faith retain the word." a few hours, however, saw the return of his hopes. as he was on his knees before going to bed, "seeking the lord with strong cries," a voice echoed his prayer, "i have loved thee with an everlasting love." "now i went to bed at quiet, and when i awaked the next morning it was fresh upon my soul and i believed it." these voices from heaven--whether real or not he could not tell, nor did he much care, for they were real to him--were continually sounding in his ears to help him out of the fresh crises of his spiritual disorder. at one time "o man, great is thy faith," "fastened on his heart as if one had clapped him on the back." at another, "he is able," spoke suddenly and loudly within his heart; at another, that "piece of a sentence," "my grace is sufficient," darted in upon him "three times together," and he was "as though he had seen the lord jesus look down through the tiles upon him," and was sent mourning but rejoicing home. but it was still with him like an april sky. at one time bright sunshine, at another lowering clouds. the terrible words about esau "returned on him as before," and plunged him in darkness, and then again some good words, "as it seemed writ in great letters," brought back the light of day. but the sunshine began to last longer than before, and the clouds were less heavy. the "visage" of the threatening texts was changed; "they looked not on him so grimly as before;" "that about esau's birthright began to wax weak and withdraw and vanish." "now remained only the hinder part of the tempest. the thunder was gone; only a few drops fell on him now and then." the long-expected deliverance was at hand. as he was walking in the fields, still with some fears in his heart, the sentence fell upon his soul, "thy righteousness is in heaven." he looked up and "saw with the eyes of his soul our saviour at god's right hand." "there, i say, was my righteousness; so that wherever i was, or whatever i was a-doing, god could not say of me, 'he wants my righteousness,' for that was just before him. now did the chains fall off from my legs. i was loosed from my affliction and irons. my temptations also fled away, so that from that time those dreadful scriptures left off to trouble me. oh methought christ, christ, there was nothing but christ that was before mine eyes. i could look from myself to him, and should reckon that all those graces of god that now were green upon me, were yet but like those crack-groats, and fourpence-halfpennies that rich men carry in their purses, while their gold is in their trunks at home. oh, i saw my gold was in my trunk at home. in christ my lord and saviour. further the lord did lead me into the mystery of union with the son of god. his righteousness was mine, his merits mine, his victory also mine. now i could see myself in heaven and earth at once; in heaven by my christ, by my head, by my righteousness and life, though on earth by my body or person. these blessed considerations were made to spangle in mine eyes. christ was my all; all my wisdom, all my righteousness, all my sanctification, and all my redemption." chapter iii. the pilgrim, having now floundered through the slough of despond, passed through the wicket gate, climbed the hill difficulty, and got safe by the lions, entered the palace beautiful, and was "had in to the family." in plain words, bunyan united himself to the little christian brotherhood at bedford, of which the former loose-living royalist major, mr. gifford, was the pastor, and was formally admitted into their society. in gifford we recognize the prototype of the evangelist of "the pilgrim's progress," while the prudence, piety, and charity of bunyan's immortal narrative had their human representatives in devout female members of the congregation, known in their little bedford world as sister bosworth, sister munnes, and sister fenne, three of the poor women whose pleasant words on the things of god, as they sat at a doorway in the sun, "as if joy did make them speak," had first opened bunyan's eyes to his spiritual ignorance. he was received into the church by baptism, which, according to his earliest biographer, charles doe "the struggler," was performed publicly by mr. gifford, in the river ouse, the "bedford river" into which bunyan tells us he once fell out of a boat, and barely escaped drowning. this was about the year 1653. the exact date is uncertain. bunyan never mentions his baptism himself, and the church books of gifford's congregation do not commence till may, 1656, the year after gifford's death. he was also admitted to the holy communion, which for want, as he deemed, of due reverence in his first approach to it, became the occasion of a temporary revival of his old temptations. while actually at the lord's table he was "forced to bend himself to pray" to be kept from uttering blasphemies against the ordinance itself, and cursing his fellow communicants. for three-quarters of a year he could "never have rest or ease" from this shocking perversity. the constant strain of beating off this persistent temptation seriously affected his health. "captain consumption," who carried off his own "mr. badman," threatened his life. but his naturally robust constitution "routed his forces," and brought him through what at one time he anticipated would prove a fatal illness. again and again, during his period of indisposition, the tempter took advantage of his bodily weakness to ply him with his former despairing questionings as to his spiritual state. that seemed as bad as bad could be. "live he must not; die he dare not." he was repeatedly near giving up all for lost. but a few words of scripture brought to his mind would revive his drooping spirits, with a natural reaction on his physical health, and he became "well both in body and mind at once." "my sickness did presently vanish, and i walked comfortably in my work for god again." at another time, after three or four days of deep dejection, some words from the epistle to the hebrews "came bolting in upon him," and sealed his sense of acceptance with an assurance he never afterwards entirely lost. "then with joy i told my wife, 'now i know, i know.' that night was a good night to me; i never had but few better. i could scarce lie in my bed for joy and peace and triumph through christ." during this time bunyan, though a member of the bedford congregation, continued to reside at elstow, in the little thatched wayside tenement, with its lean-to forge at one end, already mentioned, which is still pointed out as "bunyan's cottage." there his two children, mary, his passionately loved blind daughter, and elizabeth were born; the one in 1650, and the other in 1654. it was probably in the next year, 1655, that he finally quitted his native village and took up his residence in bedford, and became a deacon of the congregation. about this time also he must have lost the wife to whom he owed so much. bunyan does not mention the event, and our only knowledge of it is from the conversation of his second wife, elizabeth, with sir matthew hale. he sustained also an even greater loss in the death of his friend and comrade, mr. gifford, who died in september, 1655. the latter was succeeded by a young man named john burton, of very delicate health, who was taken by death from his congregation, by whom he was much beloved, in september, 1660, four months after the restoration of the monarchy and the church. burton thoroughly appreciated bunyan's gifts, and stood sponsor for him on the publication of his first printed work. this was a momentous year for bunyan, for in it dr. brown has shown, by a "comparison of dates," that we may probably place the beginning of bunyan's ministerial life. bunyan was now in his twenty-seventh year, in the prime of his manly vigour, with a vivid imagination, ready speech, minute textual knowledge of the bible, and an experience of temptation and the wiles of the evil one, such as few christians of double his years have ever reached. "his gifts could not long be hid." the beginnings of that which was to prove the great work of his life were slender enough. as mr. froude says, "he was modest, humble, shrinking." the members of his congregation, recognizing that he had "the gift of utterance" asked him to speak "a word of exhortation" to them. the request scared him. the most truly gifted are usually the least conscious of their gifts. at first it did much "dash and abash his spirit." but after earnest entreaty he gave way, and made one or two trials of his gift in private meetings, "though with much weakness and infirmity." the result proved the correctness of his brethren's estimate. the young tinker showed himself no common preacher. his words came home with power to the souls of his hearers, who "protested solemnly, as in the sight of god, that they were both affected and comforted by them, and gave thanks to the father of mercies for the grace bestowed on him." after this, as the brethren went out on their itinerating rounds to the villages about, they began to ask bunyan to accompany them, and though he "durst not make use of his gift in an open way," he would sometimes, "yet more privately still, speak a word of admonition, with which his hearers professed their souls edified." that he had a real divine call to the ministry became increasingly evident, both to himself and to others. his engagements of this kind multiplied. an entry in the church book records "that brother bunyan being taken off by the preaching of the gospel" from his duties as deacon, another member was appointed in his room. his appointment to the ministry was not long delayed. after "some solemn prayer with fasting," he was "called forth and appointed a preacher of the word," not, however, so much for the bedford congregation as for the neighbouring villages. he did not however, like some, neglect his business, or forget to "show piety at home." he still continued his craft as a tinker, and that with industry and success. "god," writes an early biographer, "had increased his stores so that he lived in great credit among his neighbours." he speedily became famous as a preacher. people "came in by hundreds to hear the word, and that from all parts, though upon sundry and divers accounts,"--"some," as southey writes, "to marvel, and some perhaps to mock." curiosity to hear the once profane tinker preach was not one of the least prevalent motives. but his word proved a word of power to many. those "who came to scoff remained to pray." "i had not preached long," he says, "before some began to be touched and to be greatly afflicted in their minds." his success humbled and amazed him, as it must every true man who compares the work with the worker. "at first," he says, "i could not believe that god should speak by me to the heart of any man, still counting myself unworthy; and though i did put it from me that they should be awakened by me, still they would confess it and affirm it before the saints of god. they would also bless god for me--unworthy wretch that i am--and count me god's instrument that showed to them the way of salvation." he preached wherever he found opportunity, in woods, in barns, on village greens, or even in churches. but he liked best to preach "in the darkest places of the country, where people were the furthest off from profession," where he could give the fullest scope to "the awakening and converting power" he possessed. his success as a preacher might have tempted him to vanity. but the conviction that he was but an instrument in the hand of a higher power kept it down. he saw that if he had gifts and wanted grace he was but as a "tinkling cymbal." "what, thought i, shall i be proud because i am a sounding brass? is it so much to be a fiddle?" this thought was, "as it were, a maul on the head of the pride and vainglory" which he found "easily blown up at the applause and commendation of every unadvised christian." his experiences, like those of every public speaker, especially the most eloquent, were very varied, even in the course of the same sermon. sometimes, he tells us, he would begin "with much clearness, evidence, and liberty of speech," but, before he had done, he found himself "so straitened in his speech before the people," that he "scarce knew or remembered what he had been about," and felt "as if his head had been in a bag all the time of the exercise." he feared that he would not be able to "speak sense to the hearers," or he would be "seized with such faintness and strengthlessness that his legs were hardly able to carry him to his place of preaching." old temptations too came back. blasphemous thoughts formed themselves into words, which he had hard work to keep himself from uttering from the pulpit. or the tempter tried to silence him by telling him that what he was going to say would condemn himself, and he would go "full of guilt and terror even to the pulpit door." "'what,' the devil would say, 'will you preach this? of this your own soul is guilty. preach not of it at all, or if you do, yet so mince it as to make way for your own escape.'" all, however, was in vain. necessity was laid upon him. "woe," he cried, "is me, if i preach not the gospel." his heart was "so wrapped up in the glory of this excellent work, that he counted himself more blessed and honoured of god than if he had made him emperor of the christian world." bunyan was no preacher of vague generalities. he knew that sermons miss their mark if they hit no one. self-application is their object. "wherefore," he says, "i laboured so to speak the word, as that the sin and person guilty might be particularized by it." and what he preached he knew and felt to be true. it was not what he read in books, but what he had himself experienced. like dante he had been in hell himself, and could speak as one who knew its terrors, and could tell also of the blessedness of deliverance by the person and work of christ. and this consciousness gave him confidence and courage in declaring his message. it was "as if an angel of god had stood at my back." "oh it hath been with such power and heavenly evidence upon my own soul while i have been labouring to fasten it upon the conscience of others, that i could not be contented with saying, 'i believe and am sure.' methought i was more than sure, if it be lawful so to express myself, that the things i asserted were true." bunyan, like all earnest workers for god, had his disappointments which wrung his heart. he could be satisfied with nothing less than the conversion and sanctification of his hearers. "if i were fruitless, it mattered not who commanded me; but if i were fruitful, i cared not who did condemn." and the result of a sermon was often very different from what he anticipated: "when i thought i had done no good, then i did the most; and when i thought i should catch them, i fished for nothing." "a word cast in by-the-bye sometimes did more execution than all the sermon besides." the tie between him and his spiritual children was very close. the backsliding of any of his converts caused him the most extreme grief; "it was more to me than if one of my own children were going to the grave. nothing hath gone so near me as that, unless it was the fear of the loss of the salvation of my own soul." a story, often repeated, but too characteristic to be omitted, illustrates the power of his preaching even in the early days of his ministry. "being to preach in a church in a country village in cambridgeshire"--it was before the restoration--"and the public being gathered together in the churchyard, a cambridge scholar, and none of the soberest neither, inquired what the meaning of that concourse of people was (it being a week-day); and being told that one bunyan, a tinker, was to preach there, he gave a lad twopence to hold his horse, saying he was resolved to hear the tinker prate; and so he went into the church to hear him. but god met him there by his ministry, so that he came out much changed; and would by his good will hear none but the tinker for a long time after, he himself becoming a very eminent preacher in that country afterwards." "this story," continues the anonymous biographer, "i know to be true, having many times discoursed with the man." to the same anterestoration period, dr. brown also assigns the anecdote of bunyan's encounter, on the road near cambridge, with the university man who asked him how he dared to preach not having the original scriptures. with ready wit, bunyan turned the tables on the scholar by asking whether he had the actual originals, the copies written by the apostles and prophets. the scholar replied, "no," but they had what they believed to be a true copy of the original. "and i," said bunyan, "believe the english bible to be a true copy, too." "then away rid the scholar." the fame of such a preacher, naturally, soon spread far and wide; all the countryside flocked eagerly to hear him. in some places, as at meldreth in cambridgeshire, and yelden in his own county of bedfordshire, the pulpits of the parish churches were opened to him. at yelden, the rector, dr. william dell, the puritan master of caius college, cambridge, formerly chaplain to the army under fairfax, roused the indignation of his orthodox parishioners by allowing him--"one bunyon of bedford, a tinker," as he is ignominiously styled in the petition sent up to the house of lords in 1660--to preach in his parish church on christmas day. but, generally, the parochial clergy were his bitterest enemies. "when i first went to preach the word abroad," he writes, "the doctors and priests of the country did open wide against me." many were envious of his success where they had so signally failed. in the words of mr. henry deane, when defending bunyan against the attacks of dr. t. smith, professor of arabic and keeper of the university library at cambridge, who had come upon bunyan preaching in a barn at toft, they were "angry with the tinker because he strove to mend souls as well as kettles and pans," and proved himself more skilful in his craft than those who had graduated at a university. envy is ever the mother of detraction. slanders of the blackest dye against his moral character were freely circulated, and as readily believed. it was the common talk that he was a thorough reprobate. nothing was too bad for him. he was "a witch, a jesuit, a highwayman, and the like." it was reported that he had "his misses and his bastards; that he had two wives at once," &c. such charges roused all the man in bunyan. few passages in his writings show more passion than that in "grace abounding," in which he defends himself from the "fools or knaves" who were their authors. he "begs belief of no man, and if they believe him or disbelieve him it is all one to him. but he would have them know how utterly baseless their accusations are." "my foes," he writes, "have missed their mark in their open shooting at me. i am not the man. if all the fornicators and adulterers in england were hanged by the neck till they be dead, john bunyan would be still alive. i know not whether there is such a thing as a woman breathing under the copes of the whole heaven but by their apparel, their children, or by common fame, except my wife." he calls not only men, but angels, nay, even god himself, to bear testimony to his innocence in this respect. but though they were so absolutely baseless, nay, the rather because they were so baseless, the grossness of these charges evidently stung bunyan very deeply. so bitter was the feeling aroused against him by the marvellous success of his irregular ministry, that his enemies, even before the restoration of the church and crown, endeavoured to put the arm of the law in motion to restrain him. we learn from the church books that in march, 1658, the little bedford church was in trouble for "brother bunyan," against whom an indictment had been laid at the assizes for "preaching at eaton socon." of this indictment we hear no more; so it was probably dropped. but it is an instructive fact that, even during the boasted religious liberty of the protectorate, irregular preaching, especially that of the much dreaded anabaptists, was an indictable offence. but, as dr. brown observes, "religious liberty had not yet come to mean liberty all round, but only liberty for a certain recognized section of christians." that there was no lack of persecution during the commonwealth is clear from the cruel treatment to which quakers were subjected, to say nothing of the intolerance shown to episcopalians and roman catholics. in bunyan's own county of bedford, quakeresses were sentenced to be whipped and sent to bridewell for reproving a parish priest, perhaps well deserving of it, and exhorting the folks on a market day to repentance and amendment of life. "the simple truth is," writes robert southey, "all parties were agreed on the one catholic opinion that certain doctrines were not to be tolerated:" the only points of difference between them were "what those doctrines were," and how far intolerance might be carried. the withering lines are familiar to us, in which milton denounces the "new forcers of conscience," who by their intolerance and "super-metropolitan and hyperarchiepiscopal tyranny," proved that in his proverbial words, "new presbyter is but old priest writ large"- "because you have thrown off your prelate lord, and with stiff vows renounce his liturgy dare ye for this adjure the civil sword to force our consciences that christ set free!" how bunyan came to escape we know not. but the danger he was in was imminent enough for the church at bedford to meet to pray "for counsail what to doe" in respect of it. it was in these closing years of the protectorate that bunyan made his first essay at authorship. he was led to it by a long and tiresome controversy with the quakers, who had recently found their way to bedford. the foundations of the faith, he thought, were being undermined. the quakers' teaching as to the inward light seemed to him a serious disparagement of the holy scriptures, while their mystical view of the spiritual christ revealed to the soul and dwelling in the heart, came perilously near to a denial of the historic reality of the personal christ. he had had public disputations with male and female quakers from time to time, at the market cross at bedford, at "paul's steeple-house in bedford town," and other places. one of them, anne blackley by name, openly bade him throw away the scriptures, to which bunyan replied, "no; for then the devil would be too hard for me." the same enthusiast charged him with "preaching up an idol, and using conjuration and witchcraft," because of his assertion of the bodily presence of christ in heaven. the first work of one who was to prove himself so voluminous an author, cannot but be viewed with much interest. it was a little volume in duodecimo, of about two hundred pages, entitled "some gospel truths opened, by that unworthy servant of christ, john bunyan, of bedford, by the grace of god, preacher of the gospel of his dear son," published in 1656. the little book, which, as dr. brown says, was "evidently thrown off at a heat," was printed in london and published at newport pagnel. bunyan being entirely unknown to the world, his first literary venture was introduced by a commendatory "epistle" written by gifford's successor, john burton. in this burton speaks of the young author--bunyan was only in his twenty-ninth year--as one who had "neither the greatness nor the wisdom of the world to commend him," "not being chosen out of an earthly but out of a heavenly university, the church of christ," where "through grace he had taken three heavenly degrees, to wit, union with christ, the anointing of the spirit, and experience of the temptations of satan," and as one of whose "soundness in the faith, godly conversation, and his ability to preach the gospel, not by human aid, but by the spirit of the lord," he "with many other saints had had experience." this book must be pronounced a very remarkable production for a young travelling tinker, under thirty, and without any literary or theological training but such as he had gained for himself after attaining to manhood. its arrangement is excellent, the arguments are ably marshalled, the style is clear, the language pure and well chosen. it is, in the main, a wellreasoned defence of the historical truth of the articles of the creed relating to the second person of the trinity, against the mystical teaching of the followers of george fox, who, by a false spiritualism, sublimated the whole gospel narrative into a vehicle for the representation of truths relating to the inner life of the believer. no one ever had a firmer grasp than bunyan of the spiritual bearing of the facts of the recorded life of christ on the souls of men. but he would not suffer their "subjectivity"--to adopt modern terms--to destroy their "objectivity." if the son of god was not actually born of the virgin mary, if he did not live in a real human body, and in that body die, lie in the grave, rise again, and ascend up into heaven, whence he would return--and that bunyan believed shortly--in the same body he took of his mortal mother, his preaching was vain; their faith was vain; they were yet in their sins. those who "cried up a christ within, _in opposition_ to a christ without," who asserted that christ had no other body but the church, that the only crucifixion, rising again, and ascension of christ was that _within_ the believer, and that every man had, as an inner light, a measure of christ's spirit within him sufficient to guide him to salvation, he asserted were "possessed with a spirit of delusion;" deceived themselves, they were deceiving others to their eternal ruin. to the refutation of such fundamental errors, substituting a mystical for an historical faith, bunyan's little treatise is addressed; and it may be truly said the work is done effectually. to adopt coleridge's expression concerning bunyan's greater and world-famous work, it is an admirable "_summa theologiae evangelicae_," which, notwithstanding its obsolete style and old-fashioned arrangement, may be read even now with advantage. bunyan's denunciation of the tenets of the quakers speedily elicited a reply. this was written by a certain edward burrough, a young man of three and twenty, fearless, devoted, and ardent in the propagation of the tenets of his sect. being subsequently thrown into newgate with hundreds of his co-religionists, at the same time that his former antagonist was imprisoned in bedford gaol, burrough met the fate bunyan's stronger constitution enabled him to escape; and in the language of the times, "rotted in prison," a victim to the loathsome foulness of his place of incarceration, in the year of the "bartholomew act," 1662. burrough entitled his reply, "the gospel of peace, contended for in the spirit of meekness and love against the secret opposition of john bunyan, a professed minister in bedfordshire." his opening words, too characteristic of the entire treatise, display but little of the meekness professed. "how long, ye crafty fowlers, will ye prey upon the innocent? how long shall the righteous be a prey to your teeth, ye subtle foxes! your dens are in darkness, and your mischief is hatched upon your beds of secret whoredoms?" of john burton and the others who recommended bunyan's treatise, he says, "they have joined themselves with the broken army of magog, and have showed themselves in the defence of the dragon against the lamb in the day of war betwixt them." we may well echo dr. brown's wish that "these two good men could have had a little free and friendly talk face to face. there would probably have been better understanding, and fewer hard words, for they were really not so far apart as they thought. bunyan believed in the inward light, and burrough surely accepted an objective christ. but failing to see each other's exact point of view, burrough thunders at bunyan, and bunyan swiftly returns the shot." the rapidity of bunyan's literary work is amazing, especially when we take his antecedents into account. within a few weeks he published his rejoinder to friend burrough, under the title of "a vindication of gospel truths opened." in this work, which appeared in 1667, bunyan repays burrough in his own coin, styling him "a proved enemy to the truth," a "grossly railing rabshakeh, who breaks out with a taunt and a jeer," is very "censorious and utters many words without knowledge." in vigorous, nervous language, which does not spare his opponent, he defends himself from burrough's charges, and proves that the quakers are "deceivers." "as for you thinking that to drink water, and wear no hatbands is not walking after your own lusts, i say that whatsoever man do make a religion out of, having no warrant for it in scripture, is but walking after their own lusts, and not after the spirit of god." burrough had most unwarrantably stigmatized bunyan as one of "the false prophets, who love the wages of unrighteousness, and through covetousness make merchandise of souls." bunyan calmly replies, "friend, dost thou speak this as from thy own knowledge, or did any other tell thee so? however that spirit that led thee out this way is a lying spirit. for though i be poor and of no repute in the world as to outward things, yet through grace i have learned by the example of the apostle to preach the truth, and also to work with my hands both for mine own living, and for those that are with me, when i have opportunity. and i trust that the lord jesus who hath helped me to reject the wages of unrighteousness hitherto, will also help me still so that i shall distribute that which god hath given me freely, and not for filthy lucre's sake." the fruitfulness of his ministry which burrough had called in question, charging him with having "run before he was sent," he refuses to discuss. bunyan says, "i shall leave it to be taken notice of by the people of god and the country where i dwell, who will testify the contrary for me, setting aside the carnal ministry with their retinue who are so mad against me as thyself." in his third book, published in 1658, at "the king's head, in the old bailey," a few days before oliver cromwell's death, bunyan left the thorny domain of polemics, for that of christian exhortation, in which his chief work was to be done. this work was an exposition of the parable of "the rich man and lazarus," bearing the horror-striking title, "a few sighs from hell, or the groans of a damned soul." in this work, as its title would suggest, bunyan, accepting the literal accuracy of the parable as a description of the realities of the world beyond the grave, gives full scope to his vivid imagination in portraying the condition of the lost. it contains some touches of racy humour, especially in the similes, and is written in the nervous homespun english of which he was master. its popularity is shown by its having gone through nine editions in the author's lifetime. to take an example or two of its style: dealing with the excuses people make for not hearing the gospel, "o, saith one, i dare not for my master, my brother, my landlord; i shall lose his favour, his house of work, and so decay my calling. o, saith another, i would willingly go in this way but for my father; he chides me and tells me he will not stand my friend when i come to want; i shall never enjoy a pennyworth of his goods; he will disinherit me--and i dare not, saith another, for my husband, for he will be a-railing, and tells me he will turn me out of doors, he will beat me and cut off my legs;" and then turning from the hindered to the hinderers: "oh, what red lines will there be against all those rich ungodly landlords that so keep under their poor tenants that they dare not go out to hear the word for fear that their rent should be raised or they turned out of their houses. think on this, you drunken proud rich, and scornful landlords; think on this, you madbrained blasphemous husbands, that are against the godly and chaste conversation of your wives; also you that hold your servants so hard to it that you will not spare them time to hear the word, unless it will be where and when your lusts will let you." he bids the ungodly consider that "the profits, pleasures, and vanities of the world" will one day "give thee the slip, and leave thee in the sands and the brambles of all that thou hast done." the careless man lies "like the smith's dog at the foot of the anvil, though the fire sparks flee in his face." the rich man remembers how he once despised lazarus, "scrubbed beggarly lazarus. what, shall i dishonour my fair sumptuous and gay house with such a scabbed creephedge as he? the lazaruses are not allowed to warn them of the wrath to come, because they are not gentlemen, because they cannot with pontius pilate speak hebrew, greek, and latin. nay, they must not, shall not, speak to them, and all because of this." the fourth production of bunyan's pen, his last book before his twelve years of prison life began, is entitled, "the doctrine of law and grace unfolded." with a somewhat overstrained humility which is hardly worthy of him, he describes himself in the title-page as "that poor contemptible creature john bunyan, of bedford." it was given to the world in may, 1659, and issued from the same press in the old bailey as his last work. it cannot be said that this is one of bunyan's most attractive writings. it is as he describes it, "a parcel of plain yet sound, true, and home sayings," in which with that clearness of thought and accuracy of arrangement which belongs to him, and that marvellous acquaintance with scripture language which he had gained by his constant study of the bible, he sets forth the two covenants--the covenant of works, and the covenant of grace--"in their natures, ends, bounds, together with the state and condition of them that are under the one, and of them that are under the other." dr. brown describes the book as "marked by a firm grasp of faith and a strong view of the reality of christ's person and work as the one priest and mediator for a sinful world." to quote a passage, "is there righteousness in christ? that is mine. is there perfection in that righteousness? that is mine. did he bleed for sin? it was for mine. hath he overcome the law, the devil, and hell? the victory is mine, and i am come forth conqueror, nay, more than a conqueror through him that hath loved me. . . lord, show me continually in the light of thy spirit, through thy word, that jesus that was born in the days of caesar augustus, when mary, a daughter of judah, went with joseph to be taxed in bethlehem, that he is the very christ. let me not rest contented without such a faith that is so wrought even by the discovery of his birth, crucifying death, blood, resurrection, ascension, and second--which is his personal--coming again, that the very faith of it may fill my soul with comfort and holiness." up and down its pages we meet with vivid reminiscences of his own career, of which he can only speak with wonder and thankfulness. in the "epistle to the reader," which introduces it, occurs the passage already referred to describing his education. "i never went to school to aristotle or plato, but was brought up at my father's house in a very mean condition, among a company of poor countrymen." of his own religious state before his conversion he thus speaks: "when it pleased the lord to begin to instruct my soul, he found me one of the black sinners of the world. he found me making a sport of oaths, and also of lies; and many a soul-poisoning meal did i make out of divers lusts, such as drinking, dancing, playing, pleasure with the wicked ones of the world; and so wedded was i to my sins, that thought i to myself, 'i will have them though i lose my soul.'" and then, after narrating the struggles he had had with his conscience, the alternations of hope and fear which he passed through, which are more fully described in his "grace abounding," he thus vividly depicts the full assurance of faith he had attained to: "i saw through grace that it was the blood shed on mount calvary that did save and redeem sinners, as clearly and as really with the eyes of my soul as ever, methought, i had seen a penny loaf bought with a penny. . . o let the saints know that unless the devil can pluck christ out of heaven he cannot pull a true believer out of christ." in a striking passage he shows how, by turning satan's temptations against himself, christians may "get the art as to outrun him in his own shoes, and make his own darts pierce himself." "what! didst thou never learn to outshoot the devil in his own bow, and cut off his head with his own sword as david served goliath?" the whole treatise is somewhat wearisome, but the pious reader will find much in it for spiritual edification. chapter iv. we cannot doubt that one in whom loyalty was so deep and fixed a principle as bunyan, would welcome with sincere thankfulness the termination of the miserable interval of anarchy which followed the death of the protector and the abdication of his indolent and feeble son, by the restoration of monarchy in the person of charles the second. even if some forebodings might have arisen that with the restoration of the old monarchy the old persecuting laws might be revived, which made it criminal for a man to think for himself in the matters which most nearly concerned his eternal interests, and to worship in the way which he found most helpful to his spiritual life, they would have been silenced by the promise, contained in charles's "declaration from breda," of liberty to tender consciences, and the assurance that no one should be disquieted for differences of opinion in religion, so long as such differences did not endanger the peace and well-being of the realm. if this declaration meant anything, it meant a breadth of toleration larger and more liberal than had been ever granted by cromwell. any fears of the renewal of persecution must be groundless. but if such dreams of religious liberty were entertained they were speedily and rudely dispelled, and bunyan was one of the first to feel the shock of the awakening. the promise was coupled with a reference to the "mature deliberation of parliament." with such a promise charles's easy conscience was relieved of all responsibility. whatever he might promise, the nation, and parliament which was its mouthpiece, might set his promise aside. and if he knew anything of the temper of the people he was returning to govern, he must have felt assured that any scheme of comprehension was certain to be rejected by them. as mr. froude has said, "before toleration is possible, men must have learnt to tolerate toleration," and this was a lesson the english nation was very far from having learnt; at no time, perhaps, were they further from it. puritanism had had its day, and had made itself generally detested. deeply enshrined as it was in many earnest and devout hearts, such as bunyan's, it was necessarily the religion not of the many, but of the few; it was the religion not of the common herd, but of a spiritual aristocracy. its stern condemnation of all mirth and pastime, as things in their nature sinful, of which we have so many evidences in bunyan's own writings; its repression of all that makes life brighter and more joyous, and the sour sanctimoniousness which frowned upon innocent relaxation, had rendered its yoke unbearable to ordinary human nature, and men took the earliest opportunity of throwing the yoke off and trampling it under foot. they hailed with rude and boisterous rejoicings the restoration of the monarchy which they felt, with a true instinct, involved the restoration of the old church of england, the church of their fathers and of the older among themselves, with its larger indulgence for the instincts of humanity, its wider comprehensiveness, and its more dignified and decorous ritual. the reaction from puritanism pervaded all ranks. in no class, however, was its influence more powerful than among the country gentry. most of them had been severe sufferers both in purse and person during the protectorate. fines and sequestrations had fallen heavily upon them, and they were eager to retaliate on their oppressors. their turn had come; can we wonder that they were eager to use it? as mr. j. r. green has said: "the puritan, the presbyterian, the commonwealthsman, all were at their feet. . . their whole policy appeared to be dictated by a passionate spirit of reaction. . . the oppressors of the parson had been the oppressors of the squire. the sequestrator who had driven the one from his parsonage had driven the other from his manor-house. both had been branded with the same charge of malignity. both had suffered together, and the new parliament was resolved that both should triumph together." the feeling thus eloquently expressed goes far to explain the harshness which bunyan experienced at the hands of the administrators of justice at the crisis of his life at which we have now arrived. those before whom he was successively arraigned belonged to this very class, which, having suffered most severely during the puritan usurpation, was least likely to show consideration to a leading teacher of the puritan body. nor were reasons wanting to justify their severity. the circumstances of the times were critical. the public mind was still in an excitable state, agitated by the wild schemes of political and religious enthusiasts plotting to destroy the whole existing framework both of church and state, and set up their own chimerical fabric. we cannot be surprised that, as southey has said, after all the nation had suffered from fanatical zeal, "the government, rendered suspicious by the constant sense of danger, was led as much by fear as by resentment to seventies which are explained by the necessities of self-defence," and which the nervous apprehensions of the nation not only condoned, but incited. already churchmen in wales had been taking the law into their own hands, and manifesting their orthodoxy by harrying quakers and nonconformists. in the may and june of this year, we hear of sectaries being taken from their beds and haled to prison, and brought manacled to the quarter sessions and committed to loathsome dungeons. matters had advanced since then. the church had returned in its full power and privileges together with the monarchy, and everything went back into its old groove. every act passed for the disestablishment and disendowment of the church was declared a dead letter. those of the ejected incumbents who remained alive entered again into their parsonages, and occupied their pulpits as of old; the surviving bishops returned to their sees; and the whole existing statute law regarding the church revived from its suspended animation. no new enactment was required to punish nonconformists and to silence their ministers; though, to the disgrace of the nation and its parliament, many new ones were subsequently passed, with ever-increasing disabilities. the various acts of elizabeth supplied all that was needed. under these acts all who refused to attend public worship in their parish churches were subject to fines; while those who resorted to conventicles were to be imprisoned till they made their submissions; if at the end of three months they refused to submit they were to be banished the realm, and if they returned from banishment, without permission of the crown, they were liable to execution as felons. this long-disused sword was now drawn from its rusty sheath to strike terror into the hearts of nonconformists. it did not prove very effectual. all the true-hearted men preferred to suffer rather than yield in so sacred a cause. bunyan was one of the earliest of these, as he proved one of the staunchest. early in october, 1660, the country magistrates meeting in bedford issued an order for the public reading of the liturgy of the church of england. such an order bunyan would not regard as concerning him. anyhow he would not give obeying it a thought. one of the things we least like in bunyan is the feeling he exhibits towards the book of common prayer. to him it was an accursed thing, the badge and token of a persecuting party, a relic of popery which he exhorted his adherents to "take heed that they touched not" if they would be "steadfast in the faith of jesus christ." nothing could be further from his thoughts than to give any heed to the magistrates' order to go to church and pray "after the form of men's inventions." the time for testing bunyan's resolution was now near at hand. within six months of the king's landing, within little more than a month of the issue of the magistrate's order for the use of the common prayer book, his sturdy determination to yield obedience to no authority in spiritual matters but that of his own conscience was put to the proof. bunyan may safely be regarded as at that time the most conspicuous of the nonconformists of the neighbourhood. he had now preached for five or six years with ever-growing popularity. no name was so rife in men's mouths as his. at him, therefore, as the representative of his brother sectaries, the first blow was levelled. it is no cause of surprise that in the measures taken against him he recognized the direct agency of satan to stop the course of the truth: "that old enemy of man's salvation," he says, "took his opportunity to inflame the hearts of his vassals against me, insomuch that at the last i was laid out for the warrant of a justice." the circumstances were these, on november 12, 1660, bunyan had engaged to go to the little hamlet of lower samsell near harlington, to hold a religious service. his purpose becoming known, a neighbouring magistrate, mr. francis wingate, of harlington house, was instructed to issue a warrant for his apprehension under the act of elizabeth. the meeting being represented to him as one of seditious persons bringing arms, with a view to the disturbance of the public peace, he ordered that a strong watch should be kept about the house, "as if," bunyan says, "we did intend to do some fearful business to the destruction of the country." the intention to arrest him oozed out, and on bunyan's arrival the whisperings of his friends warned him of his danger. he might have easily escaped if he "had been minded to play the coward." some advised it, especially the brother at whose house the meeting was to take place. he, "living by them," knew "what spirit" the magistrates "were of," before whom bunyan would be taken if arrested, and the small hope there would be of his avoiding being committed to gaol. the man himself, as a "harbourer of a conventicle," would also run no small danger of the same fate, but bunyan generously acquits him of any selfish object in his warning: "he was, i think, more afraid of (for) me, than of (for) himself." the matter was clear enough to bunyan. at the same time it was not to be decided in a hurry. the time fixed for the service not being yet come, bunyan went into the meadow by the house, and pacing up and down thought the question well out. "if he who had up to this time showed himself hearty and courageous in his preaching, and had made it his business to encourage others, were now to run and make an escape, it would be of an ill savour in the country. if he were now to flee because there was a warrant out for him, would not the weak and newly-converted brethren be afraid to stand when great words only were spoken to them. god had, in his mercy, chosen him to go on the forlorn hope; to be the first to be opposed for the gospel; what a discouragement it must be to the whole body if he were to fly. no, he would never by any cowardliness of his give occasion to the enemy to blaspheme the gospel." so back to the house he came with his mind made up. he had come to hold the meeting, and hold the meeting he would. he was not conscious of saying or doing any evil. if he had to suffer it was the lord's will, and he was prepared for it. he had a full hour before him to escape if he had been so minded, but he was resolved "not to go away." he calmly waited for the time fixed for the brethren to assemble, and then, without hurry or any show of alarm, he opened the meeting in the usual manner, with prayer for god's blessing. he had given out his text, the brethren had just opened their bibles and bunyan was beginning to preach, when the arrival of the constable with the warrant put an end to the exercise. bunyan requested to be allowed to say a few parting words of encouragement to the terrified flock. this was granted, and he comforted the little company with the reflection that it was a mercy to suffer in so good a cause; and that it was better to be the persecuted than the persecutors; better to suffer as christians than as thieves or murderers. the constable and the justice's servant soon growing weary of listening to bunyan's exhortations, interrupted him and "would not be quiet till they had him away" from the house. the justice who had issued the warrant, mr. wingate, not being at home that day, a friend of bunyan's residing on the spot offered to house him for the night, undertaking that he should be forthcoming the next day. the following morning this friend took him to the constable's house, and they then proceeded together to mr. wingate's. a few inquiries showed the magistrate that he had entirely mistaken the character of the samsell meeting and its object. instead of a gathering of "fifth monarchy men," or other turbulent fanatics as he had supposed, for the disturbance of the public peace, he learnt from the constable that they were only a few peaceable, harmless people, met together "to preach and hear the word," without any political meaning. wingate was now at a nonplus, and "could not well tell what to say." for the credit of his magisterial character, however, he must do something to show that he had not made a mistake in issuing the warrant. so he asked bunyan what business he had there, and why it was not enough for him to follow his own calling instead of breaking the law by preaching. bunyan replied that his only object in coming there was to exhort his hearers for their souls' sake to forsake their sinful courses and close in with christ, and this he could do and follow his calling as well. wingate, now feeling himself in the wrong, lost his temper, and declared angrily that he would "break the neck of these unlawful meetings," and that bunyan must find securities for his good behaviour or go to gaol. there was no difficulty in obtaining the security. bail was at once forthcoming. the real difficulty lay with bunyan himself. no bond was strong enough to keep him from preaching. if his friends gave them, their bonds would be forfeited, for he "would not leave speaking the word of god." wingate told him that this being so, he must be sent to gaol to be tried at the next quarter sessions, and left the room to make out his mittimus. while the committal was preparing, one whom bunyan bitterly styles "an old enemy to the truth," dr. lindall, vicar of harlington, wingate's father-in-law, came in and began "taunting at him with many reviling terms," demanding what right he had to preach and meddle with that for which he had no warrant, charging him with making long prayers to devour widows houses, and likening him to "one alexander the coppersmith he had read of," "aiming, 'tis like," says bunyan, "at me because i was a tinker." the mittimus was now made out, and bunyan in the constable's charge was on his way to bedford, when he was met by two of his friends, who begged the constable to wait a little while that they might use their interest with the magistrate to get bunyan released. after a somewhat lengthened interview with wingate, they returned with the message that if bunyan would wait on the magistrate and "say certain words" to him, he might go free. to satisfy his friends, bunyan returned with them, though not with any expectation that the engagement proposed to him would be such as he could lawfully take. "if the words were such as he could say with a good conscience he would say them, or else he would not." after all this coming and going, by the time bunyan and his friends got back to harlington house, night had come on. as he entered the hall, one, he tells us, came out of an inner room with a lighted candle in his hand, whom bunyan recognized as one william foster, a lawyer of bedford, wingate's brother-in-law, afterwards a fierce persecutor of the nonconformists of the district. with a simulated affection, "as if he would have leapt on my neck and kissed me," which put bunyan on his guard, as he had ever known him for "a close opposer of the ways of god," he adopted the tone of one who had bunyan's interest at heart, and begged him as a friend to yield a little from his stubbornness. his brother-inlaw, he said, was very loath to send him to gaol. all he had to do was only to promise that he would not call people together, and he should be set at liberty and might go back to his home. such meetings were plainly unlawful and must be stopped. bunyan had better follow his calling and leave off preaching, especially on week-days, which made other people neglect their calling too. god commanded men to work six days and serve him on the seventh. it was vain for bunyan to reply that he never summoned people to hear him, but that if they came he could not but use the best of his skill and wisdom to counsel them for their soul's salvation; that he could preach and the people could come to hear without neglecting their callings, and that men were bound to look out for their souls' welfare on week-days as well as sundays. neither could convince the other. bunyan's stubbornness was not a little provoking to foster, and was equally disappointing to wingate. they both evidently wished to dismiss the case, and intentionally provided a loophole for bunyan's escape. the promise put into his mouth--"that he would not call the people together"--was purposely devised to meet his scrupulous conscience. but even if he could keep the promise in the letter, bunyan knew that he was fully purposed to violate its spirit. he was the last man to forfeit self-respect by playing fast and loose with his conscience. all evasion was foreign to his nature. the long interview came to an end at last. once again wingate and foster endeavoured to break down bunyan's resolution; but when they saw he was "at a point, and would not be moved or persuaded," the mittimus was again put into the constable's hands, and he and his prisoner were started on the walk to bedford gaol. it was dark, as we have seen, when this protracted interview began. it must have now been deep in the night. bunyan gives no hint whether the walk was taken in the dark or in the daylight. there was however no need for haste. bedford was thirteen miles away, and the constable would probably wait till the morning to set out for the prison which was to be bunyan's home for twelve long years, to which he went carrying, he says, the "peace of god along with me, and his comfort in my poor soul." chapter v. a long-standing tradition has identified bunyan's place of imprisonment with a little corporation lock-up-house, some fourteen feet square, picturesquely perched on one of the mid-piers of the many-arched mediaeval bridge which, previously to 1765, spanned the ouse at bedford, and as mr. froude has said, has "furnished a subject for pictures," both of pen and pencil, "which if correct would be extremely affecting." unfortunately, however, for the lovers of the sensational, these pictures are not "correct," but are based on a false assumption which grew up out of a desire to heap contumely on bunyan's enemies by exaggerating the severity of his protracted, but by no means harsh imprisonment. being arrested by the warrant of a county magistrate for a county offence, bunyan's place of incarceration was naturally the county gaol. there he undoubtedly passed the twelve years of his captivity, and there the royal warrant for his release found him "a prisoner in the common gaol for our county of bedford." but though far different from the pictures which writers, desirous of exhibiting the sufferings of the puritan confessor in the most telling form, have drawn--if not "a damp and dreary cell" into which "a narrow chink admits a few scanty rays of light to render visible the prisoner, pale and emaciated, seated on the humid earth, pursuing his daily task to earn the morsel which prolongs his existence and his confinement together,"--"the common gaol" of bedford must have been a sufficiently strait and unwholesome abode, especially for one, like the travelling tinker, accustomed to spend the greater part of his days in the open-air in unrestricted freedom. prisons in those days, and indeed long afterwards, were, at their best, foul, dark, miserable places. a century later howard found bedford gaol, though better than some, in what would now be justly deemed a disgraceful condition. one who visited bunyan during his confinement speaks of it as "an uncomfortable and close prison." bunyan however himself, in the narrative of his imprisonment, makes no complaint of it, nor do we hear of his health having in any way suffered from the conditions of his confinement, as was the case with not a few of his fellow-sufferers for the sake of religion in other english gaols, some of them even unto death. bad as it must have been to be a prisoner, as far as his own testimony goes, there is no evidence that his imprisonment, though varying in its strictness with his various gaolers, was aggravated by any special severity; and, as mr. froude has said, "it is unlikely that at any time he was made to suffer any greater hardships than were absolutely inevitable." the arrest of one whose work as a preacher had been a blessing to so many, was not at once tamely acquiesced in by the religious body to which he belonged. a few days after bunyan's committal to gaol, some of "the brethren" applied to mr. crompton, a young magistrate at elstow, to bail him out, offering the required security for his appearance at the quarter sessions. the magistrate was at first disposed to accept the bail; but being a young man, new in his office, and thinking it possible that there might be more against bunyan than the "mittimus" expressed, he was afraid of compromising himself by letting him go at large. his refusal, though it sent him back to prison, was received by bunyan with his usual calm trust in god's overruling providence. "i was not at all daunted, but rather glad, and saw evidently that the lord had heard me." before he set out for the justice's house, he tells us he had committed the whole event to god's ordering, with the prayer that "if he might do more good by being at liberty than in prison," the bail might be accepted, "but if not, that his will might be done." in the failure of his friends' good offices he saw an answer to his prayer, encouraging the hope that the untoward event, which deprived them of his personal ministrations, "might be an awaking to the saints in the country," and while "the slender answer of the justice," which sent him back to his prison, stirred something akin to contempt, his soul was full of gladness. "verily i did meet my god sweetly again, comforting of me, and satisfying of me, that it was his will and mind that i should be there." the sense that he was being conformed to the image of his great master was a stay to his soul. "this word," he continues, "did drop in upon my heart with some life, for he knew that 'for envy they had delivered him.'" seven weeds after his committal, early in january, 1661, the quarter sessions came on, and "john bunyan, of the town of bedford, labourer," was indicted in the customary form for having "devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church to hear divine service," and as "a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventions, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of the kingdom." the chairman of the bench was the brutal and blustering sir john keeling, the prototype of bunyan's lord hategood in faithful's trial at vanity fair, who afterwards, by his base subserviency to an infamous government, climbed to the lord chief justice's seat, over the head of sir matthew hale. keeling had suffered much from the puritans during the great rebellion, when, according to clarendon, he was "always in gaol," and was by no means disposed to deal leniently with an offender of that persuasion. his brethren of the bench were country gentlemen hating puritanism from their heart, and eager for retaliation for the wrongs it had wrought them. from such a bench, even if bunyan had been less uncompromising, no leniency was to be anticipated. but bunyan's attitude forbade any leniency. as the law stood he had indisputably broken it, and he expressed his determination, respectfully but firmly, to take the first opportunity of breaking it again. "i told them that if i was let out of prison today i would preach the gospel again to-morrow by the help of god." we may dislike the tone adopted by the magistrates towards the prisoner; we may condemn it as overbearing and contemptuous; we may smile at keeling's expositions of scripture and his stock arguments against unauthorized prayer and preaching, though we may charitably believe that bunyan misunderstood him when he makes him say that "the book of common prayer had been ever since the apostles' time"; we may think that the prisoner, in his "canting pedlar's french," as keeling called it, had the better of his judges in knowledge of the bible, in christian charity, as well as in dignity and in common sense, and that they showed their wisdom in silencing him in court--"let him speak no further," said one of them, "he will do harm,"--since they could not answer him more convincingly: but his legal offence was clear. he confessed to the indictment, if not in express terms, yet virtually. he and his friends had held "many meetings together, both to pray to god and to exhort one another. i confessed myself guilty no otherwise." such meetings were forbidden by the law, which it was the duty of the justices to administer, and they had no choice whether they would convict or no. perhaps they were not sorry they had no such choice. bunyan was a most "impracticable" prisoner, and as mr. froude says, the "magistrates being but unregenerate mortals may be pardoned if they found him provoking." the sentence necessarily followed. it was pronounced, not, we are sure reluctantly, by keeling, in the terms of the act. "he was to go back to prison for three months. if at three months' end he still refused to go to church to hear divine service and leave his preaching, he was to be banished the realm,"--in modern language "transported," and if "he came back again without special royal license," he must "stretch by the neck for it." "this," said keeling, "i tell you plainly." bunyan's reply that "as to that matter he was at a point with the judge," for "that he would repeat the offence the first time he could," provoked a rejoinder from one of the bench, and the unseemly wrangling might have been still further prolonged, had it not been stopped by the gaoler, who "pulling him away to be gone," had him back to prison, where he says, and "blesses the lord jesus christ for it," his heart was as "sweetly refreshed" in returning to it as it had "been during his examination. so that i find christ's words more than bare trifles, where he saith, he will give a mouth and wisdom, even such as all the adversaries shall not gainsay or resist. and that his peace no man can take from us." the magistrates, however, though not unnaturally irritated by what seemed to them bunyan's unreasonable obstinacy, were not desirous to push matters to extremity. the three months named in his sentence, at the expiration of which he was either to conform or be banished the realm, were fast drawing to an end, without any sign of submission on his part. as a last resort mr. cobb, the clerk of the peace, was sent to try what calm and friendly reasoning might effect. cobb, who evidently knew bunyan personally, did his best, as a kind-hearted, sensible man, to bring him to reason. cobb did not profess to be "a man that could dispute," and bunyan had the better of him in argument. his position, however, was unassailable. the recent insurrection of venner and his fifth monarchy men, he said, had shown the danger to the public peace there was in allowing fanatical gatherings to assemble unchecked. bunyan, whose loyalty was unquestioned, must acknowledge the prudence of suppressing meetings which, however good their ostensible aim, might issue in nothing less than the ruin of the kingdom and commonwealth. bunyan had confessed his readiness to obey the apostolic precept by submitting himself to the king as supreme. the king forbade the holding of private meetings, which, under colour of religion, might be prejudicial to the state. why then did he not submit? this need not hinder him from doing good in a neighbourly way. he might continue to use his gifts and exhort his neighbours in private discourse, provided he did not bring people together in public assemblies. the law did not abridge him of this liberty. why should he stand so strictly on public meetings? or why should he not come to church and hear? was his gift so far above that of others that he could learn of no one? if he could not be persuaded, the judges were resolved to prosecute the law against him. he would be sent away beyond the seas to spain or constantinople--either cobb's or bunyan's colonial geography was rather at fault here--or some other remote part of the world, and what good could he do to his friends then? "neighbour bunyan" had better consider these things seriously before the quarter session, and be ruled by good advice. the gaoler here put in his word in support of cobb's arguments: "indeed, sir, i hope he will be ruled." but all cobb's friendly reasonings and expostulations were ineffectual to bend bunyan's sturdy will. he would yield to no-one in his loyalty to his sovereign, and his readiness to obey the law. but, he said, with a hairsplitting casuistry he would have indignantly condemned in others, the law provided two ways of obeying, "one to obey actively, and if his conscience forbad that, then to obey passively; to lie down and suffer whatever they might do to him." the clerk of the peace saw that it was no use to prolong the argument any further. "at this," writes bunyan, "he sat down, and said no more; which, when he had done, i did thank him for his civil and meek discoursing with me; and so we parted: o that we might meet in heaven!" the coronation which took place very soon after this interview, april 13, 1661, afforded a prospect of release without unworthy submission. the customary proclamation, which allowed prisoners under sentence for any offence short of felony to sue out a pardon for twelve months from that date, suspended the execution of the sentence of banishment and gave a hope that the prison doors might be opened for him. the local authorities taking no steps to enable him to profit by the royal clemency, by inserting his name in the list of pardonable offenders, his second wife, elizabeth, travelled up to london,--no slight venture for a young woman not so long raised from the sick bed on which the first news of her husband's arrest had laid her,--and with dauntless courage made her way to the house of lords, where she presented her petition to one of the peers, whom she calls lord barkwood, but whom unfortunately we cannot now identify. he treated her kindly, and showed her petition to other peers, who appear to have been acquainted with the circumstances of bunyan's case. they replied that the matter was beyond their province, and that the question of her husband's release was committed to the judges at the next assizes. these assizes were held at bedford in the following august. the judges of the circuit were twisden and sir matthew hale. from the latter--the friend of richard baxter, who, as burnet records, took great care to "cover the nonconformists, whom he thought too hardly used, all he could from the seventies some designed; and discouraged those who were inclined to stretch the laws too much against them"--bunyan's case would be certain to meet with sympathetic consideration. but being set to administer the law, not according to his private wishes, but according to its letter and its spirit, he was powerless to relieve him. three several times did bunyan's noble-hearted wife present her husband's petition that he might be heard, and his case taken impartially into consideration. but the law forbad what burnet calls sir matthew hale's "tender and compassionate nature" to have free exercise. he "received the petition very mildly at her hand, telling her that he would do her and her husband the best good he could; but he feared he could do none." his brother judge's reception of her petition was very different. having thrown it into the coach, twisden "snapt her up," telling her, what after all was no more than the truth, that her husband was a convicted person, and could not be released unless he would promise to obey the law and abstain from preaching. on this the high sheriff, edmund wylde, of houghton conquest, spoke kindly to the poor woman, and encouraged her to make a fresh application to the judges before they left the town. so she made her way, "with abashed face and trembling heart," to the large chamber at the old swan inn at the bridge foot, where the two judges were receiving a large number of the justices of the peace and other gentry of the county. addressing sir matthew hale she said, "my lord, i make bold to come again to your lordship to know what may be done with my husband." hale received her with the same gentleness as before, repeated what he had said previously, that as her husband had been legally convicted, and his conviction was recorded, unless there was something to undo that he could do her no good. twisden, on the other hand, got violently angry, charged her brutally with making poverty her cloak, told her that her husband was a breaker of the peace, whose doctrine was the doctrine of the devil, and that he ran up and down and did harm, while he was better maintained by his preaching than by following his tinker's craft. at last he waxed so violent that "withal she thought he would have struck her." in the midst of all his coarse abuse, however, twisden hit the mark when he asked: "what! you think we can do what we list?" and when we find hale, confessedly the soundest lawyer of the time, whose sympathies were all with the prisoner, after calling for the statute book, thus summing up the matter: "i am sorry, woman, that i can do thee no good. thou must do one of these three things, viz., either apply thyself to the king, or sue out his pardon, or get a writ of error," which last, he told her, would be the cheapest course--we may feel sure that bunyan's petition was not granted because it could not be granted legally. the blame of his continued imprisonment lay, if anywhere, with the law, not with its administrators. this is not always borne in mind as it ought to be. as mr. froude remarks, "persons often choose to forget that judges are sworn to administer the law which they find, and rail at them as if the sentences which they are obliged by their oath to pass were their own personal acts." it is not surprising that elizabeth bunyan was unable to draw this distinction, and that she left the swan chamber in tears, not, however, so much at what she thought the judges' "hardheartedness to her and her husband," as at the thought of "the sad account such poor creatures would have to give" hereafter, for what she deemed their "opposition to christ and his gospel." no steps seem to have been taken by bunyan's wife, or any of his influential friends, to carry out either of the expedients named by hale. it may have been that the money needed was not forthcoming, or, what southey remarks is "quite probable,"--"because it is certain that bunyan, thinking himself in conscience bound to preach in defiance of the law, would soon have made his case worse than it then was." at the next assizes, which were held in january, 1662, bunyan again made strenuous efforts to get his name put on the calendar of felons, that he might have a regular trial before the king's judges and be able to plead his cause in person. this, however, was effectually thwarted by the unfriendly influence of the county magistrates by whom he had been committed, and the clerk of the peace, mr. cobb, who having failed in his kindly meant attempt to induce "neighbour bunyan" to conform, had turned bitterly against him and become one of his chief enemies. "thus," writes bunyan, "was i hindered and prevented at that time also from appearing before the judge, and left in prison." of this prison, the county gaol of bedford, he remained an inmate, with one, short interval in 1666, for the next twelve years, till his release by order of the privy council, may 17, 1672. chapter vi. the exaggeration of the severity of bunyan's imprisonment long current, now that the facts are better known, has led, by a very intelligible reaction, to an undue depreciation of it. mr. froude thinks that his incarceration was "intended to be little more than nominal," and was really meant in kindness by the authorities who "respected his character," as the best means of preventing him from getting himself into greater trouble by "repeating an offence that would compel them to adopt harsh measures which they were earnestly trying to avoid." if convicted again he must be transported, and "they were unwilling to drive him out of the country." it is, however, to be feared that it was no such kind consideration for the tinker-preacher which kept the prison doors closed on bunyan. to the justices he was simply an obstinate law-breaker, who must be kept in prison as long as he refused compliance with the act. if he rotted in gaol, as so many of his fellow sufferers for conscience' sake did in those unhappy times, it was no concern of theirs. he and his stubbornness would be alone to blame. it is certainly true that during a portion of his captivity, bunyan, in dr. brown's words, "had an amount of liberty which in the case of a prisoner nowadays would be simply impossible." but the mistake has been made of extending to the whole period an indulgence which belonged only to a part, and that a very limited part of it. when we are told that bunyan was treated as a prisoner at large, and like one "on parole," free to come and go as he pleased, even as far as london, we must remember that bunyan's own words expressly restrict this indulgence to the six months between the autumn assizes of 1661 and the spring assizes of 1662. "between these two assizes," he says, "i had by my jailer some liberty granted me more than at the first." this liberty was certainly of the largest kind consistent with his character of a prisoner. the church books show that he was occasionally present at their meetings, and was employed on the business of the congregation. nay, even his preaching, which was the cause of his imprisonment, was not forbidden. "i followed," he says, writing of this period, "my wonted course of preaching, taking all occasions that were put into my hand to visit the people of god." but this indulgence was very brief and was brought sharply to an end. it was plainly irregular, and depended on the connivance of his jailer. we cannot be surprised that when it came to the magistrates' ears--"my enemies," bunyan rather unworthily calls them--they were seriously displeased. confounding bunyan with the fifth monarchy men and other turbulent sectaries, they imagined that his visits to london had a political object, "to plot, and raise division, and make insurrections," which, he honestly adds, "god knows was a slander." the jailer was all but "cast out of his place," and threatened with an indictment for breach of trust, while his own liberty was so seriously "straitened" that he was prohibited even "to look out at the door." the last time bunyan's name appears as present at a church meeting is october 28, 1661, nor do we see it again till october 9, 1668, only four years before his twelve years term of imprisonment expired. but though his imprisonment was not so severe, nor his prison quite so narrow and wretched as some word-painters have described them, during the greater part of the time his condition was a dreary and painful one, especially when spent, as it sometimes was, "under cruel and oppressive jailers." the enforced separation from his wife and children, especially his tenderly loved blind daughter, mary, was a continually renewed anguish to his loving heart. "the parting with them," he writes, "hath often been to me as pulling the flesh from the bones; and that not only because i am somewhat too fond of these great mercies, but also because i should often have brought to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants my poor family was like to meet with, should i be taken from them; especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer to my heart than all beside. poor child, thought i, thou must be beaten, thou must beg, thou must suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though i cannot now endure the wind should blow on thee. o, the thoughts of the hardships my blind one might go under would break my heart to pieces." he seemed to himself like a man pulling down his house on his wife and children's head, and yet he felt, "i must do it; o, i must do it." he was also, he tells us, at one time, being but "a young prisoner," greatly troubled by the thoughts that "for aught he could tell," his "imprisonment might end at the gallows," not so much that he dreaded death as that he was apprehensive that when it came to the point, even if he made "a scrabbling shift to clamber up the ladder," he might play the coward and so do discredit to the cause of religion. "i was ashamed to die with a pale face and tottering knees for such a cause as this." the belief that his imprisonment might be terminated by death on the scaffold, however groundless, evidently weighed long on his mind. the closing sentences of his third prison book, "christian behaviour," published in 1663, the second year of his durance, clearly point to such an expectation. "thus have i in few words written to you before i die, . . . not knowing the shortness of my life, nor the hindrances that hereafter i may have of serving my god and you." the ladder of his apprehensions was, as mr. froude has said, "an imaginary ladder," but it was very real to bunyan. "oft i was as if i was on the ladder with a rope about my neck." the thought of it, as his autobiography shows, caused him some of his deepest searchings of heart, and noblest ventures of faith. he was content to suffer by the hangman's hand if thus he might have an opportunity of addressing the crowd that he thought would come to see him die. "and if it must be so, if god will but convert one soul by my very last words, i shall not count my life thrown away or lost." and even when hours of darkness came over his soul, and he was tempted to question the reality of his christian profession, and to doubt whether god would give him comfort at the hour of death, he stayed himself up with such bold words as these. "i was bound, but he was free. yea, 'twas my duty to stand to his word whether he would ever look on me or no, or save me at the last. if god doth not come in, thought i, i will leap off the ladder even blindfold into eternity, sink or swim, come heaven, come hell. lord jesus, if thou wilt catch me, do. if not, i will venture for thy name." bunyan being precluded by his imprisonment from carrying on his brazier's craft for the support of his wife and family, and his active spirit craving occupation, he got himself taught how to make "long tagged laces," "many hundred gross" of which, we are told by one who first formed his acquaintance in prison, he made during his captivity, for "his own and his family's necessities." "while his hands were thus busied," writes lord macaulay, "he had often employment for his mind and for his lips." "though a prisoner he was a preacher still." as with st. paul in his roman chains, "the word of god was not bound." the prisoners for conscience' sake, who like him, from time to time, were cooped up in bedford gaol, including several of his brother ministers and some of his old friends among the leading members of his own little church, furnished a numerous and sympathetic congregation. at one time a body of some sixty, who had met for worship at night in a neighbouring wood, were marched off to gaol, with their minister at their head. but while all about him was in confusion, his spirit maintained its even calm, and he could at once speak the words of strength and comfort that were needed. in the midst of the hurry which so many "newcomers occasioned," writes the friend to whom we are indebted for the details of his prison life, "i have heard mr. bunyan both preach and pray with that mighty spirit of faith and plerophory of divine assistance that has made me stand and wonder." these sermons addressed to his fellow prisoners supplied, in many cases, the first outlines of the books which, in rapid succession, flowed from his pen during the earlier years of his imprisonment, relieving the otherwise insupportable tedium of his close confinement. bunyan himself tells us that this was the case with regard to his "holy city," the first idea of which was borne in upon his mind when addressing "his brethren in the prison chamber," nor can we doubt that the case was the same with other works of his. to these we shall hereafter return. nor was it his fellow prisoners only who profited by his counsels. in his "life and death of mr. badman," he gives us a story of a woman who came to him when he was in prison, to confess how she had robbed her master, and to ask his help. hers was probably a representative case. the time spared from his handicraft, and not employed in religious counsel and exhortation, was given to study and composition. for this his confinement secured him the leisure which otherwise he would have looked for in vain. the few books he possessed he studied indefatigably. his library was, at least at one period, a very limited one,--"the least and the best library," writes a friend who visited him in prison, "that i ever saw, consisting only of two books--the bible, and foxe's 'book of martyrs.'" "but with these two books," writes mr. froude, "he had no cause to complain of intellectual destitution." bunyan's mode of composition, though certainly exceedingly rapid,--thoughts succeeding one another with a quickness akin to inspiration,--was anything but careless. the "limae labor" with him was unsparing. it was, he tells us, "first with doing, and then with undoing, and after that with doing again," that his books were brought to completion, and became what they are, a mine of evangelical calvinism of the richest ore, entirely free from the narrow dogmatism and harsh predestinarianism of the great genevan divine; books which for clearness of thought, lucidity of arrangement, felicity of language, rich even if sometimes homely force of illustration, and earnestness of piety have never been surpassed. bunyan's prison life when the first bitterness of it was past, and habit had done away with its strangeness, was a quiet and it would seem, not an unhappy one. a manly self-respect bore him up and forbade his dwelling on the darker features of his position, or thinking or speaking harshly of the authors of his durance. "he was," writes one who saw him at this time, "mild and affable in conversation; not given to loquacity or to much discourse unless some urgent occasion required. it was observed he never spoke of himself or his parents, but seemed low in his own eyes. he was never heard to reproach or revile, whatever injury he received, but rather rebuked those who did so. he managed all things with such exactness as if he had made it his study not to give offence." according to his earliest biographer, charles doe, in 1666, the year of the fire of london, after bunyan had lain six years in bedford gaol, "by the intercession of some interest or power that took pity on his sufferings," he enjoyed a short interval of liberty. who these friends and sympathisers were is not mentioned, and it would be vain to conjecture. this period of freedom, however, was very short. he at once resumed his old work of preaching, against which the laws had become even more stringent during his imprisonment, and was apprehended at a meeting just as he was about to preach a sermon. he had given out his text, "dost thou believe on the son of god?" (john ix. 35), and was standing with his open bible in his hand, when the constable came in to take him. bunyan fixed his eyes on the man, who turned pale, let go his hold, and drew back, while bunyan exclaimed, "see how this man trembles at the word of god!" this is all we know of his second arrest, and even this little is somewhat doubtful. the time, the place, the circumstances, are as provokingly vague as much else of bunyan's life. the fact, however, is certain. bunyan returned to bedford gaol, where he spent another six years, until the issuing of the "declaration of indulgence" early in 1672 opened the long-closed doors, and he walked out a free man, and with what he valued far more than personal liberty, freedom to deliver christ's message as he understood it himself, none making him afraid, and to declare to his brother sinners what their saviour had done for them, and what he expected them to do that they might obtain the salvation he died to win. from some unknown cause, perhaps the depressing effect of protracted confinement, during this second six years bunyan's pen was far less prolific than during the former period. only two of his books are dated in these years. the last of these, "a defence of the doctrine of justification by faith," a reply to a work of edward fowler, afterwards bishop of gloucester, the rector of northill, was written in hot haste immediately before his release, and issued from the press contemporaneously with it, the prospect of liberty apparently breathing new life into his wearied soul. when once bunyan became a free man again, his pen recovered its former copiousness of production, and the works by which he has been immortalized, "the pilgrim's progress"--which has been erroneously ascribed to bunyan's twelve years' imprisonment--and its sequel, "the holy war," and the "life and death of mr. badman," and a host of more strictly theological works, followed one another in rapid succession. bunyan's second term of imprisonment was certainly less severe than that which preceded it. at its commencement we learn that, like joseph in egypt, he found favour in his jailer's eyes, who "took such pity of his rigorous suffering, that he put all care and trust into his hands." towards the close of his imprisonment its rigour was still further relaxed. the bedford church book begins its record again in 1688, after an interval of ominous silence of five years, when the persecution was at the hottest. in its earliest entries we find bunyan's name, which occurs repeatedly up to the date of his final release in 1672. not one of these notices gives the slightest allusion of his being a prisoner. he is deputed with others to visit and remonstrate with backsliding brethren, and fulfil other commissions on behalf of the congregation, as if he were in the full enjoyment of his liberty. this was in the two years' interval between the expiration of the conventicle act, march 2, 1667-8, and the passing of the new act, styled by marvell, "the quintessence of arbitrary malice," april 11, 1670. after a few months of hot persecution, when a disgraceful system of espionage was set on foot and the vilest wretches drove a lucrative trade as spies on "meetingers," the severity greatly lessened. charles ii. was already meditating the issuing of a declaration of indulgence, and signified his disapprobation of the "forceable courses" in which, "the sad experience of twelve years" showed, there was "very little fruit." one of the first and most notable consequences of this change of policy was bunyan's release. mr. offor's patient researches in the state paper office have proved that the quakers, than whom no class of sectaries had suffered more severely from the persecuting edicts of the crown, were mainly instrumental in throwing open the prison doors to those who, like bunyan, were in bonds for the sake of their religion. gratitude to john groves, the quaker mate of tattersall's fishing boat, in which charles had escaped to france after the battle of worcester, had something, and the untiring advocacy of george whitehead, the quaker, had still more, to do with this act of royal clemency. we can readily believe that the good-natured charles was not sorry to have an opportunity of evidencing his sense of former services rendered at a time of his greatest extremity. but the main cause lay much deeper, and is connected with what lord macaulay justly styles "one of the worst acts of one of the worst governments that england has ever seen"--that of the cabal. our national honour was at its lowest ebb. charles had just concluded the profligate treaty of dover, by which, in return for the "protection" he sought from the french king, he declared himself a roman catholic at heart, and bound himself to take the first opportunity of "changing the present state of religion in england for a better," and restoring the authority of the pope. the announcement of his conversion charles found it convenient to postpone. nor could the other part of his engagement be safely carried into effect at once. it called for secret and cautious preparation. but to pave the way for it, by an unconstitutional exercise of his prerogative he issued a declaration of indulgence which suspended all penal laws against "whatever sort of nonconformists or recusants." the latter were evidently the real object of the indulgence; the former class were only introduced the better to cloke his infamous design. toleration, however, was thus at last secured, and the long-oppressed nonconformists hastened to profit by it. "ministers returned," writes mr. j. r. green, "after years of banishment, to their homes and their flocks. chapels were reopened. the gaols were emptied. men were set free to worship god after their own fashion. john bunyan left the prison which had for twelve years been his home." more than three thousand licenses to preach were at once issued. one of the earliest of these, dated may 9, 1672, four months before his formal pardon under the great seal, was granted to bunyan, who in the preceding january had been chosen their minister by the little congregation at bedford, and "giving himself up to serve christ and his church in that charge, had received of the elders the right hand of fellowship." the place licensed for the exercise of bunyan's ministry was a barn standing in an orchard, once forming part of the castle moat, which one of the congregation, josias roughead, acting for the members of his church, had purchased. the license bears date may 9, 1672. this primitive place of worship, in which bunyan preached regularly till his death, was pulled down in 1707, when a "three-ridged meeting-house" was erected in its place. this in its turn gave way, in 1849, to the existing more seemly chapel, to which the present duke of bedford, in 1876, presented a pair of noble bronze doors bearing scenes, in high relief, from "the pilgrim's progress," the work of mr. frederick thrupp. in the vestry are preserved bunyan's chair, and other relics of the man who has made the name of bedford famous to the whole civilized world. chapter vii. mr. green has observed that bunyan "found compensation for the narrow bounds of his prison in the wonderful activity of his pen. tracts, controversial treatises, poems, meditations, his 'grace abounding,' and his 'holy war,' followed each other in quick succession." bunyan's literary fertility in the earlier half of his imprisonment was indeed amazing. even if, as seems almost certain, we have been hitherto in error in assigning the first part of "the pilgrim's progress" to this period, while the "holy war" certainly belongs to a later, the works which had their birth in bedford gaol during the first six years of his confinement, are of themselves sufficient to make the reputation of any ordinary writer. as has been already remarked, for some unexplained cause, bunyan's gifts as an author were much more sparingly called into exercise during the second half of his captivity. only two works appear to have been written between 1666 and his release in 1672. mr. green has spoken of "poems" as among the products of bunyan's pen during this period. the compositions in verse belonging to this epoch, of which there are several, hardly deserve to be dignified with so high a title. at no part of his life had bunyan much title to be called a poet. he did not aspire beyond the rank of a versifier, who clothed his thoughts in rhyme or metre instead of the more congenial prose, partly for the pleasure of the exercise, partly because he knew by experience that the lessons he wished to inculcate were more likely to be remembered in that form. mr. froude, who takes a higher estimate of bunyan's verse than is commonly held, remarks that though it is the fashion to apply the epithet of "doggerel" to it, the "sincere and rational meaning" which pervades his compositions renders such an epithet improper. "his ear for rhythm," he continues, "though less true than in his prose, is seldom wholly at fault, and whether in prose or verse, he had the superlative merit that he could never write nonsense." bunyan's earliest prison work, entitled "profitable meditations," was in verse, and neither this nor his later metrical ventures before his release--his "four last things," his "ebal and gerizim," and his "prison meditations"--can be said to show much poetical power. at best he is a mere rhymester, to whom rhyme and metre, even when self-chosen, were as uncongenial accoutrements "as saul's armour was to david." the first-named book, which is entitled a "conference between christ and a sinner," in the form of a poetical dialogue, according to dr. brown has "small literary merit of any sort." the others do not deserve much higher commendation. there is an individuality about the "prison meditations" which imparts to it a personal interest, which is entirely wanting in the other two works, which may be characterized as metrical sermons, couched in verse of the sternhold and hopkins type. a specimen or two will suffice. the "four last things" thus opens:- "these lines i at this time present to all that will them heed, wherein i show to what intent god saith, 'convert with speed.' for these four things come on apace, which we should know full well, both death and judgment, and, in place next to them, heaven and hell." the following lines are from "ebal and gerizim":- "thou art like one that hangeth by a thread over the mouth of hell, as one half dead; and oh, how soon this thread may broken be, or cut by death, is yet unknown to thee. but sure it is if all the weight of sin, and all that satan too hath doing been or yet can do, can break this crazy thread, 'twill not be long before among the dead thou tumble do, as linked fast in chains, with them to wait in fear for future pains." the poetical effusion entitled "prison meditations" does not in any way rise above the prosaic level of its predecessors. but it can be read with less weariness from the picture it presents of bunyan's prison life, and of the courageous faith which sustained him. some unnamed friend, it would appear, fearing he might flinch, had written him a letter counselling him to keep "his head above the flood." bunyan replied in seventy stanzas in ballad measure, thanking his correspondent for his good advice, of which he confesses he stood in need, and which he takes it kindly of him to send, even though his feet stand upon mount zion, and the gaol is to him like a hill from which he could see beyond this world, and take his fill of the blessedness of that which remains for the christian. though in bonds his mind is free, and can wander where it will. "for though men keep my outward man within their locks and bars, yet by the faith of christ, i can mount higher than the stars." meanwhile his captivity is sweetened by the thought of what it was that brought him there:- "i here am very much refreshed to think, when i was out, i preached life, and peace, and rest, to sinners round about. my business then was souls to save by preaching grace and faith, of which the comfort now i have and have it shall till death. that was the work i was about when hands on me they laid. 'twas this for which they plucked me out and vilely to me said, 'you heretic, deceiver, come, to prison you must go, you preach abroad, and keep not home, you are the church's foe.' wherefore to prison they me sent, where to this day i lie, and can with very much content for my profession die. the prison very sweet to me hath been since i came here, and so would also hanging be if god would there appear. to them that here for evil lie the place is comfortless; but not to me, because that i lie here for righteousness. the truth and i were both here cast together, and we do lie arm in arm, and so hold fast each other, this is true. who now dare say we throw away our goods or liberty, when god's most holy word doth say we gain thus much thereby?" it will be seen that though bunyan's verses are certainly not high-class poetry, they are very far removed from doggerel. nothing indeed that bunyan ever wrote, however rugged the rhymes and limping the metre, can be so stigmatized. the rude scribblings on the margins of the copy of the "book of martyrs," which bears bunyan's signature on the title-pages, though regarded by southey as "undoubtedly" his, certainly came from a later and must less instructed pen. and as he advanced in his literary career, his claim to the title of a poet, though never of the highest, was much strengthened. the verses which diversify the narrative in the second part of "the pilgrim's progress" are decidedly superior to those in the first part, and some are of high excellence. who is ignorant of the charming little song of the shepherd boy in the valley of humiliation, "in very mean clothes, but with a very fresh and well-favoured countenance, and wearing more of the herb called heartsease in his bosom than he that is clad in silk and velvet?"- "he that is down need fear no fall; he that is low, no pride; he that is humble, ever shall have god to be his guide. i am content with what i have, little be it or much, and, lord, contentment still i crave, because thou savest such. fulness to such a burden is that go on pilgrimage, here little, and hereafter bliss is best from age to age." bunyan reaches a still higher flight in valiant-for-truth's song, later on, the shakesperian ring of which recalls amiens' in "as you like it," "under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me. . . come hither, come hither," and has led some to question whether it can be bunyan's own. the resemblance, as mr. froude remarks, is "too near to be accidental." "perhaps he may have heard the lines, and the rhymes may have clung to him without his knowing whence they came." "who would true valour see, let him come hither, one here will constant be, come wind, come weather. there's no discouragement shall make him once relent his first avowed intent to be a pilgrim. who so beset him round with dismal stories, do but themselves confound his strength the more is. no lion can him fright, he'll with a giant fight, but he will have a right to be a pilgrim. hobgoblin nor foul fiend can daunt his spirit, he knows he at the end shall life inherit. then fancies fly away he'll fear not what men say, he'll labour night and day to be a pilgrim." all readers of "the pilgrim's progress" and "the holy war" are familiar with the long metrical compositions giving the history of these works by which they are prefaced and the latter work is closed. no more characteristic examples of bunyan's muse can be found. they show his excellent command of his native tongue in racy vernacular, homely but never vulgar, and his power of expressing his meaning "with sharp defined outlines and without the waste of a word." take this account of his perplexity, when the first part of his "pilgrim's progress" was finished, whether it should be given to the world or no, and the characteristic decision with which he settled the question for himself:- "well, when i had then put mine ends together, i show'd them others that i might see whether they would condemn them, or them justify; and some said let them live; some, let them die. some said, john, print it; others said, not so; some said it might do good; others said no. now was i in a strait, and did not see which was the best thing to be done by me; at last i thought since you are thus divided i print it will; and so the case decided;" or the lines in which he introduces the second part of the pilgrim to the readers of the former part:- "go now, my little book, to every place where my first pilgrim hath but shown his face: call at their door: if any say, 'who's there?' then answer that christiana is here. if they bid thee come in, then enter thou with all thy boys. and then, as thou knowest how, tell who they are, also from whence they came; perhaps they'll know them by their looks or name. but if they should not, ask them yet again if formerly they did not entertain one christian, a pilgrim. if they say they did, and were delighted in his way: then let them know that these related are unto him, yea, his wife and children are. tell them that they have left their house and home, are turned pilgrims, seek a world to come; that they have met with hardships on the way, that they do meet with troubles night and day." how racy, even if the lines are a little halting, is the defence of the genuineness of his pilgrim in "the advertisement to the reader" at the end of "the holy war." "some say the pilgrim's progress is not mine, insinuating as if i would shine in name or fame by the worth of another, like some made rich by robbing of their brother; or that so fond i am of being sire i'll father bastards; or if need require, i'll tell a lie or print to get applause. i scorn it. john such dirt-heap never was since god converted him. . . witness my name, if anagram'd to thee the letters make _nu hony in a b_. iohn bunyan." how full of life and vigour his sketch of the beleaguerment and deliverance of "mansoul," as a picture of his own spiritual experience, in the introductory verses to "the holy war"!- "for my part i, myself, was in the town, both when 'twas set up, and when pulling down; i saw diabolus in possession, and mansoul also under his oppression. yes, i was there when she crowned him for lord, and to him did submit with one accord. when mansoul trampled upon things divine, and wallowed in filth as doth a swine, when she betook herself unto her arms, fought her emmanuel, despised his charms: then i was there, and did rejoice to see diabolus and mansoul so agree. i saw the prince's armed men come down by troops, by thousands, to besiege the town, i saw the captains, heard the trumpets sound, and how his forces covered all the ground, yea, how they set themselves in battle array, i shall remember to my dying day." bunyan's other essays in the domain of poetry need not detain us long. the most considerable of these--at least in bulk--if it be really his, is a version of some portions of the old and new testaments: the life of joseph, the book of ruth, the history of samson, the book of jonah, the sermon on the mount, and the general epistle of st. james. the attempt to do the english bible into verse has been often made and never successfully: in the nature of things success in such a task is impossible, nor can this attempt be regarded as happier than that of others. mr. froude indeed, who undoubtingly accepts their genuineness, is of a different opinion. he styles the "book of ruth" and the "history of joseph" "beautiful idylls," of such high excellence that, "if we found them in the collected works of a poet laureate, we should consider that a difficult task had been accomplished successfully." it would seem almost doubtful whether mr. froude can have read the compositions that he commends so largely, and so much beyond their merit. the following specimen, taken haphazard, will show how thoroughly bunyan or the rhymester, whoever he may be, has overcome what mr. froude regards as an almost insuperable difficulty, and has managed to "spoil completely the faultless prose of the english translation":- "ruth replied, intreat me not to leave thee or return; for where thou goest i'll go, where thou sojourn i'll sojourn also--and what people's thine, and who thy god, the same shall both be mine. where thou shalt die, there will i die likewise, and i'll be buried where thy body lies. the lord do so to me and more if i do leave thee or forsake thee till i die." the more we read of these poems, not given to the world till twelve years after bunyan's death, and that by a publisher who was "a repeated offender against the laws of honest dealing," the more we are inclined to agree with dr. brown, that the internal evidence of their style renders their genuineness at the least questionable. in the dull prosaic level of these compositions there is certainly no trace of the "force and power" always present in bunyan's rudest rhymes, still less of the "dash of genius" and the "sparkle of soul" which occasionally discover the hand of a master. of the authenticity of bunyan's "divine emblems," originally published three years after his death under the title of "country rhymes for children," there is no question. the internal evidence confirms the external. the book is thoroughly in bunyan's vein, and in its homely naturalness of imagery recalls the similitudes of the "interpreter's house," especially those expounded to christiana and her boys. as in that "house of imagery" things of the most common sort, the sweeping of a room, the burning of a fire, the drinking of a chicken, a robin with a spider in his mouth, are made the vehicle of religious teaching; so in this "book for boys and girls," a mole burrowing in the ground, a swallow soaring in the air, the cuckoo which can do nothing but utter two notes, a flaming and a blinking candle, or a pound of candles falling to the ground, a boy chasing a butterfly, the cackling of a hen when she has laid her egg, all, to his imaginative mind, set forth some spiritual truth or enforce some wholesome moral lesson. how racy, though homely, are these lines on a frog!- "the frog by nature is but damp and cold, her mouth is large, her belly much will hold, she sits somewhat ascending, loves to be croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly. the hypocrite is like unto this frog, as like as is the puppy to the dog. he is of nature cold, his mouth is wide to prate, and at true goodness to deride. and though this world is that which he doth love, he mounts his head as if he lived above. and though he seeks in churches for to croak, he neither seeketh jesus nor his yoke." there is some real poetry in those on the cuckoo, though we may be inclined to resent his harsh treatment of our universal favourite:- "thou booby says't thou nothing but cuckoo? the robin and the wren can that outdo. they to us play thorough their little throats not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes. but thou hast fellows, some like thee can do little but suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo. thy notes do not first welcome in our spring, nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring. birds less than thee by far like prophets do tell us 'tis coming, though not by cuckoo, nor dost thou summer bear away with thee though thou a yawling bawling cuckoo be. when thou dost cease among us to appear, then doth our harvest bravely crown our year. but thou hast fellows, some like thee can do little but suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo. since cuckoos forward not our early spring nor help with notes to bring our harvest in, and since while here, she only makes a noise so pleasing unto none as girls and boys, the formalist we may compare her to, for he doth suck our eggs and sing cuckoo." a perusal of this little volume with its roughness and quaintness, sometimes grating on the ear but full of strong thought and picturesque images, cannot fail to raise bunyan's pretensions as a poet. his muse, it is true, as alexander smith has said, is a homely one. she is "clad in russet, wears shoes and stockings, has a country accent, and walks along the level bedfordshire roads." but if the lines are unpolished, "they have pith and sinew, like the talk of a shrewd peasant," with the "strong thought and the knack of the skilled workman who can drive by a single blow the nail home to the head." during his imprisonment bunyan's pen was much more fertile in prose than in poetry. besides his world-famous "grace abounding," he produced during the first six years of his gaol life a treatise on prayer, entitled "praying in the spirit;" a book on "christian behaviour," setting forth with uncompromising plainness the relative duties of husbands and wives, parents and children, masters and servants, by which those who profess a true faith are bound to show forth its reality and power; the "holy city," an exposition of the vision in the closing chapters of the book of revelation, brilliant with picturesque description and rich in suggestive thought, which, he tells us, had its origin in a sermon preached by him to his brethren in bonds in their prison chamber; and a work on the "resurrection of the dead and eternal judgment." on these works we may not linger. there is not one of them which is not marked by vigour of thought, clearness of language, accuracy of arrangement, and deep spiritual experience. nor is there one which does not here and there exhibit specimens of bunyan's picturesque imaginative power, and his command of forcible and racy language. each will reward perusal. his work on "prayer" is couched in the most exalted strain, and is evidently the production of one who by long and agonizing experience had learnt the true nature of prayer, as a pouring out of the soul to god, and a wrestling with him until the blessing, delayed not denied, is granted. it is, however, unhappily deformed by much ignorant reviling of the book of common prayer. he denounces it as "taken out of the papistical mass-book, the scraps and fragments of some popes, some friars, and i know not what;" and ridicules the order of service it propounds to the worshippers. "they have the matter and the manner of their prayer at their fingers' ends; they set such a prayer for such a day, and that twenty years before it comes: one for christmas, another for easter, and six days after that. they have also bounded how many syllables must be said in every one of them at their public exercises. for each saint's day also they have them ready for the generations yet unborn to say. they can tell you also when you shall kneel, when you shall stand, when you should abide in your seats, when you should go up into the chancel, and what you should do when you come there. all which the apostles came short of, as not being able to compose so profound a manner." this bitter satirical vein in treating of sacred things is unworthy of its author, and degrading to his sense of reverence. it has its excuse in the hard measure he had received from those who were so unwisely endeavouring to force the prayer book on a generation which had largely forgotten it. in his mind, the men and the book were identified, and the unchristian behaviour of its advocates blinded his eyes to its merits as a guide to devotion. bunyan, when denouncing forms in worship, forgot that the same apostle who directs that in our public assemblies everything should be done "to edification," directs also that everything should be done "decently and in order." by far the most important of these prison works--"the pilgrim's progress," belonging, as will be seen, to a later period--is the "grace abounding," in which with inimitable earnestness and simplicity bunyan gives the story of his early life and his religious history. this book, if he had written no other, would stamp bunyan as one of the greatest masters of the english language of his own or any other age. in graphic delineation of the struggles of a conscience convicted of sin towards a hardly won freedom and peace, the alternations of light and darkness, of hope and despair, which chequered its course, its morbid self-torturing questionings of motive and action, this work of the travelling tinker, as a spiritual history, has never been surpassed. its equal can hardly be found, save perhaps in the "confessions of st. augustine." these, however, though describing a like spiritual conflict, are couched in a more cultured style, and rise to a higher metaphysical region than bunyan was capable of attaining to. his level is a lower one, but on that level bunyan is without a rival. never has the history of a soul convinced of the reality of eternal perdition in its most terrible form as the most certain of all possible facts, and of its own imminent danger of hopeless, irreversible doom--seeing itself, to employ his own image, hanging, as it were, over the pit of hell by a thin line, which might snap any moment--been portrayed in more nervous and awe-inspiring language. and its awfulness is enhanced by its self-evident truth. bunyan was drawing no imaginary picture of what others might feel, but simply telling in plain unadorned language what he had felt. the experience was a very tremendous reality to him. like dante, if he had not actually been in hell, he had been on the very threshold of it; he had in very deed traversed "the valley of the shadow of death," had heard its "hideous noises," and seen "the hobgoblins of the pit." he "spake what he knew and testified what he had seen." every sentence breathes the most tremendous earnestness. his words are the plainest, drawn from his own homely vernacular. he says in his preface, which will amply repay reading, as one of the most characteristic specimens of his style, that he could have stepped into a higher style, and adorned his narrative more plentifully. but he dared not. "god did not play in convincing him. the devil did not play in tempting him. he himself did not play when he sunk as into a bottomless pit, and the pangs of hell caught hold on him. nor could he play in relating them. he must be plain and simple and lay down the thing as it was. he that liked it might receive it. he that did not might produce a better." the remembrance of "his great sins, his great temptations, his great fears of perishing for ever, recalled the remembrance of his great help, his great support from heaven, the great grace god extended to such a wretch as he was." having thus enlarged on his own experience, he calls on his spiritual children, for whose use the work was originally composed and to whom it is dedicated,--"those whom god had counted him worthy to beget to faith by his ministry in the word"--to survey their own religious history, to "work diligently and leave no corner unsearched." he would have them "remember their tears and prayers to god; how they sighed under every hedge for mercy. had they never a hill mizar (psa. xlii. 6) to remember? had they forgotten the close, the milkhouse, the stable, the barn, where god visited their souls? let them remember the word on which the lord had caused them to hope. if they had sinned against light, if they were tempted to blaspheme, if they were down in despair, let them remember that it had been so with him, their spiritual father, and that out of them all the lord had delivered him." this dedication ends thus: "my dear children, the milk and honey is beyond this wilderness. god be merciful to you, and grant you be not slothful to go in to possess the land." this remarkable book, as we learn from the title-page, was "written by his own hand in prison." it was first published by george larkin in london, in 1666, the sixth year of his imprisonment, the year of the fire of london, about the time that he experienced his first brief release. as with "the pilgrim's progress," the work grew in picturesque detail and graphic power in the author's hand after its first appearance. the later editions supply some of the most interesting personal facts contained in the narrative, which were wanting when it first issued from the press. his two escapes from drowning, and from the supposed sting of an adder; his being drawn as a soldier, and his providential deliverance from death; the graphic account of his difficulty in giving up bell-ringing at elstow church, and dancing on sundays on elstow green--these and other minor touches which give a life and colour to the story, which we should be very sorry to lose, are later additions. it is impossible to overestimate the value of the "grace abounding," both for the facts of bunyan's earlier life and for the spiritual experience of which these facts were, in his eyes only the outward framework. beginning with his parentage and boyhood, it carries us down to his marriage and life in the wayside-cottage at elstow, his introduction to mr. gifford's congregation at bedford, his joining that holy brotherhood, and his subsequent call to the work of the ministry among them, and winds up with an account of his apprehension, examinations, and imprisonment in bedford gaol. the work concludes with a report of the conversation between his noble-hearted wife and sir matthew hale and the other judges at the midsummer assizes, narrated in a former chapter, "taken down," he says, "from her own mouth." the whole story is of such sustained interest that our chief regret on finishing it is that it stops where it does, and does not go on much further. its importance for our knowledge of bunyan as a man, as distinguished from an author, and of the circumstances of his life, is seen by a comparison of our acquaintance with his earlier and with his later years. when he laid down his pen no one took it up, and beyond two or three facts, and a few hazy anecdotes we know little or nothing of all that happened between his final release and his death. the value of the "grace abounding," however, as a work of experimental religion may be easily over-estimated. it is not many who can study bunyan's minute history of the various stages of his spiritual life with real profit. to some temperaments, especially among the young, the book is more likely to prove injurious than beneficial; it is calculated rather to nourish morbid imaginations, and a dangerous habit of introspection, than to foster the quiet growth of the inner life. bunyan's unhappy mode of dealing with the bible as a collection of texts, each of divine authority and declaring a definite meaning entirely irrespective of its context, by which the words hide the word, is also utterly destructive of the true purpose of the holy scriptures as a revelation of god's loving and holy mind and will. few things are more touching than the eagerness with which, in his intense self-torture, bunyan tried to evade the force of those "fearful and terrible scriptures" which appeared to seal his condemnation, and to lay hold of the promises to the penitent sinner. his tempest-tossed spirit could only find rest by doing violence to the dogma, then universally accepted and not quite extinct even in our own days, that the authority of the bible--that "divine library"--collectively taken, belongs to each and every sentence of the bible taken for and by itself, and that, in coleridge's words, "detached sentences from books composed at the distance of centuries, nay, sometimes at a millenium from each other, under different dispensations and for different objects," are to be brought together "into logical dependency." but "where the spirit of the lord is there is liberty." the divinely given life in the soul of man snaps the bonds of humanly-constructed logical systems. only those, however, who have known by experience the force of bunyan's spiritual combat, can fully appreciate and profit by bunyan's narrative. he tells us on the title-page that it was written "for the support of the weak and tempted people of god." for such the "grace abounding to the chief of sinners" will ever prove most valuable. those for whom it was intended will find in it a message--of comfort and strength. as has been said, bunyan's pen was almost idle during the last six years of his imprisonment. only two of his works were produced in this period: his "confession of faith," and his "defence of the doctrine of justification by faith." both were written very near the end of his prison life, and published in the same year, 1672, only a week or two before his release. the object of the former work was, as dr. brown tells us, "to vindicate his teaching, and if possible, to secure his liberty." writing as one "in bonds for the gospel," his professed principles, he asserts, are "faith, and holiness springing therefrom, with an endeavour so far as in him lies to be at peace with all men." he is ready to hold communion with all whose principles are the same; with all whom he can reckon as children of god. with these he will not quarrel about "things that are circumstantial," such as water baptism, which he regards as something quite indifferent, men being "neither the better for having it, nor the worse for having it not." "he will receive them in the lord as becometh saints. if they will not have communion with him, the neglect is theirs not his. but with the openly profane and ungodly, though, poor people! they have been christened and take the communion, he will have no communion. it would be a strange community, he says, that consisted of men and beasts. men do not receive their horse or their dog to their table; they put them in a room by themselves." as regards forms and ceremonies, he "cannot allow his soul to be governed in its approach to god by the superstitious inventions of this world. he is content to stay in prison even till the moss grows on his eyelids rather than thus make of his conscience a continual butchery and slaughter-shop by putting out his eyes and committing himself to the blind to lead him. eleven years' imprisonment was a weighty argument to pause and pause again over the foundation of the principles for which he had thus suffered. those principles he had asserted at his trial, and in the tedious tract of time since then he had in cold blood examined them by the word of god and found them good; nor could he dare to revolt from or deny them on pain of eternal damnation." the second-named work, the "defence of the doctrine of justification by faith," is entirely controversial. the rev. edward fowler, afterwards bishop of gloucester, then rector of northill, had published in the early part of 1671, a book entitled "the design of christianity." a copy having found its way into bunyan's hands, he was so deeply stirred by what he deemed its subversion of the true foundation of evangelical religion that he took up his pen and in the space of six weeks composed a long and elaborate examination of the book, chapter by chapter, and a confutation of its teaching. fowler's doctrines as bunyan understood them--or rather misunderstood them--awoke the worst side of his impetuous nature. his vituperation of the author and his book is coarse and unmeasured. he roundly charges fowler with having "closely, privily, and devilishly turned the grace of god into a licentious doctrine, bespattering it with giving liberty to lasciviousness;" and he calls him "a pretended minister of the word," who, in "his cursed blasphemous book vilely exposes to public view the rottenness of his heart, in principle diametrically opposite to the simplicity of the gospel of christ, a glorious latitudinarian that can, as to religion, turn and twist like an eel on the angle, or rather like the weathercock that stands on the steeple;" and describes him as "contradicting the wholesome doctrine of the church of england." he "knows him not by face much less his personal practise." he may have "kept himself clear of the ignorant sir johns who had for a long time, as a judgment of god, been made the mouth to the people--men of debauched lives who for the love of filthy lucre and the pampering of their idle carcases had made shipwreck of their former faith;" but he does know that having been ejected as a nonconformist in 1662, he had afterwards gone over to the winning side, and he fears that "such an unstable weathercock spirit as he had manifested would stumble the work and give advantage to the adversary to speak vilifyingly of religion." no excuse can be offered for the coarse violence of bunyan's language in this book; but it was too much the habit of the time to load a theological opponent with vituperation, to push his assertions to the furthest extreme, and make the most unwarrantable deductions from them. it must be acknowledged that bunyan does not treat fowler and his doctrines with fairness, and that, if the latter may be thought to depreciate unduly the sacrifice of the death of christ as an expiation for man's guilt, and to lay too great a stress on the moral faculties remaining in the soul after the fall, bunyan errs still more widely on the other side in asserting the absolute, irredeemable corruption of human nature, leaving nothing for grace to work upon, but demanding an absolutely fresh creation, not a revivification of the divine nature grievously marred but not annihilated by adam's sin. a reply to bunyan's severe strictures was not slow to appear. the book bears the title, characteristic of the tone and language of its contents, of "_dirt wip't off_; or, a manifest discovery of the gross ignorance, erroneousness, and most unchristian and wicked spirit of one john bunyan, lay-preacher in bedford." it professes to be written by a friend of fowler's, but fowler was generally accredited with it. its violent tirades against one who, he says, had been "near these twenty years or longer very infamous in the town and county of bedford as a very pestilent schismatick," and whom he suggests the authorities have done wrong in letting out of prison, and had better clap in gaol again as "an impudent and malicious firebrand," have long since been consigned to a merciful oblivion, where we may safely leave them. chapter viii. bunyan's protracted imprisonment came to an end in 1672. the exact date of his actual liberation is uncertain. his pardon under the great seal bears date september 13th. but we find from the church books that he had been appointed pastor of the congregation to which he belonged as early as the 21st of january of that year, and on the 9th of may his ministerial position was duly recognized by the government, and a license was granted to him to act "as preacher in the house of josias roughead," for those "of the persuasion commonly called congregational." his release would therefore seem to have anticipated the formal issue of his pardon by four months. bunyan was now half way through his forty-fourth year. sixteen years still remained to him before his career of indefatigable service in the master's work was brought to a close. of these sixteen years, as has already been remarked, we have only a very general knowledge. details are entirely wanting; nor is there any known source from which they can be recovered. if he kept any diary it has not been preserved. if he wrote letters--and one who was looked up to by so large a circle of disciples as a spiritual father and guide, and whose pen was so ready of exercise, cannot fail to have written many--not one has come down to us. the pages of the church books during his pastorate are also provokingly barren of record, and little that they contain is in bunyan's handwriting. as dr. brown has said, "he seems to have been too busy to keep any records of his busy life." nor can we fill up the blank from external authorities. the references to bunyan in contemporary biographies are far fewer than we might have expected; certainly far fewer than we could have desired. but the little that is recorded is eminently characteristic. we see him constantly engaged in the great work to which he felt god had called him, and for which, "with much content through grace," he had suffered twelve years' incarceration. in addition to the regular discharge of his pastoral duties to his own congregation, he took a general oversight of the villages far and near which had been the scene of his earlier ministry, preaching whenever opportunity offered, and, ever unsparing of his own personal labour, making long journeys into distant parts of the country for the furtherance of the gospel. we find him preaching at leicester in the year of his release. reading also is mentioned as receiving occasional visits from him, and that not without peril after the revival of persecution; while the congregations in london had the benefit of his exhortations at stated intervals. almost the first thing bunyan did, after his liberation from gaol, was to make others sharers in his hardly won "liberty of prophesying," by applying to the government for licenses for preachers and preaching places in bedfordshire and the neighbouring counties, under the declaration of indulgence. the still existing list sent in to the authorities by him, in his own handwriting, contains the names of twenty-five preachers and thirty buildings, besides "josias roughead's house in his orchard at bedford." nineteen of these were in his own native county, three in northamptonshire, three in buckinghamshire, two in cambridgeshire, two in huntingdonshire, and one in hertfordshire. the places sought to be licensed were very various, barns, malthouses, halls belonging to public companies, &c., but more usually private houses. over these religious communities, bound together by a common faith and common suffering, bunyan exercised a quasi-episcopal superintendence, which gained for him the playful title of "bishop bunyan." in his regular circuits,--"visitations" we may not improperly term them,--we are told that he exerted himself to relieve the temporal wants of the sufferers under the penal laws,--so soon and so cruelly revived,--ministered diligently to the sick and afflicted, and used his influence in reconciling differences between "professors of the gospel," and thus prevented the scandal of litigation among christians. the closing period of bunyan's life was laborious but happy, spent "honourably and innocently" in writing, preaching, visiting his congregations, and planting daughter churches. "happy," writes mr. froude, "in his work; happy in the sense that his influence was daily extending--spreading over his own country and to the far-off settlements of america,--he spent his last years in his own land of beulah, doubting castle out of sight, and the towers and minarets of immanuel's land growing nearer and clearer as the days went on." with his time so largely occupied in his spiritual functions, he could have had but small leisure to devote to his worldly calling. this, however, one of so honest and independent a spirit is sure not to have neglected, it was indeed necessary that to a certain extent he should work for his living. he had a family to maintain. his congregation were mostly of the poorer sort, unable to contribute much to their pastor's support. had it been otherwise, bunyan was the last man in the world to make a trade of the gospel, and though never hesitating to avail himself of the apostolic privilege to "live of the gospel," he, like the apostle of the gentiles, would never be ashamed to "work with his own hands," that he might "minister to his own necessities," and those of his family. but from the time of his release he regarded his ministerial work as the chief work of his life. "when he came abroad," says one who knew him, "he found his temporal affairs were gone to wreck, and he had as to them to begin again as if he had newly come into the world. but yet he was not destitute of friends, who had all along supported him with necessaries and had been very good to his family, so that by their assistance getting things a little about him again, he resolved as much as possible to decline worldly business, and give himself wholly up to the service of god." the anonymous writer to whom we are indebted for information concerning his imprisonment and his subsequent life, says that bunyan, "contenting himself with that little god had bestowed upon him, sequestered himself from all secular employments to follow that of his call to the ministry." the fact, however, that in the "deed of gift" of all his property to his wife in 1685, he still describes himself as a "brazier," puts it beyond all doubt that though his ministerial duties were his chief concern, he prudently kept fast hold of his handicraft as a certain means of support for himself and those dependent on him. on the whole, bunyan's outward circumstances were probably easy. his wants were few and easily supplied. "having food and raiment" for himself, his wife, and his children, he was "therewith content." the house in the parish of st. cuthbert's which was his home from his release to his death (unhappily demolished fifty years back), shows the humble character of his daily life. it was a small cottage, such as labourers now occupy, with three small rooms on the ground floor, and a garret with a diminutive dormer window under the high-pitched tiled roof. behind stood an outbuilding which served as his workshop. we have a passing glimpse of this cottage home in the diary of thomas hearne, the oxford antiquary. one mr. bagford, otherwise unknown to us, had once "walked into the country" on purpose to see "the study of john bunyan," and the student who made it famous. on his arrival the interviewer--as we should now call him--met with a civil and courteous reception from bunyan; but he found the contents of his study hardly larger than those of his prison cell. they were limited to a bible, and copies of "the pilgrim's progress," and a few other books, chiefly his own works, "all lying on a shelf or shelves." slight as this sketch is, it puts us more in touch with the immortal dreamer than many longer and more elaborate paragraphs. bunyan's celebrity as a preacher, great before he was shut up in gaol, was naturally enhanced by the circumstance of his imprisonment. the barn in josias roughead's orchard, where he was licensed as a preacher, was "so thronged the first time he appeared there to edify, that many were constrained to stay without; every one that was of his persuasion striving to partake of his instructions." wherever he ministered, sometimes, when troublous days returned, in woods, and in dells, and other hiding-places, the announcement that john bunyan was to preach gathered a large and attentive auditory, hanging on his lips and drinking from them the word of life. his fame grew the more he was known and reached its climax when his work was nearest its end. his biographer charles doe tells us that just before his death, "when mr. bunyan preached in london, if there were but one day's notice given, there would be more people come together than the meeting-house could hold. i have seen, by my computation, about twelve hundred at a morning lecture by seven o'clock on a working day, in the dark winter time. i also computed about three thousand that came to hear him one lord's day in london, at a town's-end meeting-house, so that half were fain to go back again for want of room, and then himself was fain at a back door to be pulled almost over people to get upstairs to his pulpit." this "town's-end meeting house" has been identified by some with a quaint straggling long building which once stood in queen street, southwark, of which there is an engraving in wilkinson's "londina illustrata." doe's account, however, probably points to another building, as the zoar street meetinghouse was not opened for worship till about six months before bunyan's death, and then for presbyterian service. other places in london connected with his preaching are pinners' hall in old broad street, where, on one of his occasional visits, he delivered his striking sermon on "the greatness of the soul and the unspeakableness of the loss thereof," first published in 1683; and dr. owen's meeting-house in white's alley, moorfields, which was the gathering-place for titled folk, city merchants, and other nonconformists of position and degree. at earlier times, when the penal laws against nonconformists were in vigorous exercise, bunyan had to hold his meetings by stealth in private houses and other places where he might hope to escape the lynx-eyed informer. it was at one of these furtive meetings that his earliest biographer, the honest combmaker at the foot of london bridge, charles doe, first heard him preach. his choice of an old testament text at first offended doe, who had lately come into new testament light and had had enough of the "historical and doing-for-favour of the old testament." but as he went on he preached "so new testament like" that his hearer's prejudices vanished, and he could only "admire, weep for joy, and give the preacher his affections." bunyan was more than once urged to leave bedford and settle in the metropolis. but to all these solicitations he turned a deaf ear. bedford was the home of his deepest affections. it was there the holy words of the poor women "sitting in the sun," speaking "as if joy did make them speak," had first "made his heart shake," and shown him that he was still a stranger to vital godliness. it was there he had been brought out of darkness into light himself, and there too he had been the means of imparting the same blessing to others. the very fact of his long imprisonment had identified him with the town and its inhabitants. there he had a large and loving congregation, to whom he was bound by the ties of a common faith and common sufferings. many of these recognized in bunyan their spiritual father; all, save a few "of the baser sort," reverenced him as their teacher and guide. no prospect of a wider field of usefulness, still less of a larger income, could tempt him to desert his "few sheep in the wilderness." some of them, it is true, were wayward sheep, who wounded the heart of their pastor by breaking from the fold, and displaying very un-lamb-like behaviour. he had sometimes to realize painfully that no pale is so close but that the enemy will creep in somewhere and seduce the flock; and that no rules of communion, however strict, can effectually exclude unworthy members. brother john stanton had to be admonished "for abusing his wife and beating her often for very light matters" (if the matters had been less light, would the beating in these days have been thought justifiable?); and sister mary foskett, for "privately whispering of a horrid scandal, 'without culler of truth,' against brother honeylove." evil-speaking and backbiting set brother against brother. dissensions and heartburnings grieved bunyan's spirit. he himself was not always spared. a letter had to be written to sister hawthorn "by way of reproof for her unseemly language against brother scot and the whole church." john wildman was had up before the church and convicted of being "an abominable liar and slanderer," "extraordinary guilty" against "our beloved brother bunyan himself." and though sister hawthorn satisfied the church by "humble acknowledgment of her miscariag," the bolder misdoer only made matters worse by "a frothy letter," which left no alternative but a sentence of expulsion. but though bunyan's flock contained some whose fleeces were not as white as he desired, these were the exception. the congregation meeting in josias roughead's barn must have been, take them as a whole, a quiet, god-fearing, spiritually-minded folk, of whom their pastor could think with thankfulness and satisfaction as "his hope and joy and crown of rejoicing." from such he could not be severed lightly. inducements which would have been powerful to a meaner nature fell dead on his independent spirit. he was not "a man that preached by way of bargain for money," and, writes doe, "more than once he refused a more plentiful income to keep his station." as dr. brown says: "he was too deeply rooted on the scene of his lifelong labours and sufferings to think of striking his tent till the command came from the master to come up to the higher service for which he had been ripening so long." at bedford, therefore, he remained; quietly staying on in his cottage in st. cuthbert's, and ministering to his humble flock, loving and beloved, as mr. froude writes, "through changes of ministry, popish plots, and monmouth rebellions, while the terror of a restoration of popery was bringing on the revolution; careless of kings and cabinets, and confident that giant pope had lost his power for harm, and thenceforward could only bite his nails at the passing pilgrims." bunyan's peace was not, however, altogether undisturbed. once it received a shock in a renewal of his imprisonment, though only for a brief period, in 1675, to which we owe the world-famous "pilgrim's progress"; and it was again threatened, though not actually disturbed ten years later, when the renewal of the persecution of the nonconformists induced him to make over all his property--little enough in good sooth--to his wife by deed of gift. the former of these events demands our attention, not so much for itself as for its connection with bishop barlow's interference in bunyan's behalf, and, still more, for its results in the production of "the pilgrim's progress." until very recently the bare fact of this later imprisonment, briefly mentioned by charles doe and another of his early biographers, was all that was known to us. they even leave the date to be gathered, though both agree in limiting its duration to six months or thereabouts. the recent discovery, among the chauncey papers, by mr. w. g. thorpe, of the original warrant under which bunyan was at this time sent to gaol, supplies the missing information. it has been already noticed that the declaration of indulgence, under which bunyan was liberated in 1672, was very short-lived. indeed it barely lasted in force a twelvemonth. granted on the 15th of march of that year, it was withdrawn on the 9th of march of the following year, at the instance of the house of commons, who had taken alarm at a suspension of the laws of the realm by the "inherent power" of the sovereign, without the advice or sanction of parliament. the declaration was cancelled by charles ii., the monarch, it is said, tearing off the great seal with his own hands, a subsidy being promised to the royal spendthrift as a reward for his complaisance. the same year the test act became law. bunyan therefore and his fellow nonconformists were in a position of greater peril, as far as the letter of the law was concerned, than they had ever been. but, as dr. stoughton has remarked, "the letter of the law is not to be taken as an accurate index of the nonconformists' condition. the pressure of a bad law depends very much upon the hands employed in its administration." unhappily for bunyan, the parties in whose hands the execution of the penal statutes against nonconformists rested in bedfordshire were his bitter personal enemies, who were not likely to let them lie inactive. the prime mover in the matter was doubtless dr. william foster, that "right judas" whom we shall remember holding the candle in bunyan's face in the hall of harlington house at his first apprehension, and showing such feigned affection "as if he would have leaped on his neck and kissed him." he had some time before this become chancellor of the bishop of lincoln, and commissary of the court of the archdeacon of bedford, offices which put in his hands extensive powers which he had used with the most relentless severity. he has damned himself to eternal infamy by the bitter zeal he showed in hunting down dissenters, inflicting exorbitant fines, and breaking into their houses and distraining their goods for a full discharge, maltreating their wives and daughters, and haling the offenders to prison. having been chiefly instrumental in bunyan's first committal to gaol, he doubtless viewed his release with indignation as the leader of the bedfordshire sectaries who was doing more mischief to the cause of conformity, which it was his province at all hazards to maintain, than any other twenty men. the church would never be safe till he was clapped in prison again. the power to do this was given by the new proclamation. by this act the licenses to preach previously granted to nonconformists were recalled. henceforward no conventicle had "any authority, allowance, or encouragement from his majesty." we can easily imagine the delight with which foster would hail the issue of this proclamation. how he would read and read again with ever fresh satisfaction its stringent clauses. that pestilent fellow, bunyan, was now once more in his clutches. this time there was no chance of his escape. all licences were recalled, and he was absolutely defenceless. it should not be foster's fault if he failed to end his days in the prison from which he ought never to have been released. the proclamation is dated the 4th of march, 1674-5, and was published in the _gazette_ on the 9th. it would reach bedford on the 11th. it placed bunyan at the mercy of "his enemies, who struck at him forthwith." a warrant was issued for his apprehension, undoubtedly written by our old friend, paul cobb, the clerk of the peace, who, it will be remembered, had acted in the same capacity on bunyan's first committal. it is dated the 4th of march, and bears the signature of no fewer than thirteen magistrates, ten of them affixing their seals. that so unusually large a number took part in the execution of this warrant, is sufficient indication of the importance attached to bunyan's imprisonment by the gentry of the county. the following is the document:- "to the constables of bedford and to every of them whereas information and complaint is made unto us that (notwithstanding the kings majties late act of most gracious generall and free pardon to all his subjects for past misdemeanours that by his said clemencie and indulgent grace and favor they might bee mooved and induced for the time to come more carefully to observe his highenes lawes and statutes and to continue in theire loyall and due obedience to his majtie) yett one john bunnyon of youre said towne tynker hath divers times within one month last past in contempt of his majtie's good lawes preached or teached at a conventicle meeting or assembly under color or ptence of exercise of religion in other manner than according to the liturgie or practiss of the church of england these are therefore in his majties name to comand you forthwith to apprehend and bring the body of the said john bunnion before us or any of us or other his majties justice of peace within the said county to answer the premisses and further to doo and receave as to lawe and justice shall appertaine and hereof you are not to faile. given under our handes and seales this ffourth day of march in the seven and twentieth yeare of the raigne of our most gracious soveraigne lord king charles the second a que dni., juxta &c 1674 j napier w beecher g blundell hum: monoux will ffranklin john ventris will spencer will gery st jo chernocke wm daniels t browne w ffoster gaius squire" there would be little delay in the execution of the warrant. john bunyan was a marked man and an old offender, who, on his arrest, would be immediately committed for trial. once more, then, bunyan became a prisoner, and that, there can be little doubt, in his old quarters in the bedford gaol. errors die hard, and those by whom they have been once accepted find it difficult to give them up. the long-standing tradition of bunyan's twelve years' imprisonment in the little lock-up-house on the ouse bridge, having been scattered to the winds by the logic of fact and common sense, those to whom the story is dear, including the latest and ablest of his biographers, dr. brown, see in this second brief imprisonment a way to rehabilitate it. probability pointing to this imprisonment as the time of the composition of "the pilgrim's progress," they hold that on this occasion bunyan was committed to the bridge-gaol, and that he there wrote his immortal work, though they fail to bring forward any satisfactory reasons for the change of the place of his confinement. the circumstances, however, being the same, there can be no reasonable ground for questioning that, as before, bunyan was imprisoned in the county gaol. this last imprisonment of bunyan's lasted only half as many months as his former imprisonment had lasted years. at the end of six months he was again a free man. his release was due to the good officers of owen, cromwell's celebrated chaplain, with barlow, bishop of lincoln. the suspicion which hung over this intervention from its being erroneously attributed to his release in 1672, three years before barlow became a bishop, has been dispelled by the recently discovered warrant. the dates and circumstances are now found to tally. the warrant for bunyan's apprehension bears date march 4, 1675. on the 14th of the following may the supple and time-serving barlow, after long and eager waiting for a mitre, was elected to the see of lincoln vacated by the death of bishop fuller, and consecrated on the 27th of june. barlow, a man of very dubious churchmanship, who had succeeded in keeping his university appointments undisturbed all through the commonwealth, and who was yet among the first with effusive loyalty to welcome the restoration of monarchy, had been owen's tutor at oxford, and continued to maintain friendly relations with him. as bishop of the diocese to which bedfordshire then, and long after, belonged, barlow had the power, by the then existing law, of releasing a prisoner for nonconformity on a bond given by two persons that he would conform within half a year. a friend of bunyan's, probably ichabod chauncey, obtained a letter from owen to the bishop requesting him to employ this prerogative in bunyan's behalf. barlow with hollow complaisance expressed his particular kindness for dr. owen, and his desire to deny him nothing he could legally grant. he would even strain a point to serve him. but he had only just been made a bishop, and what was asked was a new thing to him. he desired a little time to consider of it. if he could do it, owen might be assured of his readiness to oblige him. a second application at the end of a fortnight found this readiness much cooled. it was true that on inquiry he found he might do it; but the times were critical, and he had many enemies. it would be safer for him not to take the initiative. let them apply to the lord chancellor, and get him to issue an order for him to release bunyan on the customary bond. then he would do what owen asked. it was vain to tell barlow that the way he suggested was chargeable, and bunyan poor. vain also to remind him that there was no point to be strained. he had satisfied himself that he might do the thing legally. it was hoped he would remember his promise. but the bishop would not budge from the position he had taken up. they had his ultimatum; with that they must be content. if bunyan was to be liberated, his friends must accept barlow's terms. "this at last was done, and the poor man was released. but little thanks to the bishop." this short six months' imprisonment assumes additional importance from the probability, first suggested by dr. brown, which the recovery of its date renders almost a certainty, that it was during this period that bunyan began, if he did not complete, the first part of "the pilgrim's progress." we know from bunyan's own words that the book was begun in gaol, and its composition has been hitherto unhesitatingly assigned to his twelve years' confinement. dr. brown was, we believe, the first to call this in question. bunyan's imprisonment, we know, ended in 1672. the first edition of "the pilgrim's progress" did not appear till 1678. if written during his earlier imprisonment, six years must have elapsed between its writing and its publication. but it was not bunyan's way to keep his works in manuscript so long after their completion. his books were commonly put in the printers' hands as soon as they were finished. there are no sufficient reasons--though some have been suggested--for his making an exception to this general habit in the case of "the pilgrim's progress." besides we should certainly conclude, from the poetical introduction, that there was little delay between the finishing of the book and its being given to the world. after having written the book, he tells us, simply to gratify himself, spending only "vacant seasons" in his "scribble," to "divert" himself "from worser thoughts," he showed it to his friends to get their opinion whether it should be published or not. but as they were not all of one mind, but some counselled one thing and some another, after some perplexity, he took the matter into his own hands. "now was i in a strait, and did not see which was the best thing to be done by me; at last i thought, since you are so divided, i print it will, and so the case decided." we must agree with dr. brown that "there is a briskness about this which, to say the least, is not suggestive of a six years' interval before publication." the break which occurs in the narrative after the visit of the pilgrims to the delectable mountains, which so unnecessarily interrupts the course of the story--"so i awoke from my dream; and i slept and dreamed again"--has been not unreasonably thought by dr. brown to indicate the point bunyan had reached when his six months' imprisonment ended, and from which he continued the book after his release. the first part of "the pilgrim's progress" issued from the press in 1678. a second edition followed in the same year, and a third with large and important additions in 1679. the second part, after an interval of seven years, followed early in 1685. between the two parts appeared two of his most celebrated works--the "life and death of mr. badman," published in 1680, originally intended to supply a contrast and a foil to "the pilgrim's progress," by depicting a life which was scandalously bad; and, in 1682, that which macaulay, with perhaps exaggerated eulogy, has said, "would have been our greatest allegory if the earlier allegory had never been written," the "holy war made by shaddai upon diabolus." superior to "the pilgrim's progress" as a literary composition, this last work must be pronounced decidedly inferior to it in attractive power. for one who reads the "holy war," five hundred read the "pilgrim." and those who read it once return to it again and again, with ever fresh delight. it is a book that never tires. one or two perusals of the "holy war" satisfy: and even these are not without weariness. as mr. froude has said, "the 'holy war' would have entitled bunyan to a place among the masters of english literature. it would never have made his name a household word in every english-speaking family on the globe." leaving the further notice of these and his other chief literary productions to another chapter, there is little more to record in bunyan's life. though never again seriously troubled for his nonconformity, his preaching journeys were not always without risk. there is a tradition that when he visited reading to preach, he disguised himself as a waggoner carrying a long whip in his hand to escape detection. the name of "bunyan's dell," in a wood not very far from hitchin, tells of the time when he and his hearers had to conceal their meetings from their enemies' quest, with scouts planted on every side to warn them of the approach of the spies and informers, who for reward were actively plying their odious trade. reference has already been made to bunyan's "deed of gift" of all that he possessed in the world--his "goods, chattels, debts, ready money, plate, rings, household stuff, apparel, utensils, brass, pewter, bedding, and all other his substance whatsoever--to his well-beloved wife elizabeth bunyan." towards the close of the first year of james the second, 1685, the apprehensions under which bunyan executed this document were far from groundless. at no time did the persecution of nonconformists rage with greater fierceness. never, not even under the tyranny of laud, as lord macaulay records had the condition of the puritans been so deplorable. never had spies been so actively employed in detecting congregations. never had magistrates, grand-jurors, rectors, and churchwardens been so much on the alert. many nonconformists were cited before the ecclesiastical courts. others found it necessary to purchase the connivance of the agents of the government by bribes. it was impossible for the sectaries to pray together without precautions such as are employed by coiners and receivers of stolen goods. dissenting ministers, however blameless in life, however eminent in learning, could not venture to walk the streets for fear of outrages which were not only not repressed, but encouraged by those whose duty it was to preserve the peace. richard baxter was in prison. howe was afraid to show himself in london for fear of insult, and had been driven to utrecht. not a few who up to that time had borne up boldly lost heart and fled the kingdom. other weaker spirits were terrified into a show of conformity. through many subsequent years the autumn of 1685 was remembered as a time of misery and terror. there is, however, no indication of bunyan having been molested. the "deed of gift" by which he sought to avoid the confiscation of his goods was never called into exercise. indeed its very existence was forgotten by his wife in whose behalf it had been executed. hidden away in a recess in his house in st. cuthbert's, this interesting document was accidentally discovered at the beginning of the present century, and is preserved among the most valued treasures of the congregation which bears his name. quieter times for nonconformists were however at hand. active persecution was soon to cease for them, and happily never to be renewed in england. the autumn of 1685 showed the first indications of a great turn of fortune, and before eighteen months had elapsed, the intolerant king and the intolerant church were eagerly bidding against each other for the support of the party which both had so deeply injured. a new form of trial now awaited the nonconformists. peril to their personal liberty was succeeded by a still greater peril to their honesty and consistency of spirit. james the second, despairing of employing the tories and the churchmen as his tools, turned, as his brother had turned before him, to the dissenters. the snare was craftily baited with a declaration of indulgence, by which the king, by his sole authority, annulled a long series of statutes and suspended all penal laws against nonconformists of every sort. these lately political pariahs now held the balance of power. the future fortunes of england depended mainly on the course they would adopt. james was resolved to convert the house of commons from a free deliberative assembly into a body subservient to his wishes, and ready to give parliamentary sanction to any edict he might issue. to obtain this end the electors must be manipulated. leaving the county constituencies to be dealt with by the lords-lieutenants, half of whom preferred dismissal to carrying out the odious service peremptorily demanded of them, james's next concern was to "regulate" the corporations. in those days of narrowly restricted franchise, the municipalities virtually returned the town members. to obtain an obedient parliament, he must secure a roll of electors pledged to return the royal nominees. a committee of seven privy councillors, all roman catholics but the infamous jeffreys, presided over the business, with local sub-committees scattered over the country to carry out the details. bedford was dealt with in its turn. under james's policy of courting the puritans, the leading dissenters were the first persons to be approached. two are specially named, a mr. margetts, formerly judge-advocate-general of the army under general monk, and john bunyan. it is no matter of surprise that bunyan, who had been so severe a sufferer under the old penal statutes, should desire their abrogation, and express his readiness to "steer his friends and followers" to support candidates who would pledge themselves to vote for their repeal. but no further would he go. the bedford corporation was "regulated," which means that nearly the whole of its members were removed and others substituted by royal order. of these new members some six or seven were leading persons of bunyan's congregation. but, with all his ardent desire for religious liberty, bunyan was too keen-witted not to see through james's policy, and too honest to give it any direct insidious support. "in vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird." he clearly saw that it was not for any love of the dissenters that they were so suddenly delivered from their persecutions, and placed on a kind of equality with the church. the king's object was the establishment of popery. to this the church was the chief obstacle. that must be undermined and subverted first. that done, all other religious denominations would follow. all that the nonconformists would gain by yielding, was the favour polyphemus promised ulysses, to be devoured last. zealous as he was for the "liberty of prophesying," even that might be purchased at too high a price. the boon offered by the king was "good in itself," but not "so intended." so, as his biographer describes, when the regulators came, "he expressed his zeal with some weariness as perceiving the bad consequences that would ensue, and laboured with his congregation" to prevent their being imposed on by the fair promises of those who were at heart the bitterest enemies of the cause they professed to advocate. the newly-modelled corporation of bedford seems like the other corporations through the country, to have proved as unmanageable as the old. as macaulay says, "the sectaries who had declared in favour of the indulgence had become generally ashamed of their error, and were desirous to make atonement." not knowing the man they had to deal with, the "regulators" are said to have endeavoured to buy bunyan's support by the offer of some place under government. the bribe was indignantly rejected. bunyan even refused to see the government agent who offered it,--"he would, by no means come to him, but sent his excuse." behind the treacherous sunshine he saw a black cloud, ready to break. the ninevites' remedy he felt was now called for. so he gathered his congregation together and appointed a day of fasting and prayer to avert the danger that, under a specious pretext, again menaced their civil and religious liberties. a true, sturdy englishman, bunyan, with baxter and howe, "refused an indulgence which could only be purchased by the violent overthrow of the law." bunyan did not live to see the revolution. four months after he had witnessed the delirious joy which hailed the acquittal of the seven bishops, the pilgrim's earthly progress ended, and he was bidden to cross the dark river which has no bridge. the summons came to him in the very midst of his religious activity, both as a preacher and as a writer. his pen had never been more busy than when he was bidden to lay it down finally. early in 1688, after a two years' silence, attributable perhaps to the political troubles of the times, his "jerusalem sinner saved, or a help to despairing souls," one of the best known and most powerfully characteristic of his works, had issued from the press, and had been followed by four others between march and august, the month of his death. these books were, "the work of jesus christ as an advocate;" a poetical composition entitled "the building, nature, and excellency of the house of god," a discourse on the constitution and government of the christian church; the "water of life," and "solomon's temple spiritualized." at the time of his death he was occupied in seeing through the press a sixth book, "the acceptable sacrifice," which was published after his funeral. in addition to these, bunyan left behind him no fewer than fourteen works in manuscript, written at this time, as the fruit of his fertile imagination and untiring pen. ten of these were given to the world soon after bunyan's death, by one of bunyan's most devoted followers, charles doe, the combmaker of london bridge (who naively tells us how one day between the stairhead and the middle of the stairs, he resolved that the best work he could do for god was to get bunyan's books printed and sell them--adding, "i have sold about 3,000"), and others, a few years later, including one of the raciest of his compositions, "the heavenly footman," bought by doe of bunyan's eldest son, and, he says, "put into the world in print word for word as it came from him to me." at the time that death surprised him, bunyan had gained no small celebrity in london as a popular preacher, and approached the nearest to a position of worldly honour. though we must probably reject the idea that he ever filled the office of chaplain to the lord mayor of london, sir john shorter, the fact that he is styled "his lordship's teacher" proves that there was some relation more than that of simple friendship between the chief magistrate and the bedford minister. but the society of the great was never congenial to him. if they were godly as well as great, he would not shrink from intercourse, with those of a rank above his own, but his heart was with his own humble folk at bedford. worldly advancement he rejected for his family as well as for himself. a london merchant, it is said, offered to take his son joseph into his house of business without the customary premium. but the offer was declined with what we may consider an overstrained independence. "god," he said, "did not send me to advance my family but to preach the gospel." "an instance of other-worldliness," writes dr. brown, "perhaps more consistent with the honour of the father than with the prosperity of the son." bunyan's end was in keeping with his life. he had ever sought to be a peacemaker and to reconcile differences, and thus had "hindered many mishaps and saved many families from ruin." his last effort of the kind caused his death. the father of a young man in whom he took an interest, had resolved, on some offence, real or supposed, to disinherit his son. the young man sought bunyan's mediation. anxious to heal the breach, bunyan mounted his horse and took the long journey to the father's house at reading--the scene, as we have noticed, of his occasional ministrations--where he pleaded the offender's cause so effectually as to obtain a promise of forgiveness. bunyan returned homewards through london, where he was appointed to preach at mr. gamman's meeting-house near whitechapel. his forty miles' ride to london was through heavy driving rain. he was weary and drenched to the skin when he reached the house of his "very loving friend," john strudwick, grocer and chandler, at the sign of the star, holborn bridge, at the foot of snow hill, and deacon of the nonconformist meeting in red cross street. a few months before bunyan had suffered from the sweating sickness. the exposure caused a return of the malady, and though well enough to fulfil his pulpit engagement on sunday, the 19th of august, on the following tuesday dangerous symptoms declared themselves, and in ten days the disease proved fatal. he died within two months of completing his sixtieth year, on the 31st of august, 1688, just a month before the publication of the declaration of the prince of orange opened a new era of civil and religious liberty, and between two and three months before the prince's landing in torbay. he was buried in mr. strudwick's newly-purchased vault, in what southey has termed the campo santo of nonconformists, the burial-ground in finsbury, taking its name of bunhill or bonehill field, from a vast mass of human remains removed to it from the charnel house of st. paul's cathedral in 1549. at a later period it served as a place of interment for those who died in the great plague of 1665. the day after bunyan's funeral, his powerful friend, sir john shorter, the lord mayor, had a fatal fall from his horse in smithfield, and "followed him across the river." by his first wife, whose christian name is nowhere recorded, bunyan had four children--two sons and two daughters; and by his second wife, the heroic elizabeth, one son and one daughter. all of these survived him except his eldest daughter mary, his tenderly-loved blind child, who died before him. his wife only survived him for a brief period, "following her faithful pilgrim from this world to the other whither he was gone before her" either in 1691 or 1692. forgetful of the "deed of gift," or ignorant of its bearing, bunyan's widow took out letters of administration of her late husband's estate, which appears from the register book to have amounted to no more than, 42 pounds 19s. on this, and the proceeds of his books, she supported herself till she rejoined him. bunyan's character and person are thus described by charles doe: "he appeared in countenance to be of a stern and rough temper. but in his conversation he was mild and affable, not given to loquacity or much discourse in company, unless some urgent occasion required it. observing never to boast of himself or his parts, but rather to seem low in his own eyes and submit himself to the judgment of others. abhorring lying and swearing, being just, in all that lay in his power, to his word. not seeming to revenge injuries; loving to reconcile differences and make friendship with all. he had a sharp, quick eye, with an excellent discerning of persons, being of good judgment and quick wit. he was tall of stature, strong-boned, though not corpulent; somewhat of a ruddy face, with sparkling eyes, wearing his hair on his upper lip after the old british fashion. his hair reddish, but in his later days time had sprinkled it with grey. his nose well set, but not declining or bending. his mouth moderately large, his forehead something high, and his habit always plain and modest. not puffed up in prosperity, nor shaken in adversity, always holding the golden mean." we may add the portrait drawn by one who had been his companion and fellow-sufferer for many years, john nelson: "his countenance was grave and sedate, and did so to the life discover the inward frame of his heart, that it was convincing to the beholders and did strike something of awe into them that had nothing of the fear of god." the same friend speaks thus of bunyan's preaching: "as a minister of christ he was laborious in his work of preaching, diligent in his preparation for it, and faithful in dispensing the word, not sparing reproof whether in the pulpit or no, yet ready to succour the tempted; a son of consolation to the broken-hearted, yet a son of thunder to secure and dead sinners. his memory was tenacious, it being customary with him to commit his sermons to writing after he had preached them. a rich anointing of the spirit was upon him, yet this great saint was always in his own eyes the chiefest of sinners and the least of saints." an anecdote is told which, southey says, "authenticates itself," that one day when he had preached "with peculiar warmth and enlargement," one of his hearers remarked "what a sweet sermon he had delivered." "ay," was bunyan's reply, "you have no need to tell me that, for the devil whispered it to me before i was well out of the pulpit." as an evidence of the estimation in which bunyan was held by the highly-educated, it is recorded that charles the second expressed his surprise to dr. owen that "a learned man such as he could sit and listen to an illiterate tinker." "may it please your majesty," owen replied. "i would gladly give up all my learning if i could preach like that tinker." although much of bunyan's literary activity was devoted to controversy, he had none of the narrowness or bitter spirit of a controversialist. it is true that his zeal for what he deemed to be truth led him into vehemence of language in dealing with those whom he regarded as its perverters. but this intensity of speech was coupled with the utmost charity of spirit towards those who differed from him. few ever had less of the sectarian temper which lays greater stress on the infinitely small points on which all true christians differ than on the infinitely great truths on which they are agreed. bunyan inherited from his spiritual father, john gifford, a truly catholic spirit. external differences he regarded as insignificant where he found real christian faith and love. "i would be," he writes, "as i hope i am, a christian. but for those factious titles of anabaptist, independent, presbyterian, and the like, i conclude that they come neither from jerusalem nor from antioch, but from hell or from babylon." "he was," writes one of his early biographers, "a true lover of all that love our lord jesus, and did often bewail the different and distinguishing appellations that are among the godly, saying he did believe a time would come when they should be all buried." the only persons he scrupled to hold communion with were those whose lives were openly immoral. "divisions about non-essentials," he said, "were to churches what wars were to countries. those who talked most about religion cared least for it; and controversies about doubtful things and things of little moment, ate up all zeal for things which were practical and indisputable." his last sermon breathed the same catholic spirit, free from the trammels of narrow sectarianism. "if you are the children of god live together lovingly. if the world quarrel with you it is no matter; but it is sad if you quarrel together. if this be among you it is a sign of ill-breeding. dost thou see a soul that has the image of god in him? love him, love him. say, 'this man and i must go to heaven one day.' serve one another. do good for one another. if any wrong you pray to god to right you, and love the brotherhood." the closing words of this his final testimony are such as deserve to be written in letters of gold as the sum of all true christian teaching: "be ye holy in all manner of conversation: consider that the holy god is your father, and let this oblige you to live like the children of god, that you may look your father in the face with comfort another day." "there is," writes dean stanley, "no compromise in his words, no faltering in his convictions; but his love and admiration are reserved on the whole for that which all good men love, and his detestation on the whole is reserved for that which all good men detest." by the catholic spirit which breathes through his writings, especially through "the pilgrim's progress," the tinker of elstow "has become the teacher not of any particular sect, but of the universal church." chapter ix. we have, in this concluding chapter, to take a review of bunyan's merits as a writer, with especial reference to the works on which his fame mainly rests, and, above all, to that which has given him his chief title to be included in a series of great writers, "the pilgrim's progress." bunyan, as we have seen, was a very copious author. his works, as collected by the late industrious mr. offor, fill three bulky quarto volumes, each of nearly eight hundred double-columned pages in small type. and this copiousness of production is combined with a general excellence in the matter produced. while few of his books approach the high standard of "the pilgrim's progress" or "holy war," none, it may be truly said, sink very far below that standard. it may indeed be affirmed that it was impossible for bunyan to write badly. his genius was a native genius. as soon as he began to write at all, he wrote well. without any training, is he says, in the school of aristotle or plato, or any study of the great masters of literature, at one bound he leapt to a high level of thought and composition. his earliest book, "some gospel truths opened," "thrown off," writes dr. brown, "at a heat," displays the same ease of style and directness of speech and absence of stilted phraseology which he maintained to the end. the great charm which pervades all bunyan's writings is their naturalness. you never feel that he is writing for effect, still less to perform an uncongenial piece of task-work. he writes because he had something to say which was worth saying, a message to deliver on which the highest interests of others were at stake, which demanded nothing more than a straightforward earnestness and plainness of speech, such as coming from the heart might best reach the hearts of others. he wrote as he spoke, because a necessity was laid upon him which he dared not evade. as he says in a passage quoted in a former chapter, he might have stepped into a much higher style, and have employed more literary ornament. but to attempt this would be, to one of his intense earnestness, to degrade his calling. he dared not do it. like the great apostle, "his speech and preaching was not with enticing words of man's wisdom, but in demonstration of the spirit and in power." god had not played with him, and he dared not play with others. his errand was much too serious, and their need and danger too urgent to waste time in tricking out his words with human skill. and it is just this which, with all their rudeness, their occasional bad grammar, and homely colloquialisms, gives to bunyan's writings a power of riveting the attention and stirring the affections which few writers have attained to. the pent-up fire glows in every line, and kindles the hearts of his readers. "beautiful images, vivid expressions, forcible arguments all aglow with passion, tender pleadings, solemn warnings, make those who read him all eye, all ear, all soul." this native vigour is attributable, in no small degree, to the manner in which for the most part bunyan's works came into being. he did not set himself to compose theological treatises upon stated subjects, but after he had preached with satisfaction to himself and acceptance with his audience, he usually wrote out the substance of his discourse from memory, with the enlargements and additions it might seem to require. and thus his religious works have all the glow and fervour of the unwritten utterances of a practised orator, united with the orderliness and precision of a theologian, and are no less admirable for the excellence of their arrangement than for their evangelical spirit and scriptural doctrine. originally meant to be heard, they lose somewhat by being read. but few can read them without being delighted with the opulence of his imagination and impressed with the solemn earnestness of his convictions. like the subject of the portrait described by him in the house of the interpreter, he stands "like one who pleads with men, the law of truth written upon his lips, the world behind his back, and a crown of gold above his head." these characteristics, which distinguish bunyan as a writer from most of his puritan contemporaries, are most conspicuous in the works by which he is chiefly known, "the pilgrim's progress," the "holy war," the "grace abounding," and we may add, though from the repulsiveness of the subject the book is now scarcely read at all, the "life and death of mr. badman." one great charm of these works, especially of "the pilgrim's progress," lies in the pure saxon english in which they are written, which render them models of the english speech, plain but never vulgar, homely but never coarse, and still less unclean, full of imagery but never obscure, always intelligible, always forcible, going straight to the point in the fewest and simplest words; "powerful and picturesque," writes hallam, "from concise simplicity." bunyan's style is recommended by lord macaulay as an invaluable study to every person who wishes to gain a wide command over his mother tongue. its vocabulary is the vocabulary of the common people. "there is not," he truly says, "in 'the pilgrim's progress' a single expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, that would puzzle the rudest peasant." we may, look through whole pages, and not find a word of more than two syllables. nor is the source of this pellucid clearness and imaginative power far to seek. bunyan was essentially a man of one book, and that book the very best, not only for its spiritual teaching but for the purity of its style, the english bible. "in no book," writes mr. j. r. green, "do we see more clearly than in 'the pilgrim's progress' the new imaginative force which had been given to the common life of englishmen by their study of the bible. bunyan's english is the simplest and homeliest english that has ever been used by any great english writer, but it is the english of the bible. his images are the images of prophet and evangelist. so completely had the bible become bunyan's life that one feels its phrases as the natural expression of his thoughts. he had lived in the bible till its words became his own." all who have undertaken to take an estimate of bunyan's literary genius call special attention to the richness of his imaginative power. few writers indeed have possessed this power in so high a degree. in nothing, perhaps, is its vividness more displayed than in the reality of its impersonations. the _dramatis persons_ are not shadowy abstractions, moving far above us in a mystical world, or lay figures ticketed with certain names, but solid men and women of our own flesh and blood, living in our own everyday world, and of like passions with ourselves. many of them we know familiarly; there is hardly one we should be surprised to meet any day. this lifelike power of characterization belongs in the highest degree to "the pilgrim's progress." it is hardly inferior in "the holy war," though with some exceptions the people of "mansoul" have failed to engrave themselves on the popular memory as the characters of the earlier allegory have done. the secret of this graphic power, which gives "the pilgrim's progress" its universal popularity, is that bunyan describes men and women of his own day, such as he had known and seen them. they are not fancy pictures, but literal portraits. though the features may be exaggerated, and the colours laid on with an unsparing brush, the outlines of his bold personifications are truthfully drawn from his own experience. he had had to do with every one of them. he could have given a personal name to most of them, and we could do the same to many. we are not unacquainted with mr byends of the town of fair speech, who "always has the luck to jump in his judgment with the way of the times, and to get thereby," who is zealous for religion "when he goes in his silver slippers," and "loves to walk with him in the streets when the sun shines and the people applaud him." all his kindred and surroundings are only too familiar to us--his wife, that very virtuous woman my lady feigning's daughter, my lord fair-speech, my lord time-server, mr. facingbothways, mr. anything, and the parson of the parish, his mother's own brother by the father's side, mr. twotongues. nor is his schoolmaster, one mr. gripeman, of the market town of lovegain, in the county of coveting, a stranger to us. obstinate, with his dogged determination and stubborn common-sense, and pliable with his shallow impressionableness, are among our acquaintances. we have, before now, come across "the brisk lad ignorance from the town of conceit," and have made acquaintance with mercy's would-be suitor, mr. brisk, "a man of some breeding and that pretended to religion, but who stuck very close to the world." the man temporary who lived in a town two miles off from honesty, and next door to mr. turnback; formalist and hypocrisy, who were "from the land of vainglory, and were going for praise to mount sion"; simple, sloth, and presumption, "fast asleep by the roadside with fetters on their heels," and their companions, shortwind, noheart, lingerafterlust, and sleepyhead, we know them all. "the young woman whose name was dull" taxes our patience every day. where is the town which does not contain mrs. timorous and her coterie of gossips, mrs. bats-eyes, mrs. inconsiderate, mrs. lightmind, and mrs. knownothing, "all as merry as the maids," with that pretty fellow mr. lechery at the house of madam wanton, that "admirably well-bred gentlewoman"? where shall we find more lifelike portraits than those of madam bubble, a "tall, comely dame, somewhat of a swarthy complexion, speaking very smoothly with a smile at the end of each sentence, wearing a great purse by her side, with her hand often in it, fingering her money as if that was her chief delight;" of poor feeblemind of the town of uncertain, with his "whitely look, the cast in his eye, and his trembling speech;" of littlefaith, as "white as a clout," neither able to fight nor fly when the thieves from dead man's lane were on him; of ready-to-halt, at first coming along on his crutches, and then when giant despair had been slain and doubting castle demolished, taking despondency's daughter much-afraid by the hand and dancing with her in the road? "true, he could not dance without one crutch in his hand, but i promise you he footed it well. also the girl was to be commanded, for she answered the musick handsomely." in bunyan's pictures there is never a superfluous detail. every stroke tells, and helps to the completeness of the portraiture. the same reality characterizes the descriptive part of "the pilgrim's progress." as his characters are such as he must meet with every day in his native town, so also the scenery and surroundings of his allegory are part of his own everyday life, and reproduce what he had been brought up amidst in his native county, or had noticed in his tinker's wanderings. "born and bred," writes kingsley, "in the monotonous midland, he had no natural images beyond the pastures and brooks, the town and country houses, he saw about him." the slough of despond, with its treacherous quagmire in the midst of the plain, into which a wayfarer might heedlessly fall, with its stepping-stones half drowned in mire; byepathmeadow, promising so fair, with its stile and footpath on the other side of the fence; the pleasant river fringed with meadows, green all the year long and overshadowed with trees; the thicket all overgrown with briars and thorns, where one tumbled over a bush, another stuck fast in the dirt, some lost their shoes in the mire, and others were fastened from behind with the brambles; the high wall by the roadside over which the fruit trees shot their boughs and tempted the boys with their unripe plums; the arbour with its settle tempting the footsore traveller to drowsiness; the refreshing spring at the bottom of hill difficulty; all are evidently drawn from his own experience. bunyan, in his long tramps, had seen them all. he had known what it was to be in danger of falling into a pit and being dashed to pieces with vain confidence, of being drowned in the flooded meadows with christian and hopeful; of sinking in deep water when swimming over a river, going down and rising up half dead, and needing all his companion's strength and skill to keep his head above the stream. vanity fair is evidently drawn from the life. the great yearly fair of stourbridge, close to cambridge, which bunyan had probably often visited in his tinker days, with its streets of booths filled with "wares of all kinds from all countries," its "shows, jugglings, cheats games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind," its "great one of the fair," its court of justice and power of judgment, furnished him with the materials for his picture. scenes like these he draws with sharp defined outlines. when he had to describe what he only knew by hearsay, his pictures are shadowy and cold. never having been very far from home, he had had no experience of the higher types of beauty and grandeur in nature, and his pen moves in fetters when he attempts to describe them. when his pilgrims come to the hill difficulty and the delectable mountains, the difference is at once seen. all his nobler imagery is drawn from scripture. as hallam has remarked, "there is scarcely a circumstance or metaphor in the old testament which does not find a place bodily and literally in 'the pilgrim's progress,' and this has made his imagination appear more creative than it really is." it would but weary the reader to follow the details of a narrative which is so universally known. who needs to be told that in the pilgrimage here described is represented in allegorical dress the course of a human soul convinced of sin, struggling onwards to salvation through the trials and temptations that beset its path to its eternal home? the book is so completely wrought into the mind and memory, that most of us can at once recall the incidents which chequer the pilgrim's way, and realize their meaning; the slough of despond, in which the man convinced of his guilt and fleeing from the wrath to come, in his agonizing self-consciousness is in danger of being swallowed up in despair; the wicket gate, by which he enters on the strait and narrow way of holiness; the interpreter's house, with his visions and acted parables; the wayside cross, at the sight of which the burden of guilt falls from the pilgrim's back, and he is clothed with change of raiment; the hill difficulty, which stands right in his way, and which he must surmount, not circumvent; the lions which he has to pass, not knowing that they are chained; the palace beautiful, where he is admitted to the communion of the faithful, and sits down to meat with them; the valley of humiliation, the scene of his desperate but victorious encounter with apollyon; the valley of the shadow of death, with its evil sights and doleful sounds, where one of the wicked ones whispers into his ear thoughts of blasphemy which he cannot distinguish from the suggestions of his own mind; the cave at the valley's mouth, in which, giant pagan having been dead this many a day, his brother, giant pope, now sits alone, grinning at pilgrims as they pass by, and biting his nails because he cannot get at them; vanity fair, the picture of the world, as st. john describes it, hating the light that puts to shame its own self-chosen darkness, and putting it out if it can, where the pilgrim's fellow, faithful, seals his testimony with his death, and the pilgrim himself barely escapes; the "delicate plain" called ease, and the little hill, lucre, where demas stood "gentlemanlike," to invite the passersby to come and dig in his silver mine; byepath meadow, into which the pilgrim and his newly-found companion stray, and are made prisoners by giant despair and shut up in the dungeons of doubting castle, and break out of prison by the help of the key of promise; the delectable mountains in immanuel's land, with their friendly shepherds and the cheering prospect of the far-off heavenly city; the enchanted land, with its temptations to spiritual drowsiness at the very end of the journey; the land of beulah, the ante-chamber of the city to which they were bound; and, last stage of all, the deep dark river, without a bridge, which had to be crossed before the city was entered; the entrance into its heavenly gates, the pilgrim's joyous reception with all the bells in the city ringing again for joy; the dreamer's glimpse of its glories through the opened portals--is not every stage of the journey, every scene of the pilgrimage, indelibly printed on our memories, for our warning, our instruction, our encouragement in the race we, as much as they, have each one to run? have we not all, again and again, shared the dreamer's feelings--"after that they shut up the gates; which, when i had seen, i wished myself among them," and prayed, god helping us, that our "dangerous journey"--ever the most dangerous when we see its dangers the least--might end in our "safe arrival at the desired country"? "the pilgrim's progress" exhibits bunyan in the character by which he would have most desired to be remembered, as one of the most influential of christian preachers. hallam, however, claims for him another distinction which would have greatly startled and probably shocked him, as the father of our english novelists. as an allegorist bunyan had many predecessors, not a few of whom, dating from early times, had taken the natural allegory of the pilgrimage of human life as the basis of their works. but as a novelist he had no one to show him the way. bunyan was the first to break ground in a field which has since then been so overabundantly worked that the soil has almost lost its productiveness; while few novels written purely with the object of entertainment have ever proved so universally entertaining. intensely religious as it is in purpose, "the pilgrim's progress" may be safely styled the first english novel. "the claim to be the father of english romance," writes dr. allon, "which has been sometimes preferred for defoe, really pertains to bunyan. defoe may claim the parentage of a species, but bunyan is the creator of the genus." as the parent of fictitious biography it is that bunyan has charmed the world. on its vivid interest as a story, its universal interest and lasting vitality rest. "other allegorises," writes lord macaulay, "have shown great ingenuity, but no other allegorist has ever been able to touch the heart, and to make its abstractions objects of terror, of pity, and of love." whatever its deficiencies, literary and religious, may be; if we find incongruities in the narrative, and are not insensible to some grave theological deficiencies; if we are unable without qualification to accept coleridge's dictum that it is "incomparably the best 'summa theologiae evangelicae' ever produced by a writer not miraculously inspired;" even if, with hallam, we consider its "excellencies great indeed, but not of the highest order," and deem it "a little over-praised," the fact of its universal popularity with readers of all classes and of all orders of intellect remains, and gives this book a unique distinction. "i have," says dr. arnold, when reading it after a long interval, "always been struck by its piety. i am now struck equally or even more by its profound wisdom. it seems to be a complete reflexion of scripture." and to turn to a critic of very different character, dean swift: "i have been better entertained and more improved," writes that cynical pessimist, "by a few pages of this book than by a long discourse on the will and intellect." the favourite of our childhood, as "the most perfect and complex of fairy tales, so human and intelligible," read, as hallam says, "at an age when the spiritual meaning is either little perceived or little regarded," the "pilgrim's progress" becomes the chosen companion of our later years, perused with ever fresh appreciation of its teaching, and enjoyment of its native genius; "the interpreter of life to all who are perplexed with its problems, and the practical guide and solace of all who need counsel and sympathy." the secret of this universal acceptableness of "the pilgrim's progress" lies in the breadth of its religious sympathies. rigid puritan as bunyan was, no book is more completely free from sectarian narrowness. its reach is as wide as christianity itself, and it takes hold of every human heart because it is so intensely human. no apology is needed for presenting mr. froude's eloquent panegyric: "the pilgrim, though in puritan dress, is a genuine man. his experience is so truly human experience that christians of every persuasion can identify themselves with him; and even those who regard christianity itself as but a natural outgrowth of the conscience and intellect, and yet desire to live nobly and make the best of themselves, can recognize familiar footprints in every step of christian's journey. thus 'the pilgrim's progress' is a book which when once read can never be forgotten. we too, every one of us, are pilgrims on the same road; and images and illustrations come back to us from so faithful an itinerary, as we encounter similar trials, and learn for ourselves the accuracy with which bunyan has described them. time cannot impair its interest, or intellectual progress make it cease to be true to experience." dr. brown's appreciative words may be added: "with deepest pathos it enters into the stern battle so real to all of us, into those heart-experiences which make up, for all, the discipline of life. it is this especially which has given to it the mighty hold which it has always had upon the toiling poor, and made it the one book above all books well-thumbed and torn to tatters among them. and it is this which makes it one of the first books translated by the missionary who seeks to give true thoughts of god and life to heathen men." the second part of "the pilgrim's progress" partakes of the character of almost all continuations. it is, in mr. froude's words, "only a feeble reverberation of the first part, which has given it a popularity it would have hardly attained by its own merits. christiana and her children are tolerated for the pilgrim's sake to whom they belong." bunyan seems not to have been insensible of this himself, when in his metrical preface he thus introduces his new work: "go now my little book to every place where my first pilgrim has but shown his face. call at their door; if any say 'who's there?' then answer thus, 'christiana is here.' if they bid thee come in, then enter thou with all thy boys. and then, as thou know'st how, tell who they are, also from whence they came; perhaps they'll know them by their looks or name." but although the second part must be pronounced inferior, on the whole, to the first, it is a work of striking individuality and graphic power, such as bunyan alone could have written. everywhere we find strokes of his peculiar genius, and though in a smaller measure than the first, it has added not a few portraits to bunyan's spiritual picture gallery we should be sorry to miss, and supplied us with racy sayings which stick to the memory. the sweet maid mercy affords a lovely picture of gentle feminine piety, well contrasted with the more vigorous but still thoroughly womanly character of christiana. great-heart is too much of an abstraction: a preacher in the uncongenial disguise of a knightly champion of distressed females and the slayer of giants. but the other new characters have generally a vivid personality. who can forget old honesty, the dull good man with no mental gifts but of dogged sincerity, who though coming from the town of stupidity, four degrees beyond the city of destruction, was "known for a cock of the right kind," because he said the truth and stuck to it; or his companion, mr. fearing, that most troublesome of pilgrims, stumbling at every straw, lying roaring at the slough of despond above a month together, standing shaking and shrinking at the wicket gate, but making no stick at the lions, and at last getting over the river not much above wetshod; or mr. valiant for truth, the native of darkland, standing with his sword drawn and his face all bloody from his three hours' fight with wildhead, inconsiderate, and pragmatick; mr. standfast, blushing to be found on his knees in the enchanted ground, one who loved to hear his lord spoken of, and coveted to set his foot wherever he saw the print of his shoe; mr. feeblemind, the sickly, melancholy pilgrim, at whose door death did usually knock once a day, betaking himself to a pilgrim's life because he was never well at home, resolved to run when he could, and go when he could not run, and creep when he could not go, an enemy to laughter and to gay attire, bringing up the rear of the company with mr. readytohalt hobbling along on his crutches; giant despair's prisoners, mr. despondency, whom he had all but starved to death--and mistress much-afraid his daughter, who went through the river singing, though none could understand what she said? each of these characters has a distinct individuality which lifts them from shadowy abstractions into living men and women. but with all its excellencies, and they are many, the general inferiority of the history of christiana and her children's pilgrimage to that of her husband's must be acknowledged. the story is less skilfully constructed; the interest is sometimes allowed to flag; the dialogues that interrupt the narrative are in places dry and wearisome--too much of sermons in disguise. there is also a want of keeping between the two parts of the allegory. the wicket gate of the first part has become a considerable building with a summer parlour in the second; the shepherds' tents on the delectable mountains have risen into a palace, with a dining-room, and a lookingglass, and a store of jewels; while vanity fair has lost its former bad character, and has become a respectable country town, where christiana and her family, seeming altogether to forget their pilgrimage, settled down comfortably, enjoy the society of the good people of the place, and the sons marry and have children. these same children also cause the reader no little perplexity, when he finds them in the course of the supposed journey transformed from sweet babes who are terrified with the mastiffs barking at the wicket gate, who catch at the boughs for the unripe plums and cry at having to climb the hill; whose faces are stroked by the interpreter; who are catechised and called "good boys" by prudence; who sup on bread crumbled into basins of milk, and are put to bed by mercy--into strong young men, able to go out and fight with a giant, and lend a hand to the pulling down of doubting castle, and becoming husbands and fathers. we cannot but feel the want of _vraisemblance_ which brings the whole company of pilgrims to the banks of the dark river at one time, and sends them over in succession, following one another rapidly through the golden gate of the city. the four boys with their wives and children, it is true, stay behind awhile, but there is an evident incongruity in their doing so when the allegory has brought them all to what stands for the close of their earthly pilgrimage. bunyan's mistake was in gratifying his inventive genius and making his band of pilgrims so large. he could get them together and make them travel in company without any sacrifice of dramatic truth, which, however, he was forced to disregard when the time came for their dismissal. the exquisite pathos of the description of the passage of the river by christian and hopeful blinds us to what may be almost termed the impossibility of two persons passing through the final struggle together, and dying at the same moment, but this charm is wanting in the prosaic picture of the company of fellow-travellers coming down to the water's edge, and waiting till the postman blows his horn and bids them cross. much as the second part contains of what is admirable, and what no one but bunyan could have written, we feel after reading it that, in mr. froude's words, the rough simplicity is gone, and has been replaced by a tone of sentiment which is almost mawkish. "giants, dragons, and angelic champions carry us into a spurious fairyland where the knight-errant is a preacher in disguise. fair ladies and love-matches, however decorously chastened, suit ill with the sternness of the mortal conflict between the soul and sin." with the acknowledged shortcomings of the second part of "the pilgrim's progress," we may be well content that bunyan never carried out the idea hinted at in the closing words of his allegory: "shall it be my lot to go that way again, i may give those that desire it an account of what i am here silent about; in the meantime i bid my reader--adieu." bunyan's second great allegorical work, "the holy war," need not detain us long. being an attempt, and in the nature of things an unsuccessful attempt, to clothe what writers on divinity call "the plan of salvation" in a figurative dress, the narrative, with all its vividness of description in parts, its clearly drawn characters with their picturesque nomenclature, and the stirring vicissitudes of the drama, is necessarily wanting in the personal interest which attaches to an individual man, like christian, and those who are linked with or follow his career. in fact, the tremendous realities of the spiritual history of the human race are entirely unfit for allegorical treatment as a whole. sin, its origin, its consequences, its remedy, and the apparent failure of that remedy though administered by almighty hands, must remain a mystery for all time. the attempts made by bunyan, and by one of much higher intellectual power and greater poetic gifts than bunyan--john milton--to bring that mystery within the grasp of the finite intellect, only render it more perplexing. the proverbial line tells us that- "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." bunyan and milton were as far as possible from being "fools"; but when both these great writers, on the one hand, carry us up into the council chamber of heaven and introduce us to the persons of the ever-blessed trinity, debating, consulting, planning, and resolving, like a sovereign and his ministers when a revolted province has to be brought back to its allegiance; and, on the other hand, take us down to the infernal regions, and makes us privy to the plots and counterplots of the rebel leaders and hearers of their speeches, we cannot but feel that, in spite of the magnificent diction and poetic imagination of the one, and the homely picturesque genius of the other, the grand themes treated of are degraded if not vulgarized, without our being in any way helped to unravel their essential mysteries. in point of individual personal interest, "the holy war" contrasts badly with "the pilgrim's progress." the narrative moves in a more shadowy region. we may admire the workmanship; but the same undefined sense of unreality pursues us through milton's noble epic, the outcome of a divinely-fired genius, and bunyan's humble narrative, drawing its scenes and circumstances, and to some extent its _dramatis personae_, from the writer's own surroundings in the town and corporation of bedford, and his brief but stirring experience as a soldier in the great parliamentary war. the catastrophe also is eminently unsatisfactory. when christian and hopeful enter the golden gates we feel that the story has come to its proper end, which we have been looking for all along. but the conclusion of "the holy war" is too much like the closing chapter of "rasselas"--"a conclusion in which nothing is concluded." after all the endless vicissitudes of the conflict, and the final and glorious victory of emmanuel and his forces, and the execution of the ringleaders of the mutiny, the issue still remains doubtful. the town of mansoul is left open to fresh attacks. diabolus is still at large. carnal sense breaks prison and continues to lurk in the town. unbelief, that "nimble jack," slips away, and can never be laid hold of. these, therefore, and some few others of the more subtle of the diabolonians, continue to make their home in mansoul, and will do so until mansoul ceases to dwell in the kingdom of universe. it is true they turn chicken-hearted after the other leaders of their party have been taken and executed, and keep themselves quiet and close, lurking in dens and holes lest they should be snapped up by emmanuel's men. if unbelief or any of his crew venture to show themselves in the streets, the whole town is up in arms against them; the very children raise a hue and cry against them and seek to stone them. but all in vain. mansoul, it is true, enjoys some good degree of peace and quiet. her prince takes up his residence in her borders. her captains and soldiers do their duties. she minds her trade with the heavenly land afar off; also she is busy in her manufacture. but with the remnants of the diabolonians still within her walls, ready to show their heads on the least relaxation of strict watchfulness, keeping up constant communication with diabolus and the other lords of the pit, and prepared to open the gates to them when opportunity offers, this peace can not be lasting. the old battle will have to be fought over again, only to end in the same undecisive result. and so it must be to the end. if untrue to art, bunyan is true to fact. whether we regard mansoul as the soul of a single individual or as the whole human race, no final victory can be looked for so long as it abides in "the country of universe." the flesh will lust against the spirit, the regenerated man will be in danger of being brought into captivity to the law of sin and death unless he keeps up his watchfulness and maintains the struggle to the end. and it is here, that, for purposes of art, not for purposes of truth, the real failing of "the holy war" lies. the drama of mansoul is incomplete, and whether individually or collectively, must remain incomplete till man puts on a new nature, and the victory, once for all gained on calvary, is consummated, in the fulness of time, at the restitution of all things. there is no uncertainty what the end will be. evil must be put down, and good must triumph at last. but the end is not yet, and it seems as far off as ever. the army of doubters, under their several captains, election doubters, vocation doubters, salvation doubters, grace doubters, with their general the great lord incredulity at their head, reinforced by many fresh regiments under novel standards, unknown and unthought of in bunyan's days, taking the place of those whose power is past, is ever making new attacks upon poor mansoul, and terrifying feeble souls with their threatenings. whichever way we look there is much to puzzle, much to grieve over, much that to our present limited view is entirely inexplicable. but the mind that accepts the loving will and wisdom of god as the law of the universe, can rest in the calm assurance that all, however mysteriously, is fulfilling his eternal designs, and that though he seems to permit "his work to be spoilt, his power defied, and even his victories when won made useless," it is but seeming,--that the triumph of evil is but temporary, and that these apparent failures and contradictions, are slowly but surely working out and helping forward "the one unseen divine event to which the whole creation moves." "the mysteries and contradictions which the christian revelation leaves unsolved are made tolerable by hope." to adopt bunyan's figurative language in the closing paragraph of his allegory, the day is certainly coming when the famous town of mansoul shall be taken down and transported "every stick and stone" to emmanuel's land, and there set up for the father's habitation in such strength and glory as it never saw before. no diabolonian shall be able to creep into its streets, burrow in its walls, or be seen in its borders. no evil tidings shall trouble its inhabitants, nor sound of diabolian drum be heard there. sorrow and grief shall be ended, and life, always sweet, always new, shall last longer than they could even desire it, even all the days of eternity. meanwhile let those who have such a glorious hope set before them keep clean and white the liveries their lord has given them, and wash often in the open fountain. let them believe in his love, live upon his word; watch, fight, and pray, and hold fast till he come. one more work of bunyan's still remains to be briefly noticed, as bearing the characteristic stamp of his genius, "the life and death of mr. badman." the original idea of this book was to furnish a contrast to "the pilgrim's progress." as in that work he had described the course of a man setting out on his course heavenwards, struggling onwards through temptation, trials, and difficulties, and entering at last through the golden gates into the city of god, so in this later work his purpose was to depict the career of a man whose face from the first was turned in the opposite direction, going on from bad to worse, ever becoming more and more irretrievably evil, fitter and fitter for the bottomless pit; his life full of sin and his death without repentance; reaping the fruit of his sins in hopeless sinfulness. that this was the original purpose of the work, bunyan tells us in his preface. it came into his mind, he says, as in the former book he had written concerning the progress of the pilgrim from this world to glory, so in this second book to write of the life and death of the ungodly, and of their travel from this world to hell. the new work, however, as in almost every respect it differs from the earlier one, so it is decidedly inferior to it. it is totally unlike "the pilgrim's progress" both in form and execution. the one is an allegory, the other a tale, describing without imagery or metaphor, in the plainest language, the career of a "vulgar, middle-class, unprincipled scoundrel." while "the pilgrim's progress" pursues the narrative form throughout, only interrupted by dialogues between the leading characters, "mr. badman's career" is presented to the world in a dialogue between a certain mr. wiseman and mr. attentive. mr. wiseman tells the story, and mr. attentive supplies appropriate reflections on it. the narrative is needlessly burdened with a succession of short sermons, in the form of didactic discourses on lying, stealing, impurity, and the other vices of which the hero of the story was guilty, and which brought him to his miserable end. the plainness of speech with which some of these evil doings are enlarged upon, and mr. badman's indulgence in them described, makes portions of the book very disagreeable, and indeed hardly profitable reading. with omissions, however, the book well deserves perusal, as a picture such as only bunyan or his rival in lifelike portraiture, defoe, could have drawn of vulgar english life in the latter part of the seventeenth century, in a commonplace country town such as bedford. it is not at all a pleasant picture. the life described, when not gross, is sordid and foul, is mean and commonplace. but as a description of english middle-class life at the epoch of the restoration and revolution, it is invaluable for those who wish to put themselves in touch with that period. the anecdotes introduced to illustrate bunyan's positions of god's judgment upon swearers and sinners, convicting him of a credulity and a harshness of feeling one is sorry to think him capable of, are very interesting for the side-lights they throw upon the times and the people who lived in them. it would take too long to give a sketch of the story, even if a summary could give any real estimate of its picturesque and vivid power. it is certainly a remarkable, if an offensive book. as with "robinson crusoe" and defoe's other tales, we can hardly believe that we have not a real history before us. we feel that there is no reason why the events recorded should not have happened. there are no surprises; no unlooked-for catastrophes; no providential interpositions to punish the sinner or rescue the good man. badman's pious wife is made to pay the penalty of allowing herself to be deceived by a tall, good-looking, hypocritical scoundrel. he himself pursues his evil way to the end, and "dies like a lamb, or as men call it, like a chrisom child sweetly and without fear," but the selfsame mr. badman still, not only in name, but in condition; sinning onto the last, and dying with a heart that cannot repent. mr. froude's summing up of this book is so masterly that we make no apology for presenting it to our readers. "bunyan conceals nothing, assumes nothing, and exaggerates nothing. he makes his bad man sharp and shrewd. he allows sharpness and shrewdness to bring him the reward which such qualities in fact command. badman is successful; is powerful; he enjoys all the pleasures which money can bring; his bad wife helps him to ruin, but otherwise he is not unhappy, and he dies in peace. bunyan has made him a brute, because such men do become brutes. it is the real punishment of brutal and selfish habits. there the figure stands--a picture of a man in the rank of english life with which bunyan was most familiar; travelling along the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire, as the way to emmanuel's land was through the slough of despond and the valley of the shadow of death. pleasures are to be found among the primroses, such pleasures as a brute can be gratified by. yet the reader feels that even if there was no bonfire, he would still prefer to be with christian." footnotes {1} a small enclosure behind a cottage. english men of letters edited by john morley bunyan by james anthony froude london macmillan and co. 1880 contents. chapter i. page early life 1 chapter ii. conviction of sin 16 chapter iii. grace abounding 35 chapter iv. call to the ministry 52 chapter v. arrest and trial 65 chapter vi. the bedford gaol 78 chapter vii. life and death of mr. badman 90 chapter viii. the holy war 114 chapter ix. the pilgrim's progress 151 chapter x. last days and death 173 bunyan. chapter i. early life. 'i was of a low and inconsiderable generation, my father's house being of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all families in the land.' 'i never went to school, to aristotle or plato, but was brought up in my father's house in a very mean condition, among a company of poor countrymen.' 'nevertheless, i bless god that by this door he brought me into the world to partake of the grace and life that is by christ in his gospel.' this is the account given of himself and his origin by a man whose writings have for two centuries affected the spiritual opinions of the english race in every part of the world more powerfully than any book or books, except the bible. john bunyan was born at elstow, a village near bedford, in the year 1628. it was a memorable epoch in english history, for in that year the house of commons extorted the consent of charles i. to the petition of right. the stir of politics, however, did not reach the humble household into which the little boy was introduced. his father was hardly occupied in earning bread for his wife and children as a mender of pots and kettles: a tinker,--working in neighbours' houses or at home, at such business as might be brought to him. 'the bunyans,' says a friend, 'were of the national religion, as men of that calling commonly were.' bunyan himself, in a passage which has been always understood to refer to his father, describes him 'as an honest poor labouring man, who, like adam unparadised, had all the world to get his bread in, and was very careful to maintain his family.' in those days there were no village schools in england; the education of the poor was an apprenticeship to agriculture or handicraft; their religion they learnt at home or in church. young bunyan was more fortunate. in bedford there was a grammar school, which had been founded in queen mary's time by the lord mayor of london, sir william harper. hither, when he was old enough to walk to and fro, over the mile of road between elstow and bedford, the child was sent, if not to learn aristotle and plato, to learn at least 'to read and write according to the rate of other poor men's children.' if religion was not taught at school, it was taught with some care in the cottages and farmhouses by parents and masters. it was common in many parts of england, as late as the end of the last century, for the farmers to gather their apprentices about them on sunday afternoons, and to teach them the catechism. rude as was bunyan's home, religious notions of some kind had been early and vividly impressed upon him. he caught, indeed, the ordinary habits of the boys among whom he was thrown. he learnt to use bad language, and he often lied. when a child's imagination is exceptionally active, the temptations to untruth are correspondingly powerful. the inventive faculty has its dangers, and bunyan was eminently gifted in that way. he was a violent, passionate boy besides, and thus he says of himself that for lying and swearing he had no equal, and that his parents did not sufficiently correct him. wickedness, he declares in his own remorseful story of his early years, became a second nature to him. but the estimate which a man forms of himself in later life, if he has arrived at any strong abhorrence of moral evil, is harsher than others at the time would have been likely to have formed. even then the poor child's conscience must have been curiously sensitive, and it revenged itself upon him in singular tortures. 'my sins,' he says, 'did so offend the lord that even in my childhood he did scare and affright me with fearful dreams, and did terrify me with dreadful visions. i have been in my bed greatly afflicted while asleep, with apprehensions of devils and wicked spirits, who still, as i then thought, laboured to draw me away with them, of which i could never be rid. i was afflicted with thoughts of the day of judgment night and day, trembling at the thoughts of the fearful torments of hell fire.' when, at ten years old, he was running about with his companions in 'his sports and childish vanities,' these terrors continually recurred to him, yet 'he would not let go his sins.' such a boy required rather to be encouraged than checked in seeking innocent amusements. swearing and lying were definite faults which ought to have been corrected; but his parents, perhaps, saw that there was something unusual in the child. to them he probably appeared not worse than other boys, but considerably better. they may have thought it more likely that he would conquer his own bad inclinations by his own efforts, than that they could mend him by rough rebukes. when he left school he would naturally have been bound apprentice, but his father brought him up at his own trade. thus he lived at home, and grew to manhood there, forming his ideas of men and things out of such opportunities as the elstow neighbourhood afforded. from the time when the reformation brought them a translation of it, the bible was the book most read--it was often the only book which was read--in humble english homes. familiarity with the words had not yet trampled the sacred writings into practical barrenness. no doubts or questions had yet risen about the bible's nature or origin. it was received as the authentic word of god himself. the old and new testament alike represented the world as the scene of a struggle between good and evil spirits; and thus every ordinary incident of daily life was an instance or illustration of god's providence. this was the universal popular belief, not admitted only by the intellect, but accepted and realised by the imagination. no one questioned it, save a few speculative philosophers in their closets. the statesman in the house of commons, the judge on the bench, the peasant in a midland village, interpreted literally by this rule the phenomena which they experienced or saw. they not only believed that god had miraculously governed the israelites, but they believed that as directly and immediately he governed england in the seventeenth century. they not only believed that there had been a witch at endor, but they believed that there were witches in their own villages, who had made compacts with the devil himself. they believed that the devil still literally walked the earth like a roaring lion: that he and the evil angels were perpetually labouring to destroy the souls of men; and that god was equally busy overthrowing the devil's work, and bringing sin and crimes to eventual punishment. in this light the common events of life were actually looked at and understood, and the air was filled with anecdotes so told as to illustrate the belief. these stories and these experiences were bunyan's early mental food. one of them, which had deeply impressed the imagination of the midland counties, was the story of 'old tod.' this man came one day into court, in the summer assizes at bedford, 'all in a dung sweat,' to demand justice upon himself as a felon. no one had accused him, but god's judgment was not to be escaped, and he was forced to accuse himself. 'my lord,' said old tod to the judge, 'i have been a thief from my childhood. i have been a thief ever since. there has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this town, but i have been privy to it.' the judge, after a conference, agreed to indict him of certain felonies which he had acknowledged. he pleaded guilty, implicating his wife along with him, and they were both hanged. an intense belief in the moral government of the world creates what it insists upon. horror at sin forces the sinner to confess it, and makes others eager to punish it. 'god's revenge against murder and adultery' becomes thus an actual fact, and justifies the conviction in which it rises. bunyan was specially attentive to accounts of judgments upon swearing, to which he was himself addicted. he tells a story of a man at wimbledon, who, after uttering some strange blasphemy, was struck with sickness, and died cursing. another such scene he probably witnessed himself,[1] and never forgot. an alehouse-keeper in the neighbourhood of elstow had a son who was half-witted. the favourite amusement, when a party was collected drinking, was for the father to provoke the lad's temper, and for the lad to curse his father and wish the devil had him. the devil at last did have the alehouse-keeper, and rent and tore him till he died. 'i,' says bunyan, 'was eye and ear witness of what i here say. i have heard ned in his roguery cursing his father, and his father laughing thereat most heartily, still provoking of ned to curse that his mirth might be increased. i saw his father also when he was possessed. i saw him in one of his fits, and saw his flesh as it was thought gathered up in an heap about the bigness of half an egg, to the unutterable torture and affliction of the old man. there was also one freeman, who was more than an ordinary doctor, sent for to cast out the devil, and i was there when he attempted to do it. the manner whereof was this. they had the possessed in an outroom, and laid him upon his belly upon a form, with his head hanging down over the form's end. then they bound him down thereto; which done, they set a pan of coals under his mouth, and put something therein which made a great smoke--by this means, as it was said, to fetch out the devil. there they kept the man till he was almost smothered in the smoke, but no devil came out of him, at which freeman was somewhat abashed, the man greatly afflicted, and i made to go away wondering and fearing. in a little time, therefore, that which possessed the man carried him out of the world, according to the cursed wishes of his son.' [footnote 1: the story is told by mr. attentive in the 'life of mr. badman;' but it is almost certain that bunyan was relating his own experience.] the wretched alehouse-keeper's life was probably sacrificed in this attempt to dispossess the devil. but the incident would naturally leave its mark on the mind of an impressionable boy. bunyan ceased to frequent such places after he began to lead a religious life. the story, therefore, most likely belongs to the experiences of his first youth after he left school; and there may have been many more of a similar kind, for, except that he was steady at his trade, he grew up a wild lad, the ringleader of the village apprentices in all manner of mischief. he had no books, except a life of sir bevis of southampton, which would not tend to sober him; indeed, he soon forgot all that he had learnt at school, and took to amusements and doubtful adventures, orchard-robbing, perhaps, or poaching, since he hints that he might have brought himself within reach of the law. in the most passionate language of self-abhorrence, he accuses himself of all manner of sins, yet it is improbable that he appeared to others what in later life he appeared to himself. he judged his own conduct as he believed that it was regarded by his maker, by whom he supposed eternal torment to have been assigned as the just retribution for the lightest offence. yet he was never drunk. he who never forgot anything with which he could charge himself, would not have passed over drunkenness, if he could remember that he had been guilty of it; and he distinctly asserts, also, that he was never in a single instance unchaste. in our days, a rough tinker who could say as much for himself after he had grown to manhood, would be regarded as a model of self-restraint. if, in bedford and the neighbourhood, there was no young man more vicious than bunyan, the moral standard of an english town in the seventeenth century must have been higher than believers in progress will be pleased to allow. he declares that he was without god in the world, and in the sense which he afterwards attached to the word this was probably true. but serious thoughts seldom ceased to work in him. dreams only reproduce the forms and feelings with which the waking imagination is most engaged. bunyan's rest continued to be haunted with the phantoms which had terrified him when a child. he started in his sleep, and frightened the family with his cries. he saw evil spirits in monstrous shapes and fiends blowing flames out of their nostrils. 'once,' says a biographer, who knew him well, and had heard the story of his visions from his own lips, 'he dreamed that he saw the face of heaven as it were on fire, the firmament crackling and shivering with the noise of mighty thunder, and an archangel flew in the midst of heaven, sounding a trumpet, and a glorious throne was seated in the east, whereon sat one in brightness like the morning star. upon which, he thinking it was the end of the world, fell upon his knees and said, "oh, lord, have mercy on me! what shall i do? the day of judgment is come and i am not prepared."' at another time 'he dreamed that he was in a pleasant place jovial and rioting, when an earthquake rent the earth, out of which came bloody flames, and the figures of men tossed up in globes of fire, and falling down again with horrible cries and shrieks and execrations, while devils mingled among them, and laughed aloud at their torments. as he stood trembling, the earth sank under him, and a circle of flames embraced him. but when he fancied he was at the point to perish, one in shining white raiment descended and plucked him out of that dreadful place, while the devils cried after him to take him to the punishment which his sins had deserved. yet he escaped the danger, and leapt for joy when he awoke and found it was a dream.' mr. southey, who thinks wisely that bunyan's biographers have exaggerated his early faults, considers that at worst he was a sort of 'blackguard.' this, too, is a wrong word. young village blackguards do not dream of archangels flying through the midst of heaven, nor were these imaginations invented afterwards, or rhetorically exaggerated. bunyan was undoubtedly given to story-telling as a boy, and the recollection of it made him peculiarly scrupulous in his statements in later life. one trait he mentions of himself which no one would have thought of who had not experienced the feeling, yet every person can understand it and sympathise with it. these spectres and hobgoblins drove him wild. he says, 'i was so overcome with despair of life and heaven, that i should often wish either that there had been no hell, or that i had been a devil; supposing that they were only tormentors, and that, if it must needs be that i went thither, i might rather be a tormentor than tormented myself.' the visions at last ceased. god left him to himself, as he puts it, and gave him over to his own wicked inclinations. he fell, he says, into all kinds of vice and ungodliness without further check. the expression is very strong, yet when we look for particulars we can find only that he was fond of games which puritan preciseness disapproved. he had high animal spirits, and engaged in lawless enterprises. once or twice he nearly lost his life. he is sparing of details of his outward history, for he regarded it as nothing but vanity; but his escapes from death were providences, and therefore he mentions them. he must have gone to the coast somewhere, for he was once almost drowned in a creek of the sea. he fell out of a boat into the river at another time, and it seems that he could not swim. afterwards he seized hold of an adder, and was not bitten by it. these mercies were sent as warnings, but he says that he was too careless to profit by them. he thought that he had forgotten god altogether, and yet it is plain that he had not forgotten. a bad young man, who has shaken off religion because it is a restraint, observes with malicious amusement the faults of persons who make a profession of religion. he infers that they do not really believe it, and only differ from their neighbours in being hypocrites. bunyan notes this disposition in his own history of mr. badman. of himself, he says: 'though i could sin with delight and ease, and take pleasure in the villanies of my companions, even then, if i saw wicked things done by them that professed goodness, it would make my spirit tremble. once, when i was in the height of my vanity, hearing one swear that was reckoned a religious man, it made my heart to ache.' he was now seventeen, and we can form a tolerably accurate picture of him--a tall, active lad, working as his father's apprentice, at his pots and kettles, ignorant of books, and with no notion of the world beyond what he could learn in his daily drudgery, and the talk of the alehouse and the village green; inventing lies to amuse his companions, and swearing that they were true; playing bowls and tipcat, ready for any reckless action, and always a leader in it, yet all the while singularly pure from the more brutal forms of vice, and haunted with feverish thoughts, which he tried to forget in amusements. it has been the fashion to take his account of himself literally, and represent him as the worst of reprobates, in order to magnify the effects of his conversion, and perhaps to make intelligible to his admiring followers the reproaches which he heaps upon himself. they may have felt that they could not be wrong in explaining his own language in the only sense in which they could attach a meaning to it. yet, sinner though he may have been, like all the rest of us, his sins were not the sins of coarseness and vulgarity. they were the sins of a youth of sensitive nature and very peculiar gifts: gifts which brought special temptations with them, and inclined him to be careless and desperate, yet from causes singularly unlike those which are usually operative in dissipated and uneducated boys. it was now the year 1645. naseby field was near, and the first civil war was drawing to its close. at this crisis bunyan was, as he says, drawn to be a soldier; and it is extremely characteristic of him and of the body to which he belonged, that he leaves us to guess on which side he served. he does not tell us himself. his friends in after life did not care to ask him, or he to inform them, or else they also thought the matter of too small importance to be worth mentioning with exactness. there were two traditions, and his biographers chose between them as we do. close as the connection was in that great struggle between civil and religious liberty--flung as bunyan was flung into the very centre of the conflict between the english people and the crown and church and aristocracy--victim as he was himself of intolerance and persecution, he never but once took any political part, and then only in signing an address to cromwell. he never showed any active interest in political questions; and if he spoke on such questions at all after the restoration, it was to advise submission to the stuart government. by the side of the stupendous issues of human life, such miserable _rights_ as men might pretend to in this world were not worth contending for. the only _right_ of man that he thought much about, was the right to be eternally damned if he did not lay hold of grace. king and subject were alike creatures whose sole significance lay in their individual immortal souls. their relations with one another upon earth were nothing in the presence of the awful judgment which awaited them both. thus whether bunyan's brief career in the army was under charles or under fairfax must remain doubtful. probability is on the side of his having been with the royalists. his father was of 'the national religion.' he himself had as yet no special convictions of his own. john gifford, the baptist minister at bedford, had been a royalist. the only incident which bunyan speaks of connected with his military experience points in the same direction. 'when i was a soldier,' he says, 'i was with others drawn out to go to such a place to besiege it. but when i was just ready to go, one of the company desired to go in my room. coming to the siege as he stood sentinel he was shot in the heart with a musket bullet and died.' tradition agrees that the place to which these words refer was leicester. leicester was stormed by the king's troops a few days before the battle of naseby. it was recovered afterwards by the parliamentarians, but on the second occasion there was no fighting, as it capitulated without a shot being fired. mr. carlyle supposes that bunyan was not with the attacking party, but was in the town as one of the garrison, and was taken prisoner there. but this cannot be, for he says expressly that he was one of the besiegers. legend gathers freely about eminent men, about men especially who are eminent in religion, whether they are catholic or protestant. lord macaulay is not only positive that the hero of the english dissenters fought on the side of the commonwealth, but he says, without a word of caution on the imperfection of the evidence, 'his greatheart, his captain boanerges, and his captain credence, are evidently portraits of which the originals were among those martial saints who fought and expounded in fairfax's army.'[2] [footnote 2: _life of bunyan_: collected works, vol. vii. p. 299.] if the martial saints had impressed bunyan so deeply, it is inconceivable that he should have made no more allusion to his military service than in this brief passage. he refers to the siege and all connected with it merely as another occasion of his own providential escapes from death. let the truth of this be what it may, the troop to which he belonged was soon disbanded. he returned at the end of the year to his tinker's work at elstow, much as he had left it. the saints, if he had met with saints, had not converted him. 'i sinned still,' he says, 'and grew more and more rebellious against god and careless of my own salvation.' an important change of another kind, however, lay before him. young as he was he married. his friends advised it, for they thought that marriage would make him steady. the step was less imprudent than it would have been had bunyan been in a higher rank of life, or had aimed at rising into it. the girl whom he chose was a poor orphan, but she had been carefully and piously brought up, and from her acceptance of him, something more may be inferred about his character. had he been a dissolute idle scamp, it is unlikely that a respectable woman would have become his wife when he was a mere boy. his sins, whatever these were, had not injured his outward circumstances; it is clear that all along he worked skilfully and industriously at his tinkering business. he had none of the habits which bring men to beggary. from the beginning of his life to the end of it he was a prudent, careful man, and, considering the station to which he belonged, a very successful man. 'i lighted on a wife,' he says, 'whose father was counted godly. we came together as poor as poor might be, not having so much household stuff as a dish or a spoon between us. but she had for her portion two books, "the plain man's pathway to heaven," and "the practice of piety," which her father had left her when he died. in these two books i sometimes read with her. i found some things pleasing to me, but all this while i met with no conviction. she often told me what a godly man her father was, how he would reprove and correct vice both in his house and among his neighbours, what a strict and holy life he lived in his day both in word and deed. these books, though they did not reach my heart, did light in me some desire to religion.' there was still an established church in england, and the constitution of it had not yet been altered. the presbyterian platform threatened to take the place of episcopacy, and soon did take it; but the clergyman was still a priest and was still regarded with pious veneration in the country districts as a semi-supernatural being. the altar yet stood in its place, the minister still appeared in his surplice, and the prayers of the liturgy continued to be read or intoned. the old familiar bells, catholic as they were in all the emotions which they suggested, called the congregation together with their musical peal, though in the midst of triumphant puritanism. the 'book of sports,' which, under an order from charles i., had been read regularly in church, had in 1644 been laid under a ban; but the gloom of a presbyterian sunday was, is, and for ever will be detestable to the natural man; and the elstow population gathered persistently after service on the village green for their dancing, and their leaping, and their archery. long habit cannot be transformed in a day by an edict of council, and amidst army manifestoes and battles of marston moor, and a king dethroned and imprisoned, old english life in bedfordshire preserved its familiar features. these sunday sports had been a special delight to bunyan, and it is to them which he refers in the following passage, when speaking of his persistent wickedness. on his marriage he became regular and respectable in his habits. he says, 'i fell in with the religion of the times to go to church twice a day, very devoutly to say and sing as the others did, yet retaining my wicked life. withal i was so overrun with the spirit of superstition that i adored with great devotion even all things, both the high place, priest, clerk, vestment, service, and what else belonging to the church, counting all things holy therein contained, and especially the priest and clerk most happy and without doubt greatly blessed. this conceit grew so strong in my spirit, that had i but seen a priest, though never so sordid and debauched in his life, i should find my spirit fall under him, reverence, and be knit to him. their name, their garb, and work did so intoxicate and bewitch me.' surely if there were no other evidence, these words would show that the writer of them had never listened to the expositions of the martial saints. chapter ii. conviction of sin. the 'pilgrim's progress' is the history of the struggle of human nature to overcome temptation and shake off the bondage of sin, under the convictions which prevailed among serious men in england in the seventeenth century. the allegory is the life of its author cast in an imaginative form. every step in christian's journey had been first trodden by bunyan himself; every pang of fear and shame, every spasm of despair, every breath of hope and consolation, which is there described, is but a reflexion as on a mirror from personal experience. it has spoken to the hearts of all later generations of englishmen because it came from the heart; because it is the true record of the genuine emotions of a human soul; and to such a record the emotions of other men will respond, as one stringed instrument vibrates responsively to another. the poet's power lies in creating sympathy; but he cannot, however richly gifted, stir feelings which he has not himself known in all their intensity. ut ridentibus arrident ita flentibus adflent humani vultus. si vis me flere dolendum est primum ipsi tibi. the religious history of man is essentially the same in all ages. it takes its rise in the duality of his nature. he is an animal, and as an animal he desires bodily pleasure and shrinks from bodily pain. as a being capable of morality, he is conscious that for him there exists a right and wrong. something, whatever that something may be, binds him to choose one and avoid the other. this is his religion, his religatio, his obligation, in the sense in which the romans, from whom we take it, used the word; and obligation implies some superior power to which man owes obedience. the conflict between his two dispositions agitates his heart, and perplexes his intellect. to do what the superior power requires of him, he must thwart his inclinations. he dreads punishment, if he neglects to do it. he invents methods by which he can indulge his appetites, and finds a substitute by which he can propitiate his invisible ruler or rulers. he offers sacrifices; he institutes ceremonies and observances. this is the religion of the body, the religion of fear. it is what we call superstition. in his nobler moods he feels that this is but to evade the difficulty. he perceives that the sacrifice required is the sacrifice of himself. it is not the penalty for sin which he must fear, but the sin itself. he must conquer his own lower nature. he must detach his heart from his pleasures, and he must love good for its own sake, and because it is his only real good; and this is spiritual religion or piety. between these two forms of worship of the unseen, the human race has swayed to and fro from the first moment in which they learnt to discern between good and evil. superstition attracts, because it is indulgent to immorality by providing means by which god can be pacified. but it carries its antidote along with it, for it keeps alive the sense of god's existence; and when it has produced its natural effects, when the believer rests in his observances and lives practically as if there was no god at all, the conscience again awakes. sacrifices and ceremonies become detested as idolatry, and religion becomes conviction of sin, a fiery determination to fight with the whole soul against appetite, vanity, self-seeking, and every mean propensity which the most sensitive alarm can detect. the battle unhappily is attended with many vicissitudes. the victory, though practically it may be won, is never wholly won. the struggle brings with it every variety of emotion, alternations of humility and confidence, despondency and hope. the essence of it is always the same--the effort of the higher nature to overcome the lower. the form of it varies from period to period, according to the conditions of the time, the temperament of different people, the conception of the character of the supreme power, which the state of knowledge enables men to form. it will be found even when the puzzled intellect can see no light in heaven at all, in the stern and silent fulfilment of moral duty. it will appear as enthusiasm; it will appear as asceticism. it will appear wherever there is courage to sacrifice personal enjoyment for a cause believed to be holy. we must all live. we must all, as we suppose, in one shape or other give account for our actions; and accounts of the conflict are most individually interesting when it is an open wrestle with the enemy; as we find in the penances and austerities of the catholic saints, or when the difficulties of belief are confessed and detailed, as in david's psalms, or in the epistles of st. paul. st. paul, like the rest of mankind, found a law in his members warring against the law which was in his heart. the problem presented to him was how one was to be brought into subjection to the other, and the solution was by 'the putting on of christ.' st. paul's mind was charged with the ideas of oriental and greek philosophy then prevalent in the roman empire. his hearers understood him, because he spoke in the language of the prevailing speculations. we who have not the clue cannot, perhaps, perfectly understand him; but his words have been variously interpreted as human intelligence has expanded, and have formed the basis of the two great theologies which have been developed out of christianity. the christian religion taught that evil could not be overcome by natural human strength. the son of god had come miraculously upon earth, had lived a life of stainless purity, and had been offered as a sacrifice to redeem men conditionally from the power of sin. the conditions, as english protestant theology understands them, are nowhere more completely represented than in the 'pilgrim's progress.' the catholic theology, rising as it did in the two centuries immediately following st. paul, approached probably nearer to what he really intended to say. catholic theology, as a system, is a development of platonism. the platonists had discovered that the seat of moral evil was material substance. in matter, and therefore in the human body, there was either some inherent imperfection, or some ingrained perversity and antagonism to good. the soul so long as it was attached to the body was necessarily infected by it; and as human life on earth consisted in the connection of soul and body, every single man was necessarily subject to infirmity. catholic theology accepted the position and formulated an escape from it. the evil in matter was a fact. it was explained by adam's sin. but there it was. the taint was inherited by all adam's posterity. the flesh of man was incurably vitiated, and if he was to be saved a new body must be prepared for him. this christ had done. that christ's body was not as other men's bodies was proved after his resurrection, when it showed itself independent of the limitations of extended substance. in virtue of these mysterious properties it became the body of the corporate church into which believers were admitted by baptism. the natural body was not at once destroyed, but a new element was introduced into it, by the power of which, assisted by penance and mortification, and the spiritual food of the eucharist, the grosser qualities were gradually subdued, and the corporeal system was changed. then body and spirit became alike pure together, and the saint became capable of obedience, so perfect as not only to suffice for himself, but to supply the wants of others. the corruptible put on incorruption. the bodies of the saints worked miracles, and their flesh was found unaffected by decay after hundreds of years. this belief so long as it was sincerely held issued naturally in characters of extreme beauty; of beauty so great as almost to demonstrate its truth. the purpose of it, so far as it affected action, was self-conquest. those who try with their whole souls to conquer themselves find the effort lightened by a conviction that they are receiving supernatural assistance; and the form in which the catholic theory supposed the assistance to be given was at least perfectly innocent. but it is in the nature of human speculations, though they may have been entertained at first in entire good faith, to break down under trial, if they are not in conformity with fact. catholic theology furnished europe with a rule of faith and action which lasted 1500 years. for the last three centuries of that period it was changing from a religion into a superstition, till, from being the world's guide, it became its scandal. 'the body of christ' had become a kingdom of this world, insulting its subjects by the effrontery of its ministers, the insolence of its pretensions, the mountains of lies which it was teaching as sacred truths. luther spoke; and over half the western world the catholic church collapsed, and a new theory and christianity had to be constructed out of the fragments of it. there was left behind a fixed belief in god and in the bible as his revealed word, in a future judgment, in the fall of man, in the atonement made for sin by the death of christ, and in the new life which was made possible by his resurrection. the change was in the conception of the method by which the atonement was imagined to be efficacious. the material or sacramental view of it, though it lingered inconsistently in the mind even of luther himself, was substantially gone. new ideas adopted in enthusiasm are necessarily extreme. the wrath of god was held to be inseparably and eternally attached to every act of sin, however infirm the sinner. that his nature could be changed, and that he could be mystically strengthened by incorporation with christ's body in the church was contrary to experience, and was no longer credible. the conscience of every man, in the church or out of it, told him that he was daily and hourly offending. god's law demanded a life of perfect obedience, eternal death being the penalty of the lightest breach of it. no human being was capable of such perfect obedience. he could not do one single act which would endure so strict a scrutiny. all mankind were thus included under sin. the catholic purgatory was swept away. it had degenerated into a contrivance for feeding the priests with money, and it implied that human nature could in itself be renovated by its own sufferings. thus nothing lay before the whole race except everlasting reprobation. but the door of hope had been opened on the cross of christ. christ had done what man could never do. he had fulfilled the law perfectly. god was ready to accept christ's perfect righteousness as a substitute for the righteousness which man was required to present to him, but could not. the conditions of acceptance were no longer sacraments or outward acts, or lame and impotent efforts after a moral life, but faith in what christ had done; a complete self-abnegation, a resigned consciousness of utter unworthiness, and an unreserved acceptance of the mercy held out through the atonement. it might have been thought that since man was born so weak that it was impossible for him to do what the law required, consideration would be had for his infirmity; that it was even dangerous to attribute to the almighty a character so arbitrary as that he would exact an account from his creatures which the creature's necessary inadequacy rendered him incapable of meeting. but the impetuosity of the new theology would listen to no such excuses. god was infinitely pure, and nothing impure could stand in his sight. man, so long as he rested on merit of his own, must be for ever excluded from his presence. he must accept grace on the terms on which it was held out to him. then and then only god would extend his pity to him. he was no longer a child of wrath: he was god's child. his infirmities remained, but they were constantly obliterated by the merits of christ. and he had strength given to him, partially, at least, to overcome temptation, under which, but for that strength, he would have fallen. though nothing which he could do could deserve reward, yet he received grace in proportion to the firmness of his belief; and his efforts after obedience, imperfect though they might be, were accepted for christ's sake. a good life, or a constant effort after a good life, was still the object which a man was bound to labour after. though giving no claim to pardon, still less for reward, it was the necessary fruit of a sense of what christ had done, and of love and gratitude towards him. good works were the test of saving faith, and if there were no signs of them, the faith was barren: it was not real faith at all. this was the puritan belief in england in the seventeenth century. the reason starts at it, but all religion is paradoxical to reason. god hates sin, yet sin exists. he is omnipotent, yet evil is not overcome. the will of man is free, or there can be no guilt, yet the action of the will, so far as experience can throw light on its operation, is as much determined by antecedent causes as every other natural force. prayer is addressed to a being assumed to be omniscient, who knows better what is good for us than we can know, who sees our thought without requiring to hear them in words, whose will is fixed and cannot be changed. prayer, therefore, in the eye of reason is an impertinence. the puritan theology is not more open to objection on the ground of unreasonableness than the catholic theology or any other which regards man as answerable to god for his conduct. we must judge of a creed by its effects on character, as we judge of the wholesomeness of food as it conduces to bodily health. and the creed which swept like a wave through england at that time, and recommended itself to the noblest and most powerful intellects, produced also in those who accepted it a horror of sin, an enthusiasm for justice, purity, and manliness, which can be paralleled only in the first age of christianity. certainly there never was such a theory to take man's conceit out of him. he was a miserable wretch, so worthless at his best as to deserve everlasting perdition. if he was to be saved at all, he could be saved only by the unmerited grace of god. in himself he was a child of the devil; and hell, not in metaphor, but in hard and palpable fact, inevitably waited for him. this belief, or the affectation of this belief, continues to be professed, but without a realisation of its tremendous meaning. the form of words is repeated by multitudes who do not care to think what they are saying. who can measure the effect of such a conviction upon men who were in earnest about their souls, who were assured that this account of their situation was actually true, and on whom, therefore, it bore with increasing weight in proportion to their sincerity? with these few prefatory words, i now return to bunyan. he had begun to go regularly to church, and by church he meant the church of england. the change in the constitution of it, even when it came, did not much alter its practical character in the country districts. at elstow, as we have seen, there was still a high place; there was still a liturgy; there was still a surplice. the church of england is a compromise between the old theology and the new. the bishops have the apostolical succession, but many of them disbelieve that they derive any virtue from it. the clergyman is either a priest who can absolve men from sins, or he is a minister as in other protestant communions. the sacraments are either means of grace, or mere outward signs. a christian is either saved by baptism, or saved by faith, as he pleases to believe. in either case he may be a member of the church of england. the effect of such uncertain utterances is to leave an impression that in defining such points closely, theologians are laying down lines of doctrines about subjects of which they know nothing, that the real truth of religion lies in what is common to the two theories, the obligation to lead a moral life; and to this sensible view of their functions the bishops and clergy had in fact gradually arrived in the last century, when the revival of what is called earnestness, first in the form of evangelicalism, and then of anglo-catholicism, awoke again the old controversies. to a man of fervid temperament suddenly convinced of sin, incapable of being satisfied with ambiguous answers to questions which mean life or death to him, the church of england has little to say. if he is quiet and reasonable, he finds in it all that he desires. enthusiastic ages and enthusiastical temperaments demand something more complete and consistent. the clergy under the long parliament caught partially the tone of the prevailing spirit. the reading of the 'book of sports' had been interdicted, and from their pulpits they lectured their congregations on the ungodliness of the sabbath amusements. but the congregations were slow to listen, and the sports went on. one sunday morning, when bunyan was at church with his wife, a sermon was delivered on this subject. it seemed to be especially addressed to himself, and it much affected him. he shook off the impression, and after dinner he went as usual to the green. he was on the point of striking at a ball when the thought rushed across his mind, wilt thou leave thy sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hell? he looked up. the reflection of his own emotion was before him in visible form. he imagined that he saw christ himself looking down at him from the sky. but he concluded that it was too late for him to repent. he was past pardon. he was sure to be damned, and he might as well be damned for many sins as for few. sin at all events was pleasant, the only pleasant thing that he knew, therefore he would take his fill of it. the sin was the game, and nothing but the game. he continued to play, but the puritan sensitiveness had taken hold of him. an artificial offence had become a real offence when his conscience was wounded by it. he was reckless and desperate. 'this temptation of the devil,' he says, 'is more usual among poor creatures than many are aware of. it continued with me about a month or more; but one day as i was standing at a neighbour's shop-window, and there cursing and swearing after my wonted manner, there sate within the woman of the house and heard me, who, though she was a loose and ungodly wretch, protested that i swore and cursed at such a rate that she trembled to hear me. i was able to spoil all the youths in a whole town. at this reproof i was silenced and put to secret shame, and that too, as i thought, before the god of heaven. i stood hanging down my head and wishing that i might be a little child that my father might learn me to speak without this wicked sin of swearing, for, thought i, i am so accustomed to it that it is vain to think of a reformation.' these words have been sometimes taken as a reflection on bunyan's own father, as if he had not sufficiently checked the first symptoms of a bad habit. if this was so, too much may be easily made of it. the language in the homes of ignorant workmen is seldom select. they have not a large vocabulary, and the words which they use do not mean what they seem to mean. but so sharp and sudden remorse speaks remarkably for bunyan himself. at this time he could have been barely twenty years old, and already he was quick to see when he was doing wrong, to be sorry for it, and to wish that he could do better. vain the effort seemed to him, yet from that moment 'he did leave off swearing to his own great wonder,' and he found 'that he could speak better and more pleasantly than he did before.' it lies in the nature of human advance on the road of improvement, that, whatever be a man's occupation, be it handicraft, or art, or knowledge, or moral conquest of self, at each forward step which he takes he grows more conscious of his shortcomings. it is thus with his whole career, and those who rise highest are least satisfied with themselves. very simply bunyan tells the story of his progress. on his outward history, on his business and his fortunes with it, he is totally silent. worldly interests were not worth mentioning. he is solely occupied with his rescue from spiritual perdition. soon after he had profited by the woman's rebuke, he fell in 'with a poor man that made profession of religion and talked pleasantly of the scriptures.' earnestness in such matters was growing common among english labourers. under his new friend's example, bunyan 'betook him to the bible, and began to take great pleasure in reading it,' but especially, as he admits frankly (and most people's experience will have been the same), 'especially the historical part; for as for st. paul's epistles and scriptures of that nature, he could not away with them, being as yet ignorant of the corruption of his nature, or of the want and worth of jesus christ to save him.' not as yet understanding these mysteries, he set himself to reform his life. he became strict with himself in word and deed. 'he set the commandments before him for his way to heaven.' 'he thought if he could but keep them pretty well he should have comfort.' if now and then he broke one of them, he suffered in conscience; he repented of his fault, he made good resolutions for the future and struggled to carry them out. 'his neighbours took him to be a new man, and marvelled at the alteration.' pleasure of any kind, even the most innocent, he considered to be a snare to him, and he abandoned it; he had been fond of dancing, but he gave it up. music and singing he parted with, though it distressed him to leave them. of all amusements, that in which he had most delighted had been in ringing the bells in elstow church tower. with his bells he could not part all at once. he would no longer ring himself: but when his friends were enjoying themselves with the ropes, he could not help going now and then to the tower door to look on and listen; but he feared at last that the steeple might fall upon him and kill him. we call such scruples in these days exaggerated and fantastic. we are no longer in danger ourselves of suffering from similar emotions. whether we are the better for having got rid of them, will be seen in the future history of our race. notwithstanding his struggles and his sacrifices, bunyan found that they did not bring him the peace which he expected. a man can change his outward conduct, but if he is in earnest he comes in sight of other features in himself which he cannot change so easily; the meannesses, the paltrinesses, the selfishnesses which haunt him in spite of himself, which start out upon him at moments the most unlocked for, which taint the best of his actions and make him loathe and hate himself. bunyan's life was now for so young a person a model of correctness; but he had no sooner brought his actions straight than he discovered that he was admiring and approving of himself. no situation is more humiliating, none brings with it a feeling of more entire hopelessness. 'all this while,' he says, 'i knew not christ, nor grace, nor faith, nor hope, and had i then died my state had been most fearful. i was but a poor painted hypocrite, going about to establish my own righteousness.' like his own pilgrim, he had the burden on his back of his conscious unworthiness. how was he to be rid of it? 'one day in a street in bedford, as he was at work in his calling, he fell in with three or four poor women sitting at a door in the sun talking about the things of god.' he was himself at that time 'a brisk talker' about the matters of religion, and he joined these women. their expressions were wholly unintelligible to him. 'they were speaking of the wretchedness of their own hearts, of their unbelief, of their miserable state. they did contemn, slight, and abhor their own righteousness as filthy and insufficient to do them any good. they spoke of a new birth and of the work of god in their hearts, which comforted and strengthened them against the temptations of the devil.' the language of the poor women has lost its old meaning. they themselves, if they were alive, would not use it any longer. the conventional phrases of evangelical christianity ring untrue in a modern ear like a cracked bell. we have grown so accustomed to them as a cant, that we can hardly believe that they ever stood for sincere convictions. yet these forms were once alive with the profoundest of all moral truths; a truth not of a narrow theology, but which lies at the very bottom of the well, at the fountain-head of human morality; namely, that a man who would work out his salvation must cast out self, though he rend his heart-strings in doing it; not love of self-indulgence only, but self-applause, self-confidence, self-conceit and vanity, desire or expectation of reward; self in all the subtle ingenuities with which it winds about the soul. in one dialect or another, he must recognise that he is himself a poor creature not worth thinking of, or he will not take the first step towards excellence in any single thing which he undertakes. bunyan left the women and went about his work, but their talk went with him. 'he was greatly affected.' 'he saw that he wanted the true tokens of a godly man.' he sought them out and spoke with them again and again. he could not stay away; and the more he went the more he questioned his condition. 'i found two things,' he says, 'at which i did sometimes marvel, considering what a blind ungodly wretch but just before i was; one a great softness and tenderness of heart, which caused me to fall under the conviction of what, by scripture, they asserted; the other a great bending of my mind to a continual meditating on it. my mind was now like a horse-leech at the vein, still crying give, give; so fixed on eternity and on the kingdom of heaven (though i knew but little), that neither pleasure, nor profit, nor persuasion, nor threats could loosen it or make it let go its hold. it is in very deed a certain truth; it would have been then as difficult for me to have taken my mind from heaven to earth, as i have found it often since to get it from earth to heaven.' ordinary persons who are conscious of trying to do right, who resist temptations, are sorry when they slip, and determine to be more on their guard for the future, are well contented with the condition which they have reached. they are respectable, they are right-minded in common things, they fulfil their every-day duties to their families and to society with a sufficiency for which the world speaks well of them, as indeed it ought to speak; and they themselves acquiesce in the world's verdict. any passionate agitation about the state of their souls they consider unreal and affected. such men may be amiable in private life, good neighbours, and useful citizens; but be their talents what they may, they could not write a 'pilgrim's progress,' or ever reach the delectable mountains, or even be conscious that such mountains exist. bunyan was on the threshold of the higher life. he knew that he was a very poor creature. he longed to rise to something better. he was a mere ignorant, untaught mechanic. he had not been to school with aristotle and plato. he could not help himself or lose himself in the speculations of poets and philosophers. he had only the bible, and studying the bible he found that the wonder-working power in man's nature was faith. faith! what was it? what did it mean? had he faith? he was but 'a poor sot,' and yet he thought that he could not be wholly without it. the bible told him that if he had faith as a grain of mustard seed, he could work miracles. he did not understand oriental metaphors; here was a simple test which could be at once applied. 'one day,' he writes, 'as i was between elstow and bedford, the temptation was hot upon me to try if i had faith by doing some miracle. i must say to the puddles that were in the horse-pads, "be dry," and truly at one time i was agoing to say so indeed. but just as i was about to speak, the thought came into my mind: go under yonder hedge first and pray that god would make you able. but when i had concluded to pray, this came hot upon me, that if i prayed and came again and tried to do it, and yet did nothing notwithstanding, then be sure i had no faith but was a castaway and lost. nay, thought i, if it be so, i will never try it yet, but will stay a little longer. thus was i tossed between the devil and my own ignorance, and so perplexed at some times that i could not tell what to do.' common sense will call this disease, and will think impatiently that the young tinker would have done better to attend to his business. but it must be observed that bunyan was attending to his business, toiling all the while with grimed hands over his pots and kettles. no one ever complained that the pots and kettles were ill-mended. it was merely that being simple-minded, he found in his bible that besides earning his bread he had to save or lose his soul. having no other guide he took its words literally, and the directions puzzled him. he grew more and more unhappy--more lowly in his own eyes- 'wishing him like to those more rich in hope'-like the women who were so far beyond him on the heavenly road. he was a poet without knowing it, and his gifts only served to perplex him further. his speculations assumed bodily forms which he supposed to be actual visions. he saw his poor friends sitting on the sunny side of a high mountain refreshing themselves in the warmth, while he was shivering in frost and snow and mist. the mountain was surrounded by a wall, through which he tried to pass, and searched long in vain for an opening through it. at last he found one, very straight and narrow, through which he struggled after desperate efforts. 'it showed him,' he said, 'that none could enter into life but those who were in downright earnest, and unless they left the wicked world behind them, for here was only room for body and soul, but not for body and soul and sin.' the vision brought him no comfort, for it passed away and left him still on the wrong side: a little comfortable self-conceit would have set him at rest. but, like all real men, bunyan had the worst opinion of himself. he looked at his bible again. he found that he must be elected. was he elected? he could as little tell as whether he had faith. he knew that he longed to be elected, but 'the scripture trampled on his desire,' for it said, 'it is not of him that willeth, or of him that runneth, but of god that sheweth mercy;' therefore, unless god had chosen him his labour was in vain. the devil saw his opportunity; the devil among his other attributes must have possessed that of omnipresence, for whenever any human soul was in straits, he was personally at hand to take advantage of it. 'it may be that you are not elected,' the tempter said to bunyan. 'it may be so indeed,' thought he. 'why then,' said satan, 'you had as good leave off and strive no farther; for if indeed you should not be elected and chosen of god, there is no talk of your being saved.' a comforting text suggested itself. 'look at the generations of old; did any ever trust in the lord and was confounded?' but these exact words, unfortunately, were only to be found in the apocrypha. and there was a further distressing possibility, which has occurred to others besides bunyan. perhaps the day of grace was passed. it came on him one day as he walked in the country that perhaps those good people in bedford were all that the lord would save in those parts, and that he came too late for the blessing. true, christ had said, 'compel them to come in, for yet there is room.' it might be 'that when christ spoke those words,' he was thinking of him--him among the rest that he had chosen, and had meant to encourage him. but bunyan was too simply modest to gather comfort from such aspiring thoughts. be desired to be converted, craved for it, longed for it with all his heart and soul. 'could it have been gotten for gold,' he said, 'what would i not have given for it. had i had a whole world it had all gone ten thousand times over for this, that my soul might have been in a converted state. but, oh! i was made sick by that saying of christ: "he called to him whom he would, and they came to him." i feared he would not call me.' election, conversion, day of grace, coming to christ, have been pawed and fingered by unctuous hands for now two hundred years. the bloom is gone from the flower. the plumage, once shining with hues direct from heaven, is soiled and bedraggled. the most solemn of all realities have been degraded into the passwords of technical theology. in bunyan's day, in camp and council chamber, in high courts of parliament, and among the poor drudges in english villages, they were still radiant with spiritual meaning. the dialect may alter; but if man is more than a brief floating bubble on the eternal river of time; if there be really an immortal part of him which need not perish; and if his business on earth is to save it from perishing, he will still try to pierce the mountain barrier. he will still find the work as hard as bunyan found it. we live in days of progress and enlightenment; nature on a hundred sides has unlocked her storehouses of knowledge. but she has furnished no 'open sesame' to bid the mountain gate fly wide which leads to conquest of self. there is still no passage there for 'body and soul and sin.' chapter iii. grace abounding. the women in bedford, to whom bunyan had opened his mind, had been naturally interested in him. young and rough as he was, he could not have failed to impress anyone who conversed with him with a sense that he was a remarkable person. they mentioned him to mr. gifford, the minister of the baptist church at bedford. john gifford had, at the beginning of the civil war, been a loose young officer in the king's army. he had been taken prisoner when engaged in some exploit which was contrary to the usages of war. a court-martial had sentenced him to death, and he was to have been shot in a few hours, when he broke out of his prison with his sister's help, and, after various adventures, settled at bedford as a doctor. the near escape had not sobered him. he led a disorderly life, drinking and gambling, till the loss of a large sum of money startled him into seriousness. in the language of the time he became convinced of sin, and joined the baptists, the most thorough-going and consistent of all the protestant sects. if the sacrament of baptism is not a magical form, but is a personal act, in which the baptised person devotes himself to christ's service, to baptise children at an age when they cannot understand what they are doing may well seem irrational and even impious. gifford, who was now the head of the baptist community in the town, invited bunyan to his house, and explained the causes of his distress to him. he was a lost sinner. it was true that he had parted with his old faults, and was leading a new life. but his heart was unchanged; his past offences stood in record against him. he was still under the wrath of god, miserable in his position, and therefore miserable in mind. he must become sensible of his lost state, and lay hold of the only remedy, or there was no hope for him. there was no difficulty in convincing bunyan that he was in a bad way. he was too well aware of it already. in a work of fiction, the conviction would be followed immediately by consoling grace. in the actual experience of a living human soul, the medicine operates less pleasantly. 'i began,' he says, 'to see something of the vanity and inward wretchedness of my wicked heart, for as yet i knew no great matter therein. but now it began to be discovered unto me, and to work for wickedness as it never did before. lusts and corruptions would strongly put themselves forth within me in wicked thoughts and desires which i did not regard before. whereas, before, my soul was full of longing after god; now my heart began to hanker after every foolish vanity.' constitutions differ. mr. gifford's treatment, if it was ever good for any man, was too sharp for bunyan. the fierce acid which had been poured into his wounds set them all festering again. he frankly admits that he was now farther from conversion than before. his heart, do what he would, refused to leave off desiring forbidden pleasures, and while this continued, he supposed that he was still under the law, and must perish by it. he compared himself to the child who, as he was being brought to christ, was thrown down by the devil and wallowed foaming. a less healthy nature might have been destroyed by these artificially created and exaggerated miseries. he supposed he was given over to unbelief and wickedness, and yet he relates with touching simplicity:-'as to the act of sinning i was never more tender than now. i durst not take up a pin or a stick, though but so big as a straw, for my conscience now was sore and would smart at every touch. i could not tell how to speak my words for fear i should misplace them.' but the care with which he watched his conduct availed him nothing. he was on a morass 'that shook if he did but stir,' and he was 'there left both of god and christ and the spirit, and of all good things.' 'behind him lay the faults of his childhood and youth, every one of which he believed to be recorded against him. within were his disobedient inclinations, which he conceived to be the presence of the devil in his heart. if he was to be presented clean of stain before god he must have a perfect righteousness which was to be found only in christ, and christ had rejected him. 'my original and inward pollution,' he writes, 'was my plague and my affliction. i was more loathsome in my own eyes than was a toad, and i thought i was so in god's eyes too. i thought every one had a better heart than i had. i could have changed heart with anybody. i thought none but the devil himself could equal me for inward wickedness and pollution. sure, thought i, i am given up to the devil and to a reprobate mind; and thus i continued for a long while, even for some years together.' and all the while the world went on so quietly; these things over which bunyan was so miserable not seeming to trouble anyone except himself; and, as if they had no existence except on sundays and in pious talk. old people were hunting after the treasures of this life, as if they were never to leave the earth. professors of religion complained when they lost fortune or health; what were fortune and health to the awful possibilities which lay beyond the grave? to bunyan the future life of christianity was a reality as certain as the next day's sunrise; and he could have been happy on bread and water if he could have felt himself prepared to enter it. every created being seemed better off than he was. he was sorry that god had made him a man. he 'blessed the condition of the birds, beasts, and fishes, for they had not a sinful nature. they were not obnoxious to the wrath of god. they were not to go to hell-fire after death.' he recalled the texts which spoke of christ and forgiveness. he tried to persuade himself that christ cared for him. he could have talked of christ's love and mercy 'even to the very crows which sate on the ploughed land before him.' but he was too sincere to satisfy himself with formulas and phrases. he could not, he would not, profess to be convinced that things would go well with him when he was not convinced. cold spasms of doubt laid hold of him--doubts, not so much of his own salvation, as of the truth of all that he had been taught to believe; and the problem had to be fought and grappled with, which lies in the intellectual nature of every genuine man, whether he be an ã�schylus or a shakespeare, or a poor working bedfordshire mechanic. no honest soul can look out upon the world and see it as it really is, without the question rising in him whether there be any god that governs it at all. no one can accept the popular notion of heaven and hell as actually true, without being as terrified as bunyan was. we go on as we do, and attend to our business and enjoy ourselves, because the words have no real meaning to us. providence in its kindness leaves most of us unblessed or uncursed with natures of too fine a fibre. bunyan was hardly dealt with. 'whole floods of blasphemies,' he says, 'against god, christ, and the scriptures were poured upon my spirit; questions against the very being of god and of his only beloved son, as whether there was in truth a god or christ, or no, and whether the holy scriptures were not rather a fable and cunning story than the holy and pure word of god.' 'how can you tell,' the tempter whispered, 'but that the turks have as good a scripture to prove their mahomet the saviour, as we have to prove our jesus is? could i think that so many tens of thousands in so many countries and kingdoms should be without the knowledge of the right way to heaven, if there were indeed a heaven, and that we who lie in a corner of the earth, should alone be blessed therewith. every one doth think his own religion the rightest, both jews, moors, and pagans; and how if all our faith, and christ, and scripture should be but "a think so" too.' st. paul spoke positively. bunyan saw shrewdly that on st. paul the weight of the whole christian theory really rested. but 'how could he tell but that st. paul, being a subtle and cunning man, might give himself up to deceive with strong delusions?' 'he was carried away by such thoughts as by a whirlwind.' his belief in the active agency of the devil in human affairs, of which he supposed that he had witnessed instances, was no doubt a great help to him. if he could have imagined that his doubts or misgivings had been suggested by a desire for truth, they would have been harder to bear. more than ever he was convinced that he was possessed by the devil. he 'compared himself to a child carried off by a gipsy.' 'kick sometimes i did,' he says, 'and scream, and cry, but yet i was as bound in the wings of temptation, and the wind would bear me away.' 'i blessed the dog and toad, and counted the condition of everything that god had made far better than this dreadful state of mine. the dog or horse had no soul to perish under the everlasting weight of hell for sin, as mine was like to do.' doubts about revelation and the truth of scripture were more easy to encounter then than they are at present. bunyan was protected by want of learning, and by a powerful predisposition to find the objections against the credibility of the gospel history to be groundless. critical investigation had not as yet analysed the historical construction of the sacred books, and scepticism, as he saw it in people round him, did actually come from the devil, that is from a desire to escape the moral restraints of religion. the wisest, noblest, best instructed men in england, at that time regarded the bible as an authentic communication from god, and as the only foundation for law and civil society. the masculine sense and strong modest intellect of bunyan ensured his acquiescence in an opinion so powerfully supported. fits of uncertainty recurred even to the end of his life; it must be so with men who are honestly in earnest; but his doubts were of course only intermittent, and his judgment was in the main satisfied that the bible was, as he had been taught, the word of god. this, however, helped him little; for in the bible he read his own condemnation. the weight which pressed him down was the sense of his unworthiness. what was he that god should care for him? he fancied that he heard god saying to the angels, 'this poor, simple wretch doth hanker after me, as if i had nothing to do with my mercy but to bestow it on such as he. poor fool, how art thou deceived! it is not for such as thee to have favour with the highest.' miserable as he was, he clung to his misery as the one link which connected him with the object of his longings. if he had no hope of heaven, he was at least distracted that he must lose it. he was afraid of dying, yet he was still more afraid of continuing to live; lest the impression should wear away through time, and occupation and other interests should turn his heart away to the world, and thus his wounds might cease to pain him. readers of the 'pilgrim's progress' sometimes ask with wonder, why, after christian had been received into the narrow gate, and had been set forward upon his way, so many trials and dangers still lay before him. the answer is simply that christian was a pilgrim, that the journey of life still lay before him, and at every step temptations would meet him in new, unexpected shapes. st. anthony in his hermitage was beset by as many fiends as had ever troubled him when in the world. man's spiritual existence is like the flight of a bird in the air; he is sustained only by effort, and when he ceases to exert himself he falls. there are intervals, however, of comparative calm, and to one of these the storm-tossed bunyan was now approaching. he had passed through the slough of despond. he had gone astray after mr. legality, and the rocks had almost overwhelmed him. evangelist now found him and put him right again, and he was to be allowed a breathing space at the interpreter's house. as he was at his ordinary daily work his mind was restlessly busy. verses of scripture came into his head, sweet while present, but like peter's sheet caught up again into heaven. we may have heard all our lives of christ. words and ideas with which we have been familiar from childhood are trodden into paths as barren as sand. suddenly, we know not how, the meaning flashes upon us. the seed has found its way into some corner of our minds where it can germinate. the shell breaks, the cotyledons open, and the plant of faith is alive. so it was now to be with bunyan. 'one day,' he says, 'as i was travelling into the country, musing on the wickedness of my heart, and considering the enmity that was in me to god, the scripture came into my mind, "he hath made peace through the blood of his cross." i saw that the justice of god and my sinful soul could embrace and kiss each other. i was ready to swoon, not with grief and trouble, but with solid joy and peace.' everything became clear: the gospel history, the birth, the life, the death of the saviour; how gently he gave himself to be nailed on the cross for his (bunyan's) sins. 'i saw him in the spirit,' he goes on, 'a man on the right hand of the father, pleading for me, and have seen the manner of his coming from heaven to judge the world with glory.' the sense of guilt which had so oppressed him was now a key to the mystery. 'god,' he says, 'suffered me to be afflicted with temptations concerning these things, and then revealed them to me.' he was crushed to the ground by the thought of his wickedness; 'the lord showed him the death of christ, and lifted the weight away.' now he thought he had a personal evidence from heaven that he was really saved. before this, he had lain trembling at the mouth of hell; now he was so far away from it that he could scarce tell where it was. he fell in at this time with a copy of luther's commentary on the epistle to the galatians, 'so old that it was like to fall to pieces.' bunyan found in it the exact counterpart of his own experience: 'of all the books that he had ever met with, it seemed to him the most fit for a wounded conscience.' everything was supernatural with him: when a bad thought came into his mind, it was the devil that put it there. these breathings of peace he regarded as the immediate voice of his saviour. alas! the respite was but short. he had hoped that his troubles were over, when the tempter came back upon him in the most extraordinary form which he had yet assumed, bunyan had himself left the door open; the evil spirits could only enter 'mansoul' through the owner's negligence, but once in, they could work their own wicked will. how it happened will be told afterwards. the temptation itself must be described first. never was a nature more perversely ingenious in torturing itself. he had gained christ, as he called it. he was now tempted 'to sell and part with this most blessed christ, to exchange him for the things of this life--for anything.' if there had been any real prospect of worldly advantage before bunyan, which he could have gained by abandoning his religious profession, the words would have had a meaning; but there is no hint or trace of any prospect of the kind; nor in bunyan's position could there have been. the temptation, as he called it, was a freak of fancy: fancy resenting the minuteness with which he watched his own emotions. and yet he says, 'it lay upon me for a year, and did follow me so continually that i was not rid of it one day in a month, sometimes not an hour in many days together, unless when i was asleep. i could neither eat my food, stoop for a pin, chop a stick, or cast my eye to look on this or that, but still the temptation would come, "sell christ for this, sell him for that! sell him! sell him!"' he had been haunted before with a notion that he was under a spell; that he had been fated to commit the unpardonable sin; and he was now thinking of judas, who had been admitted to christ's intimacy, and had then betrayed him. here it was before him--the very thing which he had so long dreaded. if his heart did but consent for a moment, the deed was done. his doom had overtaken him. he wrestled with the thought as it rose, thrust it from him 'with his hands and elbows,' body and mind convulsed together in a common agony. as fast as the destroyer said, 'sell him,' bunyan said, 'i will not; i will not; i will not, not for thousands, thousands, thousands of worlds!' one morning as he lay in his bed, the voice came again, and would not be driven away. bunyan fought against it, till he was out of breath. he fell back exhausted, and without conscious action of his will, the fatal sentence passed through his brain, 'let him go if he will.' that the 'selling christ' was a bargain in which he was to lose all and receive nothing is evident from the form in which he was overcome. yet if he had gained a fortune by fraud or forgery, he could not have been more certain that he had destroyed himself. satan had won the battle, and he, 'as a bird shot from a tree, had fallen into guilt and despair.' he got out of bed, 'and went moping into the fields,' where he wandered for two hours, 'as a man bereft of life, and now past recovering,' 'bound over to eternal punishment.' he shrank under the hedges, 'in guilt and sorrow, bemoaning the hardness of his fate.' in vain the words now came back that had so comforted him, 'the blood of christ cleanseth from all sin.' they had no application to him. he had acquired his birthright, but, like esau, he had sold it, and could not any more find place for repentance. true it was said that 'all manner of sins and blasphemies should be forgiven unto men,' but only such sins and blasphemies as had been committed in the natural state. bunyan had received grace, and after receiving it, had sinned against the holy ghost. it was done, and nothing could undo it. david had received grace, and had committed murder and adultery after it. but murder and adultery, bad as they might be, were only transgressions of the law of moses. bunyan had sinned against the mediator himself, 'he had sold his saviour.' one sin, and only one there was which could not be pardoned, and he had been guilty of it. peter had sinned against grace, and even after he had been warned. peter, however, had but denied his master. bunyan had sold him. he was no david or peter, he was judas. it was, very hard. others naturally as bad as he had been saved. why had he been picked out to be made a son of perdition? a judas! was there any point in which he was better than judas? judas had sinned with deliberate purpose: he 'in a fearful hurry,' and 'against prayer and striving.' but there might be more ways than one of committing the unpardonable sin, and there might be degrees of it. it was a dreadful condition. the old doubts came back. 'i was now ashamed,' he says, 'that i should be like such an ugly man as judas. i thought how loathsome i should be to all the saints at the day of judgment. i was tempted to content myself by receiving some false opinion, as that there should be no such thing as the day of judgment, that we should not rise again, that sin was no such grievous thing, the tempter suggesting that if these things should be indeed true, yet to believe otherwise would yield me ease for the present. if i must perish, i need not torment myself beforehand.' judas! judas! was now for ever before his eyes. so identified he was with judas that he felt at times as if his breastbone was bursting. a mark like cain's was on him. in vain he searched again through the catalogue of pardoned sinners. manasseh had consulted wizards and familiar spirits. manasseh had burnt his children in the fire to devils. he had found mercy; but, alas! manasseh's sins had nothing of the nature of selling the saviour. to have sold the saviour 'was a sin bigger than the sins of a country, of a kingdom, or of the whole world--not all of them together could equal it.' his brain was overstrained, it will be said. very likely. it is to be remembered, however, who and what he was, and that he had overstrained it in his eagerness to learn what he conceived his maker to wish him to be--a form of anxiety not common in this world. the cure was as remarkable as the disorder. one day he was 'in a good man's shop,' still 'afflicting himself with self-abhorrence,' when something seemed to rush in through an open window, and he heard a voice saying, 'didst ever refuse to be justified by the blood of christ?' bunyan shared the belief of his time. he took the system of things as the bible represented it; but his strong common sense put him on his guard against being easily credulous. he thought at the time that the voice was supernatural. after twenty years he said modestly that he 'could not make a judgment of it.' the effect, any way, was as if an angel had come to him and had told him that there was still hope. hapless as his condition was, he might still pray for mercy, and might possibly find it. he tried to pray, and found it very hard. the devil whispered again that god was tired of him; god wanted to be rid of him and his importunities, and had, therefore, allowed him to commit this particular sin that he might hear no more of him. he remembered esau, and thought that this might be too true: 'the saying about esau was a flaming sword barring the way of the tree of life to him.' still he would not give in. 'i can but die,' he said to himself, 'and if it must be so, it shall be said that such an one died at the feet of christ in prayer.' he was torturing himself with illusions. most of the saints in the catholic calendar have done the same. the most remorseless philosopher can hardly refuse a certain admiration for this poor uneducated village lad struggling so bravely in the theological spider's web. the 'professors' could not comfort him, having never experienced similar distresses in their own persons. he consulted 'an antient christian,' telling him that he feared that he had sinned against the holy ghost, the antient christian answered gravely that he thought so too. the devil having him at advantage, began to be witty with him. the devil suggested that as he had offended the second or third person of the trinity, he had better pray the father to mediate for him with christ and the holy spirit. then the devil took another turn. christ, he said, was really sorry for bunyan, but his case was beyond remedy. bunyan's sin was so peculiar, that it was not of the nature of those for which he had bled and died, and had not, therefore, been laid to his charge. to justify bunyan he must come down and die again, and that was not to be thought of. 'oh!' exclaimed the unfortunate victim, 'the unthought-of imaginations, frights, fears, and terrors, that are effected by a thorough application of guilt (to a spirit) that is yielded to desperation. this is the man that hath his dwelling among the tombs.' sitting in this humour on a settle in the street at bedford, he was pondering over his fearful state. the sun in heaven seemed to grudge its light to him. 'the stones in the street and the tiles on the houses did bend themselves against him.' each crisis in bunyan's mind is always framed in the picture of some spot where it occurred. he was crying 'in the bitterness of his soul, how can god comfort such a wretch as i am?' as before, in the shop, a voice came in answer, 'this sin is not unto death.' the first voice had brought him hope which was almost extinguished; the second was a message of life. the night was gone, and it was daylight. he had come to the end of the valley of the shadow of death, and the spectres and the hobgoblins which had jibbered at him suddenly all vanished. a moment before he had supposed that he was out of reach of pardon, that he had no right to pray, no right to repent, or, at least, that neither prayer nor repentance could profit him. if his sin was not to death, then he was on the same ground as other sinners. if they might pray, he might pray, and might look to be forgiven on the same terms. he still saw that his 'selling christ' had been 'most barbarous,' but despair was followed by an extravagance, no less unbounded, of gratitude, when he felt that christ would pardon even this. 'love and affection for christ,' he says, 'did work at this time such a strong and hot desire of revengement upon myself for the abuse i had done to him, that, to speak as then i thought, had i had a thousand gallons of blood in my veins, i could freely have spilt it all at the command of my lord and saviour. the tempter told me it was vain to pray. yet, thought i, i will pray. but, said the tempter, your sin is unpardonable. well, said i, i will pray. it is no boot, said he. yet, said i, i will pray: so i went to prayer, and i uttered words to this effect: lord, satan tells me that neither thy mercy nor christ's blood is sufficient to save my soul. lord, shall i honour thee most by believing that thou wilt and canst, or him, by believing that thou neither wilt nor canst? lord, i would fain honour thee by believing that thou wilt and canst. as i was there before the lord, the scripture came, oh! man, great is thy faith, even as if one had clapped me on the back.' the waves had not wholly subsided; but we need not follow the undulations any farther. it is enough that after a 'conviction of sin,' considerably deeper than most people find necessary for themselves, bunyan had come to realise what was meant by salvation in christ, according to the received creed of the contemporary protestant world. the intensity of his emotions arose only from the completeness with which he believed it. man had sinned, and by sin was made a servant of the devil. his redemption was a personal act of the saviour towards each individual sinner. in the atonement christ had before him each separate person whom he designed to save, blotting out his offences, however heinous they might be, and recording in place of them his own perfect obedience. each reconciled sinner in return regarded christ's sufferings as undergone immediately for himself, and gratitude for that great deliverance enabled and obliged him to devote his strength and soul thenceforward to god's service. in the seventeenth century, all earnest english protestants held this belief. in the nineteenth century, most of us repeat the phrases of this belief, and pretend to hold it. we think we hold it. we are growing more cautious, perhaps, with our definitions. we suspect that there may be mysteries in god's nature and methods which we cannot fully explain. the outlines of 'the scheme of salvation' are growing indistinct; and we see it through a gathering mist. yet the essence of it will remain true whether we recognise it or not. while man remains man he will do things which he ought not to do. he will leave undone things which he ought to do. to will, may be present with him; but how to perform what he wills, he will never fully know, and he will still hate 'the body of death' which he feels clinging to him. he will try to do better. when he falls he will struggle to his feet again. he will climb and climb on the hill side, though he never reaches the top, and knows that he can never reach it. his life will be a failure, which he will not dare to offer as a fit account of himself, or as worth a serious regard. yet he will still hope that he will not be wholly cast away, when after his sleep in death he wakes again. now, says bunyan, there remained only the hinder part of the tempest. heavenly voices continued to encourage him. 'as i was passing in the field,' he goes on, 'i heard the sentence, thy righteousness is in heaven; and methought i saw, with the eyes of my soul, jesus christ at god's right hand, there i say, as my righteousness, so that wherever i was, or whatever i was doing, god could not say of me he wants my righteousness, for that was just before him. now did my chains fall off my legs indeed. i was loosed from my affliction and irons; my temptations also fled away, so that from that time those dreadful scriptures of god left off to trouble me. now went i home rejoicing for the grace and love of god. christ of god is made unto us wisdom and righteousness, and sanctification, and redemption. i now lived very sweetly at peace with god through christ. oh! methought, christ, christ! there was nothing but christ before my eyes. i was not now only looking upon this and the other benefits of christ apart, as of his blood, burial, and resurrection, but considered him as a whole christ. all those graces that were now green in me were yet but like those cracked groats and fourpence half-pennies which rich men carry in their purses, while their gold is in their trunks at home. oh! i saw my gold was in my trunk at home in christ my lord and saviour. the lord led me into the mystery of union with the son of god, that i was joined to him, that i was flesh of his flesh. if he and i were one, his righteousness was mine, his merits mine, his victory mine. now i could see myself in heaven and earth at once; in heaven by my christ, though on earth by my body and person. christ was that common and public person in whom the whole body of his elect are always to be considered and reckoned. we fulfilled the law by him, died by him, rose from the dead by him, got the victory over sin and death, the devil and hell by him. i had cause to say, praise ye the lord. praise god in his sanctuary.' chapter iv. call to the ministry. the pilgrim falls into the hands of giant despair because he has himself first strayed into byepath meadow. bunyan found an explanation of his last convulsion in an act of unbelief, of which, on looking back, he perceived that he had been guilty. he had been delivered out of his first temptation. he had not been sufficiently on his guard against temptations that might come in the future. nay, he had himself tempted god. his wife had been overtaken by a premature confinement, and was suffering acutely. it was at the time when bunyan was exercised with questions about the truth of religion altogether. as the poor woman lay crying at his side, he had said mentally, 'lord, if thou wilt now remove this sad affliction from my wife, and cause that she be troubled no more therewith this night, then i shall know that thou canst discern the more secret thoughts of the heart.' in a moment the pain ceased and she fell into a sleep which lasted till morning. bunyan, though surprised at the time, forgot what had happened, till it rushed back upon his memory, when he had committed himself by a similar mental assent to selling christ. he remembered the proof which had been given to him that god could and did discern his thoughts. god had discerned this second thought also, and in punishing him for it had punished him at the same time for the doubt which he had allowed himself to feel. 'i should have believed his word,' he said, 'and not have put an "if" upon the all-seeingness of god.' the suffering was over now, and he felt that it had been infinitely beneficial to him. he understood better the glory of god and of his son. the scriptures had opened their secrets to him, and he had seen them to be in very truth the keys of the kingdom of heaven. never so clearly as after this 'temptation' had he perceived 'the heights of grace, and love, and mercy.' two or three times 'he had such strange apprehensions of the grace of god as had amazed him.' the impression was so overpowering that if it had continued long 'it would have rendered him incapable for business.' he joined his friend mr. gifford's church. he was baptised in the ouse, and became a professed member of the baptist congregation. soon after, his mental conflict was entirely over, and he had two quiet years of peace. before a man can use his powers to any purpose, he must arrive at some conviction in which his intellect can acquiesce. 'calm yourself,' says jean paul; 'it is your first necessity. be a stoic if nothing else will serve.' bunyan had not been driven into stoicism. he was now restored to the possession of his faculties, and his remarkable ability was not long in showing itself. the first consequence of his mental troubles was an illness. he had a cough which threatened to turn into consumption. he thought it was all over with him, and he was fixing his eyes 'on the heavenly jerusalem and the innumerable company of angels;' but the danger passed off, and he became well and strong in mind and body. notwithstanding his various miseries, he had not neglected his business, and had indeed been specially successful. by the time that he was twenty-five years old he was in a position considerably superior to that in which he was born. 'god,' says a contemporary biographer, 'had increased his stores so that he lived in great credit among his neighbours.' on may 13, 1653, bedfordshire sent an address to cromwell approving the dismissal of the long parliament, recognising oliver himself as the lord's instrument, and recommending the county magistrates as fit persons to serve in the assembly which was to take its place. among thirty-six names attached to this document, appear those of gifford and bunyan. this speaks for itself: he must have been at least a householder and a person of consideration. it was not, however, as a prosperous brazier that bunyan was to make his way. he had a gift of speech, which, in the democratic congregation to which he belonged, could not long remain hid. young as he was, he had sounded the depths of spiritual experience. like dante he had been in hell--the popular hell of english puritanism--and in 1655 he was called upon to take part in the 'ministry.' he was modest, humble, shrinking. the minister when he preached was, according to the theory, an instrument uttering the words not of himself but of the holy spirit. a man like bunyan, who really believed this, might well be alarmed. after earnest entreaty, however, 'he made experiment of his powers' in private, and it was at once evident that, with the thing which these people meant by inspiration, he was abundantly supplied. no such preacher to the uneducated english masses was to be found within the four seas. he says that he had no desire of vain glory; no one who has studied his character can suppose that he had. he was a man of natural genius, who believed the protestant form of christianity to be completely true. he knew nothing of philosophy, nothing of history, nothing of literature. the doubts to which he acknowledged being without their natural food, had never presented themselves in a form which would have compelled him to submit to remain uncertain. doubt, as he had felt it, was a direct enemy of morality and purity, and as such he had fought with it and conquered it. protestant christianity was true. all mankind were perishing unless they saw it to be true. this was his message; a message--supposing him to have been right--of an importance so immeasurable that all else was nothing. he was still 'afflicted with the fiery darts of the devil,' but he saw that he must not bury his abilities. 'in fear and trembling,' therefore, he set himself to the work, and 'did according to his power preach the gospel that god had shewn him.' 'the lord led him to begin where his word began--with sinners. this part of my work,' he says, 'i fulfilled with a great sense, for the terrors of the law and guilt for my transgressions lay heavy on my conscience. i preached what i felt. i had been sent to my hearers as from the dead. i went myself in chains to preach to them in chains, and carried that fire in my own conscience that i persuaded them to beware of. i have gone full of guilt and terror to the pulpit door; god carried me on with a strong hand, for neither guilt nor hell could take me off.' many of bunyan's addresses remain in the form of theological treatises, and that i may not have to return to the subject, i shall give some account of them. his doctrine was the doctrine of the best and strongest minds in europe. it had been believed by luther, it had been believed by knox. it was believed at that moment by oliver cromwell as completely as by bunyan himself. it was believed, so far as such a person could be said to believe anything, by the all accomplished leibnitz himself. few educated people use the language of it now. in them it was a fire from heaven shining like a sun in a dark world. with us the fire has gone out; in the place of it we have but smoke and ashes, and the evangelical mind in search of 'something deeper and truer than satisfied the last century,' is turning back to catholic verities. what bunyan had to say may be less than the whole truth: we shall scarcely find the still missing part of it in lines of thought which we have outgrown. bunyan preached wherever opportunity served--in woods, in barns, on village greens, or in town chapels. the substance of his sermons he revised and published. he began, as he said, with sinners, explaining the condition of men in the world. they were under the law, or they were under grace. every person that came into the world was born under the law, and as such was bound, under pain of eternal damnation, to fulfil completely and continually every one of the ten commandments. the bible said plainly, 'cursed is every one that continueth not in all things which are written in the book of the law to do them.' 'the soul that sinneth it shall die.' the ten commandments extended into many more, and to fail in a single one was as fatal as to break them all. a man might go on for a long time, for sixty years perhaps, without falling. bunyan does not mean that anyone really could do all this, but he assumes the possibility; yet he says if the man slipped once before he died, he would eternally perish. the law does not refer to words and actions only, but to thoughts and feelings. it followed a man in his prayers, and detected a wandering thought. it allowed no repentance to those who lived and died under it. if it was asked whether god could not pardon, as earthly judges pardon criminals, the answer was, that it is not the law which is merciful to the earthly offender but the magistrate. the law is an eternal principle. the magistrate may forgive a man without exacting satisfaction. the law knows no forgiveness. it can be as little changed as an axiom of mathematics. repentance cannot undo the past. let a man leave his sins and live as purely as an angel all the rest of his life, his old faults remain in the account against him, and his state is as bad as ever it was. god's justice once offended knows not pity or compassion, but runs on the offender like a lion and throws him into prison, there to lie to all eternity unless infinite satisfaction be given to it. and that satisfaction no son of adam could possibly make. this conception of divine justice, not as a sentence of a judge, but as the action of an eternal law, is identical with spinoza's. that every act involves consequences which cannot be separated from it, and may continue operative to eternity, is a philosophical position which is now generally admitted. combined with the traditionary notions of a future judgment and punishment in hell, the recognition that there was a law in the case and that the law could not be broken, led to the frightful inference that each individual was liable to be kept alive and tortured through all eternity. and this, in fact, was the fate really in store for every human creature unless some extraordinary remedy could be found. bunyan would allow no merit to anyone. he would not have it supposed that only the profane or grossly wicked were in danger from the law. 'a man,' he says, 'may be turned from a vain, loose, open, profane conversation and sinning against the law, to a holy, righteous, religious life, and yet be under the same state and as sure to be damned as the others that are more profane and loose.' the natural man might think it strange, but the language of the curse was not to be mistaken. cursed is every one who has failed to fulfil the whole law. there was not a person in the whole world who had not himself sinned in early life. all had sinned in adam also, and st. paul had said in consequence, 'there is none that doeth good, no, not one! the law was given not that we might be saved by obeying it, but that we might know the holiness of god and our own vileness, and that we might understand that we should not be damned for nothing. god would have no quarrelling at his just condemning of us at that day.' this is bunyan's notion of the position in which we all naturally stand in this world, and from which the substitution of christ's perfect fulfilment of the law alone rescues us. it is calculated, no doubt, to impress on us a profound horror of moral evil when the penalty attached to it is so fearful. but it is dangerous to introduce into religion metaphysical conceptions of 'law.' the cord cracks that is strained too tightly; and it is only for brief periods of high spiritual tension that a theology so merciless can sustain itself. no one with a conscience in him will think of claiming any merit for himself. but we know also that there are degrees of demerit, and, theory or no theory, we fall back on the first verse of the english liturgy, as containing a more endurable account of things. for this reason, among others, bunyan disliked the liturgy. he thought the doctrine of it false, and he objected to a liturgy on principle. he has a sermon on prayer, in which he insists that to be worth anything prayer must be the expression of an inward feeling; and that people cannot feel in lines laid down for them. forms of prayer he thought especially mischievous to children, as accustoming them to use words to which they attached no meaning. 'my judgment,' he says, 'is that men go the wrong way to learn their children to pray. it seems to me a better way for people to tell their children betimes what cursed creatures they are, how they are under the wrath of god by reason of original and actual sin; also to tell them the nature of god's wrath and the duration of misery, which if they would conscientiously do, they would sooner learn their children to pray than they do. the way that men learn to pray is by conviction of sin, and this is the way to make our "sweet babes" do so too.' 'sweet babes' is unworthy of bunyan. there is little sweetness in a state of things so stern as he conceives. he might have considered, too, that there was a danger of making children unreal in another and worse sense by teaching them doctrines which neither child nor man can comprehend. it may be true that a single sin may consign me to everlasting hell, but i cannot be made to acknowledge the justice of it. 'wrath of god' and such expressions are out of place when we are brought into the presence of metaphysical laws. wrath corresponds to free-will misused. it is senseless and extravagant when pronounced against actions which men cannot help, when the faulty action is the necessary consequence of their nature, and the penalty the necessary consequence of the action. the same confusion of thought lies in the treatment of the kindred subjects of free-will, election, and reprobation. the logic must be maintained, and god's moral attributes simultaneously vindicated. bunyan argues about it as ingeniously as leibnitz himself. those who suppose that specific guilt attaches to particular acts, that all men are put into the world, free to keep the commandments or to break them, that they are equally able to do one as to do the other, and are, therefore, proper objects of punishment, hold an opinion which is consistent in itself, but is in entire contradiction with facts. children are not as able to control their inclinations as grown men, and one man is not as able to control himself as another. some have no difficulty from the first, and are constitutionally good; some are constitutionally weak, or have incurable propensities for evil. some are brought up with care and insight; others seem never to have any chance at all. so evident is this, that impartial thinkers have questioned the reality of human guilt in the sense in which it is generally understood. even butler allows that if we look too curiously we may have a difficulty in finding where it lies. and here, if anywhere, there is a real natural truth in the doctrine of election, independent of the merit of those who are so happy as to find favour. bunyan, however, reverses the inference. he will have all guilty together, those who do well and those who do ill. even the elect are in themselves as badly off as the reprobate, and are equally included under sin. those who are saved are saved for christ's merits and not for their own. men of calmer temperament accept facts as they find them. they are too conscious of their ignorance to insist on explaining problems which are beyond their teach. bunyan lived in an age of intense religious excitement, when the strongest minds were exercising themselves on those questions. it is noticeable that the most effective intellects inclined to necessitarian conclusions: some in the shape of calvinism, some in the corresponding philosophic form of spinozism. from both alike there came an absolute submission to the decrees of god, and a passionate devotion to his service; while the morality of free-will is cold and calculating. appeals to a sense of duty do not reach beyond the understanding. the enthusiasm which will stir men's hearts and give them a real power of resisting temptation must be nourished on more invigorating food. but i need dwell no more on a subject which is unsuited for these pages. the object of bunyan, like that of luther, like that of all great spiritual teachers, was to bring his wandering fellow-mortals into obedience to the commandments, even while he insisted on the worthlessness of it. he sounded the strings to others which had sounded loudest in himself. when he passed from mysticism into matters of ordinary life, he showed the same practical good sense which distinguishes the chief of all this order of thinkers--st. paul. there is a sermon of bunyan's on christian behaviour, on the duties of parents to children, and masters to servants, which might be studied with as much advantage in english households as the 'pilgrim's progress' itself. to fathers he says, 'take heed that the misdeeds for which thou correctest thy children be not learned them by thee. many children learn that wickedness of their parents, for which they beat and chastise them. take heed that thou smile not upon them to encourage them in small faults, lest that thy carriage to them be an encouragement to them to commit greater faults. take heed that thou use not unsavoury and unseemly words in thy chastising of them, as railing, miscalling, and the like--this is devilish. take heed that thou do not use them to many chiding words and threatenings, mixed with lightness and laughter. this will harden.' and again: 'i tell you that if parents carry it lovingly towards their children, mixing their mercies with loving rebukes, and their loving rebukes with fatherly and motherly compassions, they are more likely to save their children than by being churlish and severe to them. even if these things do not save them, if their mercy do them no good, yet it will greatly ease them at the day of death to consider, i have done by love as much as i could to save and deliver my child from hell.' whole volumes on education have said less, or less to the purpose, than these simple words. unfortunately, parents do not read bunyan. he is left to children. similarly, he says to masters:-'it is thy duty so to behave thyself to thy servant that thy service may not only be for thy good, but for the good of thy servant, and that in body and soul. deal with him as to admonition as with thy children. take heed thou do not turn thy servants into slaves by overcharging them in thy work with thy greediness. take heed thou carry not thyself to thy servant as he of whom it is said, "he is such a man of belial that his servants cannot speak to him." the apostle bids you forbear to threaten them, because you also have a master in heaven. masters, give your servants that which is just, just labour and just wages. servants that are truly godly care not how cheap they serve their masters, provided they may get into godly families, or where they may be convenient for the word. but if a master or mistress takes this opportunity to make a prey of their servants, it is abominable. i have heard poor servants say that in some carnal families they have had more liberty to god's things and more fairness of dealing than among many professors. such masters make religion to stink before the inhabitants of the land.' bunyan was generally charitable in his judgment upon others. if there was any exception, it was of professors who discredited their calling by conceit and worldliness. 'no sin,' he says, 'reigneth more in the world than pride among professors. the thing is too apparent for any man to deny. we may and do see pride display itself in the apparel and carriage of professors almost as much as among any in the land. i have seen church members so decked and bedaubed with their fangles and toys that when they have been at worship i have wondered with what faces such painted persons could sit in the place where they were without swooning. i once talked with a maid, by way of reproof for her fond and gaudy garment; she told me the tailor would make it so. poor proud girl, she gave orders to the tailor to make it so.' i will give one more extract from bunyan's pastoral addresses. it belongs to a later period in his ministry, when the law had, for a time, remade dissent into a crime; but it will throw light on the part of his story which we are now approaching, and it is in every way very characteristic of him. he is speaking to sufferers under persecution. he says to them:-'take heed of being offended with magistrates, because by their statutes they may cross thy inclinations. it is given to them to bear the sword, and a command is to thee, if thy heart cannot acquiesce with all things, with meekness and patience to suffer. discontent in the mind sometimes puts discontent into the mouth; and discontent in the mouth doth sometimes also put a halter about thy neck. for as a man speaking a word in jest may for that be hanged in earnest, so he that speaks in discontent may die for it in sober sadness. above all, get thy conscience possessed more and more with this, that the magistrate is god's ordinance, and is ordered of god as such; that he is the minister of god to thee for good, and that it is thy duty to fear him and to pray for him; to give thanks to god for him and be subject to him; as both paul and peter admonish us; and that not only for wrath, but for conscience sake. for all other arguments come short of binding the soul when this argument is wanting, until we believe that of god we are bound thereto. 'i speak not these things as knowing any that are disaffected to the government, for i love to be alone, if not with godly men, in things that are convenient. i speak to show my loyalty to the king, and my love to my fellow-subjects, and my desire that all christians shall walk in ways of peace and truth.' chapter v. arrest and trial. bunyan's preaching enterprise became an extraordinary success. all the midland counties heard of his fame, and demanded to hear him. he had been deacon under gifford at the bedford church; but he was in such request as a preacher, that, in 1657, he was released from his duties there as unable to attend to them. sects were springing up all over england as weeds in a hotbed. he was soon in controversy; controversy with church of england people; controversy with the ranters, who believed christ to be a myth; controversy with the quakers who, at their outset, disbelieved in his divinity and in the inspiration of the scriptures. envy at his rapidly acquired reputation brought him baser enemies. he was called a witch, a jesuit, a highwayman. it was reported that he had 'his misses,' that he had two wives, &c. 'my foes have missed their mark in this,' he said with honest warmth: 'i am not the man. if all the fornicators and adulterers in england were hanged by the neck, john bunyan, the object of their envy, would be still alive and well. i know not whether there be such a thing as a woman breathing under the cope of the whole heavens but by their apparel, their children, or common fame, except my wife.' but a more serious trial was now before him. cromwell passed away. the protectorate came to an end. england decided that it had had enough of puritans and republicans, and would give the stuarts and the established church another trial. a necessary consequence was the revival of the act of uniformity. the independents were not meek like the baptists, using no weapons to oppose what they disapproved but passive resistance. the same motives which had determined the original constitution of a church combining the characters of protestant and catholic, instead of leaving religion free, were even more powerful at the restoration than they had been at the accession of elizabeth. before toleration is possible, men must have learnt to tolerate toleration itself; and in times of violent convictions, toleration is looked on as indifference, and indifference as atheism in disguise. catholics and protestants, churchmen and dissenters, regarded one another as enemies of god and the state, with whom no peace was possible. toleration had been tried by the valois princes in france. church and chapel had been the rendezvous of armed fanatics. the preachers blew the war-trumpet, and every town and village had been the scene of furious conflicts, which culminated in the massacre of st. bartholomew. the same result would have followed in england if the same experiment had been ventured. the different communities were forbidden to have their separate places of worship, and services were contrived which moderate men of all sorts could use and interpret after their own convictions. the instrument required to be delicately handled. it succeeded tolerably as long as elizabeth lived. when elizabeth died, the balance was no longer fairly kept. the high church party obtained the ascendancy and abused their power. tyranny brought revolution, and the catholic element in turn disappeared. the bishops were displaced by presbyterian elders. the presbyterian elders became in turn 'hireling wolves,' 'old priest' written in new characters. cromwell had left conscience free to protestants. but even he had refused equal liberty to catholics and episcopalians. he was gone too, and church and king were back again. how were they to stand? the stern resolute men, to whom the commonwealth had been the establishment of god's kingdom upon earth, were as little inclined to keep terms with antichrist as the church people had been inclined to keep terms with cromwell. to have allowed them to meet openly in their conventicles would have been to make over the whole of england to them as a seed-bed in which to plant sedition. it was pardonable, it was even necessary, for charles ii. and his advisers, to fall back upon elizabeth's principles, at least as long as the ashes were still glowing. indulgence had to be postponed till cooler times. with the fifth monarchy men abroad, every chapel, except those of the baptists, would have been a magazine of explosives. under the 35th of elizabeth, nonconformists refusing to attend worship in the parish churches were to be imprisoned till they made their submission. three months were allowed them to consider. if at the end of that time they were still obstinate, they were to be banished the realm; and if they subsequently returned to england without permission from the crown, they were liable to execution as felons. this act had fallen with the long parliament, but at the restoration it was held to have revived and to be still in force. the parish churches were cleared of their unordained ministers. the dissenters' chapels were closed. the people were required by proclamation to be present on sundays in their proper place. so the majority of the nation had decided. if they had wished for religious liberty they would not have restored the stuarts, or they would have insisted on conditions, and would have seen that they were observed. venner's plot showed the reality of the danger and justified the precaution. the baptists and quakers might have been trusted to discourage violence, but it was impossible to distinguish among the various sects, whose tenets were unknown and even unsettled. the great body of cromwell's spiritual supporters believed that armed resistance to a government which they disapproved was not only lawful, but was enjoined. thus, no sooner was charles ii. on the throne than the nonconformists found themselves again under bondage. their separate meetings were prohibited, and they were not only forbidden to worship in their own fashion, but they had to attend church, under penalties. the bedford baptists refused to obey. their meeting-house in the town was shut up, but they continued to assemble in woods and outhouses; bunyan preaching to them as before, and going to the place in disguise. informers were soon upon his track. the magistrates had received orders to be vigilant. bunyan was the most prominent dissenter in the neighbourhood. he was too sensible to court martyrdom. he had intended to leave the town till more quiet times, and had arranged to meet a few of his people once more to give them a parting address. it was november 12, 1660. the place agreed on was a house in the village of samsell near harlington. notice of his intention was privately conveyed to mr. wingate, a magistrate in the adjoining district. the constables were set to watch the house, and were directed to bring bunyan before him. some member of the congregation heard of it. bunyan was warned, and was advised to stay at home that night, or else to conceal himself. his departure had been already arranged; but when he learnt that a warrant was actually out against him, he thought that he was bound to stay and face the danger. he was the first nonconformist who had been marked for arrest. if he flinched after he had been singled out by name, the whole body of his congregation would be discouraged. go to church he would not, or promise to go to church; but he was willing to suffer whatever punishment the law might order. thus at the time and place which had been agreed on, he was in the room, at samsell, with his bible in his hand, and was about to begin his address, when the constables entered and arrested him. he made no resistance. he desired only to be allowed to say a few words, which the constables permitted. he then prepared to go with them. he was not treated with any roughness. it was too late to take him that night before the magistrate. his friends undertook for his appearance when he should be required, and he went home with them. the constables came for him again on the following afternoon. mr. wingate, when the information was first brought to him, supposed that he had fallen on a nest of fifth monarchy men. he enquired, when bunyan was brought in, how many arms had been found at the meeting. when he learnt that there were no arms, and that it had no political character whatever, he evidently thought it was a matter of no consequence. he told bunyan that he had been breaking the law, and asked him why he could not attend to his business. bunyan said that his object in teaching was merely to persuade people to give up their sins. he could do that and attend to his business also. wingate answered that the law must be obeyed. he must commit bunyan for trial at the quarter sessions; but he would take bail for him, if his securities would engage that he would not preach again meanwhile. bunyan refused to be bailed on any such terms. preach he would and must, and the recognizances would be forfeited. after such an answer, wingate could only send him to gaol: he could not help himself. the committal was made out, and bunyan was being taken away, when two of his friends met him, who were acquainted with wingate, and they begged the constable to wait. they went in to the magistrate. they told him who and what bunyan was. the magistrate had not the least desire to be hard, and it was agreed that if he would himself give some general promise of a vague kind he might be let go altogether. bunyan was called back. another magistrate who knew him had by this time joined wingate. they both said that they were reluctant to send him to prison. if he would promise them that he would not call the people together any more, he might go home. they had purposely chosen a form of words which would mean as little as possible. but bunyan would not accept an evasion. he said that he would not force the people to come together, but if he was in a place where the people were met, he should certainly speak to them. the magistrate repeated that the meetings were unlawful. they would be satisfied if bunyan would simply promise that he would not call such meetings. it was as plain as possible that they wished to dismiss the case, and they were thrusting words into his mouth which he could use without a mental reservation; but he persisted that there were many ways in which a meeting might be called; if people came together to hear him, knowing that he would speak, he might be said to have called them together. remonstrances and entreaties were equally useless, and, with extreme unwillingness, they committed him to bedford gaol to wait for the sessions. it is not for us to say that bunyan was too precise. he was himself the best judge of what his conscience and his situation required. to himself, at any rate, his trial was at the moment most severe. he had been left a widower a year or two before, with four young children, one of them blind. he had lately married a second time. his wife was pregnant. the agitation at her husband's arrest brought on premature labour, and she was lying in his house in great danger. he was an affectionate man, and the separation at such a time was peculiarly distressing. after some weeks the quarter sessions came on. bunyan was indicted under the usual form, that he 'being a person of such and such condition had since such a time devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church to hear divine service, and was a common upholder of unlawful meetings and conventicles, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom, contrary to the laws of our sovereign lord the king.' there seems to have been a wish to avoid giving him a formal trial. he was not required to plead, and it may have been thought that he had been punished sufficiently. he was asked why he did not go to church? he said that the prayer-book was made by man; he was ordered in the bible to pray with the spirit and the understanding, not with the spirit and the prayer-book. the magistrates, referring to another act of parliament, cautioned bunyan against finding fault with the prayer-book, or he would bring himself into further trouble. justice keelin who presided said (so bunyan declares, and it has been the standing jest of his biographers ever since) that the prayer-book had been in use ever since the apostles' time. perhaps the words were that parts of it had been then in use (the apostles' creed, for instance), and thus they would have been strictly true. however this might be, they told him kindly, as mr. wingate had done, that it would be better for him if he would keep to his proper work. the law had prohibited conventicles. he might teach, if he pleased, in his own family and among his friends. he must not call large numbers of people together. he was as impracticable as before, and the magistrates, being but unregenerate mortals, may be pardoned if they found him provoking. if, he said, it was lawful for him to do good to a few, it must be equally lawful to do good to many. he had a gift, which he was bound to use. if it was sinful for men to meet together to exhort one another to follow christ, he should sin still. he was compelling the court to punish him, whether they wished it or not. he describes the scene as if the choice had rested with the magistrates to convict him or to let him go. if he was bound to do his duty, they were equally bound to do theirs. they took his answers as a plea of guilty to the indictment, and justice keelin, who was chairman, pronounced his sentence in the terms of the act. he was to go to prison for three months; if, at the end of three months, he still refused to conform, he was to be transported; and if he came back without license he would be hanged. bunyan merely answered, 'if i were out of prison to-day, i would preach, the gospel again to-morrow.' more might have followed, but the gaoler led him away. there were three gaols in bedford, and no evidence has been found to show in which of the three bunyan was confined. two of them, the county gaol and the town gaol, were large roomy buildings. tradition has chosen the third, a small lock-up, fourteen feet square, which stood over the river between the central arches of the old bridge; and as it appears from the story that he had at times fifty or sixty fellow-prisoners, and as he admits himself that he was treated at first with exceptional kindness, it may be inferred that tradition, in selecting the prison on the bridge, was merely desiring to exhibit the sufferings of the nonconformist martyr in a sensational form, and that he was never in this prison at all. when it was pulled down in 1811 a gold ring was found in the rubbish, with the initials 'j. b.' upon it. this is one of the 'trifles light as air' which carry conviction to the 'jealous' only, and is too slight a foundation on which to assert a fact so inherently improbable. when the three months were over, the course of law would have brought him again to the bar, when he would have had to choose between conformity and exile. there was still the same desire to avoid extremities, and as the day approached, the clerk of the peace was sent to persuade him into some kind of compliance. various insurrections had broken out since his arrest, and must have shown him, if he could have reflected, that there was real reason for the temporary enforcement of the act. he was not asked to give up preaching. he was asked only to give up public preaching. it was well known that he had no disposition to rebellion. even the going to church was not insisted on. the clerk of the peace told him that he might 'exhort his neighbours in private discourse,' if only he would not bring the people together in numbers, which the magistrates would be bound to notice. in this way he might continue his usefulness, and would not be interfered with. bunyan knew his own freedom from seditious intentions. he would not see that the magistrates could not suspend the law and make an exception in his favour. they were going already to the utmost limit of indulgence. but the more he disapproved of rebellion, the more punctilious he was in carrying out resistance of another kind which he held to be legitimate. he was a representative person, and he thought that in yielding he would hurt the cause of religious liberty. 'the law,' he said, 'had provided two ways of obeying--one to obey actively, and if he could not in conscience obey actively, then to suffer whatever penalty was inflicted on him.' the clerk of the peace could produce no effect. bunyan rather looked on him as a false friend trying to entangle him. the three months elapsed, and the magistrates had to determine what was to be done. if bunyan was brought before them, they must exile him. his case was passed over and he was left in prison, where his wife and children were allowed to visit him daily. he did not understand the law or appreciate their forbearance. he exaggerated his danger. at the worst he could only have been sent to america, where he might have remained as long as he pleased. he feared that he might perhaps be hanged. 'i saw what was coming,' he said, 'and had two considerations especially on my heart, how to be able to endure, should my imprisonment be long and tedious, and how to be able to encounter death should that be my portion. i was made to see that if i would suffer rightly, i must pass sentence of death upon everything that can properly be called a thing of this life, even to reckon myself, my wife, my children, my health, my enjoyments all as dead to me, and myself as dead to them. yet i was a man compassed with infirmities. the parting with my wife and poor children hath often been to me in this place (the prison in which he was writing) as the pulling of my flesh from my bones; and that not only because i am too, too, fond of those great mercies, but also because i should have often brought to my mind the hardships, miseries, and wants my poor family was like to meet with should i be taken from them, especially my poor blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all i had besides. poor child, thought i, what sorrow art thou like to have for thy portion in this world! thou must be beaten, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though i cannot now endure the wind should blow on thee. but yet, thought i, i must venture all with god, though it goeth to the quick to leave you. i was as a man who was pulling down his house upon the head of his wife and children. yet thought i, i must do it--i must do it. i had this for consideration, that if i should now venture all for god, i engaged god to take care of my concernments. also i had dread of the torments of hell, which i was sure they must partake of that for fear of the cross do shrink from their profession. i had this much upon my spirit, that my imprisonment might end in the gallows for aught i could tell. in the condition i now was in i was not fit to die, nor indeed did i think i could if i should be called to it. i feared i might show a weak heart, and give occasion to the enemy. this lay with great trouble on me, for methought i was ashamed to die with a pale face and tottering knees for such a cause as this. the things of god were kept out of my sight. the tempter followed me with, "but whither must you go when you die? what will become of you? what evidence have you for heaven and glory, and an inheritance among them that are sanctified?" thus was i tossed many weeks; but i felt it was for the word and way of god that i was in this condition. god might give me comfort or not as he pleased. i was bound, but he was free--yea, it was my duty to stand to his word, whether he would ever look upon me or no, or save me at the last. wherefore, thought i, the point being thus, i am for going on and venturing my eternal state with christ, whether i have comfort here or no. if god does not come in, thought i, i will leap off the ladder even blindfold into eternity, sink or swim, come heaven, come hell. now was my heart full of comfort.' the ladder was an imaginary ladder, but the resolution was a genuine manly one, such as lies at the bottom of all brave and honourable action. others who have thought very differently from bunyan about such matters have felt the same as he felt. be true to yourself whatever comes, even if damnation come. better hell with an honest heart, than heaven with cowardice and insincerity. it was the more creditable to bunyan, too, because the spectres and hobgoblins had begun occasionally to revisit him. 'of all temptations i ever met with in my life,' he says, 'to question the being of god and the truth of his gospel is the worst and worst to be borne. when this temptation comes it takes my girdle from me and removes the foundation from under me. though god has visited my soul with never so blessed a discovery of himself, yet afterwards i have been in my spirit so filled with darkness, that i could not so much as once conceive what that god and that comfort was with which i had been refreshed.' chapter vi. the bedford gaol. the irregularities in the proceedings against bunyan had perhaps been suggested by the anticipation of the general pardon which was expected in the following spring. at the coronation of charles, april 23, 1661, an order was issued for the release of prisoners who were in gaol for any offences short of felony. those who were waiting their trials were to be let go at once. those convicted and under sentence might sue out a pardon under the great seal at any time within a year from the proclamation. was bunyan legally convicted or not? he had not pleaded directly to the indictment. no evidence had been heard against him. his trial had been a conversation between himself and the court. the point had been raised by his friends. his wife had been in london to make interest for him, and a peer had presented a petition in bunyan's behalf in the house of lords. the judges had been directed to look again into the matter at the midsummer assizes. the high sheriff was active in bunyan's favour. the judges twisden, chester, and no less a person than sir matthew hale, appear to have concluded that his conviction was legal, that he could not be tried again, and that he must apply for pardon in the regular way. his wife, however, at the instance of the sheriff, obtained a hearing, and they listened courteously to what she had to say. when she had done, mr. justice twisden put the natural question, whether, if her husband was released, he would refrain from preaching in public for the future. if he intended to repeat his offence immediately that he was at liberty, his liberty would only bring him into a worse position. the wife at once said that he dared not leave off preaching as long as he could speak. the judge asked if she thought her husband was to be allowed to do as he pleased. she said that he was a peaceable person, and wished only to be restored to a position in which he could maintain his family. they had four small children who could not help themselves, one of them being blind, and they had nothing to live upon as long as her husband was in prison but the charity of their friends. hale remarked that she looked very young to have four children. 'i am but mother-in-law to them,' she said, 'having not been married yet full two years. i was with child when my husband was first apprehended, but being young, i being dismayed at the news fell in labour, and so continued for eight days. i was delivered, but my child died.' hale was markedly kind. he told her that as the conviction had been recorded they could not set it aside. she might sue out a pardon if she pleased, or she might obtain 'a writ of error,' which would be simpler and less expensive. she left the court in tears--tears, however, which were not altogether tears of suffering innocence. 'it was not so much,' she said, 'because they were so hardhearted against me and my husband, but to think what a sad account such poor creatures would have to give at the coming of the lord.' no doubt both bunyan and she thought themselves cruelly injured, and they confounded the law with the administration of it. persons better informed than they often choose to forget that judges are sworn to administer the law which they find, and rail at them as if the sentences which they are obliged by their oaths to pass were their own personal acts. a pardon, it cannot be too often said, would have been of no use to bunyan, because he was determined to persevere in disobeying a law which he considered to be unjust. the most real kindness which could be shown to him was to leave him where he was. his imprisonment was intended to be little more than nominal. his gaoler, not certainly without the sanction of the sheriff, let him go where he pleased; once even so far as london. he used his liberty as he had declared that he would. 'i followed my wonted course of preaching,' he says, 'taking all occasions that were put in my hand to visit the people of god.' this was deliberate defiance. the authorities saw that he must be either punished in earnest or the law would fall into contempt. he admitted that he expected to be 'roundly dealt with.' his indulgences were withdrawn, and he was put into close confinement. sessions now followed sessions, and assizes, assizes. his detention was doubtless irregular, for by law he should have been sent beyond the seas. he petitioned to be brought to trial again, and complained loudly that his petition was not listened to; but no legislator, in framing an act of parliament, ever contemplated an offender in so singular a position. bunyan was simply trying his strength against the crown and parliament. the judges and magistrates respected his character, and were unwilling to drive him out of the country; he had himself no wish for liberty on that condition. the only resource, therefore, was to prevent him forcibly from repeating an offence that would compel them to adopt harsh measures which they were so earnestly trying to avoid. such was the world-famous imprisonment of john bunyan, which has been the subject of so much eloquent declamation. it lasted in all for more than twelve years. it might have ended at any time if he would have promised to confine his addresses to a private circle. it did end after six years. he was released under the first declaration of indulgence; but as he instantly recommenced his preaching, he was arrested again. another six years went by; he was again let go, and was taken once more immediately after, preaching in a wood. this time he was detained but a few months, and in form more than reality. the policy of the government was then changed, and he was free for the rest of his life. his condition during his long confinement has furnished a subject for pictures which if correct would be extremely affecting. it is true that, being unable to attend to his usual business, he spent his unoccupied hours in making tags for bootlaces. with this one fact to build on, and with the assumption that the scene of his sufferings was the bridge lockhouse, nonconformist imagination has drawn a 'den' for us, 'where there was not a yard or a court to walk in for daily exercise;' 'a damp and dreary cell;' 'a narrow chink which admits a few scanty rays of light to render visible the abode of woe;' 'the prisoner, pale and emaciated, seated on the humid earth, pursuing his daily task, to earn the morsel which prolongs his existence and his confinement together. near him, reclining in pensive sadness, his blind daughter, five other distressed children, and an affectionate wife, whom pinching want and grief have worn down to the gate of death. ten summer suns have rolled over the mansion of his misery whose reviving rays have never once penetrated his sad abode,' &c. &c. if this description resembles or approaches the truth, i can but say that to have thus abandoned to want their most distinguished pastor and his family was intensely discreditable to the baptist community. english prisons in the seventeenth century were not models of good management. but prisoners, whose friends could pay for them, were not consigned to damp and dreary cells; and in default of evidence of which not a particle exists, i cannot charge so reputable a community with a neglect so scandalous. the entire story is in itself incredible. bunyan was prosperous in his business. he was respected and looked up to by a large and growing body of citizens, including persons of wealth and position in london. he was a representative sufferer fighting the battle of all the nonconformists in england. he had active supporters in the town of bedford and among the gentlemen of the county. the authorities, so far as can be inferred from their actions, tried from the first to deal as gently with him as he would allow them to do. is it conceivable that the baptists would have left his family to starve; or that his own confinement would have been made so absurdly and needlessly cruel? is it not far more likely that he found all the indulgences which money could buy and the rules of the prison would allow? bunyan is not himself responsible for these wild legends. their real character appears more clearly when we observe how he was occupied during these years. friends, in the first place, had free access to him, and strangers who were drawn to him by reputation; while the gaol was considered a private place, and he was allowed to preach there, at least occasionally, to his fellow-prisoners. charles doe, a distinguished nonconformist, visited him in his confinement, and has left an account of what he saw. 'when i was there,' he writes, 'there were about sixty dissenters besides himself, taken but a little before at a religious meeting at kaistor, in the county of bedford, besides two eminent dissenting ministers, mr. wheeler and mr. dun, by which means the prison was much crowded. yet, in the midst of all that hurry, i heard mr. bunyan both preach and pray with that mighty spirit of faith and plerophory of divine assistance, that he made me stand and wonder. here they could sing without fear of being overheard; no informers prowling round, and the world shut out.' this was not all. a fresh and more severe conventicle act was passed in 1670. attempts were made to levy fines in the town of bedford. there was a riot there. the local officers refused to assist in quelling it. the shops were shut. bedford was occupied by soldiers. yet, at this very time, bunyan was again allowed to go abroad through general connivance. he spent his nights with his family. he even preached now and then in the woods. once when he had intended to be out for the night, information was given to a clerical magistrate in the neighbourhood, who disliked him, and a constable was sent to ascertain if the prisoners were all within ward. bunyan had received a hint of what was coming. he was in his place when the constable came; and the governor of the gaol is reported to have said to him, 'you may go out when you please, for you know better when to return than i can tell you.' parliament might pass laws, but the execution of them depended on the local authorities. before the declaration of indulgence, the baptist church in bedford was reopened. bunyan, while still nominally in confinement, attended its meetings. in 1671 he became an elder; in december of that year he was chosen pastor. the question was raised whether, as a prisoner, he was eligible. the objection would not have been set aside had he been unable to undertake the duties of the office. these facts prove conclusively that, for a part at least of the twelve years, the imprisonment was little more than formal. he could not have been in the bridge gaol when he had sixty fellow-prisoners, and was able to preach to them in private. it is unlikely that at any time he was made to suffer any greater hardships than were absolutely inevitable. but whether bunyan's confinement was severe or easy, it was otherwise of inestimable value to him. it gave him leisure to read and reflect. though he preached often, yet there must have been intervals, perhaps long intervals, of compulsory silence. the excitement of perpetual speech-making is fatal to the exercise of the higher qualities. the periods of calm enabled him to discover powers in himself of which he might otherwise have never known the existence. of books he had but few; for a time only the bible and foxe's 'martyrs.' but the bible thoroughly known is a literature of itself--the rarest and the richest in all departments of thought or imagination which exists. foxe's 'martyrs,' if he had a complete edition of it, would have given him a very adequate knowledge of history. with those two books he had no cause to complain of intellectual destitution. he must have read more, however. he knew george herbert--perhaps spenser--perhaps 'paradise lost.' but of books, except of the bible, he was at no time a great student. happily for himself, he had no other book of divinity, and he needed none. his real study was human life as he had seen it, and the human heart as he had experienced the workings of it. though he never mastered successfully the art of verse, he had other gifts which belong to a true poet. he had imagination, if not of the highest, yet of a very high order. he had infinite inventive humour, tenderness, and, better than all, powerful masculine sense. to obtain the use of these faculties he needed only composure, and this his imprisonment secured for him. he had published several theological compositions before his arrest, which have relatively little value. those which he wrote in prison--even on theological subjects--would alone have made him a reputation as a nonconformist divine. in no other writings are the peculiar views of evangelical calvinism brought out more clearly, or with a more heartfelt conviction of their truth. they have furnished an arsenal from which english protestant divines have ever since equipped themselves. the most beautiful of them, 'grace abounding to the chief of sinners,' is his own spiritual biography, which contains the account of his early history. the first part of the 'pilgrim's progress' was composed there as an amusement. to this, and to his other works which belong to literature, i shall return in a future chapter. visitors who saw him in the gaol found his manner and presence as impressive as his writings. 'he was mild and affable in conversation,' says one of them, 'not given to loquacity or to much discourse, unless some urgent occasion required. it was observed he never spoke of himself or of his talents, but seemed low in his own eyes. he was never heard to reproach or revile any, whatever injury he received, but rather rebuked those who did so. he managed all things with such exactness as if he had made it his study not to give offence.' the final 'declaration of indulgence' came at last, bringing with it the privilege for which bunyan had fought and suffered. charles ii. cared as little for liberty as his father or his brother, but he wished to set free the catholics, and as a step towards it he conceded a general toleration to the protestant dissenters. within two years of the passing of the conventicle act of 1670, this and every other penal law against nonconformists was suspended. they were allowed to open their 'meeting houses' for 'worship and devotion,' subject only to a few easy conditions. the localities were to be specified in which chapels were required, and the ministers were to receive their licenses from the crown. to prevent suspicions, the roman catholics were for the present excluded from the benefit of the concession. mass could be said, as before, only in private houses. a year later the proclamation was confirmed by act of parliament. thus bunyan's long imprisonment was ended. the cause was won. he had been its foremost representative and champion, and was one of the first persons to receive the benefit of the change of policy. he was now forty-four years old. the order for his release was signed on may 8, 1672. his license as pastor of the baptist chapel at bedford was issued on the 9th. he established himself in a small house in the town. 'when he came abroad,' says one, 'he found his temporal affairs were gone to wreck, and he had as to them to begin again as if he had newly come into the world. but yet he was not destitute of friends who had all along supported him with necessaries, and had been very good to his family: so that by their assistance, getting things a little about him again, he resolved, as much as possible, to decline worldly business, and give himself wholly up to the service of god.' as much as possible; but not entirely. in 1685, being afraid of a return of persecution, he made over, as a precaution, his whole estate to his wife; 'all and singular his goods, chattels, debts, ready money, plate, rings, household stuff, apparel, utensils, brass, pewter, bedding, and all his other substance.' in this deed he still describes himself as a brazier. the language is that of a man in easy, if not ample circumstances. 'though by reason of losses which he sustained by imprisonment,' says another biographer, 'his treasures swelled not to excess, he always had sufficient to live decently and creditably.' his writings and his sufferings had made him famous throughout england. he became the actual head of the baptist community. men called him, half in irony, half in seriousness, bishop bunyan, and he passed the rest of his life honourably and innocently, occupied in writing, preaching, district visiting, and opening daughter churches. happy in his work, happy in the sense that his influence was daily extending--spreading over his own country, and to the far-off settlements in america, he spent his last years in his own land of beulah, doubting castle out of sight, and the towers and minarets of emmanuel land growing nearer and clearer as the days went on. he had not detected, or at least, at first, he did not detect, the sinister purpose which lay behind the indulgence. the exception of the roman catholics gave him perfect confidence in the government, and after his release he published a 'discourse upon antichrist,' with a preface, in which he credited charles with the most righteous intentions, and urged his countrymen to be loyal and faithful to him. his object in writing it, he said, 'was to testify his loyalty to the king, his love to the brethren, and his service to his country.' antichrist was of course the pope, the deadliest of all enemies to vital christianity. to its kings and princes england owed its past deliverance from him. to kings england must look for his final overthrow. 'as the noble king henry viii. did cast down the antichristian worship, so he cast down the laws that held it up; so also did the good king edward his son. the brave queen elizabeth, also, the sister of king edward, left of things of this nature to her lasting fame behind her.' cromwell he dared not mention--perhaps he did not wish to mention him. but he evidently believed that there was better hope in charles stuart than in conspiracy and revolution. 'kings,' he said, 'must be the men that shall down with antichrist, and they shall down with her in god's time. god hath begun to draw the hearts of some of them from her already, and he will set them in time against her round about. if, therefore, they do not that work so fast as we would have them, let us exercise patience and hope in god. 'tis a wonder they go as fast as they do since the concerns of whole kingdoms lie upon their shoulders, and there are so many sanballats and tobias's to flatter them and misinform them. let the king have visibly a place in your hearts, and with heart and mouth give god thanks for him. he is a better saviour of us than we may be aware of, and hath delivered us from more deaths than we can tell how to think. we are bidden to give god thanks for all men, and in the first place for kings, and all that are in authority. be not angry with them, no not in thy thought. but consider if they go not in the work of reformation so fast as thou wouldest they should, the fault may be thine. know that thou also hast thy cold and chill frames of heart, and sittest still when thou shouldest be up and doing. pray for the long life of the king. pray that god would give wisdom and judgment to the king. pray that god would discern all plots and conspiracies against his person and government. i do confess myself one of the old-fashioned professors that wish to fear god and honour the king. i am also for blessing them that curse me, for doing good to them that hate me, and for praying for them that despitefully use me and persecute me; and i have had more peace in the practice of these things than all the world are aware of.' the stuarts, both charles and james, were grateful for bunyan's services. the nonconformists generally went up and down in royal favour; lost their privileges and regained them as their help was needed or could be dispensed with. but bunyan was never more molested. he did what he liked. he preached where he pleased, and no one troubled him or called him to account. he was not insincere. his constancy in enduring so long an imprisonment which a word from him would have ended, lifts him beyond the reach of unworthy suspicions. but he disapproved always of violent measures. his rule was to submit to the law; and where, as he said, he could not obey actively, then to bear with patience the punishment that might be inflicted on him. perhaps he really hoped, as long as hope was possible, that good might come out of the stuarts. chapter vii. life and death of mr. badman. to his contemporaries bunyan was known as the nonconformist martyr, and the greatest living protestant preacher. to us he is mainly interesting through his writings, and especially through the 'pilgrim's progress.' although he possessed, in a remarkable degree, the gift of expressing himself in written words, he had himself no value for literature. he cared simply for spiritual truth, and literature in his eyes was only useful as a means of teaching it. every thing with which a reasonable man could concern himself was confined within the limits of christian faith and practice. ambition was folly. amusement was idle trifling in a life so short as man's, and with issues so far-reaching depending upon it. to understand, and to make others understand, what christ had done, and what christ required men to do, was the occupation of his whole mind, and no object ever held his attention except in connection with it. with a purpose so strict, and a theory of religion so precise, there is usually little play for imagination or feeling. though we read protestant theology as a duty, we find it as dry in the mouth as sawdust. the literature which would please must represent nature, and nature refuses to be bound into our dogmatic systems. no object can be pictured truly, except by a mind which has sympathy with it. shakespeare no more hates iago than iago hates himself. he allows iago to exhibit himself in his own way, as nature does. every character, if justice is to be done to it, must be painted at its best, as it appears to itself; and a man impressed deeply with religious convictions is generally incapable of the sympathy which would give him an insight into what he disapproves and dislikes. and yet bunyan, intensely religious as he was, and narrow as his theology was, is always human. his genius remains fresh and vigorous under the least promising conditions. all mankind being under sin together, he has no favourites to flatter, no opponents to misrepresent. there is a kindliness in his descriptions, even of the evil one's attacks upon himself. the 'pilgrim's progress,' though professedly an allegoric story of the protestant plan of salvation, is conceived in the large, wide spirit of humanity itself. anglo-catholic and lutheran, calvinist and deist can alike read it with delight, and find their own theories in it. even the romanist has only to blot out a few paragraphs, and can discover no purer model of a christian life to place in the hands of his children. the religion of the 'pilgrim's progress' is the religion which must be always and everywhere, as long as man believes that he has a soul and is responsible for his actions; and thus it is that, while theological folios once devoured as manna from heaven now lie on the bookshelves dead as egyptian mummies, this book is wrought into the mind and memory of every well-conditioned english or american child; while the matured man, furnished with all the knowledge which literature can teach him, still finds the adventures of christian as charming as the adventures of ulysses or ã�neas. he sees there the reflexion of himself, the familiar features of his own nature, which remain the same from era to era. time cannot impair its interest, or intellectual progress make it cease to be true to experience. but the 'pilgrim's progress,' though the best known, is not the only work of imagination which bunyan produced; he wrote another religious allegory, which lord macaulay thought would have been the best of its kind in the world if the 'pilgrim's progress' had not existed. the 'life of mr. badman,' though now scarcely read at all, contains a vivid picture of rough english life in the days of charles ii. bunyan was a poet, too, in the technical sense of the word, and though he disclaimed the name, and though rhyme and metre were to him as saul's armour to david, the fine quality of his mind still shows itself in the uncongenial accoutrements. it has been the fashion to call bunyan's verse doggerel; but no verse is doggerel which has a sincere and rational meaning in it. goethe, who understood his own trade, says that the test of poetry is the substance which remains when the poetry is reduced to prose. bunyan had infinite invention. his mind was full of objects which he had gathered at first hand, from observation and reflection. he had excellent command of the english language, and could express what he wished with sharp, defined outlines, and without the waste of a word. the rhythmical structure of his prose is carefully correct. scarcely a syllable is ever out of place. his ear for verse, though less true, is seldom wholly at fault, and whether in prose or verse, he had the superlative merit that he could never write nonsense. if one of the motives of poetical form be to clothe thought and feeling in the dress in which it can lie most easily remembered, bunyan's lines are often as successful as the best lines of quarles or george herbert. who, for instance, could forget these?- sin is the worm of hell, the lasting fire: hell would soon lose its heat should sin expire; better sinless in hell than to be where heaven is, and to be found a sinner there. or these, on persons whom the world calls men of spirit:- though you dare crack a coward's crown, or quarrel for a pin, you dare not on the wicked frown, or speak against their sin. the 'book of ruth' and the 'history of joseph' done into blank verse are really beautiful idylls. the substance with which he worked, indeed, is so good that there would be a difficulty in spoiling it completely; but the prose of the translation in the english bible, faultless as it is, loses nothing in bunyan's hands, and if we found these poems in the collected works of a poet laureate, we should consider that a difficult task had been accomplished successfully. bunyan felt, like the translators of the preceding century, that the text was sacred, that his duty was to give the exact meaning of it, without epithets or ornaments, and thus the original grace is completely preserved. of a wholly different kind, and more after quarles's manner, is a collection of thoughts in verse, which he calls a book for boys and girls. all his observations ran naturally in one direction; to minds possessed and governed by religion, nature, be their creed what it may, is always a parable reflecting back their own views. but how neatly expressed are these 'meditations upon an egg':- the egg's no chick by falling from a hen, nor man's a christian till he's born again; the egg's at first contained in the shell, men afore grace in sin and darkness dwell; the egg, when laid, by warmth is made a chicken, and christ by grace the dead in sin doth quicken; the egg when first a chick the shell's its prison, so flesh to soul who yet with christ is risen. or this, 'on a swallow':- this pretty bird! oh, how she flies and sings; but could she do so if she had not wings? her wings bespeak my faith, her songs my peace; when i believe and sing, my doubtings cease. though the globe theatre was, in the opinion of nonconformists, 'the heart of satan's empire,' bunyan must yet have known something of shakespeare. in the second part of the 'pilgrim's progress' we find:- who would true valour see, let him come hither; one here will constant be, come wind, come weather. the resemblance to the song in 'as you like it' is too near to be accidental:- who doth ambition shun, and loves to be in the sun; seeking the food he eats, and pleased with what he gets, come hither, come hither, come hither. here shall be no enemy, save winter and rough weather. bunyan may, perhaps, have heard the lines, and the rhymes may have clung to him without his knowing whence they came. but he would never have been heard of outside his own communion, if his imagination had found no better form of expression for itself than verse. his especial gift was for allegory, the single form of imaginative fiction which he would not have considered trivial, and his especial instrument was plain, unaffected saxon prose. 'the holy war' is a people's paradise lost and paradise regained in one. the 'life of mr. badman' is a didactic tale, describing the career of a vulgar, middle-class, unprincipled scoundrel. these are properly bunyan's 'works,' the results of his life so far as it affects the present generation of englishmen; and as they are little known, i shall give an account of each of them. the 'life of badman' is presented as a dialogue between mr. wiseman and mr. attentive. mr. wiseman tells the story, mr. attentive comments upon it. the names recall bunyan's well-known manner. the figures stand for typical characters; but as the _dramatis personã¦_ of many writers of fiction, while professing to be beings of flesh and blood are no more than shadows, so bunyan's shadows are solid men whom we can feel and handle. mr. badman is, of course, one of the 'reprobate.' bunyan considered theoretically that a reprobate may to outward appearance have the graces of a saint, and that there may be little in his conduct to mark his true character. a reprobate may be sorry for his sins, he may repent and lead a good life. he may reverence good men and may try to resemble them; he may pray, and his prayers may be answered; he may have the spirit of god, and may receive another heart, and yet he may be under the covenant of works, and may be eternally lost. this bunyan could say while he was writing theology; but art has its rules as well as its more serious sister, and when he had to draw a living specimen, he drew him as he had seen him in his own bedford neighbourhood. badman showed from childhood a propensity for evil. he was so 'addicted to lying that his parents could not distinguish when he was speaking the truth. he would invent, tell, and stand to the lies which he invented, with such an audacious face, that one might read in his very countenance the symptoms of a hard and desperate heart. it was not the fault of his parents; they were much dejected at the beginnings of their son, nor did he want counsel and correction, if that would have made him better: but all availed nothing.' lying was not badman's only fault. he took to pilfering and stealing. he robbed his neighbours' orchards. he picked up money if he found it lying about. especially, mr. wiseman notes that he hated sundays. 'reading scriptures, godly conferences, repeating of sermons and prayers, were things that he could not away with.' 'he was an enemy to that day, because more restraint was laid upon him from his own ways than was possible on any other.' mr. wiseman never doubts that the puritan sunday ought to have been appreciated by little boys. if a child disliked it, the cause could only be his own wickedness. young badman 'was greatly given also to swearing and cursing.' 'he made no more of it' than mr. wiseman made 'of telling his fingers.' 'he counted it a glory to swear and curse, and it was as natural to him as to eat, drink, or sleep.' bunyan, in this description, is supposed to have taken the picture from himself. but too much may be made of this. he was thinking, perhaps, of what he might have been if god's grace had not preserved him. he himself was saved. badman is represented as given over from the first. anecdotes, however, are told of contemporary providential judgments upon swearers, which had much impressed bunyan. one was of a certain dorothy mately, a woman whose business was to wash rubbish at the derby lead mines. dorothy (it was in the year when bunyan was first imprisoned), had stolen twopence from the coat of a boy who was working near her. when the boy taxed her with having robbed him, she wished the ground might swallow her up if she had ever touched his money. presently after, some children who were watching her, saw a movement in the bank on which she was standing. they called to her to take care, but it was too late. the bank fell in, and she was carried down along with it. a man ran to help her, but the sides of the pit were crumbling round her: a large stone fell on her head; the rubbish followed, and she was overwhelmed. when she was dug out afterwards, the pence were found in her pocket. bunyan was perfectly satisfied that her death was supernatural. to discover miracles is not peculiar to catholics. they will be found wherever there is an active belief in immediate providential government. those more cautious in forming their conclusions will think, perhaps, that the woman was working above some shaft in the mine, that the crust had suddenly broken, and that it would equally have fallen in when gravitation required it to fall, if dorothy mately had been a saint. they will remember the words about the tower of siloam. but to return to badman. his father, being unable to manage so unpromising a child, bound him out as an apprentice. the master to whom he was assigned was as good a man as the father could find: uptight, godfearing, and especially considerate of his servants. he never worked them too hard. he left them time to read and pray. he admitted no light or mischievous books within his doors. he was not one of those whose religion 'hung as a cloke in his house, and was never seen on him when he went abroad.' his household was as well fed and cared for as himself, and he required nothing of others of which he did not set them an example in his own person. this man did his best to reclaim young badman, and was particularly kind to him. but his exertions were thrown away. the good-for-nothing youth read filthy romances on the sly. he fell asleep in church, or made eyes at the pretty girls. he made acquaintance with low companions. he became profligate, got drunk at alehouses, sold his master's property to get money, or stole it out of the cashbox. thrice he ran away and was taken back again. the third time he was allowed to go. 'the house of correction would have been the most fit for him, but thither his master was loath to send him, for the love he bore his father.' he was again apprenticed; this time to a master like himself. being wicked he was given over to wickedness. the ways of it were not altogether pleasant. he was fed worse and he was worked harder than he had been before; when he stole, or neglected his business, he was beaten. he liked his new place, however, better than the old. 'at least, there was no godliness in the house, which he hated worst of all.' so far, bunyan's hero was travelling the usual road of the idle apprentice, and the gallows would have been the commonplace ending of it. but this would not have answered bunyan's purpose. he wished to represent the good-for-nothing character, under the more instructive aspect of worldly success, which bad men may arrive at as well as good, if they are prudent and cunning. bunyan gives his hero every chance. he submits him from the first to the best influences; he creates opportunities for repentance at every stage of a long career--opportunities which the reprobate nature cannot profit by, yet increases its guilt by neglecting. badman's term being out, his father gives him money and sets him up as a tradesman on his own account. mr. attentive considers this to have been a mistake. mr. wiseman answers that even in the most desperate cases, kindness in parents is more likely to succeed than severity, and if it fails they will have the less to reproach themselves with. the kindness is, of course, thrown away. badman continues a loose blackguard, extravagant, idle and dissolute. he comes to the edge of ruin. his situation obliges him to think; and now the interest of the story begins. he must repair his fortune by some means or other. the easiest way is by marriage. there was a young orphan lady in the neighbourhood, who was well off and her own mistress. she was a 'professor' eagerly given to religion, and not so wise as she ought to have been. badman pretends to be converted. he reforms, or seems to reform. he goes to meeting, sings hymns, adopts the most correct form of doctrine, tells the lady that he does not want her money, but that he wants a companion who will go with him along the road to heaven. he was plausible, good-looking, and, to all appearance, as absorbed as herself in the one thing needful. the congregation warn her, but to no purpose. she marries him, and finds what she has done too late. in her fortune he has all that he wanted. he swears at her, treats her brutally, brings prostitutes into his house, laughs at her religion, and at length orders her to give it up. when she refuses, bunyan introduces a special feature of the times, and makes badman threaten to turn informer, and bring her favourite minister to gaol. the informers were the natural but most accursed products of the conventicle acts. popular abhorrence relieved itself by legends of the dreadful judgments which had overtaken these wretches. in st. neots an informer was bitten by a dog. the wound gangrened and the flesh rotted off his bones. in bedford 'there was one w. s.' (bunyan probably knew him too well), 'a man of very wicked life, and he, when there seemed to be countenance given to it, would needs turn informer. well, so he did, and was as diligent in his business as most of them could be. he would watch at nights, climb trees and range the woods of days, if possible to find out the meeters, for then they were forced to meet in the fields. yea, he would curse them bitterly, and swore most fearfully what he would do to them when he found them. well, after he had gone on like a bedlam in his course awhile, and had done some mischief to the people, he was stricken by the hand of god. he was taken with a faltering in his speech, a weakness in the back sinews of his neck, that ofttimes he held up his head by strength of hand. after this his speech went quite away, and he could speak no more than a swine or a bear. like one of them he would gruntle and make an ugly noise, according as he was offended or pleased, or would have anything done. he walked about till god had made a sufficient spectacle of his judgments for his sin, and then, on a sudden, he was stricken, and died miserably.' badman, says mr. wiseman, 'had malice enough in his heart' to turn informer, but he was growing prudent and had an eye to the future. as a tradesman he had to live by his neighbours. he knew that they would not forgive him, so 'he had that wit in his anger that he did it not.' nothing else was neglected to make the unfortunate wife miserable. she bore him seven children, also typical figures. 'one was a very gracious child, that loved its mother dearly. this child mr. badman could not abide, and it oftenest felt the weight of its father's fingers. three were as bad as himself. the others that remained became a kind of mongrel professors, not so bad as their father nor so good as their mother, but betwixt them both. they had their mother's notions and their father's actions. their father did not like them because they had their mother's tongue. their mother did not like them because they had their father's heart and life, nor were they fit company for good or bad. they were forced with esau to join in affinity with ishmael, to wit, to look out for a people that were hypocrites like themselves, and with them they matched and lived and died.' badman meanwhile, with the help of his wife's fortune, grew into an important person, and his character becomes a curious study. 'he went,' we are told, 'to school with the devil, from his childhood to the end of his life.' he was shrewd in matters of business, began to extend his operations, and 'drove a great trade.' he carried a double face. he was evil with the evil. he pretended to be good with the good. in religion he affected to be a freethinker, careless of death and judgment, and ridiculing those who feared them 'as frighted with unseen bugbears.' but he wore a mask when it suited him, and admired himself for the ease with which he could assume whatever aspect was convenient. 'i can be religious and irreligious,' he said; 'i can be anything or nothing. i can swear and speak against swearing. i can lie and speak against lying. i can drink, wench, be unclean, and defraud, and not be troubled for it. i can enjoy myself and am master of my own ways, not they of me. this i have attained with much study, care, and pains.' 'an atheist badman was, if such a thing as an atheist could be. he was not alone in that mystery. there was abundance of men of the same mind and the same principle. he was only an arch or chief one among them.' mr. badman now took to speculation, which bunyan's knowledge of business enabled him to describe with instructive minuteness. his adventures were on a large scale, and by some mistakes and by personal extravagance he had nearly ruined himself a second time. in this condition he discovered a means, generally supposed to be a more modern invention, of 'getting money by hatfuls.' 'he gave a sudden and great rush into several men's debts to the value of four or five thousand pounds, driving at the same time a very great trade by selling many things for less than they cost him, to get him custom and blind his creditors' eyes. when he had well feathered his nest with other men's goods and money, after a little while he breaks; while he had by craft and knavery made so sure of what he had, that his creditors could not touch a penny. he sends mournful sugared letters to them, desiring them not to be severe with him, for he bore towards all men an honest mind, and would pay them as far as he was able. he talked of the greatness of the taxes, the badness of the times, his losses by bad debts, and he brought them to a composition to take five shillings in the pound. his release was signed and sealed, and mr. badman could now put his head out of doors again, and be a better man than when he shut up shop by several thousands of pounds.' twice or three times he repeated the same trick with equal success. it is likely enough that bunyan was drawing from life and perhaps from a member of his own congregation; for he says that 'he had known a professor do it.' he detested nothing so much as sham religion which was put on as a pretence. 'a professor,' he exclaims, 'and practise such villanies as these! such an one is not worthy the name. go professors, go--leave off profession unless you will lead your lives according to your profession. better never profess than make profession a stalking horse to sin, deceit, the devil, and hell.' bankruptcy was not the only art by which badman piled up his fortune. the seventeenth century was not so far behind us as we sometimes persuade ourselves. 'he dealt by deceitful weights and measures. he kept weights to buy by and weights to sell by, measures to buy by and measures to sell by. those he bought by were too big, and those he sold by were too little. if he had to do with other men's weights and measures, he could use a thing called sleight of hand. he had the art besides to misreckon men in their accounts, whether by weight or measure or money; and if a question was made of his faithful dealing, he had his servants ready that would vouch and swear to his look or word. he would sell goods that cost him not the best price by far, for as much as he sold his best of all for. he had also a trick to mingle his commodity, that that which was bad might go off with the least mistrust. if any of his customers paid him money, he would call for payment a second time, and if they could not produce good and sufficient ground of the payment, a hundred to one but they paid it again.' 'to buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest' was mr. badman's common rule in business. according to modern political economy, it is the cardinal principle of wholesome trade. in bunyan's opinion it was knavery in disguise, and certain to degrade and demoralise everyone who acted upon it. bunyan had evidently thought on the subject. mr. attentive is made to object:-'but you know that there is no settled price set by god upon any commodity that is bought or sold under the sun; but all things that we buy and sell do ebb and flow as to price like the tide. how then shall a man of tender conscience do, neither to wrong the seller, buyer, nor himself in the buying and selling of commodities?' mr. wiseman answers in the spirit of our old acts of parliament, before political economy was invented:-'let a man have conscience towards god, charity to his neighbours, and moderation in dealing. let the tradesman consider that there is not that in great gettings and in abundance which the most of men do suppose; for all that a man has over and above what serves for his present necessity and supply, serves only to feed the lusts of the eye. be thou confident that god's eyes are upon thy ways; that he marks them, writes them down, and seals them up in a bag against the time to come. be sure that thou rememberest that thou knowest not the day of thy death. thou shalt have nothing that thou mayest so much as carry away in thy hand. guilt shall go with thee if thou hast gotten thy substance dishonestly, and they to whom thou shalt leave it shall receive it to their hurt. these things duly considered, i will shew thee how thou should'st live in the practical part of this art. art thou to buy or sell? if thou sellest do not commend. if thou buyest do not dispraise, any otherwise but to give the thing that thou hast to do with its just value and worth. art thou a seller and do things grow cheap? set not thy hand to help or hold them up higher. art thou a buyer and do things grow dear? use no cunning or deceitful language to pull them down. leave things to the providence of god, and do thou with moderation submit to his hand. hurt not thy neighbour by crying out scarcity, scarcity! beyond the truth of things. especially take heed of doing this by way of a prognostic for time to come. this wicked thing may be done by hoarding up (food) when the hunger and necessity of the poor calls for it. if things rise do thou be grieved. be also moderate in all thy sellings, and be sure let the poor have a pennyworth, and sell thy corn to those who are in necessity; which thou wilt do when thou showest mercy to the poor in thy selling to him, and when thou undersellest the market for his sake because he is poor. this is to buy and sell with a good conscience. the buyer thou wrongest not, thy conscience thou wrongest not, thyself thou wrongest not, for god will surely recompense with thee.' these views of bunyan's are at issue with modern science, but his principles and ours are each adjusted to the objects of desire which good men in those days and good men in ours have respectively set before themselves. if wealth means money, as it is now assumed to do, bunyan is wrong and modern science right. if wealth means moral welfare, then those who aim at it will do well to follow bunyan's advice. it is to be feared that this part of his doctrine is less frequently dwelt upon by those who profess to admire and follow him, than the theory of imputed righteousness or justification by faith. mr. badman by his various ingenuities became a wealthy man. his character as a tradesman could not have been a secret from his neighbours, but money and success coloured it over. the world spoke well of him. he became 'proud and haughty,' took part in public affairs, 'counted himself as wise as the wisest in the country, as good as the best, and as beautiful as he that had the most of it.' 'he took great delight in praising himself, and as much in the praises that others gave him.' 'he could not abide that any should think themselves above him, or that their wit and personage should be by others set before his.' he had an objection, nevertheless, to being called proud, and when mr. attentive asked why, his companion answered with a touch which reminds us of de foe, that 'badman _did not tell him the reason_. he supposed it to be that which was common to all vile persons. they loved their vice, but cared not to bear its name.' badman said he was unwilling to seem singular and fantastical, and in this way he justified his expensive and luxurious way of living. singularity of all kinds he affected to dislike, and for that reason his special pleasure was to note the faults of professors. 'if he could get anything by the end that had scandal in it, if it did but touch professors, however falsely reported, oh, then he would glory, laugh and be glad, and lay it upon the whole party. hang these rogues, he would say, there is not a barrel better herring in all the holy brotherhood of them. like to like, quoth the devil to the collier. this is your precise crew, and then he would send them all home with a curse.' thus bunyan developed his specimen scoundrel, till he brought him to the high altitudes of worldly prosperity; skilful in every villanous art, skilful equally in keeping out of the law's hands, and feared, admired and respected by all his neighbours. the reader who desires to see providence vindicated would now expect to find him detected in some crimes by which justice could lay hold, and poetical retribution fall upon him in the midst of his triumph. an inferior artist would certainly have allowed his story to end in this way. but bunyan, satisfied though he was that dramatic judgments did overtake offenders in this world with direct and startling appropriateness, was yet aware that it was often otherwise, and that the worst fate which could be inflicted on a completely worthless person was to allow him to work out his career unvisited by any penalties which might have disturbed his conscience and occasioned his amendment. he chose to make his story natural, and to confine himself to natural machinery. the judgment to come mr. badman laughed at 'as old woman's fable,' but his courage lasted only as long as he was well and strong. one night as he was riding home drunk, his horse fell and he broke his leg. 'you would not think,' says mr. wiseman, 'how he swore at first. then coming to himself, and finding he was badly hurt, he cried out, after the manner of such, lord help me; lord have mercy on me; good god deliver me, and the like. he was picked up and taken home, where he lay some time. in his pain he called on god, but whether it was that his sin might be pardoned and his soul saved, or whether to be rid of his pain,' mr. wiseman 'could not determine.' this leads to several stories of drunkards which bunyan clearly believed to be literally true. such facts or legends were the food on which his mind had been nourished. they were in the air which contemporary england breathed. 'i have read in mr. clarke's looking-glass for sinners,' mr. wiseman said, 'that upon a time a certain drunken fellow boasted in his cups that there was neither heaven nor hell. also he said he believed that man had no soul, and that for his own part he would sell his soul to any that would buy it. then did one of his companions buy it of him for a cup of wine, and presently the devil, in man's shape, bought it of that man again at the same price; and so in the presence of them all laid hold of the soul-seller, and carried him away through the air so that he was no more heard of.' again: 'there was one at salisbury drinking and carousing at a tavern, and he drank a health to the devil, saying that if the devil would not come and pledge him, he could not believe that there was either god or devil. whereupon his companions, stricken with fear, hastened out of the room, and presently after, hearing a hideous noise and smelling a stinking savour, the vintner ran into the chamber, and coming in he missed his guest, and found the window broken, the iron bars in it bowed and all bloody, but the man was never heard of afterwards.' these visitations were answers to a direct challenge of the evil spirit's existence, and were thus easy to be accounted for. but no devil came for mr. badman. he clung to his unfortunate neglected wife. 'she became his dear wife, his godly wife, his honest wife, his duck, his dear and all.' he thought he was dying, and hell and all its horrors rose up before him. 'fear was in his face, and in his tossings to and fro he would often say i am undone, i am undone, my vile life hath undone me.' atheism did not help him. it never helped anyone in such extremities mr. wiseman said; as he had known in another instance:-'there was a man dwelt about twelve miles off from us,' he said, 'that had so trained up himself in his atheistical notions, that at last he attempted to write a book against jesus christ and the divine authority of the scriptures. i think it was not printed. well, after many days god struck him with sickness whereof he died. so being sick, and musing of his former doings, the book that he had written tore his conscience as a lion would tear a kid. some of my friends went to see him, and as they were in his chamber one day he hastily called for pen and ink and paper, which, when it was given to him, he took it and writ to this purpose. "i such an one in such a town must go to hell fire for writing a book against jesus christ." he would have leaped out of the window to have killed himself, but was by them prevented of that, so he died in his bed by such a death as it was.' badman seemed equally miserable. but deathbed repentances, as bunyan sensibly said, were seldom of more value than 'the howling of a dog.' the broken leg was set again. the pain of body went, and with it the pain of mind. he was assisted out of his uneasiness, says bunyan, with a characteristic hit at the scientific views then coming into fashion, 'by his doctor,' who told him that his alarms had come 'from an affection of the brain, caused by want of sleep;' 'they were nothing but vapours and the effects of his distemper.' he gathered his spirits together, and became the old man once more. his poor wife, who had believed him penitent, broke her heart, and died of the disappointment. the husband gave himself up to loose connections with abandoned women, one of whom persuaded him one day, when he was drunk, to make her a promise of marriage, and she held him to his word. then retribution came upon him, with the coarse, commonplace, yet rigid justice which fact really deals out. the second bad wife avenged the wrongs of the first innocent wife. he was mated with a companion 'who could fit him with cursing and swearing, give him oath for oath, and curse for curse. they would fight and fly at each other like cat and dog.' in this condition--for bunyan, before sending his hero to his account, gave him a protracted spell of earthly discomforts--they lived sixteen years together. fortune, who had so long favoured his speculations, turned her back upon him. between them they 'sinned all his wealth away,' and at last parted 'as poor as howlets.' then came the end. badman was still in middle life, and had naturally a powerful constitution; but his 'cups and his queans' had undermined his strength. dropsy came, and gout, with worse in his bowels, and 'on the top of them all, as the captain of the men of death that came to take him away,' consumption. bunyan was a true artist, though he knew nothing of the rules, and was not aware that he was an artist at all. he was not to be tempted into spoiling a natural story with the melodramatic horrors of a sinner's deathbed. he had let his victim 'howl' in the usual way, when he meant him to recover. he had now simply to conduct him to the gate of the place where he was to receive the reward of his iniquities. it was enough to bring him thither still impenitent, with the grave solemnity with which a felon is taken to execution. 'as his life was full of sin,' says mr. wiseman, 'so his death was without repentance. he had not, in all the time of his sickness, a sight and a sense of his sins; but was as much at quiet as if he had never sinned in his life: he was as secure as if he had been sinless as an angel. when he drew near his end, there was no more alteration in him than what was made by his disease upon his body. he was the selfsame mr. badman still, not only in name, but in condition, and that to the very day of his death and the moment in which he died. there seemed not to be in it to the standers by so much as a strong struggle of nature. he died like a lamb, or, as men call it, like a chrisom child, quietly and without fear.' to which end of mr. badman bunyan attaches the following remarks: 'if a wicked man, if a man who has lived all his days in notorious sin, dies quietly, his quiet dying is so far from being a sign of his being saved that it is an incontestable proof of his damnation. no man can be saved except he repents; nor can he repent that knows not that he is a sinner: and he that knows himself to be a sinner will, i warrant him, be molested for his knowledge before he can die quietly. i am no admirer of sick-bed repentance; for i think verily it is seldom good for anything. but i see that he that hath lived in sin and profaneness all his days, as badman did, and yet shall die quietly, that is, without repentance steps in between his life and his death, is assuredly gone to hell. when god would show the greatness of his anger against sin and sinners in one word, he saith, let them alone! let them, alone--that is, disturb them not. let them go on without control: let the devil enjoy them peaceably. let him carry them out of the world unconverted quietly. this is the sorest of judgments. i do not say that all wicked men that are molested at their death with a sense of sin and fear of hell do therefore go to heaven; for some are made to see and are left to despair. but i say there is no surer sign of a man's damnation than to die quietly after a sinful life, than to sin and die with a heart that cannot repent. the opinion, therefore, of the common people of this kind of death is frivolous and vain.' so ends this very remarkable story. it is extremely interesting, merely as a picture of vulgar english life in a provincial town such as bedford was when bunyan lived there. the drawing is so good, the details so minute, the conception so unexaggerated, that we are disposed to believe that we must have a real history before us. but such a supposition is only a compliment to the skill of the composer. bunyan's inventive faculty was a spring that never ran dry. he had a manner, as i said, like de foe's, of creating the illusion that we are reading realities, by little touches such as 'i do not know,' 'he did not tell me this,' or the needless introduction of particulars irrelevant to the general plot such as we always stumble on in life, and writers of fiction usually omit. bunyan was never prosecuted for libel by 'badman's' relations, and the character is the corresponding contrast to christian in the 'pilgrim's progress,' the pilgrim's journey being in the opposite direction to the other place. throughout we are on the solid earth, amidst real experiences. no demand is made on our credulity by providential interpositions, except in the intercalated anecdotes which do not touch the story itself. the wicked man's career is not brought to the abrupt or sensational issues so much in favour with ordinary didactic tale-writers. such issues are the exception, not the rule, and the edifying story loses its effect when the reader turns from it to actual life, and perceives that the majority are not punished in any such way. bunyan conceals nothing, assumes nothing, and exaggerates nothing. he makes his bad man sharp and shrewd. he allows sharpness and shrewdness to bring him the rewards which such qualities in fact command. badman is successful, he is powerful; he enjoys all the pleasures which money can buy; his bad wife helps him to ruin, but otherwise he is not unhappy, and he dies in peace. bunyan has made him a brute, because such men do become brutes. it is the real punishment of brutal and selfish habits. there the figure stands; a picture of a man in the rank of english life with which bunyan was most familiar, travelling along the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire, as the way to emmanuel's land was through the slough of despond and the valley of the shadow of death. pleasures are to be found among the primroses, such pleasures as a brute can be gratified by. yet the reader feels that even if there was no bonfire, he would still prefer to be with christian. chapter viii. the holy war. the supernatural has been successfully represented in poetry, painting, or sculpture, only at particular periods of human history, and under peculiar mental conditions. the artist must himself believe in the supernatural, or his description of it will be a sham, without dignity and without credibility. he must feel himself able at the same time to treat the subject which he selects with freedom, throwing his own mind boldly into it, or he will produce, at best, the hard and stiff forms of literal tradition. when benvenuto cellini was preparing to make an image of the virgin, he declares gravely that our lady appeared to him that he might know what she was like; and so real was the apparition that for many months after, he says that his friends when the room was dark could see a faint aureole about his head. yet benvenuto worked as if his own brain was partly the author of what he produced, and, like other contemporary artists, used his mistresses for his models, and was no servile copyist of phantoms seen in visions. there is a truth of the imagination, and there is a truth of fact, religion hovering between them, translating one into the other, turning natural phenomena into the activity of personal beings; or giving earthly names and habitations to mere creatures of fancy. imagination creates a mythology. the priest takes it and fashions out of it a theology, a ritual, or a sacred history. so long as the priest can convince the world that he is dealing with literal facts, he holds reason prisoner, and imagination is his servant. in the twilight when dawn is coming near but has not yet come; when the uncertain nature of the legend is felt, though not intelligently discerned; imagination is the first to resume its liberty; it takes possession of its own inheritance, it dreams of its gods and demigods, as benvenuto dreamt of the virgin, and it re-shapes the priest's traditions in noble and beautiful forms. homer and the greek dramatists would not have dared to bring the gods upon the stage so freely, had they believed zeus and apollo were living persons, like the man in the next street, who might call the poet to account for what they were made to do and say; but neither, on the other hand, could they have been actively conscious that zeus and apollo were apparitions, which had no existence, except in their own brains. the condition is extremely peculiar. it can exist only in certain epochs, and in its nature is necessarily transitory. where belief is consciously gone the artist has no reverence for his work, and therefore can inspire none. the greatest genius in the world could not reproduce another athene like that of phidias. but neither must the belief be too complete. the poet's tongue stammers when he would bring beings before us who, though invisible, are awful personal existences, in whose stupendous presence we one day expect to stand. as long as the conviction survives that he is dealing with literal truths, he is safe only while he follows with shoeless feet the letter of the tradition. he dares not step beyond, lest he degrade the infinite to the human level, and if he is wise he prefers to content himself with humbler subjects. a christian artist can represent jesus christ as a man because he was a man, and because the details of the gospel history leave room for the imagination to work. to represent christ as the eternal son in heaven, to bring before us the persons of the trinity consulting, planning, and reasoning, to take us into their everlasting council chamber, as homer takes us into olympus, will be possible only when christianity ceases to be regarded as a history of true facts. till then it is a trespass beyond the permitted limits, and revolts us by the inadequacy of the result. either the artist fails altogether by attempting the impossible, or those whom he addresses are themselves intellectually injured by an unreal treatment of truths hitherto sacred. they confound the representation with its object, and regard the whole of it as unreal together. these observations apply most immediately to milton's 'paradise lost,' and are meant to explain the unsatisfactoriness of it. milton himself was only partially emancipated from the bondage of the letter; half in earth, half 'pawing to get free' like his own lion. the war in heaven, the fall of the rebel angels, the horrid splendours of pandemonium seem legitimate subjects for christian poetry. they stand for something which we regard as real, yet we are not bound to any actual opinions about them. satan has no claim on reverential abstinence; and paradise and the fall of man are perhaps sufficiently mythic to permit poets to take certain liberties with them. but even so far milton has not entirely succeeded. his wars of the angels are shadowy. they have no substance like the battles of greeks and trojans, or centaurs and lapithã¦; and satan could not be made interesting without touches of a nobler nature, that is, without ceasing to be the satan of the christian religion. but this is not his worst. when we are carried up into heaven and hear the persons of the trinity conversing on the mischiefs which have crept into the universe, and planning remedies and schemes of salvation like puritan divines, we turn away incredulous and resentful. theologians may form such theories for themselves, if not wisely, yet without offence. they may study the world in which they are placed, with the light which can be thrown upon it by the book which they call the word of god. they may form their conclusions, invent their schemes of doctrine, and commend to their flocks the interpretation of the mystery at which they have arrived. the cycles and epicycles of the ptolemaic astronomers were imperfect hypotheses, but they were stages on which the mind could rest for a more complete examination of the celestial phenomena. but the poet does not offer us phrases and formulas; he presents to us personalities living and active, influenced by emotions and reasoning from premises; and when the unlimited and incomprehensible being whose attributes are infinite, of whom from the inadequacy of our ideas we can only speak in negatives, is brought on the stage to talk like an ordinary man, we feel that milton has mistaken the necessary limits of his art. when faust claims affinity with the erdgeist, the spirit tells him to seek affinities with beings which he can comprehend. the commandment which forbade the representation of god in a bodily form, forbids the poet equally to make god describe his feelings and his purposes. where the poet would create a character he must himself comprehend it first to its inmost fibre. he cannot comprehend his own creator. admire as we may 'paradise lost;' try as we may to admire 'paradise regained;' acknowledge as we must the splendour of the imagery and the stately march of the verse; there comes upon us irresistibly a sense of the unfitness of the subject for milton's treatment of it. if the story which he tells us is true, it is too momentous to be played with in poetry. we prefer to hear it in plain prose, with a minimum of ornament and the utmost possible precision of statement. milton himself had not arrived at thinking it to be a legend, a picture like a greek mythology. his poem falls between two modes of treatment and two conceptions of truth; we wonder, we recite, we applaud, but something comes in between our minds and a full enjoyment, and it will not satisfy us better as time goes on. the same objection applies to 'the holy war' of bunyan. it is as i said, a people's version of the same series of subjects--the creation of man, the fall of man, his redemption, his ingratitude, his lapse, and again his restoration. the chief figures are the same, the action is the same, though more varied and complicated, and the general effect is unsatisfactory from the same cause. prose is less ambitious than poetry. there is an absence of attempts at grand effects. there is no effort after sublimity, and there is consequently a lighter sense of incongruity in the failure to reach it. on the other hand, there is the greater fulness of detail so characteristic of bunyan's manner; and fulness of detail on a theme so far beyond our understanding is as dangerous as vague grandiloquence. in 'the pilgrim's progress' we are among genuine human beings. the reader knows the road too well which christian follows. he has struggled with him in the slough of despond. he has shuddered with him in the valley of the shadow of death. he has groaned with him in the dungeons of doubting castle. he has encountered on his journey the same fellow-travellers. who does not know mr. pliable, mr. obstinate, mr. facing-both-ways, mr. feeble mind, and all the rest? they are representative realities, flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone. 'if we prick them they bleed, if we tickle them they laugh,' or they make us laugh. 'they are warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer' as we are. the human actors in 'the holy war' are parts of men--special virtues, special vices: allegories in fact as well as in name, which all bunyan's genius can only occasionally substantiate into persons. the plot of 'the pilgrim's progress' is simple. 'the holy war' is prolonged through endless vicissitudes, with a doubtful issue after all, and the incomprehensibility of the being who allows satan to defy him so long and so successfully is unpleasantly and harshly brought home to us. true it is so in life. evil remains after all that has been done for us. but life is confessedly a mystery. 'the holy war' professes to interpret the mystery, and only restates the problem in a more elaborate form. man friday on reading it would have asked even more emphatically, 'why god not kill the devil?' and robinson crusoe would have found no assistance in answering him. for these reasons, i cannot agree with macaulay in thinking that if there had been no 'pilgrim's progress,' 'the holy war' would have been the first of religious allegories. we may admire the workmanship, but the same undefined sense of unreality which pursues us through milton's epic would have interfered equally with the acceptance of this. the question to us is if the facts are true. if true they require no allegories to touch either our hearts or our intellects. 'the holy war' would have entitled bunyan to a place among the masters of english literature. it would never have made his name a household word in every english-speaking family on the globe. the story which i shall try to tell in an abridged form is introduced by a short prefatory poem. works of fancy, bunyan tells us, are of many sorts, according to the author's humour. for himself he says to his reader: i have something else to do than write vain stories thus to trouble you. what here i say some men do know too well; they can with tears and joy the story tell. the town of mansoul is well known to many, nor are her troubles doubted of by any that are acquainted with those histories that mansoul and her wars anatomize. then lend thine ears to what i do relate touching the town of mansoul and her state, how she was lost, took captive, made a slave, and how against him set that should her save, yea, how by hostile ways she did oppose her lord and with his enemy did close, for they are true; he that will them deny must needs the best of records vilify. for my part, i myself was in the town both when 'twas set up and when pulling down. i saw diabolus in his possession, and mansoul also under his oppression: yea i was there when she him owned for lord, and to him did submit with one accord. when mansoul trampled upon things divine, and wallowed in filth as doth a swine, when she betook herself unto his arms, fought her emmanuel, despised his charms; then was i there and did rejoice to see diabolus and mansoul so agree. let no man count me then a fable maker, nor make my name or credit a partaker of their derision. what is here in view of mine own knowledge i dare say is true. at setting out we are introduced into the famous continent of 'universe,' a large and spacious country lying between the two poles--'the people of it not all of one complexion nor yet of one language, mode or way of religion; but differing as much as the planets themselves, some right, some wrong, even as it may happen to be.' in this country of 'universe' was a fair and delicate town and corporation called 'mansoul,' a town for its building so curious, for its situation so commodious, for its privileges so advantageous, that with reference to its original (state) there was not its equal under heaven. the first founder was shaddai, who built it for his own delight. in the midst of the town was a famous and stately palace which shaddai intended for himself.[3] he had no intention of allowing strangers to intrude there. and the peculiarity of the place was that the walls of mansoul[4] could never be broken down or hurt unless the townsmen consented. mansoul had five gates which in like manner could only be forced if those within allowed it. these gates were eargate, eyegate, mouthgate, nosegate, and feelgate. thus provided, mansoul was at first all that its founder could desire. it had the most excellent laws in the world. there was not a rogue or a rascal inside its whole precincts. the inhabitants were all true men. [footnote 3: bunyan says in a marginal note, that by this palace he means the heart.] [footnote 4: the body.] now there was a certain giant named diabolus--king of the blacks or negroes, as bunyan noticeably calls them--the negroes standing for sinners or fallen angels. diabolus had once been a servant of shaddai, one of the chief in his territories. pride and ambition had led him to aspire to the crown which was settled on shaddai's son. he had formed a conspiracy and planned a revolution. shaddai and his son, 'being all eye,' easily detected the plot. diabolus and his crew were bound in chains, banished, and thrown into a pit, there to 'abide for ever.' this was their sentence; but out of the pit, in spite of it, they in some way contrived to escape. they ranged about full of malice against shaddai, and looking for means to injure him. they came at last on mansoul. they determined to take it, and called a council to consider how it could best be done. diabolus was aware of the condition that no one could enter without the inhabitants' consent. alecto, apollyon, beelzebub, lucifer (pagan and christian demons intermixed indifferently) gave their several opinions. diabolus at length at lucifer's suggestion decided to assume the shape of one of the creatures over which mansoul had dominion; and he selected as the fittest that of a snake, which at that time was in great favour with the people as both harmless and wise. the population of mansoul were simple, innocent folks who believed everything that was said to them. force, however, might be necessary as well as cunning, and the tisiphone, a fury of the lakes, was required to assist. the attempt was to be made at eargate. a certain captain resistance was in charge of this gate, whom diabolus feared more than any one in the place. tisiphone was to shoot him. the plans being all laid, diabolus in his snake's dress approached the wall, accompanied by one 'ill pause,' a famous orator, the fury following behind. he asked for a parley with the heads of the town. captain resistance, two of the great nobles, lord 'innocent,' and lord 'will be will,' with mr. conscience, the recorder, and lord understanding, the lord mayor, came to the gate to see what he wanted. lord 'will be will' plays a prominent part in the drama both for good and evil. he is neither free will, nor wilfulness, nor inclination, but the quality which metaphysicians and theologians agree in describing as 'the will.' 'the will' simply--a subtle something of great importance; but what it is they have never been able to explain. lord will be will inquired diabolus's business. diabolus, 'meek as a lamb,' said he was a neighbour of theirs. he had observed with distress that they were living in a state of slavery, and he wished to help them to be free. shaddai was no doubt a great prince, but he was an arbitrary despot. there was no liberty where the laws were unreasonable, and shaddai's laws were the reverse of reasonable. they had a fruit growing among them, in mansoul, which they had but to eat to become wise. knowledge was well known to be the best of possessions. knowledge was freedom; ignorance was bondage; and yet shaddai had forbidden them to touch this precious fruit. at that moment captain resistance fell dead, pierced by an arrow from tisiphone. ill pause made a flowing speech, in the midst of which lord innocent fell also, either through a blow from diabolus, or 'overpowered by the stinking breath of the old villain ill pause.' the people flew upon the apple tree; eargate and eyegate were thrown open, and diabolus was invited to come in; when at once he became king of mansoul and established himself in the castle.[5] [footnote 5: the heart.] the magistrates were immediately changed. lord understanding ceased to be lord mayor. mr. conscience was no longer left as recorder. diabolus built up a wall in front of lord understanding's palace, and shut off the light, 'so that till mansoul was delivered the old lord mayor was rather an impediment than, an advantage to that famous town.' diabolus tried long to bring 'conscience' over to his side, but never quite succeeded. the recorder became greatly corrupted, but he could not be prevented from now and then remembering shaddai; and when the fit was on him he would shake the town with his exclamations. diabolus therefore had to try other methods with him. 'he had a way to make the old gentleman when he was merry unsay and deny what in his fits he had affirmed, and this was the next way to make him ridiculous and to cause that no man should regard him.' to make all secure diabolus often said, 'oh, mansoul, consider that, notwithstanding the old gentleman's rage and the rattle of his high thundering words, you hear nothing of shaddai himself.' the recorder had pretended that the voice of the lord was speaking in him. had this been so, diabolus argued that the lord would have done more than speak. 'shaddai,' he said, 'valued not the loss nor the rebellion of mansoul, nor would he trouble himself with calling his town to a reckoning.' in this way the recorder came to be generally hated, and more than once the people would have destroyed him. happily his house was a castle near the waterworks. when the rabble pursued him, he would pull up the sluices,[6] let in the flood, and drown all about him. [footnote 6: fears.] lord will be will, on the other hand, 'as high born as any in mansoul,' became diabolus's principal minister. he had been the first to propose admitting diabolus, and he was made captain of the castle, governor of the wall, and keeper of the gates. will be will had a clerk named mr. mind, a man every way like his master, and mansoul was thus brought 'under the lusts' of will and intellect. mr. mind had in his house some old rent and torn parchments of the law of shaddai. the recorder had some more in his study; but to these will be will paid no attention, and surrounded himself with officials who were all in diabolus's interest. he had as deputy one mr. affection, 'much debauched in his principles, so that he was called vile affection.' vile affection married mr. mind's daughter, carnal lust, by whom he had three sons--impudent, black mouth, and hate reproof; and three daughters--scorn truth, slight good, and revenge. all traces of shaddai were now swept away. his image, which had stood in the market-place, was taken down, and an artist called mr. no truth was employed to set up the image of diabolus in place of it. lord lustings--'who never savoured good, but evil'--was chosen for the new lord mayor. mr. forget good was appointed recorder. there were new burgesses and aldermen, all with appropriate names, for which bunyan was never at a loss--mr. incredulity, mr. haughty, mr. swearing, mr. hardheart, mr. pitiless, mr. fury, mr. no truth, mr. stand to lies, mr. falsepeace, mr. drunkenness, mr. cheating, mr. atheism, and another; thirteen of them in all. mr. incredulity was the eldest, mr. atheism the youngest in the company--a shrewd and correct arrangement. diabolus, on his part, set to work to fortify mansoul. he built three fortresses--'the hold of defiance' at eyegate, that the light might be darkened there;' 'midnight hold' near the old castle, to keep mansoul from knowledge of itself; and 'sweet sin hold' in the market-place, that there might be no desire of good there. these strongholds being established and garrisoned, diabolus thought that he had made his conquest secure. so far the story runs on firmly and clearly. it is vivid, consistent in itself, and held well within the limits of human nature and experience. but, like milton, bunyan is now, by the exigencies of the situation, forced upon more perilous ground. he carries us into the presence of shaddai himself, at the time when the loss of mansoul was reported in heaven. the king, his son, his high lords, his chief captains and nobles were all assembled to hear. there was universal grief, in which the king and his son shared or rather seemed to share--for at once the drama of the fall of mankind becomes no better than a mystery play. 'shaddai and his son had foreseen it all long before, and had provided for the relief of mansoul, though they told not everybody thereof--but because they would have a share in condoling of the misery of mansoul they did, and that at the rate of the highest degree, bewail the losing of mansoul'--'thus to show their love and compassion.' 'paradise lost' was published at the time that bunyan wrote this passage. if he had not seen it, the coincidences of treatment are singularly curious. it is equally singular, if he had seen it, that milton should not here at least have taught him to avoid making the almighty into a stage actor. the father and son consult how 'to do what they had designed before.' they decide that at a certain time, which they preordain, the son,'a sweet and comely person,' shall make a journey into the universe and lay a foundation there for mansoul's deliverance. milton offends in the scene less than bunyan; but milton cannot persuade us that it is one which should have been represented by either of them. they should have left 'plans of salvation' to eloquent orators in the pulpit. though the day of deliverance by the method proposed was as yet far off, the war against diabolus was to be commenced immediately. the lord chief secretary was ordered to put in writing shaddai's intentions, and cause them to be published.[7] mansoul, it was announced, was to be put into a better condition than it was in before diabolus took it. [footnote 7: the scriptures.] the report of the council in heaven was brought to diabolus, who took his measures accordingly, lord will be will standing by him and executing all his directions mansoul was forbidden to read shaddai's proclamation. diabolus imposed a great oath on the townspeople never to desert him; he believed that if they entered into a covenant of this kind shaddai could not absolve them from it. they 'swallowed the engagement as if it had been a sprat in the mouth of a whale.' being now diabolus's trusty children, he gave them leave 'to do whatever their appetites prompted to do.' they would thus involve themselves in all kinds of wickedness, and shaddai's son 'being holy' would be less likely to interest himself for them. when they had in this way put themselves, as diabolus hoped, beyond reach of mercy, he informed them that shaddai was raising an army to destroy the town. no quarter would be given, and unless they defended themselves like men they would all be made slaves. their spirit being roused, he armed them with the shield of unbelief, 'calling into question the truth of the word.' he gave them a helmet of hope--'hope of doing well at last, whatever lives they might lead'; for a breastplate a heart as hard as iron, 'most necessary for all that hated shaddai;' and another piece of most excellent armour, 'a drunken and prayerless spirit that scorned to cry for mercy.' shaddai on his side had also prepared his forces. he will not as yet send his son. the first expedition was to fail and was meant to fail. the object was to try whether mansoul would return to obedience. and yet shaddai knew that it would not return to obedience. bunyan was too ambitious to explain the inexplicable. fifty thousand warriors were collected, all chosen by shaddai himself. there were four leaders--captain boanerges, captain conviction, captain judgment, and captain execution--the martial saints, with whom macaulay thinks bunyan made acquaintance when he served, if serve he did, with fairfax. the bearings on their banners were three black thunderbolts--the book of the law, wide open, with a flame of fire bursting from it; a burning, fiery furnace; and a fruitless tree with an axe at its root. these emblems represent the terrors of mount sinai, the covenant of works which was not to prevail. the captains come to the walls of mansoul, and summon the town to surrender. their words 'beat against eargate, but without force to break it open.' the new officials answer the challenge with defiance. lord incredulity knows not by what right shaddai invades their country. lord will be will and mr. forget good warn them to be off before they rouse diabolus. the townspeople ring the bells and dance on the walls. will be will double-bars the gates. bunyan's genius is at its best in scenes of this kind. 'old mr. prejudice, with sixty deaf men,' is appointed to take charge of eargate. at eargate, too, are planted two guns, called highmind, and heady, 'cast in the earth by diabolus's head founder, whose name was mr. puffup.' the fighting begins, but the covenant of works makes little progress. shaddai's captains, when advancing on mansoul, had fallen in with 'three young fellows of promising appearance' who volunteered to go with them--mr. tradition, mr. human wisdom, and mr. man's invention.' they were allowed to join, and were placed in positions of trust, the captains of the covenant being apparently wanting in discernment. they were taken prisoners in the first skirmish, and immediately changed sides and went over to diabolus. more battles follow. the roof of the lord mayor's house is beaten in. the law is not wholly ineffectual. six of the aldermen, the grosser moral sins--swearing, stand to lies, drunkenness, cheating, and others--are overcome and killed. diabolus grows uneasy and loses his sleep. old conscience begins to talk again. a party forms in the town in favour of surrender, and mr. parley is sent to eargate to treat for terms. the spiritual sins--false peace, unbelief, haughtiness, atheism--are still unsubdued and vigorous. the conditions offered are that incredulity, forget good, and will be will shall retain their offices; mansoul shall be continued in all the liberties which it enjoys under diabolus; and a further touch is added which shows how little bunyan sympathised with modern notions of the beauty of self-government. no new law or officer shall have any power in mansoul without the people's consent. boanerges will agree to no conditions with rebels. incredulity and will be will advise the people to stand by their rights, and refuse to submit to 'unlimited' power. the war goes on, and incredulity is made diabolus's universal deputy. conscience and understanding, the old recorder and mayor, raise a mutiny, and there is a fight in the streets. conscience is knocked down by a diabolonian called 'mr. benumming.' understanding had a narrow escape from being shot. on the other hand mr. mind, who had come over to the conservative side, laid about bravely, tumbled old mr. prejudice into the dirt, and kicked him where he lay. even will be will seemed to be wavering in his allegiance to diabolus. 'he smiled and did not seem to take one side more than another.' the rising, however, is put down--understanding and conscience are imprisoned, and mansoul hardens its heart, chiefly 'being in dread of slavery,' and thinking liberty too fine a thing to be surrendered. shaddai's four captains find that they can do no more. the covenant of works will not answer. they send home a petition,'by the hand of that good man mr. love to mansoul,' to beg that some new general may come to lead them. the preordained time has now arrived, and emmanuel himself is to take the command. he, too, selects his captains--credence and good hope, charity, and innocence, and patience; and the captains have their squires, the counterparts of themselves--promise and expectation, pitiful, harmless, and suffer long. emmanuel's armour shines like the sun. he has forty-four battering rams and twenty-two slings--the sixty-six books of the bible--each made of pure gold. he throws up mounds and trenches, and arms them with his rams, five of the largest being planted on mount hearken, over against eargate. bunyan was too reverent to imitate the mystery plays, and introduce a mount calvary with the central sacrifice upon it. the sacrifice is supposed to have been already offered elsewhere. emmanuel offers mercy to mansoul, and when it is rejected he threatens judgment and terror. diabolus, being wiser than man, is made to know that his hour is approaching. he goes in person to mouthgate to protest and remonstrate. he asks why emmanuel is come to torment him. mansoul has disowned shaddai and sworn allegiance to himself. he begs emmanuel to leave him to rule his own subjects in peace. emmanuel tells him 'he is a thief and a liar.' 'when,' emmanuel is made to say, 'mansoul sinned by hearkening to thy lie, i put in and became a surety to my father, body for body, soul for soul, that i would make amends for mansoul's transgressions, and my father did accept thereof. so when the time appointed was come, i gave body for body, soul for soul, life for life, blood for blood, and so redeemed my beloved mansoul. my father's law and justice, that were both concerned in the threatening upon transgression, are both now satisfied, and very well content that mansoul should be delivered.' even against its deliverers, mansoul was defended by the original condition of its constitution. there was no way into it but through the gates. diabolus, feeling that emmanuel still had difficulties before him, withdrew from the wall, and sent a messenger, mr. loth to stoop, to offer alternative terms, to one or other of which he thought emmanuel might consent. emmanuel might be titular sovereign of all mansoul, if diabolus might keep the administration of part of it. if this could not be, diabolus requested to be allowed to reside in mansoul as a private person. if emmanuel insisted on his own personal exclusion, at least he expected that his friends and kindred might continue to live there, and that he himself might now and then write them letters, and send them presents and messages, 'in remembrance of the merry times they had enjoyed together.' finally, he would like to be consulted occasionally when any difficulties arose in mansoul. it will be seen that in the end mansoul was, in fact, left liable to communications from diabolus very much of this kind. emmanuel's answer, however, is a peremptory no. diabolus must take himself away, and no more must be heard of him. seeing that there was no other resource, diabolus resolves to fight it out. there is a great battle under the walls, with some losses on emmanuel's side, even captain conviction receiving three wounds in the mouth. the shots from the gold slings mow down whole ranks of diabolonians. mr. love no good and mr. ill pause are wounded. old prejudice and mr. anything run away. lord will be will, who still fought for diabolus, was never so daunted in his life: 'he was hurt in the leg, and limped.' diabolus, when the fight was over, came again to the gate with fresh proposals to emmanuel. 'i,' he said, 'will persuade mansoul to receive thee for their lord, and i know that they will do it the sooner when they understand that i am thy deputy. i will show them wherein they have erred, and that transgression stands in the way to life. i will show them the holy law to which they must conform, even that which they have broken. i will press upon them the necessity of a reformation according to thy law. at my own cost i will set up and maintain a sufficient ministry, besides lecturers, in mansoul.' this obviously means the established church. unable to keep mankind directly in his own service, the devil offers to entangle them in the covenant of works, of which the church of england was the representative. emmanuel rebukes him for his guile and deceit. 'i will govern mansoul,' he says, 'by new laws, new officers, new motives, and new ways. i will pull down the town and build it again, and it shall be as though it had not been, and it shall be the glory of the whole universe.' a second battle follows. eargate is beaten in. the prince's army enters and advances as far as the old recorder's house, where they knock and demand entrance. 'the old gentleman, not fully knowing their design, had kept his gates shut all the time of the fight. he as yet knew nothing of the great designs of emmanuel, and could not tell what to think.' the door is violently broken open, and the house is made emmanuel's head-quarters. the townspeople, with conscience and understanding at their head, petition that their lives may be spared; but emmanuel gives no answer, captain boanerges and captain conviction carrying terror into all hearts. diabolus, the cause of all the mischief, had retreated into the castle.[8] he came out at last, and surrendered, and in dramatic fitness he clearly ought now to have been made away with in a complete manner. unfortunately, this could not be done. he was stripped of his armour, bound to emmanuel's chariot wheels, and thus turned out of mansoul 'into parched places in a salt land, where he might seek rest and find none.' the salt land proved as insecure a prison, for this embarrassing being as the pit where he was to have abode for ever. [footnote 8: the heart.] meanwhile, mansoul being brought upon its knees, the inhabitants were summoned into the castle yard, when conscience, understanding, and will be will were committed to ward. they and the rest again prayed for mercy, but again without effect. emmanuel was silent. they drew another petition, and asked captain conviction to present it for them. captain conviction declined to be an advocate for rebels, and advised them to send it by one of themselves, with a rope about his neck. mr. desires awake went with it. the prince took it from his hands, and wept as desires awake gave it in. emmanuel bade him go his way till the request could be considered. the unhappy criminals knew not how to take the answer. mr. understanding thought it promised well. conscience and will be will, borne down by shame for their sins, looked for nothing but immediate death. they tried again. they threw themselves on emmanuel's mercy. they drew up a confession of their horrible iniquities. this, at least, they wished to offer to him whether he would pity them or not. for a messenger some of them thought of choosing one old good deed. conscience, however, said that would never do. emmanuel would answer, 'is old good deed yet alive in mansoul? then let old good deed save it.' desires awake went again with the rope on his neck, as captain conviction recommended. mr. wet eyes went with him, wringing his hands. emmanuel still held out no comfort; he promised merely that in the camp the next morning he would give such an answer as should be to his glory. nothing but the worst was now looked for. mansoul passed the night in sackcloth and ashes. when day broke, the prisoners dressed themselves in mourning, and were carried to the camp in chains, with ropes on their necks, beating their breasts. prostrate before emmanuel's throne, they repeated their confession. they acknowledged that death and the bottomless pit would be no more than a just retribution for their crimes. as they excused nothing and promised nothing, emmanuel at once delivered them their pardons sealed with seven seals. he took off their ropes and mourning, clothed them in shining garments, and gave them chains and jewels. lord will be will 'swooned outright.' when he recovered, 'the prince' embraced and kissed him. the bells in mansoul were set ringing. bonfires blazed. emmanuel reviewed his army; and mansoul, ravished at the sight, prayed him to remain and be their king for ever. he entered the city again in triumph, the people strewing boughs and flowers before him. the streets and squares were rebuilt on a new model. lord will be will, now regenerate, resumed the charge of the gates. the old lord mayor was reinstated. mr. knowledge was made recorder, 'not out of contempt for old conscience, who was by-and-bye to have another employment.' diabolus's image was taken down and broken to pieces, and the inhabitants of mansoul were so happy that they sang of emmanuel in their sleep. justice, however, remained to be done on the hardened and impenitent. there were 'perhaps necessities in the nature of things,' as bishop butler says, and an example could not be made of the principal offender. but his servants and old officials were lurking in the lanes and alleys. they were apprehended, thrown into gaol, and brought to formal trial. here we have bunyan at his best. the scene in the court rises to the level of the famous trial of faithful in vanity fair. the prisoners were diabolus's aldermen, mr. atheism, mr. incredulity, mr. lustings, mr. forget good, mr. hardheart, mr. falsepeace, and the rest. the proceedings were precisely what bunyan must have witnessed at a common english assizes. the judges were the new recorder and the new mayor. mr. do-right was town clerk. a jury was empanelled in the usual way. mr. knowall, mr. telltrue, and mr. hatelies were the principal witnesses. atheism was first brought to the bar, being charged 'with having pertinaciously and doltingly taught that there was no god.' he pleaded not guilty. mr. knowall was placed in the witness-box and sworn. 'my lord,' he said, 'i know the prisoner at the bar. i and he were once in villains lane together, and he at that time did briskly talk of diverse opinions. and then and there i heard him say that for his part he did believe that there was no god. "but," said he, "i can profess one and be religious too, if the company i am in and the circumstances of other things," said he, "shall put me upon it.'" telltrue and hatelies were next called. _telltrue._ my lord, i was formerly a great companion of the prisoner's, for the which i now repent me; and i have often heard him say, and with very great stomach-fulness, that he believed there was neither god, angel, nor spirit. _town clerk._ where did you hear him say so? _telltrue._ in blackmouth lane and in blasphemers row, and in many other places besides. _town clerk._ have you much knowledge of him? _telltrue._ i know him to be a diabolonian, the son of a diabolonian, and a horrible man to deny a deity. his father's name was never be good, and he had more children than this atheism. _town clerk._ mr. hatelies. look upon the prisoner at the bar. do you know him? _hatelies._ my lord, this atheism is one of the vilest wretches that ever i came near or had to do with in my life. i have heard him say that there is no god. i have heard him say that there is no world to come, no sin, nor punishment hereafter; and, moreover, i have heard him say that it was as good to go to a bad-house as to go to hear a sermon. _town clerk._ where did you hear him say these things? _hatelies._ in drunkards row, just at rascal lane's end, at a house in which mr. impiety lived. the next prisoner was mr. lustings, who said that he was of high birth and 'used to pleasures and pastimes of greatness.' he had always been allowed to follow his own inclinations, and it seemed strange to him that he should be called in question for things which not only he but every man secretly or openly approved. when the evidence had been heard against him he admitted frankly its general correctness. 'i,' he said, 'was ever of opinion that the happiest life that a man could live on earth was to keep himself back from nothing that he desired; nor have i been false at any time to this opinion of mine, but have lived in the love of my notions all my days. nor was i ever so churlish, having found such sweetness in them myself, as to keep the commendation of them from others.' then came mr. incredulity. he was charged with having encouraged the town of mansoul to resist shaddai. incredulity too had the courage of his opinions. 'i know not shaddai,' he said. 'i love my old prince. i thought it my duty to be true to my trust, and to do what i could to possess the minds of the men of mansoul to do their utmost to resist strangers and foreigners, and with might to fight against them. nor have i nor shall i change my opinion for fear of trouble, though you at present are possessed of place and power.' forget good pleaded age and craziness. he was the son of a diabolonian called love naught. he had uttered blasphemous speeches in allbase lane, next door to the sign of 'conscience seared with a hot iron;' also in flesh lane, right opposite the church; also in nauseous street; also at the sign of the 'reprobate,' next door to the 'descent into the pit.' falsepeace insisted that he was wrongly named in the indictment. his real name was peace, and he had always laboured for peace. when war broke out between shaddai and diabolus, he had endeavoured to reconcile them, &c. evidence was given that falsepeace was his right designation. his father's name was flatter. his mother, before she married flatter, was called mrs. sootheup. when her child was born she always spoke of him as falsepeace. she would call him twenty times a day, my little falsepeace, my pretty falsepeace, my sweet rogue falsepeace! &c. the court rejected his plea. he was told 'that he had wickedly maintained the town of mansoul in rebellion against its king, in a false, lying, and damnable peace, contrary to the law of shaddai. peace that was not a companion of truth and holiness, was an accursed and treacherous peace, and was grounded on a lie.' no truth had assisted with his own hands in pulling down the image of shaddai. he had set up the horned image of the beast diabolus at the same place, and had torn and consumed all that remained of the laws of the king. pitiless said his name was not pitiless, but cheer up. he disliked to see mansoul inclined to melancholy, and that was all his offence. pitiless, however, was proved to be the name of him. it was a habit of the diabolonians to assume counterfeit appellations. covetousness called himself good husbandry; pride called himself handsome; and so on. mr. haughty's figure is admirably drawn in a few lines. mr. haughty, when arraigned, declared 'that he had carried himself bravely, not considering who was his foe, or what was the cause in which he was engaged. it was enough for him if he fought like a man and came off victorious.' the jury, it seems, made no distinctions between opinions and acts. they did not hold that there was any divine right in man to think what he pleased, and to say what he thought. bunyan had suffered as a martyr; but it was as a martyr for truth, not for general licence. the genuine protestants never denied that it was right to prohibit men from teaching lies, and to punish them if they disobeyed. the persecution of which they complained was the persecution of the honest man by the knave. all the prisoners were found guilty by a unanimous verdict. even mr. moderate, who was one of the jury, thought a man must be wilfully blind who wished to spare them. they were sentenced to be executed the next day. incredulity contrived to escape in the night. search was made for him, but he was not to be found in mansoul. he had fled beyond the walls, and had joined diabolus near hell gate. the rest, we are told, were crucified--crucified by the hands of the men of mansoul themselves. they fought and struggled at the place of execution so violently that shaddai's secretary was obliged to send assistance. but justice was done at last, and all the diabolonians, except incredulity, were thus made an end of. they were made an end of for a time only. mansoul, by faith in christ, and by the help of the holy spirit, had crucified all manner of sin in its members. it was faith that had now the victory. unbelief had, unfortunately, escaped. it had left mansoul for the time, and had gone to its master the devil. but unbelief, being intellectual, had not been crucified with the sins of the flesh, and thus could come back, and undo the work which faith had accomplished. i do not know how far this view approves itself to the more curious theologians. unbelief itself is said to be a product of the will; but an allegory must not be cross-questioned too minutely. the cornucopia of spiritual blessings was now opened on mansoul. all offences were fully and completely forgiven. a holy law and testament was bestowed on the people for their comfort and consolation, with a portion of the grace which dwelt in the hearts of shaddai and emmanuel themselves. they were to be allowed free access to emmanuel's palace at all seasons, he himself undertaking to hear them and redress their grievances, and they were empowered and enjoined to destroy all diabolonians who might be found at any time within their precincts. these grants were embodied in a charter which was set up in gold letters on the castle door. two ministers were appointed to carry on the government--one from shaddai's court; the other a native of mansoul. the first was shaddai's chief secretary, the holy spirit. he, if they were obedient and well-conducted, would be 'ten times better to them than the whole world.' but they were cautioned to be careful of their behaviour, for if they grieved him he would turn against them, and the worst might then be looked for. the second minister was the old recorder, mr. conscience, for whom, as was said, a new office had been provided. the address of emmanuel to conscience in handing his commission to him contains the essence of bunyan's creed. 'thou must confine thyself to the teaching of moral virtues, to civil and natural duties. but thou must not attempt to presume to be a revealer of those high and supernatural mysteries that are kept close in the bosom of shaddai, my father. for those things knows no man; nor can any reveal them but my father's secretary only.... in all high and supernatural things, thou must go to him for information and knowledge. wherefore keep low and be humble; and remember that the diabolonians that kept not their first charge, but left their own standing, are now made prisoners in the pit. be therefore content with thy station. i have made thee my father's vicegerent on earth in the things of which i have made mention before. take thou power to teach them to mansoul; yea, to impose them with whips and chastisements if they shall not willingly hearken to do thy commandments.... and one thing more to my beloved mr. recorder, and to all the town of mansoul. you must not dwell in nor stay upon anything of that which he hath in commission to teach you, as to your trust and expectation of the next world. of the next world, i say; for i purpose to give another to mansoul when this is worn out. but for that you must wholly and solely have recourse to and make stay upon the doctrine of your teacher of the first order. yea, mr. recorder himself must not look for life from that which he himself revealeth. his dependence for that must be founded in the doctrine of the other preacher. let mr. recorder also take heed that he receive not any doctrine or points of doctrine that are not communicated to him by his superior teacher, nor yet within the precincts of his own formal knowledge.' here, as a work of art, the 'holy war' should have its natural end. mansoul had been created pure and happy. the devil plotted against it, took it, defiled it. the lord of the town came to the rescue, drove the devil out, executed his officers and destroyed his works. mansoul, according to emmanuel's promise, was put into a better condition than that in which it was originally placed. new laws was drawn for it. new ministers were appointed to execute them. vice had been destroyed. unbelief had been driven away. the future lay serene and bright before it; all trials and dangers being safely passed. thus we have all the parts of a complete drama--the fair beginning, the perils, the struggles, and the final victory of good. at this point, for purposes of art, the curtain ought to fall. for purposes of art--not, however, for purposes of truth. for the drama of mansoul was still incomplete, and will remain incomplete till man puts on another nature or ceases altogether to be. christianity might place him in a new relation to his maker, and, according to bunyan, might expel the devil out of his heart. but for practical purposes, as mansoul too well knows, the devil is still in possession. at intervals--as in the first centuries of the christian era, for a period in the middle ages, and again in protestant countries for another period at the reformation--mankind made noble efforts to drive him out, and make the law of god into reality. but he comes back again, and the world is again as it was. the vices again flourish which had been nailed to the cross. the statesman finds it as little possible as ever to take moral right and justice for his rule in politics. the evangelical preacher continues to confess and deplore the desperate wickedness of the human heart. the devil had been deposed, but his faithful subjects have restored him to his throne. the stone of sisyphus has been brought to the brow of the hill only to rebound again to the bottom. the old battle has to be fought a second time, and, for all we can see, no closing victory will ever be in 'this country of universe.' bunyan knew this but too well. he tries to conceal it from himself by treating mansoul alternately as the soul of a single individual from which the devil may be so expelled as never dangerously to come back, or as the collective souls of the christian world. but, let him mean which of the two he will, the overpowering fact remains that, from the point of view of his own theology, the great majority of mankind are the devil's servants through life, and are made over to him everlastingly when their lives are over; while the human race itself continues to follow its idle amusements and its sinful pleasures as if no emmanuel had ever come from heaven to rescue it. thus the situation is incomplete, and the artistic treatment necessarily unsatisfactory--nay in a sense even worse than unsatisfactory, for the attention of the reader, being reawakened by the fresh and lively treatment of the subject, refuses to be satisfied with conventional explanatory commonplaces. his mind is puzzled; his faith wavers in its dependence upon a being who can permit his work to be spoilt, his power defied, his victories even, when won, made useless. thus we take up the continuation of the 'holy war' with a certain weariness and expectation of disappointment. the delivery of mansoul has not been finished after all, and, for all that we can see, the struggle between shaddai and diabolus may go on to eternity. emmanuel, before he withdraws his presence, warns the inhabitants that many diabolonians are still lurking about the outside walls of the town.[9] the names are those in st. paul's list--fornication, adultery, murder, anger, lasciviousness, deceit, evil eye, drunkenness, revelling, idolatry, witchcraft, variance, emulation, wrath, strife, sedition, heresy. if all these were still abroad, not much had been gained by the crucifixion of the aldermen. for the time, it was true, they did not show themselves openly. mansoul after the conquest was clothed in white linen, and was in a state of peace and glory. but the linen was speedily soiled again. mr. carnal security became a great person in mansoul. the chief secretary's functions fell early into abeyance. he discovered the recorder and lord will be will at dinner in mr. carnal security's parlour, and ceased to communicate with them. mr. godly fear sounded an alarm, and mr. carnal security's house was burnt by the mob; but mansoul's backslidings grew worse. it had its fits of repentance, and petitioned emmanuel, but the messenger could have no admittance. the lusts of the flesh came out of their dens. they held a meeting in the room of mr. mischief, and wrote to invite diabolus to return. mr. profane carried their letter to hell gate. cerberus opened it, and a cry of joy ran through the prison. beelzebub, lucifer, apollyon, and the rest of the devils came crowding to hear the news. deadman's bell was rung. diabolus addressed the assembly, putting them in hopes of recovering their prize. 'nor need you fear, he said, that if ever we get mansoul again, we after that shall be cast out any more. it is the law of that prince that now they own, that if we get them a second time they shall be ours for ever.' he returned a warm answer to his friend, 'which was subscribed as given at the pit's mouth, by the joint consent of all the princes of darkness, by me, diabolus.' the plan was to corrupt mansoul's morals, and three devils of rank set off disguised to take service in the town, and make their way into the households of mr. mind, mr. godly fear, and lord will be will. godly fear discovered his mistake and turned the devil out. the other two established themselves successfully, and mr. profane was soon at hell gate again to report progress. cerberus welcomed him with a 'st. mary, i am glad to see thee.' another council was held in pandemonium, and diabolus was impatient to show himself again on the scene. apollyon advised him not to be in a hurry. 'let our friends,' he said, 'draw mansoul more and more into sin--there is nothing like sin to devour mansoul;' but diabolus would not wait for so slow a process, and raised an army of doubters 'from the land of doubting on the confines of hell gate hill.' 'doubt,' bunyan always admitted, had been his own most dangerous enemy. [footnote 9: the flesh.] happily the townspeople became aware of the peril which threatened them. mr. prywell, a great lover of mansoul, overheard some diabolonians talking about it at a place called vile hill. he carried his information to the lord mayor; the recorder rang the alarm bell; mansoul flew to penitence, held a day of fasting and humiliation, and prayed to shaddai. the diabolonians were hunted out, and all that could be found were killed. so far as haste and alarm would permit, mansoul mended its ways. but on came the doubting army, led by incredulity, who had escaped crucifixion--'none was truer to diabolus than he'--on they came under their several captains, vocation doubters, grace doubters, salvation doubters, &c.--figures now gone to shadow; then the deadliest foes of every english puritan soul. mansoul appealed passionately to the chief secretary; but the chief secretary 'had been grieved,' and would have nothing to say to it. the town legions went out to meet the invaders with good words, prayer, and singing of psalms. the doubters replied with 'horrible objections,' which were frightfully effective. lord reason was wounded in the head and the lord mayor in the eye; mr. mind received a shot in the stomach, and conscience was hit near the heart; but the wounds were not mortal. mansoul had the best of it in the first engagement. terror was followed by boasting and self-confidence; a night sally was attempted--night being the time when the doubters were strongest. the sally failed, and the men of mansoul were turned to rout. diabolus's army attacked eargate, stormed the walls, forced their way into the town, and captured the whole of it except the castle. then 'mansoul became a den of dragons, an emblem of hell, a place of total darkness.' 'mr. conscience's wounds so festered that he could have no rest day or night.' 'now a man might have walked for days together in mansoul, and scarce have seen one in the town that looked like a religious man. oh, the fearful state of mansoul now!' 'now every corner swarmed with outlandish doubters; red coats and black coats walked the town by clusters, and filled the houses with hideous noises, lying stories, and blasphemous language against shaddai and his son.' this is evidently meant for fashionable london in the time of charles ii. bunyan was loyal to the king. he was no believer in moral regeneration through political revolution. but none the less he could see what was under his eyes, and he knew what to think of it. all was not lost, for the castle still held out. the only hope was in emmanuel, and the garrison proposed to petition again in spite of the ill reception of their first messengers. godly fear reminded them that no petition would be received which was not signed by the lord secretary, and that the lord secretary would sign nothing which he had not himself drawn up. the lord secretary, when appealed to in the proper manner, no longer refused his assistance. captain credence flew up to shaddai's court with the simple words that mansoul renounced all trust in its own strength and relied upon its saviour. this time its prayer would be heard. the devils meanwhile, triumphant though they were, discovered that they could have no permanent victory unless they could reduce the castle. 'doubters at a distance,' beelzebub said, 'are but like objections repelled by arguments. can we but get them into the hold, and make them possessors of that, the day will be our own.' the object was, therefore, to corrupt mansoul at the heart. then follows a very curious passage. bunyan had still his eye on england, and had discerned the quarter from which her real danger would approach. mansoul, the devil perceived, 'was a market town, much given to commerce.' 'it would be possible to dispose of some of the devil's wares there.' the people would be filled full, and made rich, and would forget emmanuel. 'mansoul,' they said, 'shall be so cumbered with abundance, that they shall be forced to make their castle a warehouse.' wealth once made the first object of existence, 'diabolus's gang will have easy entrance, and the castle will be our own.' political economy was still sleeping in the womb of futurity. diabolus was unable to hasten its birth, and an experiment which bunyan thought would certainly have succeeded was not to be tried. the _deus ex machinã¢_ appeared with its flaming sword. the doubting army was cut to pieces, and mansoul was saved. again, however, the work was imperfectly done. diabolus, like the bad genius in the fairy tale, survived for fresh mischief. diabolus flew off again to hell gate, and was soon at the head of a new host; part composed of fugitive doubters whom he rallied, and part of a new set of enemies called _bloodmen_, by whom we are to understand persecutors, 'a people from a land that lay under the dog star.' 'captain pope' was chief of the bloodmen. his escutcheon 'was the stake, the flame, and good men in it.' the bloodmen had done diabolus wonderful service in time past. 'once they had forced emmanuel out of the kingdom of the universe, and why, thought he, might they not do it again?' emmanuel did not this time go in person to the encounter. it was enough to send his captains. the doubters fled at the first onset. 'the bloodmen, when they saw that no emmanuel was in the field, concluded that no emmanuel was in mansoul. wherefore, they, looking upon what the captains did to be, as they called it, a fruit of the extravagancy of their wild and foolish fancies, rather despised them than feared them.' 'they proved, nevertheless, chicken-hearted, when they saw themselves matched and equalled.' the chiefs were taken prisoners, and brought to trial like atheism and his companions, and so, with an address from the prince, the story comes to a close. thus at last the 'holy war' ends or seems to end. it is as if bunyan had wished to show that though the converted christian was still liable to the assaults of satan, and even to be beaten down and overcome by him, his state was never afterwards so desperate as it had been before the redemption, and that he had assistance ready at hand to save him when near extremity. but the reader whose desire it is that good shall triumph and evil be put to shame and overthrown remains but partially satisfied; and the last conflict and its issues leave mansoul still subject to fresh attacks. diabolus was still at large. carnal sense broke prison and continued to lurk in the town. unbelief 'was a nimble jack: him they could never lay hold of, though they attempted to do it often.' unbelief remained in mansoul till the time that mansoul ceased to dwell in the country of the universe; and where unbelief was diabolus would not be without a friend to open the gates to him. bunyan says, indeed, that 'he was stoned as often as he showed himself in the streets.' he shows himself in the streets much at his ease in these days of ours after two more centuries. here lies the real weakness of the 'holy war.' it may be looked at either as the war in the soul of each sinner that is saved, or as the war for the deliverance of humanity. under the first aspect it leaves out of sight the large majority of mankind who are not supposed to be saved, and out of whom, therefore, diabolus is not driven at all. under the other aspect the struggle is still unfinished; the last act of the drama has still to be played, and we know not what the conclusion is to be. to attempt to represent it, therefore, as a work of art, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, is necessarily a failure. the mysteries and contradictions which the christian revelation leaves unsolved are made tolerable to us by hope. we are prepared to find in religion many things which we cannot understand; and difficulties do not perplex us so long as they remain in a form to which we are accustomed. to emphasise the problem by offering it to us in an allegory, of which we are presumed to possess a key, serves only to revive man friday's question, or the old dilemma which neither intellect nor imagination has ever dealt with successfully. 'deus aut non vult tollere mala, aut nequit. si non vult non est bonus. si nequit non est omnipotens.' it is wiser to confess with butler that 'there may be necessities in the nature of things which we are not acquainted with.' chapter ix. the pilgrim's progress. if the 'holy war' is an unfit subject for allegorical treatment, the 'pilgrim's progress' is no less perfectly adapted for it. the 'holy war' is a representation of the struggle of human nature with evil, and the struggle is left undecided. the 'pilgrim's progress' is a representation of the efforts of a single soul after holiness, which has its natural termination when the soul quits its mortal home and crosses the dark river. each one of us has his own life battle to fight out, his own sorrows and trials, his own failures or successes, and his own end. he wins the game, or he loses it. the account is wound up, and the curtain falls upon him. here bunyan had a material as excellent in itself as it was exactly suited to his peculiar genius; and his treatment of the subject from his own point of view--that of english protestant christianity--is unequalled and never will be equalled. i may say never, for in this world of change the point of view alters fast, and never continues in one stay. as we are swept along the stream of time, lights and shadows shift their places, mountain plateaus turn to sharp peaks, mountain ranges dissolve into vapour. the river which has been gliding deep and slow along the plain, leaps suddenly over a precipice and plunges foaming down a sunless gorge. in the midst of changing circumstances the central question remains the same--what am i? what is this world in which i appear and disappear like a bubble? who made me? and what am i to do? some answer or other the mind of man demands and insists on receiving. theologian or poet offers at long intervals explanations which are accepted as credible for a time. they wear out, and another follows, and then another. bunyan's answer has served average english men and women for two hundred years, but no human being with bunyan's intellect and bunyan's sincerity can again use similar language; and the 'pilgrim's progress' is and will remain unique of its kind--an imperishable monument of the form in which the problem presented itself to a person of singular truthfulness, simplicity, and piety, who after many struggles accepted the puritan creed as the adequate solution of it. it was composed exactly at the time when it was possible for such a book to come into being; the close of the period when the puritan formula was a real belief, and was about to change from a living principle into an intellectual opinion. so long as a religion is fully alive, men do not talk about it or make allegories about it. they assume its truth as out of reach of question, and they simply obey its precepts as they obey the law of the land. it becomes a subject of art and discourse only when men are unconsciously ceasing to believe, and therefore the more vehemently think that they believe, and repudiate with indignation the suggestion that doubt has found its way into them. after this religion no longer governs their lives. it governs only the language in which they express themselves, and they preserve it eagerly, in the shape of elaborate observances or in the agreeable forms of art and literature. the 'pilgrim's progress' was written before the 'holy war,' while bunyan was still in prison at bedford, and was but half conscious of the gifts which he possessed. it was written for his own entertainment, and therefore without the thought--so fatal in its effects and so hard to be resisted--of what the world would say about it. it was written in compulsory quiet, when he was comparatively unexcited by the effort of perpetual preaching, and the shapes of things could present themselves to him as they really were, undistorted by theological narrowness. it is the same story which he has told of himself in 'grace abounding,' thrown out into an objective form. he tells us himself, in a metrical introduction, the circumstances under which it was composed:- when at the first i took my pen in hand, thus for to write, i did not understand that i at all should make a little book in such a mode. nay, i had undertook to make another, which when almost done, before i was aware i this begun. and thus it was.--i writing of the way and race of saints in this our gospel day, fell suddenly into an allegory about the journey and the way to glory in more than twenty things which i set down. this done, i twenty more had in my crown, and these again began to multiply, like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly. nay then, thought i, if that you breed so fast i'll put you by yourselves, lest you at last should prove _ad infinitum_, and eat out the book that i already am about. well, so i did; but yet i did not think to show to all the world my pen and ink in such a mode. i only thought to make, i knew not what. nor did i undertake merely to please my neighbours; no, not i. i did it mine own self to gratify. neither did i but vacant seasons spend in this my scribble; nor did i intend but to divert myself in doing this from worser thoughts which make me do amiss. thus i set pen to paper with delight, and quickly had my thoughts in black and white; for having now my method by the end, still as i pulled it came; and so i penned it down: until at last it came to be for length and breadth the bigness which you see. well, when i had thus put my ends together, i showed them others, that i might see whether they would condemn them or them justify. and some said, let them live; some, let them die; some said, john, print it; others said, not so; some said it might do good; others said, no. now was i in a strait, and did not see which was the best thing to be done by me. at last i thought, since you are thus divided, i print it will; and so the case decided. the difference of opinion among bunyan's friends is easily explicable. the allegoric representation of religion to men profoundly convinced of the truth of it might naturally seem light and fantastic, and the breadth of the conception could not please the narrow sectarians who knew no salvation beyond the lines of their peculiar formulas. the pilgrim though in a puritan dress is a genuine man. his experience is so truly human experience, that christians of every persuasion can identify themselves with him; and even those who regard christianity itself as but a natural outgrowth of the conscience and intellect, and yet desire to live nobly and make the best of themselves, can recognise familiar foot-prints in every step of christian's journey. thus the 'pilgrim's progress' is a book, which, when once read, can never be forgotten. we too, every one of us, are pilgrims on the same road, and images and illustrations come back upon us from so faithful an itinerary, as we encounter similar trials, and learn for ourselves the accuracy with which bunyan has described them. there is no occasion to follow a story minutely which memory can so universally supply. i need pause only at a few spots which are too charming to pass by. how picturesque and vivid are the opening lines: 'as i walked through the wilderness of this world i lighted on a certain place where there was a den,[10] and i laid me down in that place to sleep, and as i slept i dreamed a dream. i dreamed, and behold i saw a man, a man clothed in rags, standing with his face from his own home with a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back.' [footnote 10: the bedford prison.] the man is bunyan himself as we see him in 'grace abounding.' his sins are the burden upon his back. he reads his book and weeps and trembles. he speaks of his fears to his friends and kindred. they think 'some frenzy distemper has got into his head.' he meets a man in the fields whose name is evangelist. evangelist tells him to flee from the city of destruction. he shows him the way by which he must go, and points to the far-off light which will guide him to the wicket-gate. he sets off, and his neighbours of course think him mad. the world always thinks men mad who turn their backs upon it. obstinate and pliable (how well we know them both!) follow to persuade him to return. obstinate talks practical common sense to him, and as it has no effect, gives him up as a fantastical fellow. pliable thinks that there may be something in what he says, and offers to go with him. before they can reach the wicket-gate, they fall into a 'miry slough.' who does not know the miry slough too? when a man begins for the first time to think seriously about himself, the first thing that rises before him is a consciousness of his miserable past life. amendment seems to be desperate. he thinks it is too late to change for any useful purpose, and he sinks into despondency. pliable finding the road disagreeable has soon had enough of it. he scrambles out of the slough 'on the side which was nearest to his own house' and goes home. christian struggling manfully is lifted out 'by a man whose name was help,' and goes on upon his journey, but the burden on his back weighs him down. he falls in with mr. worldly wiseman who lives in the town of carnal policy. mr. worldly wiseman, who looks like a gentleman, advises him not to think about his sins. if he has done wrong he must alter his life and do better for the future. he directs him to a village called morality, where he will find a gentleman well known in those parts, who will take his burden off--mr. legality. either mr. legality will do it himself, or it can be done equally well by his pretty young son, mr. civility. the way to a better life does not lie in a change of outward action, but in a changed heart. legality soon passes into civility, according to the saying that vice loses half its evil when it loses its grossness. bunyan would have said that the poison was the more deadly from being concealed. christian after a near escape is set straight again. he is admitted into the wicket-gate and is directed how he is to go forward. he asks if he may not lose his way. he is answered yes, 'there are many ways (that) butt down on this and they are crooked and wide. but thus thou mayest know the right from the wrong, that only being straight and narrow.' good people often suppose that when a man is once 'converted,' as they call it, and has entered on a religious life, he will find everything made easy. he has turned to christ, and in christ he will find rest and pleasantness. the path of duty is unfortunately not strewed with flowers at all. the primrose road leads to the other place. as on all other journeys, to persevere is the difficulty. the pilgrim's feet grow sorer the longer he walks. his lower nature follows him like a shadow watching opportunities to trip him up, and ever appearing in some new disguise. in the way of comfort he is allowed only certain resting places, quiet intervals of peace when temptation is absent, and the mind can gather strength and encouragement from a sense of the progress which it has made. the first of these resting places at which christian arrives is the 'interpreter's house.' this means, i conceive, that he arrives at a right understanding of the objects of human desire as they really are. he learns to distinguish there between passion and patience, passion which demands immediate gratification, and patience which can wait and hope. he sees the action of grace on the heart, and sees the devil labouring to put it out. he sees the man in the iron cage who was once a flourishing professor, but had been tempted away by pleasure and had sinned against light. he hears a dream too--one of bunyan's own early dreams, but related as by another person. the pilgrim himself was beyond the reach of such uneasy visions. but it shows how profoundly the terrible side of christianity had seized on bunyan's imagination and how little he was able to forget it. 'this night as i was in my sleep i dreamed, and behold the heavens grew exceeding black: also it thundered and lightened in most fearful wise, that it put me into an agony; so i looked up in my dream and saw the clouds rack at an unusual rate, upon which i heard a great sound of a trumpet, and saw also a man sit upon a cloud attended with the thousands of heaven. they were all in a flaming fire, and the heaven also was in a burning flame. i heard then a voice, saying, arise ye dead and come to judgment; and with that the rocks rent, the graves opened, and the dead that were therein came forth. some of them were exceeding glad and looked upward, some sought to hide themselves under the mountains. then i saw the man that sate upon the cloud open the book and bid the world draw near. yet there was, by reason of a fierce flame that issued out and came from before him, a convenient distance betwixt him and them, as betwixt the judge and the prisoners at the bar. i heard it also proclaimed to them that attended on the man that sate on the cloud, gather together the tares, the chaff, and the stubble, and cast them into the burning lake. and with that the bottomless pit opened just whereabouts i stood, out of the mouth of which there came in an abundant manner smoke and coals of fire with hideous noises. it was also said to the same persons, gather the wheat into my garner. and with that i saw many catched up and carried away into the clouds, but i was left behind. i also sought to hide myself, but i could not, for the man that sate upon the cloud still kept his eye upon me. my sins also came into my mind, and my conscience did accuse me on every side. i thought the day of judgment was come and i was not ready for it.' the resting time comes to an end. the pilgrim gathers himself together, and proceeds upon his way. he is not to be burdened for ever with the sense of his sins. it fell from off his back at the sight of the cross. three shining ones appear and tell him that his sins are forgiven; they take off his rags and provide him with a new suit. he now encounters fellow-travellers; and the seriousness of the story is relieved by adventures and humorous conversations. at the bottom of a hill he finds three gentlemen asleep, 'a little out of the way.' these were simple, sloth, and presumption. he tries to rouse them, but does not succeed. presently two others are seen tumbling over the wall into the narrow way. they are come from the land of vain glory, and are called formalist and hypocrisy. like the pilgrim, they are bound for mount zion; but the wicket-gate was 'too far about,' and they had come by a short cut. 'they had custom for it a thousand years and more; and custom being of so long standing would be admitted legal by any impartial judge.' whether right or wrong they insist that they are in the way, and no more is to be said. but they are soon out of it again. the hill is the hill difficulty, and the road parts into three. two go round the bottom, as modern engineers would make them. the other rises straight over the top. formalist and hypocrisy choose the easy ways, and are heard of no more. pilgrim climbs up, and after various accidents comes to the second resting-place, the palace beautiful, built by the lord of the hill to entertain strangers in. the recollections of sir bevis of southampton furnished bunyan with his framework. lions guard the court. fair ladies entertain him as if he had been a knight-errant in quest of the holy grail. the ladies, of course, are all that they ought to be: the christian graces--discretion, prudence, piety, and charity. he tells them his history. they ask him if he has brought none of his old belongings with him. he answers yes; but greatly against his will: his inward and carnal cogitations, with which his countrymen, as well as himself, were so much delighted. only in golden hours they seemed to leave him. who cannot recognise the truth of this? who has not groaned over the follies and idiocies that cling to us like the doggerel verses that hang about our memories? the room in which he sleeps is called peace. in the morning he is shown the curiosities, chiefly scripture relics, in the palace. he is taken to the roof, from which he sees far off the outlines of the delectable mountains. next, the ladies carry him to the armoury, and equip him for the dangers which lie next before him. he is to go down into the valley of humiliation, and pass thence through the valley of the shadow of death. bunyan here shows the finest insight. to some pilgrims the valley of humiliation was the pleasantest part of the journey. mr. feeblemind, in the second part of the story, was happier there than anywhere. but christian is bunyan himself; and bunyan had a stiff self-willed nature, and had found his spirit the most stubborn part of him. down here he encounters apollyon himself, 'straddling quite over the whole breadth of the way'--a more effective devil than the diabolus of the 'holy war.' he fights him for half-a-day, is sorely wounded in head, hand, and foot, and has a near escape of being pressed to death. apollyon spreads his bat wings at last, and flies away; but there remains the valley of the shadow of death, the dark scene of lonely horrors. two men meet him on the borders of it. they tell him the valley is full of spectres; and they warn him, if he values his life, to go back. well bunyan knew these spectres, those dreary misgivings that he was toiling after an illusion; that 'good' and 'evil' had no meaning except on earth, and for man's convenience; and that he himself was but a creature of a day, allowed a brief season of what is called existence, and then to pass away and be as if he had never been. it speaks well for bunyan's honesty that this state of mind which religious people generally call wicked is placed directly in his pilgrim's path, and he is compelled to pass through it. in the valley, close at the road-side, there is a pit, which is one of the mouths of hell. a wicked spirit whispers to him as he goes by. he imagines that the thought had proceeded out of his own heart. the sky clears when he is beyond the gorge. outside it are the caves where the two giants, pope and pagan, had lived in old times. pagan had been dead many a day. pope was still living, 'but he had grown so crazy and stiff in his joints that he could now do little more than sit in his cave's mouth, grinning at pilgrims as they went by, and biting his nails because he could not come at them.' here he overtakes 'faithful,' a true pilgrim like himself. faithful had met with trials; but his trials have not resembled christian's. christian's difficulties, like bunyan's own, had been all spiritual. 'the lusts of the flesh' seem to have had no attraction for him. faithful had been assailed by 'wanton,' and had been obliged to fly from her. he had not fallen into the slough; but he had been beguiled by the old adam, who offered him one of his daughters for a wife. in the valley of the shadow of death he had found sunshine all the way. doubts about the truth of religion had never troubled the simpler nature of the good faithful. mr. talkative is the next character introduced, and is one of the best figures which bunyan has drawn; mr. talkative, with scripture at his fingers' ends, and perfect master of all doctrinal subtleties, ready 'to talk of things heavenly or things earthly, things moral or things evangelical, things sacred or things profane, things past or things to come, things foreign or things at home, things essential or things circumstantial, provided that all be done to our profit.' this gentleman would have taken in faithful, who was awed by such a rush of volubility. christian has seen him before, knows him well, and can describe him. 'he is the son of one saywell. he dwelt in prating row. he is for any company and for any talk. as he talks now with you so will he talk when on the ale-bench. the more drink he hath in his crown, the more of these things he hath in his mouth. religion hath no place in his heart, or home, or conversation; all that he hath lieth in his tongue, and his religion is to make a noise therewith.' the elect, though they have ceased to be of the world, are still in the world. they are still part of the general community of mankind, and share, whether they like it or not, in the ordinary activities of life. faithful and christian have left the city of destruction. they have shaken off from themselves all liking for idle pleasures. they nevertheless find themselves in their journey at vanity fair, 'a fair set up by beelzebub 5000 years ago.' trade of all sorts went on at vanity fair, and people of all sorts were collected there: cheats, fools, asses, knaves, and rogues. some were honest, many were dishonest; some lived peaceably and uprightly, others robbed, murdered, seduced their neighbours' wives, or lied and perjured themselves. vanity fair was european society as it existed in the days of charles ii. each nation was represented. there was british row, french row, and spanish row. 'the wares of rome and her merchandise were greatly promoted at the fair, only the english nation with some others had taken a dislike to them.' the pilgrims appear on the scene as the apostles appeared at antioch and rome, to tell the people that there were things in the world of more consequence than money and pleasure. the better sort listen. public opinion in general calls them fools and bedlamites. the fair becomes excited, disturbances are feared, and the authorities send to make inquiries. authorities naturally disapprove of novelties; and christian and faithful are arrested, beaten, and put in the cage. their friends insist that they have done no harm, that they are innocent strangers teaching only what will make men better instead of worse. a riot follows. the authorities determine to make an example of them, and the result is the ever-memorable trial of the two pilgrims. they are brought in irons before my lord hategood, charged with 'disturbing the trade of the town, creating divisions, and making converts to their opinions in contempt of the law of the prince.' faithful begins with an admission which would have made it difficult for hategood to let him off, for he says that the prince they talked of, being beelzebub, the enemy of the lord, he defied him and all his angels. three witnesses were then called: envy, superstition, and pickthank. envy says that faithful regards neither prince nor people, but does all he can to possess men with disloyal notions, which he call principles of faith and holiness. superstition says that he knows little of him, but has heard him say that 'our religion is naught, and such by which no man can please god, from which saying his lordship well knows will follow that we are yet in our sins, and finally shall be damned.' pickthank deposes that he has heard faithful rail on beelzebub, and speak contemptuously of his honourable friends my lord old man, my lord carnal delight, my lord luxurious, my lord desire of vain glory, my lord lechery, sir having greedy, and the rest of the nobility, besides which he has railed against his lordship on the bench himself, calling him an ungodly villain. the evidence was perfectly true, and the prisoner, when called on for his defence, confirmed it. he says (avoiding the terms in which he was said to rail and the like) that 'the prince of the town, with all the rabblement of his attendants by this gentleman named, are more fit for a being in hell than in this town or country.' lord hategood has been supposed to have been drawn from one or other of charles ii.'s judges, perhaps from either twisden or chester, who had the conversation with bunyan's wife. but it is difficult to see how either one or the other could have acted otherwise than they did. faithful might be quite right. hell might be and probably was the proper place for beelzebub, and for all persons holding authority under him. but as a matter of fact, a form of society did for some purpose or other exist, and had been permitted to exist for 5000 years, owning beelzebub's sovereignty. it must defend itself, or must cease to be, and it could not be expected to make no effort at self-preservation. faithful had come to vanity fair to make a revolution--a revolution extremely desirable, but one which it was unreasonable to expect the constituted authorities to allow to go forward. it was not a case of false witness. a prisoner who admits that he has taught the people that their prince ought to be in hell, and has called the judge an ungodly villain, cannot complain if he is accused of preaching rebellion. lord hategood charges the jury, and explains the law. 'there was an act made,' he says, 'in the days of pharaoh the great, servant to our prince, that lest those of a contrary religion should multiply and grow too strong for him, their males should be thrown into the river. there was also an act made in the days of nebuchadnezzar the great, that whoever would not fall down and worship his golden image should be thrown into a fiery furnace. there was also an act made in the days of darius that whoso for some time called upon any god but him should be cast into the lion's den. now the substance of these laws this rebel hath broken, not only in thought (which is not to be borne), but also in word and deed, which must, therefore, be intolerable. for that of pharaoh, his law was made upon a supposition to prevent mischief, no crime being yet apparent. for the second and third you see his disputations against our religion, and for the treason he hath confessed he deserveth to die the death.' 'then went the jury out, whose names were mr. blindman, mr. nogood, mr. malice, mr. lovelust, mr. liveloose, mr. heady, mr. highmind, mr. enmity, mr. liar, mr. cruelty, mr. hatelight, and mr. implacable, who every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the judge. and first, mr. blindman, the foreman, said: i see clearly that this man is a heretic. then said mr. no good, away with such a fellow from the earth. aye, said mr. malice, i hate the very looks of him. then said mr. lovelust, i could never endure him. nor i, said mr. liveloose, for he would always be condemning my way. hang him, hang him, said mr. heady. a sorry scrub, said mr. highmind. my heart riseth against him, said mr. enmity. he is a rogue, said mr. liar. hanging is too good for him, said mr. cruelty. let us despatch him out of the way, said mr. hatelight. then, said mr. implacable, might i have all the world given me, i could not be reconciled to him; therefore, let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.' abstract qualities of character were never clothed in more substantial flesh and blood than these jurymen. spenser's knights in the 'fairy queen' are mere shadows to them. faithful was, of course, condemned, scourged, buffeted, lanced in his feet with knives, stoned, stabbed, at last burned, and spared the pain of travelling further on the narrow road. a chariot and horses were waiting to bear him through the clouds, the nearest way to the celestial gate. christian, who it seems had been remanded, contrives to escape. he is joined by hopeful, a convert whom he has made in the town, and they pursue their journey in company. a second person is useful dramatically, and hopeful takes faithful's place. leaving vanity fair, they are again on the pilgrim's road. there they encounter mr. bye-ends. bye-ends comes from the town of plain-speech, where he has a large kindred, my lord turnabout, my lord timeserver, mr. facing-both-ways, mr. two tongues, the parson of the parish. bye-ends himself was married to a daughter of lady feignings. bunyan's invention in such things was inexhaustible. they have more trials of the old kind with which bunyan himself was so familiar. they cross the river of life and even drink at it, yet for all this and directly after, they stray into bye path meadow. they lose themselves in the grounds of doubting castle, and are seized upon by giant despair--still a prey to doubt--still uncertain whether religion be not a dream, even after they have fought with wild beasts in vanity fair and have drunk of the water of life. nowhere does bunyan show better how well he knew the heart of man. christian even thinks of killing himself in the dungeons of doubting castle. hopeful cheers him up, they break their prison, recover the road again, and arrive at the delectable mountains in emmanuel's own land. there it might be thought the danger would be over, but it is not so. even in emmanuel's land there is a door in the side of a hill which is a byeway to hell, and beyond emmanuel's land is the country of conceit, a new and special temptation for those who think that they are near salvation. here they encounter 'a brisk lad of the neighbourhood,' needed soon after for a particular purpose, who is a good liver, prays devoutly, fasts regularly, pays tithes punctually, and hopes that everyone will get to heaven by the religion which he professes, provided he fears god and tries to do his duty. the name of this brisk lad is ignorance. leaving him, they are caught in a net by flatterer, and are smartly whipped by 'a shining one,' who lets them out of it. false ideas and vanity lay them open once more to their most dangerous enemy. they meet a man coming towards them from the direction in which they are going. they tell him that they are on the way to mount zion. he laughs scornfully and answers:-'there is no such place as you dream of in all the world. when i was at home in my own country, i heard as you now affirm, and from hearing i went out to see; and have been seeking this city these twenty years, but i find no more of it than i did the first day i went out. i am going back again and will seek to refresh myself with things which i then cast away for hopes of that which i now see is not.' still uncertainty--even on the verge of eternity--strange, doubtless, and reprehensible to right reverend persons, who never 'cast away' anything; to whom a religious profession has been a highway to pleasure and preferment, who live in the comfortable assurance that as it has been in this life so it will be in the next. only moral obliquity of the worst kind could admit a doubt about so excellent a religion as this. but bunyan was not a right reverend. christianity had brought him no palaces and large revenues, and a place among the great of the land. if christianity was not true his whole life was folly and illusion, and the dread that it might be so clung to his belief like its shadow. the way was still long. the pilgrims reach the enchanted ground and are drowsy and tired. ignorance comes up with them again. he talks much about himself. he tells them of the good motives that come into his mind and comfort him as he walks. his heart tells him that he has left all for god and heaven. his belief and his life agree together, and he is humbly confident that his hopes are well-founded. when they speak to him of salvation by faith and conviction by sin, he cannot understand what they mean. as he leaves them they are reminded of one temporary, 'once a forward man in religion.' temporary dwelt in graceless, 'a town two miles from honesty, next door to one turnback.' he 'was going on pilgrimage, but became acquainted with one save self, and was never more heard of.' these figures all mean something. they correspond in part to bunyan's own recollection of his own trials. partly he is indulging his humour by describing others who were more astray than he was. it was over at last: the pilgrims arrive at the land of beulah, the beautiful sunset after the storms were all past. doubting castle can be seen no more, and between them and their last rest there remains only the deep river over which there is no bridge, the river of death. on the hill beyond the waters glitter the towers and domes of the celestial city; but through the river they must first pass, and they find it deeper or shallower according to the strength of their faith. they go through, hopeful feeling the bottom all along; christian still in character, not without some horror, and frightened by hobgoblins. on the other side they are received by angels, and are carried to their final home, to live for ever in the prince's presence. then follows the only passage which the present writer reads with regret in this admirable book. it is given to the self-righteous ignorance who, doubtless, had been provoking with 'his good motives that comforted him as he walked;' but bunyan's zeal might have been satisfied by inflicting a lighter chastisement upon him. he comes up to the river. he crosses without the difficulties which attended christian and hopeful. 'it happened that there was then at the place one vain hope, a ferryman, that with his boat' (some viaticum or priestly absolution) 'helped him over.' he ascends the hill, and approaches the city, but no angels are in attendance, 'neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement.' above the gate there was the verse written--'blessed are they that do his commandments that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gate into the city.' bunyan, who believed that no man could keep the commandments, and had no right to anything but damnation, must have introduced the words as if to mock the unhappy wretch who, after all, had tried to keep the commandments as well as most people, and was seeking admittance, with a conscience moderately at ease. 'he was asked by the men that looked over the gate--whence come you and what would you have?' he answered, 'i have eaten and drunk in the presence of the king, and he has taught in our street.' then they asked him for his certificate, that they might go in and show it to the king. so he fumbled in his bosom for one and found none. then said they, 'have you none?' but the man answered never a word. so they told the king but he would not come down to see him, but commanded the two shining ones that conducted christian and hopeful to the city to go out and take ignorance and bind him hand and foot, and have him away. then they took him up and carried him through the air to the door in the side of the hill, and put him in there. 'then,' so bunyan ends, 'i saw that there was a way to hell even from the gates of heaven, as well as from the city of destruction; so i awoke, and behold it was a dream!' poor ignorance! hell--such a place as bunyan imagined hell to be--was a hard fate for a miserable mortal who had failed to comprehend the true conditions of justification. we are not told that he was a vain boaster. he could not have advanced so near to the door of heaven if he had not been really a decent man, though vain and silly. behold, it was a dream! the dreams which come to us when sleep is deep on the soul may be sent direct from some revealing power. when we are near waking, the supernatural insight may be refracted through human theory. charity will hope that the vision of ignorance cast bound into the mouth of hell, when he was knocking at the gate of heaven, came through homer's ivory gate, and that bunyan here was a mistaken interpreter of the spiritual tradition. the fierce inferences of puritan theology are no longer credible to us; yet nobler men than the puritans are not to be found in all english history. it will be well if the clearer sight which enables us to detect their errors, enables us also to recognise their excellence. the second part of the 'pilgrim's progress,' like most second parts, is but a feeble reverberation of the first. it is comforting, no doubt, to know that christian's wife and children were not left to their fate in the city of destruction. but bunyan had given us all that he had to tell about the journey, and we do not need a repetition of it. of course there, are touches of genius. no writing of bunyan's could be wholly without it. but the rough simplicity is gone, and instead of it there is a tone of sentiment which is almost mawkish. giants, dragons, and angelic champions carry us into a spurious fairy land, where the knight-errant is a preacher in disguise. fair ladies and love matches, however decorously chastened, suit ill with the sternness of the mortal conflict between the soul and sin. christiana and her children are tolerated for the pilgrim's sake to whom they belong. had they appealed to our interest on their own merits, we would have been contented to wish them well through their difficulties, and to trouble ourselves no further about them. chapter x. last days and death. little remains to be told of bunyan's concluding years. no friends preserved his letters. no diaries of his own survive to gratify curiosity. men truly eminent think too meanly of themselves or their work to care much to be personally remembered. he lived for sixteen years after his release from the gaol, and those years were spent in the peaceful discharge of his congregational duties, in writing, in visiting the scattered members of the baptist communion, or in preaching in the villages and woods. his outward circumstances were easy. he had a small but well-provided house in bedford, into which he collected rare and valuable pieces of old furniture and plate, and other articles--presents, probably, from those who admired him. he visited london annually to preach in the baptist churches. the 'pilgrim's progress' spread his fame over england, over europe, and over the american settlements. it was translated into many languages; and so catholic was its spirit, that it was adapted with a few alterations for the use even of the catholics themselves. he abstained, as he had done steadily throughout his life, from all interference with politics, and the government in turn never again meddled with him. he even received offers of promotion to larger spheres of action which might have tempted a meaner nature. but he could never be induced to leave bedford, and there he quietly stayed through changes of ministry, popish plots, and monmouth rebellions, while the terror of a restoration of popery was bringing on the revolution; careless of kings and cabinets, and confident that giant pope had lost his power for harm, and thenceforward could only bite his nails at the passing pilgrims. once only, after the failure of the exclusion bill, he seems to have feared that violent measures might again be tried against him. it is even said that he was threatened with arrest, and it was on this occasion that he made over his property to his wife. the policy of james ii., however, transparently treacherous though it was, for the time gave security to the nonconformist congregations, and in the years which immediately preceded the final expulsion of the stuarts, liberty of conscience was under fewer restrictions than it had been in the most rigorous days of the reformation, or under the long parliament itself. thus the anxiety passed away, and bunyan was left undisturbed to finish his earthly work. he was happy in his family. his blind child, for whom he had been so touchingly anxious, had died while he was in prison. his other children lived and did well; and his brave companion, who had spoken so stoutly for him to the judges, continued at his side. his health, it was said, had suffered from his confinement; but the only serious illness which we hear of, was an attack of 'sweating sickness,' which came upon him in 1687, and from which he never thoroughly recovered. he was then fifty-nine, and in the next year he died. his end was characteristic. it was brought on by exposure when he was engaged in an act of charity. a quarrel had broken out in a family at reading with which bunyan had some acquaintance. a father had taken offence at his son, and threatened to disinherit him. bunyan undertook a journey on horseback from bedford to reading in the hope of reconciling them. he succeeded, but at the cost of his life. returning by london he was overtaken on the road by a storm of rain, and was wetted through before he could find shelter. the chill, falling on a constitution already weakened by illness, brought on fever. he was able to reach the house of mr. strudwick, one of his london friends; but he never left his bed afterwards. in ten days he was dead. the exact date is uncertain. it was towards the end of august 1688, between two and three months before the landing of king william. he was buried in mr. strudwick's vault in the dissenters' burying-ground at bunhill fields. his last words were 'take me, for i come to thee.' so ended, at the age of sixty, a man who, if his importance may be measured by the influence which he has exerted over succeeding generations, must be counted among the most extraordinary persons whom england has produced. it has been the fashion to dwell on the disadvantages of his education, and to regret the carelessness of nature which brought into existence a man of genius in a tinker's hut at elstow. nature is less partial than she appears, and all situations in life have their compensations along with them. circumstances, i should say, qualified bunyan perfectly well for the work which he had to do. if he had gone to school, as he said, with aristotle and plato; if he had been broken in at a university and been turned into a bishop; if he had been in any one of the learned professions, he might easily have lost or might have never known the secret of his powers. he was born to be the poet-apostle of the english middle classes, imperfectly educated like himself; and, being one of themselves, he had the key of their thoughts and feelings in his own heart. like nine out of ten of his countrymen, he came into the world with no fortune but his industry. he had to work with his hands for his bread, and to advance by the side of his neighbours along the road of common business. his knowledge was scanty, though of rare quality. he knew his bible probably by heart. he had studied history in foxe's 'martyrs,' but nowhere else that we can trace. the rest of his mental furniture was gathered at first hand from his conscience, his life, and his occupations. thus every idea which he received falling into a soil naturally fertile, sprouted up fresh, vigorous, and original. he confessed to have felt--(as a man of his powers could hardly have failed to feel)--continued doubts about the bible and the reality of the divine government. it has been well said that when we look into the world to find the image of god, it is as if we were to stand before a looking-glass expecting to see ourselves reflected there, and to see nothing. education scarcely improves our perception in this respect; and wider information, wider acquaintance with the thoughts of other men in other ages and countries, might as easily have increased his difficulties as have assisted him in overcoming them. he was not a man who could have contented himself with compromises and half-convictions. no force could have subdued him into a decent anglican divine--a 'mr. two tongues, parson of the parish.' he was passionate and thorough-going. the authority of conscience presented itself to him only in the shape of religious obligation. religion once shaken into a 'perhaps,' would have had no existence to him; and it is easy to conceive a university-bred bunyan, an intellectual meteor, flaring uselessly across the sky and disappearing in smoke and nothingness. powerful temperaments are necessarily intense. bunyan, born a tinker, had heard right and wrong preached to him in the name of the christian creed. he concluded after a struggle that christianity was true, and on that conviction he built himself up into what he was. it might have been the same perhaps with burns had he been born a century before. given christianity as an unquestionably true account of the situation and future prospects of man, the feature of it most appalling to the imagination is that hell-fire--a torment exceeding the most horrible which fancy can conceive, and extending into eternity--awaits the enormous majority of the human race. the dreadful probability seized hold on the young bunyan's mind. he shuddered at it when awake. in the visions of the night it came before him in the tremendous details of the dreadful reality. it became the governing thought in his nature. such a belief, if it does not drive a man to madness, will at least cure him of trifling. it will clear his mind of false sentiment, take the nonsense out of him, and enable him to resist vulgar temptation as nothing else will. the danger is that the mind may not bear the strain, that the belief itself may crack and leave nothing. bunyan was hardly tried, but in him the belief did not crack. it spread over his character. it filled him first with terror; then with a loathing of sin, which entailed so awful a penalty; then, as his personal fears were allayed by the recognition of christ, it turned to tenderness and pity. there was no fanaticism in bunyan; nothing harsh or savage. his natural humour perhaps saved him. his few recorded sayings all refer to the one central question; but healthy seriousness often best expresses itself in playful quaintness. he was once going somewhere disguised as a waggoner. he was overtaken by a constable who had a warrant to arrest him. the constable asked him if he knew that devil of a fellow bunyan. 'know him!' bunyan said. 'you might call him a devil if you knew him as well as i once did.' a cambridge student was trying to show him what a divine thing reason was--'reason, the chief glory of man which distinguished him from a beast,' &c., &c. bunyan growled out: 'sin distinguishes man from beast. is sin divine?' he was extremely tolerant in his terms of church membership. he offended the stricter part of his congregation by refusing even to make infant baptism a condition of exclusion. the only persons with whom he declined to communicate were those whose lives were openly immoral. his chief objection to the church of england was the admission of the ungodly to the sacraments. he hated party titles and quarrels upon trifles. he desired himself to be called a christian or a believer, or 'any name which was approved by the holy ghost.' divisions, he said, were to churches like wars to countries. those who talked most about religion cared least for it; and controversies about doubtful things, and things of little moment, ate up all zeal for things which were practicable and indisputable. 'in countenance,' wrote a friend, 'he appeared to be of a stern and rough temper, but in his conversation mild and affable; not given to loquacity or to much discourse in company unless some urgent occasion required it; observing never to boast of himself or his parts, but rather to seem low in his own eyes, and submit himself to the judgment of others; abhorring lying and swearing, being just, in all that lay in his power, to his word; not seeming to revenge injuries, loving to reconcile differences and make friendships with all. he had a sharp quick eye, with an excellent discerning of persons, being of good judgment and quick wit.' 'he was tall of stature, strong boned, though not corpulent, somewhat of a ruddy face, with sparkling eyes, wearing his hair on his upper lip; his hair reddish, but in his later days time had sprinkled it with grey; his nose well set, but not declining or bending; his mouth moderate large, his forehead something high, and his habit always plain and modest.' he was himself indifferent to advancement, and he did not seek it for his family. a london merchant offered to take his son into his house. 'god,' he said, 'did not send me to advance my family, but to preach the gospel.' he had no vanity--an exemption extremely rare in those who are personally much before the public. the personal popularity was in fact the part of his situation which he least liked. when he was to preach in london, 'if there was but one day's notice the meeting house was crowded to overflowing.' twelve hundred people would be found collected before seven o'clock on a dark winter's morning to hear a lecture from him. in zoar street, southwark, his church was sometimes so crowded that he had to be lifted to the pulpit stairs over the congregation's heads. it pleased him, but he was on the watch against the pleasure of being himself admired. a friend complimented him once after service, on 'the sweet sermon' which he had delivered. 'you need not remind me of that,' he said. 'the devil told me of it before i was out of the pulpit.' 'conviction of sin' has become a conventional phrase, shallow and ineffective even in those who use it most sincerely. yet moral evil is still the cause of nine-tenths of the misery in the world, and it is not easy to measure the value of a man who could prolong the conscious sense of the deadly nature of it, even under the forms of a decomposing theology. times are changing. the intellectual current is bearing us we know not where, and the course of the stream is in a direction which leads us far from the conclusions in which bunyan and the puritans established themselves; but the truths which are most essential for us to know cannot be discerned by speculative arguments. chemistry cannot tell us why some food is wholesome and other food is poisonous. that food is best for us which best nourishes the body into health and strength; and a belief in a supernatural power which has given us a law to live by and to which we are responsible for our conduct, has alone, of all the influences known to us, succeeded in ennobling and elevating the character of man. the particular theories which men have formed about it have often been wild and extravagant. imagination, agitated by fear or stimulated by pious enthusiasm, has peopled heaven with demigods and saints--creations of fancy, human forms projected upon a mist and magnified into celestial images. how much is true of all that men have believed in past times and have now ceased to believe, how much has been a too eager dream, no one now can tell. it may be that other foundations may be laid hereafter for human conduct on which an edifice can be raised no less fair and beautiful; but no signs of it are as yet apparent. so far as we yet know, morality rests upon a sense of obligation; and obligation has no meaning except as implying a divine command, without which it would cease to be. until 'duty' can be presented to us in a shape which will compel our recognition of it with equal or superior force, the passing away of 'the conviction of sin' can operate only to obscure our aspirations after a high ideal of life and character. the scientific theory may be correct, and it is possible that we may be standing on the verge of the most momentous intellectual revolution which has been experienced in the history of our race. it may be so, and also it may not be so. it may be that the most important factors in the scientific equation are beyond the reach of human intellect. however it be, the meat which gives strength to the man is poison to the child; and as yet we are still children, and are likely to remain children. 'every relief from outward restraint,' says one who was not given to superstition, 'if it be not attended with increased power of self-command, is simply fatal.' men of intelligence, therefore, to whom life is not a theory, but a stern fact, conditioned round with endless possibilities of wrong and suffering, though they may never again adopt the letter of bunyan's creed, will continue to see in conscience an authority for which culture is no substitute; they will conclude that in one form or other responsibility is not a fiction but a truth; and, so long as this conviction lasts, the 'pilgrim's progress' will still be dear to all men of all creeds who share in it, even though it pleases the 'elect' modern philosophers to describe its author as a 'philistine of genius.' * * * * * now publishing, in crown 8vo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ each, english men of letters. edited by john morley. johnson. by leslie stephen. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'the new series opens well with mr. leslie stephen's sketch of dr. johnson. it could hardly have been done better, and it will convey to the readers for whom it is intended a juster estimate of johnson than either of the two essays of lord macaulay.'--pall mall gazette. scott. by r. h. hutton. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'we could not wish for a more suggestive introduction to scott and his poems and novels.'--examiner. gibbon. by j.c. morison. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'as a clear, thoughtful, and attractive record of the life and works of the greatest among the world's historians, it deserves the highest praise.'--examiner. shelley. by j.a. symonds. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'the lovers of this great poet are to be congratulated at having at their command so fresh, clear, and intelligent a presentment of the subject, written by a man of adequate and wide culture.'--athenã�um. hume. by professor huxley, f.r.s. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'it may fairly be said that no one now living could have expounded hume with more sympathy or with equal perspicuity.'--athenã�um. goldsmith. by william black. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'mr. black brings a fine sympathy and taste to bear in his criticism of goldsmith's writings, as well as his sketch of the incidents of his life.'--athenã�um. defoe. by w. minto. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'mr. minto's book is careful and accurate in all that is stated, and faithful in all that it suggests. it will repay reading more than once.'--athenã�um. burns. by principal shairp. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'it is impossible to desire fairer criticism than principal shairp's on burns's poetry.... none of the series has given a truer estimate either of character or of genius than this volume.'--spectator. spenser. by the very rev. the dean of st. paul's. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'dr. church is master of his subject, and writes always with good taste.'--academy. thackeray. by anthony trollope. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'mr. trollope's sketch is excellently adapted to fulfil the purpose of the series in which it appears.'--athenã�um. burke. by john morley. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'it is no disparagement to the literary studies already published in this admirable series, to say that none of them have surpassed, while few have equalled, this volume on burke.'--british quarterly review. milton. by mark pattison. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ 'the writer knows the times and the man, and of both he has written with singular force and discrimination.'--spectator. hawthorne. by henry james. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ southey. by professor dowden. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ bunyan. by james a. froude. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ chaucer. by professor a.w. ward. crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ * * * * * in preparation. wordsworth. by f.w.h. myers. swift. by john morley. byron. by professor nichol. cowper. by goldwin smith. [_shortly._ adam smith. by leonard h. courtney. bentley. by professor r.c. jebb. landor. by professor sidney colvin. pope. by leslie stephen. [_shortly._ _others will follow._ macmillan and co., london. the beginnings of new england or the puritan theocracy in its relations to civil and religious liberty by john fiske "the lord christ intends to achieve greater matters by this little handful than the world is aware of." edward johnson, _wonder-working providence of zion's saviour in new england_ 1654 1892 to my dear classmates, benjamin thompson frothingham, william augustus white, and frederic cromwell, i dedicate this book. preface. this book contains the substance of the lectures originally given at the washington university, st. louis, in may, 1887, in the course of my annual visit to that institution as university professor of american history. the lectures were repeated in the following month of june at portland, oregon, and since then either the whole course, or one or more of the lectures, have been given in boston, newton, milton, chelsea, new bedford, lowell, worcester, springfield, and pittsfield, mass.; farmington, middletown, and stamford, conn.; new york, brooklyn, and tarrytown, n.y.; philadelphia and ogontz, pa.; wilmington, del.; chicago, 111.; san francisco and oakland, cal. in this sketch of the circumstances which attended the settlement of new england, i have purposely omitted many details which in a formal history of that period would need to be included. it has been my aim to give the outline of such a narrative as to indicate the principles at work in the history of new england down to the revolution of 1689. when i was writing the lectures i had just been reading, with much interest, the work of my former pupil, mr. brooks adams, entitled "the emancipation of massachusetts." with the specific conclusions set forth in that book i found myself often agreeing, but it seemed to me that the general aspect of the case would be considerably modified and perhaps somewhat more adequately presented by enlarging the field of view. in forming historical judgments a great deal depends upon our perspective. out of the very imperfect human nature which is so slowly and painfully casting off the original sin of its inheritance from primeval savagery, it is scarcely possible in any age to get a result which will look quite satisfactory to the men of a riper and more enlightened age. fortunately we can learn something from the stumblings of our forefathers, and a good many things seem quite clear to us to-day which two centuries ago were only beginning to be dimly discerned by a few of the keenest and boldest spirits. the faults of the puritan theocracy, which found its most complete development in massachusetts, are so glaring that it is idle to seek to palliate them or to explain them away. but if we would really understand what was going on in the puritan world of the seventeenth century, and how a better state of things has grown out of it, we must endeavour to distinguish and define the elements of wholesome strength in that theocracy no less than its elements of crudity and weakness. the first chapter, on "the roman idea and the english idea," contains a somewhat more developed statement of the points briefly indicated in the thirteenth section (pp. 85-95) of "the destiny of man." as all of the present book, except the first chapter, was written here under the shadow of the washington university, i take pleasure in dating it from this charming and hospitable city where i have passed some of the most delightful hours of my life. st. louis, april 15, 1889. contents. chapter i. the roman idea and the english idea. when did the roman empire come to an end? ... 1-3 meaning of odovakar's work ... 3 the holy roman empire ... 4, 5 gradual shifting of primacy from the men who spoke latin, and their descendants, to the men who speak english ... 6-8 political history is the history of nation-making ... 8, 9 the oriental method of nation-making; _conquest without incorporation_ ... 9 illustrations from eastern despotisms ... 10 and from the moors in spain ... 11 the roman method of nation-making; _conquest with incorporation, but without representation_ ... 12 its slow development ... 13 vices in the roman system. ... 14 its fundamental defect ... 15 it knew nothing of political power delegated by the people to representatives ... 16 and therefore the expansion of its dominion ended in a centralized despotism ... 16 which entailed the danger that human life might come to stagnate in europe, as it had done in asia ... 17 the danger was warded off by the germanic invasions, which, however, threatened to undo the work which the empire had done in organizing european society ... 17 but such disintegration was prevented by the sway which the roman church had come to exercise over the european mind ... 18 the wonderful thirteenth century ... 19 the english method of nation-making; _incorporation with representation_ ... 20 pacific tendencies of federalism ... 21 failure of greek attempts at federation ... 22 fallacy of the notion that republics must be small ... 23 "it is not the business of a government to support its people, but of the people to support their government" ... 24 teutonic march-meetings and representative assemblies ... 25 peculiarity of the teutonic conquest of britain ... 26, 27 survival and development of the teutonic representative assembly in england ... 28 primitive teutonic institutions less modified in england than in germany ... 29 some effects of the norman conquest of england ... 30 the barons' war and the first house of commons ... 31 eternal vigilance is the price of liberty ... 32 conflict between roman idea and english idea begins to become clearly visible in the thirteenth century ... 33 decline of mediaeval empire and church with the growth of modern nationalities ... 34 overthrow of feudalism, and increasing power of the crown ... 35 formidable strength of the roman idea ... 36 had it not been for the puritans, political liberty would probably have disappeared from the world ... 37 beginnings of protestantism in the thirteenth century ... 38 the cathari, or puritans of the eastern empire ... 39 the albigenses ... 40 effects of persecution; its feebleness in england ... 41 wyclif and the lollards ... 42 political character of henry viii.'s revolt against rome ... 43 the yeoman hugh latimer ... 44 the moment of cromwell's triumph was the most critical moment in history ... 45 contrast with france; fate of the huguenots ... 46, 47 victory of the english idea ... 48 significance of the puritan exodus ... 49 chapter ii. the puritan exodus. influence of puritanism upon modern europe ... 50, 51 work of the lollards ... 52 they made the bible the first truly popular literature in england ... 53, 54 the english version of the bible ... 54, 55 secret of henry viii.'s swift success in his revolt against rome ... 56 effects of the persecution under mary ... 57 calvin's theology in its political bearings ... 58, 59 elizabeth's policy and its effects ... 60, 61 puritan sea-rovers ... 61 geographical distribution of puritanism in england; it was strongest in the eastern counties ... 62 preponderance of east anglia in the puritan exodus ... 63 familiar features of east anglia to the visitor from new england ... 64 puritanism was not intentionally allied with liberalism ... 65 robert brown and the separatists ... 66 persecution of the separatists ... 67 recantation of brown; it was reserved for william brewster to take the lead in the puritan exodus ... 68 james stuart, and his encounter with andrew melville ... 69 what james intended to do when he became king of england ... 70 his view of the political situation, as declared in the conference at hampton court ... 71 the congregation of separatists at scrooby ... 72 the flight to holland, and settlement at leyden in 1609 ... 73 systematic legal toleration in holland ... 74 why the pilgrims did not stay there; they wished to keep up their distinct organization and found a state ... 74 and to do this they must cross the ocean, because european territory was all preoccupied ... 75 the london and plymouth companies ... 75 first explorations of the new england coast; bartholomew gosnold (1602), and george weymouth (1605) ... 76 the popham colony (1607) ... 77 captain john smith gives to new england its name (1614) ... 78 the pilgrims at leyden decide to make a settlement near the delaware river ... 79 how king james regarded the enterprise ... 80 voyage of the mayflower; she goes astray and takes the pilgrims to cape cod bay ... 81 founding of the plymouth colony (1620) ... 82, 83 why the indians did not molest the settlers ... 84, 85 the chief interest of this beginning of the puritan exodus lies not so much in what it achieved as in what it suggested ... 86, 87 chapter iii. the planting of new england. sir ferdinando gorges and the council for new england ... 88, 89 wessagusset and merrymount ... 90, 91 the dorchester adventurers ... 92 john white wishes to raise a bulwark against the kingdom of antichrist ... 93 and john endicott undertakes the work of building it ... 94 conflicting grants sow seeds of trouble; the gorges and mason claims ... 94, 95 endicott's arrival in new england, and the founding of salem ... 95 the company of massachusetts bay; francis higginson takes a powerful reinforcement to salem ... 96 the development of john white's enterprise into the company of massachusetts bay coincided with the first four years of the reign of charles i ... 97 extraordinary scene in the house of commons (june 5, 1628) ... 98, 99 the king turns parliament out of doors (march 2, 1629) ... 100 desperate nature of the crisis ... 100, 101 the meeting at cambridge (aug. 26, 1629), and decision to transfer the charter of the massachusetts bay company, and the government established under it, to new england ... 102 leaders of the great migration; john winthrop ... 102 and thomas dudley ... 103 founding of massachusetts; the schemes of gorges overwhelmed ... 104 beginnings of american constitutional history; the question as to self-government raised at watertown ... 105 representative system established ... 106 bicameral assembly; story of the stray pig ... 107 ecclesiastical polity; the triumph of separatism ... 108 restriction of the suffrage to members of the puritan congregational churches ... 109 founding of harvard college ... 110 threefold danger to the new england settlers in 1636:- 1. from the king, who prepares to attack the charter, but is foiled by dissensions at home ... 111-113 2. from religious dissensions; roger williams ... 114-116 henry vane and anne hutchinson ... 116-119 beginnings of new hampshire and rhode island ... 119-120 3. from the indians; the pequot supremacy ... 121 first movements into the connecticut valley, and disputes with the dutch settlers of new amsterdam ... 122, 123 restriction of the suffrage leads to disaffection in massachusetts; profoundly interesting opinions of winthrop and hooker ... 123, 124 connecticut pioneers and their hardships ... 125 thomas hooker, and the founding of connecticut ... 120 the fundamental orders of connecticut (jan 14, 1639); the first written constitution that created a government ... 127 relations of connecticut to the genesis of the federal union ... 128 origin of the pequot war; sassacus tries to unite the indian tribes in a crusade against the english ... 129, 130 the schemes of sassacus are foiled by roger williams ... 130 the pequots take the war path alone ... 131 and are exterminated ... 132-134 john davenport, and the founding of new haven ... 135 new haven legislation, and legend of the "blue laws" ... 136 with the meeting of the long parliament, in 1640, the puritan exodus comes to its end ... 137 what might have been ... 138, 391 chapter iv. the new england confederacy. the puritan exodus was purely and exclusively english ... 140 and the settlers were all thrifty and prosperous; chiefly country squires and yeomanry of the best and sturdiest type ... 141, 142 in all history there has been no other instance of colonization so exclusively effected by picked and chosen men ... 143 what, then, was the principle of selection? the migration was not intended to promote what we call religious liberty ... 144, 145 theocratic ideal of the puritans ... 146 the impulse which sought to realize itself in the puritan ideal was an ethical impulse ... 147 in interpreting scripture, the puritan appealed to his reason ... 148, 149 value of such perpetual theological discussion as was carried on in early new england ... 150, 151 comparison with the history of scotland ... 152 bearing of these considerations upon the history of the new england confederacy ... 153 the existence of so many colonies (plymouth, massachusetts, connecticut, new haven, rhode island, the piscataqua towns, etc.) was due to differences of opinion on questions in which men's religious ideas were involved ... 154 and this multiplication of colonies led to a notable and significant attempt at confederation ... 155 turbulence of dissent in rhode island ... 156 the earl of warwick, and his board of commissioners ... 157 constitution of the confederacy ... 158 it was only a league, not a federal union ... 159 its formation involved a tacit assumption of sovereignty ... 160 the fall of charles i. brought up, for a moment, the question as to the supremacy of parliament over the colonies ... 161 some interesting questions ... 162 genesis of the persecuting spirit ... 163 samuel gorton and his opinions ... 163-165 he flees to aquedneck and is banished thence ... 166 providence protests against him ... 167 he flees to shawomet, where he buys land of the indians ... 168 miantonomo and uncas ... 169, 170 death of miantonomo ... 171 edward johnson leads an expedition against shawomet ... 172 trial and sentence of the heretics ... 173 winthrop declares himself in a prophetic opinion ... 174 the presbyterian cabal ... 175-177 the cambridge platform; deaths of winthrop and cotton ... 177 views of winthrop and cotton as to toleration in matters of religion ... 178 after their death, the leadership in massachusetts was in the hands of endicott and norton ... 179 the quakers; their opinions and behavior ... 179-181 violent manifestations of dissent ... 182 anne austin and mary fisher; how they were received in boston ... 183 the confederated colonies seek to expel the quakers; noble attitude of rhode island ... 184 roger williams appeals to his friend, oliver cromwell ... 185 the "heavenly speech" of sir harry vane ... 185 laws passed against the quakers ... 186 how the death penalty was regarded at that time in new england ... 187 executions of quakers on boston common ... 188, 189 wenlock christison's defiance and victory ... 189, 190 the "king's missive" ... 191 why charles ii. interfered to protect the quakers ... 191 his hostile feeling toward the new england governments ... 192 the regicide judges, goffe and whalley ... 193, 194 new haven annexed to connecticut ... 194, 195 abraham pierson, and the founding of newark ... 196 breaking-down of the theocratic policy ... 197 weakening of the confederacy ... 198 chapter v. king philip's war. relations between the puritan settlers and the indians ... 199 trade with the indians ... 200 missionary work; thomas mayhew ... 201 john eliot and his translation of the bible ... 202 his preaching to the indians ... 203 his villages of christian indians ... 204 the puritan's intention was to deal gently and honourably with the red men ... 205 why pennsylvania was so long unmolested by the indians ... 205, 206 difficulty of the situation in new england ... 207 it is hard for the savage and the civilized man to understand one another ... 208 how eliot's designs must inevitably have been misinterpreted by the indians ... 209 it is remarkable that peace should have been so long preserved ... 210 deaths of massasoit and his son alexander ... 211 very little is known about the nature of philip's designs ... 212 the meeting at taunton ... 213 sausamon informs against philip ... 213 and is murdered ... 214 massacres at swanzey and dartmouth ... 214 murder of captain hutchinson ... 215 attack on brookfield, which is relieved by simon willard ... 216 fighting in the connecticut valley; the mysterious stranger at hadley ... 217, 218 ambuscade at bloody brook ... 219 popular excitement in boston ... 220 the narragansetts prepare to take the war-path ... 221 and governor winslow leads an army against them ... 222, 223 storming of the great swamp fortress ... 224 slaughter of the indians ... 225 effect of the blow ... 226 growth of the humane sentiment in recent times, due to the fact that the horrors of war are seldom brought home to everybody's door ... 227, 228 warfare with savages is likely to be truculent in character ... 229 attack upon lancaster ... 230 mrs. rowlandson's narrative ... 231-233 virtual extermination of the indians (february to august, 1676) ... 233, 234 death of canonchet ... 234 philip pursued by captain church ... 235 death of philip ... 236 indians sold into slavery ... 237 conduct of the christian indians ... 238 war with the tarratines ... 239 frightful destruction of life and property ... 240 henceforth the red man figures no more in the history of new england, except in frontier raids under french guidance ... 241 chapter vi. the tyranny of andros. romantic features in the early history of new england ... 242 captain edward johnson, of woburn, and his book on "the wonder-working providence of zion's saviour in new england" ... 243,244 acts of the puritans often judged by an unreal and impossible standard ... 245 spirit of the "wonder-working providence" ... 246 merits and faults of the puritan theocracy ... 247 restriction of the suffrage to church members ... 248 it was a source of political discontent ... 249 inquisitorial administration of justice ... 250 the "half way covenant" ... 251 founding of the old south church ... 252 unfriendly relations between charles ii and massachusetts ... 253 complaints against massachusetts ... 254 the lords of trade ... 255 arrival of edward randolph in boston ... 256 joseph dudley and the beginnings of toryism in new england ... 257, 258 charles ii. erects the four piscataqua towns into the royal province of new hampshire ... 259 and quarrels with massachusetts over the settlement of the gorges claim to the maine district ... 260 simon bradstreet and his verse-making wife ... 261 massachusetts answers the king's peremptory message ... 262 secret treaty between charles ii. and louis xiv ... 263 shameful proceedings in england ... 264 massachusetts refuses to surrender her charter; and accordingly it is annulled by decree of chancery, june 21, 1684 ... 265 effect of annulling the charter ... 266 death of charles ii, accession of james ii., and appointment of sir edmund andros as viceroy over new england, with despotic powers ... 267 the charter oak ... 268 episcopal services in boston ... 268, 269 founding of the king's chapel ... 269 the tyranny ... 270 john wise of ipswich ... 271 fall of james ii ... 271 insurrection in boston, and overthrow of andros ... 272 effects of the revolution of 1689 ... 273 need for union among all the northern colonies ... 274 plymouth, maine, and acadia annexed to massachusetts ... 275 which becomes a royal province ... 276 and is thus brought into political sympathy with virginia ... 276 the seeds of the american revolution were already sown, and the spirit of 1776 was foreshadowed in 1689 ... 277, 278 the beginnings of new england. chapter i. the roman idea and the english idea. it used to be the fashion of historians, looking superficially at the facts presented in chronicles and tables of dates, without analyzing and comparing vast groups of facts distributed through centuries, or even suspecting the need for such analysis and comparison, to assign the date 476 a.d. as the moment at which the roman empire came to an end. it was in that year that the soldier of fortune, odovakar, commander of the herulian mercenaries in italy, sent the handsome boy romulus, son of orestes, better known as "little augustus," from his imperial throne to the splendid villa of lucullus near naples, and gave him a yearly pension of $35,000 [6,000 solidi] to console him for the loss of a world. as 324 years elapsed before another emperor was crowned at rome, and as the political headship of europe after that happy restoration remained upon the german soil to which the events of the eighth century had shifted it, nothing could seem more natural than the habit which historians once had, of saying that the mighty career of rome had ended, as it had begun, with a romulus. sometimes the date 476 was even set up as a great landmark dividing modern from ancient history. for those, however, who took such a view, it was impossible to see the events of the middle ages in their true relations to what went before and what came after. it was impossible to understand what went on in italy in the sixth century, or to explain the position of that great roman power which had its centre on the bosphorus, which in the code of justinian left us our grandest monument of roman law, and which for a thousand years was the staunch bulwark of europe against the successive aggressions of persian, saracen, and turk. it was equally impossible to understand the rise of the papal power, the all-important politics of the great saxon and swabian emperors, the relations of mediaeval england to the continental powers, or the marvellously interesting growth of the modern european system of nationalities. [sidenote: when did the roman empire come to an end?] since the middle of the nineteenth century the study of history has undergone changes no less sweeping than those which have in the same time affected the study of the physical sciences. vast groups of facts distributed through various ages and countries have been subjected to comparison and analysis, with the result that they have not only thrown fresh light upon one another, but have in many cases enabled us to recover historic points of view that had long been buried in oblivion. such an instance was furnished about twenty-five years ago by dr. bryce's epoch-making work on the holy roman empire. since then historians still recognize the importance of the date 476 as that which left the bishop of rome the dominant personage in italy, and marked the shifting of the political centre of gravity from the palatine to the lateran. this was one of those subtle changes which escape notice until after some of their effects have attracted attention. the most important effect, in this instance, realized after three centuries, was not the overthrow of roman power in the west, but its indefinite extension and expansion. the men of 476 not only had no idea that they were entering upon a new era, but least of all did they dream that the roman empire had come to an end, or was ever likely to. its cities might be pillaged, its provinces overrun, but the supreme imperial power itself was something without which the men of those days could not imagine the world as existing. it must have its divinely ordained representative in one place if not in another. if the throne in italy was vacant, it was no more than had happened before; there was still a throne at constantinople, and to its occupant zeno the roman senate sent a message, saying that one emperor was enough for both ends of the earth, and begging him to confer upon the gallant odovakar the title of patrician, and entrust the affairs of italy to his care. so when sicambrian chlodwig set up his merovingian kingdom in northern gaul, he was glad to array himself in the robe of a roman consul, and obtain from the eastern emperor a formal ratification of his rule. [transcriber's note: page missing in original.] still survives in political methods and habits of thought that will yet be long in dying out. with great political systems, as with typical forms of organic life, the processes of development and of extinction are exceedingly slow, and it is seldom that the stages can be sharply marked by dates. the processes which have gradually shifted the seat of empire until the prominent part played nineteen centuries ago by rome and alexandria, on opposite sides of the mediterranean, has been at length assumed by london and new york, on opposite sides of the atlantic, form a most interesting subject of study. but to understand them, one must do much more than merely catalogue the facts of political history; one must acquire a knowledge of the drifts and tendencies of human thought and feeling and action from the earliest ages to the times in which we live. in covering so wide a field we cannot of course expect to obtain anything like complete results. in order to make a statement simple enough to be generally intelligible, it is necessary to pass over many circumstances and many considerations that might in one way and another qualify what we have to say. nevertheless it is quite possible for us to discern, in their bold general outlines, some historic truths of supreme importance. in contemplating the salient features of the change which has now for a long time been making the world more english and less roman, we shall find not only intellectual pleasure and profit but practical guidance. for in order to understand this slow but mighty change, we must look a little into that process of nation-making which has been going on since prehistoric ages and is going on here among us to-day, and from the recorded experience of men in times long past we may gather lessons of infinite value for ourselves and for our children's children. as in all the achievements of mankind it is only after much weary experiment and many a heart-sickening failure that success is attained, so has it been especially with nation-making. skill in the political art is the fruit of ages of intellectual and moral discipline; and just as picture-writing had to come before printing and canoes before steamboats, so the cruder political methods had to be tried and found wanting, amid the tears and groans of unnumbered generations, before methods less crude could be put into operation. in the historic survey upon which we are now to enter, we shall see that the roman empire represented a crude method of nation-making which began with a masterful career of triumph over earlier and cruder methods, but has now for several centuries been giving way before a more potent and satisfactory method. and just as the merest glance at the history of europe shows us germanic peoples wresting the supremacy from rome, so in this deeper study we shall discover a grand and far-reaching teutonic idea of political life overthrowing and supplanting the roman idea. our attention will be drawn toward england as the battle-ground and the seventeenth century as the critical moment of the struggle; we shall see in puritanism the tremendous militant force that determined the issue; and when our perspective has thus become properly adjusted, we shall begin to realize for the first time how truly wonderful was the age that witnessed the beginnings of new england. we have long had before our minds the colossal figure of roman julius as "the foremost man of all this world," but as the seventeenth century recedes into the past the figure of english oliver begins to loom up as perhaps even more colossal. in order to see these world-events in their true perspective, and to make perfectly clear the manner in which we are to estimate them, we must go a long distance away from them. we must even go back, as nearly as may be, to the beginning of things. [sidenote: gradual shifting of primacy from the men who spoke latin, and their descendants, to the men who speak english] if we look back for a moment to the primitive stages of society, we may picture to ourselves the surface of the earth sparsely and scantily covered with wandering tribes of savages, rude in morals and manners, narrow and monotonous in experience, sustaining life very much as lower animals sustain it, by gathering wild fruits or slaying wild game, and waging chronic warfare alike with powerful beasts and with rival tribes of men. [sidenote: political history is the history of nation-making] in the widest sense the subject of political history is the description of the processes by which, under favourable circumstances, innumerable such primitive tribes have become welded together into mighty nations, with elevated standards of morals and manners, with wide and varied experience, sustaining life and ministering to human happiness by elaborate arts and sciences, and putting a curb upon warfare by limiting its scope, diminishing its cruelty, and interrupting it by intervals of peace. the story, as laid before us in the records of three thousand years, is fascinating and absorbing in its human interest for those who content themselves with the study of its countless personal incidents, and neglect its profound philosophical lessons. but for those who study it in the scientific spirit, the human interest of its details becomes still more intensely fascinating and absorbing. battles and coronations, poems and inventions, migrations and martyrdoms, acquire new meanings and awaken new emotions as we begin to discern their bearings upon the solemn work of ages that is slowly winning for humanity a richer and more perfect life. by such meditation upon men's thoughts and deeds is the understanding purified, till we become better able to comprehend our relations to the world and the duty that lies upon each of us to shape his conduct rightly. in the welding together of primitive shifting tribes into stable and powerful nations, we can seem to discern three different methods that have been followed at different times and places, with widely different results. in all cases the fusion has been effected by war, but it has gone on in three broadly contrasted ways. the first of these methods, which has been followed from time immemorial in the oriental world, may be roughly described as _conquest without incorporation._ a tribe grows to national dimensions by conquering and annexing its neighbours, without admitting them to a share in its political life. probably there is always at first some incorporation, or even perhaps some crude germ of federative alliance; but this goes very little way,--only far enough to fuse together a few closely related tribes, agreeing in speech and habits, into a single great tribe that can overwhelm its neighbours. in early society this sort of incorporation cannot go far without being stopped by some impassable barrier of language or religion. after reaching that point, the conquering tribe simply annexes its neighbours and makes them its slaves. it becomes a superior caste, ruling over vanquished peoples, whom it oppresses with frightful cruelty, while living on the fruits of their toil in what has been aptly termed oriental luxury. such has been the origin of many eastern despotisms, in the valleys of the nile and euphrates, and elsewhere. such a political structure admits of a very considerable development of material civilization, in which gorgeous palaces and artistic temples may be built, and perhaps even literature and scholarship rewarded, with money wrung from millions of toiling wretches. there is that sort of brutal strength in it, that it may endure for many long ages, until it comes into collision with some higher civilization. then it is likely to end in sudden collapse, because the fighting quality of the people has been destroyed. populations that have lived for centuries in fear of impalement or crucifixion, and have known no other destination for the products of their labour than the clutches of the omnipresent tax-gatherer, are not likely to furnish good soldiers. a handful of freemen will scatter them like sheep, as the greeks did twenty-three centuries ago at kynaxa, as the english did the other day at tel el-kebir. on the other hand, where the manliness of the vanquished people is not crushed, the sway of the conquerors who cannot enter into political union with them is likely to be cast off, as in the case of the moors in spain. there was a civilization in many respects admirable. it was eminent for industry, science, art, and poetry; its annals are full of romantic interest; it was in some respects superior to the christian system which supplanted it; in many ways it contributed largely to the progress of the human race; and it was free from some of the worst vices of oriental civilizations. yet because of the fundamental defect that between the christian spaniard and his mussulman conqueror there could be no political fusion, this brilliant civilization was doomed. during eight centuries of more or less extensive rule in the spanish peninsula, the moor was from first to last an alien, just as after four centuries the turk is still an alien in the balkan peninsula. the natural result was a struggle that lasted age after age till it ended in the utter extermination of one of the parties, and left behind it a legacy of hatred and persecution that has made the history of modern spain a dismal record of shame and disaster. [sidenote: the oriental method of nation-making] in this first method of nation-making, then, which we may call the oriental method, one now sees but little to commend. it was better than savagery, and for a long time no more efficient method was possible, but the leading peoples of the world have long since outgrown it; and although the resulting form of political government is the oldest we know and is not yet extinct, it nevertheless has not the elements of permanence. sooner or later it will disappear, as savagery is disappearing, as the rudest types of inchoate human society have disappeared. the second method by which nations have been made may be called the roman method; and we may briefly describe it as _conquest with incorporation, but without representation_. the secret of rome's wonderful strength lay in the fact that she incorporated the vanquished peoples into her own body politic. in the early time there was a fusion of tribes going on in latium, which, if it had gone no further, would have been similar to the early fusion of ionic tribes in attika or of iranian tribes in media. but whereas everywhere else this political fusion soon stopped, in the roman world it went on. one after another italian tribes and italian towns were not merely overcome but admitted to a share in the political rights and privileges of the victors. by the time this had gone on until the whole italian peninsula was consolidated under the headship of rome, the result was a power incomparably greater than any other that the world had yet seen. never before had so many people been brought under one government without making slaves of most of them. liberty had existed before, whether in barbaric tribes or in greek cities. union had existed before, in assyrian or persian despotisms. now liberty and union were for the first time joined together, with consequences enduring and stupendous. the whole mediterranean world was brought under one government; ancient barriers of religion, speech, and custom were overthrown in every direction; and innumerable barbarian tribes, from the alps to the wilds of northern britain, from the bay of biscay to the carpathian mountains, were more or less completely transformed into roman citizens, protected by roman law, and sharing in the material and spiritual benefits of roman civilization. gradually the whole vast structure became permeated by hellenic and jewish thought, and thus were laid the lasting foundations of modern society, of a common christendom, furnished with a common stock of ideas concerning man's relation to god and the world, and acknowledging a common standard of right and wrong. this was a prodigious work, which raised human life to a much higher plane than that which it had formerly occupied, and endless gratitude is due to the thousands of steadfast men who in one way or another devoted their lives to its accomplishment. [sidenote: the roman method of nation-making] this roman method of nation-making had nevertheless its fatal shortcomings, and it was only very slowly, moreover, that it wrought out its own best results. it was but gradually that the rights and privileges of roman citizenship were extended over the whole roman world, and in the mean time there were numerous instances where conquered provinces seemed destined to no better fate than had awaited the victims of egyptian or assyrian conquest. the rapacity and cruelty of caius verres could hardly have been outdone by the worst of persian satraps; but there was a difference. a moral sense and political sense had been awakened which could see both the wickedness and the folly of such conduct. the voice of a cicero sounded with trumpet tones against the oppressor, who was brought to trial and exiled for deeds which under the oriental system, from the days of artaxerxes to those of the grand turk, would scarcely have called forth a reproving word. it was by slow degrees that the roman came to understand the virtues of his own method, and learned to apply it consistently until the people of all parts of the empire were, in theory at least, equal before the law. in theory, i say, for in point of fact there was enough of viciousness in the roman system to prevent it from achieving permanent success. historians have been fond of showing how the vitality of the whole system was impaired by wholesale slave-labour, by the false political economy which taxes all for the benefit of a few, by the debauching view of civil office which regards it as private perquisite and not as public trust, and--worst of all, perhaps--by the communistic practice of feeding an idle proletariat out of the imperial treasury. the names of these deadly social evils are not unfamiliar to american ears. even of the last we have heard ominous whispers in the shape of bills to promote mendicancy under the specious guise of fostering education or rewarding military services. and is it not a striking illustration of the slowness with which mankind learns the plainest rudiments of wisdom and of justice, that only in the full light of the nineteenth century, and at the cost of a terrible war, should the most intelligent people on earth have got rid of a system of labour devised in the crudest ages of antiquity and fraught with misery to the employed, degradation to the employers, and loss to everybody? [sidenote: its slow development] these evils, we see, in one shape or another, have existed almost everywhere; and the vice of the roman system did not consist in the fact that under it they were fully developed, but in the fact that it had no adequate means of overcoming them. unless helped by something supplied from outside the roman world, civilization must have succumbed to these evils, the progress of mankind must have been stopped. what was needed was the introduction of a fierce spirit of personal liberty and local self-government. the essential vice of the roman system was that it had been unable to avoid weakening the spirit of personal independence and crushing out local self-government among the peoples to whom it had been applied. it owed its wonderful success to joining liberty with union, but as it went on it found itself compelled gradually to sacrifice liberty to union, strengthening the hands of the central government and enlarging its functions more and more, until by and by the political life of the several parts had so far died away that, under the pressure of attack from without, the union fell to pieces and the whole political system had to be slowly and painfully reconstructed. now if we ask why the roman government found itself thus obliged to sacrifice personal liberty and local independence to the paramount necessity of holding the empire together, the answer will point us to the essential and fundamental vice of the roman method of nation-making. it lacked the principle of representation. the old roman world knew nothing of representative assemblies. [sidenote: it knew nothing of representation] its senates were assemblies of notables, constituting in the main an aristocracy of men who had held high office; its popular assemblies were primary assemblies,--town-meetings. there was no notion of such a thing as political power delegated by the people to representatives who were to wield it away from home and out of sight of their constituents. the roman's only notion of delegated power was that of authority delegated by the government to its generals and prefects who discharged at a distance its military and civil functions. when, therefore, the roman popular government, originally adapted to a single city, had come to extend itself over a large part of the world, it lacked the one institution by means of which government could be carried on over so vast an area without degenerating into despotism. [sidenote: and therefore ended in despotism] even could the device of representation have occurred to the mind of some statesman trained in roman methods, it would probably have made no difference. nobody would have known how to use it. you cannot invent an institution as you would invent a plough. such a notion as that of representative government must needs start from small beginnings and grow in men's minds until it should become part and parcel of their mental habits. for the want of it the home government at rome became more and more unmanageable until it fell into the hands of the army, while at the same time the administration of the empire became more and more centralized; the people of its various provinces, even while their social condition was in some respects improved, had less and less voice in the management of their local affairs, and thus the spirit of personal independence was gradually weakened. this centralization was greatly intensified by the perpetual danger of invasion on the northern and eastern frontiers, all the way from the rhine to the euphrates. do what it would, the government must become more and more a military despotism, must revert toward the oriental type. the period extending from the third century before christ to the third century after was a period of extraordinary intellectual expansion and moral awakening; but when we observe the governmental changes introduced under the emperor diocletian at the very end of this period, we realize how serious had been the political retrogression, how grave the danger that the stream of human life might come to stagnate in europe, as it had long since stagnated in asia. two mighty agents, cooperating in their opposite ways to prevent any such disaster, were already entering upon the scene. the first was the colonization of the empire by germanic tribes already far advanced beyond savagery, already somewhat tinctured with roman civilization, yet at the same time endowed with an intense spirit of personal and local independence. with this wholesome spirit they were about to refresh and revivify the empire, but at the risk of undoing its work of political organization and reducing it to barbarism. the second was the establishment of the roman church, an institution capable of holding european society together in spite of a political disintegration that was widespread and long-continued. while wave after wave of germanic colonization poured over romanized europe, breaking down old boundary-lines and working sudden and astonishing changes on the map, setting up in every quarter baronies, dukedoms, and kingdoms fermenting with vigorous political life; while for twenty generations this salutary but wild and dangerous work was going on, there was never a moment when the imperial sway of rome was quite set aside and forgotten, there was never a time when union of some sort was not maintained through the dominion which the church had established over the european mind. when we duly consider this great fact in its relations to what went before and what came after, it is hard to find words fit to express the debt of gratitude which modern civilization owes to the roman catholic church. when we think of all the work, big with promise of the future, that went on in those centuries which modern writers in their ignorance used once to set apart and stigmatize as the "dark ages"; when we consider how the seeds of what is noblest in modern life were then painfully sown upon the soil which imperial rome had prepared; when we think of the various work of a gregory, a benedict, a boniface, an alfred, a charlemagne; we feel that there is a sense in which the most brilliant achievements of pagan antiquity are dwarfed in comparison with these. until quite lately, indeed, the student of history has had his attention too narrowly confined to the ages that have been preeminent for literature and art--the so-called classical ages--and thus his sense of historical perspective has been impaired. when mr. freeman uses gregory of tours as a text-book, he shows that he realizes how an epoch may be none the less portentous though it has not had a tacitus to describe it, and certainly no part of history is more full of human interest than the troubled period in which the powerful streams of teutonic life pouring into roman europe were curbed in their destructiveness and guided to noble ends by the catholic church. out of the interaction between these two mighty agents has come the political system of the modern world. the moment when this interaction might have seemed on the point of reaching a complete and harmonious result was the glorious thirteenth century, the culminating moment of the holy roman empire. then, as in the times of caesar or trajan, there might have seemed to be a union among civilized men, in which the separate life of individuals and localities was not submerged. in that golden age alike of feudal system, of empire, and of church, there were to be seen the greatest monarchs, in fullest sympathy with their peoples, that christendom has known,--an edward i., a st. louis, a frederick ii. then when in the pontificates of innocent iii. and his successors the roman church reached its apogee, the religious yearnings of men sought expression in the sublimest architecture the world has seen. then aquinas summed up in his profound speculations the substance of catholic theology, and while the morning twilight of modern science might be discerned in the treatises of roger bacon, while wandering minstrelsy revealed the treasures of modern speech, soon to be wrought under the hands of dante and chaucer into forms of exquisite beauty, the sacred fervour of the apostolic ages found itself renewed in the tender and mystic piety of st. francis of assisi. it was a wonderful time, but after all less memorable as the culmination of mediaeval empire and mediaeval church than as the dawning of the new era in which we live to-day, and in which the development of human society proceeds in accordance with more potent methods than those devised by the genius of pagan or christian rome. [sidenote: the german invaders and the roman church] [sidenote: the wonderful thirteenth century] for the origin of these more potent methods we must look back to the early ages of the teutonic people; for their development and application on a grand scale we must look chiefly to the history of that most teutonic of peoples in its institutions, though perhaps not more than half-teutonic in blood, the english, with their descendants in the new world. the third method of nation-making may be called the teutonic or preeminently the english method. it differs from the oriental and roman methods which we have been considering in a feature of most profound significance; it contains the principle of representation. for this reason, though like all nation-making it was in its early stages attended with war and conquest, it nevertheless does not necessarily require war and conquest in order to be put into operation. of the other two methods war was an essential part. in the typical oriental nation, such as assyria or persia, we see a conquering tribe holding down a number of vanquished peoples, and treating them like slaves: here the nation is very imperfectly made, and its government is subject to sudden and violent changes. in the roman empire we see a conquering people hold sway over a number of vanquished peoples, but instead of treating them like slaves, it gradually makes them its equals before the law; here the resulting political body is much more nearly a nation, and its government is much more stable. a lydian of the fifth century before christ felt no sense of allegiance to the persian master who simply robbed and abused him; but the gaul of the fifth century after christ was proud of the name of roman and ready to fight for the empire of which he was a citizen. we have seen, nevertheless, that for want of representation the roman method failed when applied to an immense territory, and the government tended to become more and more despotic, to revert toward the oriental type. now of the english or teutonic method, i say, war is not an essential part; for where representative government is once established, it is possible for a great nation to be formed by the peaceful coalescence of neighbouring states, or by their union into a federal body. an instance of the former was the coalescence of england and scotland effected early in the eighteenth century after ages of mutual hostility; for instances of the latter we have switzerland and the united states. now federalism, though its rise and establishment may be incidentally accompanied by warfare, is nevertheless in spirit pacific. conquest in the oriental sense is quite incompatible with it; conquest in the roman sense is hardly less so. at the close of our civil war there were now and then zealous people to be found who thought that the southern states ought to be treated as conquered territory, governed by prefects sent from washington, and held down by military force for a generation or so. let us hope that there are few to-day who can fail to see that such a course would have been fraught with almost as much danger as the secession movement itself. at least it would have been a hasty confession, quite uncalled for and quite untrue, that american federalism had thus far proved itself incompetent,--that we had indeed preserved our national unity, but only at the frightful cost of sinking to a lower plane of national life. [sidenote: the english method of nation-making] [sidenote: pacific tendencies of federalism] but federalism, with its pacific implications, was not an invention of the teutonic mind. the idea was familiar to the city communities of ancient greece, which, along with their intense love of self-government, felt the need of combined action for warding off external attack. in their achaian and aitolian leagues the greeks made brilliant attempts toward founding a nation upon some higher principle than that of mere conquest, and the history of these attempts is exceedingly interesting and instructive. they failed for lack of the principle of representation, which was practically unknown to the world until introduced by the teutonic colonizers of the roman empire. until the idea of power delegated by the people had become familiar to men's minds in its practical bearings, it was impossible to create a great nation without crushing out the political life in some of its parts. some centre of power was sure to absorb all the political life, and grow at the expense of the outlying parts, until the result was a centralized despotism. hence it came to be one of the commonplace assumptions of political writers that republics must be small, that free government is practicable only in a confined area, and that the only strong and durable government, capable of maintaining order throughout a vast territory, is some form of absolute monarchy. [sidenote: fallacy of the notion that republics must be small] it was quite natural that people should formerly have held this opinion, and it is indeed not yet quite obsolete, but its fallaciousness will become more and more apparent as american history is better understood. our experience has now so far widened that we can see that despotism is not the strongest but wellnigh the weakest form of government; that centralized administrations, like that of the roman empire, have fallen to pieces, not because of too much but because of too little freedom; and that the only perdurable government must be that which succeeds in achieving national unity on a grand scale, without weakening the sense of personal and local independence. for in the body politic this spirit of freedom is as the red corpuscles in the blood; it carries the life with it. it makes the difference between a society of self-respecting men and women and a society of puppets. your nation may have art, poetry, and science, all the refinements of civilized life, all the comforts and safeguards that human ingenuity can devise; but if it lose this spirit of personal and local independence, it is doomed and deserves its doom. as president cleveland has well said, it is not the business of a government to support its people, but of the people to support their government; and once to lose sight of this vital truth is as dangerous as to trifle with some stealthy narcotic poison. of the two opposite perils which have perpetually threatened the welfare of political society--anarchy on the one hand, loss of self-government on the other--jefferson was right in maintaining that the latter is really the more to be dreaded because its beginnings are so terribly insidious. many will understand what is meant by a threat of secession, where few take heed of the baneful principle involved in a texas seed-bill. that the american people are still fairly alive to the importance of these considerations, is due to the weary ages of struggle in which our forefathers have manfully contended for the right of self-government. from the days of arminius and civilis in the wilds of lower germany to the days of franklin and jefferson in independence hall, we have been engaged in this struggle, not without some toughening of our political fibre, not without some refining of our moral sense. not among our english forefathers only, but among all the peoples of mediaeval and modern europe has the struggle gone on, with various and instructive results. in all parts of romanized europe invaded and colonized by teutonic tribes, self-government attempted to spring up. what may have been the origin of the idea of representation we do not know; like most origins, it seems lost in the prehistoric darkness. wherever we find teutonic tribes settling down over a wide area, we find them holding their primary assemblies, usually their annual march-meetings, like those in which mr. hosea biglow and others like him have figured. everywhere, too, we find some attempt at representative assemblies, based on the principle of the three estates, clergy, nobles, and commons. but nowhere save in england does the representative principle become firmly established, at first in county-meetings, afterward in a national parliament limiting the powers of the national monarch as the primary tribal assembly had limited the powers of the tribal chief. it is for this reason that we must call the method of nation-making by means of a representative assembly the english method. while the idea of representation was perhaps the common property of the teutonic tribes, it was only in england that it was successfully put into practice and became the dominant political idea. we may therefore agree with dr. stubbs that in its political development england is the most teutonic of all european countries,--the country which in becoming a great nation has most fully preserved the local independence so characteristic of the ancient germans. the reasons for this are complicated, and to try to assign them all would needlessly encumber our exposition. but there is one that is apparent and extremely instructive. there is sometimes a great advantage in being able to plant political institutions in a virgin soil, where they run no risk of being modified or perhaps metamorphosed through contact with rival institutions. in america the teutonic idea has been worked out even more completely than in britain; and so far as institutions are concerned, our english forefathers settled here as in an empty country. they were not obliged to modify their political ideas so as to bring them into harmony with those of the indians; the disparity in civilization was so great that the indians were simply thrust aside, along with the wolves and buffaloes. [sidenote: teutonic march-meetings and representative assemblies] this illustration will help us to understand the peculiar features of the teutonic settlement of britain. whether the english invaders really slew all the romanized kelts who dwelt in the island, except those who found refuge in the mountains of cumberland, wales, and cornwall, or fled across the channel to brittany, we need not seek to decide. it is enough to point out one respect in which the teutonic conquest was immeasurably more complete in britain than in any other part of the empire. everywhere else the tribes who settled upon roman soil--the goths, vandals, suevi, and burgundians--were christianized, and so to some extent romanized, before they came to take possession. even the more distant franks had been converted to christianity before they had completed their conquest of gaul. everywhere except in britain, therefore, the conquerors had already imbibed roman ideas, and the authority of rome was in a certain sense acknowledged. there was no break in the continuity of political events. in britain, on the other hand, there was a complete break, so that while on the continent the fifth and sixth centuries are seen in the full midday light of history, in britain they have lapsed into the twilight of half-legendary tradition. the saxon and english tribes, coming from the remote wilds of northern germany, whither roman missionaries had not yet penetrated, still worshipped thor and wodan; and their conquest of britain was effected with such deadly thoroughness that christianity was destroyed there, or lingered only in sequestered nooks. a land once christianized thus actually fell back into paganism, so that the work of converting it to christianity had to be done over again. from the landing of heathen hengest on the isle of thanet to the landing of augustine and his monks on the same spot, one hundred and forty-eight years elapsed, during which english institutions found time to take deep root in british soil with scarcely more interference, as to essential points, than in american soil twelve centuries afterward. [sidenote: peculiarity of the teutonic conquest of britain] the century and a half between 449 and 597 is therefore one of the most important epochs in the history of the people that speak the english language. before settling in britain our forefathers had been tribes in the upper stages of barbarism; now they began the process of coalescence into a nation in which the principle of self-government should be retained and developed. the township and its town-meeting we find there, as later in new england. the county-meeting we also find, while the county is a little state in itself and not a mere administrative district. and in this county-meeting we may observe a singular feature, something never seen before in the world, something destined to work out vaster political results than caesar ever dreamed of. this county-meeting is not a primary assembly; all the freemen from all the townships cannot leave their homes and their daily business to attend it. nor is it merely an assembly of notables, attended by the most important men of the neighbourhood. it is a representative assembly, attended by select men from each township. we may see in it the germ of the british parliament and of the american congress, as indeed of all modern legislative bodies, for it is a most suggestive commentary upon what we are saying that in all other countries which have legislatures, they have been copied, within quite recent times, from english or american models. we can seldom if ever fix a date for the beginning of anything, and we can by no means fix a date for the beginning of representative assemblies in england. we can only say that where we first find traces of county organization, we find traces of representation. clearly, if the english conquerors of britain had left the framework of roman institutions standing there, as it remained standing in gaul, there would have been great danger of this principle of representation not surviving. it would most likely have been crushed in its callow infancy. the conquerors would insensibly have fallen into the roman way of doing things, as they did in gaul. [sidenote: survival and development of teutonic representative assembly in england] from the start, then, we find the english nationality growing up under very different conditions from those which obtained in other parts of europe. so far as institutions are concerned, teutonism was less modified in england than in the german fatherland itself, for the gradual conquest and christianization of germany which began with charles the great, and went on until in the thirteenth century the frontier had advanced eastward to the vistula, entailed to a certain extent the romanization of germany. for a thousand years after charles the great, the political head of germany was also the political head of the holy roman empire, and the civil and criminal code by which the daily life of the modern german citizen is regulated is based upon the jurisprudence of rome. nothing, perhaps, could illustrate more forcibly than this sheer contrast the peculiarly teutonic character of english civilization. between the eighth and the eleventh centuries, when the formation of english nationality was approaching completion, it received a fresh and powerful infusion of teutonism in the swarms of heathen northmen or danes who occupied the eastern coasts, struggled long for the supremacy, and gradually becoming christianized, for a moment succeeded in seizing the crown. of the invasion of partially romanized northmen from normandy which followed soon after, and which has so profoundly affected english society and english speech, we need notice here but two conspicuous features. first, it increased the power of the crown and the clergy, brought all england more than ever under one law, and strengthened the feeling of nationality. it thus made england a formidable military power, while at the same time it brought her into closer relations with continental europe than she had held since the fourth century. secondly, by superposing a new feudal nobility as the upper stratum of society, it transformed the old-english thanehood into the finest middle-class of rural gentry and yeomanry that has ever existed in any country; a point of especial interest to americans, since it was in this stratum of society that the two most powerful streams of english migration to america--the virginia stream and the new england stream--alike had their source. [sidenote: primitive teutonic institutions less modified in england than in germany] by the thirteenth century the increasing power and pretensions of the crown, as the unification of english nationality went on, brought about a result unlike anything known on the continent of europe; it brought about a resistless coalition between the great nobles, the rural gentry and yeomanry, and the burghers of the towns, for the purpose of curbing royalty, arresting the progress of centralization, and setting up representative government on a truly national scale. this grand result was partly due to peculiar circumstances which had their origin in the norman conquest; but it was largely due to the political habits generated by long experience of local representative assemblies,--habits which made it comparatively easy for different classes of society to find their voice and use it for the attainment of ends in common. on the continent of europe the encroaching sovereign had to contend with here and there an arrogant vassal, here and there a high-spirited and rebellious town; in england, in this first great crisis of popular government, he found himself confronted by a united people. the fruits of the grand combination were _first_, the wresting of magna charta from king john in 1215, and _secondly_, the meeting of the first house of commons in 1265. four years of civil war were required to secure these noble results. the barons' war, of the years 1263 to 1267, was an event of the same order of importance as the great rebellion of the seventeenth century and the american revolution; and among the founders of that political freedom which is enjoyed to-day by all english-speaking people, the name of simon de montfort, earl of leicester, deserves a place in our grateful remembrance beside the names of cromwell and washington. simon's great victory at lewes in 1264 must rank with naseby and yorktown. the work begun by his house of commons was the same work that has continued to go on without essential interruption down to the days of cleveland and gladstone. the fundamental principle of political freedom is "no taxation without representation"; you must not take a farthing of my money without consulting my wishes as to the use that shall be made of it. only when this principle of justice was first practically recognized, did government begin to divorce itself from the primitive bestial barbaric system of tyranny and plunder, and to ally itself with the forces that in the fulness of time are to bring peace on earth and good will to men. of all dates in history, therefore, there is none more fit to be commemorated than 1265; for in that year there was first asserted and applied at westminster, on a national scale, that fundamental principle of "no taxation without representation," that innermost kernel of the english idea, which the stamp act congress defended at new york exactly five hundred years afterward. when we think of these dates, by the way, we realize the import of the saying that in the sight of the lord a thousand years are but as a day, and we feel that the work of the lord cannot be done by the listless or the slothful. so much time and so much strife by sea and land has it taken to secure beyond peradventure the boon to mankind for which earl simon gave up his noble life on the field of evesham! nor without unremitting watchfulness can we be sure that the day of peril is yet past. from kings, indeed, we have no more to fear; they have come to be as spooks and bogies of the nursery. but the gravest dangers are those which present themselves in new forms, against which people's minds have not yet been fortified with traditional sentiments and phrases. the inherited predatory tendency of men to seize upon the fruits of other people's labour is still very strong, and while we have nothing more to fear from kings, we may yet have trouble enough from commercial monopolies and favoured industries, marching to the polls their hordes of bribed retainers. well indeed has it been said that eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. god never meant that in this fair but treacherous world in which he has placed us we should earn our salvation without steadfast labour. [eternal vigilance is the price of liberty] to return to earl simon, we see that it was just in that wonderful thirteenth century, when the roman idea of government might seem to have been attaining its richest and most fruitful development, that the richer and more fruitful english idea first became incarnate in the political constitution of a great and rapidly growing nation. it was not long before the struggle between the roman idea and the english idea, clothed in various forms, became the dominating issue in european history. we have now to observe the rise of modern nationalities, as new centres of political life, out of the various provinces of the roman world. in the course of this development the teutonic representative assembly is at first everywhere discernible, in some form or other, as in the spanish cortes or the states-general of france, but on the continent it generally dies out. only in such nooks as switzerland and the netherlands does it survive. in the great nations it succumbs before the encroachments of the crown. the comparatively novel teutonic idea of power delegated by the people to their representatives had not become deeply enough rooted in the political soil of the continent; and accordingly we find it more and more disused and at length almost forgotten, while the old and deeply rooted roman idea of power delegated by the governing body to its lieutenants and prefects usurps its place. let us observe some of the most striking features of this growth of modern nationalities. [sidenote: conflict between roman idea and english idea begins to become clearly visible in the thirteenth century] the reader of medieval history cannot fail to be impressed with the suddenness with which the culmination of the holy roman empire, in the thirteenth century, was followed by a swift decline. the imperial position of the hapsburgs was far less splendid than that of the hohenstauffen; it rapidly became more german and less european, until by and by people began to forget what the empire originally meant. the change which came over the papacy was even more remarkable. the grandchildren of the men who had witnessed the spectacle of a king of france and a king of england humbled at the feet of innocent iii., the children of the men who had found the gigantic powers of a frederick ii. unequal to the task of curbing the papacy, now beheld the successors of st. peter carried away to avignon, there to be kept for seventy years under the supervision of the kings of france. henceforth the glory of the papacy in its political aspect was to be but the faint shadow of that with which it had shone before. this sudden change in its position showed that the medieval dream of a world-empire was passing away, and that new powers were coming uppermost in the shape of modern nationalities with their national sovereigns. so long as these nationalities were in the weakness of their early formation, it was possible for pope and emperor to assert, and sometimes to come near maintaining, universal supremacy. but the time was now at hand when kings could assert their independence of the pope, while the emperor was fast sinking to be merely one among kings. as modern kingdoms thus grew at the expense of empire and papacy above, so they also grew at the expense of feudal dukedoms, earldoms, and baronies below. the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were as fatal to feudalism as to world-empire and world-church. a series of wars occurring at this time were especially remarkable for the wholesale slaughter of the feudal nobility, whether on the field or under the headsman's axe. this was a conspicuous feature of the feuds of the trastamare in spain, of the english invasions of france, followed by the quarrel between burgundians and armagnacs, and of the great war of the roses in england. so thorough-going was the butchery in england, for example, that only twenty-nine lay peers could be found to sit in the first parliament of henry vii in 1485. the old nobility was almost annihilated, both in person and in property; for along with the slaughter there went wholesale confiscation, and this added greatly to the disposable wealth of the crown. the case was essentially similar in france and spain. in all three countries the beginning of the sixteenth century saw the power of the crown increased and increasing. its vast accessions of wealth made it more independent of legislative assemblies, and at the same time enabled it to make the baronage more subservient in character by filling up the vacant places with new creations of its own. through the turbulent history of the next two centuries, we see the royal power aiming at unchecked supremacy and in the principal instances attaining it except in england. absolute despotism was reached first in spain, under philip ii.; in france it was reached a century later, under louis xiv.; and at about the same time in the hereditary estates of austria; while over all the italian and german soil of the disorganized empire, except among the glaciers of switzerland and the dykes of the netherlands, the play of political forces had set up a host of petty tyrannies which aped the morals and manners of the great autocrats at paris and madrid and vienna. [sidenote: increasing power of the crown] as we look back over this growth of modern monarchy, we cannot but be struck with the immense practical difficulty of creating a strong nationality without sacrificing self-government. powerful, indeed, is the tendency toward over-centralization, toward stagnation, toward political death. powerful is the tendency to revert to the roman, if not to the oriental method. as often as we reflect upon the general state of things at the end of the seventeenth century--the dreadful ignorance and misery which prevailed among most of the people of continental europe, and apparently without hope of remedy--so often must we be impressed anew with the stupendous significance of the part played by self-governing england in overcoming dangers which have threatened the very existence of modern civilization. it is not too much to say that in the seventeenth century the entire political future of mankind was staked upon the questions that were at issue in england. to keep the sacred flame of liberty alive required such a rare and wonderful concurrence of conditions that, had our forefathers then succumbed in the strife, it is hard to imagine how or where the failure could have been repaired. some of these conditions we have already considered; let us now observe one of the most important of all. let us note the part played by that most tremendous of social forces, religious sentiment, in its relation to the political circumstances which we have passed in review. if we ask why it was that among modern nations absolute despotism was soonest and most completely established in spain, we find it instructive to observe that the circumstances under which the spanish monarchy grew up, during centuries of deadly struggle with the mussulman, were such as to enlist the religious sentiment on the side of despotic methods in church and state. it becomes interesting, then, to observe by contrast how it was that in england the dominant religious sentiment came to be enlisted on the side of political freedom. [illustration: had it not been for the puritans, political liberty would probably have disappeared from the world] in such an inquiry we have nothing to do with the truth or falsity of any system of doctrines, whether catholic or protestant. the legitimate purposes of the historian do not require him to intrude upon the province of the theologian. our business is to trace the sequence of political cause and effect. nor shall we get much help from crude sweeping statements which set forth catholicism as invariably the enemy and protestantism as invariably the ally of human liberty. the catholic has a right to be offended at statements which would involve a hildebrand or a st. francis in the same historical judgment with a sigismund or a torquemada. the character of ecclesiastical as of all other institutions has varied with the character of the men who have worked them and the varying needs of the times and places in which they have been worked; and our intense feeling of the gratitude we owe to english puritanism need in nowise diminish the enthusiasm with which we praise the glorious work of the mediaeval church. it is the duty of the historian to learn how to limit and qualify his words of blame or approval; for so curiously is human nature compounded of strength and weakness that the best of human institutions are likely to be infected with some germs of vice or folly. [sidenote: beginnings of protestantism in the thirteenth century] of no human institution is this more true than of the great medieval church of gregory and innocent when viewed in the light of its claims to unlimited temporal and spiritual sovereignty. in striking down the headship of the emperors, it would have reduced europe to a sort of oriental caliphate, had it not been checked by the rising spirit of nationality already referred to. but there was another and even mightier agency coming in to curb its undue pretensions to absolute sovereignty. that same thirteenth century which witnessed the culmination of its power witnessed also the first bold and determined manifestation of the protestant temper of revolt against spiritual despotism. it was long before this that the earliest protestant heresy had percolated into europe, having its source, like so many other heresies, in that eastern world where the stimulating thought of the greeks busied itself with the ancient theologies of asia. from armenia in the eighth century came the manichaean sect of paulicians into thrace, and for twenty generations played a considerable part in the history of the eastern empire. in the bulgarian tongue they were known as bogomilians, or men constant in prayer. in greek they were called cathari, or "puritans." they accepted the new testament, but set little store by the old; they laughed at transubstantiation, denied any mystical efficiency to baptism, frowned upon image-worship as no better than idolatry, despised the intercession of saints, and condemned the worship of the virgin mary. as for the symbol of the cross, they scornfully asked, "if any man slew the son of a king with a bit of wood, how could this piece of wood be dear to the king?" their ecclesiastical government was in the main presbyterian, and in politics they showed a decided leaning toward democracy. they wore long faces, looked askance at frivolous amusements, and were terribly in earnest. of the more obscure pages of mediaeval history, none are fuller of interest than those in which we decipher the westward progress of these sturdy heretics through the balkan peninsula into italy, and thence into southern france, where toward the end of the twelfth century we find their ideas coming to full blossom in the great albigensian heresy. it was no light affair to assault the church in the days of innocent iii. the terrible crusade against the albigenses, beginning in 1207, was the joint work of the most powerful of popes and one of the most powerful of french kings. on the part of innocent it was the stamping out of a revolt that threatened the very existence of the catholic hierarchy; on the part of philip augustus it was the suppression of those too independent vassals the counts of toulouse, and the decisive subjection of the southern provinces to the government at paris. nowhere in european history do we read a more frightful story than that which tells of the blazing fires which consumed thousand after thousand of the most intelligent and thrifty people in france. it was now that the holy inquisition came into existence, and after forty years of slaughter these albigensian cathari or puritans seemed exterminated. the practice of burning heretics, first enacted by statute in aragon in 1197, was adopted in most parts of europe during the thirteenth century, but in england not until the beginning of the fifteenth. the inquisition was never established in england. edward ii. attempted to introduce it in 1311 for the purpose of suppressing the templars, but his utter failure showed that the instinct of self-government was too strong in the english people to tolerate the entrusting of so much power over men's lives to agents of the papacy. mediaeval england was ignorant and bigoted enough, but under a representative government which so strongly permeated society, it was impossible to set the machinery of repression to work with such deadly thoroughness as it worked under the guidance of roman methods. when we read the history of persecution in england, the story in itself is dreadful enough; but when we compare it with the horrors enacted in other countries, we arrive at some startling results. during the two centuries of english persecution, from henry iv. to james i., some 400 persons were burned at the stake, and three-fourths of these cases occurred in 1555-57, the last three years of mary tudor. now in a single province of spain, in the single year 1482, about 2000 persons were burned. the lowest estimates of the number slain for heresy in the netherlands in the course of the sixteenth century place it at 75,000. very likely such figures are in many cases grossly exaggerated. but after making due allowance for this, the contrast is sufficiently impressive. in england the persecution of heretics was feeble and spasmodic, and only at one moment rose to anything like the appalling vigour which ordinarily characterized it in countries where the inquisition was firmly established. now among the victims of religious persecution must necessarily be found an unusual proportion of men and women more independent than the average in their thinking, and more bold than the average in uttering their thoughts. the inquisition was a diabolical winnowing machine for removing from society the most flexible minds and the stoutest hearts; and among every people in which it was established for a length of time it wrought serious damage to the national character. it ruined the fair promise of spain, and inflicted incalculable detriment upon the fortunes of france. no nation could afford to deprive itself of such a valuable element in its political life as was furnished in the thirteenth century by the intelligent and sturdy cathari of southern gaul. [sidenote: the cathari, or puritans of the eastern empire] [sidenote: the albigenses] [sidenote: effects of persecution; its feebleness in england] the spirit of revolt against the hierarchy, though broken and repressed thus terribly by the measures of innocent iii., continued to live on obscurely in sequestered spots, in the mountains of savoy, and bosnia, and bohemia, ready on occasion to spring into fresh and vigorous life. in the following century protestant ideas were rapidly germinating in england, alike in baron's castle, in yeoman's farmstead, in citizen's shop, in the cloistered walks of the monastery. henry knighton, writing in the time of richard ii., declares, with the exaggeration of impatience, that every second man you met was a lollard, or "babbler," for such was the nickname given to these free-thinkers, of whom the most eminent was john wyclif, professor at oxford, and rector of lutterworth, greatest scholar of the age. [sidenote: wyclif and the lollards] the career of this man is a striking commentary upon the difference between england and continental europe in the middle ages. wyclif denied transubstantiation, disapproved of auricular confession, opposed the payment of peter's pence, taught that kings should not be subject to prelates, translated the bible into english and circulated it among the people, and even denounced the reigning pope as antichrist; yet he was not put to death, because there was as yet no act of parliament for the burning of heretics, and in england things must be done according to the laws which the people had made. [1] pope gregory xi. issued five bulls against him, addressed to the king, the archbishop of canterbury, and the university of oxford; but their dictatorial tone offended the national feeling, and no heed was paid to them. seventeen years after wyclif's death, the statute for burning heretics was passed, and the persecution of lollards began. it was feeble and ineffectual, however. lollardism was never trampled out in england as catharism was trampled out in france. tracts of wyclif and passages from his translation of the bible were copied by hand and secretly passed about to be read on sundays in the manor-house, or by the cottage fireside after the day's toil was over. the work went on quietly, but not the less effectively, until when the papal authority was defied by henry viii., it soon became apparent that england was half-protestant already. it then appeared also that in this reformation there were two forces cooperating,--the sentiment of national independence which would not brook dictation from rome, and the puritan sentiment of revolt against the hierarchy in general. the first sentiment had found expression again and again in refusals to pay tribute to rome, in defiance of papal bulls, and in the famous statutes of _praemunire_, which made it a criminal offence to acknowledge any authority in england higher than the crown. the revolt of henry viii. was simply the carrying out of these acts of edward i. and edward iii. to their logical conclusion. it completed the detachment of england from the holy roman empire, and made her free of all the world. its intent was political rather than religious. henry, who wrote against martin luther, was far from wishing to make england a protestant country. elizabeth, who differed from her father in not caring a straw for theology, was by temperament and policy conservative. yet england could not cease to be papist without ceasing in some measure to be catholic; nor could she in that day carry on war against spain without becoming a leading champion of protestantism. the changes in creed and ritual wrought by the government during this period were cautious and skilful; and the resulting church of england, with its long line of learned and liberal divines, has played a noble part in history. [sidenote: political character of henry viii's revolt against rome] but along with this moderate protestantism espoused by the english government, as consequent upon the assertion of english national independence, there grew up the fierce uncompromising democratic protestantism of which the persecuted lollards had sown the seeds. this was not the work of government. [sidenote: the yeoman, hugh latimer] by the side of henry viii. stands the sublime figure of hugh latimer, most dauntless of preachers, the one man before whose stern rebuke the headstrong and masterful tudor monarch quailed. it was latimer that renewed the work of wyclif. and in his life as well as in his martyrdom,--to use his own words of good cheer uttered while the fagots were kindling around him,--lighted "such a candle in england as by god's grace shall never be put out." this indomitable man belonged to that middle-class of self-governing, self-respecting yeomanry that has been the glory of free england and free america. he was one of the sturdy race that overthrew french chivalry at crecy and twice drove the soldiery of a tyrant down the slope of bunker hill. in boyhood he worked on his father's farm and helped his mother to milk the thirty kine; he practised archery on the village green, studied in the village school, went to cambridge, and became the foremost preacher of christendom. now the most thorough and radical work of the english reformation was done by this class of men of which latimer was the type. it was work that was national in its scope, arousing to fervent heat the strong religious and moral sentiment of the people, and hence it soon quite outran the cautious and conservative policy of the government, and tended to introduce changes extremely distasteful to those who wished to keep england as nearly catholic as was consistent with independence of the pope. hence before the end of elizabeth's reign, we find the crown set almost as strongly against puritanism as against romanism. hence, too, when under elizabeth's successors the great decisive struggle between despotism and liberty was inaugurated, we find all the tremendous force of this newly awakened religious enthusiasm cooperating with the english love of self-government and carrying it under cromwell to victory. from this fortunate alliance of religious and political forces has come all the noble and fruitful work of the last two centuries in which men of english speech have been labouring for the political regeneration of mankind. but for this alliance of forces, it is quite possible that the fateful seventeenth century might have seen despotism triumphant in england as on the continent of europe, and the progress of civilization indefinitely arrested. [sidenote: the moment of cromwell's triumph was the most critical moment in history] in illustration of this possibility, observe what happened in france at the very time when the victorious english tendencies were shaping themselves in the reign of elizabeth. in france there was a strong protestant movement, but it had no such independent middle-class to support it as that which existed in england; nor had it been able to profit by such indispensable preliminary work as that which wyclif had done; the horrible slaughter of the albigenses had deprived france of the very people who might have played a part in some way analogous to that of the lollards. consequently the protestant movement in france failed to become a national movement. against the wretched henry iii who would have temporized with it, and the gallant henry iv who honestly espoused it, the oppressed peasantry and townsmen made common cause by enlisting under the banner of the ultra-catholic guises. the mass of the people saw nothing in protestantism but an idea favoured by the aristocracy and which they could not comprehend. hence the great king who would have been glad to make france a protestant country could only obtain his crown by renouncing his religion, while seeking to protect it by his memorable edict of nantes. but what a generous despot could grant, a bigoted despot might revoke; and before another century had elapsed, the good work done by henry iv. was undone by louis xiv., the edict of nantes was set aside, the process of casting out the most valuable political element in the community was carried to completion, and seven percent of the population of france was driven away and added to the protestant populations of northern germany and england and america. the gain to these countries and the damage to france was far greater than the mere figures would imply; for in determining the character of a community a hundred selected men and women are more potent than a thousand men and women taken at random. thus while the reformation in france reinforced to some extent the noble army of freemen, its triumphs were not to be the triumphs of frenchmen, but of the race which has known how to enlist under its banner the forces that fight for free thought, free speech, and self-government, and all that these phrases imply. [sidenote: contrast with france; fate of the huguenots] in view of these facts we may see how tremendous was the question at stake with the puritans of the seventeenth century. everywhere else the roman idea seemed to have conquered or to be conquering, while they seemed to be left as the forlorn hope of the human race. but from the very day when oliver cromwell reached forth his mighty arm to stop the persecutions in savoy, the victorious english idea began to change the face of things. the next century saw william pitt allied with frederick of prussia to save the work of the reformation in central europe and set in motion the train of events that were at last to make the people of the teutonic fatherland a nation. at that same moment the keenest minds in france were awaking to the fact that in their immediate neighbourhood, separated from them only by a few miles of salt water, was a country where people were equal in the eye of the law. it was the ideas of locke and milton, of vane and sidney, that, when transplanted into french soil, produced that violent but salutary revolution which has given fresh life to the european world. and contemporaneously with all this, the american nation came upon the scene, equipped as no other nation had ever been, for the task of combining sovereignty with liberty, indestructible union of the whole with indestructible life in the parts. the english idea has thus come to be more than national, it has become imperial. it has come to rule, and it has come to stay. [sidenote: victory of the english idea] we are now in a position to answer the question when the roman empire came to an end, in so far as it can be answered at all. it did not come to its end at the hands of an odovakar in the year 476, or of a mahomet ii in 1453, or of a napoleon in 1806. it has been coming to its end as the roman idea of nation-making has been at length decisively overcome by the english idea. for such a fact it is impossible to assign a date, because it is not an event but a stage in the endless procession of events. but we can point to landmarks on the way. of movements significant and prophetic there have been many. the whole course of the protestant reformation, from the thirteenth century to the nineteenth, is coincident with the transfer of the world's political centre of gravity from the tiber and the rhine to the thames and the mississippi. the whole career of the men who speak english has within this period been the most potent agency in this transfer. in these gigantic processes of evolution we cannot mark beginnings or endings by years, hardly even by centuries. but among the significant events which prophesied the final triumph of the english over the roman idea, perhaps the most significant--the one which marks most incisively the dawning of a new era--was the migration of english puritans across the atlantic ocean, to repeat in a new environment and on a far grander scale the work which their forefathers had wrought in britain. the voyage of the mayflower was not in itself the greatest event in this migration; but it serves to mark the era, and it is only when we study it in the mood awakened by the general considerations here set forth that we can properly estimate the historic importance of the great puritan exodus. [sidenote: significance of the puritan exodus] chapter ii. the puritan exodus. in the preceding chapter i endeavoured to set forth and illustrate some of the chief causes which have shifted the world's political centre of gravity from the mediterranean and the rhine to the atlantic and the mississippi; from the men who spoke latin to the men who speak english. in the course of the exposition we began to catch glimpses of the wonderful significance of the fact that--among the people who had first suggested the true solution of the difficult problem of making a powerful nation without sacrificing local self-government--when the supreme day of trial came, the dominant religious sentiment was arrayed on the side of political freedom and against political despotism. if we consider merely the territorial area which it covered, or the numbers of men slain in its battles, the war of the english parliament against charles i. seems a trivial affair when contrasted with the gigantic but comparatively insignificant work of barbarians like jinghis or tamerlane. but if we consider the moral and political issues involved, and the influence of the struggle upon the future welfare of mankind, we soon come to see that there never was a conflict of more world-wide importance than that from which oliver cromwell came out victorious. it shattered the monarchical power in england at a time when monarchical power was bearing down all opposition in the other great countries of europe. it decided that government by the people and for the people should not then perish from the earth. it placed free england in a position of such moral advantage that within another century the english idea of political life was able to react most powerfully upon continental europe. it was the study of english institutions by such men as montesquieu and turgot, voltaire and rousseau, that gave shape and direction to the french revolution. that violent but wholesome clearing of the air, that tremendous political and moral awakening, which ushered in the nineteenth century in europe, had its sources in the spirit which animated the preaching of latimer, the song of milton, the solemn imagery of bunyan, the political treatises of locke and sidney, the political measures of hampden and pym. the noblest type of modern european statesmanship, as represented by mazzini and stein, is the spiritual offspring of seventeenth-century puritanism. to speak of naseby and marston moor as merely english victories would be as absurd as to restrict the significance of gettysburg to the state of pennsylvania. if ever there were men who laid down their lives in the cause of all mankind, it was those grim old ironsides whose watchwords were texts from holy writ, whose battle-cries were hymns of praise. [sidenote: influence of puritanism upon modern europe] it was to this unwonted alliance of intense religious enthusiasm with the instinct of self-government and the spirit of personal independence that the preservation of english freedom was due. when james i. ascended the english throne, the forces which prepared the puritan revolt had been slowly and quietly gathering strength among the people for at least two centuries. the work which wyclif had begun in the fourteenth century had continued to go on in spite of occasional spasmodic attempts to destroy it with the aid of the statute passed in 1401 for the burning of heretics. the lollards can hardly be said at any time to have constituted a sect, marked off from the established church by the possession of a system of doctrines held in common. the name by which they were known was a nickname which might cover almost any amount of diversity in opinion, like the modern epithets "free-thinker" and "agnostic." the feature which characterized the lollards in common was a bold spirit of inquiry which led them, in spite of persecution, to read wyclif's english bible and call in question such dogmas and rites of the church as did not seem to find warrant in the sacred text. clad in long robes of coarse red wool, barefoot, with pilgrim's staff in hand, the lollard preachers fared to and fro among the quaint gothic towns and shaded hamlets, setting forth the word of god wherever they could find listeners, now in the parish church or under the vaulted roof of the cathedral, now in the churchyard or market-place, or on some green hillside. during the fifteenth century persecution did much to check this open preaching, but passages from wyclif's tracts and texts from the bible were copied by hand and passed about among tradesmen and artisans, yeomen and plough-boys, to be pondered over and talked about and learned by heart. it was a new revelation to the english people, this discovery of the bible. christ and his disciples seemed to come very near when the beautiful story of the gospels was first read in the familiar speech of every-day life. heretofore they might well have seemed remote and unreal, just as the school-boy hardly realizes that the cato and cassius over whom he puzzles in his latin lessons were once living men like his father and neighbours, and not mere nominatives governing a verb, or ablatives of means or instrument. now it became possible for the layman to contrast the pure teachings of christ with the doctrines and demeanour of the priests and monks to whom the spiritual guidance of englishmen had been entrusted. strong and self-respecting men and women, accustomed to manage their own affairs, could not but be profoundly affected by the contrast. [sidenote: work of the lollards] while they were thus led more and more to appeal to the bible as the divine standard of right living and right thinking, at the same time they found in the sacred volume the treasures of a most original and noble literature unrolled before them; stirring history and romantic legend, cosmical theories and priestly injunctions, profound metaphysics and pithy proverbs, psalms of unrivalled grandeur and pastorals of exquisite loveliness, parables fraught with solemn meaning, the mournful wisdom of the preacher, the exultant faith of the apostle, the matchless eloquence of job and isaiah, the apocalyptic ecstasy of st. john. at a time when there was as yet no english literature for the common people, this untold wealth of hebrew literature was implanted in the english mind as in a virgin soil. great consequences have flowed from the fact that the first truly popular literature in england--the first which stirred the hearts of all classes of people, and filled their minds with ideal pictures and their every-day speech with apt and telling phrases-was the literature comprised within the bible. the superiority of the common english version of the bible, made in the reign of james i., over all other versions, is a fact generally admitted by competent critics. the sonorous latin of the vulgate is very grand, but in sublimity of fervour as in the unconscious simplicity of strength it is surpassed by the english version, which is scarcely if at all inferior to the original, while it remains to-day, and will long remain, the noblest monument of english speech. the reason for this is obvious. the common english version of the bible was made by men who were not aiming at literary effect, but simply gave natural expression to the feelings which for several generations had clustered around the sacred text. they spoke with the voice of a people, which is more than the voice of the most highly gifted man. they spoke with the voice of a people to whom the bible had come to mean all that it meant to the men who wrote it. to the englishmen who listened to latimer, to the scotchmen who listened to knox, the bible more than filled the place which in modern times is filled by poem and essay, by novel and newspaper and scientific treatise. to its pages they went for daily instruction and comfort, with its strange semitic names they baptized their children, upon its precepts, too often misunderstood and misapplied, they sought to build up a rule of life that might raise them above the crude and unsatisfying world into which they were born. [sidenote: the english version of the bible] it would be wrong to accredit all this awakening of spiritual life in england to wyclif and the lollards, for it was only after the bible, in the translations of tyndall and coverdale, had been made free to the whole english people in the reign of edward vi. that its significance began to be apparent; and it was only a century later, in the time of cromwell and milton, that its full fruition was reached. it was with the lollards, however, that the spiritual awakening began and was continued until its effects, when they came, were marked by surprising maturity and suddenness. because the lollards were not a clearly defined sect, it was hard to trace the manifold ramifications of their work. during the terrible wars of the roses, contemporary chroniclers had little or nothing to say about the labours of these humble men, which seemed of less importance than now, when we read them in the light of their world-wide results. from this silence some modern historians have carelessly inferred that the nascent protestantism of the lollards had been extinguished by persecution under the lancastrian kings, and was in nowise continuous with modern english protestantism. nothing could be more erroneous. the extent to which the lollard leaven had permeated all classes of english society was first clearly revealed when henry viii. made his domestic affairs the occasion for a revolt against the papacy. despot and brute as he was in many ways, henry had some characteristics which enabled him to get on well with his people. he not only represented the sentiment of national independence, but he had a truly english reverence for the forms of law. in his worst acts he relied upon the support of his parliament, which he might in various ways cajole or pack, but could not really enslave. in his quarrel with rome he could have achieved but little, had he not happened to strike a chord of feeling to which the english people, trained by this slow and subtle work of the lollards, responded quickly and with a vehemence upon which he had not reckoned. as if by magic, the fabric of romanism was broken to pieces in england, monasteries were suppressed and their abbots hanged, the authority of the pope was swept away, and there was no powerful party, like that of the guises in france to make such sweeping measures the occasion for civil war. the whole secret of henry's swift success lay in the fact that the english people were already more than half protestant in temper, and needed only an occasion for declaring themselves. hence, as soon as catholic henry died, his youthful son found himself seated on the throne of a protestant nation. the terrible but feeble persecution which followed under mary did much to strengthen the extreme protestant sentiment by allying it with the outraged feeling of national independence. the bloody work of the grand-daughter of ferdinand and isabella, the doting wife of philip ii., was rightly felt to be spanish work; and never, perhaps, did england feel such a sense of relief as on the auspicious day which welcomed to the throne the great elizabeth, an englishwoman in every fibre, and whose mother withal was the daughter of a plain country gentleman. but the marian persecution not only increased the strength of the extreme protestant sentiment, but indirectly it supplied it with that calvinistic theology which was to make it indomitable. of the hundreds of ministers and laymen who fled from england in 1555 and the two following years, a great part found their way to geneva, and thus came under the immediate personal influence of that man of iron who taught the very doctrines for which their souls were craving, and who was then at the zenith of his power. [sidenote: secret of henry viii.'s swift success in his revolt against rome] [sidenote: effects of the persecution under mary] among all the great benefactors of mankind the figure of calvin is perhaps the least attractive. he was, so to speak, the constitutional lawyer of the reformation, with vision as clear, with head as cool, with soul as dry, as any old solicitor in rusty black that ever dwelt in chambers in lincoln's inn. his sternness was that of the judge who dooms a criminal to the gallows. his theology had much in it that is in striking harmony with modern scientific philosophy, and much in it, too, that the descendants of his puritan converts have learned to loathe as sheer diabolism. it is hard for us to forgive the man who burned michael servetus, even though it was the custom of the time to do such things and the tender-hearted melanchthon found nothing to blame in it. it is not easy to speak of calvin with enthusiasm, as it comes natural to speak of the genial, whole-souled, many-sided, mirth-and-song-loving luther. nevertheless it would be hard to overrate the debt which mankind owe to calvin. the spiritual father of coligny, of william the silent, and of cromwell must occupy a foremost rank among the champions of modern democracy. perhaps not one of the mediaeval popes was more despotic in temper than calvin; but it is not the less true that the promulgation of his theology was one of the longest steps that mankind have taken toward personal freedom. calvinism left the individual man alone in the presence of his god. his salvation could not be wrought by priestly ritual, but only by the grace of god abounding in his soul; and wretched creature that he felt himself to be, through the intense moral awakening of which this stern theology was in part the expression, his soul was nevertheless of infinite value, and the possession of it was the subject of an everlasting struggle between the powers of heaven and the powers of hell. in presence of the awful responsibility of life, all distinctions of rank and fortune vanished; prince and pauper were alike the helpless creatures of jehovah and suppliants for his grace. calvin did not originate these doctrines; in announcing them he was but setting forth, as he said, the institutes of the christian religion; but in emphasizing this aspect of christianity, in engraving it upon men's minds with that keen-edged logic which he used with such unrivalled skill, calvin made them feel, as it had perhaps never been felt before, the dignity and importance of the individual human soul. it was a religion fit to inspire men who were to be called upon to fight for freedom, whether in the marshes of the netherlands or on the moors of scotland. in a church, moreover, based upon such a theology there was no room for prelacy. each single church tended to become an independent congregation of worshippers, constituting one of the most effective schools that has ever existed for training men in local self-government. [sidenote: calvin's theology in its political bearings] when, therefore, upon the news of elizabeth's accession to the throne, the protestant refugees made their way back to england, they came as calvinistic puritans. their stay upon the continent had been short, but it had been just enough to put the finishing touch upon the work that had been going on since the days of wyclif. upon such men and their theories elizabeth could not look with favour. with all her father's despotic temper, elizabeth possessed her mother's fine tact, and she represented so grandly the feeling of the nation in its life-and-death-struggle with spain and the pope, that never perhaps in english history has the crown wielded so much real power as during the five-and-forty years of her wonderful reign. one day elizabeth asked a lady of the court how she contrived to retain her husband's affection. the lady replied that "she had confidence in her husband's understanding and courage, well founded on her own steadfastness not to offend or thwart, but to cherish and obey, whereby she did persuade her husband of her own affection, and in so doing did command his." "go to, go to, mistress," cried the queen, "you are wisely bent, i find. after such sort do i keep the good will of all my husbands, my good people; for if they did not rest assured of some special love towards them, they would not readily yield me such good obedience." [2] such a theory of government might work well in the hands of an elizabeth, and in the circumstances in which england was then placed; but it could hardly be worked by a successor. the seeds of revolt were already sown. the disposition to curb the sovereign was growing and would surely assert itself as soon as it should have some person less loved and respected than elizabeth to deal with. the queen in some measure foresaw this, and in the dogged independence and uncompromising enthusiasm of the puritans she recognized the rock on which the monarchy might dash itself into pieces. she therefore hated the puritans, and persecuted them zealously with one hand, while circumstances forced her in spite of herself to aid and abet them with the other. she could not maintain herself against spain without helping the dutch and the huguenots; but every soldier she sent across the channel came back, if he came at all, with his head full of the doctrines of calvin; and these stalwart converts were reinforced by the refugees from france and the netherlands who came flocking into english towns to set up their thrifty shops and hold prayer-meetings in their humble chapels. to guard the kingdom against the intrigues of philip and the guises and the queen of scots, it was necessary to choose the most zealous protestants for the most responsible positions, and such men were more than likely to be calvinists and puritans. elizabeth's great ministers, burleigh, walsingham, and nicholas bacon, were inclined toward puritanism; and so were the naval heroes who won the most fruitful victories of that century, by shattering the maritime power of spain and thus opening the way for englishmen to colonize north america. if we would realize the dangers that would have beset the mayflower and her successors but for the preparatory work of these immortal sailors, we must remember the dreadful fate of ribault and his huguenot followers in florida, twenty-three years before that most happy and glorious event, the destruction of the spanish armada. but not even the devoted men and women who held their prayer-meetings in the mayflower's cabin were more constant in prayer or more assiduous in reading the bible than the dauntless rovers, drake and hawkins, gilbert and cavendish. in the church itself, too, the puritan spirit grew until in 1575-83 it seized upon grindal, archbishop of canterbury, who incurred the queen's disfavour by refusing to meddle with the troublesome reformers or to suppress their prophesyings. by the end of the century the majority of country gentlemen and of wealthy merchants in the towns had become puritans, and the new views had made great headway in both universities, while at cambridge they had become dominant. [sidenote: elizabeth's policy, and its effects] [sidenote: puritan sea-rovers] this allusion to the universities may serve to introduce the very interesting topic of the geographical distribution of puritanism in england. no one can study the history of the two universities without being impressed with the greater conservatism of oxford, and the greater hospitality of cambridge toward new ideas. possibly the explanation may have some connection with the situation of cambridge upon the east anglian border. the eastern counties of england have often been remarked as rife in heresy and independency. for many generations the coast region between the thames and the humber was a veritable _litus haereticum._ longland, bishop of lincoln in 1520, reported lollardism as especially vigorous and obstinate in his diocese, where more than two hundred heretics were once brought before him in the course of a single visitation. it was in lincolnshire, norfolk, suffolk, and essex, and among the fens of ely, cambridge, and huntingdon, that puritanism was strongest at the end of the sixteenth century. it was as member and leading spirit of the eastern counties association that oliver cromwell began his military career; and in so far as there was anything sectional in the struggle between charles i. and the long parliament, it was a struggle which ended in the victory of east over west. east anglia was from first to last the one region in which the supremacy of parliament was unquestionable and impregnable, even after the strength of its population had been diminished by sending some thousands of picked men and women to america. while every one of the forty counties of england was represented in the great puritan exodus, the east anglian counties contributed to it far more than all the rest. perhaps it would not be far out of the way to say that two-thirds of the american people who can trace their ancestry to new england might follow it back to the east anglian shires of the mother-country; one-sixth might follow it to those southwestern countries--devonshire, dorset, and somerset--which so long were foremost in maritime enterprise; one-sixth to other parts of england. i would not insist upon the exactness of such figures, in a matter where only a rough approximation is possible; but i do not think they overstate the east anglian preponderance. it was not by accident that the earliest counties of massachusetts were called norfolk, suffolk, and essex, or that boston in lincolnshire gave its name to the chief city of new england. the native of connecticut or massachusetts who wanders about rural england to-day finds no part of it so homelike as the cosy villages and smiling fields and quaint market towns as he fares leisurely and in not too straight a line from ipswich toward hull. countless little unobtrusive features remind him of home. the very names on the sign-boards over the sleepy shops have an unwontedly familiar look. in many instances the homestead which his forefathers left, when they followed winthrop or hooker to america, is still to be found, well-kept and comfortable; the ancient manor-house built of massive unhewn stone, yet in other respects much like the new england farmhouse, with its long sloping roof and gable end toward the road, its staircase with twisted balusters running across the shallow entry-way, its low ceilings with their sturdy oaken beams, its spacious chimneys, and its narrow casements from which one might have looked out upon the anxious march of edward iv. from ravenspur to the field of victory at barnet in days when america was unknown. hard by, in the little parish church which has stood for perhaps a thousand years, plain enough and bleak enough to suit the taste of the sternest puritan, one may read upon the cold pavement one's own name and the names of one's friends and neighbours in startling proximity, somewhat worn and effaced by the countless feet that have trodden there. and yonder on the village green one comes with bated breath upon the simple inscription which tells of some humble hero who on that spot in the evil reign of mary suffered death by fire. pursuing thus our interesting journey, we may come at last to the quiet villages of austerfield and scrooby, on opposite banks of the river idle, and just at the corner of the three shires of lincoln, york, and nottingham. it was from this point that the puritan exodus to america was begun. [sidenote: puritanism was strongest in the eastern counties] [sidenote: preponderance of east anglia in the puritan exodus] it was not, however, in the main stream of puritanism, but in one of its obscure rivulets that this world-famous movement originated. during the reign of elizabeth it was not the purpose of the puritans to separate themselves from the established church of which the sovereign was the head, but to remain within it and reform it according to their own notions. for a time they were partially successful in this work, especially in simplifying the ritual and in giving a calvinistic tinge to the doctrines. in doing this they showed no conscious tendency toward freedom of thought, but rather a bigotry quite as intense as that which animated the system against which they were fighting. the most advanced liberalism of elizabeth's time was not to be found among the puritans, but in the magnificent treatise on "ecclesiastical polity" by the churchman richard hooker. but the liberalism of this great writer, like that of erasmus a century earlier, was not militant enough to meet the sterner demands of the time. it could not then ally itself with the democratic spirit, as puritanism did. it has been well said that while luther was the prophet of the reformation that has been, erasmus was the prophet of the reformation that is to come, and so it was to some extent with the puritans and hooker. the puritan fight against the hierarchy was a political necessity of the time, something without which no real and thorough reformation could then be effected. in her antipathy to this democratic movement, elizabeth vexed and tormented the puritans as far as she deemed it prudent; and in the conservative temper of the people she found enough support to prevent their transforming the church as they would have liked to do. among the puritans themselves, indeed, there was no definite agreement on this point. some would have stopped short with presbyterianism, while others held that "new presbyter was but old priest writ large," and so pressed on to independency. it was early in elizabeth's reign that the zeal of these extreme brethren, inflamed by persecution, gave rise to the sect of separatists, who flatly denied the royal supremacy over ecclesiastical affairs, and asserted the right to set up churches of their own, with pastors and elders and rules of discipline, independent of queen or bishop. [sidenote: puritanism was not intentionally allied with liberalism] in 1567 the first congregation of this sort, consisting of about a hundred persons assembled in a hall in anchor lane in london, was forcibly broken up and thirty-one of the number were sent to jail and kept there for nearly a year. by 1576 the separatists had come to be recognized as a sect, under the lead of robert brown, a man of high social position, related to the great lord burleigh. brown fled to holland, where he preached to a congregation of english exiles, and wrote books which were smuggled into england and privately circulated there, much to the disgust, not only of the queen, but of all parties, puritans as well as high churchmen. the great majority of puritans, whose aim was not to leave the church, but to stay in it and control it, looked with dread and disapproval upon these extremists who seemed likely to endanger their success by forcing them into deadly opposition to the crown. just as in the years which ushered in our late civil war, the opponents of the republicans sought to throw discredit upon them by confusing them with the little sect of abolitionists; and just as the republicans, in resenting the imputation, went so far as to frown upon the abolitionists, so that in december, 1860, men who had just voted for mr. lincoln were ready to join in breaking up "john brown meetings" in boston; so it was with religious parties in the reign of elizabeth. the opponents of the puritans pointed to the separatists, and cried, "see whither your anarchical doctrines are leading!" and in their eagerness to clear themselves of this insinuation, the leading puritans were as severe upon the separatists as anybody. it is worthy of note that in both instances the imputation, so warmly resented, was true. under the pressure of actual hostilities the republicans did become abolitionists, and in like manner, when in england it came to downright warfare the puritans became separatists. but meanwhile it fared ill with the little sect which everybody hated and despised. their meetings were broken up by mobs. in an old pamphlet describing a "tumult in fleet street, raised by the disorderly preachment, pratings, and prattlings of a swarm of separatists," one reads such sentences as the following: "at length they catcht one of them alone, but they kickt him so vehemently as if they meant to beat him into a jelly. it is ambiguous whether they have kil'd him or no, but for a certainty they did knock him about as if they meant to pull him to pieces. i confesse it had been no matter if they had beaten the whole tribe in the like manner." for their leaders the penalty was more serious. the denial of the queen's ecclesiastical supremacy could be treated as high treason, and two of brown's friends, convicted of circulating his books, were sent to the gallows. in spite of these dangers brown returned to england in 1585. william the silent had lately been murdered, and heresy in holland was not yet safe from the long arm of the spaniard. brown trusted in lord burleigh's ability to protect him, but in 1588, finding himself in imminent danger, he suddenly recanted and accepted a comfortable living under the bishops who had just condemned him. his followers were already known as brownists; henceforth their enemies took pains to call them so and twit them with holding doctrines too weak for making martyrs. [sidenote: robert brown and the separatists] the flimsiness of brown's moral texture prevented him from becoming the leader in the puritan exodus to new england. that honour was reserved for william brewster, son of a country gentleman who had for many years been postmaster at scrooby. the office was then one of high responsibility and influence. after taking his degree at cambridge, brewster became private secretary to sir william davison, whom he accompanied on his mission to the netherlands. when davison's public career came to an end in 1587, brewster returned to scrooby, and soon afterward succeeded his father as postmaster, in which position he remained until 1607. during the interval elizabeth died, and james stuart came from scotland to take her place on the throne. [sidenote: william brewster] the feelings with which the late queen had regarded puritanism were mild compared with the sentiments entertained by her successor. for some years he had been getting worsted in his struggle with the presbyterians of the northern kingdom. his vindictive memory treasured up the day when a mighty puritan preacher had in public twitched him by the sleeve and called him "god's silly vassal." "i tell you, sir," said andrew melville on that occasion, "there are two kings and two kingdoms in scotland. there is christ jesus the king, and his kingdom the kirk, whose subject james vi. is, and of whose kingdom not a king, nor a lord, nor a head, but a member. and they whom christ hath called to watch over his kirk and govern his spiritual kingdom have sufficient power and authority so to do both together and severally." in this bold and masterful speech we have the whole political philosophy of puritanism, as in a nutshell. under the guise of theocratic fanaticism, and in words as arrogant as ever fell from priestly lips, there was couched the assertion of the popular will against despotic privilege. melville could say such things to the king's face and walk away unharmed, because there stood behind him a people fully aroused to the conviction that there is an eternal law of god, which kings no less than scullions must obey. [3] melville knew this full well, and so did james know it in the bitterness of his heart. he would have no such mischievous work in england. he despised elizabeth's grand national policy which his narrow intellect could not comprehend. he could see that in fighting spain and aiding dutchmen and huguenots she was strengthening the very spirit that sought to pull monarchy down. in spite of her faults, which were neither few nor small, the patriotism of that fearless woman was superior to any personal ambition. it was quite otherwise with james. he was by no means fearless, and he cared more for james stuart than for either england or scotland. he had an overweening opinion of his skill in kingcraft. in coming to westminster it was his policy to use his newly acquired power to break down the puritan party in both kingdoms and to fasten episcopacy upon scotland. in pursuing this policy he took no heed of english national sentiment, but was quite ready to defy and insult it, even to the point of making--before children who remembered the armada had yet reached middle age--an alliance with the hated spaniard. in such wise james succeeded in arraying against the monarchical principle the strongest forces of english life,--the sentiment of nationality, the sentiment of personal freedom, and the uncompromising religious fervour of calvinism; and out of this invincible combination of forces has been wrought the nobler and happier state of society in which we live to-day. [sidenote: james stuart and andrew melville] scarcely ten months had james been king of england when he invited the leading puritan clergymen to meet himself and the bishops in a conference at hampton court, as he wished to learn what changes they would like to make in the government and ritual of the church. in the course of the discussion he lost his temper and stormed, as was his wont. [sidenote: king james's view of the political situation] the mention of the word "presbytery" lashed him into fury. "a scottish presbytery," he cried, "agreeth as well with a monarchy as god and the devil. then jack and tom and will and dick shall meet, and at their pleasures censure me and my council and all our proceedings .... stay, i pray you, for one seven years, before you demand that from me, and if then you find me pursy and fat, and my windpipes stuffed, i will perhaps hearken to you .... until you find that i grow lazy, let that alone." one of the bishops declared that in this significant tirade his majesty spoke by special inspiration from heaven! the puritans saw that their only hope lay in resistance. if any doubt remained, it was dispelled by the vicious threat with which the king broke up the conference. "i will _make_ them conform," said he, "or i will harry them out of the land." these words made a profound sensation in england, as well they might, for they heralded the struggle which within half a century was to deliver up james's son to the executioner. the parliament of 1604 met in angrier mood than any parliament which had assembled at westminster since the dethronement of richard ii. among the churches non-conformity began more decidedly to assume the form of secession. the key-note of the conflict was struck at scrooby. staunch puritan as he was, brewster had not hitherto favoured the extreme measures of the separatists. now he withdrew from the church, and gathered together a company of men and women who met on sundays for divine service in his own drawing-room at scrooby manor. in organizing this independent congregationalist society, brewster was powerfully aided by john robinson, a native of lincolnshire. robinson was then thirty years of age, and had taken his master's degree at cambridge in 1600. he was a man of great learning and rare sweetness of temper, and was moreover distinguished for a broad and tolerant habit of mind too seldom found among the puritans of that day. friendly and unfriendly writers alike bear witness to his spirit of christian charity and the comparatively slight value which he attached to orthodoxy in points of doctrine; and we can hardly be wrong in supposing that the comparatively tolerant behaviour of the plymouth colonists, whereby they were contrasted with the settlers of massachusetts, was in some measure due to the abiding influence of the teachings of this admirable man. another important member of the scrooby congregation was william bradford, of the neighbouring village of austerfield, then a lad of seventeen years, but already remarkable for maturity of intelligence and weight of character. afterward governor of plymouth for nearly thirty years, he became the historian of his colony; and to his picturesque chronicle, written in pure and vigorous english, we are indebted for most that we know of the migration that started from scrooby and ended in plymouth. [sidenote: the congregation of separatists at scrooby] it was in 1606--two years after king james's truculent threat--that this independent church of scrooby was organized. another year had not elapsed before its members had suffered so much at the hands of officers of the law, that they began to think of following the example of former heretics and escaping to holland. after an unsuccessful attempt in the autumn of 1607, they at length succeeded a few months later in accomplishing their flight to amsterdam, where they hoped to find a home. but here they found the english exiles who had preceded them so fiercely involved in doctrinal controversies, that they decided to go further in search of peace and quiet. this decision, which we may ascribe to robinson's wise counsels, served to keep the society of pilgrims from getting divided and scattered. they reached leyden in 1609, just as the spanish government had sullenly abandoned the hopeless task of conquering the dutch, and had granted to holland the twelve years truce. during eleven of these twelve years the pilgrims remained in leyden, supporting themselves by various occupations, while their numbers increased from 300 to more than 1000. brewster opened a publishing house, devoted mainly to the issue of theological books. robinson accepted a professorship in the university, and engaged in the defence of calvinism against the attacks of episcopius, the successor of arminius. the youthful bradford devoted himself to the study of languages,--dutch, french, latin, greek, and finally hebrew; wishing, as he said, to "see with his own eyes the ancient oracles of god in all their native beauty." during their sojourn in leyden the pilgrims were introduced to a strange and novel spectacle,--the systematic legal toleration of all persons, whether catholic or protestant, who called themselves followers of christ. not that there was not plenty of intolerance in spirit, but the policy inaugurated by the idolized william the silent held it in check by law. all persons who came to holland, and led decorous lives there, were protected in their opinions and customs. by contemporary writers in other countries this eccentric behaviour of the dutch government was treated with unspeakable scorn. "all strange religions flock thither," says one; it is "a common harbour of all heresies," a "cage of unclean birds," says another; "the great mingle mangle of religion," says a third. [4] in spite of the relief from persecution, however, the pilgrims were not fully satisfied with their new home. the expiration of the truce with spain might prove that this relief was only temporary; and at any rate, complete toleration did not fill the measure of their wants. had they come to holland as scattered bands of refugees, they might have been absorbed into the dutch population, as huguenot refugees have been absorbed in germany, england, and america. but they had come as an organized community, and absorption into a foreign nation was something to be dreaded. they wished to preserve their english speech and english traditions, keep up their organization, and find some favoured spot where they might lay the corner-stone of a great christian state. the spirit of nationality was strong in them; the spirit of self-government was strong in them; and the only thing which could satisfy these feelings was such a migration as had not been seen since ancient times, a migration like that of phokaians to massilia or tyrians to carthage. [sidenote: the flight to holland] [sidenote: why the pilgrims did not stay there] it was too late in the world's history to carry out such a scheme upon european soil. every acre of territory there was appropriated. the only favourable outlook was upon the atlantic coast of america, where english cruisers had now successfully disputed the pretensions of spain, and where after forty years of disappointment and disaster a flourishing colony had at length been founded in virginia. the colonization of the north american coast had now become part of the avowed policy of the british government. in 1606 a great joint-stock company was formed for the establishment of two colonies in america. the branch which was to take charge of the proposed southern colony had its headquarters in london; the management of the northern branch was at plymouth in devonshire. hence the two branches are commonly spoken of as the london and plymouth companies. the former was also called the virginia company, and the latter the north virginia company, as the name of virginia was then loosely applied to the entire atlantic coast north of florida. the london company had jurisdiction from 34 degrees to 38 degrees north latitude; the plymouth company had jurisdiction from 45 degrees down to 41 degrees; the intervening territory, between 38 degrees and 41 degrees was to go to whichever company should first plant a self-supporting colony. the local government of each colony was to be entrusted to a council resident in america and nominated by the king; while general supervision over both colonies was to be exercised by a council resident in england. [sidenote: the london and plymouth companies] in pursuance of this general plan, though with some variations in detail, the settlement of jamestown had been begun in 1607, and its success was now beginning to seem assured. on the other hand all the attempts which had been made to the north of the fortieth parallel had failed miserably. as early as 1602 bartholomew gosnold, with 32 men, had landed on the headland which they named cape cod from the fish found thereabouts in great numbers. this was the first english name given to any spot in that part of america, and so far as known these were the first englishmen that ever set foot there. they went on and gave names to martha's vineyard and the elizabeth islands in buzzard's bay; and on cuttyhunk they built some huts with the intention of remaining, but after a month's experience they changed their mind and went back to england. gosnold's story interested other captains, and on easter sunday, 1605, george weymouth set sail for north virginia, as it was called. he found cape cod and coasted northward as far as the kennebec river, up which he sailed for many miles. weymouth kidnapped five indians and carried them to england, that they might learn the language and acquire a wholesome respect for the arts of civilization and the resistless power of white men. his glowing accounts of the spacious harbours, the abundance of fish and game, the noble trees, the luxuriant herbage, and the balmy climate, aroused general interest in england, and doubtless had some influence upon the formation, in the following year, of the great joint-stock company just described. the leading spirit of the plymouth company was sir john popham, chief-justice of england, and he was not disposed to let his friends of the southern branch excel him in promptness. within three months after the founding of jamestown, a party of 120 colonists, led by the judge's kinsman george popham, landed at the mouth of the kennebec, and proceeded to build a rude village of some fifty cabins, with storehouse, chapel, and block-house. when they landed in august they doubtless shared weymouth's opinion of the climate. these englishmen had heard of warm countries like italy and cold countries like russia; harsh experience soon taught them that there are climates in which the summer of naples may alternate with the winter of moscow. the president and many others fell sick and died. news came of the death of sir john popham in england, and presently the weary and disappointed settlers abandoned their enterprise and returned to their old homes. their failure spread abroad in england the opinion that north virginia was uninhabitable by reason of the cold, and no further attempts were made upon that coast until in 1614 it was visited by captain john smith. [sidenote: first exploration of the new england coast] the romantic career of this gallant and garrulous hero did not end with his departure from the infant colony at jamestown. by a curious destiny his fame is associated with the beginnings of both the southern and the northern portions of the united states. to virginia smith may be said to have given its very existence as a commonwealth; to new england he gave its name. in 1614 he came over with two ships to north virginia, explored its coast minutely from the penobscot river to cape cod, and thinking it a country of such extent and importance as to deserve a name of its own, rechristened it new england. on returning home he made a very good map of the coast and dotted it with english names suggested by prince charles. of these names cape elizabeth, cape ann, charles river, and plymouth still remain where smith placed them. in 1615 smith again set sail for the new world, this time with a view to planting a colony under the auspices of the plymouth company, but his talent for strange adventures had not deserted him. he was taken prisoner by a french fleet, carried hither and thither on a long cruise, and finally set ashore at rochelle, whence, without a penny in his pocket, he contrived to make his way back to england. perhaps smith's life of hardship may have made him prematurely old. after all his wild and varied experience he was now only in his thirty-seventh year, but he does not seem to have gone on any more voyages. the remaining sixteen years of his life were spent quietly in england in writing books, publishing maps, and otherwise stimulating the public interest in the colonization of the new world. but as for the rocky coast of new england, which he had explored and named, he declared that he was not so simple as to suppose that any other motive than riches would "ever erect there a commonwealth or draw company from their ease and humours at home, to stay in new england." [sidenote: john smith] in this opinion, however, the bold explorer was mistaken. of all migrations of peoples the settlement of new england is preeminently the one in which the almighty dollar played the smallest part, however important it may since have become as a motive power. it was left for religious enthusiasm to achieve what commercial enterprise had failed to accomplish. by the summer of 1617 the pilgrim society at leyden had decided to send a detachment of its most vigorous members to lay the foundations of a puritan state in america. there had been much discussion as to the fittest site for such a colony. many were in favour of guiana, which sir walter raleigh had described in such glowing colours; but it was thought that the tropical climate would be ill-suited to northern men of industrious and thrifty habit, and the situation, moreover, was dangerously exposed to the spaniards. half a century had scarcely elapsed since the wholesale massacre of huguenots in florida. virginia was then talked of, but episcopal ideas had already taken root there. new england, on the other hand, was considered too cold. popham's experience was not encouraging. but the country about the delaware river afforded an opportunity for erecting an independent colony under the jurisdiction of the london company, and this seemed the best course to pursue. sir edwin sandys, the leading spirit in the london company, was favourably inclined toward puritans, and through him negotiations were begun. capital to the amount of â£7000 was furnished by seventy merchant adventurers in england, and the earnings of the settlers were to be thrown into a common stock until these subscribers should have been remunerated. a grant of land was obtained from the london company, and the king was asked to protect the emigrants by a charter, but this was refused. james, however, made no objections to their going, herein showing himself less of a bigot than louis xiv. in later days, who would not suffer a huguenot to set foot in canada, though france was teeming with huguenots who would have been glad enough to go. when james inquired how the colonists expected to support themselves, some one answered, most likely by fishing. "very good," quoth the king, "it was the apostles' own calling." he declared that no one should molest them so long as they behaved themselves properly. from this unwonted urbanity it would appear that james anticipated no trouble from the new colony. a few puritans in america could not do much to annoy him, and there was of course a fair chance of their perishing, as so many other colonizers had perished. [sidenote: the pilgrims at leyden decide to make a settlement near the delaware river] the congregation at leyden did not think it wise to cut loose from holland until they should have secured a foothold in america. it was but an advance guard that started out from delft haven late in july, 1620, in the rickety ship speedwell, with brewster and bradford, and sturdy miles standish, a trained soldier whose aid was welcome, though he does not seem to have belonged to the congregation. robinson remained at leyden, and never came to america. after a brief stop at southampton, where they met the mayflower with friends from london, the pilgrims again set sail in the two ships. the speedwell sprang a leak, and they stopped at dartmouth for repairs. again they started, and had put three hundred miles of salt water between themselves and land's end, when the speedwell leaked so badly that they were forced to return. when they dropped anchor at plymouth in devonshire, about twenty were left on shore, and the remainder, exactly one hundred in number, crowded into the mayflower and on the 6th of september started once more to cross the atlantic. the capacity of the little ship was 180 tons, and her strength was but slight. in a fierce storm in mid-ocean a mainbeam amidships was wrenched and cracked, and but for a huge iron screw which one of the passengers had brought from delft, they might have gone to the bottom. the foul weather prevented any accurate calculation of latitude and longitude, and they were so far out in their reckoning that when they caught sight of land on the 9th of november, it was to cape cod that they had come. their patent gave them no authority to settle here, as it was beyond the jurisdiction of the london company. they turned their prow southward, but encountering perilous shoals and a stiff headwind they desisted and sought shelter in cape cod bay. on the 11th they decided to find some place of abode in this neighbourhood, anticipating no difficulty in getting a patent from the plymouth company, which was anxious to obtain settlers. for five weeks they stayed in the ship while little parties were exploring the coast and deciding upon the best site for a town. it was purely a coincidence that the spot which they chose had already received from john smith the name of plymouth, the beautiful port in devonshire from which the mayflower had sailed. [sidenote: founding of plymouth] there was not much to remind them of home in the snow-covered coast on which they landed. they had hoped to get their rude houses built before the winter should set in, but the many delays and mishaps had served to bring them ashore in the coldest season. when the long winter came to an end, fifty-one of the hundred pilgrims had died,--a mortality even greater than that before which the popham colony had succumbed. but brewster spoke truth when he said, "it is not with us as with men whom small things can discourage or small discontentments cause to wish themselves at home again." at one time the living were scarcely able to bury the dead; only brewster, standish, and five other hardy ones were well enough to get about. at first they were crowded under a single roof, and as glimpses were caught of dusky savages skulking among the trees, a platform was built on the nearest hill and a few cannon were placed there in such wise as to command the neighbouring valleys and plains. by the end of the first summer the platform had grown to a fortress, down from which to the harbour led a village street with seven houses finished and others going up. twenty-six acres had been cleared, and a plentiful harvest gathered in; venison, wild fowl, and fish were easy to obtain. when provisions and fuel had been laid in for the ensuing winter, governor bradford appointed a day of thanksgiving. town-meetings had already been held, and a few laws passed. the history of new england had begun. this had evidently been a busy summer for the forty-nine survivors. on the 9th of november, the anniversary of the day on which they had sighted land, a ship was descried in the offing. she was the fortune, bringing some fifty more of the leyden company. it was a welcome reinforcement, but it diminished the rations of food that could be served during the winter, for the fortune was not well supplied. when she set sail for england, she carried a little cargo of beaver-skins and choice wood for wainscoting to the value of l500 sterling, as a first instalment of the sum due to the merchant adventurers. but this cargo never reached england, for the fortune was overhauled by a french cruiser and robbed of everything worth carrying away. for two years more it was an anxious and difficult time for the new colony. by 1624 its success may be said to have become assured. that the indians in the neighbourhood had not taken advantage of the distress of the settlers in that first winter, and massacred every one of them, was due to a remarkable circumstance. early in 1617 a frightful pestilence had swept over new england and slain, it is thought, more than half the indian population between the penobscot river and narragansett bay. many of the indians were inclined to attribute this calamity to the murder of two or three white fishermen the year before. they had not got over the superstitious dread with which the first sight of white men had inspired them, and now they believed that the strangers held the demon of the plague at their disposal and had let him loose upon the red men in revenge for the murders they had committed. this wholesome delusion kept their tomahawks quiet for a while. when they saw the englishmen establishing themselves at plymouth, they at first held a powwow in the forest, at which the new-comers were cursed with all the elaborate ingenuity that the sorcery of the medicine-men could summon for so momentous an occasion; but it was deemed best to refrain from merely human methods of attack. it was not until the end of the first winter that any of them mustered courage to visit the palefaces. then an indian named samoset, who had learned a little english from fishermen and for his own part was inclined to be friendly, came one day into the village with words of welcome. he was so kindly treated that presently massasoit, principal sachem of the wampanoags, who dwelt between narragansett and cape cod bays, came with a score of painted and feathered warriors and squatting on a green rug and cushions in the governor's log-house smoked the pipe of peace, while standish with half-a-dozen musketeers stood quietly by. an offensive and defensive alliance was then and there made between king massasoit and king james, and the treaty was faithfully kept for half a century. some time afterward, when massasoit had fallen sick and lay at death's door, his life was saved by edward winslow, who came to his wigwam and skilfully nursed him. henceforth the wampanoag thought well of the pilgrim. the powerful narragansetts, who dwelt on the farther side of the bay, felt differently, and thought it worth while to try the effect of a threat. a little while after the fortune had brought its reinforcement, the narragansett sachem canonicus sent a messenger to plymouth with a bundle of newly-made arrows wrapped in a snake-skin. the messenger threw it in at the governor's door and made off with unseemly haste. bradford understood this as a challenge, and in this he was confirmed by a friendly wampanoag. the narragansetts could muster 2000 warriors, for whom forty or fifty englishmen, even with firearms, were hardly a fair match; but it would not do to show fear. bradford stuffed the snake-skin with powder and bullets, and sent it back to canonicus, telling him that if he wanted war he might come whenever he liked and get his fill of it. when the sachem saw what the skin contained, he was afraid to touch it or have it about, and medicine-men, handling it no doubt gingerly enough, carried it out of his territory. [sidenote: why the colony was not attacked by the indians] it was a fortunate miscalculation that brought the pilgrims to new england. had they ventured upon the lands between the hudson and the delaware, they would probably have fared worse. they would soon have come into collision with the dutch, and not far from that neighbourhood dwelt the susquehannocks, at that time one of the most powerful and ferocious tribes on the continent. for the present the new-comers were less likely to be molested in the wampanoag country than anywhere else. in the course of the year 1621 they obtained their grant from the plymouth company. this grant was not made to them directly but to the joint-stock company of merchant adventurers with whom they were associated. but the alliance between the pilgrims and these london merchants was not altogether comfortable; there was too much divergence between their aims. in 1627 the settlers, wishing to be entirely independent, bought up all the stock and paid for it by instalments from the fruits of their labour. by 1633 they had paid every penny, and become the undisputed owners of the country they had occupied. such was the humble beginning of that great puritan exodus from england to america which had so much to do with founding and peopling the united states. these pilgrims of the mayflower were but the pioneers of a mighty host. historically their enterprise is interesting not so much for what it achieved as for what it suggested. of itself the plymouth colony could hardly have become a wealthy and powerful state. its growth was extremely slow. after ten years its numbers were but three hundred. in 1643, when the exodus had come to an end, and the new england confederacy was formed, the population of plymouth was but three thousand. in an established community, indeed, such a rate of increase would be rapid, but it was not sufficient to raise in new england a power which could overcome indians and dutchmen and frenchmen, and assert its will in opposition to the crown. it is when we view the founding of plymouth in relation to what came afterward, that it assumes the importance which belongs to the beginning of a new era. we have thus seen how it was that the political aspirations of james i. toward absolute sovereignty resulted in the beginnings of the puritan exodus to america. in the next chapter we shall see how the still more arbitrary policy of his ill-fated son all at once gave new dimensions to that exodus and resulted in the speedy planting of a high-spirited and powerful new england. chapter iii. the planting of new england. when captain george weymouth in the summer of 1605 sailed into the harbour of plymouth in devonshire, with his five kidnapped savages and his glowing accounts of the country since known as new england, the garrison of that fortified seaport was commanded by sir ferdinando gorges. the christian name of this person now strikes us as rather odd, but in those days it was not so uncommon in england, and it does not necessarily indicate a spanish or italian ancestry for its bearer. gorges was a man of considerable ability, but not of high character. on the downfall of his old patron the earl of essex he had contrived to save his own fortunes by a course of treachery and ingratitude. he had served in the dutch war against spain, and since 1596 had been military governor of plymouth. the sight of weymouth's indians and the recital of his explorations awakened the interest of gorges in the colonization of north america. he became one of the most active members of the plymouth, or north virginia, company established in the following year. it was he who took the leading part in fitting out the two ships with which john smith started on his unsuccessful expedition in 1615. in the following years he continued to send out voyages of exploration, became largely interested in the fisheries, and at length in 1620 succeeded in obtaining a new patent for the plymouth company, by which it was made independent of the london company, its old yoke-fellow and rival. this new document created a corporation of forty patentees who, sitting in council as directors of their enterprise, were known as the council for new england. the president of this council was king james's unpopular favourite the duke of buckingham, and its most prominent members were the earls of pembroke and lenox, sir ferdinando gorges, and shakespeare's friend the earl of southampton. this council was empowered to legislate for its american territory, to exercise martial law there and expel all intruders, and to exercise a monopoly of trade within the limits of the patent. such extensive powers, entrusted to a company of which buckingham was the head, excited popular indignation, and in the great struggle against monopolies which was then going on, the plymouth company did not fail to serve as a target for attacks. it started, however, with too little capital to enter upon schemes involving immediate outlay, and began almost from the first to seek to increase its income by letting or selling portions of its territory, which extended from the latitude of philadelphia to that of quebec, thus encroaching upon regions where holland and france were already gaining a foothold. it was from this company that the merchant adventurers associated with the mayflower pilgrims obtained their new patent in the summer of 1621, and for the next fifteen years all settlers in new england based their claims to the soil upon territorial rights conveyed to them by the plymouth company. the grants, however, were often ignorantly and sometimes unscrupulously made, and their limits were so ill-defined that much quarrelling ensued. [sidenote: sir ferdinando gorges, and the council for new england] during the years immediately following the voyage of the mayflower, several attempts at settlement were made about the shores of massachusetts bay. one of the merchant adventurers, thomas weston, took it into his head in 1622 to separate from his partners and send out a colony of seventy men on his own account. these men made a settlement at wessagusset, some twenty-five miles north of plymouth. they were a disorderly, thriftless rabble, picked up from the london streets, and soon got into trouble with the indians; after a year they were glad to get back to england as best they could, and in this the plymouth settlers willingly aided them. in june of that same year 1622 there arrived on the scene a picturesque but ill understood personage, thomas morton, "of clifford's inn, gent.," as he tells on the title-page of his quaint and delightful book, the "new english canaan." bradford disparagingly says that he "had been a kind of petie-fogger of furnifell's inn"; but the churchman samuel maverick declares that he was a "gentleman of good qualitie." he was an agent of sir ferdinando gorges, and came with some thirty followers to make the beginnings of a royalist and episcopal settlement in the massachusetts bay. he was naturally regarded with ill favour by the pilgrims as well as by the later puritan settlers, and their accounts of him will probably bear taking with a grain or two of salt. [sidenote: wessagusset and merrymount] in 1625 there came one captain wollaston, with a gang of indented white servants, and established himself on the site of the present town of quincy. finding this system of industry ill suited to northern agriculture, he carried most of his men off to virginia, where he sold them. morton took possession of the site of the settlement, which he called merrymount. there, according to bradford, he set up a "schoole of athisme," and his men did quaff strong waters and comport themselves "as if they had anew revived and celebrated the feasts of ye roman goddes flora, or the beastly practices of ye madd bachanalians." charges of atheism have been freely hurled about in all ages. in morton's case the accusation seems to have been based upon the fact that he used the book of common prayer. his men so far maintained the ancient customs of merry england as to plant a maypole eighty feet high, about which they frolicked with the redskins, while furthermore they taught them the use of firearms and sold them muskets and rum. this was positively dangerous, and in the summer of 1628 the settlers at merrymount were dispersed by miles standish. morton was sent to england, but returned the next year, and presently again repaired to merrymount. by this time other settlements were dotted about the coast. there were a few scattered cottages or cabins at nantasket and at the mouth of the piscataqua, while samuel maverick had fortified himself on noddle's island, and william blackstone already lived upon the shawmut peninsula, since called boston. these two gentlemen were no friends to the puritans; they were churchmen and representatives of sir ferdinando gorges. the case was very different with another of these earliest settlements, which deserves especial mention as coming directly in the line of causation which led to the founding of massachusetts by puritans. for some years past the dorchester adventurers--a small company of merchants in the shire town of dorset--had been sending vessels to catch fish off the new england coast. in 1623 these men conceived the idea of planting a small village as a fishing station, and setting up a church and preacher therein, for the spiritual solace of the fishermen and sailors. in pursuance of this scheme a small party occupied cape ann, where after two years they got into trouble with the men of plymouth. several grants and assignments had made it doubtful where the ownership lay, and although this place was not near their own town, the men of plymouth claimed it. the dispute was amicably arranged by roger conant, an independent settler who had withdrawn from plymouth because he did not fully sympathize with the separatist views of the people there. the next step was for the dorchester adventurers to appoint conant as their manager, and the next was for them to abandon their enterprise, dissolve their partnership, and leave the remnant of the little colony to shift for itself. the settlers retained their tools and cattle, and conant found for them a new and safer situation at naumkeag, on the site of the present salem. so far little seemed to have been accomplished; one more seemed added to the list of failures. but the excellent john white, the puritan rector of trinity church in dorchester, had meditated carefully about these things. he saw that many attempts at colonization had failed because they made use of unfit instruments, "a multitude of rude ungovernable persons, the very scum of the land." so virginia had failed in its first years, and only succeeded when settled by worthy and industrious people under a strong government. the example of plymouth, as contrasted with wessagusset, taught a similar lesson. we desire, said white, "to raise a bulwark against the kingdom of antichrist." learn wisdom, my countrymen, from the ruin which has befallen the protestants at rochelle and in the palatinate; learn "to avoid the plague while it is foreseen, and not to tarry as they did till it overtook them." the puritan party in england was numerous and powerful, but the day of strife was not far off and none might foretell its issue. clearly it was well to establish a strong and secure retreat in the new world, in case of disaster in the old. what had been done at plymouth by a few men of humble means might be done on a much greater scale by an association of leading puritans, including men of wealth and wide social influence. such arguments were urged in timely pamphlets, of one of which white is supposed to have been the author. the matter was discussed in london, and inquiry was made whether fit men could be found "to engage their persons in the voyage." "it fell out that among others they lighted at last on master endicott, a man well known to divers persons of good note, who manifested much willingness to accept of the offer as soon as it was tendered." all were thereby much encouraged, the schemes of white took definite shape, and on the 19th of march, 1628, a tract of land was obtained from the council for new england, consisting of all the territory included between three miles north of the merrimack and three miles south of the charles in one direction, and the atlantic and pacific oceans in the other. [sidenote: john white and his noble scheme] this liberal grant was made at a time when people still supposed the pacific coast to be not far west of henry hudson's river. the territory was granted to an association of six gentlemen, only one of whom--john endicott--figures conspicuously in the history of new england. the grant was made in the usual reckless style, and conflicted with various patents which had been issued before. in 1622 gorges and john mason had obtained a grant of all the land between the rivers kennebec and merrimack, and the new grant encroached somewhat upon this. the difficulty seems to have been temporarily adjusted by some sort of compromise which restricted the new grant to the merrimack, for in 1629 we find mason's title confirmed to the region between that river and the piscataqua, while later on gorges appears as proprietor of the territory between the piscataqua and the kennebec. a more serious difficulty was the claim of robert gorges, son of sir ferdinando. that young man had in 1623 obtained a grant of some 300 square miles in massachusetts, and had gone to look after it, but had soon returned discouraged to england and shortly afterward died. but his claim devolved upon his surviving brother, john gorges, and sir ferdinando, in consenting to the grant to endicott and his friends, expressly reserved the rights of his sons. no such reservation, however, was mentioned in the massachusetts charter, and the colonists never paid the slightest heed to it. in these conflicting claims were sown seeds of trouble which bore fruit for more than half a century. in such cases actual possession is apt to make nine points in the law, and accordingly endicott was sent over, as soon as possible, with sixty persons, to reinforce the party at naumkeag and supersede conant as its leader. on endicott's arrival in september, 1628, the settlers were at first inclined to dispute his authority, but they were soon conciliated, and in token of this amicable adjustment the place was called by the hebrew name of salem, or "peace." [sidenote: conflicting grants sow seeds of trouble] [sidenote: john endicot and the founding of salem] meanwhile mr. white and the partners in england were pushing things vigorously. their scheme took a wider scope. they were determined to establish something more than a trading company. from charles i. it was sometimes easy to get promises because he felt himself under no obligation to keep them. in march, 1629, a royal charter was granted, creating a corporation, under the legal style of the governor and company of massachusetts bay in new england. the affairs of this corporate body were to be managed by a governor, deputy-governor, and a council of eighteen assistants, to be elected annually by the company. they were empowered to make such laws as they liked for their settlers, provided they did not contravene the laws of england,--a proviso susceptible of much latitude of interpretation. the place where the company was to hold its meetings was not mentioned in the charter. the law-officers of the crown at first tried to insert a condition that the government must reside in england, but the grantees with skilful argument succeeding in preventing this. nothing was said in the charter about religious liberty, for a twofold reason: the crown would not have granted it, and it was not what the grantees wanted; such a provision would have been liable to hamper them seriously in carrying out their scheme. they preferred to keep in their own hands the question as to how much or how little religious liberty they should claim or allow. six small ships were presently fitted out, and upon them were embarked 300 men, 80 women, and 26 children, with 140 head of cattle, 40 goats, and abundance of arms, ammunition, and tools. the principal leader of this company was francis higginson, of st. john's college, cambridge, rector of a church in leicestershire, who had been deprived of his living for non-conformity. with him were associated two other ministers, also graduates of cambridge. all three were members of the council. by the arrival of this company at salem, endicott now became governor of a colony larger than any yet started in new england,--larger than plymouth after its growth of nearly nine years. [sidenote: the company of massachusetts bay] the time was at length ripe for that great puritan exodus of which the voyage of the mayflower had been the premonitory symptom. the grand crisis for the puritans had come, the moment when decisive action could no longer be deferred. it was not by accident that the rapid development of john white's enterprise into the company of massachusetts bay coincided exactly with the first four years of the reign of charles i. they were years well fitted to bring such a scheme to quick maturity. the character of charles was such as to exacerbate the evils of his father's reign. james could leave some things alone in the comfortable hope that all would by and by come out right, but charles was not satisfied without meddling everywhere. both father and son cherished some good intentions; both were sincere believers in their narrow theory of kingcraft. for wrong-headed obstinacy, utter want of tact, and bottomless perfidy, there was little to choose between them. the humorous epitaph of the grandson "whose word no man relies on" might have served for them all. but of this unhappy family charles i. was eminently the dreamer. he lived in a world of his own, and was slow in rendering thought into action; and this made him rely upon the quick-witted but unwise and unscrupulous buckingham, [5] who was silly enough to make feeble attempts at unpopular warfare without consulting parliament. during each of charles's first four years there was an angry session of parliament, in which, through the unwillingness of the popular leaders to resort to violence, the king's policy seemed able to hold its ground. despite all protest the king persisted in levying strange taxes and was to some extent able to collect them. men who refused to pay enforced loans were thrown into jail and the writ of _habeas corpus_ was denied them. meanwhile the treatment of puritans became more and more vexatious. it was clear enough that charles meant to become an absolute monarch, like louis xiii., but parliament began by throwing all the blame upon the unpopular minister and seeking to impeach him. on the 5th of june, 1628, the house of commons presented the most extraordinary spectacle, perhaps in all its history. the famous petition of right had been passed by both houses, and the royal answer had just been received. its tone was that of gracious assent, but it omitted the necessary legal formalities, and the commons well knew what this meant. they were to be tricked with sweet words, and the petition was not to acquire the force of a statute. how was it possible to deal with such a slippery creature? there was but one way of saving the dignity of the throne without sacrificing the liberty of the people, and that was to hold the king's ministers responsible to parliament, in anticipation of modern methods. it was accordingly proposed to impeach the duke of buckingham before the house of lords. the speaker now "brought an imperious message from the king, ... warning them ... that he would not tolerate any aspersion upon his ministers." nothing daunted by this, sir john eliot arose to lead the debate, when the speaker called him to order in view of the king's message. "amid a deadly stillness" eliot sat down and burst into tears. for a moment the house was overcome with despair. deprived of all constitutional methods of redress, they suddenly saw yawning before them the direful alternative--slavery or civil war. since the day of bosworth a hundred and fifty years had passed without fighting worthy of mention on english soil, such an era of peace as had hardly ever before been seen on the earth; now half the nation was to be pitted against the other half, families were to be divided against themselves, as in the dreadful days of the roses, and with what consequences no one could foresee. "let us sit in silence," quoth sir dudley digges, "we are miserable, we know not what to do!" nay, cried sir nathaniel rich, "we _must_ now speak, or forever hold our peace." then did grim mr. prynne and sir edward coke mingle their words with sobs, while there were few dry eyes in the house. presently they found their voices, and used them in a way that wrung from the startled king his formal assent to the petition of right. [sidenote: remarkable scene in the house of commons] there is something strangely pathetic and historically significant [6] in the emotion of these stern, fearless men. the scene was no less striking on the 2d of the following march, when, "amid the cries and entreaties of the speaker held down in his chair by force," while the usher of the black rod was knocking loudly at the bolted door, and the tramp of the king's soldiers was heard in the courtyard, eliot's clear voice rang out the defiance that whoever advised the levy of tonnage and poundage without a grant from parliament, or whoever voluntarily paid those duties, was to be counted an enemy to the kingdom and a betrayer of its liberties. as shouts of "aye, aye," resounded on every side, "the doors were flung open, and the members poured forth in a throng." the noble eliot went to end his days in the tower, and for eleven years no parliament sat again in england. [7] it was in one and the same week that charles i. thus began his experiment of governing without a parliament, and that he granted a charter to the company of massachusetts bay. he was very far, as we shall see, from realizing the import of what he was doing. to the puritan leaders it was evident that a great struggle was at hand. affairs at home might well seem desperate, and the news from abroad was not encouraging. it was only four months since the surrender of rochelle had ended the existence of the huguenots as an armed political party. they had now sunk into the melancholy condition of a tolerated sect which may at any moment cease to be tolerated. in germany the terrible thirty years war had just reached the darkest moment for the protestants. fifteen months were yet to pass before the immortal gustavus was to cross the baltic and give to the sorely harassed cause of liberty a fresh lease of life. the news of the cruel edict of restitution in this same fateful month of march, 1629, could not but give the english puritans great concern. everywhere in europe the champions of human freedom seemed worsted. they might well think that never had the prospect looked so dismal; and never before, as never since, did the venture of a wholesale migration to the new world so strongly recommend itself as the only feasible escape from a situation that was fast becoming intolerable. such were the anxious thoughts of the leading puritans in the spring of 1629, and in face of so grave a problem different minds came naturally to different conclusions. some were for staying in england to fight it out to the bitter end; some were for crossing the ocean to create a new england in the wilderness. either task was arduous enough, and not to be achieved without steadfast and sober heroism. [sidenote: desperate nature of the crisis] on the 26th of august twelve gentlemen, among the most eminent in the puritan party, held a meeting at cambridge, and resolved to lead a migration to new england, provided the charter of the massachusetts bay company and the government established under it could be transferred to that country. on examination it appeared that no legal obstacle stood in the way. accordingly such of the old officers as did not wish to take part in the emigration resigned their places, which were forthwith filled by these new leaders. for governor the choice fell upon john winthrop, a wealthy gentleman from groton in suffolk, who was henceforth to occupy the foremost place among the founders of new england. winthrop was at this time forty-one years of age, having been born in the memorable year of the armada. he was a man of remarkable strength and beauty of character, grave and modest, intelligent and scholarlike, intensely religious and endowed with a moral sensitiveness that was almost morbid, yet liberal withal in his opinions and charitable in disposition. when his life shall have been adequately written, as it never has been, he will be recognized as one of the very noblest figures in american history. from early youth he had that same power of winning confidence and commanding respect for which washington was so remarkable; and when he was selected as the moses of the great puritan exodus, there was a wide-spread feeling that extraordinary results were likely to come of such an enterprise. in marked contrast to winthrop stands the figure of the man associated with him as deputy-governor. thomas dudley came of an ancient family, the history of which, alike in the old and in the new england, has not been altogether creditable. he represented the elder branch of that norman family, to the younger branch of which belonged the unfortunate husband of lady jane grey and the unscrupulous husband of amy robsart. there was, however, very little likeness to elizabeth's gay lover in grim thomas dudley. his puritanism was bleak and stern, and for christian charity he was not eminent. he had a foible for making verses, and at his death there was found in his pocket a poem of his, containing a quatrain wherein the intolerance of that age is neatly summed up:-"let men of god in courts and churches watch o'er such as do a toleration hatch, lest that ill egg bring forth a cockatrice to poison all with heresy and vice." such was the spirit of most of the puritans of that day, but in the manifestation of it there were great differences, and here was the strong contrast between dudley and winthrop,--a contrast which shows itself in their portraits. in that of dudley we see the typical narrow-minded, strait-laced calvinist for whom it is so much easier to entertain respect than affection. in that of winthrop we see a face expressive of what was finest in the age of elizabeth,--the face of a spiritual brother of raleigh and bacon. the accession of two men so important as winthrop and dudley served to bring matters speedily to a crisis. their embarkation in april, 1630, was the signal for a general movement on the part of the english puritans. before christmas of that year seventeen ships had come to new england, bringing more than 1000 passengers. this huge wave of immigration quite overwhelmed and bore away the few links of possession by which gorges had thus far kept his hold upon the country. in january, 1629, john gorges had tried to assert the validity of his late brother's claim by executing conveyances covering portions of it. one of these was to john oldham, a man who had been harshly treated at plymouth, and might be supposed very ready to defend his rights against settlers of the puritan company. gorges further maintained that he retained possession of the country through the presence of his brother's tenants, blackstone, maverick, walford, and others on the shores of the bay. in june, 1629, endicott had responded by sending forward some fifty persons from salem to begin the settlement of charlestown. shortly before winthrop's departure from england, gorges had sent that singular personage sir christopher gardiner to look after his interests in the new world, and there he was presently found established near the mouth of the neponset river, in company with "a comly yonge woman whom he caled his cousin." but these few claimants were now at once lost in the human tide which poured over charlestown, boston, newtown, watertown, roxbury, and dorchester. the settlement at merrymount was again dispersed, and morton sent back to london; gardiner fled to the coast of maine and thence sailed for england in 1632. the puritans had indeed occupied the country in force. here on the very threshold we are confronted by facts which show that not a mere colonial plantation, but a definite and organized state was in process of formation. the emigration was not like that of jamestown or of plymouth. it sufficed at once to make the beginnings of half a dozen towns, and the question as to self-government immediately sprang up. early in 1631 a tax of â£60 was assessed upon the settlements, in order to pay for building frontier fortifications at newtown. this incident was in itself of small dimensions, as incidents in newly founded states are apt to be. but in its historic import it may serve to connect the england of john hampden with the new england of samuel adams. the inhabitants of watertown at first declined to pay this tax, which was assessed by the board of assistants, on the ground that english freemen cannot rightfully be taxed save by their own consent. this protest led to a change in the constitution of the infant colony, and here, at once, we are introduced to the beginnings of american constitutional history. at first it was thought that public business could be transacted by a primary assembly of all the freemen in the colony meeting four times in the year; but the number of freemen increased so fast that this was almost at once (in october, 1630) found to be impracticable. the right of choosing the governor and making the laws was then left to the board of assistants; and in may, 1631, it was further decided that the assistants need not be chosen afresh every year, but might keep their seats during good behaviour or until ousted by special vote of the freemen. if the settlers of massachusetts had been ancient greeks or romans, this would have been about as far as they could go in the matter; the choice would have been between a primary assembly and an assembly of notables. it is curious to see englishmen passing from one of these alternatives to the other. but it was only for a moment. the protest of the watertown men came in time to check these proceedings, which began to have a decidedly oligarchical look. to settle the immediate question of the tax, two deputies were sent from each settlement to advise with the board of assistants; while the power of choosing each year the governor and assistants was resumed by the freemen. two years later, in order to reserve to the freemen the power of making laws without interfering too much with the ordinary business of life, the colonists fell back upon the old english rural plan of electing deputies or representatives to a general court. [sidenote: the question as to self-government raised at watertown] at first the deputies sat in the same chamber with the assistants, but at length in 1644 they were formed into a second chamber with increased powers, and the way in which this important constitutional change came about is worth remembering, as an illustration of the smallness of the state which so soon was to play a great part in history. as winthrop puts it, "there fell out a great business upon a very small occasion." to a certain captain keayne, of boston, a rich man deemed to be hard and overbearing toward the poor, there was brought a stray pig, whereof he gave due public notice through the town-crier, yet none came to claim it till after he had killed a pig of his own which he kept in the same stye with the stray. a year having passed by, a poor woman named sherman came to see the stray and to decide if it were one that she had lost. not recognizing it as hers, she forthwith laid claim to the slaughtered pig. the case was brought before the elders of the church of boston, who decided that the woman was mistaken. mrs. sherman then accused the captain of theft, and brought the case before a jury, which exonerated the defendant with â£3 costs. the captain then sued mrs. sherman for defamation of character and got a verdict for â£40 damages, a round sum indeed to assess upon the poor woman. but long before this it had appeared that she had many partisans and supporters; it had become a political question, in which the popular protest against aristocracy was implicated. not yet browbeaten, the warlike mrs. sherman appealed to the general court. the length of the hearing shows the importance which was attached to the case. after seven days of discussion, the vote was taken. seven assistants and eight deputies approved the former decisions, two assistants and fifteen deputies condemned them, while seven deputies refrained from voting. in other words, captain keayne has a decided majority among the more aristocratic assistants, while mrs. sherman seemed to prevail with the more democratic deputies. regarding the result as the vote of a single body, the woman had a plurality of two; regarding it as the vote of a double body, her cause had prevailed in the lower house, but was lost by the veto of the upper. no decision was reached at the time, but after a year of discussion the legislature was permanently separated into two houses, each with a veto power upon the other; and this was felt to be a victory for the assistants. as for the ecclesiastical polity of the new colony, it had begun to take shape immediately upon the arrival of endicott's party at salem. the clergymen, samuel skelton and francis higginson, consecrated each other, and a church covenant and confession of faith were drawn up by higginson. thirty persons joining in this covenant constituted the first church in the colony; and several brethren appointed by this church proceeded formally to ordain the two ministers by the laying on of hands. in such simple wise was the first congregational church in massachusetts founded. the simple fact of removal from england converted all the puritan emigrants into separatists, as robinson had already predicted. some, however, were not yet quite prepared for so radical a measure. these proceedings gave umbrage to two of the salem party, who attempted forthwith to set up a separate church in conformity with episcopal models. a very important question was thus raised at once, but it was not allowed to disturb the peace of the colony. endicott was a man of summary methods. he immediately sent the two malcontents back to england; and thus the colonial church not only seceded from the national establishment, but the principle was virtually laid down that the episcopal form of worship would not be tolerated in the colony. for the present such a step was to be regarded as a measure of self-defence on the part of the colonists. episcopacy to them meant actual and practical tyranny--the very thing they had crossed the ocean expressly to get away from--and it was hardly to be supposed that they would encourage the growth of it in their new home. one or two surpliced priests, conducting worship in accordance with the book of common prayer, might in themselves be excellent members of society; but behind the surpliced priest the colonist saw the intolerance of laud and the despotism of the court of high commission. in 1631 a still more searching measure of self-protection was adopted. it was decided that "no man shall be admitted to the freedom of this body politic, but such as are members of some of the churches within the limits of the same." into the merits of this measure as illustrating the theocratic ideal of society which the puritans sought to realize in new england, we shall inquire hereafter. at present we must note that, as a measure of self-protection, this decree was intended to keep out of the new community all emissaries of strafford and laud, as well as such persons as morton and gardiner and other agents of sir ferdinando gorges. by the year 1634 the scheme of the massachusetts company had so far prospered that nearly 4000 englishmen had come over, and some twenty villages on or near the shores of the bay had been founded. the building of permanent houses, roads, fences, and bridges had begun to go on quite briskly; farms were beginning to yield a return for the labour of the husbandman; lumber, furs, and salted fish were beginning to be sent to england in exchange for manufactured articles; 4000 goats and 1500 head of cattle grazed in the pastures, and swine innumerable rooted in the clearings and helped to make ready the land for the ploughman. political meetings were held, justice was administered by magistrates after old english precedents, and church services were performed by a score of clergymen, nearly all graduates of cambridge, though one or two had their degrees from oxford, and nearly all of whom had held livings in the church of england. the most distinguished of these clergymen, john cotton, in his younger days a fellow and tutor of emmanuel college, had for more than twenty years been rector of st. botolph's, when he left the most magnificent parish church in england to hold service in the first rude meeting-house of the new boston. from emmanuel college came also thomas hooker and john harvard. besides these clergymen, so many of the leading persons concerned in the emigration were university men that it was not long before a university began to seem indispensable to the colony. in 1636 the general court appropriated â£400 toward the establishment of a college at newtown. in 1638 john harvard, dying childless, bequeathed his library and the half of his estate to the new college, which the court forthwith ordered to be called by his name; while in honour of the mother university the name of the town was changed to cambridge. [illustration: founding of harvard college] it has been said that the assembly which decreed the establishment of harvard college was "the first body in which the people, by their representatives, ever gave their own money to found a place of education." [8] the act was a memorable one if we have regard to all the circumstances of the year in which it was done. on every side danger was in the air. threatened at once with an indian war, with the enmity of the home government, and with grave dissensions among themselves, the year 1636 was a trying one indeed for the little community of puritans, and their founding a college by public taxation just at this time is a striking illustration of their unalterable purpose to realize, in this new home, their ideal of an educated christian society. [sidenote: threefold danger in the year 1636] that the government of charles i. should view with a hostile eye the growth of a puritan state in new england is not at all surprising. (1. from the king, who prepares to attack the infant colony but is fueled by dissensions at home.) the only fit ground for wonder would seem to be that charles should have been willing at the outset to grant a charter to the able and influential puritans who organized the company of massachusetts bay. probably, however, the king thought at first that it would relieve him at home if a few dozen of the puritan leaders could be allowed to concentrate their minds upon a project of colonization in america. it might divert attention for a moment from his own despotic schemes. very likely the scheme would prove a failure and the massachusetts colony incur a fate like that of roanoke island; and at all events the wealth of the puritans might better be sunk in a remote and perilous enterprise than employed at home in organizing resistance to the crown. such, very likely, may have been the king's motive in granting the massachusetts charter two days after turning his parliament out of doors. but the events of the last half-dozen years had come to present the case in a new light. the young colony was not languishing. it was full of sturdy life; it had wrought mischief to the schemes of gorges; and what was more, it had begun to take unheard-of liberties with things ecclesiastical and political. its example was getting to be a dangerous one. it was evidently worth while to put a strong curb upon massachusetts. any promise made to his subjects charles regarded as a promise made under duress which he was quite justified in breaking whenever it suited his purpose to do so. enemies of massachusetts were busy in england. schismatics from salem and revellers from merrymount were ready with their tales of woe, and now gorges and mason were vigorously pressing their territorial claims. they bargained with the king. in february, 1635, the moribund council for new england surrendered its charter and all its corporate rights in america, on condition that the king should disregard all the various grants by which these rights had from time to time been alienated, and should divide up the territory of new england in severalty among the members of the council. in pursuance of this scheme gorges and mason, together with half a dozen noblemen, were allowed to parcel out new england among themselves as they should see fit. in this way the influence of the marquis of hamilton, with the earls of arundel, surrey, carlisle, and stirling, might be actively enlisted against the massachusetts company. a writ of _quo warranto_ was brought against it; and it was proposed to send sir ferdinando to govern new england with viceregal powers like those afterward exercised by andros. for a moment the danger seemed alarming; but, as winthrop says, "the lord frustrated their design." it was noted as a special providence that the ship in which gorges was to sail was hardly off the stocks when it fell to pieces. then the most indefatigable enemy of the colony, john mason, suddenly died. the king issued his famous writ of ship-money and set all england by the ears; and, to crown all, the attempt to read the episcopal liturgy at st. giles's church in edinburgh led straight to the solemn league and covenant. amid the first mutterings of the great rebellion the proceedings against massachusetts were dropped, and the unheeded colony went on thriving in its independent course. possibly too some locks at whitehall may have been turned with golden keys, [9] for the company was rich, and the king was ever open to such arguments. but when the news of his evil designs had first reached boston the people of the infant colony showed no readiness to yield to intimidation. in their measures there was a decided smack of what was to be realized a hundred and forty years later. orders were immediately issued for fortifying castle island in the harbour and the heights at charlestown and dorchester. militia companies were put in training, and a beacon was set up on the highest hill in boston, to give prompt notice to all the surrounding country of any approaching enemy. while the ill will of the home government thus kept the colonists in a state of alarm, there were causes of strife at work at their very doors, of which they were fain to rid themselves as soon as possible. among all the puritans who came to new england there is no more interesting figure than the learned, quick-witted pugnacious welshman, roger williams. he was over-fond of logical subtleties and delighted in controversy. there was scarcely any subject about which he did not wrangle, from the sinfulness of persecution to the propriety of women wearing veils in church. yet, with all this love of controversy, there has perhaps never lived a more gentle and kindly soul. within five years from the settlement of massachusetts this young preacher had announced the true principles of religious liberty with a clearness of insight quite remarkable in that age. roger williams had been aided in securing an education by the great lawyer sir edward coke, and had lately taken his degree at pembroke college, cambridge; but the boldness with which he declared his opinions had aroused the hostility of laud, and in 1631 he had come over to plymouth, whence he removed two years later to salem, and became pastor of the church there. the views of williams, if logically carried out, involved the entire separation of church from state, the equal protection of all forms of religious faith, the repeal of all laws compelling attendance on public worship, the abolition of tithes and of all forced contributions to the support of religion. such views are to-day quite generally adopted by the more civilized portions of the protestant world; but it is needless to say that they were not the views of the seventeenth century, in massachusetts or elsewhere. for declaring such opinions as these on the continent of europe, anywhere except in holland, a man like williams would in that age have run great risk of being burned at the stake. in england, under the energetic misgovernment of laud, he would very likely have had to stand in the pillory with his ears cropped, or perhaps, like bunyan and baxter, would have been sent to jail. in massachusetts such views were naturally enough regarded as anarchical, but in williams's case they were further complicated by grave political imprudence. he wrote a pamphlet in which he denied the right of the colonists to the lands which they held in new england under the king's grant. he held that the soil belonged to the indians, that the settlers could only obtain a valid title to it by purchase from them, and that the acceptance of a patent from a mere intruder, like the king, was a sin requiring public repentance. this doctrine was sure to be regarded in england as an attack upon the king's supremacy over massachusetts, and at the same time an incident occurred in salem which made it all the more unfortunate. the royal colours under which the little companies of militia marched were emblazoned with the red cross of st. george. the uncompromising endicott loathed this emblem as tainted with popery, and one day he publicly defaced the flag of the salem company by cutting out the cross. the enemies of massachusetts misinterpreted this act as a defiance aimed at the royal authority, and they attributed it to the teachings of williams. in view of the king's unfriendliness these were dangerous proceedings. endicott was summoned before the general court at boston, where he was publicly reprimanded and declared incapable of holding office for a year. a few months afterward, in january, 1636, williams was ordered by the general court to come to boston and embark in a ship that was about to set sail for england. but he escaped into the forest, and made his way through the snow to the wigwam of massasoit. he was a rare linguist, and had learned to talk fluently in the language of the indians, and now he passed the winter in trying to instill into their ferocious hearts something of the gentleness of christianity. in the spring he was privately notified by winthrop that if he were to steer his course to narragansett bay he would be secure from molestation; and such was the beginning of the settlement of providence. [sidenote: from religious dissensions; roger williams] shortly before the departure of williams, there came to boston one of the greatest puritan statesmen of that heroic age, the younger henry vane. it is pleasant to remember that the man and anne who did so much to overthrow the tyranny of strafford, who brought the military strength of scotland to the aid of the hard-pressed parliament, who administered the navy with which blake won his astonishing victories, who dared even withstand cromwell at the height of his power when his measures became too violent,--it is pleasant to remember that this admirable man was once the chief magistrate of an american commonwealth. it is pleasant for a harvard man to remember that as such he presided over the assembly that founded our first university. thorough republican and enthusiastic lover of liberty, he was spiritually akin to jefferson and to samuel adams. like williams he was a friend to toleration, and like williams he found massachusetts an uncomfortable home. in 1636 he was only twenty-four years of age, "young in years," and perhaps not yet "in sage counsel old." he was chosen governor for that year, and his administration was stormy. among those persons who had followed mr. cotton from lincolnshire was mrs. anne hutchinson, a very bright and capable lady, if perhaps somewhat impulsive and indiscreet. she had brought over with her, says winthrop, "two dangerous errors: first, that the person of the holy ghost dwells in a justified person; second, that no sanctification can help to evidence to us our justification." into the merits of such abstruse doctrines it is not necessary for the historian to enter. one can hardly repress a smile as one reflects how early in the history of boston some of its characteristic social features were developed. it is curious to read of lectures there in 1636, lectures by a lady, and transcendentalist lectures withal! never did lectures in boston arouse greater excitement than mrs. hutchinson's. many of her hearers forsook the teachings of the regular ministers, to follow her. [sidenote: henry vane and anne hutchinson] she was very effectively supported by her brother-in-law, mr. wheelwright, an eloquent preacher, and for a while she seemed to be carrying everything before her. she won her old minister mr. cotton, she won the stout soldier captain underhill, she won governor vane himself; while she incurred the deadly hatred of such men as dudley and cotton's associate john wilson. the church at boston was divided into two hostile camps. the sensible winthrop marvelled at hearing men distinguished "by being under a covenant of grace or a covenant of works, as in other countries between protestants and papists," and he ventured to doubt whether any man could really tell what the difference was. the theological strife went on until it threatened to breed civil disaffection among the followers of mrs. hutchinson. a peculiar bitterness was given to the affair, from the fact that she professed to be endowed with the spirit of prophecy and taught her partisans that it was their duty to follow the biddings of a supernatural light; and there was nothing which the orthodox puritan so steadfastly abhorred as the anarchical pretence of living by the aid of a supernatural light. in a strong and complex society the teachings of mrs. hutchinson would have awakened but a languid speculative interest, or perhaps would have passed by unheeded. in the simple society of massachusetts in 1636, physically weak and as yet struggling for very existence, the practical effect of such teachings may well have been deemed politically dangerous. when things came to such a pass that the forces of the colony were mustered for an indian campaign and the men of boston were ready to shirk the service because they suspected their chaplain to be "under a covenant of works," it was naturally thought to be high time to put mrs. hutchinson down. in the spring of 1637 winthrop was elected governor, and in august vane returned to england. his father had at that moment more influence with the king than any other person except strafford, and the young man had indiscreetly hinted at an appeal to the home government for the protection of the antinomians, as mrs. hutchinson's followers were called. but an appeal from america to england was something which massachusetts would no more tolerate in the days of winthrop than in the days of hancock and adams. soon after vane's departure, mrs. hutchinson and her friends were ordered to leave the colony. it was doubtless an odious act of persecution, yet of all such acts which stain the history of massachusetts in the seventeenth century, it is just the one for which the plea of political necessity may really be to some extent accepted. we now begin to see how the spreading of the new england colonization, and the founding of distinct communities, was hastened by these differences of opinion on theological questions or on questions concerning the relations between church and state. of mrs. hutchinson's friends and adherents, some went northward, and founded the towns of exeter and hampton. some time before portsmouth and dover had been settled by followers of mason and gorges. in 1641 these towns were added to the domain of massachusetts, and so the matter stood until 1679, when we shall see charles ii. marking them off as a separate province, under a royal government. such were the beginnings of new hampshire. mrs. hutchinson herself, however, with the rest of her adherents, bought the island of aquedneck from the indians, and settlements were made at portsmouth and newport. after a quarter of a century of turbulence, these settlements coalesced with williams's colony at providence, and thus was formed the state of rhode island. after her husband's death in 1642, mrs. hutchinson left aquedneck and settled upon some land to the west of stamford and supposed to be within the territory of the new netherlands. there in the following year she was cruelly murdered by indians, together with nearly all her children and servants, sixteen victims in all. one of her descendants was the illustrious thomas hutchinson, the first great american historian, and last royal governor of massachusetts. to the dangers arising from the ill-will of the crown, and from these theological quarrels, there was added the danger of a general attack by the savages. down to this time, since the landing of the pilgrims at plymouth, the settlers of new england had been in no way molested by the natives. massasoit's treaty with the pilgrims was scrupulously observed on both sides, and kept the wampanoags quiet for fifty-four years. the somewhat smaller tribe which took its name from the _massawachusett_, or great hill, of milton, kept on friendly terms with the settlers about boston, because these red men coveted the powerful aid of the white strangers in case of war with their hereditary foes the tarratines, who dwelt in the piscataqua country. it was only when the english began to leave these coast regions and press into the interior that trouble arose. the western shores of narragansett bay were possessed by the numerous and warlike tribe of that name, which held in partial subjection the nyantics near point judith. to the west of these, and about the thames river, dwelt the still more formidable pequots, a tribe which for bravery and ferocity asserted a preeminence in new england not unlike that which the iroquois league of the mohawk valley was fast winning over all north america east of the mississippi. north of the pequots, the squalid villages of the nipmucks were scattered over the beautiful highlands that stretch in long ridges from quinsigamond to nichewaug, and beyond toward blue monadnock. westward, in the lower connecticut valley, lived the mohegans, a small but valiant tribe, now for some time held tributary to their pequot cousins, and very restive under the yoke. the thickly wooded mountain ranges between the connecticut and the hudson had few human inhabitants. these hundred miles of crag and forest were a bulwark none too wide or strong against the incursions of the terrible mohawks, whose name sent a shiver of fear throughout savage new england, and whose forbearance the nipmucks and mohegans were fain to ensure by a yearly payment of blackmail. each summer there came two mohawk elders, secure in the dread that iroquois prowess had everywhere inspired; and up and down the connecticut valley they seized the tribute of weapons and wampum, and proclaimed the last harsh edict issued from the savage council at onondaga. the scowls that greeted their unwelcome visits were doubtless nowhere fiercer than among the mohegans, thus ground down between mohawk and pequot as between the upper and the nether millstone. [sidenote: from the indians: the pequot supremacy] among the various points in which civilized man surpasses the savage none is more conspicuous than the military brute force which in the highest civilization is always latent though comparatively seldom exerted. the sudden intrusion of english warfare into the indian world of the seventeenth century may well have seemed to the red men a supernatural visitation, like the hurricane or the earthquake. the uncompromising vigour with which the founders of massachusetts carried on their work was viewed in some quarters with a dissatisfaction which soon thrust the english migration into the very heart of the indian country. the first movement, however, was directed against the encroachments of the new netherlands. in october, 1634, some men of plymouth, led by william holmes, sailed up the connecticut river, and, after bandying threats with a party of dutch who had built a rude fort on the site of hartford, passed on and fortified themselves on the site of windsor. next year governor van twiller sent a company of seventy men to drive away these intruders, but after reconnoitring the situation the dutchmen thought it best not to make an attack. their little stronghold at hartford remained unmolested by the english, and, in order to secure the communication between this advanced outpost and new amsterdam, van twiller decided to build another fort at the mouth of the river, but this time the english were beforehand. rumours of dutch designs may have reached the ears of lord say and sele and lord brooke--"fanatic brooke," as scott calls him in "marmion"--who had obtained from the council for new england a grant of territory on the shores of the sound. these noblemen chose as their agent the younger john winthrop, son of the massachusetts governor, and this new-comer arrived upon the scene just in time to drive away van twiller's vessel and build an english fort which in honour of his two patrons he called "say-brooke." had it not been for seeds of discontent already sown in massachusetts, the english hold upon the connecticut valley might perhaps have been for a few years confined to these two military outposts at windsor and saybrook. but there were people in massachusetts who did not look with favour upon the aristocratic and theocratic features in its polity. the provision that none but church-members should vote or hold office was by no means unanimously approved. we see it in the course of another generation putting altogether too much temporal power into the hands of the clergy, and we can trace the growth of the opposition to it until in the reign of charles ii. it becomes a dangerous source of weakness to massachusetts. at the outset the opposition seems to have been strongest in dorchester, newtown, and watertown. when the board of assistants undertook to secure for themselves permanency of tenure, together with the power of choosing the governor and making the laws, these three towns sent deputies to boston to inspect the charter and see if it authorized any such stretch of power. they were foremost in insisting that representatives chosen by the towns must have a share in the general government. men who held such opinions were naturally unwilling to increase the political weight of the clergy, who, during these early disputes and indeed until the downfall of the charter, were inclined to take aristocratic views and to sympathize with the board of assistants. cotton declared that democracy was no fit government either for church or for commonwealth, and the majority of the ministers agreed with him. chief among those who did not was the learned and eloquent thomas hooker, pastor of the church at newtown. when winthrop, in a letter to hooker, defended the restriction of the suffrage on the ground that "the best part is always the least, and of that best part the wiser part is always the lesser;" hooker replied that "in matters which concern the common good, a general council, chosen by all, to transact businesses which concern all, i conceive most suitable to rule and most safe for relief of the whole." it is interesting to meet, on the very threshold of american history, with such a lucid statement of the strongly contrasted views which a hundred and fifty years later were to be represented on a national scale by hamilton and jefferson. there were many in newtown who took hooker's view of the matter; and there, as also in watertown and dorchester, which in 1633 took the initiative in framing town governments with selectmen, a strong disposition was shown to evade the restrictions upon the suffrage. while such things were talked about in the summer of 1633 the adventurous john oldham was making his way through the forest and over the mountains into the connecticut valley, and when he returned to the coast his glowing accounts set some people to thinking. two years afterward a few pioneers from dorchester pushed through the wilderness as far as the plymouth men's fort at windsor, while a party from watertown went farther and came to a halt upon the site of wethersfield. a larger party, bringing cattle and such goods as they could carry, set out in the autumn and succeeded in reaching windsor. their winter supplies were sent around by water to meet them, but early in november the ships had barely passed the saybrook fort when they found the river blocked with ice and were obliged to return to boston. the sufferings of the pioneers, thus cut off from the world, were dreadful. their cattle perished, and they were reduced to a diet of acorns and ground-nuts. some seventy of them, walking on the frozen river to saybrook, were so fortunate as to find a crazy little sloop jammed in the ice. they succeeded in cutting her adrift, and steered themselves back to boston. others surmounted greater obstacles in struggling back through the snow over the region which the pullman car now traverses, regardless of seasons, in three hours. a few grim heroes, the nameless founders of a noble commonwealth, stayed on the spot and defied starvation. in the next june, 1636, the newtown congregation, a hundred or more in number, led by their sturdy pastor, and bringing with them 160 head of cattle, made the pilgrimage to the connecticut valley. women and children took part in this pleasant summer journey; mrs. hooker, the pastor's wife, being too ill to walk, was carried on a litter. thus, in the memorable year in which our great university was born, did cambridge become, in the true greek sense of a much-abused word, the _metropolis_ or "mother town" of hartford. the migration at once became strong in numbers. during the past twelvemonth a score of ships had brought from england to massachusetts more than 3000 souls, and so great an accession made further movement easy. hooker's pilgrims were soon followed by the dorchester and watertown congregations, and by the next may 800 people were living in windsor, hartford, and wethersfield. as we read of these movements, not of individuals, but of organic communities, united in allegiance to a church and its pastor, and fervid with the instinct of self-government, we seem to see greek history renewed, but with centuries of added political training. for one year a board of commissioners from massachusetts governed the new towns, but at the end of that time the towns chose representatives and held a general court at hartford, and thus the separate existence of connecticut was begun. as for springfield, which was settled about the same time by a party from roxbury, it remained for some years doubtful to which state it belonged. at the opening session of the general court, may 31,1638, mr. hooker preached a sermon of wonderful power, in which he maintained that "the foundation of authority is laid in the free consent of the people," "that the choice of public magistrates belongs unto the people by god's own allowance," and that "they who have power to appoint officers and magistrates have the right also to set the bounds and limitations of the power and place unto which they call them." on the 14th of january, 1639, all the freemen of the three towns assembled at hartford and adopted a written constitution in which the hand of the great preacher is clearly discernible. it is worthy of note that this document contains none of the conventional references to a "dread sovereign" or a "gracious king," nor the slightest allusion to the british or any other government outside of connecticut itself, nor does it prescribe any condition of church-membership for the right of suffrage. it was the first written constitution known to history, that created a government, [10] and it marked the beginnings of american democracy, of which thomas hooker deserves more than any other man to be called the father. the government of the united states today is in lineal descent more nearly related to that of connecticut than to that of any of the other thirteen colonies. the most noteworthy feature of the connecticut republic was that it was a federation of independent towns, and that all attributes of sovereignty not expressly granted to the general court remained, as of original right, in the towns. moreover, while the governor and council were chosen by a majority vote of the whole people, and by a suffrage that was almost universal, there was for each township an equality of representation in the assembly. [11] this little federal republic was allowed to develop peacefully and normally; its constitution was not violently wrenched out of shape like that of massachusetts at the end of the seventeenth century. it silently grew till it became the strongest political structure on the continent, as was illustrated in the remarkable military energy and the unshaken financial credit of connecticut during the revolutionary war; and in the chief crisis of the federal convention of 1787 connecticut, with her compromise which secured equal state representation in one branch of the national government and popular representation in the other, played the controlling part. [sidenote: connecticut pioneers] [sidenote: the first written constitution] before the little federation of towns had framed its government, it had its indian question to dispose of. three years before the migration led by hooker, a crew of eight traders, while making their way up the river to the dutch station on the site of hartford, had been murdered by a party of indians subject to sassacus, chief sachem of the pequots. negotiations concerning this outrage had gone on between sassacus and the government at boston, and the pequots had promised to deliver up the murderers, but had neglected to do so. in the summer of 1636 some indians on block island subject to the narragansetts murdered the pioneer john oldham, who was sailing on the sound, and captured his little vessel. at this, says underhill, "god stirred up the hearts" of governor vane and the rest of the magistrates. they were determined to make an end of the indian question and show the savages that such things would not be endured. first an embassy was sent to canonicus and his nephew miantonomo, chief sachems of the narragansetts, who hastened to disclaim all responsibility for the murder, and to throw the blame entirely upon the indians of the island. vane then sent out three vessels under command of endicott, who ravaged block island, burning wigwams, sinking canoes, and slaying dogs, for the men had taken to the woods. endicott then crossed to the mainland to reckon with the pequots. he demanded the surrender of the murderers, with a thousand fathoms of wampum for damages; and not getting a satisfactory answer, he attacked the indians, killed a score of them, seized their ripe corn, and burned and spoiled what he could. but such reprisals served only to enrage the red men. lyon gardiner, commander of the saybrook fort, complained to endicott: "you come hither to raise these wasps about my ears; then you will take wing and flee away." the immediate effect was to incite sassacus to do his utmost to compass the ruin of the english. the superstitious awe with which the white men were at first regarded had been somewhat lessened by familiar contact with them, as in aesop's fable of the fox and the lion. the resources of indian diplomacy were exhausted in the attempt to unite the narragansett warriors with the pequots in a grand crusade against the white men. such a combination could hardly have been as formidable as that which was effected forty years afterward in king philip's war; for the savages had not as yet become accustomed to firearms, and the english settlements did not present so many points exposed to attack; but there is no doubt that it might have wrought fearful havoc. we can, at any rate, find no difficulty in comprehending the manifold perplexity of the massachusetts men at this time, threatened as they were at once by an indian crusade, by the machinations of a faithless king, and by a bitter theological quarrel at home, in this eventful year when they laid aside part of their incomes to establish harvard college. [sidenote: origin of the pequot war] the schemes of sassacus were unsuccessful. the hereditary enmity of the narragansetts toward their pequot rivals was too strong to be lightly overcome. roger williams, taking advantage of this feeling, so worked upon the minds of the narragansett chiefs that in the autumn of 1636 they sent an embassy to boston and made a treaty of alliance with the english. the pequots were thus left to fight out their own quarrel; and had they still been separated from the english by the distance between boston and the thames river, the feud might very likely have smouldered until the drift of events had given a different shape to it. but as the english had in this very year thrown out their advanced posts into the lower connecticut valley, there was clearly no issue from the situation save in deadly war. all through the winter of 1636-37 the connecticut towns were kept in a state of alarm by the savages. men going to their work were killed and horribly mangled. a wethersfield man was kidnapped and roasted alive. emboldened by the success of this feat, the pequots attacked wethersfield, massacred ten people, and carried away two girls. [sidenote: sassacus is foiled by roger williams] [sidenote: the pequots take the warpath alone] wrought up to desperation by these atrocities, the connecticut men appealed to massachusetts and plymouth for aid, and put into service ninety of their own number, under command of john mason, an excellent and sturdy officer who had won golden opinions from sir thomas fairfax, under whom he had served in the netherlands. it took time to get men from boston, and all that massachusetts contributed to the enterprise at its beginning was that eccentric daredevil john underhill, with a force of twenty men. seventy friendly mohegans, under their chief uncas, eager to see vengeance wrought upon their pequot oppressors, accompanied the expedition. from the fort at saybrook this little company set sail on the twentieth of may, 1637, and landed in brilliant moonlight near point judith, where they were reinforced by four hundred narragansetts and nyantics. from this point they turned westward toward the stronghold of the pequots, near the place where the town of stonington now stands. as they approached the dreaded spot the courage of the indian allies gave out, and they slunk behind, declaring that sassacus was a god whom it was useless to think of attacking. the force with which mason and underhill advanced to the fray consisted of just seventy-seven englishmen. their task was to assault and carry an entrenched fort or walled village containing seven hundred pequots. the fort was a circle of two or three acres in area, girdled by a palisade of sturdy sapling-trunks, set firm and deep into the ground, the narrow interstices between them serving as loopholes wherefrom to reconnoitre any one passing by and to shoot at assailants. at opposite sides of this stronghold were two openings barely large enough to let any one go through. within this enclosure were the crowded wigwams. the attack was skilfully managed, and was a complete surprise. a little before daybreak mason, with sixteen men, occupied one of the doors, while underhill made sure of the other. the indians in panic sought first one outlet and then the other, and were ruthlessly shot down, whichever way they turned. a few succeeded in breaking loose, but these were caught and tomahawked by the indian allies, who, though afraid to take the risks of the fight, were ready enough to help slay the fugitives. the english threw firebrands among the wigwams, and soon the whole village was in a light blaze, and most of the savages suffered the horrible death which they were so fond of inflicting upon their captives. of the seven hundred pequots in the stronghold, but five got away with their lives. all this bloody work had been done in less than an hour, and of the english there had been two killed and sixteen wounded. it was the end of the pequot nation. of the remnant which had not been included in this wholesale slaughter, most were soon afterwards destroyed piecemeal in a running fight which extended as far westward as the site of fairfield. sassacus fled across the hudson river to the mohawks, who slew him and sent his scalp to boston, as a peace-offering to the english. the few survivors were divided between the mohegans and narragansetts and adopted into those tribes. truly the work was done with cromwellian thoroughness. the tribe which had lorded it so fiercely over the new england forests was all at once wiped out of existence. so terrible a vengeance the indians had never heard of. if the name of pequot had hitherto been a name of terror, so now did the englishmen win the inheritance of that deadly prestige. not for eight-and-thirty years after the destruction of the pequots, not until a generation of red men had grown up that knew not underhill and mason, did the indian of new england dare again to lift his hand against the white man. [sidenote: and are exterminated] such scenes of wholesale slaughter are not pleasant reading in this milder age. but our forefathers felt that the wars of canaan afforded a sound precedent for such cases; and, indeed, if we remember what the soldiers of tilly and wallenstein were doing at this very time in germany, we shall realize that the work of mason and underhill would not have been felt by any one in that age to merit censure or stand in need of excuses. as a matter of practical policy the annihilation of the pequots can be condemned only by those who read history so incorrectly as to suppose that savages, whose business is to torture and slay, can always be dealt with according to the methods in use between civilized peoples. a mighty nation, like the united states, is in honour bound to treat the red man with scrupulous justice and refrain from cruelty in punishing his delinquencies. but if the founders of connecticut, in confronting a danger which threatened their very existence, struck with savage fierceness, we cannot blame them. the world is so made that it is only in that way that the higher races have been able to preserve themselves and carry on their progressive work. the overthrow of the pequots was a cardinal event in the planting of new england. it removed the chief obstacle to the colonization of the connecticut coast, and brought the inland settlements into such unimpeded communication with those on tide-water as to prepare the way for the formation of the new england confederacy. its first fruits were seen in the direction taken by the next wave of migration, which ended the puritan exodus from england to america. about a month after the storming of the palisaded village there arrived in boston a company of wealthy london merchants, with their families. the most prominent among them, theophilus eaton, was a member of the company of massachusetts bay. their pastor, john davenport, was an eloquent preacher and a man of power. he was a graduate of oxford, and in 1624 had been chosen vicar of st. stephen's parish, in coleman street, london. when he heard that cotton and hooker were about to sail for america, he sought earnestly to turn them from what he deemed the error of their ways, but instead he became converted himself and soon incurred the especial enmity of laud, so that it became necessary for him to flee to amsterdam. in 1636 he returned to england, and in concert with eaton organized a scheme of emigration that included men from yorkshire, hertfordshire, and kent. the leaders arrived in boston in the midst of the antinomian disputes, and although davenport won admiration for his skill in battling with heresy, he may perhaps have deemed it preferable to lead his flock to some new spot in the wilderness where such warfare might not be required. the merchants desired a fine harbour and good commercial situation, and the reports of the men who returned from hunting the pequots told them of just such a spot at quinnipiack on long island sound. here they could carry out their plan of putting into practice a theocratic ideal even more rigid than that which obtained in massachusetts, and arrange their civil as well as ecclesiastical affairs in accordance with rules to be obtained from a minute study of the scriptures. [sidenote: the colony of new haven] in the spring of 1638 the town of new haven was accordingly founded. the next year a swarm from this new town settled milford, while another party, freshly arrived from england, made the beginnings of guilford. in 1640 stamford was added to the group, and in 1643 the four towns were united into the republic of new haven, to which southold, on long island, and branford were afterwards added. as being a confederation of independent towns, new haven resembled connecticut. in other respects the differences between the two reflected the differences between davenport and hooker; the latter was what would now be called more radical than winthrop or cotton, the former was more conservative. in the new haven colony none but church-members could vote, and this measure at the outset disfranchised more than half the settlers in new haven town, nearly half in guilford, and less than one fifth in milford. this result was practically less democratic than in massachusetts where it was some time before the disfranchisement attained such dimensions. the power of the clergy reached its extreme point in new haven, where each of the towns was governed by seven ecclesiastical officers known as "pillars of the church." these magistrates served as judges, and trial by jury was dispensed with, because no authority could be found for it in the laws of moses. the legislation was quaint enough, though the famous "blue laws" of new haven, which have been made the theme of so many jests at the expense of our forefathers, never really existed. the story of the blue laws was first published in 1781 by the rev. samuel peters, a tory refugee in london, who took delight in horrifying our british cousins with tales of wholesale tarring and feathering done by the patriots of the revolution. in point of strict veracity dr. peters reminds one of baron munchausen; he declares that the river at bellows falls flows so fast as to float iron crowbars, and he gravely describes sundry animals who were evidently cousins to the jabberwok. the most famous passage of his pretended code is that which enacts that "no woman shall kiss her child on the sabbath," and that "no one shall play on any instrument of music except the drum, trumpet, or jewsharp." [sidenote: legend of the "blue laws"] when the long parliament met in 1640, the puritan exodus to new england came to an end. during the twenty years which had elapsed since the voyage of the mayflower, the population had grown to 26,000 souls. of this number scarcely 500 had arrived before 1629. it is a striking fact, since it expresses a causal relation and not a mere coincidence, that the eleven years, 1629-1640, during which charles i. governed england without a parliament, were the same eleven years that witnessed the planting of new england. for more than a century after this there was no considerable migration to this part of north america. puritan england now found employment for all its energies and all its enthusiasm at home. the struggle with the king and the efforts toward reorganization under cromwell were to occupy it for another score of years, and then, by the time of the restoration the youthful creative energy of puritanism had spent itself. the influence of this great movement was indeed destined to grow wider and deeper with the progress of civilization, but after 1660 its creative work began to run in new channels and assume different forms. [sidenote: end of the puritan exodus] it is curious to reflect what might have been the result, to america and to the world, had things in england gone differently between 1620 and 1660. had the policy of james and charles been less formidable, the puritan exodus might never have occurred, and the virginian type of society, varied perhaps by a strong dutch infusion, might have become supreme in america. the western continent would have lost in richness and variety of life, and it is not likely that europe would have made a corresponding gain, for the moral effect of the challenge, the struggle, and the overthrow of monarchy in england was a stimulus sorely needed by neighbouring peoples. it is not always by avoiding the evil, it is rather by grappling with it and conquering it that character is strengthened and life enriched, and there is no better example of this than the history of england in the seventeenth century. on the other hand, if the stuart despotism had triumphed in england, the puritan exodus would doubtless have been swelled to huge dimensions. new england would have gained strength so quickly that much less irritation than she actually suffered between 1664 and 1689 would probably have goaded her into rebellion. the war of independence might have been waged a century sooner than it was. it is not easy to point to any especial advantage that could have come to america from this; one is rather inclined to think of the peculiarly valuable political training of the eighteenth century that would have been lost. such surmises are for the most part idle. but as concerns europe, it is plain to be seen, for reasons stated in my first chapter, that the decisive victory of charles i. would have been a calamity of the first magnitude. it would have been like the greeks losing marathon or the saracens winning tours, supposing the worst consequences ever imagined in those hypothetical cases to have been realized. or taking a more contracted view, we can see how england, robbed of her puritan element, might still have waxed in strength, as france has done in spite of losing the huguenots; but she could not have taken the proud position that she has come to occupy as mother of nations. her preeminence since cromwell's time has been chiefly due to her unrivalled power of planting self-supporting colonies, and that power has had its roots in english self-government. it is the vitality of the english idea that is making the language of cromwell and washington dominant in the world. chapter iv. the new england confederacy. the puritan exodus to new england, which came to an end about 1640, was purely and exclusively english. there was nothing in it that came from the continent of europe, nothing that was either irish or scotch, very little that was welsh. as palfrey says, the population of 26,000 that had been planted in new england by 1640 "thenceforward continued to multiply on its own soil for a century and a half, in remarkable seclusion from other communities." during the whole of this period new england received but few immigrants; and it was not until after the revolutionary war that its people had fairly started on their westward march into the state of new york and beyond, until now, after yet another century, we find some of their descendants dwelling in a homelike salem and a portland of charming beauty on the pacific coast. three times between the meeting of the long parliament and the meeting of the continental congress did the new england colonies receive a slight infusion of non-english blood. in 1652, after his victories at dunbar and worcester, cromwell sent 270 of his scottish prisoners to boston, where the descendants of some of them still dwell. after the revocation of the edict of nantes in 1685, 150 families of huguenots came to massachusetts. and finally in 1719, 120 presbyterian families came over from the north of ireland, and settled at londonderry in new hampshire, and elsewhere. in view of these facts it may be said that there is not a county in england of which the population is more purely english than the population of new england at the end of the eighteenth century. from long and careful research, mr. savage, the highest authority on this subject, concludes that more than 98 in 100 of the new england people at that time could trace their origin to england in the narrowest sense, excluding even wales. as already observed, every english shire contributed something to the emigration, but there was a marked preponderance of people from the east anglian counties. [sidenote: the exodus was purely english] the population of new england was nearly as homogeneous in social condition as it was in blood. the emigration was preeminent for its respectability. like the best part of the emigration to virginia, it consisted largely of country squires and yeomen. the men who followed winthrop were thrifty and prosperous in their old homes from which their devotion to an idea made them voluntary exiles. they attached so much importance to regular industry and decorous behaviour that for a long time the needy and shiftless people who usually make trouble in new colonies were not tolerated among them. hence the early history of new england is remarkably free from those scenes of violence and disorder which have so often made hideous the first years of new communities. of negro slaves there were very few, and these were employed wholly in domestic service; there were not enough of them to affect the industrial life of new england or to be worth mentioning as a class. neither were there many of the wretched people, kidnapped from the jails and slums of english sea-ports, such as in those early days when negro labour was scarce, were sent by ship-loads to virginia, to become the progenitors of the "white trash." there were a few indented white servants, usually of the class known as "redemptioners," or immigrants who voluntarily bound themselves to service for a stated time in order to defray the cost of their voyage from europe. at a later time there were many of these "redemptioners" in the middle colonies, but in new england they were very few; and as no stigma of servitude was attached to manual labour, they were apt at the end of their terms of service to become independent farmers; thus they ceased to be recognizable as a distinct class of society. nevertheless the common statement that no traces of the "mean white" are to be found in new england is perhaps somewhat too sweeping. interspersed among those respectable and tidy mountain villages, once full of such vigorous life, one sometimes comes upon little isolated groups of wretched hovels whose local reputation is sufficiently indicated by such terse epithets as "hardscrabble" or "hell-huddle." their denizens may in many instances be the degenerate offspring of a sound new england stock, but they sometimes show strong points of resemblance to that "white trash" which has come to be a recognizable strain of the english race; and one cannot help suspecting that while the new england colonies made every effort to keep out such riff raff, it may nevertheless have now and then crept in. however this may be, it cannot be said that this element ever formed a noticeable feature in the life of colonial new england. as regards their social derivation, the settlers of new england were homogeneous in character to a remarkable degree, and they were drawn from the sturdiest part of the english stock. in all history there has been no other instance of colonization so exclusively effected by picked and chosen men. the colonists knew this, and were proud of it, as well they might be. it was the simple truth that was spoken by william stoughton when he said, in his election sermon of 1688: "god sifted a whole nation, that he might send choice grain into the wilderness." [sidenote: respectable character of the emigration] this matter comes to have more than a local interest, when we reflect that the 26,000 new englanders of 1640 have in two hundred and fifty years increased to something like 15,000,000. from these men have come at least one-fourth of the present population of the united states. striking as this fact may seem, it is perhaps less striking than the fact of the original migration when duly considered. in these times, when great steamers sail every day from european ports, bringing immigrants to a country not less advanced in material civilization than the country which they leave, the daily arrival of a thousand new citizens has come to be a commonplace event. but in the seventeenth century the transfer of more than twenty thousand well-to-do people within twenty years from their comfortable homes in england to the american wilderness was by no means a commonplace event. it reminds one of the migrations of ancient peoples, and in the quaint thought of our forefathers it was aptly likened to the exodus of israel from the egyptian house of bondage. in this migration a principle of selection was at work which insured an extraordinary uniformity of character and of purpose among the settlers. to this uniformity of purpose, combined with complete homogeneity of race, is due the preponderance early acquired by new england in the history of the american people. in view of this, it is worth while to inquire what were the real aims of the settlers of new england. what was the common purpose which brought these men together in their resolve to create for themselves new homes in the wilderness? this is a point concerning which there has been a great deal of popular misapprehension, and there has been no end of nonsense talked about it. it has been customary first to assume that the puritan migration was undertaken in the interests of religious liberty, and then to upbraid the puritans for forgetting all about religious liberty as soon as people came among them who disagreed with their opinions. but this view of the case is not supported by history. it is quite true that the puritans were chargeable with gross intolerance; but it is not true that in this they were guilty of inconsistency. the notion that they came to new england for the purpose of establishing religious liberty, in any sense in which we should understand such a phrase, is entirely incorrect. it is neither more nor less than a bit of popular legend. if we mean by the phrase "religious liberty" a state of things in which opposite or contradictory opinions on questions of religion shall exist side by side in the same community, and in which everybody shall decide for himself how far he will conform to the customary religious observances, nothing could have been further from their thoughts. there is nothing they would have regarded with more genuine abhorrence. if they could have been forewarned by a prophetic voice of the general freedom--or, as they would have termed it, license--of thought and behaviour which prevails in this country to-day, they would very likely have abandoned their enterprise in despair. [12] the philosophic student of history often has occasion to see how god is wiser than man. in other words, he is often brought to realize how fortunate it is that the leaders in great historic events cannot foresee the remote results of the labours to which they have zealously consecrated their lives. it is part of the irony of human destiny that the end we really accomplish by striving with might and main is apt to be something quite different from the end we dreamed of as we started on our arduous labour. so it was with the puritan settlers of new england. the religious liberty that we enjoy to-day is largely the consequence of their work; but it is a consequence that was unforeseen, while the direct and conscious aim of their labours was something that has never been realized, and probably never will be. [sidenote: the migration was not intended to promote what we call religious liberty] the aim of winthrop and his friends in coming to massachusetts was the construction of a theocratic state which should be to christians, under the new testament dispensation, all that the theocracy of moses and joshua and samuel had been to the jews in old testament days. they should be to all intents and purposes freed from the jurisdiction of the stuart king, and so far as possible the text of the holy scriptures should be their guide both in weighty matters of general legislation and in the shaping of the smallest details of daily life. in such a scheme there was no room for religious liberty as we understand it. no doubt the text of the scriptures may be interpreted in many ways, but among these men there was a substantial agreement as to the important points, and nothing could have been further from their thoughts than to found a colony which should afford a field for new experiments in the art of right living. the state they were to found was to consist of a united body of believers; citizenship itself was to be co-extensive with church-membership; and in such a state there was apparently no more room for heretics than there was in rome or madrid. this was the idea which drew winthrop and his followers from england at a time when--as events were soon to show--they might have stayed there and defied persecution with less trouble than it cost them to cross the ocean and found a new state. [sidenote: theocratic ideal of the puritans] such an ideal as this, considered by itself and apart from the concrete acts in which it was historically manifested, may seem like the merest fanaticism. but we cannot dismiss in this summary way a movement which has been at the source of so much that is great in american history: mere fanaticism has never produced such substantial results. mere fanaticism is sure to aim at changing the constitution of human society in some essential point, to undo the work of evolution, and offer in some indistinctly apprehended fashion to remodel human life. but in these respects the puritans were intensely conservative. the impulse by which they were animated was a profoundly ethical impulse--the desire to lead godly lives, and to drive out sin from the community--the same ethical impulse which animates the glowing pages of hebrew poets and prophets, and which has given to the history and literature of israel their commanding influence in the world. the greek, says matthew arnold, held that the perfection of happiness was to have one's thoughts hit the mark; but the hebrew held that it was to serve the lord day and night. it was a touch of this inspiration that the puritan caught from his earnest and reverent study of the sacred text, and that served to justify and intensify his yearning for a better life, and to give it the character of a grand and holy ideal. yet with all this religious enthusiasm, the puritan was in every fibre a practical englishman with his full share of plain common-sense. he avoided the error of mediaeval anchorites and mystics in setting an exaggerated value upon otherworldliness. in his desire to win a crown of glory hereafter he did not forget that the present life has its simple duties, in the exact performance of which the welfare of society mainly consists. he likewise avoided the error of modern radicals who would remodel the fundamental institutions of property and of the family, and thus disturb the very groundwork of our ethical ideals. the puritan's ethical conception of society was simply that which has grown up in the natural course of historical evolution, and which in its essential points is therefore intelligible to all men, and approved by the common-sense of men, however various may be the terminology--whether theological or scientific--in which it is expounded. for these reasons there was nothing essentially fanatical or impracticable in the puritan scheme: in substance it was something that great bodies of men could at once put into practice, while its quaint and peculiar form was something that could be easily and naturally outgrown and set aside. [sidenote: the impulse which sought to realize itself in the puritan ideal was an ethical impulse] yet another point in which the puritan scheme of a theocratic society was rational and not fanatical was its method of interpreting the scriptures. that method was essentially rationalistic in two ways. first, the puritan laid no claim to the possession of any peculiar inspiration or divine light whereby he might be aided in ascertaining the meaning of the sacred text; but he used his reason just as he would in any matter of business, and he sought to convince, and expected to be convinced, by rational argument, and by nothing else. secondly, it followed from this denial of any peculiar inspiration that there was no room in the puritan commonwealth for anything like a priestly class, and that every individual must hold his own opinions at his own personal risk. the consequences of this rationalistic spirit have been very far-reaching. in the conviction that religious opinion must be consonant with reason, and that religious truth must be brought home to each individual by rational argument, we may find one of the chief causes of that peculiarly conservative yet flexible intelligence which has enabled the puritan countries to take the lead in the civilized world of today. free discussion of theological questions, when conducted with earnestness and reverence, and within certain generally acknowledged limits, was never discountenanced in new england. on the contrary, there has never been a society in the world in which theological problems have been so seriously and persistently discussed as in new england in the colonial period. the long sermons of the clergymen were usually learned and elaborate arguments of doctrinal points, bristling with quotations from the bible, or from famous books of controversial divinity, and in the long winter evenings the questions thus raised afforded the occasion for lively debate in every household. the clergy were, as a rule, men of learning, able to read both old and new testaments in the original languages, and familiar with the best that had been talked and written, among protestants at least, on theological subjects. they were also, for the most part, men of lofty character, and they were held in high social esteem on account of their character and scholarship, as well as on account of their clerical position. but in spite of the reverence in which they were commonly held, it would have been a thing quite unheard of for one of these pastors to urge an opinion from the pulpit on the sole ground of his personal authority or his superior knowledge of scriptural exegesis. the hearers, too, were quick to detect novelties or variations in doctrine; and while there was perhaps no more than the ordinary human unwillingness to listen to a new thought merely because of its newness, it was above all things needful that the orthodox soundness of every new suggestion should be thoroughly and severely tested. this intense interest in doctrinal theology was part and parcel of the whole theory of new england life; because, as i have said, it was taken for granted that each individual must hold his own opinions at his own personal risk in the world to come. such perpetual discussion, conducted, under such a stimulus, afforded in itself no mean school of intellectual training. viewed in relation to the subsequent mental activity of new england, it may be said to have occupied a position somewhat similar to that which the polemics of the medieval schoolmen occupied in relation to the european thought of the renaissance, and of the age of hobbes and descartes. at the same time the puritan theory of life lay at the bottom of the whole system of popular education in new england. according to that theory, it was absolutely essential that every one should be taught from early childhood how to read and understand the bible. so much instruction as this was assumed to be a sacred duty which the community owed to every child born within its jurisdiction. in ignorance, the puritans maintained, lay the principal strength of popery in religion as well as of despotism in politics; and so, to the best of their lights, they cultivated knowledge with might and main. but in this energetic diffusion of knowledge they were unwittingly preparing the complete and irreparable destruction of the theocratic ideal of society which they had sought to realize by crossing the ocean and settling in new england. this universal education, and this perpetual discussion of theological questions, were no more compatible with rigid adherence to the calvinistic system than with submission to the absolute rule of rome. the inevitable result was the liberal and enlightened protestantism which is characteristic of the best american society at the present day, and which is continually growing more liberal as it grows more enlightened--a protestantism which, in the natural course of development, is coming to realize the noble ideal of roger williams, but from the very thought of which such men as winthrop and cotton and endicott would have shrunk with dismay. [sidenote: in interpreting scripture, the puritan appealed to his reason] [sidenote: value of theological discussion] in this connection it is interesting to note the similarity between the experience of the puritans in new england and in scotland with respect to the influence of their religious theory of life upon general education. nowhere has puritanism, with its keen intelligence and its iron tenacity of purpose, played a greater part than it has played in the history of scotland. and one need not fear contradiction in saying that no other people in modern times, in proportion to their numbers, have achieved so much in all departments of human activity as the people of scotland have achieved. it would be superfluous to mention the preeminence of scotland in the industrial arts since the days of james watt, or to recount the glorious names in philosophy, in history, in poetry and romance, and in every department of science, which since the middle of the eighteenth century have made the country of burns and scott, of hume and adam smith, of black and hunter and hutton and lyell, illustrious for all future time. now this period of magnificent intellectual fruition in scotland was preceded by a period of calvinistic orthodoxy quite as rigorous as that of new england. the ministers of the scotch kirk in the seventeenth century cherished a theocratic ideal of society not unlike that which the colonists of new england aimed at realizing. there was the same austerity, the same intolerance, the same narrowness of interests, in scotland that there was in new england. mr. buckle, in the book which thirty years ago seemed so great and stimulating, gave us a graphic picture of this state of society, and the only thing which he could find to say about it, as the result of his elaborate survey, was that the spirit of the scotch kirk was as thoroughly hostile to human progress as the spirit of the spanish inquisition! if this were really so, it would be difficult indeed to account for the period of brilliant mental activity which immediately followed. but in reality the puritan theory of life led to general education in scotland as it did in new england, and for precisely the same reasons, while the effects of theological discussion in breaking down the old calvinistic exclusiveness have been illustrated in the history of edinburgh as well as in the history of boston. [sidenote: comparison with the case of scotland] it is well for us to bear in mind the foregoing considerations as we deal with the history of the short-lived new england confederacy. the story is full of instances of an intolerant and domineering spirit, especially on the part of massachusetts, and now and then this spirit breaks forth in ugly acts of persecution. in considering these facts, it is well to remember that we are observing the workings of a system which contained within itself a curative principle; and it is further interesting to observe how political circumstances contributed to modify the puritan ideal, gradually breaking down the old theocratic exclusiveness and strengthening the spirit of religious liberty. scarcely had the first new england colonies been established when it was found desirable to unite them into some kind of a confederation. it is worthy of note that the separate existence of so many colonies was at the outset largely the result of religious differences. the uniformity of purpose, great as it was, fell far short of completeness. [sidenote: existence of so many colonies due to slight religious differences] could all have agreed, or had there been religious toleration in the modern sense, there was still room enough for all in massachusetts; and a compact settlement would have been in much less danger from the indians. but in the founding of connecticut the theocratic idea had less weight, and in the founding of new haven it had more weight, than in massachusetts. the existence of rhode island was based upon that principle of full toleration which the three colonies just mentioned alike abhorred, and its first settlers were people banished from massachusetts. with regard to toleration plymouth occupied a middle ground; without admitting the principles of williams, the people of that colony were still fairly tolerant in practice. of the four towns of new hampshire, two had been founded by antinomians driven from boston, and two by episcopal friends of mason and gorges. it was impossible that neighbouring communities, characterized by such differences of opinion, but otherwise homogeneous in race and in social condition, should fail to react upon one another and to liberalize one another. still more was this true when they attempted to enter into a political union. when, for example, massachusetts in 1641-43 annexed the new hampshire townships, she was of necessity obliged to relax in their case her policy of insisting upon religious conformity as a test of citizenship. so in forming the new england confederacy, there were some matters of dispute that had to be passed over by mutual consent or connivance. [sidenote: it led to a notable attempt at federation] the same causes which had spread the english settlements over so wide a territory now led, as an indirect result, to their partial union into a confederacy. the immediate consequence of the westward movement had been an indian war. several savage tribes were now interspersed between the settlements, so that it became desirable that the military force should be brought, as far as possible, under one management. the colony of new netherlands, moreover, had begun to assume importance, and the settlements west of the connecticut river had already occasioned hard words between dutch and english, which might at any moment be followed by blows. in the french colonies at the north, with their extensive indian alliances under jesuit guidance, the puritans saw a rival power which was likely in course of time to prove troublesome. with a view to more efficient self-defence, therefore, in 1643 the four colonies of massachusetts, plymouth, connecticut, and new haven formed themselves into a league, under the style of "the united colonies of new england." these four little states now contained thirty-nine towns, with an aggregate population of 24,000. to the northeast of massachusetts, which now extended to the piscataqua, a small colony had at length been constituted under a proprietary charter somewhat similar to that held by the calverts in maryland. of this new province or palatinate of maine the aged sir ferdinando gorges was lord proprietary, and he had undertaken not only to establish the church of england there, but also to introduce usages of feudal jurisdiction like those remaining in the old country. such a community was not likely to join the confederacy; apart from other reasons, its proprietary constitution and the feud between the puritans and gorges would have been sufficient obstacles. as for rhode island, on the other hand, it was regarded with strong dislike by the other colonies. it was a curious and noteworthy consequence of the circumstances under which this little state was founded that for a long time it became the refuge of all the fanatical and turbulent people who could not submit to the strict and orderly governments of connecticut or massachusetts. all extremes met on narragansett bay. there were not only sensible advocates of religious liberty, but theocrats as well who saw flaws in the theocracy of other puritans. the english world was then in a state of theological fermentation. people who fancied themselves favoured with direct revelations from heaven; people who thought it right to keep the seventh day of the week as a sabbath instead of the first day; people who cherished a special predilection for the apocalypse and the book of daniel; people with queer views about property and government; people who advocated either too little marriage or too much marriage; all such eccentric characters as are apt to come to the surface in periods of religious excitement found in rhode island a favoured spot where they could prophesy without let or hindrance. but the immediate practical result of so much discordance in opinion was the impossibility of founding a strong and well-ordered government. the early history of rhode island was marked by enough of turbulence to suggest the question whether, after all, at the bottom of the puritan's refusal to recognize the doctrine of private inspiration, or to tolerate indiscriminately all sorts of opinions, there may not have been a grain of shrewd political sense not ill adapted to the social condition of the seventeenth century. in 1644 and again in 1648 the narragansett settlers asked leave to join the confederacy; but the request was refused on the ground that they had no stable government of their own. they were offered the alternative of voluntary annexation either to massachusetts or to plymouth, or of staying out in the cold; and they chose the latter course. early in 1643 they had sent roger williams over to england to obtain a charter for rhode island. in that year parliament created a board of commissioners, with the earl of warwick at its head, for the superintendence of colonial affairs; and nothing could better illustrate the loose and reckless manner in which american questions were treated in england than the first proceedings of this board. it gave an early instance of british carelessness in matters of american geography. in december, 1643, it granted to massachusetts all the territory on the mainland of narragansett bay; and in the following march it incorporated the townships of newport and portsmouth, which stood on the island, together with providence, which stood on the mainland, into an independent colony empowered to frame a government and make laws for itself. with this second document williams returned to providence in the autumn of 1644. just how far it was intended to cancel the first one, nobody could tell, but it plainly afforded an occasion for a conflict of claims. [sidenote: turbulence of dissent in rhode island] [sidenote: the earl of warwick and his board of commissioners] the league of the four colonies is interesting as the first american experiment in federation. by the articles it was agreed that each colony should retain full independence so far as concerned the management of its internal affairs, but that the confederate government should have entire control over all dealings with the indians or with foreign powers. the administration of the league was put into the hands of a board of eight federal commissioners, two from each colony. the commissioners were required to be church-members in good standing. they could choose for themselves a president or chairman out of their own number, but such a president was to have no more power than the other members of the board. if any measure were to come up concerning which the commissioners could not agree, it was to be referred for consideration to the legislatures or general courts of the four colonies. expenses for war were to be charged to each colony in proportion to the number of males in each between sixteen years of age and sixty. a meeting of the board might be summoned by any two magistrates whenever the public safety might seem to require it; but a regular meeting was to be held once every year. in this scheme of confederacy all power of taxation was expressly left to the several colonies. the scheme provided for a mere league, not for a federal union. the government of the commissioners acted only upon the local governments, not upon individuals. the board had thus but little executive power, and was hardly more than a consulting body. another source of weakness in the confederacy was the overwhelming preponderance of massachusetts. of the 24,000 people in the confederation, 15,000 belonged to massachusetts, while the other three colonies had only about 3,000 each. massachusetts accordingly had to carry the heaviest burden, both in the furnishing of soldiers and in the payment of war expenses, while in the direction of affairs she had no more authority than one of the small colonies. as a natural consequence, massachusetts tried to exert more authority than she was entitled to by the articles of confederation; and such conduct was not unnaturally resented by the small colonies, as betokening an unfair and domineering spirit. in spite of these drawbacks, however, the league was of great value to new england. on many occasions it worked well as a high court of jurisdiction, and it made the military strength of the colonies more available than it would otherwise have been. but for the interference of the british government, which brought it to an untimely end, the confederacy might have been gradually amended so as to become enduring. after its downfall it was pleasantly remembered by the people of new england; in times of trouble their thoughts reverted to it; and the historian must in fairness assign it some share in preparing men's minds for the greater work of federation which was achieved before the end of the following century. [sidenote: it was only a league, not a federal union] the formation of such a confederacy certainly involved something very like a tacit assumption of sovereignty on the part of the four colonies. it is worthy of note that they did not take the trouble to ask the permission of the home government in advance. they did as they pleased, and then defended their action afterward. in england the act of confederation was regarded with jealousy and distrust. but edward winslow, who was sent over to london to defend the colonies, pithily said: "if we in america should forbear to unite for offence and defence against a common enemy till we have leave from england, our throats might be all cut before the messenger would be half seas through." whether such considerations would have had weight with charles i. or not was now of little consequence. his power of making mischief soon came to an end, and from the liberal and sagacious policy of cromwell the confederacy had not much to fear. nevertheless the fall of charles i. brought up for the first time that question which a century later was to acquire surpassing interest,--the question as to the supremacy of parliament over the colonies. down to this time the supreme control over colonial affairs had been in the hands of the king and his privy council, and the parliament had not disputed it. in 1624 they had grumbled at james i.'s high-handed suppression of the virginia company, but they had not gone so far as to call in question the king's supreme authority over the colonies. in 1628, in a petition to charles i. relating to the bermudas, they had fully admitted this royal authority. but the fall of charles i. for the moment changed all this. among the royal powers devolved upon parliament was the prerogative of superintending the affairs of the colonies. such, at least, was the theory held in england, and it is not easy to see how any other theory could logically have been held; but the americans never formally admitted it, and in practice they continued to behave toward parliament very much as they had behaved toward the crown, yielding just as little obedience as possible. when the earl of warwick's commissioners in 1644 seized upon a royalist vessel in boston harbour, the legislature of massachusetts debated the question whether it was compatible with the dignity of the colony to permit such an act of sovereignty on the part of parliament. it was decided to wink at the proceeding, on account of the strong sympathy between massachusetts and the parliament which was overthrowing the king. at the same time the legislature sent over to london a skilfully worded protest against any like exercise of power in future. in 1651 parliament ordered massachusetts to surrender the charter obtained from charles i. and take out a new one from parliament, in which the relations of the colony to the home government should be made the subject of fresh and more precise definition. to this request the colony for more than a year vouchsafed no answer; and finally, when it became necessary to do something, instead of sending back the charter, the legislature sent back a memorial, setting forth that the people of massachusetts were quite contented with their form of government, and hoped that no change would be made in it. war between england and holland, and the difficult political problems which beset the brief rule of cromwell, prevented the question from coming to an issue, and massachusetts was enabled to preserve her independent and somewhat haughty attitude. [sidenote: fall of charles i. brings up the question as to supremacy of parliament over the colonies] during the whole period of the confederacy, however, disputes kept coming up which through endless crooked ramifications were apt to end in an appeal to the home government, and thus raise again and again the question as to the extent of its imperial supremacy. for our present purpose, it is enough to mention three of these cases: 1, the adventures of samuel gorton; 2, the presbyterian cabal; 3, the persecution of the quakers. other cases in point are those of john clarke and the baptists, and the relations of massachusetts to the northeastern settlements; but as it is not my purpose here to make a complete outline of new england history, the three cases enumerated will suffice. the first case shows, in a curious and instructive way, how religious dissensions were apt to be complicated with threats of an indian war on the one hand and peril from great britain on the other; and as we come to realize the triple danger, we can perhaps make some allowances for the high-handed measures with which the puritan governments sometimes sought to avert it. [genesis of the persecuting spirit] as i have elsewhere tried to show, the genesis of the persecuting spirit is to be found in the conditions of primitive society, where "above all things the prime social and political necessity is social cohesion within the tribal limits, for unless such social cohesion be maintained, the very existence of the tribe is likely to be extinguished in bloodshed." the persecuting spirit "began to pass away after men had become organized into great nations, covering a vast extent of territory, and secured by their concentrated military strength against the gravest dangers of barbaric attack." [13] now as regards these considerations, the puritan communities in the new england wilderness were to some slight extent influenced by such conditions as used to prevail in primitive society; and this will help us to understand the treatment of the antinomians and such cases as that with which we have now to deal. among the supporters of mrs. hutchinson, after her arrival at aquedneck, was a sincere and courageous, but incoherent and crotchetty man named samuel gorton. [sidenote: samuel gorton] in the denunciatory language of that day he was called a "proud and pestilent seducer," or, as the modern newspaper would say, a "crank." it is well to make due allowances for the prejudice so conspicuous in the accounts given by his enemies, who felt obliged to justify their harsh treatment of him. but we have also his own writings from which to form an opinion as to his character and views. lucidity, indeed, was not one of his strong points as a writer, and the drift of his argument is not always easy to decipher; but he seems to have had some points of contact with the familists, a sect established in the sixteenth century in holland. the familists held that the essence of religion consists not in adherence to any particular creed or ritual, but in cherishing the spirit of divine love. the general adoption of this point of view was to inaugurate a third dispensation, superior to those of moses and christ, the dispensation of the holy ghost. the value of the bible lay not so much in the literal truth of its texts as in their spiritual import; and by the union of believers with christ they came to share in the ineffable perfection of the godhead. there is much that is modern and enlightened in such views, which gorton seems to some extent to have shared. he certainly set little store by ritual observances and maintained the equal right of laymen with clergymen to preach the gospel. himself a london clothier, and thanking god that he had not been brought up in "the schools of human learning," he set up as a preacher without ordination, and styled himself "professor of the mysteries of christ." he seems to have cherished that doctrine of private inspiration which the puritans especially abhorred. it is not likely that he had any distinct comprehension of his own views, for distinctness was just what they lacked. [14] but they were such as in the seventeenth century could not fail to arouse fierce antagonism, and if it was true that wherever there was a government gorton was against it, perhaps that only shows that wherever there was a government it was sure to be against him. in the case of such men as gorton, however,--and the type is by no means an uncommon one,--their temperament usually has much more to do with getting them into trouble than their opinions. gorton's temperament was such as to keep him always in an atmosphere of strife. other heresiarchs suffered persecution in massachusetts, but gorton was in hot water everywhere. his arrival in any community was the signal for an immediate disturbance of the peace. his troubles began in plymouth, where the wife of the pastor preferred his teachings to those of her husband. in 1638 he fled to aquedneck, where his first achievement was a schism among mrs. hutchinson's followers, which ended in some staying to found the town of portsmouth while others went away to found newport. presently portsmouth found him intolerable, flogged and banished him, and after his departure was able to make up its quarrel with newport. he next made his way with a few followers to pawtuxet, within the jurisdiction of providence, and now it is the broad-minded and gentle roger williams who complains of his "bewitching and madding poor providence." the question is here suggested what could it have been in gorton's teaching that enabled him thus to "bewitch" these little communities? we may be sure that it could not have been the element of modern liberalism suggested in the familistic doctrines above cited. that was the feature then least likely to appeal to the minds of common people, and most likely to appeal to williams. more probably such success as gorton had in winning followers was due to some of the mystical rubbish which abounds in his pages and finds in a modern mind no doorway through which to enter. [sidenote: he flees to aquedneck and is banished thence] williams disapproved of gorton, but was true to his principles of toleration and would not take part in any attempt to silence him. but in 1641 we find thirteen leading citizens of providence, headed by william arnold, [15] sending a memorial to boston, asking for assistance and counsel in regard to this disturber of the peace. how was massachusetts to treat such an appeal? she could not presume to meddle with the affair unless she could have permanent jurisdiction over pawtuxet; otherwise she was a mere intruder. how strong a side-light does this little incident throw upon the history of the roman republic, and of all relatively strong communities when confronted with the problem of preserving order in neighbouring states that are too weak to preserve it for themselves! arnold's argument, in his appeal to massachusetts, was precisely the same as that by which the latter colony excused herself for banishing the antinomians. he simply says that gorton and his company "are not fit persons to be received, and made members of a body in so weak a state as our town is in at present;" and he adds, "there is no state but in the first place will seek to preserve its own safety and peace." whatever might be the abstract merits of gorton's opinions, his conduct was politically dangerous; and accordingly the jurisdiction over pawtuxet was formally conceded to massachusetts. thereupon that colony, assuming jurisdiction, summoned gorton and his men to boston, to prove their title to the lands they occupied. they of course regarded the summons as a flagrant usurpation of authority, and instead of obeying it they withdrew to shawomet, on the western shore of narragansett bay, where they bought a tract of land from the principal sachem of the narragansetts, miantonomo. the immediate rule over this land belonged to two inferior chiefs, who ratified the sale at the time, but six months afterward disavowed the ratification, on the ground that it had been given under duress from their overlord miantonomo. here was a state of things which might easily bring on an indian war. the two chiefs appealed to massachusetts for protection, and were accordingly summoned, along with miantonomo, to a hearing at boston. here we see how a kind of english protectorate over the native tribes had begun to grow up so soon after the destruction of the pequots. such a result was inevitable. after hearing the arguments, the legislature decided to defend the two chiefs, provided they would put themselves under the jurisdiction of massachusetts. this was done, while further complaints against gorton came from the citizens of providence. gorton and his men were now peremptorily summoned to boston to show cause why they should not surrender their land at shawomet and to answer the charges against them. on receiving from gorton a defiant reply, couched in terms which some thought blasphemous, the government of massachusetts prepared to use force. [sidenote: providence protests against him] [sidenote: he flees to shawomet, where he buys land of the indians] meanwhile the unfortunate miantonomo had rushed upon his doom. the annihilation of the pequots had left the mohegans and narragansetts contending for the foremost place among the native tribes. between the rival sachems, uncas and miantonomo, the hatred was deep and deadly. as soon as the mohegan perceived that trouble was brewing between miantonomo and the government at boston, he improved the occasion by gathering a few narragansett scalps. miantonomo now took the war-path and was totally defeated by uncas in a battle on the great plain in the present township of norwich. encumbered with a coat of mail which his friend gorton had given him, miantonomo was overtaken and captured. by ordinary indian usage he would have been put to death with fiendish torments, as soon as due preparations could be made and a fit company assembled to gloat over his agony; but gorton sent a messenger to uncas, threatening dire vengeance if harm were done to his ally. this message puzzled the mohegan chief. the appearance of a schism in the english counsels was more than he could quite fathom. when the affair had somewhat more fully developed itself, some of the indians spoke of the white men as divided into two rival tribes, the gortonoges and wattaconoges. [16] roger williams tells us that the latter term, applied to the men of boston, meant coat-wearers. whether it is to be inferred that the gortonoges went about in what in modern parlance would be called their "shirt-sleeves," the reader must decide. [sidenote: miantonomo and uncas] in his perplexity uncas took his prisoner to hartford, and afterward, upon the advice of the governor and council, sent him to boston, that his fate might be determined by the federal commissioners who were there holding their first regular meeting. it was now the turn of the commissioners to be perplexed. according to english law there was no good reason for putting miantonomo to death. the question was whether they should interfere with the indian custom by which his life was already forfeit to his captor. the magistrates already suspected the narragansetts of cherishing hostile designs. to set their sachem at liberty, especially while the gorton affair remained unsettled, might be dangerous; and it would be likely to alienate uncas from the english. in their embarrassment the commissioners sought spiritual guidance. a synod of forty or fifty clergymen, from all parts of new england, was in session at boston, and the question was referred to a committee of five of their number. the decision was prompt that miantonomo must die. he was sent back to hartford to be slain by uncas, but two messengers accompanied him, to see that no tortures were inflicted. a select band of mohegan warriors journeyed through the forest with the prisoner and the two englishmen, until they came to the plain where the battle had been fought. then at a signal from uncas, the warrior walking behind miantonomo silently lifted his tomahawk and sank it into the brain of the victim who fell dead without a groan. uncas cut a warm slice from the shoulder and greedily devoured it, declaring that the flesh of his enemy was the sweetest of meat and gave strength to his heart. miantonomo was buried there on the scene of his defeat, which has ever since been known as the sachem's plain. this was in september, 1643, and for years afterward, in that month, parties of narragansetts used to visit the spot and with frantic gestures and hideous yells lament their fallen leader. a heap of stones was raised over the grave, and no narragansett came near it without adding to the pile. after many a summer had passed and the red men had disappeared from the land, a yankee farmer, with whom thrift prevailed over sentiment, cleared away the mound and used the stones for the foundation of his new barn. [17] [sidenote: death of miantonomo] one cannot regard this affair as altogether creditable to the federal commissioners and their clerical advisers. one of the clearest-headed and most impartial students of our history observes that "if the english were to meddle in the matter at all, it was their clear duty to enforce as far as might be the principles recognized by civilized men. when they accepted the appeal made by uncas they shifted the responsibility from the mohegan chief to themselves." [18] the decision was doubtless based purely upon grounds of policy. miantonomo was put out of the way because he was believed to be dangerous. in the thirst for revenge that was aroused among the narragansetts there was an alternative source of danger, to which i shall hereafter refer. [19] it is difficult now to decide, as a mere question of safe policy, what the english ought to have done. the chance of being dragged into an indian war, through the feud between narragansetts and mohegans, was always imminent. the policy which condemned miantonomo was one of timidity, and fear is merciless. the federal commissioners heartily approved the conduct of massachusetts toward gorton, and adopted it in the name of the united colonies. after a formal warning, which passed unheeded, a company of forty men, under edward johnson of woburn and two other officers, was sent to shawomet. some worthy citizens of providence essayed to play the part of mediators, and after some parley the gortonites offered to submit to arbitration. the proposal was conveyed to boston, and the clergy were again consulted. they declared it beneath the dignity of massachusetts to negotiate "with a few fugitives living without law or government," and they would no more compound with gorton's "blasphemous revilings" than they would bargain with the evil one. the community must be "purged" of such wickedness, either by repentance or by punishment. the ministers felt that god would hold the community responsible for gorton and visit calamities upon them unless he were silenced. [20] the arbitration was refused, gorton's blockhouse was besieged and captured, and the agitator was carried with nine of his followers to boston, where they were speedily convicted of heresy and sedition. before passing judgment the general court as usual consulted with the clergy who recommended a sentence of death. their advice was adopted by the assistants, but the deputies were more merciful, and the heretics were sentenced to imprisonment at the pleasure of the court. in this difference between the assistants and the deputies, we observe an early symptom of that popular revolt against the ascendancy of the clergy which was by and by to become so much more conspicuous and effective in the affair of the quakers. another symptom might be seen in the circumstance that so much sympathy was expressed for the gortonites, especially by women, that after some months of imprisonment and abuse the heretics were banished under penalty of death. [sidenote: trial and sentence of the heretics] gorton now went to england and laid his tale of woe before the parliamentary board of commissioners. the earl of warwick behaved with moderation. he declined to commit himself to an opinion as to the merits of the quarrel, but gorton's title to shawomet was confirmed. he returned to boston with an order to the government to allow him to pass unmolested through massachusetts, and hereafter to protect him in the possession of shawomet. if this little commonwealth of 15,000 inhabitants had been a nation as powerful as france, she could not have treated the message more haughtily. by a majority of one vote it was decided not to refuse so trifling a favour as a passage through the country for just this once; but as for protecting the new town of warwick which the gortonites proceeded to found at shawomet, although it was several times threatened by the indians, and the settlers appealed to the parliamentary order, that order massachusetts flatly and doggedly refused to obey. [21] [sidenote: gorton appeals to parliament] in the discussions of which these years were so full, "king winthrop," as his enemy morton called him, used some very significant language. by a curious legal fiction of the massachusetts charter the colonists were supposed to hold their land as in the manor of east greenwich near london, and it was argued that they were represented in parliament by the members of the county or borough which contained that manor, and were accordingly subject to the jurisdiction of parliament. it was further argued that since the king had no absolute sovereignty independent of parliament he could not by charter impart any such independent sovereignty to others. winthrop did not dispute these points, but observed that the safety of the commonwealth was the supreme law, and if in the interests of that safety it should be found necessary to renounce the authority of parliament, the colonists would be justified in doing so. [sidenote: winthrop's prophetic opinion] [22] this was essentially the same doctrine as was set forth ninety-nine years later by young samuel adams in his commencement oration at harvard. the case of the presbyterian cabal admits of briefer treatment than that of gorton. there had now come to be many persons in massachusetts who disapproved of the provision which restricted the suffrage to members of the independent or congregational churches of new england, and in 1646 the views of these people were presented in a petition to the general court. the petitioners asked "that their civil disabilities might be removed, and that all members of the churches of england and scotland might be admitted to communion with the new england churches. if this could not be granted they prayed to be released from all civil burdens. should the court refuse to entertain their complaint, they would be obliged to bring their case before parliament." [23] the leading signers of this menacing petition were william vassall, samuel maverick, and the presbyterian cabal. dr. robert child. maverick we have already met. from the day when the ships of the first puritan settlers had sailed past his log fortress on noddle's island, he had been their enemy; "a man of loving and curteous behaviour," says johnson, "very ready to entertaine strangers, yet an enemy to the reformation in hand, being strong for the lordly prelatical power." vassall was not a denizen of massachusetts, but lived in scituate, in the colony of plymouth, where there were no such restrictions upon the suffrage. child was a learned physician who after a good deal of roaming about the world had lately taken it into his head to come and see what sort of a place massachusetts was. although these names were therefore not such as to lend weight to such a petition, their request would seem at first sight reasonable enough. at a superficial glance it seems conceived in a modern spirit of liberalism. in reality it was nothing of the sort. in england it was just the critical moment of the struggle between presbyterians and independents which had come in to complicate the issues of the great civil war. vassall, child, and maverick seem to have been the leading spirits in a cabal for the establishment of presbyterianism in new england, and in their petition they simply took advantage of the discontent of the disfranchised citizens in massachusetts in order to put in an entering wedge. this was thoroughly understood by the legislature of massachusetts, and accordingly the petition was dismissed and the petitioners were roundly fined. just as child was about to start for england with his grievances, the magistrates overhauled his papers and discovered a petition to the parliamentary board of commissioners, suggesting that presbyterianism should be established in new england, and that a viceroy or governor-general should be appointed to rule there. to the men of massachusetts this last suggestion was a crowning horror. it seemed scarcely less than treason. the signers of this petition were the same who had signed the petition to the general court. they were now fined still more heavily and imprisoned for six months. by and by they found their way, one after another, to london, while the colonists sent edward winslow, of plymouth, as an advocate to thwart their schemes. winslow was assailed by child's brother in a spicy pamphlet entitled "new england's jonas cast up at london," and replied after the same sort, entitling his pamphlet "new england's salamander discovered." the cabal accomplished nothing because of the decisive defeat of presbyterianism in england. "pride's purge" settled all that. the petition of vassall and his friends was the occasion for the meeting of a synod of churches at cambridge, in order to complete the organization of congregationalism. in 1648 the work of the synod was embodied in the famous cambridge platform, which adopted the westminster confession as its creed, carefully defined the powers of the clergy, and declared it to be the duty of magistrates to suppress heresy. in 1649 the general court laid this platform before the congregations; in 1651 it was adopted; and this event may be regarded as completing the theocratic organization of the puritan commonwealth in massachusetts. [sidenote: the cambridge platform; deaths of winthrop and cotton] it was immediately preceded and followed by the deaths of the two foremost men in that commonwealth. john winthrop died in 1649 and john cotton in 1652. both were men of extraordinary power. of winthrop it is enough to say that under his skilful guidance massachusetts had been able to pursue the daring policy which had characterized the first twenty years of her history, and which in weaker hands would almost surely have ended in disaster. of cotton it may be said that he was the most eminent among a group of clergymen who for learning and dialectical skill have seldom been surpassed. neither winthrop nor cotton approved of toleration upon principle. cotton, in his elaborate controversy with roger williams, frankly asserted that persecution is not wrong in itself; it is wicked for falsehood to persecute truth, but it is the sacred duty of truth to persecute falsehood. this was the theologian's view. winthrop's was that of a man of affairs. they had come to new england, he said, in order to make a society after their own model; all who agreed with them might come and join that society; those who disagreed with them might go elsewhere; there was room enough on the american continent. but while neither winthrop nor cotton understood the principle of religious liberty, at the same time neither of them had the temperament which persecutes. both were men of genial disposition, sound common-sense, and exquisite tact. under their guidance no such tragedy would have been possible as that which was about to leave its ineffaceable stain upon the annals of massachusetts. it was most unfortunate that at this moment the places of these two men should have been taken by two as arrant fanatics as ever drew breath. for thirteen out of the fifteen years following winthrop's death, the governor of massachusetts was john endicott, a sturdy pioneer, whose services to the colony had been great. he was honest and conscientious, but passionate, domineering, and very deficient in tact. at the same time cotton's successor in position and influence was john norton, a man of pungent wit, unyielding temper, and melancholy mood. he was possessed by a morbid fear of satan, whose hirelings he thought were walking up and down over the earth in the visible semblance of heretics and schismatics. under such leaders the bigotry latent in the puritan commonwealth might easily break out in acts of deadly persecution. [sidenote: endicott and norton take the lead] [sidenote: the quakers and their views] the occasion was not long in coming. already the preaching of george fox had borne fruit, and the noble sect of quakers was an object of scorn and loathing to all such as had not gone so far as they toward learning the true lesson of protestantism. of all protestant sects the quakers went furthest in stripping off from christianity its non-essential features of doctrine and ceremonial. their ideal was not a theocracy but a separation between church and state. they would abolish all distinction between clergy and laity, and could not be coaxed or bullied into paying tithes. they also refused to render military service, or to take the oath of allegiance. in these ways they came at once into antagonism both with church and with state. in doctrine their chief peculiarity was the assertion of an "inward light" by which every individual is to be guided in his conduct of life. they did not believe that men ceased to be divinely inspired when the apostolic ages came to an end, but held that at all times and places the human soul may be enlightened by direct communion with its heavenly father. such views involved the most absolute assertion of the right of private judgment; and when it is added that in the exercise of this right many quakers were found to reject the dogmas of original sin and the resurrection of the body, to doubt the efficacy of baptism, and to call in question the propriety of christians turning the lord's day into a jewish sabbath, we see that they had in some respects gone far on the road toward modern rationalism. it was not to be expected that such opinions should be treated by the puritans in any other spirit than one of extreme abhorrence and dread. the doctrine of the "inward light," or of private inspiration, was something especially hateful to the puritan. to the modern rationalist, looking at things in the dry light of history, it may seem that this doctrine was only the puritan's own appeal to individual judgment, stated in different form; but the puritan could not so regard it. to such a fanatic as norton this inward light was but a reflection from the glare of the bottomless pit, this private inspiration was the beguiling voice of the devil. as it led the quakers to strange and novel conclusions, this inward light seemed to array itself in hostility to that final court of appeal for all good protestants, the sacred text of the bible. the quakers were accordingly regarded as infidels who sought to deprive protestantism of its only firm support. they were wrongly accused of blasphemy in their treatment of the scriptures. cotton mather says that the quakers were in the habit of alluding to the bible as the word of the devil. such charges, from passionate and uncritical enemies, are worthless except as they serve to explain the bitter prejudice with which the quakers were regarded. they remind one of the silly accusation brought against wyclif two centuries earlier, that he taught his disciples that god ought to obey the devil; [24] and they are not altogether unlike the assumptions of some modern theologians who take it for granted that any writer who accepts the darwinian theory must be a materialist. [sidenote: endicott and norton take the lead] [sidenote: the quakers and their views] but worthless as mather's statements are, in describing the views of the quakers, they are valuable as indicating the temper in which these disturbers of the puritan theocracy were regarded. in accusing them of rejecting the bible and making a law unto themselves, mather simply put on record a general belief which he shared. nor can it be doubted that the demeanour of the quaker enthusiasts was sometimes such as to seem to warrant the belief that their anarchical doctrines entailed, as a natural consequence, disorderly and disreputable conduct. in those days all manifestations of dissent were apt to be violent, and the persecution which they encountered was likely to call forth strange and unseemly vagaries. when we remember how the quakers, in their scorn of earthly magistrates and princes, would hoot at the governor as he walked up the street; how they used to rush into church on sundays and interrupt the sermon with untimely remarks; how thomas newhouse once came into the old south meeting-house with a glass bottle in each hand, and, holding them up before the astonished congregation, knocked them together and smashed them, with the remark, "thus will the lord break you all in pieces"; how lydia wardwell and deborah wilson ran about the streets in the primitive costume of eve before the fall, and called their conduct "testifying before the lord"; we can hardly wonder that people should have been reminded of the wretched scenes enacted at munster by the anabaptists of the preceding century. [sidenote: violent manifestations of dissent] such incidents, however, do not afford the slightest excuse for the cruel treatment which the quakers received in boston, nor do they go far toward explaining it. persecution began immediately, before the new-comers had a chance to behave themselves well or ill. their mere coming to boston was taken as an act of invasion. it was indeed an attack upon the puritan theocratic idea. of all the sectaries of that age of sects, the quakers were the most aggressive. there were at one time more than four thousand of them in english jails; yet when any of them left england, it was less to escape persecution than to preach their doctrines far and wide over the earth. their missionaries found their way to paris, to vienna; even to rome, where they testified under the very roof of the vatican. in this dauntless spirit they came to new england to convert its inhabitants, or at any rate to establish the principle that in whatever community it might please them to stay, there they would stay in spite of judge or hangman. at first they came to barbadoes, whence two of their number, anne austin and mary fisher, sailed for boston. when they landed, on a may morning in 1656, endicott happened to be away from boston, but the deputy-governor, richard bellingham, was equal to the occasion. he arrested the two women and locked them up in jail, where, for fear they might proclaim their heresies to the crowd gathered outside, the windows were boarded up. there was no law as yet enacted against quakers, but a council summoned for the occasion pronounced their doctrines blasphemous and devilish. the books which the poor women had with them were seized and publicly burned, and the women themselves were kept in prison half-starved for five weeks until the ship they had come in was ready to return to barbadoes. soon after their departure endicott came home. he found fault with bellingham's conduct as too gentle; if he had been there he would have had the hussies flogged. [sidenote: anne austin and mary fisher] five years afterward mary fisher went to adrianople and tried to convert the grand turk, who treated her with grave courtesy and allowed her to prophesy unmolested. this is one of the numerous incidents that, on a superficial view of history, might be cited in support of the opinion that there has been on the whole more tolerance in the mussulman than in the christian world. rightly interpreted, however, the fact has no such implication. in massachusetts the preaching of quaker doctrines might (and did) lead to a revolution; in turkey it was as harmless as the barking of dogs. governor endicott was afraid of mary fisher; mahomet iii. was not. no sooner had the two women been shipped from boston than eight other quakers arrived from london. they were at once arrested. while they were lying in jail the federal commissioners, then in session at plymouth, recommended that laws be forthwith enacted to keep these dreaded heretics out of the land. next year they stooped so far as to seek the aid of rhode island, the colony which they had refused to admit into their confederacy. "they sent a letter to the authorities of that colony, signing themselves their loving friends and neighbours, and beseeching them to preserve the whole body of colonies against 'such a pest' by banishing and excluding all quakers, a measure to which 'the rule of charity did oblige them.'" roger williams was then president of rhode island, and in full accord with his noble spirit was the reply of the assembly. "we have no law amongst us whereby to punish any for only declaring by words their minds and understandings concerning the things and ways of god as to salvation and our eternal condition." as for these quakers we find that where they are "most of all suffered to declare themselves freely and only opposed by arguments in discourse, there they least of all desire to come." any breach of the civil law shall be punished, but the "freedom of different consciences shall be respected." this reply enraged the confederated colonies, and massachusetts, as the strongest and most overbearing, threatened to cut off the trade of rhode island, which forthwith appealed to cromwell for protection. the language of the appeal is as touching as its broad christian spirit is grand. it recognizes that by stopping trade the men of massachusetts will injure themselves, yet, it goes on to say, "for the safeguard of their religion they may seem to neglect themselves in that respect; for what will not men do for their god?" but whatever fortune may befall, "let us not be compelled to exercise any civil power over men's consciences." [25] [sidenote: noble conduct of rhode island] there could never, of course, be a doubt as to who drew up this state paper. during his last visit to england, three years before, roger williams had spent several weeks at sir harry vane's country house in lincolnshire, and he had also been intimately associated with cromwell and milton. the views of these great men were the most advanced of that age. they were coming to understand the true principle upon which toleration should be based. (see my excursions of an evolutionist, pp. 247, 289-293.) vane had said in parliament, "why should the labours of any be suppressed, if sober, though never so different? we now profess to seek god, we desire to see light!" [sidenote: roger williams appeals to cromwell] this williams called a "heavenly speech." the sentiment it expressed was in accordance with the practical policy of cromwell, and in the appeal of the president of rhode island to the lord protector one hears the tone with which friend speaks to friend. in thus protecting the quakers, williams never for a moment concealed his antipathy to their doctrines. the author of "george fox digged out of his burrowes," the sturdy controversialist who in his seventy-third year rowed himself in a boat the whole length of narragansett bay to engage in a theological tournament against three quaker champions, was animated by nothing less than the broadest liberalism in his bold reply to the federal commissioners in 1657. the event showed that under his guidance the policy of rhode island was not only honourable but wise. the four confederated colonies all proceeded to pass laws banishing quakers and making it a penal offence for shipmasters to bring them to new england. these laws differed in severity. those of connecticut, in which we may trace the influence of the younger john winthrop, were the mildest; those of massachusetts were the most severe, and as quakers kept coming all the more in spite of them, they grew harsher and harsher. at first the quaker who persisted in returning was to be flogged and imprisoned at hard labour, next his ears were to be cut off, and for a third offence his tongue was to be bored with a hot iron. at length in 1658, the federal commissioners, sitting at boston with endicott as chairman, recommended capital punishment. it must be borne in mind that the general reluctance toward prescribing or inflicting the death penalty was much weaker then than now. on the statute-books there were not less than fifteen capital crimes, including such offences as idolatry, witchcraft, blasphemy, marriage within the levitical degrees, "presumptuous sabbath-breaking," and cursing or smiting one's parents. [26] the infliction of the penalty, however, lay practically very much within the discretion of the court, and was generally avoided except in cases of murder or other heinous felony. in some of these ecclesiastical offences the statute seems to have served the purpose of a threat, and was therefore perhaps the more easily enacted. yet none of the colonies except massachusetts now adopted the suggestion of the federal commissioners and threatened the quakers with death. [sidenote: laws passed against the quakers] in massachusetts the opposition was very strong indeed, and its character shows how wide the divergence in sentiment had already become between the upper stratum of society and the people in general. this divergence was one result of the excessive weight given to the clergy by the restriction of the suffrage to church members. one might almost say that it was not the people of massachusetts, after all, that shed the blood of the quakers; it was endicott and the clergy. the bill establishing death as the penalty for returning after banishment was passed in the upper house without serious difficulty; but in the lower house it was at first defeated. of the twenty-six deputies fifteen were opposed to it, but one of these fell sick and two were intimidated, so that finally the infamous measure was passed by a vote of thirteen against twelve. probably it would not have passed but for a hopeful feeling that an occasion for putting it into execution would not be likely to arise. it was hoped that the mere threat would prove effective. endicott begged the quakers to keep away, saying earnestly that he did not desire their death; but the more resolute spirits were not deterred by fear of the gallows. in september, 1659, william robinson, marmaduke stevenson, and mary dyer, who had come to boston expressly to defy the cruel law, were banished. mrs. dyer was a lady of good family, wife of the secretary of rhode island. she had been an intimate friend of mrs. hutchinson. while she went home to her husband, stevenson and robinson went only to salem and then faced about and came back to boston. mrs. dyer also returned. all three felt themselves under divine command to resist and defy the persecutors. on the 27th of october they were led to the gallows on boston common, under escort of a hundred soldiers. many people had begun to cry shame on such proceedings, and it was thought necessary to take precautions against a tumult. the victims tried to address the crowd, but their voices were drowned by the beating of drums. while the rev. john wilson railed and scoffed at them from the foot of the gallows the two brave men were hanged. the halter had been placed upon mrs. dyer when her son, who had come in all haste from rhode island, obtained her reprieve on his promise to take her away. the bodies of the two men were denied christian burial and thrown uncovered into a pit. all the efforts of husband and son were unable to keep mrs. dyer at home. in the following spring she returned to boston and on the first day of june was again taken to the gallows. at the last moment she was offered freedom if she would only promise to go away and stay, but she refused. "in obedience to the will of the lord i came," said she, "and in his will i abide faithful unto death." and so she died. [sidenote: executions on boston common] [sidenote: wenlock christison's defiance and victory] public sentiment in boston was now turning so strongly against the magistrates that they began to weaken in their purpose. but there was one more victim. in november, 1660, william leddra returned from banishment. the case was clear enough, but he was kept in prison four months and every effort was made to induce him to promise to leave the colony, but in vain. in the following march he too was put to death. a few days before the execution, as leddra was being questioned in court, a memorable scene occurred. wenlock christison was one of those who had been banished under penalty of death. on his return he made straight for the town-house, strode into the court-room, and with uplifted finger addressed the judges in words of authority. "i am come here to warn you," said he, "that ye shed no more innocent blood." he was instantly seized and dragged off to jail. after three months he was brought to trial before the court of assistants. the magistrates debated for more than a fortnight as to what should be done. the air was thick with mutterings of insurrection, and they had lost all heart for their dreadful work. not so the savage old man who presided, frowning gloomily under his black skull cap. losing his patience at last, endicott smote the table with fury, upbraided the judges for their weakness, and declared himself so disgusted that he was ready to go back to england. [27] "you that will not consent, record it," he shouted, as the question was again put to vote, "i thank god i am not afraid to give judgment." christison was condemned to death, but the sentence was never executed. in the interval the legislature assembled, and the law was modified. the martyrs had not died in vain. their cause was victorious. a revolution had been effected. the puritan ideal of a commonwealth composed of a united body of believers was broken down, never again to be restored. the principle had been admitted that the heretic might come to massachusetts and stay there. it was not in a moment, however, that these results were fully realized. for some years longer quakers were fined, imprisoned, and now and then tied to the cart's tail and whipped from one town to another. but these acts of persecution came to be more and more discountenanced by public opinion until at length they ceased. it was on the 25th of may, 1660, just one week before the martyrdom of mary dyer, that charles ii. returned to england to occupy his father's throne. one of the first papers laid before him was a memorial in behalf of the oppressed quakers in new england. in the course of the following year he sent a letter to endicott and the other new england governors, ordering them to suspend proceedings against the quakers, and if any were then in prison, to send them to england for trial. christison's victory had already been won, but the "king's missive" was now partially obeyed by the release of all prisoners. as for sending anybody to england for trial, that was something that no new england government could ever be made to allow. charles's defence of the quakers was due, neither to liberality of disposition nor to any sympathy with them, but rather to his inclinations toward romanism. unlike in other respects, quakers and catholics were alike in this, that they were the only sects which the protestant world in general agreed in excluding from toleration. charles wished to secure toleration for catholics, and he could not prudently take steps toward this end without pursuing a policy broad enough to diminish persecution in other directions, and from these circumstances the quakers profited. at times there was something almost like a political alliance between quaker and catholic, as instanced in the relations between william penn and charles's brother, the duke of york. [sidenote: the "king's missive"] [sidenote: why charles ii. interfered to protect the quakers] besides all this, charles had good reason to feel that the governments of new england were assuming too many airs of sovereignty. there were plenty of people at hand to work upon his mind. the friends of gorton and child and vassall were loud with their complaints. samuel maverick swore that the people of new england were all rebels, and he could prove it. the king was assured that the confederacy was "a war combination, made by the four colonies when they had a design to throw off their dependence on england, and for that purpose." the enemies of the new england people, while dilating upon the rebellious disposition of massachusetts, could also remind the king that for several years that colony had been coining and circulating shillings and sixpences with the name "massachusetts" and a tree on one side, and the name "new england" with the date on the other. there was no recognition of england upon this coinage, which was begun in 1652 and kept up for more than thirty years. such pieces of money used to be called "pine-tree shillings"; but, so far as looks go, the tree might be anything, and an adroit friend of new england once gravely assured the king that it was meant for the royal oak in which his majesty hid himself after the battle of worcester! against the colony of new haven the king had a special grudge. two of the regicide judges, who had sat in the tribunal which condemned his father, escaped to new england in 1660 and were well received there. they were gentlemen of high position. edward whalley was a cousin of cromwell and hampden. he had distinguished himself at naseby and dunbar, and had risen to the rank of lieutenant-general. he had commanded at the capture of worcester, where it is interesting to observe that the royalist commander who surrendered to him was sir henry washington, own cousin to the grandfather of george washington. the other regicide, william goffe, as a major-general in cromwell's army, had won such distinction that there were some who pointed to him as the proper person to succeed the lord protector on the death of the latter. he had married whalley's daughter. soon after the arrival of these gentlemen, a royal order for their arrest was sent to boston. if they had been arrested and sent back to england, their severed heads would soon have been placed over temple bar. the king's detectives hotly pursued them through the woodland paths of new england, and they would soon have been taken but for the aid they got from the people. many are the stories of their hairbreadth escapes. sometimes they took refuge in a cave on a mountain near new haven, sometimes they hid in friendly cellars; and once, being hard put to it, they skulked under a wooden bridge, while their pursuers on horseback galloped by overhead. after lurking about new haven and milford for two or three years, on hearing of the expected arrival of colonel nichols and his commission, they sought a more secluded hiding-place near hadley, a village lately settled far up the connecticut river, within the jurisdiction of massachusetts. here the avengers lost the trail, the pursuit was abandoned, and the weary regicides were presently forgotten. the people of new haven had been especially zealous in shielding the fugitives. mr. davenport had not only harboured them in his own house, but on the sabbath before their expected arrival he had preached a very bold sermon, openly advising his people to aid and comfort them as far as possible. [28] the colony, moreover, did not officially recognize the restoration of charles ii. to the throne until that event had been commonly known in new england for more than a year. for these reasons the wrath of the king was specially roused against new haven, when circumstances combined to enable him at once to punish this disloyal colony and deal a blow at the confederacy. we have seen that in restricting the suffrage to church members new haven had followed the example of massachusetts, but connecticut had not; and at this time there was warm controversy between the two younger colonies as to the wisdom of such a policy. as yet none of the colonies save massachusetts had obtained a charter, and connecticut was naturally anxious to obtain one. whether through a complaisant spirit connected with this desire, or through mere accident, connecticut had been prompt in acknowledging the restoration of charles ii.; and in august, 1661, she dispatched the younger winthrop to england to apply for a charter. winthrop was a man of winning address and of wide culture. his scientific tastes were a passport to the favour of the king at a time when the royal society was being founded, of which winthrop himself was soon chosen a fellow. in every way the occasion was an auspicious one. the king looked upon the rise of the new england confederacy with unfriendly eyes. massachusetts was as yet the only member of the league that was really troublesome; and there seemed to be no easier way to weaken her than to raise up a rival power by her side, and extend to it such privileges as might awaken her jealousy. all the more would such a policy be likely to succeed if accompanied by measures of which massachusetts must necessarily disapprove, and the suppression of new haven would be such a measure. [sidenote: new haven annexed to connecticut] in accordance with these views, a charter of great liberality was at once granted to connecticut, and by the same instrument the colony of new haven was deprived of its separate existence and annexed to its stronger neighbour. as if to emphasize the motives which had led to this display of royal favour toward connecticut, an equally liberal charter was granted to rhode island. in the summer of 1664 charles ii. sent a couple of ships-of-war to boston harbour, with 400 troops under command of colonel richard nichols, who had been appointed, along with samuel maverick and two others as royal commissioners, to look after the affairs of the new world. colonel nichols took his ships to new amsterdam, and captured that important town. after his return the commissioners held meetings at boston, and for a time the massachusetts charter seemed in danger. but the puritan magistrates were shrewd, and months were frittered away to no purpose. presently the dutch made war upon england, and the king felt it to be unwise to irritate the people of massachusetts beyond endurance. the turbulent state of english politics which followed still further absorbed his attention, and new england had another respite of several years. [sidenote: founding of newark] in new haven a party had grown up which was dissatisfied with its extreme theocratic policy and approved of the union with connecticut. davenport and his followers, the founders of the colony, were beyond measure disgusted. they spurned "the christless rule" of the sister colony. many of them took advantage of the recent conquest of new netherland, and a strong party, led by the rev. abraham pierson, of branford, migrated to the banks of the passaic in june, 1667, and laid the foundations of newark. for some years to come the theocratic idea that had given birth to new haven continued to live on in new jersey. as for mr. davenport, he went to boston and ended his days there. cotton mather, writing at a later date, when the theocratic scheme of the early settlers had been manifestly outgrown and superseded, says of davenport: "yet, after all, the lord gave him to see that in this world a church-state was impossible, whereinto there enters nothing which defiles." the theocratic policy, alike in new haven and in massachusetts, broke down largely through its inherent weakness. it divided the community, and created among the people a party adverse to its arrogance and exclusiveness. this state of things facilitated the suppression of new haven by royal edict, and it made possible the victory of wenlock christison in massachusetts. we can now see the fundamental explanation of the deadly hostility with which endicott and his party regarded the quakers. the latter aimed a fatal blow at the very root of the idea which had brought the puritans to new england. once admit these heretics as citizens, or even as tolerated sojourners, and there was an end of the theocratic state consisting of a united body of believers. it was a life-and-death struggle, in which no quarter was given; and the quakers, aided by popular discontent with the theocracy, even more than by the intervention of the crown, won a decisive victory. as the work of planting new england took place chiefly in the eleven years 1629-1640, during which charles i. contrived to reign without a parliament, so the prosperous period of the new england confederacy, 1643-1664, covers the time of the civil war and the commonwealth, and just laps on to the reign of charles ii. by the summary extinction of the separate existence of one of its members for the benefit of another, its vigour was sadly impaired. but its constitution was revised so as to make it a league of three states instead of four; and the federal commissioners kept on holding their meetings, though less frequently, until the revocation of the massachusetts charter in 1684. during this period a great indian war occurred, in the course of which this concentration of the military strength of new england, imperfect as it was, proved itself very useful. in the history of new england, from the restoration of the stuarts until their final expulsion, the two most important facts are the military struggle of the newly founded states with the indians, and their constitutional struggle against the british government. the troubles and dangers of 1636 were renewed on a much more formidable scale, but the strength of the people had waxed greatly in the mean time, and the new perils were boldly overcome or skilfully warded off; not, however, until the constitution of massachusetts had been violently wrenched out of shape in the struggle, and seeds of conflict sown which in the following century were to bear fruit in the american revolution. [sidenote: breaking down of the theocratic policy] [sidenote: weakening of the confederacy] chapter v. king philip's war. for eight-and-thirty years after the destruction of the pequots, the intercourse between the english and the indians was to all outward appearance friendly. the policy pursued by the settlers was in the main well considered. while they had shown that they could strike with terrible force when blows were needed, their treatment of the natives in time of peace seems to have been generally just and kind. except in the single case of the conquered pequot territory, they scrupulously paid for every rood of ground on which they settled, and so far as possible they extended to the indians the protection of the law. on these points we have the explicit testimony of josiah winslow, governor of plymouth, in his report to the federal commissioners in may, 1676; and what he says about plymouth seems to have been equally true of the other colonies. says winslow, "i think i can clearly say that before these present troubles broke out, the english did not possess one foot of land in this colony but what was fairly obtained by honest purchase of the indian proprietors. nay, because some of our people are of a covetous disposition, and the indians are in their straits easily prevailed with to part with their lands, we first made a law that none should purchase or receive of gift any land of the indians without the knowledge and allowance of our court .... and if at any time they have brought complaints before us, they have had justice impartial and speedy, so that our own people have frequently complained that we erred on the other hand in showing them overmuch favour." the general laws of massachusetts and connecticut as well as of plymouth bear out what winslow says, and show us that as a matter of policy the colonial governments were fully sensible of the importance of avoiding all occasions for quarrel with their savage neighbours. [sidenote: puritans and indians] there can, moreover, be little doubt that the material comfort of the indians was for a time considerably improved by their dealings with the white men. hitherto their want of foresight and thrift had been wont to involve them during the long winters in a dreadful struggle with famine. now the settlers were ready to pay liberally for the skin of every fur-covered animal the red men could catch; and where the trade thus arising did not suffice to keep off famine, instances of generous charity were frequent. the algonquin tribes of new england lived chiefly by hunting, but partly by agriculture. they raised beans and corn, and succotash was a dish which they contributed to the white man's table. they could now raise or buy english vegetables, while from dogs and horses, pigs and poultry, oxen and sheep, little as they could avail themselves of such useful animals, they nevertheless derived some benefit. [29] better blankets and better knives were brought within their reach; and in spite of all the colonial governments could do to prevent it, they were to some extent enabled to supply themselves with muskets and rum. [sidenote: trade with the indians] besides all this trade, which, except in the article of liquor, tended to improve the condition of the native tribes, there was on the part of the earlier settlers an earnest and diligent effort to convert them to christianity and give them the rudiments of a civilized education. missionary work was begun in 1643 by thomas mayhew on the islands of nantucket and martha's vineyard. the savages at first declared they were not so silly as to barter thirty-seven tutelar deities for one, but after much preaching and many pow-wows mayhew succeeded in persuading them that the deity of the white man was mightier than all their _manitous._ whether they ever got much farther than this toward a comprehension of the white man's religion may be doubted; but they were prevailed upon to let their children learn to read and write, and even to set up little courts, in which justice was administered according to some of the simplest rules of english law, and from which there lay an appeal to the court of plymouth. in 1646 massachusetts enacted that the elders of the churches should choose two persons each year to go and spread the gospel among the indians. in 1649 parliament established the society for propagating the gospel in new england, and presently from voluntary contributions the society was able to dispose of an annual income of â£2000. schools were set up in which agriculture was taught as well as religion. it was even intended that indians should go to harvard college, and a building was erected for their accommodation, but as none came to occupy it, the college printing-press was presently set to work there. one solitary indian student afterward succeeded in climbing to the bachelor's degree,--caleb cheeshahteaumuck of the class of 1665. it was this one success that was marvellous, not the failure of the scheme, which vividly shows how difficult it was for the white man of that day to understand the limitations of the red man. [sidenote: missionary work: thomas mayhew] the greatest measure of success in converting the indians was attained by that famous linguist and preacher, the apostle john eliot. this remarkable man was a graduate of jesus college, cambridge. he had come to massachusetts in 1631, and in the following year had been settled as teacher in the church at roxbury of which thomas welde was pastor. he had been distinguished at the university for philological scholarship and for linguistic talent--two things not always found in connection--and now during fourteen years he devoted such time as he could to acquiring a complete mastery of the algonquin dialect spoken by the indians of massachusetts bay. to the modern comparative philologist his work is of great value. he published not only an excellent indian grammar, but a complete translation of the bible into the massachusetts language,--a monument of prodigious labour. it is one of the most instructive documents in existence for the student of algonquin speech, though the massachusetts tribe and its language have long been extinct, and there are very few scholars living who can read the book. it has become one of the curiosities of literature and at auction sales of private libraries commands an extremely high price. yet out of this rare book the american public has somehow or other within the last five or six years contrived to pick up a word which we shall very likely continue to hear for some time to come. in eliot's bible, the word which means a great chief--such as joshua, or gideon, or joab--is "mugwump." it was in 1646 that eliot began his missionary preaching at a small indian village near watertown. president dunster, of harvard college, and mr. shepard, the minister at cambridge, felt a warm interest in the undertaking. these worthy men seriously believed that the aborigines of america were the degenerate descendants of the ten lost tribes of israel, and from this strange backsliding it was hoped that they might now be reclaimed. with rare eloquence and skill did eliot devote himself to the difficult work of reaching the indian's scanty intelligence and still scantier moral sense. his ministrations reached from the sands of cape cod to the rocky hillsides of brookfield. but he soon found that single-handed he could achieve but little over so wide an area, and accordingly he adopted the policy of colonizing his converts in village communities near the english towns, where they might be sequestered from their heathen brethren and subjected to none but christian influences. in these communities he hoped to train up native missionaries who might thence go and labour among the wild tribes until the whole lump of barbarism should be leavened. in pursuance of this scheme a stockaded village was built at natick in 1651 under the direction of an english carpenter the indians built log-houses for themselves, and most of them adopted the english dress. their simple government was administered by tithing-men, or "rulers of tens," chosen after methods prescribed in the book of exodus. other such communities were formed in the neighbourhoods of concord and grafton. by 1674 the number of these "praying indians," as they were called, was estimated at 4000, of whom about 1500 were in eliot's villages, as many more in martha's vineyard, 300 in nantucket, and 700 in the plymouth colony. there seems to be no doubt that these indians were really benefited both materially and morally by the change in their life. in theology it is not likely that they reached any higher view than that expressed by the connecticut sachem wequash who "seeing and beholding the mighty power of god in the english forces, how they fell upon the pequots, ... from that time was convinced and persuaded that our god was a most dreadful god;" accordingly, says the author of "new england's first fruits," "he became thoroughly reformed according to his light." matters of outward observance, too, the indians could understand; for we read of one of them rebuking an englishman "for profaning the lord's day by felling of a tree." the indian's notions of religion were probably confined within this narrow compass; the notions of some people that call themselves civilized perhaps do not extend much further. [sidenote: villages of christian indians] from such facts as those above cited we may infer that the early relations of the puritan settlers to the algonquin tribes of new england were by no means like the relations between white men and red men in recent times on our western plains. during philip's war, as we shall see, the puritan theory of the situation was entirely changed and our forefathers began to act in accordance with the frontiersman's doctrine that the good indians are dead indians. but down to that time it is clear that his intention was to deal honourably and gently with his tawny neighbour. we sometimes hear the justice and kindness of the quakers in pennsylvania alleged as an adequate reason for the success with which they kept clear of an indian war. this explanation, however, does not seem to be adequate; it does not appear that, on the whole, the puritans were less just and kind than the quakers in their treatment of the red men. the true explanation is rather to be found in the relations between the indian tribes toward the close of the seventeenth century. early in that century the pennsylvania region had been in the hands of the ferocious and powerful susquehannocks, but in 1672, after a frightful struggle of twenty years, this great tribe was swept from the face of the earth by the resistless league of the five nations. when the quakers came to pennsylvania in 1682, the only indians in that neighbourhood were the delawares, who had just been terribly beaten by the five nations and forced into a treaty by which they submitted to be called "women," and to surrender their tomahawks. penn's famous treaty was made with the delawares as occupants of the land and also with the iroquois league as overlords. [30] now the great central fact of early american history, so far as the relations between white men and red men are concerned, is the unshaken friendship of the iroquois for the english. this was the natural consequence of the deadly hostility between the iroquois and the french which began with champlain's defeat of the mohawks in 1609. during the seventy-three years which intervened between the founding of pennsylvania and the defeat of braddock there was never a moment when the delawares could have attacked the quakers without incurring the wrath and vengeance of their overlords the five nations. this was the reason why pennsylvania was left so long in quiet. no better proof could be desired than the fact that in pontiac's war, after the overthrow of the french and when indian politics had changed, no state suffered so much as pennsylvania from the horrors of indian warfare. [sidenote: why pennsylvania was so long unmolested by the indians] in new england at the time of philip's war, the situation was very different from what it was between the hudson and the susquehanna. the settlers were thrown into immediate relations with several tribes whose mutual hostility and rivalry was such that it was simply impossible to keep on good terms with all at once. such complicated questions as that which involved the english in responsibility for the fate of miantonomo did not arise in pennsylvania. since the destruction of the pequots we have observed the narragansetts and mohegans contending for the foremost place among new england tribes. of the two rivals the mohegans were the weaker, and therefore courted the friendship of the formidable palefaces. the english had no desire to take part in these barbarous feuds, but they could not treat the mohegans well without incurring the hostility of the narragansetts. for thirty years the feeling of the latter tribe toward the english had been very unfriendly and would doubtless have vented itself in murder but for their recollection of the fate of the pequots. after the loss of their chief miantonomo their attitude became so sullen and defiant that the federal commissioners, in order to be in readiness for an outbreak, collected a force of 300 men. at the first news of these preparations the narragansetts, overcome with terror, sent a liberal tribute of wampum to boston, and were fain to conclude a treaty in which they promised to behave themselves well in the future. it was impossible that this sort of english protectorate over the native tribes, which was an inevitable result of the situation, should be other than irksome and irritating to the indians. they could not but see that the white man stood there as master, and even in the utter absence of provocation, this fact alone must have made them hate him. it is difficult, moreover, for the civilized man and the savage to understand each other. as a rule the one does not know what the other is thinking about. when mr. hamilton gushing a few years ago took some of his zuni friends into a hotel in chicago, they marvelled at his entering such a mighty palace with so little ceremony, and their wonder was heightened at the promptness with which "slaves" came running at his beck and call; but all at once, on seeing an american eagle over one of the doorways, they felt that the mystery was solved. evidently this palace was the communal dwelling of the eagle clan of palefaces, and evidently mr. gushing was a great sachem of this clan, and as such entitled to lordly sway there! the zunis are not savages, but representatives of a remote and primitive phase of what mr. morgan calls the middle status of barbarism. the gulf between their thinking and that of white men is wide because there is a wide gulf between the experience of the two. [sidenote: difficulty of the situation in new england] [sidenote: it is hard for the savage and the civilized man to understand one another] this illustration may help us to understand an instance in which the indians of new england must inevitably have misinterpreted the actions of the white settlers and read them in the light of their uneasy fears and prejudices. i refer to the work of the apostle eliot. his design in founding his villages of christian indians was in the highest degree benevolent and noble; but the heathen indians could hardly be expected to see anything in it but a cunning scheme for destroying them. eliot's converts were for the most part from the massachusetts tribe, the smallest and weakest of all. the plymouth converts came chiefly from the tribe next in weakness, the pokanokets or wampanoags. the more powerful tribes--narragansetts, nipmucks, and mohegans--furnished very few converts. when they saw the white intruders gathering members of the weakest tribes into villages of english type, and teaching them strange gods while clothing them in strange garments, they probably supposed that the pale-faces were simply adopting these indians into their white tribe as a means of increasing their military strength. at any rate, such a proceeding would be perfectly intelligible to the savage mind, whereas the nature of eliot's design lay quite beyond its ken. as the indians recovered from their supernatural dread of the english, and began to regard them as using human means to accomplish their ends, they must of course interpret their conduct in such light as savage experience could afford. it is one of the commonest things in the world for a savage tribe to absorb weak neighbours by adoption, and thus increase its force preparatory to a deadly assault upon other neighbours. when eliot in 1657 preached to the little tribe of podunks near hartford, and asked them if they were willing to accept of jesus christ as their saviour, their old men scornfully answered no! they had parted with most of their land, but they were not going to become the white man's servants. a rebuke administered to eliot by uncas in 1674 has a similar implication. when the apostle was preaching one evening in a village over which that sachem claimed jurisdiction, an indian arose and announced himself as a deputy of uncas. then he said, "uncas is not well pleased that the english should pass over mohegan river to call _his_ indians to pray to god." [31] thus, no matter how benevolent the white man's intentions, he could not fail to be dreaded by the indians as a powerful and ever encroaching enemy. even in his efforts to keep the peace and prevent tribes from taking the warpath without his permission, he was interfering with the red man's cherished pastime of murder and pillage. the appeals to the court at plymouth, the frequent summoning of sachems to boston, to explain their affairs and justify themselves against accusers, must have been maddening in their effects upon the indian; for there is one sound instinct which the savage has in common with the most progressive races, and that is the love of self-government that resents all outside interference. all things considered, it is remarkable that peace should have been maintained in new england from 1637 to 1675; and probably nothing short of the consuming vengeance wrought upon the pequots could have done it. but with the lapse of time the wholesome feeling of dread began to fade away, and as the indians came to use musket instead of bow and arrow, their fear of the english grew less, until at length their ferocious temper broke forth in an epidemic of fire and slaughter that laid waste the land. [sidenote: it is remarkable that peace should have been so long preserved] massasoit, chief sachem of the wampanoags and steadfast ally of the plymouth colonists, died in 1660, leaving two sons, wamsutta and metacom, or as the english nicknamed them, alexander and philip. alexander succeeded to his father's position of savage dignity and influence, but his reign was brief. rumours came to plymouth that he was plotting mischief, and he was accordingly summoned to appear before the general court of that colony and explain himself. he seems to have gone reluctantly, but he succeeded in satisfying the magistrates of his innocence of any evil designs. whether he caught cold at plymouth or drank rum as only indians can, we do not know. at any rate, on starting homeward, before he had got clear of english territory, he was seized by a violent fever and died. the savage mind knows nothing of pneumonia or delirium tremens. it knows nothing of what we call natural death. to the savage all death means murder, for like other men he judges of the unknown by the known. in the indian's experience normal death was by tomahawk or firebrand; abnormal death (such as we call natural) must come either from poison or from witchcraft. so when the honest chronicler hubbard tells us that philip suspected the plymouth people of poisoning his brother, we can easily believe him. it was long, however, before he was ready to taste the sweets of revenge. he schemed and plotted in the dark. in one respect the indian diplomatist is unlike his white brethren; he does not leave state-papers behind him to reward the diligence and gratify the curiosity of later generations; and accordingly it is hard to tell how far philip was personally responsible for the storm which was presently to burst upon new england. [sidenote: deaths of massasoit and alexander] [sidenote: philip's designs] whether his scheme was as comprehensive as that of pontiac in 1763, whether or not it amounted to a deliberate combination of all red men within reach to exterminate the white men, one can hardly say with confidence. the figure of philip, in the war which bears his name, does not stand out so prominently as the figure of pontiac in the later struggle. this may be partly because pontiac's story has been told by such a magician as mr. francis parkman. but it is partly because the data are too meagre. in all probability, however, the schemes of sassacus the pequot, of philip the wampanoag, and of pontiac the ottawa, were substantially the same. that philip plotted with the narragansetts seems certain, and the early events of the war point clearly to a previous understanding with the nipmucks. the mohegans, on the other hand, gave him no assistance, but remained faithful to their white allies. for thirteen years had philip been chief sachem of his tribe before the crisis came. rumours of his unfriendly disposition had at intervals found their way to the ears of the magistrates at plymouth, but philip had succeeded in setting himself right before them. in 1670 the rumours were renewed, and the plymouth men felt that it was time to strike, but the other colonies held them back, and a meeting was arranged between philip and three boston men at taunton in april, 1671. there the crafty savage expressed humility and contrition for all past offences, and even consented to a treaty in which he promised that his tribe should surrender all their fire-arms. on the part of the english this was an extremely unwise measure, for while it could not possibly be enforced, and while it must have greatly increased the irritation of the indians, it was at the same time interpretable as a symptom of fear. with ominous scowls and grunts some seventy muskets were given up, but this was all. through the summer there was much uneasiness, and in september philip was summoned to plymouth with five of his under-sachems, and solemnly warned to keep the peace. the savages again behaved with humility and agreed to pay a yearly tribute of five wolves' heads and to do no act of war without express permission. for three years things seemed quiet, until late in 1674 the alarm was again sounded. sausamon, a convert from the massachusetts tribe, had studied a little at harvard college, and could speak and write english with facility. he had at one time been employed by philip as a sort of private secretary or messenger, and at other times had preached and taught school among the indian converts at natick. sausamon now came to plymouth and informed governor winslow that philip was certainly engaged in a conspiracy that boded no good to the english. somehow or other philip contrived to find out what sausamon had said, and presently coming to plymouth loudly asseverated his innocence; but the magistrates warned him that if they heard any more of this sort of thing his arms would surely be seized. a few days after philip had gone home, sausamon's hat and gun were seen lying on the frozen surface of assowamsett pond, near middleborough, and on cutting through the ice his body was found with unmistakable marks of beating and strangling. after some months the crime was traced to three wampanoags, who were forthwith arrested, tried by a mixed jury of indians and white men, found guilty, and put to death. on the way to the gallows one of them confessed that he had stood by while his two friends had pounded and choked the unfortunate sausamon. [sidenote: murder of sausamon] more alarming reports now came from swanzey, a pretty village of some forty houses not far from philip's headquarters at mount hope. on sunday june 20, while everybody was at church, a party of indians had stolen into the town and set fire to two houses. messengers were hurried from plymouth and from boston, to demand the culprits under penalty of instant war. as they approached swanzey the men from boston saw a sight that filled them with horror. the road was strewn with corpses of men, women, and children, scorched, dismembered, and mangled with that devilish art of which the american indian is the most finished master. the savages had sacked the village the day before, burning the houses and slaying the people. within three days a small force of colonial troops had driven philip from his position at mount hope; but while they were doing this a party of savages swooped upon dartmouth, burning thirty houses and committing fearful atrocities. some of their victims were flayed alive, or impaled on sharp stakes, or roasted over slow fires. similar horrors were wrought at middleborough and taunton; and now the misery spread to massachusetts, where on the 14th of july the town of mendon was attacked by a party of nipmucks. [sidenote: massacres at swanzey and dartmouth, june, 1675] at that time the beautiful highlands between lancaster and the connecticut river were still an untrodden wilderness. on their southern slope worcester and brookfield were tiny hamlets of a dozen houses each. up the connecticut valley a line of little villages, from springfield to northfield, formed the remotest frontier of the english, and their exposed position offered tempting opportunities to the indians. governor leverett saw how great the danger would be if the other tribes should follow the example set by philip, and captain edward hutchinson was accordingly sent to brookfield to negotiate with the nipmucks. this officer was eldest son of the unfortunate lady whose preaching in boston nearly forty years before had been the occasion of so much strife. not only his mother, but all save one or two of his brothers and sisters --and there were not less than twelve of them--had been murdered by indians on the new netherland border in 1643; now the same cruel fate overtook the gallant captain. the savages agreed to hold a parley and appointed a time and place for the purpose, but instead of keeping tryst they lay in ambush and slew hutchinson with eight of his men on their way to the conference. [sidenote: murder of captain hutchinson] three days afterward philip, who had found home too hot for him, arrived in the nipmuck country, and on the night of august 2, took part in a fierce assault on brookfield. thirty or forty men, with some fifty women and children--all the inhabitants of the hamlet--took refuge in a large house, where they were besieged by 300 savages whose bullets pierced the wooden walls again and again. arrows tipped with burning rags were shot into the air in such wise as to fall upon the roof, but they who crouched in the garret were watchful and well supplied with water, while from the overhanging windows the volleys of musketry were so brisk and steady that the screaming savages below could not get near enough to the house to set it on fire. for three days the fight was kept up, while every other house in the village was destroyed. by this time the indians had contrived to mount some planks on barrels so as to make a kind of rude cart which they loaded with tow and chips. they were just about setting it on fire and preparing to push it against the house with long poles, when they were suddenly foiled by a heavy shower. that noon the gallant simon willard, ancestor of two presidents of harvard college, a man who had done so much toward building up concord and lancaster that he was known as the "founder of towns," was on his way from lancaster to groton at the head of forty-seven horsemen, when he was overtaken by a courier with the news from brookfield. the distance was thirty miles, the road scarcely fit to be called a bridle-path, and willard's years were more than threescore-and-ten; but by an hour after sunset he had gallopped into brookfield and routed the indians who fled to a swamp ten miles distant. [sidenote: attack on brookfield] the scene is now shifted to the connecticut valley, where on the 25th of august captain lothrop defeated the savages at hatfield. on the 1st of september simultaneous attacks were made upon deerfield and hadley, and among the traditions of the latter place is one of the most interesting of the stories of that early time. the inhabitants were all in church keeping a fast, when the yells of the indians resounded. seizing their guns, the men rushed out to meet the foe; but seeing the village green swarming on every side with the horrid savages, for a moment their courage gave way and a panic was imminent; when all at once a stranger of reverend aspect and stately form, with white beard flowing on his bosom, appeared among them and took command with an air of authority which none could gainsay. he bade them charge on the screeching rabble, and after a short sharp skirmish the tawny foe was put to flight. when the pursuers came together again, after the excitement of the rout, their deliverer was not to be found. in their wonder, as they knew not whence he came or whither he had gone, many were heard to say that an angel had been sent from heaven for their deliverance. it was the regicide william goffe, who from his hiding-place had seen the savages stealing down the hillside, and sallied forth to win yet one more victory over the hosts of midian ere death should come to claim him in his woodland retreat. sir walter scott has put this pretty story into the mouth of major bridgenorth in "peveril of the peak," and cooper has made use of it in "the wept of wish-ton-wish." like many other romantic stories, it rests upon insufficient authority and its truth has been called in question. [32] but there seems to be nothing intrinsically improbable in the tradition; and a paramount regard for goffe's personal safety would quite account for the studied silence of contemporary writers like hubbard and increase mather. [sidenote: the mysterious stranger of hadley] this repulse did not check for a moment the activity of the indians, though for a long time we hear nothing more of philip. on the 2d of september they slew eight men at northfield and on the 4th they surrounded and butchered captain beers and most of his company of thirty-six marching to the relief of that village. the next day but one, as major robert treat came up the road with his 100 connecticut soldiers, they found long poles planted by the wayside bearing the heads of their unfortunate comrades. they in turn were assaulted, but beat off the enemy, and brought away the people of northfield. that village was abandoned, and presently deerfield shared its fate and the people were crowded into hadley. yet worse remained to be seen. a large quantity of wheat had been left partly threshed at deerfield, and on the 11th of september eighteen wagons were sent up with teamsters and farmers to finish the threshing and bring in the grain. they were escorted by captain lothrop, with his train-band of ninety picked men, known as the "flower of essex," perhaps the best drilled company in the colony. the threshing was done, the wagons were loaded, and the party made a night march southward. at seven in the morning, as they were fording a shallow stream in the shade of overarching woods, they were suddenly overwhelmed by the deadly fire of 700 ambushed nipmucks, and only eight of them escaped to tell the tale. a "black and fatal" day was this, says the chronicler, "the saddest that ever befell new england." to this day the memory of the slaughter at bloody brook survives, and the visitor to south deerfield may read the inscription over the grave in which major treat's men next day buried all the victims together. the indians now began to feel their power, and on the 5th of october they attacked springfield and burned thirty houses there. [sidenote: ambuscade at bloody brook, september 12] things were becoming desperate. for ten weeks, from september 9 to november 19, the federal commissioners were in session daily in boston. the most eminent of their number, for ability and character, was the younger john winthrop, who was still governor of connecticut. plymouth was represented by its governor, josiah winslow, with the younger william bradford; massachusetts by william stoughton, simon bradstreet, and thomas danforth. these strong men were confronted with a difficult problem. from batten's journal, kept during that disastrous summer, we learn the state of feeling of excitement in boston. the puritans had by no means got rid of that sense of corporate responsibility which civilized man has inherited from prehistoric ages, and which has been one of the principal causes of religious persecution. this sombre feeling has prompted men to believe that to spare the heretic is to bring down the wrath of god upon the whole community; and now in boston many people stoutly maintained that god had let loose the savages, with firebrand and tomahawk, to punish the people of new england for ceasing to persecute "false worshippers and especially idolatrous quakers." quaker meetings were accordingly forbidden under penalty of fine and imprisonment. some harmless indians were murdered. at marblehead two were assaulted and killed by a crowd of women. there was a bitter feeling toward the christian indians, many of whom had joined their heathen kinsmen in burning and slaying. daniel gookin, superintendent of the "praying indians," a gentleman of the highest character, was told that it would not be safe to show himself in the streets of boston. mrs. mary pray, of providence, wrote a letter recommending the total extermination of the red men. the measures adopted by the commissioners certainly went far toward carrying out mrs. pray's suggestion. the demeanour of the narragansetts had become very threatening, and their capacity for mischief exceeded that of all the other tribes together. in july the commissioners had made a treaty with them, but in october it became known in boston that they were harbouring some of philip's hostile indians. when the commissioners sharply called them to account for this, their sachem canonchet, son of miantonomo, promised to surrender the fugitives within ten days. but the ten days passed and nothing was heard from the narragansetts. the victory of their brethren at bloody brook had worked upon their minds, so that they no longer thought it worth while to keep faith with the white men. they had overcome their timidity and were now ready to take part in the work of massacre. [33] the commissioners soon learned of their warlike preparations and lost no time in forestalling them. the narragansetts were fairly warned that if they did not at once fulfil their promises they must expect the utmost severities of war. a thousand men were enlisted for this service and put under command of governor winslow, and in december they marched against the enemy. the redoubtable fighter and lively chronicler benjamin church accompanied the expedition. the indians had fortified themselves on a piece of rising ground, six acres in extent, in the middle of a hideous swamp impassable at most seasons but now in some places frozen hard enough to afford a precarious footing. they were surrounded by rows of tall palisades which formed a wall twelve feet in thickness; and the only approach to the single door of this stronghold was over the trunk of a felled tree some two feet in diameter and slippery with snow and ice. a stout block-house filled with sharpshooters guarded this rude bridge, which was raised some five feet from the ground. within the palisaded fortress perhaps not less than 2000 warriors, with many women and children, awaited the onset of the white men, for here had canonchet gathered together nearly the whole of his available force. this was a military mistake. it was cooping up his men for slaughter. they would have been much safer if scattered about in the wilderness, and could have given the english much more trouble. but readily as they acknowledged the power of the white man, they did not yet understand it. one man's courage is not another's, and the indian knew little or nothing of that gothic fury of self-abandonment which rushes straight ahead and snatches victory from the jaws of death. his fortress was a strong one, and it was no longer, as in the time of the pequots, a strife in which firearms were pitted against bow and arrow. many of the narragansetts were equipped with muskets and skilled in their use, and under such circumstances victory for the english was not to be lightly won. [sidenote: expedition against the narragansetts] on the night of december 18 their little army slept in an open field at pettyquamscott without other blanket than a "moist fleece of snow." thence to the indian fortress, situated in what is now south kingston, the march was eighteen miles. the morrow was a sunday, but winslow deemed it imprudent to wait, as food had wellnigh given out. getting up at five o'clock, they toiled through deep snow till they came within sight of the narragansett stronghold early in the afternoon. first came the 527 men from massachusetts, led by major appleton, of ipswich, and next the 158 from plymouth, under major bradford; while major robert treat, with the 300 from connecticut, brought up the rear. there were 985 men in all. as the massachusetts men rushed upon the slippery bridge a deadly volley from the blockhouse slew six of their captains, while of the rank and file there were many killed or wounded. nothing daunted they pressed on with great spirit till they forced their way into the enclosure, but then the head of their column, overcome by sheer weight of numbers in the hand-to-hand fight, was pushed and tumbled out into the swamp. meanwhile some of the connecticut men had discovered a path across the partly frozen swamp leading to a weak spot in the rear, where the palisades were thin and few, as undue reliance had been placed upon the steep bank crowned with a thick rampart of bushes that had been reinforced with clods of turf. in this direction treat swept along with his men in a spirited charge. before they had reached the spot a heavy fire began mowing them down, but with a furious rush they came up, and climbing on each other's shoulders, some fought their way over the rampart, while others hacked sturdily with axes till such a breach was made that all might enter. this was effected just as the massachusetts men had recovered themselves and crossed the treacherous log in a second charge that was successful and soon brought the entire english force within the enclosure. in the slaughter which filled the rest of that sunday afternoon till the sun went down behind a dull gray cloud, the grim and wrathful puritan, as he swung his heavy cutlass, thought of saul and agag, and spared not. the lord had delivered up to him the heathen as stubble to his sword. as usual the number of the slain is variously estimated. of the indians probably not less than 1000 perished. some hundreds, however, with canonchet their leader, saved themselves in flight, well screened by the blinding snow-flakes that began to fall just after sunset. within the fortified area had been stored the greater part of the indians' winter supply of corn, and the loss of this food was a further deadly blow. captain church advised sparing the wigwams and using them for shelter, but winslow seems to have doubted the ability of his men to maintain themselves in a position so remote from all support. the wigwams with their tubs of corn were burned, and a retreat was ordered. through snowdrifts that deepened every moment the weary soldiers dragged themselves along until two hours after midnight, when they reached the tiny village of wickford. nearly one-fourth of their number had been killed or wounded, and many of the latter perished before shelter was reached. forty of these were buried at wickford in the course of the next three days. of the connecticut men eighty were left upon the swamp and in the breach at the rear of the stronghold. among the spoils which the victors brought away were a number of good muskets that had been captured by the nipmucks in their assault upon deerfield. [sidenote: storming of the great swamp fortress, december 19] this headlong overthrow of the narragansett power completely changed the face of things. the question was no longer whether the red men could possibly succeed in making new england too hot for the white men, but simply how long it would take for the white men to exterminate the red men. the shiftless indian was abandoning his squalid agriculture and subsisting on the pillage of english farms; but the resources of the colonies, though severely taxed, were by no means exhausted. the dusky warriors slaughtered in the great swamp fight could not be replaced; but, as roger williams told the indians, there were still ten thousand white men who could carry muskets, and should all these be slain, he added, with a touch of hyperbole, the great father in england could send ten thousand more. for the moment williams seems to have cherished a hope that his great influence with the savages might induce them to submit to terms of peace while there was yet a remnant to be saved; but they were now as little inclined to parley as tigers brought to bay, nor was the temper of the colonists a whit less deadly, though it did not vent itself in inflicting torture or in merely wanton orgies of cruelty. [sidenote: effect of the blow] to the modern these scenes of carnage are painful to contemplate. in the wholesale destruction of the pequots, and to a less degree in that of the narragansetts, the death-dealing power of the white man stands forth so terrible and relentless that our sympathy is for a moment called out for his victim. the feeling of tenderness toward the weak, almost unknown among savages, is one of the finest products of civilization. where murderous emotions are frequently excited, it cannot thrive. such advance in humanity as we have made within recent times is chiefly due to the fact that the horrors of war are seldom brought home to everybody's door. either war is conducted on some remote frontier, or if armies march through a densely peopled country the conditions of modern warfare have made it essential to their efficiency as military instruments that depredation and riot should be as far as possible checked. murder and pillage are comparatively infrequent, massacre is seldom heard of, and torture is almost or quite as extinct as cannibalism. the mass of citizens escape physical suffering, the angry emotions are so directed upon impersonal objects as to acquire a strong ethical value, and the intervals of strife may find individual soldiers of hostile armies exchanging kindly services. members of a complex industrial society, without direct experience of warfare save in this mitigated form, have their characters wrought upon in a way that is distinctively modern, as they become more and more disinclined to violence and cruelty. european historians have noticed, with words of praise, the freedom from bloodthirstiness which characterizes the american people. mr. lecky has more than once remarked upon this humane temperament which is so characteristic of our peaceful civilization, and which sometimes, indeed, shows the defects of its excellence and tends to weaken society by making it difficult to inflict due punishment upon the vilest criminals. in respect of this humanity the american of the nineteenth century has without doubt improved very considerably upon his forefathers of the seventeenth. the england of cromwell and milton was not, indeed, a land of hard-hearted people as compared with their contemporaries. the long experience of internal peace since the war of the roses had not been without its effect; and while the tudor and stuart periods had atrocities enough, we need only remember what was going on at the same time in france and germany in order to realize how much worse it might have been. in england, as elsewhere, however, it was, when looked at with our eyes, a rough and brutal time. it was a day of dungeons, whipping-posts, and thumbscrews, when slight offenders were maimed and bruised and great offenders cut into pieces by sentence of court. the pioneers of new england had grown up familiar with such things; and among the townspeople of boston and hartford in 1675 were still many who in youth had listened to the awful news from magdeburg or turned pale over the horrors in piedmont upon which milton invoked the wrath of heaven. [sidenote: growth of humane sentiment in recent times] when civilized men are removed from the safeguards of civilization and placed in the wilderness amid the hideous dangers that beset human existence in a savage state of society, whatever barbarism lies latent in them is likely to find many opportunities for showing itself. the feelings that stir the meekest of men, as he stands among the smouldering embers of his homestead and gazes upon the mangled bodies of wife and children, are feelings that he shares with the most bloodthirsty savage, and the primary effect of his higher intelligence and greater sensitiveness is only to increase their bitterness. the neighbour who hears the dreadful story is quick to feel likewise, for the same thing may happen to him, and there is nothing so pitiless as fear. with the puritan such gloomy and savage passions seemed to find justification in the sacred text from which he drew his rules of life. to suppose that one part of the bible could be less authoritative than another would have been to him an incomprehensible heresy; and bound between the same covers that included the sermon on the mount were tales of wholesale massacre perpetrated by god's command. evidently the red men were not stray children of israel, after all, but rather philistines, canaanites, heathen, sons of belial, firebrands of hell, demons whom it was no more than right to sweep from the face of the earth. writing in this spirit, the chroniclers of the time were completely callous in their accounts of suffering and ruin inflicted upon indians, and, as has elsewhere been known to happen, those who did not risk their own persons were more truculent in tone than the professional fighters. of the narrators of the war, perhaps the fairest toward the indian is the doughty captain church, while none is more bitter and cynical than the ipswich pastor william hubbard. [sidenote: warfare with savages likely to be truculent in character] while the overthrow of the narragansetts changed the face of things, it was far from putting an end to the war. it showed that when the white man could find his enemy he could deal crushing blows, but the indian was not always so easy to find. before the end of january winslow's little army was partially disbanded for want of food, and its three contingents fell back upon stonington, boston, and plymouth. early in february the federal commissioners called for a new levy of 600 men to assemble at brookfield, for the nipmucks were beginning to renew their incursions, and after an interval of six months the figure of philip again appears for a moment upon the scene. what he had been doing, or where he had been, since the brookfield fight in august, was never known. when in february, 1676, he re-appeared it was still in company with his allies the nipmucks, in their bloody assault upon lancaster. on the 10th of that month at sunrise the indians came swarming into the lovely village. danger had already been apprehended, the pastor, joseph rowlandson, the only harvard graduate of 1652, had gone to boston to solicit aid, and captain wadsworth's company was slowly making its way over the difficult roads from marlborough, but the indians were beforehand. several houses were at once surrounded and set on fire, and men, women, and children began falling under the tomahawk. the minister's house was large and strongly built, and more than forty people found shelter there until at length it took fire and they were driven out by the flames. only one escaped, a dozen or more were slain, and the rest, chiefly women and children, taken captive. the indians aimed at plunder as well as destruction; for they were in sore need of food and blankets, as well as of powder and ball. presently, as they saw wadsworth's armed men approaching, they took to flight and got away, with many prisoners and a goodly store of provisions. [sidenote: attack upon lancaster, february 10, 1676] among the captives was mary rowlandson, the minister's wife, who afterward wrote the story of her sad experiences. the treatment of the prisoners varied with the caprice or the cupidity of the captors. those for whom a substantial ransom might be expected fared comparatively well; to others death came as a welcome relief. one poor woman with a child in her arms was too weak to endure the arduous tramp over the icy hillsides, and begged to be left behind, till presently the savages lost their patience. they built a fire, and after a kind of demon dance killed mother and child with a club and threw the bodies into the flames. such treatment may seem exceptionally merciful, but those modern observers who best know the indian's habits say that he seldom indulges in torture except when he has abundance of leisure and a mind quite undisturbed. he is an epicure in human agony and likes to enjoy it in long slow sips. it is for the end of the march that the accumulation of horrors is reserved; the victims by the way are usually despatched quickly; and in the case of mrs. rowlandson's captors their irregular and circuitous march indicates that they were on the alert. their movements seem to have covered much of the ground between wachusett mountain and the connecticut river. they knew that the white squaw of the great medicine man of an english village was worth a heavy ransom, and so they treated mrs. rowlandson unusually well. she had been captured when escaping from the burning house, carrying in her arms her little six-year-old daughter. she was stopped by a bullet that grazed her side and struck the child. the indian who seized them placed the little girl upon a horse, and as the dreary march began she kept moaning "i shall die, mamma." "i went on foot after it," says the mother, "with sorrow that cannot be expressed. at length i took it off the horse, and carried it in my arms till my strength failed me, and i fell down with it .... after this it quickly began to snow, and when night came on they stopped. and now down i must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick child in my lap, and calling much for water, being now, through the wound, fallen into a violent fever .... oh, may i see the wonderful power of god that my spirit did not utterly sink under my affliction; still the lord upheld me with his gracious and merciful spirit." the little girl soon died. for three months the weary and heartbroken mother was led about the country by these loathsome savages, of whose habits and manners she gives a vivid description. at first their omnivorousness astonished her. "skunks and rattlesnakes, yea the very bark of trees" they esteemed as delicacies. "they would pick up old bones and cut them in pieces at the joints, ... then boil them and drink up the liquor, and then beat the great ends of them in a mortar and so eat them." after some weeks of starvation mrs. rowlandson herself was fain to partake of such viands. one day, having made a cap for one of philip's boys, she was invited to dine with the great sachem. "i went," she says, "and he gave me a pancake about as big as two fingers. it was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fried in bear's grease; but i thought i never tasted pleasanter meat in my life." early in may she was redeemed for 20 pounds, and went to find her husband in boston, where the old south church society hired a house for them. [sidenote: mrs. rowlandson's narrative] such was the experience of a captive whose treatment was, according to indian notions, hospitable. there were few who came off so well. almost every week while she was led hither and thither by the savages. mrs. rowlandson heard ghastly tales of fire and slaughter. it was a busy winter and spring for these nipmucks. before february was over, their exploit at lancaster was followed by a shocking massacre at medfield. they sacked and destroyed the towns of worcester, marlborough, mendon, and groton, and even burned some houses in weymouth, within a dozen miles of boston. murderous attacks were made upon sudbury, chelmsford, springfield, hatfield, hadley, northampton, wrentham, andover, bridgewater, scituate, and middleborough. on the 18th of april captain wadsworth, with 70 men, was drawn into an ambush near sudbury, surrounded by 500 nipmucks, and killed with 50 of his men; six unfortunate captives were burned alive over slow fires. but wadsworth's party made the enemy pay dearly for his victory; that afternoon 120 nipmucks bit the dust. in such wise, by killing two or three for one, did the english wear out and annihilate their adversaries. just one month from that day captain turner surprised and slaughtered 300 of these warriors near the falls of the connecticut river which have since borne his name, and this blow at last broke the strength of the nipmucks. [sidenote: virtual exterminations of the indians, february--august, 1676] meanwhile the narragansetts and wampanoags had burned the towns of warwick and providence. after the wholesale ruin of the great "swamp fight," canonchet had still some 600 or 700 warriors left, and with these, on the 26th of march, in the neighbourhood of pawtuxet, he surprised a company of 50 plymouth men under captain pierce and slew them all, but not until he had lost 140 of his best warriors. ten days later captain denison, with his connecticut company, defeated and captured canonchet, and the proud son of miantonomo met the same fate as his father. he was handed over to the mohegans and tomahawked. the narragansett sachem had shown such bravery that it seemed, says the chronicler hubbard, as if "some old roman ghost had possessed the body of this western pagan." but next moment this pious clergyman, as if ashamed of the classical eulogy just bestowed upon the hated redskin, alludes to him as a "damned wretch." [sidenote: death of canonchet] the fall of canonchet marked the beginning of the end. in four sharp fights in the last week of june, major talcott, of hartford, slew from 300 to 400 warriors, being nearly all that were left of the narragansetts; and during the month of july captain church patrolled the country about taunton, making prisoners of the wampanoags. once more king philip, shorn of his prestige, comes upon the scene. we have seen that his agency in these cruel events had been at the outset a potent one. whatever else it may have been, it was at least the agency of the match that explodes the powder-cask. under the conditions of that savage society, organized leadership was not to be looked for. in the irregular and disorderly series of murdering raids philip may have been often present, but except for mrs. rowlandson's narrative we should have known nothing of him since the brookfield fight. at length in july, 1676, having seen the last of his nipmuck friends overwhelmed, the tattered chieftain showed himself near bridgewater, with a handful of followers. in these his own hunting-grounds some of his former friends had become disaffected. the daring and diplomatic church had made his way into the wigwam of ashawonks, the squaw sachem of saconet, near little compton, and having first convinced her that a flask of brandy might be tasted without fatal results, followed up his advantage and persuaded her to make an alliance with the english. many indians came in and voluntarily surrendered themselves, in order to obtain favourable terms, and some lent their aid in destroying their old sachem. defeated at taunton, the son of massasoit was hunted by church to his ancient lair at bristol neck and there besieged. his only escape was over the narrow isthmus of which the pursuers now took possession, and in this dire extremity one of philip's men presumed to advise his chief that the hour for surrender had come. for his unwelcome counsel the sachem forthwith lifted his tomahawk and struck him dead at his feet. then the brother of the slain man crept away through the bushes to church's little camp, and offered to guide the white men to the morass where philip lay concealed. at daybreak of august 12 the english stealthily advancing beat up their prey. the savages in sudden panic rushed from under cover, and as the sachem showed himself running at the top of his speed, a ball from an indian musket pierced his heart, and "he fell upon his face in the mud and water, with his gun under him." his severed head was sent to plymouth, where it was mounted on a pole and exposed aloft upon the village green, while the meeting-house bell summoned the townspeople to a special service of thanksgiving. [sidenote: death of philip, august 12] it may be supposed that in such services at this time a christian feeling of charity and forgiveness was not uppermost. among the captives was a son of philip, the little swarthy lad of nine years for whom mrs. rowlandson had made a cap, and the question as to what was to be done with him occasioned as much debate as if he had been a jesse pomeroy [34] or a chicago anarchist. the opinions of the clergy were, of course, eagerly sought and freely vouchsafed. one minister somewhat doubtfully urged that "although a precept in deuteronomy explicitly forbids killing the child for the father's sin," yet after all "the children of saul and achan perished with their parents, though too young to have shared their guilt." thus curiously did this english reverence for precedent, with a sort of grim conscientiousness colouring its gloomy wrath, search for guidance among the ancient records of the children of israel. commenting upon the truculent suggestion, increase mather, soon to be president of harvard, observed that, "though david had spared the infant hadad, yet it might have been better for his people if he had been less merciful." these bloodthirsty counsels did not prevail, but the course that was adopted did not lack in harshness. among the sachems a dozen leading spirits were hanged or shot, and hundreds of captives were shipped off to the west indies to be sold into slavery; among these was philip's little son. the rough soldier church and the apostle eliot were among the few who disapproved of this policy. church feared it might goad such indians as were still at large to acts of desperation. eliot, in an earnest letter to the federal commissioners, observed: "to sell souls for money seemeth to me dangerous merchandise." but the plan of exporting the captives was adhered to. as slaves they were understood to be of little or no value, and sometimes for want of purchasers they were set ashore on strange coasts and abandoned. a few were even carried to one of the foulest of mediaeval slave-marts, morocco, where their fate was doubtless wretched enough. [sidenote: indians sold into slavery] in spite of church's doubts as to the wisdom of this harsh treatment, it did not prevent the beaten and starving savages from surrendering themselves in considerable numbers. to some the federal commissioners offered amnesty, and the promise was faithfully fulfilled. among those who laid down arms in reliance upon it were 140 christian indians, with their leader known as james the printer, because he had been employed at cambridge in setting up the type for eliot's bible. quite early in the war it had been discovered that these converted savages still felt the ties of blood to be stronger than those of creed. at the attack on mendon, only three weeks after the horrors at swanzey that ushered in the war, it was known that christian indians had behaved themselves quite as cruelly as their unregenerate brethren. afterwards they made such a record that the jokers and punsters of the day--for such there were, even among those sombre puritans--in writing about the "praying indians," spelled _praying_ with an _e_. the moral scruples of these savages, under the influence of their evangelical training, betrayed queer freaks. one of them, says mrs. rowlandson, would rather die than eat horseflesh, so narrow and scrupulous was his conscience, although it was as wide as the whole infernal abyss, when it came to torturing white christians. the student of history may have observed similar inconsistencies in the theories and conduct of people more enlightened than these poor red men. "there was another praying indian," continues mrs. rowlandson, "who, when he had done all the mischief he could, betrayed his own father into the english's hands, thereby to purchase his own life; ... and there was another ... so wicked ... as to wear a string about his neck, strung with christian fingers." [sidenote: conduct of the christian indians] such incidents help us to comprehend the exasperation of our forefathers in the days of king philip. the month which witnessed his death saw also the end of the war in the southern parts of new england; but, almost before people had time to offer thanks for the victory, there came news of bloodshed on the northeastern frontier. the tarratines in maine had for some time been infected with the war fever. how far they may have been comprehended in the schemes of philip and canonchet, it would be hard to say. they had attacked settlers on the site of brunswick as early as september, 1675. about the time of philip's death, major waldron of dover had entrapped a party of them by an unworthy stratagem, and after satisfying himself that they were accomplices in that chieftain's scheme, sent them to boston to be sold into slavery. a terrible retribution was in store for major waldron thirteen years later. for the present the hideous strife, just ended in southern new england, was continued on the northeastern frontier, and there was scarcely a village between the kennebec and the piscataqua but was laid in ashes. [sidenote: war with the tarratines, 1676-78] by midsummer of 1678 the indians had been everywhere suppressed, and there was peace in the land. for three years, since philip's massacre at swanzey, there had been a reign of terror in new england. within the boundaries of connecticut, indeed, little or no damage had been inflicted, and the troops of that colony, not needed on their own soil, did noble service in the common cause. in massachusetts and plymouth, on the other hand, the destruction of life and property had been simply frightful. of ninety towns, twelve had been utterly destroyed, while more than forty others had been the scene of fire and slaughter. out of this little society nearly a thousand staunch men, including not few of broad culture and strong promise, had lost their lives, while of the scores of fair women and poor little children that had perished under the ruthless tomahawk, one can hardly give an accurate account. hardly a family throughout the land but was in mourning. the war-debt of plymouth was reckoned to exceed the total amount of personal property in the colony; yet although it pinched every household for many a year, it was paid to the uttermost farthing; nor in this respect were massachusetts and connecticut at all behind-hand. [sidenote: destructiveness of the war] but while king philip's war wrought such fearful damage to the english, it was for the indians themselves utter destruction. most of the warriors were slain, and to the survivors, as we have seen, the conquerors showed but scant mercy. the puritan, who conned his bible so earnestly, had taken his hint from the wars of the jews, and swept his new english canaan with a broom that was pitiless and searching. henceforth the red man figures no more in the history of new england, except as an ally of the french in bloody raids upon the frontier. in that capacity he does mischief enough for yet a half-century more, but from central and southern new england, as an element of disturbance or a power to be reckoned with, he disappears forever. chapter vi. the tyranny of andros. the beginnings of new england were made in the full daylight of modern history. it was an age of town records, of registered deeds, of contemporary memoirs, of diplomatic correspondence, of controversial pamphlets, funeral sermons, political diatribes, specific instructions, official reports, and private letters. it was not a time in which mythical personages or incredible legends could flourish, and such things we do find in the history of new england. there was nevertheless a romantic side to this history, enough to envelop some of its characters and incidents in a glamour that may mislead the modern reader. this wholesale migration from the smiling fields of merry england to an unexplored wilderness beyond a thousand leagues of sea was of itself a most romantic and thrilling event, and when viewed in the light of its historic results it becomes clothed with sublimity. the men who undertook this work were not at all free from self-consciousness. they believed that they were doing a wonderful thing. they felt themselves to be instruments in accomplishing a kind of "manifest destiny." their exodus was that of a chosen people who were at length to lay the everlasting foundations of god's kingdom upon earth. such opinions, which took a strong colour from their assiduous study of the old testament, reacted and disposed them all the more to search its pages for illustrations and precedents, and to regard it as an oracle, almost as a talisman. in every propitious event they saw a special providence, an act of divine intervention to deliver them from the snares of an ever watchful satan. this steadfast faith in an unseen ruler and guide was to them a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night. it was of great moral value. it gave them clearness of purpose and concentration of strength, and contributed toward making them, like the children of israel, a people of indestructible vitality and aggressive energy. at the same time, in the hands of the puritan writers, this feeling was apt to warp their estimates of events and throw such a romantic haze about things as seriously to interfere with a true historical perspective. [sidenote: romantic features in the early history of new england] among such writings that which perhaps best epitomizes the puritan philosophy is "the wonder-working providence of zion's saviour in new england," by captain edward johnson, one of the principal founders of woburn. it is an extremely valuable history of new england from 1628 to 1651, and every page is alive with the virile energy of that stirring time. with narrative, argument, and apologue, abounding in honesty of purpose, sublimity of trust, and grotesqueness of fancy, wherein touching tenderness is often alternated with sternness most grim and merciless, yet now and then relieved by a sudden gleam of humour,--and all in a style that is usually uncouth and harsh, but sometimes bursts forth in eloquence worthy of bunyan,--we are told how the founders of new england are soldiers of christ enlisted in a holy war, and how they must "march manfully on till all opposers of christ's kingly power be abolished." "and as for you who are called to sound forth his silver trumpets, blow loud and shrill to this chiefest treble tune--for the armies of the great jehovah are at hand." "he standeth not as an idle spectator beholding his people's ruth and their enemies' rage, but as an actor in all actions, to bring to naught the desires of the wicked, ... having also the ordering of every weapon in its first produce, guiding every shaft that flies, leading each bullet to his place of settling, and weapon to the wound it makes." to men engaged in such a crusade against the powers of evil, nothing could seem insignificant or trivial; for, as johnson continues, in truly prophetic phrase, "the lord christ intends to achieve greater matters by this little handful than the world is aware of." [sidenote: edward johnson] the general sentiment of the early new england writers was like that of the "wonder-working providence," though it did not always find such rhapsodic expression. it has left its impress upon the minds of their children's children down to our own time, and has affected the opinions held about them by other people. it has had something to do with a certain tacit assumption of superiority on the part of new englanders, upon which the men and women of other communities have been heard to comment in resentful and carping tones. there has probably never existed, in any age or at any spot on the earth's surface, a group of people that did not take for granted its own preeminent excellence. upon some such assumption, as upon an incontrovertible axiom, all historical narratives, from the chronicles of a parish to the annals of an empire, alike proceed. but in new england it assumed a form especially apt to provoke challenge. one of its unintentional effects was the setting up of an unreal and impossible standard by which to judge the acts and motives of the puritans of the seventeenth century. we come upon instances of harshness and cruelty, of narrow-minded bigotry, and superstitious frenzy; and feel, perhaps, a little surprised that these men had so much in common with their contemporaries. hence the interminable discussion which has been called forth by the history of the puritans, in which the conclusions of the writer have generally been determined by circumstances of birth or creed, or perhaps of reaction against creed. one critic points to the boston of 1659 or the salem of 1692 with such gleeful satisfaction as used to stir the heart of thomas paine when he alighted upon an inconsistency in some text of the bible; while another, in the firm conviction that puritans could do no wrong, plays fast and loose with arguments that might be made to justify the deeds of a torquemada. [sidenote: acts of the puritans often judged by a wrong standard] from such methods of criticism it is the duty of historians as far as possible to free themselves. if we consider the puritans in the light of their surroundings as englishmen of the seventeenth century and inaugurators of a political movement that was gradually to change for the better the aspect of things all over the earth, we cannot fail to discern the value of that sacred enthusiasm which led them to regard themselves as chosen soldiers of christ. it was the spirit of the "wonder-working providence" that hurled the tyrant from his throne at whitehall and prepared the way for the emancipation of modern europe. no spirit less intense, no spirit nurtured in the contemplation of things terrestrial, could ever have done it. the political philosophy of a vane or a sidney could never have done it. the passion for liberty as felt by a jefferson or an adams, abstracted and generalized from the love of particular liberties, was something scarcely intelligible to the seventeenth century. the ideas of absolute freedom of thought and speech, which we breathe in from childhood, were to the men of that age strange and questionable. they groped and floundered among them, very much as modern wool growers in ohio or iron-smelters in pennsylvania flounder and grope among the elementary truths of political economy. but the spirit in which the hebrew prophet rebuked and humbled an idolatrous king was a spirit they could comprehend. such a spirit was sure to manifest itself in narrow cramping measures and in ugly acts of persecution; but it is none the less to the fortunate alliance of that fervid religious enthusiasm with the englishman's love of self-government that our modern freedom owes its existence. [sidenote: spirit of the wonder-working providence] the history of new england under charles ii. yields abundant proof that political liberty is no less indebted in the new world than in the old to the spirit of the "wonder-working providence." the theocratic ideal which the puritan sought to put into practice in massachusetts and connecticut was a sacred institution in faults of the defence of which all his faculties were kept perpetually alert. much as he loved self-government he would never have been so swift to detect and so stubborn to resist every slightest encroachment on the part of the crown had not the loss of self-government involved the imminent danger that the ark of the lord might be abandoned to the worshippers of dagon. it was in massachusetts, where the theocracy was strongest, that the resistance to charles ii. was most dogged and did most to prepare the way for the work of achieving political independence a century later. naturally it was in massachusetts at the same time that the faults of the theocracy were most conspicuous. it was there that priestly authority most clearly asserted itself in such oppressive acts as are always witnessed when too much power is left in the hands of men whose primary allegiance is to a kingdom not of this world. much as we owe to the theocracy for warding off the encroachments of the crown, we cannot be sorry that it was itself crushed in the process. it was well that it did not survive its day of usefulness, and that the outcome of the struggle was what has been aptly termed "the emancipation of massachusetts." [sidenote: merits and faults of the theocracy] the basis of the theocratic constitution of this commonwealth was the provision by which the exercise of the franchise was made an incident of church-membership. unless a man could take part in the lord's supper, as administered in the churches of the colony, he could not vote or hold office. church and state, parish and town, were thus virtually identified. here, as in some other aspects of early new england, one is reminded of the ancient greek cities, where the freeman who could vote in the market-place or serve his turn as magistrate was the man qualified to perform sacrifices to the tutelar deities of the tribe; other men might dwell in the city but had no share in making or executing its laws. the limitation of civil rights by religious tests is indeed one of those common inheritances from the old aryan world that we find again and again cropping out, even down to the exclusion of catholics from the house of commons from 1562 to 1829. the obvious purpose of this policy in england was self-protection; and in like manner the restriction of the suffrage in massachusetts was designed to protect the colony against aggressive episcopacy and to maintain unimpaired the uniformity of purpose which had brought the settlers across the ocean. under the circumstances there was something to be said in behalf of such a measure of self-protection, and the principle required but slight extension to cover such cases as the banishment of roger williams and the antinomians. there was another side to the case, however. from the very outset this exclusive policy was in some ways a source of weakness to massachusetts, though we have seen that the indirect effect was to diversify and enrich the political life of new england as a whole. [sidenote: restriction of the suffrage to church members] at first it led to the departure of the men who founded connecticut, and thereafter the way was certainly open for those who preferred the connecticut policy to go where it prevailed. some such segregation was no doubt effected, but it could not be complete and thorough. men who preferred boston without the franchise to hartford with it would remain in massachusetts; and thus the elder colony soon came to possess a discontented class of people, always ready to join hand in glove with dissenters or mischief-makers, or even with emissaries of the crown. it afforded a suggestive commentary upon all attempts to suppress human nature by depriving it of a share in political life; instead of keeping it inside where you can try conclusions with it fairly, you thrust it out to plot mischief in the dark. within twenty years from the founding of boston the disfranchisement of such citizens as could not participate in church-communion had begun to be regarded as a serious political grievance. these men were obliged to pay taxes and were liable to be called upon for military service against the indians; and they naturally felt that they ought to have a voice in the management of public affairs. [sidenote: it was a source of political discontent] besides this fundamental ground of complaint, there were derivative grievances. under the influence of the clergy justice was administered in somewhat inquisitorial fashion, there was an uncertainty as to just what the law was, a strong disposition to confuse questions of law with questions of ethics, and great laxity in the admission and estimation of evidence. as early as 1639 people had begun to complain that too much power was rested in the discretion of the magistrate, and they clamoured for a code of laws; but as winthrop says, the magistrates and ministers were "not very forward in this matter," for they preferred to supplement the common law of england by decisions based on the old testament rather than by a body of statutes. it was not until 1649, after a persistent struggle, that the deputies won a decisive victory over the assistants and secured for massachusetts a definite code of laws. in the new haven colony similar theocratic notions led the settlers to dispense with trial by jury because they could find no precedent for it in the laws of moses. here, as in massachusetts, the inquisitorial administration of justice combined with partial disfranchisement to awaken discontent, and it was partly for this reason that new haven fell so easily under the sway of connecticut. [sidenote: inquisitorial administration of justice] in massachusetts after 1650 the opinion rapidly gained ground that all baptized persons of upright and decorous lives ought to be considered, for practical purposes, as members of the church, and therefore entitled to the exercise of political rights, even though unqualified for participation in the lord's supper. this theory of church-membership, based on what was at that time stigmatized as the "halfway covenant," aroused intense opposition. it was the great question of the day. in 1657 a council was held in boston, which approved the principle of the halfway covenant; and as this decision was far from satisfying the churches, a synod of all the clergymen in massachusetts was held five years later, to reconsider the great question. the decision of the synod substantially confirmed the decision of the council, but there were some dissenting voices. foremost among the dissenters, who wished to retain the old theocratic regime in all its strictness, was charles chauncey, the president of harvard college, and increase mather agreed with him at the time, though he afterward saw reason to change his opinion, and published two tracts in favour of the halfway covenant. most bitter of all toward the new theory of church-membership was, naturally enough, mr. davenport of new haven. [sidenote: the "halfway covenant"] this burning question was the source of angry contentions in the first church of boston. its teacher, the learned and melancholy norton, died in 1663, and four years later the aged pastor, john wilson, followed him. in choosing a successor to wilson the church decided to declare itself in opposition to the liberal decision of the synod, and in token thereof invited davenport to come from new haven to take charge of it. davenport, who was then seventy years old, was disgusted at the recent annexation of his colony to connecticut. he accepted the invitation and came to boston, against the wishes of nearly half of the boston congregation who did not like the illiberal principle which he represented. in little more than a year his ministry at boston was ended by death; but the opposition to his call had already proceeded so far that a secession from the old church had become inevitable. in 1669 the advocates of the halfway covenant organized themselves into a new society under the title of the "third church in boston." a wooden meeting-house was built on a lot which had once belonged to the late governor winthrop, in what was then the south part of the town, so that the society and its meeting-house became known as the south church; and after a new church founded in summer street in 1717 took the name of the new south, the church of 1669 came to be further distinguished as the old south. as this church represented a liberal idea which was growing in favour with the people, it soon became the most flourishing church in america. after sixty years its numbers had increased so that the old meeting-house could not contain them; and in 1729 the famous building which still stands was erected on the same spot,--a building with a grander history than any other on the american continent, unless it be that other plain brick building in philadelphia where the declaration of independence was adopted and the federal constitution framed. [sidenote: founding of the old south church, 1669] the wrath of the first church at this secession from its ranks was deep and bitter, and for thirteen years it refused to entertain ecclesiastical intercourse with the south church. but by 1682 it had become apparent that the king and his friends were meditating an attack upon the puritan theocracy in new england. it had even been suggested, in the council for the colonies, that the church of england should be established in massachusetts, and that none but duly ordained episcopal clergymen should be allowed to solemnize marriages. such alarming suggestions began to impress the various puritan churches with the importance of uniting their forces against the common enemy; and accordingly in 1682 the quarrel between the two boston societies came to an end. there was urgent need of all the sympathy and good feeling that the community could muster, whereby to cheer itself in the crisis that was coming. the four years from 1684 to 1688 were the darkest years in the history of new england. massachusetts, though not lacking in the spirit, had not the power to beard the tyrant as she did eighty years later. her attitude toward the stuarts--as we have seen--had been sometimes openly haughty and defiant, sometimes silent and sullen, but always independent. at the accession of charles ii. the colonists had thought it worth while to send commissioners to england to confer with the king and avoid a quarrel. charles promised to respect their charter, but insisted that in return they must take an oath of allegiance to the crown, must administer justice in the king's name, and must repeal their laws restricting the right of suffrage to church members and prohibiting the episcopal form of worship. [sidenote: founding of the old south church, 1669] [sidenote: demands of charles ii.] when the people of massachusetts received this message they consented to administer justice in the king's name, but all the other matters were referred for consideration to a committee, and so they dropped out of sight. when the royal commissioners came to boston in 1664, they were especially instructed to ascertain whether massachusetts had complied with the king's demands; but upon this point the legislature stubbornly withheld any definite answer, while it frittered away the time in trivial altercations with the royal commissioners. the war with holland and the turbulent state of english politics operated for several years in favour of this independent attitude of the colonists, though during all this time their enemies at court were busy with intrigues and accusations. apart from mere slanders the real grounds of complaint were the restriction of the suffrage, whereby members of the church of england were shut out; the claims of the eastern proprietors, heirs of mason and gorges, whose territory massachusetts had absorbed; the infraction of the navigation laws; and the coinage of pine-tree shillings. the last named measure had been forced upon the colonists by the scarcity of a circulating medium. until 1661 indian wampum had been a legal tender, and far into the eighteenth century it remained current in small transactions. "in 1693 the ferriage from new york to brooklyn was eight stivers in wampum or a silver twopence." [35] as early as 1652 massachusetts had sought to supply the deficiency by the issue of shillings and sixpences. it was an affair of convenience and probably had no political purpose. the infraction of the navigation laws was a more serious matter. "ships from france, spain, and the canaries traded directly with boston, and brought in goods which had never paid duty in any english port." [36] the effect of this was to excite the jealousy of the merchants in london and other english cities and to deprive massachusetts of the sympathy of that already numerous and powerful class of people. [sidenote: complaints against massachusetts] in 1675, the first year of king philip's war, the british government made up its mind to attend more closely to the affairs of its american colonies. it had got the dutch war off its hands, and could give heed to other things. the general supervision of the colonies was assigned to a standing committee of the privy council, styled the "lords of the committee of trade and plantations," and henceforth familiarly known as the "lords of trade." next year the lords of trade sent an agent to boston, with a letter to governor leverett about the mason and gorges claims. under cover of this errand the messenger was to go about and ascertain the sentiments which people in the kennebec and piscataqua towns, as well as in boston, entertained for the government of massachusetts. the person to whom this work was entrusted was edward randolph, a cousin of robert mason who inherited the property claim to the piscataqua county. to these men had old john mason bequeathed his deadly feud with massachusetts, and the fourteen years which randolph now spent in new england were busily devoted to sowing the seeds of strife. in 1678 the king appointed him collector and surveyor of customs at the port of boston, with instructions to enforce the navigation laws. randolph was not the man to do unpopular things in such a way as to dull the edge of the infliction; he took delight in adding insult to injury. he was at once harsh and treacherous. his one virtue was pecuniary integrity; he was inaccessible to bribes and did not pick and steal from the receipts at the custom-house. in the other relations of life he was disencumbered of scruples. his abilities were not great, but his industry was untiring, and he pursued his enemies with the tenacity of a sleuth-hound. as an excellent british historian observes, "he was one of those men who, once enlisted as partisans, lose every other feeling in the passion which is engendered of strife." [37] [sidenote: the lords of trade] [sidenote: edward randolph] the arrival of such a man boded no good to massachusetts. his reception at the town-house was a cold one. leverett liked neither his looks nor his message, and kept his peaked hat on while he read the letter; when he came to the signature of the king's chief secretary of state, he asked, with careless contempt, "who is this henry coventry?" randolph's choking rage found vent in a letter to the king, taking pains to remind him that the governor of massachusetts had once been an officer in cromwell's army. as we read this and think with what ghoulish glee the writer would have betrayed colonel goffe into the hands of the headsman, had any clue been given him, we can quite understand why hubbard and mather had nothing to say about the mysterious stranger at hadley. everything that randolph could think of that would goad and irritate the king, he reported in full to london; his letters were specimens of that worst sort of lie that is based upon distorted half-truths; and his malicious pen but seldom lay idle. while waiting for the effects of these reports to ripen, randolph was busily intriguing with some of the leading men in boston who were dissatisfied with the policy of the dominant party, and under his careful handling a party was soon brought into existence which was ready to counsel submission to the royal will. such was the birth of toryism in new england. the leader of this party was joseph dudley, son of the grim verse-maker who had come over as lieutenant to winthrop. the younger dudley was graduated at harvard in 1665, and proceeded to study theology, but soon turned his attention entirely to politics. in 1673 he was a deputy from roxbury in the general court; in 1675 he took part in the storming of the narragansett fort; in 1677 and the three following years he was one of the federal commissioners. in character and temper he differed greatly from his father. like the proverbial minister's son whose feet are swift toward folly, joseph dudley seems to have learned in stern bleak years of childhood to rebel against the puritan theory of life. much of the abuse that has been heaped upon him, as a renegade and traitor, is probably undeserved. it does not appear that he ever made any pretence of love for the puritan commonwealth, and there were many like him who had as lief be ruled by king as by clergy. but it cannot be denied that his suppleness and sagacity went along with a moral nature that was weak and vulgar. joseph dudley was essentially a self-seeking politician and courtier, like his famous kinsman of the previous century, robert, earl of leicester. his party in massachusetts was largely made up of men who had come to the colony for commercial reasons, and had little or no sympathy with the objects for which it was founded. among them were episcopalians, presbyterians, and baptists, who were allowed no chance for public worship, as well as many others who, like gallio, cared for none of these things. their numbers, moreover, must have been large, for boston had grown to be a town of 5000 inhabitants, the population of massachusetts was approaching 30,000, and, according to hutchinson, scarcely one grown man in five was a church-member qualified to vote or hold office. such a fact speaks volumes as to the change which was coming over the puritan world. no wonder that the clergy had begun to preach about the weeds and tares that were overrunning christ's pleasant garden. no wonder that the spirit of revolt against the disfranchising policy of the theocracy was ripe. [sidenote: joseph dudley] it was in 1679, when this weakness of the body politic had been duly studied and reported by randolph, and when all new england was groaning under the bereavements and burdens entailed by philip's war, that the stuart government began its final series of assaults upon massachusetts. the claims of the eastern proprietors, the heirs of mason and gorges, furnished the occasion. since 1643 the four piscataqua towns--hampton, exeter, dover, and portsmouth--had remained under the jurisdiction of massachusetts. after the restoration the mason claim had been revived, and in 1677 was referred to the chief-justices north and rainsford. their decision was that mason's claim had always been worthless as based on a grant in which the old plymouth company had exceeded its powers. they also decided that massachusetts had no valid claim since the charter assigned her a boundary just north of the merrimack. this decision left the four towns subject to none but the king, who forthwith in 1679 proceeded to erect them into the royal province of new hampshire, with president and council appointed by the crown, and an assembly chosen by the people, but endowed with little authority,--a tricksome counterfeit of popular government. within three years an arrogant and thieving ruler, edward cranfield, had goaded new hampshire to acts of insurrection. [sidenote: royal province of new hampshire] to the decisions of the chief-justices massachusetts must needs submit. the gorges claim led to more serious results. under cromwell's rule in 1652--the same year in which she began coining money--massachusetts had extended her sway over maine. in 1665 colonel nichols and his commissioners, acting upon the express instructions of charles ii., took it away from her. in 1668, after the commissioners had gone home, massachusetts coolly took possession again. in 1677 the chief-justices decided that the claim of the gorges family, being based on a grant from james i., was valid. then the young ferdinando gorges, grandson of the first proprietor, offered to sell the province to the king, who had now taken it into his head that he would like to bestow it upon the duke of monmouth, his favourite son by lucy walters. before charles had responded, governor leverett had struck a bargain with gorges, who ceded to massachusetts all his rights over maine for l1250 in hard cash. when the king heard of this transaction he was furious. he sent a letter to boston, commanding the general court to surrender the province again on repayment of this sum of l1250, and expressing his indignation that the people should thus dare to dispose of an important claim off-hand without consulting his wishes. in the same letter the colony was enjoined to put in force the royal orders of seventeen years before, concerning the oath of allegiance, the restriction of the suffrage, and the prohibition of the episcopal form of worship. [sidenote: the gorges claim] this peremptory message reached boston about christmas, 1679. leverett, the sturdy ironsides, had died six months before, and his place was filled by simon bradstreet, a man of moderate powers but great integrity, and held in peculiar reverence as the last survivor of those that had been chosen to office before leaving england by the leaders of the great puritan exodus. born in a lincolnshire village in 1603, he was now seventy-six years old. he had taken his degree at emmanuel college, cambridge, had served as secretary to the earl of warwick, and in 1629 had been appointed member of the board of assistants for the colony about to be established on massachusetts bay. in this position he had remained with honour for half a century, while he had also served as federal commissioner and as agent for the colony in london. his wife, who died in 1672, was a woman of quaint learning and quainter verses, which her contemporaries admired beyond measure. one of her books was republished in london, with the title: "the tenth muse, lately sprung up in america." john norton once said that if virgil could only have heard the seraphic poems of anne bradstreet, he would have thrown his heathen doggerel into the fire. she was sister of joseph dudley, and evidently inherited this rhyming talent, such as it was, from her father. governor bradstreet belonged to the moderate party who would have been glad to extend the franchise, but he did not go with his brother-in-law in subservience to the king. [sidenote: simon bradstreet and his wife] when the general court assembled, in may, 1680, the full number of eighteen assistants appeared, for the first time in the history of the colony, and in accordance with an expressed wish of the king. they were ready to yield in trifles, but not in essentials. after wearisome discussion, the answer to the royal letter was decided on. it stated in vague and unsatisfactory terms that the royal orders of 1662 either had been carried out already or would be in good time, while to the demand for the surrender of maine no reply whatever was made, save that "they were heartily sorry that any actings of theirs should be displeasing to his majesty." after this, when randolph wrote home that the king's letters were of no more account in massachusetts than an old london gazette, he can hardly be accused of stretching the truth. randolph kept busily at work, and seems to have persuaded the bishop of london that if the charter could be annulled, episcopacy might be established in massachusetts as in england. in february, 1682, a letter came from the king demanding submission and threatening legal proceedings against the charter. dudley was then sent as agent to london, and with him was sent a mr. richards, of the extreme clerical party, to watch him. [sidenote: massachusetts answers the king] meanwhile the king's position at home had been changing. he had made up his mind to follow his father's example and try the experiment of setting his people at defiance and governing without a parliament. this could not be done without a great supply of money. louis xiv. had plenty of money, for there was no constitution in france to prevent his squeezing what he wanted out of the pockets of an oppressed people. france was thriving greatly now, for colbert had introduced a comparatively free system of trade between the provinces and inaugurated an era of prosperity soon to be cut short by the expulsion of the huguenots. louis could get money enough for the asking, and would be delighted to foment civil disturbances in england, so as to tie the hands of the only power which at that moment could interfere with his seizing alsace and lorraine and invading flanders. the pretty louise de keroualle duchess of portsmouth, with her innocent baby face and heart as cold as any reptile's, was the french delilah chosen to shear the locks of the british samson. by such means and from such motives a secret treaty was made in february, 1681, by which louis agreed to pay charles 2,000,000 livres down, and 500,000 more in each of the next two years, on condition that he should summon no more parliaments within that time. this bargain for securing the means of overthrowing the laws and liberties of england was, on the part of charles ii., an act no less reprehensible than some of those for which his father had gone to the block. but charles could now afford for a while to wreak his evil will. he had already summoned a parliament for the 21st of march, to meet at oxford within the precincts of the subservient university, and out of reach of the high-spirited freemen of london. he now forced a quarrel with the new parliament and dissolved it within a week. a joiner named stephen college, who had spoken his mind too freely in the taverns at oxford with regard to these proceedings, was drawn and quartered. the whig leader lord shaftesbury was obliged to flee to holland. in the absence of a parliament the only power of organized resistance to the king's tyranny resided in the corporate governments of the chartered towns. the charter of london was accordingly attacked by a writ of _quo warranto_, and in june, 1683, the time-serving judges declared it confiscated. george jeffreys, a low drunken fellow whom charles had made lord chief justice, went on a circuit through the country; and, as roger north says, "made all the charters, like the walls of jericho, fall down before him, and returned laden with surrenders, the spoils of towns." at the same time a terrible blow was dealt at two of the greatest whig families in england. lord william russell, son of the earl of bedford, and algernon sidney, younger son of the earl of leicester, two of the purest patriots and ablest liberal leaders of the day, were tried on a false charge of treason and beheaded. [sidenote: secret treaty between charles ii. and louis xiv] [sidenote: shameful proceedings in england] by this quick succession of high-handed measures, the friends of law and liberty were for a moment disconcerted and paralyzed. in the frightful abasement of the courts of justice which these events so clearly showed, the freedom of englishmen seemed threatened in its last stronghold. the doctrine of passive obedience to monarchs was preached in the pulpits and inculcated by the university of oxford, which ordered the works of john milton to be publicly burned. sir robert filmer wrote that "not only in human laws, but even in divine, a thing may by the king be commanded contrary to law, and yet obedience to such a command is necessary." charles felt so strong that in 1684 he flatly refused to summon a parliament. it was not long before the effects of all this were felt in new england. the mission of dudley and his colleague was fruitless. they returned to boston, and randolph, who had followed them to london, now followed them back, armed with a writ of _quo warranto_ which he was instructed not to serve until he should have given massachusetts one more chance to humble herself in the dust. should she modify her constitution to please a tyrant or see it trampled under foot? recent events in england served for a solemn warning; for the moment the tories were silenced; perhaps after all, the absolute rule of a king was hardly to be preferred to the sway of the puritan clergy; the day when the house of commons sat still and wept seemed to have returned. a great town-meeting was held in the old south meeting-house, and the moderator requested all who were for surrendering the charter to hold up their hands. not a hand was lifted, and out from the throng a solitary voice exclaimed, with deep-drawn breath, "the lord be praised!" then arose increase mather, president of harvard college, and reminded them how their fathers did win this charter, and should they deliver it up unto the spoiler who demanded it "even as ahab required naboth's vineyard, oh! their children would be bound to curse them." such was the attitude of massachusetts, and when it was known in london, the blow was struck. for technical reasons randolph's writ was not served; but on the 21st of june a decree in chancery annulled the charter of massachusetts. [sidenote: massachusetts refuses to surrender her charter] [sidenote: it is annulled by degree of chancery, june 21, 1684] to appreciate the force of this blow we must pause for a moment and consider what it involved. the right to the soil of north america had been hitherto regarded in england, on the strength of the discoveries of the cabots, as an appurtenance to the crown of henry vii.,--as something which descended from father to son like the palace at hampton court or the castle at windsor, but which the sovereign might alienate by his voluntary act just as he might sell or give away a piece of his royal domain in england. over this vast territory it was doubtful how far parliament was entitled to exercise authority, and the rights of englishmen settled there had theoretically no security save in the provisions of the various charters by which the crown had delegated its authority to individual proprietors or to private companies. it was thus on the charter granted by charles i. to the company of massachusetts bay that not only the cherished political and ecclesiastical institutions of the colony, but even the titles of individuals to their lands and houses, were supposed to be founded. by the abrogation of the charter, all rights and immunities that had been based upon it were at once swept away, and every rood of the soil of massachusetts became the personal property of the stuart king, who might, if he should possess the will and the power, turn out all the present occupants or otherwise deal with them as trespassers. such at least was the theory of charles ii., and to show that he meant to wreak his vengeance with no gentle hand, he appointed as his viceroy the brutal percy kirke,--a man who would have no scruples about hanging a few citizens without trial, should occasion require it. [sidenote: effect of annulling the charter] but in february, 1685, just as charles seemed to be getting everything arranged to his mind, a stroke of apoplexy carried him off the scene, and his brother ascended the throne. monmouth's rebellion, and the horrible cruelties that followed, kept colonel kirke busy in england through the summer, and left the new king scant leisure to think about america. late in the autumn, having made up his mind that he could not spare such an exemplary knave as kirke, james ii. sent over sir edmund andros. in the mean time the government of massachusetts had been administered by dudley, who showed himself willing to profit by the misfortunes of his country. andros had long been one of james's favourites. he was the dull and dogged english officer such as one often meets, honest enough and faithful to his master, neither cruel nor rapacious, but coarse in fibre and wanting in tact. some years before, when governor of new york, he had a territorial dispute with connecticut, and now cherished a grudge against the people of new england, so that, from james's point of view, he was well fitted to be their governor. james wished to abolish all the local governments in america, and unite them, as far as possible, under a single administration. with plymouth there could be no trouble; she had never had a charter, but had existed on sufferance from the outset. in 1687 the charters of rhode island and connecticut were rescinded, but the decrees were not executed in due form. in october of that year andros went to hartford, to seize the connecticut charter but it was not surrendered. while sir edmund was bandying threats with stout robert treat, the queller of indians and now governor of connecticut, in the course of their evening conference the candles were suddenly blown out, and when after some scraping of tinder they were lighted again the document was nowhere to be found, for captain wadsworth had carried it away and hidden it in the hollow trunk of a mighty oak tree. nevertheless for the moment the colony was obliged to submit to the tyrant. next day the secretary john allyn wrote "finis" on the colonial records and shut up the book. within another twelvemonth new york and new jersey were added to the viceroyalty of andros; so that all the northern colonies from the forests of maine to the delaware river were thus brought under the arbitrary rule of one man, who was responsible to no one but the king for whatever he might take it into his head to do. [sidenote: sir edmund andros] [sidenote: the charter oak] the vexatious character of the new government was most strongly felt at boston where andros had his headquarters. measures were at once taken for the erection of an episcopal church, and meantime the royal order was that one of the principal meeting-houses should be seized for the use of the church of england. this was an ominous beginning. in the eyes of the people it was much more than a mere question of disturbing puritan prejudices. they had before them the experience of scotland during the past ten years, the savage times of "old mortality," the times which had seen the tyrannical prelate, on the lonely moor, begging in vain for his life, the times of drumclog and bothwell brigg, of claverhouse and his flinty-hearted troopers, of helpless women tied to stakes on the solway shore and drowned by inches in the rising tide. what had happened in one part of the world might happen in another, for the stuart policy was the same. it aimed not at securing toleration but at asserting unchecked supremacy. its demand for an inch was the prelude to its seizing an ell, and so our forefathers understood it. sir edmund's formal demand for the old south meeting-house was flatly refused, but on good friday, 1687, the sexton was frightened into opening it, and thenceforward episcopal services were held there alternately with the regular services until the overthrow of andros. the pastor, samuel willard, was son of the gallant veteran who had rescued the beleaguered people of brookfield in king philip's war. amusing passages occurred between him and sir edmund, who relished the pleasantry of keeping minister and congregation waiting an hour or two in the street on sundays before yielding to them the use of their meeting-house. more kindly memories of the unpopular governor are associated with the building of the first king's chapel on the spot where its venerable successor now stands. the church was not finished until after sir edmund had taken his departure, but lady andros, who died in february, 1688, lies in the burying-ground hard by. her gentle manners had won all hearts. for the moment, we are told, one touch of nature made enemies kin, and as sir edmund walked to the townhouse "many a head was bared to the bereaved husband that before had remained stubbornly covered to the exalted governor." [38] [sidenote: episcopal services in boston] [sidenote: founding of the king's chapel, 1689] the despotic rule of andros was felt in more serious ways than in the seizing upon a meetinghouse. arbitrary taxes were imposed, encroachments were made upon common lands as in older manorial times, and the writ of _habeas corpus_ was suspended. dudley was appointed censor of the press, and nothing was allowed to be printed without his permission. all the public records of the late new england governments were ordered to be brought to boston, whither it thus became necessary to make a tedious journey in order to consult them. all deeds and wills were required to be registered in boston, and excessive fees were charged for the registry. it was proclaimed that all private titles to land were to be ransacked, and that whoever wished to have his title confirmed must pay a heavy quit-rent, which under the circumstances amounted to blackmail. the general court was abolished. the power of taxation was taken from the town-meetings and lodged with the governor. against this crowning iniquity the town of ipswich, led by its sturdy pastor, john wise, made protest. in response mr. wise was thrown into prison, fined â£50, and suspended from the ministry. a notable and powerful character was this john wise. one of the broadest thinkers and most lucid writers of his time, he seems like a forerunner of the liberal unitarian divines of the nineteenth century. his "vindication of the government of the new england churches," published in 1717, was a masterly exposition of the principles of civil government, and became "a text book of liberty for our revolutionary fathers, containing some of the notable expressions that are used in the declaration of independence." [sidenote: tyranny] [sidenote: john wise of ipswich] it was on the trial of mr. wise in october, 1687, that dudley openly declared that the people of new england had now no further privileges left them than not to be sold for slaves. such a state of things in the valley of the euphrates would not have attracted comment; the peasantry of central europe would have endured it until better instructed; but in an english community it could not last long. if james ii. had remained upon the throne, new england would surely have soon risen in rebellion against andros. but the mother country had by this time come to repent the fresh lease of life which she had granted to the stuart dynasty after cromwell's death. tired of the disgraceful subservience of her court to the schemes of louis xiv., tired of fictitious plots and judicial murders, tired of bloody assizes and declarations of indulgence and all the strange devices of stuart tyranny, england endured the arrogance of james but three years, and then drove him across the channel, to get such consolation as he might from his french paymaster and patron. on the 4th of april, 1689, the youthful john winslow brought to boston the news of the landing of the prince of orange in england. for the space of two weeks there was quiet and earnest deliberation among the citizens, as the success of the prince's enterprise was not yet regarded as assured. but all at once, on the morning of the 18th, the drums beat to arms, the signal-fire was lighted on beacon hill, a meeting was held at the town-house, militia began to pour in from the country, and andros, summoned to surrender, was fain to beseech mr. willard and the other ministers to intercede for him. but the ministers refused. next day the castle was surrendered, the rose frigate riding in the harbour was seized and dismantled, and andros was arrested as he was trying to effect his escape disguised in woman's clothes. dudley and the other agents of tyranny were also imprisoned, and thus the revolution was accomplished. it marks the importance which the new england colonies were beginning to attain, that, before the prince of orange had fully secured the throne, he issued a letter instructing the people of boston to preserve decorum and acquiesce yet a little longer in the government of andros, until more satisfactory arrangements could be made. but increase mather, who was then in london on a mission in behalf of new england, judiciously prevented this letter of instructions from being sent. the zeal of the people outstripped the cautious policy of the new sovereign, and provisional governments, in accordance with the old charters, were at once set up in the colonies lately ruled by andros. bradstreet now in his eighty-seventh year was reinstated as governor of massachusetts. five weeks after this revolution in boston the order to proclaim king william and queen mary was received, amid such rejoicings as had never before been seen in that quiet town, for it was believed that self-government would now be guaranteed to new england. [sidenote: fall of james ii.] [sidenote: insurrection in boston, and overthrow of andros, april 18, 1689] this hope was at least so far realized that from the most formidable dangers which had threatened it, new england was henceforth secured. the struggle with the stuarts was ended, and by this second revolution within half a century the crown had received a check from which it never recovered. there were troubles yet in store for england, but no more such outrages as the judicial murders of russell and sidney. new england had still a stern ordeal to go through, but never again was she to be so trodden down and insulted as in the days of andros. the efforts of george iii. to rule englishmen despotically were weak as compared with those of the stuarts. in his time england had waxed strong enough to curb the tyrant, america had waxed strong enough to defy and disown him. after 1689 the puritan no longer felt that his religion was in danger, and there was a reasonable prospect that charters solemnly granted him would be held sacred. william iii. was a sovereign of modern type, from whom freedom of thought and worship had nothing to fear. in his theology he agreed, as a dutch calvinist, more nearly with the puritans than with the church of england. at the same time he had no great liking for so much independence of thought and action as new england had exhibited. in the negotiations which now definitely settled the affairs of this part of the world, the intractable behaviour of massachusetts was borne in mind and contrasted with the somewhat less irritating attitude of the smaller colonies. it happened that the decree which annulled the charters of rhode island and connecticut had not yet been formally enrolled. it was accordingly treated as void, and the old charters were allowed to remain in force. they were so liberal that no change in them was needed at the time of the revolution, so that connecticut was governed under its old charter until 1818, and rhode island until 1842. [sidenote: effects of the revolution of 1689] there was at this time a disposition on the part of the british government to unite all the northern colonies under a single administration. the french in canada were fast becoming rivals to be feared; and the wonderful explorations of la salle, bringing the st. lawrence into political connection with the mississippi, had at length foreshadowed a new france in the rear of all the english colonies, aiming at the control of the centre of the continent and eager to confine the english to the sea-board. already the relations of position which led to the great seven years' war were beginning to shape themselves; and the conflict between france and england actually broke out in 1689, as soon as louis xiv.'s hired servant, james ii., was superseded by william iii. as king of england and head of a protestant league. [sidenote: need for union among all the northern colonies] in view of this new state of affairs, it was thought desirable to unite the northern english colonies under one head, so far as possible, in order to secure unity of military action. but natural prejudices had to be considered. the policy of james ii. had aroused such bitter feeling in america that william must needs move with caution. accordingly he did not seek to unite new york with new england, and he did not think it worth while to carry out the attack which james had only begun upon connecticut and rhode island. as for new hampshire, he seems to have been restrained by what in the language of modern politics would be called "pressure," brought to bear by certain local interests. [39] but in the case of the little colony founded by the pilgrims of the mayflower there was no obstacle. she was now annexed to massachusetts, which also received not only maine but even acadia, just won from the french; so that, save for the short break at portsmouth, the coast of massachusetts now reached all the way from martha's vineyard to the gulf of st. lawrence. [sidenote: plymouth, maine, and acadia, annexed to massachusetts] but along with this great territorial extension there went some curtailment of the political privileges of the colony. by the new charter of 1692 the right of the people to be governed by a legislature of their own choosing was expressly confirmed. the exclusive right of this legislature to impose taxes was also confirmed. but henceforth no qualification of church-membership, but only a property qualification, was to be required of voters; the governor was to be appointed by the crown instead of being elected by the people; and all laws passed by the legislature were to be sent to england for royal approval. these features of the new charter,--the extension, or if i may so call it, the _secularization_ of the franchise, the appointment of the governor by the crown, and the power of veto which the crown expressly reserved,--were grave restrictions upon the independence which massachusetts had hitherto enjoyed. henceforth her position was to be like that of the other colonies with royal governors. but her history did not thereby lose its interest or significance, though it became, like the history of most of the colonies, a dismal record of irrepressible bickerings between the governor appointed by the crown and the legislature elected by the people. in the period that began in 1692 and ended in 1776, the movements of massachusetts, while restricted and hampered, were at the same time forced into a wider orbit. she was brought into political sympathy with virginia. while two generations of men were passing across the scene, the political problems of massachusetts were assimilated to those of virginia. in spite of all the other differences, great as they were, there was a likeness in the struggles between the popular legislature and the royal governor which subordinated them all. it was this similarity of experience, during the eighteenth century, that brought these two foremost colonies into cordial alliance during the struggle against george iii., and thus made it possible to cement all the colonies together in the mighty nation whose very name is fraught with so high and earnest a lesson to mankind,--the united states! [sidenote: massachusetts becomes a royal province] for such a far-reaching result, the temporary humiliation of massachusetts was a small price to pay. but it was not until long after the accession of william iii. that things could be seen in these grand outlines. with his coronation began the struggle of seventy years between france and england, far grander than the struggle between rome and carthage, two thousand years earlier, for primacy in the world, for the prerogative of determining the future career of mankind. that warfare, so fraught with meaning, was waged as much upon american as upon european ground; and while it continued, it was plainly for the interest of the british government to pursue a conciliatory policy toward its american colonies, for without their wholehearted assistance it could have no hope of success. as soon as the struggle was ended, and the french power in the colonial world finally overthrown, the perpetual quarrels between the popular legislatures and the royal governors led immediately to the stamp act and the other measures of the british government that brought about the american revolution. people sometimes argue about that revolution as if it had no past behind it and was simply the result of a discussion over abstract principles. [sidenote: seeds of the american revolution already sown] we can now see that while the dispute involved an abstract principle of fundamental importance to mankind, it was at the same time for americans illustrated by memories sufficiently concrete and real. james otis in his prime was no further distant from the tyranny of andros than middle-aged men of to-day are distant from the missouri compromise. the sons of men cast into jail along with john wise may have stood silent in the moonlight on griffin's wharf and looked on while the contents of the tea-chests were hurled into boston harbour. in the events we have here passed in review, it may be seen, so plainly that he who runs may read, how the spirit of 1776 was foreshadowed in 1689. bibliographical note. an interesting account of the barons' war and the meeting of the first house of commons is given in prothero's _simon de montfort_, london, 1877. for wyclif and the lollards, see milman's _latin christianity_, vol. vii. the ecclesiastical history of the tudor period may best be studied in the works of john strype, to wit, _historical memorials_, 6 vols.; _annals of the reformation_, 7 vols.; _lives of cranmer, parker, whitgift, etc._, oxford, 1812-28. see also _burnet's history of the reformation of the church of england_, 3 vols., london, 1679-1715; neal's _history of the puritans_, london, 1793; tulloch, _leaders of the reformation_, boston, 1859. a vast mass of interesting information is to be found in _the zurich letters, comprising the correspondence of several english bishops, and others, with some of the helvetian reformers_, published by the parker society, 4 vols., cambridge, eng., 1845-46. hooker's _ecclesiastical polity_ was published in london, 1594; a new edition, containing two additional books, the first complete edition, was published in 1622. for the general history of england in the seventeenth century, there are two modern works which stand far above all others,--gardiner's _history of england_, 10 vols., london, 1883-84; and masson's _life of milton, narrated in connection with the political, ecclesiastical, and literary history of his time_, 6 vols., cambridge, eng., 1859-80. these are books of truly colossal erudition, and written in a spirit of judicial fairness. mr. gardiner's ten volumes cover the forty years from the accession of james i. to the beginning of the civil war, 1603-1643. mr. gardiner has lately published the first two volumes of his history of the civil war, and it is to be hoped that he will not stop until he reaches the accession of william and mary. indeed, such books as his ought never to stop. my friend and colleague, prof. hosmer, tells me that mr. gardiner is a lineal descendant of cromwell and ireton. his little book, _the puritan revolution_, in the "epochs of history" series, is extremely useful, and along with it one should read airy's _the english restoration and louis xiv_., in the same series, new york, 1889. the best biography of cromwell is by mr. allanson picton, london, 1882; see also frederic harrison's _cromwell_, london, 1888, an excellent little book. hosmer's _young sir henry vane_, boston, 1888, should be read in the same connection; and one should not forget carlyle's _cromwell_. see also tulloch, _english puritanism and its leaders_, 1861, and _rational theology and christian philosophy in england in the seventeenth century_, 1872; skeats, _history of the free churches of england_, london, 1868; mountfield, _the church and puritans_, london, 1881. dexter's _congregationalism of the last three hundred years_, new york, 1880, is a work of monumental importance. on the history of new england the best general works are palfrey, _history of new england_, 4 vols., boston, 1858-75; and doyle, _the english in america--the puritan colonies_, 2 vols., london, 1887. in point of scholarship dr. palfrey's work is of the highest order, and it is written in an interesting style. its only shortcoming is that it deals somewhat too leniently with the faults of the puritan theocracy, and looks at things too exclusively from a massachusetts point of view. it is one of the best histories yet written in america. mr. doyle's work is admirably fair and impartial, and is based throughout upon a careful study of original documents. the author is a fellow of all souls college, oxford, and has apparently made american history his specialty. his work on the puritan colonies is one of a series which when completed will cover the whole story of english colonization in america. i have looked in vain in his pages for any remark or allusion indicating that he has ever visited america, and am therefore inclined to think that he has not done so. he now and then makes a slight error such as would not be likely to be made by a native of new england, but this is very seldom. the accuracy and thoroughness of its research, its judicial temper, and its philosophical spirit make mr. doyle's book in some respects the best that has been written about new england. among original authorities we may begin by citing john smith's _description of new england_, 1616, and _new england's trial_, 1622, contained in arber's new edition of smith's works, london, 1884. bradford's narrative of the founding of plymouth was for a long time supposed to be lost. nathaniel morton's _new england's memorial_, published in 1669, was little more than an abridgment of it. after two centuries bradford's manuscript was discovered, and an excellent edition by mr. charles deane was published in the _massachusetts historical collections_, 4th series, vol. iii., 1856. edward winslow's _journal of the proceedings of the english plantation settled at plymouth_, 1622, and _good news from new england_, 1624, are contained, with other valuable materials, in young's _chronicles of the pilgrim fathers_, boston, 1844. see also shurtleff and pulsifer, _records of plymouth_, 12 vols., ending with the annexation of the colony to massachusetts in 1692; prince's _chronological history of new england_, ed. drake, 1852; and in this connection hunter's _founders of new plymouth_, london, 1854; steele's _life of brewster_, philadelphia, 1857; goodwin's _pilgrim republic_, boston, 1887; bacon's _genesis of the new england churches_, new york, 1874; baylies's _historical memoir_, 1830; thacher's _history of the town of plymouth_, 1832. sir ferdinando gorges wrote a _briefe narration of the originall undertakings of the advancement of plantations into the parts of america, especially showing the beginning, progress, and continuance of that of new england_, london, 1658, contained in his grandson's collection entitled _america painted to the life_. thomas morton, of merrymount, gave his own view of the situation in his _new english canaan_, which has been edited for the prince society, with great learning, by c.f. adams. samuel maverick also had his say in a valuable pamphlet entitled _a description of new england_, which has only come to light since 1875 and has been edited by mr. deane. maverick is, of course, hostile to the puritans. see also lechford's _plain dealing in new england_, ed. j.h. trumbull, 1867. the earliest history of massachusetts is by winthrop himself, a work of priceless value. in 1790, nearly a century and a half after the author's death, it was published at hartford. the best edition is that of 1853. in 1869 a valuable life of winthrop was published by his descendant robert winthrop. hubbard's _history of new england_ (_mass. hist. coll._, 2d series, vols. v., vi.) is drawn largely from winthrop and from nathaniel morton. there is much that is suggestive in william wood's _new england's prospect_, 1634, and edward johnson's _wonder-working providence of zion's saviour in new england_, 1654; the latter has been ably edited by w.f. poole, andover, 1867. the records of the massachusetts government, from its founding in 1629 down to the overthrow of the charter in 1684, were edited by dr. shurtleff in 6 vols. quarto, 1853-54; and among the documents in the british record office, published since 1855, three volumes--_calendar of state papers_, _colonial america_, vol. i., 1574-1660; vol. v., 1661-1668; vol. vii., 1669--are especially useful. of the later authorities the best is hutchinson's _history of massachusetts bay_, the first volume of which, coming down to 1689, was published in boston in 1764. the second volume, continuing the narrative to 1749, was published in 1767. the third volume, coming down to 1774, was found among the illustrious author's mss. after his death, and was published in london in 1828. hutchinson had access to many valuable documents since lost, and his sound judgment and critical acumen deserve the highest praise. in 1769 he published a volume of _original papers_, illustrating the period covered by the first volume of his history. many priceless documents perished in the shameful sacking of his house by the boston rioters, aug. 26, 1765. the second volume of hutchinson's _history_ was continued to 1764 by g.r. minot, 2 vols., 1798, and to 1820 by alden bradford, 3 vols., 1822-29. of recent works, the best is barry's _history of massachusetts_, 3 vols., 1855-57. many original authorities are collected in young's _chronicles of massachusetts_, boston, 1846. cotton mather's _magnolia christi americana_, london, 1702 (reprinted in 1820 and 1853), though crude and uncritical, is full of interest. many of the early massachusetts documents relate to maine. of later books, especial mention should be made of folsom's _history of saco and biddeford_, saco, 1830; willis's _history of portland_, 2 vols., 1831-33 (2d ed. 1865); _memorial volume of the popham celebration_, portland, 1862; chamberlain's _maine, her place in history_, augusta, 1877. on new hampshire the best general work is belknap's _history of new hampshire_, 3 vols., phila., 1784-92; the appendix contains many original documents, and others are to be found in the _new hampshire historical collections_, 8 vols., 1824-66. the _connecticut colonial records_ are edited by dr. j.h. trumbull, 12 vols., 1850-82. the _connecticut historical society's collections_, 1860-70, are of much value. the best general work is trumbull's _history of connecticut_, 2 vols., hartford, 1797. see also stiles's _ancient windsor_, 2 vols., 1859-63; cothren's _ancient woodbury_, 3 vols., 1854-79. of the pequot war we have accounts by three of the principal actors. mason's _history of the pequod war_ is in the _mass. hist. coll._, 2d series, vol. viii.; underhill's _news from america_ is in the 3d series, vol. vi.; and lyon gardiner's narrative is in the 3d series, vol. iii. in the same volume with underhill is contained _a true relation of the late battle fought in new england between the english and the pequod savages_, by philip vincent, london, 1638. the _new haven colony records_ are edited by c.j. hoadly, 2 vols., hartford, 1857-58. see also the _new haven historical society's papers_, 3 vols., 1865-80; lambert's _history of new haven_, 1838; atwater's _history of new haven_, 1881; levermore's _republic of new haven_, baltimore, 1886; johnston's _connecticut_, boston, 1887. the best account of the blue laws is by j.h. trumbull, _the true blue laws of connecticut and new haven, and the false blue laws invented by the rev. samuel peters_, etc., hartford, 1876. see also hinman's _blue laws of new haven colony_, hartford, 1838; barber's _history and antiquities of new haven_, 1831; peters's _history of connecticut_, london, 1781. the story of the regicides is set forth in stiles's _history of the three judges_ [the third being colonel dixwell], hartford, 1794; see also the _mather papers_ in _mass. hist. coll._, 4th series, vol. viii. _the rhode island colonial records_ are edited by j.r. bartlett, 7 vols., 1856-62. one of the best state histories ever written is that of s.g. arnold, _history of the state of rhode island and providence plantations_, 2 vols., new york, 1859-60. many valuable documents are reprinted in the _rhode island historical society's collections_. the _history of new england, with particular reference to the denomination called baptists_, by rev. isaac backus, 3 vols., 1777-96, has much that is valuable relating to rhode island. the series of _rhode island historical tracts_, issued since 1878 by mr. s.s. rider, is of great merit. biographies of roger williams have been written by j.d. knowles, 1834; by william gammell, 1845; and by romeo elton, 1852. williams's works have been republished by the narragansett club in 6 vols., 1866. the first volume contains the valuable _key to the indian languages of america_, edited by dr. trumbull. williams's views of religious liberty are set forth in his _bloudy tenent of persecution_, london, 1644; to which john cotton replied in _the bloudy tenent washed and made white in the blood of the lamb_, london, 1647; williams's rejoinder was entitled _the bloudy tenent made yet more bloudy through mr. cotton's attempt to wash it white_, london, 1652. the controversy was conducted on both sides with a candour and courtesy rare in that age. the titles of williams's other principal works, _george fox digged out of his burrowes_, boston, 1676; _hireling ministry none of christ's_, london, 1652; and _christenings make not christians_, 1643; sufficiently indicate their character. the last-named tract was discovered in the british museum by dr. dexter and edited by him in rider's _tracts_, no. xiv., 1881. the treatment of roger williams by the government of massachusetts is thoroughly discussed in dexter's _as to roger williams_, boston, 1876. see also g.e. ellis on "the treatment of intruders and dissentients by the founders of massachusetts," in _lowell lectures_, boston, 1869. the case of mrs. hutchinson is treated, from a hostile and somewhat truculent point of view, in thomas welde's pamphlet entitled _a short story of the rise, reign, and ruin of antinomians, familists, and libertines that infected the churches of new england_, london, 1644. it was answered in an anonymous pamphlet entitled _mercurius americanus_, republished for the prince society, boston, 1876, with prefatory notice by c.h. bell. cotton's view of the theocracy may be seen in his _milk for babes, drawn out of the breasts of both testaments_, london, 1646; _keyes of the kingdom of heaven_; and _way of the congregational churches cleared_, london, 1648. see also thomas hooker's _survey of the summe of church discipline_, london, 1648. the intolerant spirit of the time finds quaint and forcible expression in nathaniel ward's satirical book, _the simple cobbler of aggawam_, 1647. for the gorton controversy the best original authorities are his own book entitled _simplicitie's defence against sevenheaded polity_, london, 1646; and winslow's answer entitled _hypocracie unmasked_, london, 1646. see also mackie's _life of samuel gorton_, boston, 1845, and brayton's _defence of samuel gorton_, in rider's _tracts_, no. xvii. for the early history of the quakers, see robert barclay's _inner life of the religious societies of the commonwealth_, london, 1876,--an admirable book. see also _new england a degenerate plant_, 1659; bishop's _new england judged by the spirit of the lord_, 1661; sewel's _history of the quakers_, 1722; besse's _sufferings of the quakers_, 1753; _the popish inquisition newly erected in new england_, london, 1659; _the secret works of a cruel people made manifest_, 1659; and the pamphlet of the martyrs stevenson and robinson, entitled _a call from death to life_, 1660. john norton's view of the case was presented in his book, _the heart of new england rent at the blasphemies of the present generation_, london, 1660. see also j.s. pike's _new puritan_, new york, 1879; hallowell's _pioneer quakers_, boston, 1887; and his _quaker invasion of massachusetts_, boston, 1883; brooks adams, _the emancipation of massachusetts_, boston, 1887; ellis, _the puritan age and rule_, boston, 1888. some additional light upon the theocratic idea may be found in a treatise by the apostle eliot, _the christian commonwealth; or, the civil polity of the rising kingdom of jesus christ_, london, 1659. an account of eliot's missionary work is given in _the day breaking, if not the sun rising, of the gospel with the indians in new england_, london, 1647; and _the glorious progress of the gospel amongst the indians in new england_, 1649. see also shepard's _clear sunshine of the gospel breaking forth upon the indians_, 1648; and whitfield's _light appearing more and more towards the perfect day_, 1651. the principal authority for philip's war is hubbard's _present state of new england, being a narrative of the troubles with the indians_, 1677. church's _entertaining passages relating to philip's war_, published in 1716, and republished in 1865, with notes by mr. dexter, is a charming book. see also mrs. rowlandson's _true history_, cambridge, mass., 1682; mather's _brief history of the war_, 1676; drake's _old indian chronicle_, boston, 1836; gookin's _historical collections of the indians in new england_, 1674; and _account of the doings and sufferings of the christian indians_, in _archchaeologia americana_, vol. ii. batten's _journal_ is the diary of a citizen of boston, sent to england, and it now in ms. among the _colonial papers_. mrs. mary pray's letter (oct. 20, 1675) is in _mass. hist. coll._, 5th series, vol. i. p. 105. the great storehouse of information for the andros period is the _andros tracts_, 3 vols., edited for the prince society by w.h. whitmore. see also sewall's _diary, mass. hist. coll._, 5th series, vols. v.--viii. sewall has been appropriately called the puritan pepys. his book is a mirror of the state of society in massachusetts at the time when it was beginning to be felt that the old theocratic idea had been tried in the balance and found wanting. there is a wonderful charm in such a book. it makes one feel as if one had really "been there" and taken part in the homely scenes, full of human interest, which it so naively portrays. anne bradstreet's works have been edited by j.h. ellis, charlestown, 1867. for further references and elaborate bibliographical discussions, see winsor's _narrative and critical history of america_, vol. iii.; and his _memorial history of boston_, 4 vols., boston, 1880. there is a good account of the principal new england writers of the seventeenth century, with illustrative extracts, in tyler's _history of american literature_, 2 vols., new york, 1878. for extracts see also the first two volumes of stedman and hutchinson's _library of american literature_, new york, 1888. in conclusion i would observe that town histories, though seldom written in a philosophical spirit and apt to be quite amorphous in structure, are a mine of wealth for the philosophic student of history. notes: [1] milman, _lat. christ._ vii. 395. [2] gardiner, _the puritan revolution_, p. 12. [3] green, _history of the english people_, iii. 47. [4] steele's _life of brewster,_ p. 161. [5] gardiner, _puritan revolution_, p. 50. [6] it is now 204 years since a battle has been fought in england. the last was sedgmoor in 1685. for four centuries, since bosworth, in 1485, the english people have lived in peace in their own homes, except for the brief episode of the great rebellion, and monmouth's slight affair. this long peace, unparalleled in history, has powerfully influenced the english and american character for good. since the middle ages most english warfare has been warfare at a distance, and that does not nourish the brutal passions in the way that warfare at home does. an instructive result is to be seen in the mildness of temper which characterized the conduct of our stupendous civil war. nothing like it was ever seen before. [7] picton's _cromwell_, pp. 61, 67; gardiner, _puritan revolution_, p. 72. [8] quincy, history of harvard university, ii. 654. [9] c.f. adams, _sir christopher gardiner, knight_, p. 31. [10] the compact drawn up in the mayflower's cabin was not, in the strict sense a constitution, which is a document defining and limiting the functions of government. magna charta partook of the nature of a written constitution, as far as it went, but it did not create a government. [11] see johnston's connecticut, p. 321, a very brilliant book. [12] see the passionate exclamation of endicott, below, p. 190. [13] excursions of an evolutionist: pp. 250, 255. [14] a glimmer of light upon gorton may be got from reading the title-page of one of his books: "an incorruptible key, composed of the cx psalme, wherewith you may open the rest of the holy scriptures; turning itself only according to the composure and art of that lock, of the closure and secresie of that great mystery of god manifest in the flesh, but justified only by the spirit, which it evidently openeth and revealeth, out of fall and resurrection, sin and righteousness, ascension and descension, height and depth, first and last, beginning and ending, flesh and spirit, wisdome and foolishnesse, strength and weakness, mortality and immortality, jew and gentile, light and darknesse, unity and multiplication, fruitfulness and barrenness, curse and blessing, man and woman, kingdom and priesthood, heaven and earth, allsufficiency and deficiency, god and man. and out of every unity made up of twaine, it openeth that great two-leafed gate, which is the sole entrie into the city of god, of new jerusalem, _into which none but the king of glory can enter_; and as that porter openeth the doore of the sheepfold, _by which whosoever entreth is the shepheard of the sheep_; see isa. 45. 1. psal. 24. 7, 8, 9, 10. john 10. 1, 2, 3; or, (according to the signification of the word translated _psalme_,) it is a pruning-knife, to lop off from the church of christ all superfluous twigs _of earthly and carnal commandments_, leviticall services or ministery, and fading and vanishing priests, or ministers, who are taken away and cease, and are not established and confirmed by death, as holding no correspondency with the princely dignity, office, and ministry of our _melchisedek_, who is the only minister and ministry of the sanctuary, and of that true tabernacle which the lord pitcht, and not man. for it supplants the old man, and implants the new; abrogates the old testament or covenant, and confirms the new, unto a thousand generations, or in generations forever. by samuel gorton, _gent._, and at the time of penning hereof, in the place of judicature (upon aquethneck, alias road island) of providence plantations in the nanhyganset bay, new england. printed in the yeere 1647." [15] father of benedict arnold, afterward governor of rhode island, and owner of the stone windmill (apparently copied from one in chesterton, warwickshire) which was formerly supposed by some antiquarians to be a vestige of the northmen. governor benedict arnold was great-grandfather of the traitor. [16] _gorton, simplicitie's defence against seven-headed policy_, p. 88. [17] de forest, _history of the indians of connecticut_, hartford, 1850, p. 198. [18] doyle, _puritan colonies_, i. 324. [19] see below, p. 222, note. [20] see my _excursions of an evolutionist,_ pp. 239-242, 250-255, 286-289. [21] gorton's life at warwick, after all these troubles, seems to have been quiet and happy. he died in 1677 at a great age. in 1771 dr. ezra stiles visited, in providence, his last surviving disciple, born in 1691. this old man said that gorton wrote in heaven, and none can understand his books except those who live in heaven while on earth. [22] doyle, _puritan colonies_,: i. 369. [23] doyle, i.: 372. [24] milman, _latin christianity_, vii. 390. [25] doyle, ii. 133, 134; rhode island records, i. 377, 378. [26] colonial laws of massachusetts, pp. 14-16; levermore's republic of new haven, p. 153. [27] see my remarks above, p. 145. [28] the daring passage in the sermon is thus given in bacon's _historical discourses_, new haven, 1838: "withhold not countenance, entertainment, and protection from the people of god--whom men may call fools and fanatics--if any such come to you from other countries, as from france or england, or any other place. be not forgetful to entertain strangers. remember those that are in bonds, as bound with them. the lord required this of moab, saying, 'make thy shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday; hide the outcasts; bewray not him that wandereth. let mine outcasts dwell with thee, moab; be thou a covert to them from the face of the spoiler.' is it objected--'but so i may expose myself to be spoiled or troubled'? he, therefore, to remove this objection, addeth, 'for the extortioner is at an end, the spoiler ceaseth, the oppressors are consumed out of the land.' while we are attending to our duty in owning and harbouring christ's witnesses, god will be providing for their and our safety, by destroying those that would destroy his people." [29] palfrey, _history of new england,_ in. 138-140. [30] see parkman, _conspiracy of pontiac_, i. 80-85. [31] de forest, _history of the indians of connecticut,_ pp. 252, 257. [32] the story rests chiefly upon the statements of hutchinson, an extremely careful and judicious writer, and not in the least what the french call a _gobemouche_. goffe kept a diary which came into hutchinson's possession, and was one of the priceless manuscripts that perished in the infamous sacking of his house by the boston mob of august 26, 1765. what light that diary might have thrown upon the matter can never be known. hutchinson was born in 1711, only thirty-six years after the event, so that his testimony is not so very far removed from that of a contemporary. whalley seems to have died in hadley shortly before 1675, and goffe deemed it prudent to leave that neighbourhood in 1676. his letters to increase mather are dated from "ebenezer," i. e., wherever in his roamings he set up his ebenezer. one of these letters, dated september 8, 1676, shows that his ebenezer was then set up in hartford, where probably he died about 1679 in 1676 the arrival of edward randolph (see below, p. 256) renewed the peril of the regicide judge, and his sudden removal from his skilfully contrived hiding-place at hadley might possibly have been due to his having exposed himself to recognition in the indian fight. possibly even the supernatural explanation might have been started, with a touch of yankee humour, as a blind. the silence of mather and hubbard was no more remarkable than some of the other ingenious incidents which had so long served to conceal the existence of this sturdy and crafty man. the reasons for doubting the story are best stated by mr. george sheldon of deerfield, in _hist.-genealogical register_, october, 1874. [33] if philip was half the diplomatist that he is represented in tradition, he never would have gone into such a war without assurance of narragansett help. canonchet was a far more powerful sachem than philip, and played a more conspicuous part in the war. may we not suppose that canonchet's desire to avenge his father's death was one of the principal incentives to the war; that philip's attack upon swanzey was a premature explosion; and that canonchet then watched the course of events for a while before making up his mind whether to abandon philip or support him? [34] a wretched little werewolf who some few years ago, being then a lad of fourteen or fifteen years, most cruelly murdered two or three young children, just to amuse himself with their dying agonies. the misdirected "humanitarianism," which in our country makes every murderer an object of popular sympathy, prevailed to save this creature from the gallows. massachusetts has lately witnessed a similar instance of misplaced clemency in the case of a vile woman who had poisoned eight or ten persons, including some of her own children, in order to profit by their life insurance. such instances help to explain the prolonged vitality of "judge lynch," and sometimes almost make one regret the days in old england when william probert, after escaping in 1824 as "king's evidence," from the thurtell affair, got caught and hanged within a twelvemonth for horse-stealing. any one who wishes to study the results of allowing criminality to survive and propagate itself should read dugdale's the jukes; hereditary crime, new york, 1877. [35] weeden, _indian money as a factor in new england civilization_, johns hopkins university studies, ii. viii., ix. p. 30. [36] doyle, ii. 253. [37] doyle, _puritan colonies_, ii. 254. [38] the quotation is from an unpublished letter of rev. robert ratcliffe to the bishop of london, cited in an able article in the _boston herald_, january 4, 1888. i have not seen the letter. [39] doyle, _puritan colonies_, ii. 379, 380. *********************************************************************** there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed at ebook (#25344) which contains an illustrated html file *********************************************************************** the scarlet letter by nathaniel hawthorne editor's note nathaniel hawthorne was already a man of forty-six, and a tale writer of some twenty-four years' standing, when "the scarlet letter" appeared. he was born at salem, mass., on july 4th, 1804, son of a sea-captain. he led there a shy and rather sombre life; of few artistic encouragements, yet not wholly uncongenial, his moody, intensely meditative temperament being considered. its colours and shadows are marvelously reflected in his "twice-told tales" and other short stories, the product of his first literary period. even his college days at bowdoin did not quite break through his acquired and inherited reserve; but beneath it all, his faculty of divining men and women was exercised with almost uncanny prescience and subtlety. "the scarlet letter," which explains as much of this unique imaginative art, as is to be gathered from reading his highest single achievement, yet needs to be ranged with his other writings, early and late, to have its last effect. in the year that saw it published, he began "the house of the seven gables," a later romance or prose-tragedy of the puritan-american community as he had himself known it-defrauded of art and the joy of life, "starving for symbols" as emerson has it. nathaniel hawthorne died at plymouth, new hampshire, on may 18th, 1864. the following is the table of his romances, stories, and other works: fanshawe, published anonymously, 1826; twice-told tales, 1st series, 1837; 2nd series, 1842; grandfather's chair, a history for youth, 1845: famous old people (grandfather's chair), 1841 liberty tree: with the last words of grandfather's chair, 1842; biographical stories for children, 1842; mosses from an old manse, 1846; the scarlet letter, 1850; the house of the seven gables, 1851: true stories from history and biography (the whole history of grandfather's chair), 1851 a wonder book for girls and boys, 1851; the snow image and other tales, 1851: the blithedale romance, 1852; life of franklin pierce, 1852; tanglewood tales (2nd series of the wonder book), 1853; a rill from the town-pump, with remarks, by telba, 1857; the marble faun; or, the romance of monte beni (4 editor's note) (published in england under the title of "transformation"), 1860, our old home, 1863; dolliver romance (1st part in "atlantic monthly"), 1864; in 3 parts, 1876; pansie, a fragment, hawthorne' last literary effort, 1864; american note-books, 1868; english note books, edited by sophia hawthorne, 1870; french and italian note books, 1871; septimius felton; or, the elixir of life (from the "atlantic monthly"), 1872; doctor grimshawe's secret, with preface and notes by julian hawthorne, 1882. tales of the white hills, legends of new england, legends of the province house, 1877, contain tales which had already been printed in book form in "twice-told tales" and the "mosses" "sketched and studies," 1883. hawthorne's contributions to magazines were numerous, and most of his tales appeared first in periodicals, chiefly in "the token," 1831-1838, "new england magazine," 1834,1835; "knickerbocker," 1837-1839; "democratic review," 1838-1846; "atlantic monthly," 1860-1872 (scenes from the dolliver romance, septimius felton, and passages from hawthorne's note-books). works: in 24 volumes, 1879; in 12 volumes, with introductory notes by lathrop, riverside edition, 1883. biography, etc.; a. h. japp (pseud. h. a. page), memoir of n. hawthorne, 1872; j. t. field's "yesterdays with authors," 1873 g. p. lathrop, "a study of hawthorne," 1876; henry james english men of letters, 1879; julian hawthorne, "nathaniel hawthorne and his wife," 1885; moncure d. conway, life of nathaniel hawthorne, 1891; analytical index of hawthorne's works, by e. m. o'connor 1882. contents introductory. the custom-house chapter i. the prison-door chapter ii. the market-place chapter iii. the recognition chapter iv. the interview chapter v. hester at her needle chapter vi. pearl chapter vii. the governor's hall chapter viii. the elf-child and the minister chapter ix. the leech chapter x. the leech and his patient chapter xi. the interior of a heart chapter xii. the minister's vigil chapter xiii. another view of hester chapter xiv. hester and the physician chapter xv. hester and pearl chapter xvi. a forest walk chapter xvii. the pastor and his parishioner chapter xviii. a flood of sunshine chapter xix. the child at the brook-side chapter xx. the minister in a maze chapter xxi. the new england holiday chapter xxii. the procession chapter xxiii. the revelation of the scarlet letter chapter xxiv. conclusion the custom-house introductory to "the scarlet letter" it is a little remarkable, that--though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends--an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public. the first time was three or four years since, when i favoured the reader--inexcusably, and for no earthly reason that either the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine--with a description of my way of life in the deep quietude of an old manse. and now--because, beyond my deserts, i was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasion--i again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years' experience in a custom-house. the example of the famous "p. p., clerk of this parish," was never more faithfully followed. the truth seems to be, however, that when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates. some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed only and exclusively to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer's own nature, and complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it. it is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. but, as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost me behind its veil. to this extent, and within these limits, an author, methinks, may be autobiographical, without violating either the reader's rights or his own. it will be seen, likewise, that this custom-house sketch has a certain propriety, of a kind always recognised in literature, as explaining how a large portion of the following pages came into my possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a narrative therein contained. this, in fact--a desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of the most prolix among the tales that make up my volume--this, and no other, is my true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public. in accomplishing the main purpose, it has appeared allowable, by a few extra touches, to give a faint representation of a mode of life not heretofore described, together with some of the characters that move in it, among whom the author happened to make one. in my native town of salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old king derby, was a bustling wharf--but which is now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig, half-way down its melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, a nova scotia schooner, pitching out her cargo of firewood--at the head, i say, of this dilapidated wharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass--here, with a view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbour, stands a spacious edifice of brick. from the loftiest point of its roof, during precisely three and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or droops, in breeze or calm, the banner of the republic; but with the thirteen stripes turned vertically, instead of horizontally, and thus indicating that a civil, and not a military, post of uncle sam's government is here established. its front is ornamented with a portico of half-a-dozen wooden pillars, supporting a balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite steps descends towards the street. over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the american eagle, with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if i recollect aright, a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw. with the customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl, she appears by the fierceness of her beak and eye, and the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mischief to the inoffensive community; and especially to warn all citizens careful of their safety against intruding on the premises which she overshadows with her wings. nevertheless, vixenly as she looks, many people are seeking at this very moment to shelter themselves under the wing of the federal eagle; imagining, i presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness of an eiderdown pillow. but she has no great tenderness even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later--oftener soon than late--is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows. the pavement round about the above-described edifice--which we may as well name at once as the custom-house of the port--has grass enough growing in its chinks to show that it has not, of late days, been worn by any multitudinous resort of business. in some months of the year, however, there often chances a forenoon when affairs move onward with a livelier tread. such occasions might remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last war with england, when salem was a port by itself; not scorned, as she is now, by her own merchants and ship-owners, who permit her wharves to crumble to ruin while their ventures go to swell, needlessly and imperceptibly, the mighty flood of commerce at new york or boston. on some such morning, when three or four vessels happen to have arrived at once usually from africa or south america--or to be on the verge of their departure thitherward, there is a sound of frequent feet passing briskly up and down the granite steps. here, before his own wife has greeted him, you may greet the sea-flushed ship-master, just in port, with his vessel's papers under his arm in a tarnished tin box. here, too, comes his owner, cheerful, sombre, gracious or in the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now accomplished voyage has been realized in merchandise that will readily be turned to gold, or has buried him under a bulk of incommodities such as nobody will care to rid him of. here, likewise--the germ of the wrinkle-browed, grizzly-bearded, careworn merchant--we have the smart young clerk, who gets the taste of traffic as a wolf-cub does of blood, and already sends adventures in his master's ships, when he had better be sailing mimic boats upon a mill-pond. another figure in the scene is the outward-bound sailor, in quest of a protection; or the recently arrived one, pale and feeble, seeking a passport to the hospital. nor must we forget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring firewood from the british provinces; a rough-looking set of tarpaulins, without the alertness of the yankee aspect, but contributing an item of no slight importance to our decaying trade. cluster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were, with other miscellaneous ones to diversify the group, and, for the time being, it made the custom-house a stirring scene. more frequently, however, on ascending the steps, you would discern-in the entry if it were summer time, or in their appropriate rooms if wintry or inclement weathers--a row of venerable figures, sitting in old-fashioned chairs, which were tipped on their hind legs back against the wall. oftentimes they were asleep, but occasionally might be heard talking together, in voices between a speech and a snore, and with that lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses, and all other human beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on monopolized labour, or anything else but their own independent exertions. these old gentlemen--seated, like matthew at the receipt of custom, but not very liable to be summoned thence, like him, for apostolic errands--were custom-house officers. furthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or office, about fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height, with two of its arched windows commanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third looking across a narrow lane, and along a portion of derby street. all three give glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers, slop-sellers, and ship-chandlers, around the doors of which are generally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old salts, and such other wharf-rats as haunt the wapping of a seaport. the room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old paint; its floor is strewn with grey sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen into long disuse; and it is easy to conclude, from the general slovenliness of the place, that this is a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the broom and mop, has very infrequent access. in the way of furniture, there is a stove with a voluminous funnel; an old pine desk with a three-legged stool beside it; two or three wooden-bottom chairs, exceedingly decrepit and infirm; and--not to forget the library--on some shelves, a score or two of volumes of the acts of congress, and a bulky digest of the revenue laws. a tin pipe ascends through the ceiling, and forms a medium of vocal communication with other parts of the edifice. and here, some six months ago--pacing from corner to corner, or lounging on the long-legged stool, with his elbow on the desk, and his eyes wandering up and down the columns of the morning newspaper--you might have recognised, honoured reader, the same individual who welcomed you into his cheery little study, where the sunshine glimmered so pleasantly through the willow branches on the western side of the old manse. but now, should you go thither to seek him, you would inquire in vain for the locofoco surveyor. the besom of reform hath swept him out of office, and a worthier successor wears his dignity and pockets his emoluments. this old town of salem--my native place, though i have dwelt much away from it both in boyhood and maturer years--possesses, or did possess, a hold on my affection, the force of which i have never realized during my seasons of actual residence here. indeed, so far as its physical aspect is concerned, with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with wooden houses, few or none of which pretend to architectural beauty--its irregularity, which is neither picturesque nor quaint, but only tame--its long and lazy street, lounging wearisomely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with gallows hill and new guinea at one end, and a view of the alms-house at the other--such being the features of my native town, it would be quite as reasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a disarranged checker-board. and yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere, there is within me a feeling for old salem, which, in lack of a better phrase, i must be content to call affection. the sentiment is probably assignable to the deep and aged roots which my family has stuck into the soil. it is now nearly two centuries and a quarter since the original briton, the earliest emigrant of my name, made his appearance in the wild and forest-bordered settlement which has since become a city. and here his descendants have been born and died, and have mingled their earthly substance with the soil, until no small portion of it must necessarily be akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a little while, i walk the streets. in part, therefore, the attachment which i speak of is the mere sensuous sympathy of dust for dust. few of my countrymen can know what it is; nor, as frequent transplantation is perhaps better for the stock, need they consider it desirable to know. but the sentiment has likewise its moral quality. the figure of that first ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my boyish imagination as far back as i can remember. it still haunts me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, which i scarcely claim in reference to the present phase of the town. i seem to have a stronger claim to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked, and steeple-crowned progenitor--who came so early, with his bible and his sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately port, and made so large a figure, as a man of war and peace--a stronger claim than for myself, whose name is seldom heard and my face hardly known. he was a soldier, legislator, judge; he was a ruler in the church; he had all the puritanic traits, both good and evil. he was likewise a bitter persecutor; as witness the quakers, who have remembered him in their histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity towards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these were many. his son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches, that their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him. so deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the charter-street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have not crumbled utterly to dust! i know not whether these ancestors of mine bethought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of heaven for their cruelties; or whether they are now groaning under the heavy consequences of them in another state of being. at all events, i, the present writer, as their representative, hereby take shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them--as i have heard, and as the dreary and unprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back, would argue to exist--may be now and henceforth removed. doubtless, however, either of these stern and black-browed puritans would have thought it quite a sufficient retribution for his sins that, after so long a lapse of years, the old trunk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should have borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself. no aim that i have ever cherished would they recognise as laudable; no success of mine--if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever been brightened by success--would they deem otherwise than worthless, if not positively disgraceful. "what is he?" murmurs one grey shadow of my forefathers to the other. "a writer of story books! what kind of business in life--what mode of glorifying god, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation--may that be? why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!" such are the compliments bandied between my great grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time! and yet, let them scorn me as they will, strong traits of their nature have intertwined themselves with mine. planted deep, in the town's earliest infancy and childhood, by these two earnest and energetic men, the race has ever since subsisted here; always, too, in respectability; never, so far as i have known, disgraced by a single unworthy member; but seldom or never, on the other hand, after the first two generations, performing any memorable deed, or so much as putting forward a claim to public notice. gradually, they have sunk almost out of sight; as old houses, here and there about the streets, get covered half-way to the eaves by the accumulation of new soil. from father to son, for above a hundred years, they followed the sea; a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the hereditary place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the gale which had blustered against his sire and grandsire. the boy, also in due time, passed from the forecastle to the cabin, spent a tempestuous manhood, and returned from his world-wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust with the natal earth. this long connexion of a family with one spot, as its place of birth and burial, creates a kindred between the human being and the locality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround him. it is not love but instinct. the new inhabitant--who came himself from a foreign land, or whose father or grandfather came--has little claim to be called a salemite; he has no conception of the oyster-like tenacity with which an old settler, over whom his third century is creeping, clings to the spot where his successive generations have been embedded. it is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres;--all these, and whatever faults besides he may see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. the spell survives, and just as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. so has it been in my case. i felt it almost as a destiny to make salem my home; so that the mould of features and cast of character which had all along been familiar here--ever, as one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another assuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the main street--might still in my little day be seen and recognised in the old town. nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence that the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at last be severed. human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. my children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth. on emerging from the old manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in uncle sam's brick edifice, when i might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. my doom was on me. it was not the first time, nor the second, that i had gone away--as it seemed, permanently--but yet returned, like the bad halfpenny, or as if salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe. so, one fine morning i ascended the flight of granite steps, with the president's commission in my pocket, and was introduced to the corps of gentlemen who were to aid me in my weighty responsibility as chief executive officer of the custom-house. i doubt greatly--or, rather, i do not doubt at all--whether any public functionary of the united states, either in the civil or military line, has ever had such a patriarchal body of veterans under his orders as myself. the whereabouts of the oldest inhabitant was at once settled when i looked at them. for upwards of twenty years before this epoch, the independent position of the collector had kept the salem custom-house out of the whirlpool of political vicissitude, which makes the tenure of office generally so fragile. a soldier--new england's most distinguished soldier--he stood firmly on the pedestal of his gallant services; and, himself secure in the wise liberality of the successive administrations through which he had held office, he had been the safety of his subordinates in many an hour of danger and heart-quake. general miller was radically conservative; a man over whose kindly nature habit had no slight influence; attaching himself strongly to familiar faces, and with difficulty moved to change, even when change might have brought unquestionable improvement. thus, on taking charge of my department, i found few but aged men. they were ancient sea-captains, for the most part, who, after being tossed on every sea, and standing up sturdily against life's tempestuous blast, had finally drifted into this quiet nook, where, with little to disturb them, except the periodical terrors of a presidential election, they one and all acquired a new lease of existence. though by no means less liable than their fellow-men to age and infirmity, they had evidently some talisman or other that kept death at bay. two or three of their number, as i was assured, being gouty and rheumatic, or perhaps bed-ridden, never dreamed of making their appearance at the custom-house during a large part of the year; but, after a torpid winter, would creep out into the warm sunshine of may or june, go lazily about what they termed duty, and, at their own leisure and convenience, betake themselves to bed again. i must plead guilty to the charge of abbreviating the official breath of more than one of these venerable servants of the republic. they were allowed, on my representation, to rest from their arduous labours, and soon afterwards--as if their sole principle of life had been zeal for their country's service--as i verily believe it was--withdrew to a better world. it is a pious consolation to me that, through my interference, a sufficient space was allowed them for repentance of the evil and corrupt practices into which, as a matter of course, every custom-house officer must be supposed to fall. neither the front nor the back entrance of the custom-house opens on the road to paradise. the greater part of my officers were whigs. it was well for their venerable brotherhood that the new surveyor was not a politician, and though a faithful democrat in principle, neither received nor held his office with any reference to political services. had it been otherwise--had an active politician been put into this influential post, to assume the easy task of making head against a whig collector, whose infirmities withheld him from the personal administration of his office--hardly a man of the old corps would have drawn the breath of official life within a month after the exterminating angel had come up the custom-house steps. according to the received code in such matters, it would have been nothing short of duty, in a politician, to bring every one of those white heads under the axe of the guillotine. it was plain enough to discern that the old fellows dreaded some such discourtesy at my hands. it pained, and at the same time amused me, to behold the terrors that attended my advent, to see a furrowed cheek, weather-beaten by half a century of storm, turn ashy pale at the glance of so harmless an individual as myself; to detect, as one or another addressed me, the tremor of a voice which, in long-past days, had been wont to bellow through a speaking-trumpet, hoarsely enough to frighten boreas himself to silence. they knew, these excellent old persons, that, by all established rule--and, as regarded some of them, weighed by their own lack of efficiency for business--they ought to have given place to younger men, more orthodox in politics, and altogether fitter than themselves to serve our common uncle. i knew it, too, but could never quite find in my heart to act upon the knowledge. much and deservedly to my own discredit, therefore, and considerably to the detriment of my official conscience, they continued, during my incumbency, to creep about the wharves, and loiter up and down the custom-house steps. they spent a good deal of time, also, asleep in their accustomed corners, with their chairs tilted back against the walls; awaking, however, once or twice in the forenoon, to bore one another with the several thousandth repetition of old sea-stories and mouldy jokes, that had grown to be passwords and countersigns among them. the discovery was soon made, i imagine, that the new surveyor had no great harm in him. so, with lightsome hearts and the happy consciousness of being usefully employed--in their own behalf at least, if not for our beloved country--these good old gentlemen went through the various formalities of office. sagaciously under their spectacles, did they peep into the holds of vessels. mighty was their fuss about little matters, and marvellous, sometimes, the obtuseness that allowed greater ones to slip between their fingers whenever such a mischance occurred--when a waggon-load of valuable merchandise had been smuggled ashore, at noonday, perhaps, and directly beneath their unsuspicious noses--nothing could exceed the vigilance and alacrity with which they proceeded to lock, and double-lock, and secure with tape and sealing-wax, all the avenues of the delinquent vessel. instead of a reprimand for their previous negligence, the case seemed rather to require an eulogium on their praiseworthy caution after the mischief had happened; a grateful recognition of the promptitude of their zeal the moment that there was no longer any remedy. unless people are more than commonly disagreeable, it is my foolish habit to contract a kindness for them. the better part of my companion's character, if it have a better part, is that which usually comes uppermost in my regard, and forms the type whereby i recognise the man. as most of these old custom-house officers had good traits, and as my position in reference to them, being paternal and protective, was favourable to the growth of friendly sentiments, i soon grew to like them all. it was pleasant in the summer forenoons--when the fervent heat, that almost liquefied the rest of the human family, merely communicated a genial warmth to their half torpid systems--it was pleasant to hear them chatting in the back entry, a row of them all tipped against the wall, as usual; while the frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came bubbling with laughter from their lips. externally, the jollity of aged men has much in common with the mirth of children; the intellect, any more than a deep sense of humour, has little to do with the matter; it is, with both, a gleam that plays upon the surface, and imparts a sunny and cheery aspect alike to the green branch and grey, mouldering trunk. in one case, however, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the phosphorescent glow of decaying wood. it would be sad injustice, the reader must understand, to represent all my excellent old friends as in their dotage. in the first place, my coadjutors were not invariably old; there were men among them in their strength and prime, of marked ability and energy, and altogether superior to the sluggish and dependent mode of life on which their evil stars had cast them. then, moreover, the white locks of age were sometimes found to be the thatch of an intellectual tenement in good repair. but, as respects the majority of my corps of veterans, there will be no wrong done if i characterize them generally as a set of wearisome old souls, who had gathered nothing worth preservation from their varied experience of life. they seemed to have flung away all the golden grain of practical wisdom, which they had enjoyed so many opportunities of harvesting, and most carefully to have stored their memory with the husks. they spoke with far more interest and unction of their morning's breakfast, or yesterday's, to-day's, or tomorrow's dinner, than of the shipwreck of forty or fifty years ago, and all the world's wonders which they had witnessed with their youthful eyes. the father of the custom-house--the patriarch, not only of this little squad of officials, but, i am bold to say, of the respectable body of tide-waiters all over the united states--was a certain permanent inspector. he might truly be termed a legitimate son of the revenue system, dyed in the wool, or rather born in the purple; since his sire, a revolutionary colonel, and formerly collector of the port, had created an office for him, and appointed him to fill it, at a period of the early ages which few living men can now remember. this inspector, when i first knew him, was a man of fourscore years, or thereabouts, and certainly one of the most wonderful specimens of winter-green that you would be likely to discover in a lifetime's search. with his florid cheek, his compact figure smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue coat, his brisk and vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, altogether he seemed--not young, indeed--but a kind of new contrivance of mother nature in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no business to touch. his voice and laugh, which perpetually re-echoed through the custom-house, had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old man's utterance; they came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a clarion. looking at him merely as an animal--and there was very little else to look at--he was a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness and wholesomeness of his system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or nearly all, the delights which he had ever aimed at or conceived of. the careless security of his life in the custom-house, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of removal, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over him. the original and more potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking on all-fours. he possessed no power of thought, no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities: nothing, in short, but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper which grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty very respectably, and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. he had been the husband of three wives, all long since dead; the father of twenty children, most of whom, at every age of childhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. here, one would suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest disposition through and through with a sable tinge. not so with our old inspector. one brief sigh sufficed to carry off the entire burden of these dismal reminiscences. the next moment he was as ready for sport as any unbreeched infant: far readier than the collector's junior clerk, who at nineteen years was much the elder and graver man of the two. i used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, i think, livelier curiosity than any other form of humanity there presented to my notice. he was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so perfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so impalpable such an absolute nonentity, in every other. my conclusion was that he had no soul, no heart, no mind; nothing, as i have already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so cunningly had the few materials of his character been put together that there was no painful perception of deficiency, but, on my part, an entire contentment with what i found in him. it might be difficult--and it was so--to conceive how he should exist hereafter, so earthly and sensuous did he seem; but surely his existence here, admitting that it was to terminate with his last breath, had been not unkindly given; with no higher moral responsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger scope of enjoyment than theirs, and with all their blessed immunity from the dreariness and duskiness of age. one point in which he had vastly the advantage over his four-footed brethren was his ability to recollect the good dinners which it had made no small portion of the happiness of his life to eat. his gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait; and to hear him talk of roast meat was as appetizing as a pickle or an oyster. as he possessed no higher attribute, and neither sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all his energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit of his maw, it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him expatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat, and the most eligible methods of preparing them for the table. his reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet, seemed to bring the savour of pig or turkey under one's very nostrils. there were flavours on his palate that had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast. i have heard him smack his lips over dinners, every guest at which, except himself, had long been food for worms. it was marvellous to observe how the ghosts of bygone meals were continually rising up before him--not in anger or retribution, but as if grateful for his former appreciation, and seeking to reduplicate an endless series of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sensual: a tenderloin of beef, a hind-quarter of veal, a spare-rib of pork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy turkey, which had perhaps adorned his board in the days of the elder adams, would be remembered; while all the subsequent experience of our race, and all the events that brightened or darkened his individual career, had gone over him with as little permanent effect as the passing breeze. the chief tragic event of the old man's life, so far as i could judge, was his mishap with a certain goose, which lived and died some twenty or forty years ago: a goose of most promising figure, but which, at table, proved so inveterately tough, that the carving-knife would make no impression on its carcase, and it could only be divided with an axe and handsaw. but it is time to quit this sketch; on which, however, i should be glad to dwell at considerably more length, because of all men whom i have ever known, this individual was fittest to be a custom-house officer. most persons, owing to causes which i may not have space to hint at, suffer moral detriment from this peculiar mode of life. the old inspector was incapable of it; and, were he to continue in office to the end of time, would be just as good as he was then, and sit down to dinner with just as good an appetite. there is one likeness, without which my gallery of custom-house portraits would be strangely incomplete, but which my comparatively few opportunities for observation enable me to sketch only in the merest outline. it is that of the collector, our gallant old general, who, after his brilliant military service, subsequently to which he had ruled over a wild western territory, had come hither, twenty years before, to spend the decline of his varied and honourable life. the brave soldier had already numbered, nearly or quite, his three-score years and ten, and was pursuing the remainder of his earthly march, burdened with infirmities which even the martial music of his own spirit-stirring recollections could do little towards lightening. the step was palsied now, that had been foremost in the charge. it was only with the assistance of a servant, and by leaning his hand heavily on the iron balustrade, that he could slowly and painfully ascend the custom-house steps, and, with a toilsome progress across the floor, attain his customary chair beside the fireplace. there he used to sit, gazing with a somewhat dim serenity of aspect at the figures that came and went, amid the rustle of papers, the administering of oaths, the discussion of business, and the casual talk of the office; all which sounds and circumstances seemed but indistinctly to impress his senses, and hardly to make their way into his inner sphere of contemplation. his countenance, in this repose, was mild and kindly. if his notice was sought, an expression of courtesy and interest gleamed out upon his features, proving that there was light within him, and that it was only the outward medium of the intellectual lamp that obstructed the rays in their passage. the closer you penetrated to the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared. when no longer called upon to speak or listen--either of which operations cost him an evident effort--his face would briefly subside into its former not uncheerful quietude. it was not painful to behold this look; for, though dim, it had not the imbecility of decaying age. the framework of his nature, originally strong and massive, was not yet crumpled into ruin. to observe and define his character, however, under such disadvantages, was as difficult a task as to trace out and build up anew, in imagination, an old fortress, like ticonderoga, from a view of its grey and broken ruins. here and there, perchance, the walls may remain almost complete; but elsewhere may be only a shapeless mound, cumbrous with its very strength, and overgrown, through long years of peace and neglect, with grass and alien weeds. nevertheless, looking at the old warrior with affection--for, slight as was the communication between us, my feeling towards him, like that of all bipeds and quadrupeds who knew him, might not improperly be termed so,--i could discern the main points of his portrait. it was marked with the noble and heroic qualities which showed it to be not a mere accident, but of good right, that he had won a distinguished name. his spirit could never, i conceive, have been characterized by an uneasy activity; it must, at any period of his life, have required an impulse to set him in motion; but once stirred up, with obstacles to overcome, and an adequate object to be attained, it was not in the man to give out or fail. the heat that had formerly pervaded his nature, and which was not yet extinct, was never of the kind that flashes and flickers in a blaze; but rather a deep red glow, as of iron in a furnace. weight, solidity, firmness--this was the expression of his repose, even in such decay as had crept untimely over him at the period of which i speak. but i could imagine, even then, that, under some excitement which should go deeply into his consciousness--roused by a trumpet's peal, loud enough to awaken all of his energies that were not dead, but only slumbering--he was yet capable of flinging off his infirmities like a sick man's gown, dropping the staff of age to seize a battle-sword, and starting up once more a warrior. and, in so intense a moment his demeanour would have still been calm. such an exhibition, however, was but to be pictured in fancy; not to be anticipated, nor desired. what i saw in him--as evidently as the indestructible ramparts of old ticonderoga, already cited as the most appropriate simile--was the features of stubborn and ponderous endurance, which might well have amounted to obstinacy in his earlier days; of integrity, that, like most of his other endowments, lay in a somewhat heavy mass, and was just as unmalleable or unmanageable as a ton of iron ore; and of benevolence which, fiercely as he led the bayonets on at chippewa or fort erie, i take to be of quite as genuine a stamp as what actuates any or all the polemical philanthropists of the age. he had slain men with his own hand, for aught i know--certainly, they had fallen like blades of grass at the sweep of the scythe before the charge to which his spirit imparted its triumphant energy--but, be that as it might, there was never in his heart so much cruelty as would have brushed the down off a butterfly's wing. i have not known the man to whose innate kindliness i would more confidently make an appeal. many characteristics--and those, too, which contribute not the least forcibly to impart resemblance in a sketch--must have vanished, or been obscured, before i met the general. all merely graceful attributes are usually the most evanescent; nor does nature adorn the human ruin with blossoms of new beauty, that have their roots and proper nutriment only in the chinks and crevices of decay, as she sows wall-flowers over the ruined fortress of ticonderoga. still, even in respect of grace and beauty, there were points well worth noting. a ray of humour, now and then, would make its way through the veil of dim obstruction, and glimmer pleasantly upon our faces. a trait of native elegance, seldom seen in the masculine character after childhood or early youth, was shown in the general's fondness for the sight and fragrance of flowers. an old soldier might be supposed to prize only the bloody laurel on his brow; but here was one who seemed to have a young girl's appreciation of the floral tribe. there, beside the fireplace, the brave old general used to sit; while the surveyor--though seldom, when it could be avoided, taking upon himself the difficult task of engaging him in conversation--was fond of standing at a distance, and watching his quiet and almost slumberous countenance. he seemed away from us, although we saw him but a few yards off; remote, though we passed close beside his chair; unattainable, though we might have stretched forth our hands and touched his own. it might be that he lived a more real life within his thoughts than amid the unappropriate environment of the collector's office. the evolutions of the parade; the tumult of the battle; the flourish of old heroic music, heard thirty years before--such scenes and sounds, perhaps, were all alive before his intellectual sense. meanwhile, the merchants and ship-masters, the spruce clerks and uncouth sailors, entered and departed; the bustle of his commercial and custom-house life kept up its little murmur round about him; and neither with the men nor their affairs did the general appear to sustain the most distant relation. he was as much out of place as an old sword--now rusty, but which had flashed once in the battle's front, and showed still a bright gleam along its blade--would have been among the inkstands, paper-folders, and mahogany rulers on the deputy collector's desk. there was one thing that much aided me in renewing and re-creating the stalwart soldier of the niagara frontier--the man of true and simple energy. it was the recollection of those memorable words of his--"i'll try, sir"--spoken on the very verge of a desperate and heroic enterprise, and breathing the soul and spirit of new england hardihood, comprehending all perils, and encountering all. if, in our country, valour were rewarded by heraldic honour, this phrase--which it seems so easy to speak, but which only he, with such a task of danger and glory before him, has ever spoken--would be the best and fittest of all mottoes for the general's shield of arms. it contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health to be brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate. the accidents of my life have often afforded me this advantage, but never with more fulness and variety than during my continuance in office. there was one man, especially, the observation of whose character gave me a new idea of talent. his gifts were emphatically those of a man of business; prompt, acute, clear-minded; with an eye that saw through all perplexities, and a faculty of arrangement that made them vanish as by the waving of an enchanter's wand. bred up from boyhood in the custom-house, it was his proper field of activity; and the many intricacies of business, so harassing to the interloper, presented themselves before him with the regularity of a perfectly comprehended system. in my contemplation, he stood as the ideal of his class. he was, indeed, the custom-house in himself; or, at all events, the mainspring that kept its variously revolving wheels in motion; for, in an institution like this, where its officers are appointed to subserve their own profit and convenience, and seldom with a leading reference to their fitness for the duty to be performed, they must perforce seek elsewhere the dexterity which is not in them. thus, by an inevitable necessity, as a magnet attracts steel-filings, so did our man of business draw to himself the difficulties which everybody met with. with an easy condescension, and kind forbearance towards our stupidity--which, to his order of mind, must have seemed little short of crime--would he forth-with, by the merest touch of his finger, make the incomprehensible as clear as daylight. the merchants valued him not less than we, his esoteric friends. his integrity was perfect; it was a law of nature with him, rather than a choice or a principle; nor can it be otherwise than the main condition of an intellect so remarkably clear and accurate as his to be honest and regular in the administration of affairs. a stain on his conscience, as to anything that came within the range of his vocation, would trouble such a man very much in the same way, though to a far greater degree, than an error in the balance of an account, or an ink-blot on the fair page of a book of record. here, in a word--and it is a rare instance in my life--i had met with a person thoroughly adapted to the situation which he held. such were some of the people with whom i now found myself connected. i took it in good part, at the hands of providence, that i was thrown into a position so little akin to my past habits; and set myself seriously to gather from it whatever profit was to be had. after my fellowship of toil and impracticable schemes with the dreamy brethren of brook farm; after living for three years within the subtle influence of an intellect like emerson's; after those wild, free days on the assabeth, indulging fantastic speculations, beside our fire of fallen boughs, with ellery channing; after talking with thoreau about pine-trees and indian relics in his hermitage at walden; after growing fastidious by sympathy with the classic refinement of hillard's culture; after becoming imbued with poetic sentiment at longfellow's hearthstone--it was time, at length, that i should exercise other faculties of my nature, and nourish myself with food for which i had hitherto had little appetite. even the old inspector was desirable, as a change of diet, to a man who had known alcott. i looked upon it as an evidence, in some measure, of a system naturally well balanced, and lacking no essential part of a thorough organization, that, with such associates to remember, i could mingle at once with men of altogether different qualities, and never murmur at the change. literature, its exertions and objects, were now of little moment in my regard. i cared not at this period for books; they were apart from me. nature--except it were human nature--the nature that is developed in earth and sky, was, in one sense, hidden from me; and all the imaginative delight wherewith it had been spiritualized passed away out of my mind. a gift, a faculty, if it had not been departed, was suspended and inanimate within me. there would have been something sad, unutterably dreary, in all this, had i not been conscious that it lay at my own option to recall whatever was valuable in the past. it might be true, indeed, that this was a life which could not, with impunity, be lived too long; else, it might make me permanently other than i had been, without transforming me into any shape which it would be worth my while to take. but i never considered it as other than a transitory life. there was always a prophetic instinct, a low whisper in my ear, that within no long period, and whenever a new change of custom should be essential to my good, change would come. meanwhile, there i was, a surveyor of the revenue and, so far as i have been able to understand, as good a surveyor as need be. a man of thought, fancy, and sensibility (had he ten times the surveyor's proportion of those qualities), may, at any time, be a man of affairs, if he will only choose to give himself the trouble. my fellow-officers, and the merchants and sea-captains with whom my official duties brought me into any manner of connection, viewed me in no other light, and probably knew me in no other character. none of them, i presume, had ever read a page of my inditing, or would have cared a fig the more for me if they had read them all; nor would it have mended the matter, in the least, had those same unprofitable pages been written with a pen like that of burns or of chaucer, each of whom was a custom-house officer in his day, as well as i. it is a good lesson--though it may often be a hard one--for a man who has dreamed of literary fame, and of making for himself a rank among the world's dignitaries by such means, to step aside out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recognized and to find how utterly devoid of significance, beyond that circle, is all that he achieves, and all he aims at. i know not that i especially needed the lesson, either in the way of warning or rebuke; but at any rate, i learned it thoroughly: nor, it gives me pleasure to reflect, did the truth, as it came home to my perception, ever cost me a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sigh. in the way of literary talk, it is true, the naval officer--an excellent fellow, who came into the office with me, and went out only a little later--would often engage me in a discussion about one or the other of his favourite topics, napoleon or shakespeare. the collector's junior clerk, too a young gentleman who, it was whispered occasionally covered a sheet of uncle sam's letter paper with what (at the distance of a few yards) looked very much like poetry--used now and then to speak to me of books, as matters with which i might possibly be conversant. this was my all of lettered intercourse; and it was quite sufficient for my necessities. no longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blasoned abroad on title-pages, i smiled to think that it had now another kind of vogue. the custom-house marker imprinted it, with a stencil and black paint, on pepper-bags, and baskets of anatto, and cigar-boxes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable merchandise, in testimony that these commodities had paid the impost, and gone regularly through the office. borne on such queer vehicle of fame, a knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys it, was carried where it had never been before, and, i hope, will never go again. but the past was not dead. once in a great while, the thoughts that had seemed so vital and so active, yet had been put to rest so quietly, revived again. one of the most remarkable occasions, when the habit of bygone days awoke in me, was that which brings it within the law of literary propriety to offer the public the sketch which i am now writing. in the second storey of the custom-house there is a large room, in which the brick-work and naked rafters have never been covered with panelling and plaster. the edifice--originally projected on a scale adapted to the old commercial enterprise of the port, and with an idea of subsequent prosperity destined never to be realized--contains far more space than its occupants know what to do with. this airy hall, therefore, over the collector's apartments, remains unfinished to this day, and, in spite of the aged cobwebs that festoon its dusky beams, appears still to await the labour of the carpenter and mason. at one end of the room, in a recess, were a number of barrels piled one upon another, containing bundles of official documents. large quantities of similar rubbish lay lumbering the floor. it was sorrowful to think how many days, and weeks, and months, and years of toil had been wasted on these musty papers, which were now only an encumbrance on earth, and were hidden away in this forgotten corner, never more to be glanced at by human eyes. but then, what reams of other manuscripts--filled, not with the dulness of official formalities, but with the thought of inventive brains and the rich effusion of deep hearts--had gone equally to oblivion; and that, moreover, without serving a purpose in their day, as these heaped-up papers had, and--saddest of all--without purchasing for their writers the comfortable livelihood which the clerks of the custom-house had gained by these worthless scratchings of the pen. yet not altogether worthless, perhaps, as materials of local history. here, no doubt, statistics of the former commerce of salem might be discovered, and memorials of her princely merchants--old king derby--old billy gray--old simon forrester--and many another magnate in his day, whose powdered head, however, was scarcely in the tomb before his mountain pile of wealth began to dwindle. the founders of the greater part of the families which now compose the aristocracy of salem might here be traced, from the petty and obscure beginnings of their traffic, at periods generally much posterior to the revolution, upward to what their children look upon as long-established rank. prior to the revolution there is a dearth of records; the earlier documents and archives of the custom-house having, probably, been carried off to halifax, when all the king's officials accompanied the british army in its flight from boston. it has often been a matter of regret with me; for, going back, perhaps, to the days of the protectorate, those papers must have contained many references to forgotten or remembered men, and to antique customs, which would have affected me with the same pleasure as when i used to pick up indian arrow-heads in the field near the old manse. but, one idle and rainy day, it was my fortune to make a discovery of some little interest. poking and burrowing into the heaped-up rubbish in the corner, unfolding one and another document, and reading the names of vessels that had long ago foundered at sea or rotted at the wharves, and those of merchants never heard of now on 'change, nor very readily decipherable on their mossy tombstones; glancing at such matters with the saddened, weary, half-reluctant interest which we bestow on the corpse of dead activity--and exerting my fancy, sluggish with little use, to raise up from these dry bones an image of the old town's brighter aspect, when india was a new region, and only salem knew the way thither--i chanced to lay my hand on a small package, carefully done up in a piece of ancient yellow parchment. this envelope had the air of an official record of some period long past, when clerks engrossed their stiff and formal chirography on more substantial materials than at present. there was something about it that quickened an instinctive curiosity, and made me undo the faded red tape that tied up the package, with the sense that a treasure would here be brought to light. unbending the rigid folds of the parchment cover, i found it to be a commission, under the hand and seal of governor shirley, in favour of one jonathan pue, as surveyor of his majesty's customs for the port of salem, in the province of massachusetts bay. i remembered to have read (probably in felt's "annals") a notice of the decease of mr. surveyor pue, about fourscore years ago; and likewise, in a newspaper of recent times, an account of the digging up of his remains in the little graveyard of st. peter's church, during the renewal of that edifice. nothing, if i rightly call to mind, was left of my respected predecessor, save an imperfect skeleton, and some fragments of apparel, and a wig of majestic frizzle, which, unlike the head that it once adorned, was in very satisfactory preservation. but, on examining the papers which the parchment commission served to envelop, i found more traces of mr. pue's mental part, and the internal operations of his head, than the frizzled wig had contained of the venerable skull itself. they were documents, in short, not official, but of a private nature, or, at least, written in his private capacity, and apparently with his own hand. i could account for their being included in the heap of custom-house lumber only by the fact that mr. pue's death had happened suddenly, and that these papers, which he probably kept in his official desk, had never come to the knowledge of his heirs, or were supposed to relate to the business of the revenue. on the transfer of the archives to halifax, this package, proving to be of no public concern, was left behind, and had remained ever since unopened. the ancient surveyor--being little molested, i suppose, at that early day with business pertaining to his office--seems to have devoted some of his many leisure hours to researches as a local antiquarian, and other inquisitions of a similar nature. these supplied material for petty activity to a mind that would otherwise have been eaten up with rust. a portion of his facts, by-the-by, did me good service in the preparation of the article entitled "main street," included in the present volume. the remainder may perhaps be applied to purposes equally valuable hereafter, or not impossibly may be worked up, so far as they go, into a regular history of salem, should my veneration for the natal soil ever impel me to so pious a task. meanwhile, they shall be at the command of any gentleman, inclined and competent, to take the unprofitable labour off my hands. as a final disposition i contemplate depositing them with the essex historical society. but the object that most drew my attention to the mysterious package was a certain affair of fine red cloth, much worn and faded, there were traces about it of gold embroidery, which, however, was greatly frayed and defaced, so that none, or very little, of the glitter was left. it had been wrought, as was easy to perceive, with wonderful skill of needlework; and the stitch (as i am assured by ladies conversant with such mysteries) gives evidence of a now forgotten art, not to be discovered even by the process of picking out the threads. this rag of scarlet cloth--for time, and wear, and a sacrilegious moth had reduced it to little other than a rag--on careful examination, assumed the shape of a letter. it was the capital letter a. by an accurate measurement, each limb proved to be precisely three inches and a quarter in length. it had been intended, there could be no doubt, as an ornamental article of dress; but how it was to be worn, or what rank, honour, and dignity, in by-past times, were signified by it, was a riddle which (so evanescent are the fashions of the world in these particulars) i saw little hope of solving. and yet it strangely interested me. my eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter, and would not be turned aside. certainly there was some deep meaning in it most worthy of interpretation, and which, as it were, streamed forth from the mystic symbol, subtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading the analysis of my mind. when thus perplexed--and cogitating, among other hypotheses, whether the letter might not have been one of those decorations which the white men used to contrive in order to take the eyes of indians--i happened to place it on my breast. it seemed to me--the reader may smile, but must not doubt my word--it seemed to me, then, that i experienced a sensation not altogether physical, yet almost so, as of burning heat, and as if the letter were not of red cloth, but red-hot iron. i shuddered, and involuntarily let it fall upon the floor. in the absorbing contemplation of the scarlet letter, i had hitherto neglected to examine a small roll of dingy paper, around which it had been twisted. this i now opened, and had the satisfaction to find recorded by the old surveyor's pen, a reasonably complete explanation of the whole affair. there were several foolscap sheets, containing many particulars respecting the life and conversation of one hester prynne, who appeared to have been rather a noteworthy personage in the view of our ancestors. she had flourished during the period between the early days of massachusetts and the close of the seventeenth century. aged persons, alive in the time of mr. surveyor pue, and from whose oral testimony he had made up his narrative, remembered her, in their youth, as a very old, but not decrepit woman, of a stately and solemn aspect. it had been her habit, from an almost immemorial date, to go about the country as a kind of voluntary nurse, and doing whatever miscellaneous good she might; taking upon herself, likewise, to give advice in all matters, especially those of the heart, by which means--as a person of such propensities inevitably must--she gained from many people the reverence due to an angel, but, i should imagine, was looked upon by others as an intruder and a nuisance. prying further into the manuscript, i found the record of other doings and sufferings of this singular woman, for most of which the reader is referred to the story entitled "the scarlet letter"; and it should be borne carefully in mind that the main facts of that story are authorized and authenticated by the document of mr. surveyor pue. the original papers, together with the scarlet letter itself--a most curious relic--are still in my possession, and shall be freely exhibited to whomsoever, induced by the great interest of the narrative, may desire a sight of them. i must not be understood affirming that, in the dressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes of passion that influenced the characters who figure in it, i have invariably confined myself within the limits of the old surveyor's half-a-dozen sheets of foolscap. on the contrary, i have allowed myself, as to such points, nearly, or altogether, as much license as if the facts had been entirely of my own invention. what i contend for is the authenticity of the outline. this incident recalled my mind, in some degree, to its old track. there seemed to be here the groundwork of a tale. it impressed me as if the ancient surveyor, in his garb of a hundred years gone by, and wearing his immortal wig--which was buried with him, but did not perish in the grave--had met me in the deserted chamber of the custom-house. in his port was the dignity of one who had borne his majesty's commission, and who was therefore illuminated by a ray of the splendour that shone so dazzlingly about the throne. how unlike alas the hangdog look of a republican official, who, as the servant of the people, feels himself less than the least, and below the lowest of his masters. with his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but majestic, figure had imparted to me the scarlet symbol and the little roll of explanatory manuscript. with his own ghostly voice he had exhorted me, on the sacred consideration of my filial duty and reverence towards him--who might reasonably regard himself as my official ancestor--to bring his mouldy and moth-eaten lucubrations before the public. "do this," said the ghost of mr. surveyor pue, emphatically nodding the head that looked so imposing within its memorable wig; "do this, and the profit shall be all your own. you will shortly need it; for it is not in your days as it was in mine, when a man's office was a life-lease, and oftentimes an heirloom. but i charge you, in this matter of old mistress prynne, give to your predecessor's memory the credit which will be rightfully due" and i said to the ghost of mr. surveyor pue--"i will". on hester prynne's story, therefore, i bestowed much thought. it was the subject of my meditations for many an hour, while pacing to and fro across my room, or traversing, with a hundredfold repetition, the long extent from the front door of the custom-house to the side entrance, and back again. great were the weariness and annoyance of the old inspector and the weighers and gaugers, whose slumbers were disturbed by the unmercifully lengthened tramp of my passing and returning footsteps. remembering their own former habits, they used to say that the surveyor was walking the quarter-deck. they probably fancied that my sole object--and, indeed, the sole object for which a sane man could ever put himself into voluntary motion--was to get an appetite for dinner. and, to say the truth, an appetite, sharpened by the east wind that generally blew along the passage, was the only valuable result of so much indefatigable exercise. so little adapted is the atmosphere of a custom-house to the delicate harvest of fancy and sensibility, that, had i remained there through ten presidencies yet to come, i doubt whether the tale of "the scarlet letter" would ever have been brought before the public eye. my imagination was a tarnished mirror. it would not reflect, or only with miserable dimness, the figures with which i did my best to people it. the characters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered malleable by any heat that i could kindle at my intellectual forge. they would take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but retained all the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin of contemptuous defiance. "what have you to do with us?" that expression seemed to say. "the little power you might have once possessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone! you have bartered it for a pittance of the public gold. go then, and earn your wages!" in short, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion. it was not merely during the three hours and a half which uncle sam claimed as his share of my daily life that this wretched numbness held possession of me. it went with me on my sea-shore walks and rambles into the country, whenever--which was seldom and reluctantly--i bestirred myself to seek that invigorating charm of nature which used to give me such freshness and activity of thought, the moment that i stepped across the threshold of the old manse. the same torpor, as regarded the capacity for intellectual effort, accompanied me home, and weighed upon me in the chamber which i most absurdly termed my study. nor did it quit me when, late at night, i sat in the deserted parlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and the moon, striving to picture forth imaginary scenes, which, the next day, might flow out on the brightening page in many-hued description. if the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it might well be deemed a hopeless case. moonlight, in a familiar room, falling so white upon the carpet, and showing all its figures so distinctly--making every object so minutely visible, yet so unlike a morning or noontide visibility--is a medium the most suitable for a romance-writer to get acquainted with his illusive guests. there is the little domestic scenery of the well-known apartment; the chairs, with each its separate individuality; the centre-table, sustaining a work-basket, a volume or two, and an extinguished lamp; the sofa; the book-case; the picture on the wall--all these details, so completely seen, are so spiritualised by the unusual light, that they seem to lose their actual substance, and become things of intellect. nothing is too small or too trifling to undergo this change, and acquire dignity thereby. a child's shoe; the doll, seated in her little wicker carriage; the hobby-horse--whatever, in a word, has been used or played with during the day is now invested with a quality of strangeness and remoteness, though still almost as vividly present as by daylight. thus, therefore, the floor of our familiar room has become a neutral territory, somewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the actual and the imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other. ghosts might enter here without affrighting us. it would be too much in keeping with the scene to excite surprise, were we to look about us and discover a form, beloved, but gone hence, now sitting quietly in a streak of this magic moonshine, with an aspect that would make us doubt whether it had returned from afar, or had never once stirred from our fireside. the somewhat dim coal fire has an essential influence in producing the effect which i would describe. it throws its unobtrusive tinge throughout the room, with a faint ruddiness upon the walls and ceiling, and a reflected gleam upon the polish of the furniture. this warmer light mingles itself with the cold spirituality of the moon-beams, and communicates, as it were, a heart and sensibilities of human tenderness to the forms which fancy summons up. it converts them from snow-images into men and women. glancing at the looking-glass, we behold--deep within its haunted verge--the smouldering glow of the half-extinguished anthracite, the white moon-beams on the floor, and a repetition of all the gleam and shadow of the picture, with one remove further from the actual, and nearer to the imaginative. then, at such an hour, and with this scene before him, if a man, sitting all alone, cannot dream strange things, and make them look like truth, he need never try to write romances. but, for myself, during the whole of my custom-house experience, moonlight and sunshine, and the glow of firelight, were just alike in my regard; and neither of them was of one whit more avail than the twinkle of a tallow-candle. an entire class of susceptibilities, and a gift connected with them--of no great richness or value, but the best i had--was gone from me. it is my belief, however, that had i attempted a different order of composition, my faculties would not have been found so pointless and inefficacious. i might, for instance, have contented myself with writing out the narratives of a veteran shipmaster, one of the inspectors, whom i should be most ungrateful not to mention, since scarcely a day passed that he did not stir me to laughter and admiration by his marvelous gifts as a story-teller. could i have preserved the picturesque force of his style, and the humourous colouring which nature taught him how to throw over his descriptions, the result, i honestly believe, would have been something new in literature. or i might readily have found a more serious task. it was a folly, with the materiality of this daily life pressing so intrusively upon me, to attempt to fling myself back into another age, or to insist on creating the semblance of a world out of airy matter, when, at every moment, the impalpable beauty of my soap-bubble was broken by the rude contact of some actual circumstance. the wiser effort would have been to diffuse thought and imagination through the opaque substance of to-day, and thus to make it a bright transparency; to spiritualise the burden that began to weigh so heavily; to seek, resolutely, the true and indestructible value that lay hidden in the petty and wearisome incidents, and ordinary characters with which i was now conversant. the fault was mine. the page of life that was spread out before me seemed dull and commonplace only because i had not fathomed its deeper import. a better book than i shall ever write was there; leaf after leaf presenting itself to me, just as it was written out by the reality of the flitting hour, and vanishing as fast as written, only because my brain wanted the insight, and my hand the cunning, to transcribe it. at some future day, it may be, i shall remember a few scattered fragments and broken paragraphs, and write them down, and find the letters turn to gold upon the page. these perceptions had come too late. at the instant, i was only conscious that what would have been a pleasure once was now a hopeless toil. there was no occasion to make much moan about this state of affairs. i had ceased to be a writer of tolerably poor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good surveyor of the customs. that was all. but, nevertheless, it is anything but agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one's intellect is dwindling away, or exhaling, without your consciousness, like ether out of a phial; so that, at every glance, you find a smaller and less volatile residuum. of the fact there could be no doubt and, examining myself and others, i was led to conclusions, in reference to the effect of public office on the character, not very favourable to the mode of life in question. in some other form, perhaps, i may hereafter develop these effects. suffice it here to say that a custom-house officer of long continuance can hardly be a very praiseworthy or respectable personage, for many reasons; one of them, the tenure by which he holds his situation, and another, the very nature of his business, which--though, i trust, an honest one--is of such a sort that he does not share in the united effort of mankind. an effect--which i believe to be observable, more or less, in every individual who has occupied the position--is, that while he leans on the mighty arm of the republic, his own proper strength departs from him. he loses, in an extent proportioned to the weakness or force of his original nature, the capability of self-support. if he possesses an unusual share of native energy, or the enervating magic of place do not operate too long upon him, his forfeited powers may be redeemable. the ejected officer--fortunate in the unkindly shove that sends him forth betimes, to struggle amid a struggling world--may return to himself, and become all that he has ever been. but this seldom happens. he usually keeps his ground just long enough for his own ruin, and is then thrust out, with sinews all unstrung, to totter along the difficult footpath of life as he best may. conscious of his own infirmity--that his tempered steel and elasticity are lost--he for ever afterwards looks wistfully about him in quest of support external to himself. his pervading and continual hope--a hallucination, which, in the face of all discouragement, and making light of impossibilities, haunts him while he lives, and, i fancy, like the convulsive throes of the cholera, torments him for a brief space after death--is, that finally, and in no long time, by some happy coincidence of circumstances, he shall be restored to office. this faith, more than anything else, steals the pith and availability out of whatever enterprise he may dream of undertaking. why should he toil and moil, and be at so much trouble to pick himself up out of the mud, when, in a little while hence, the strong arm of his uncle will raise and support him? why should he work for his living here, or go to dig gold in california, when he is so soon to be made happy, at monthly intervals, with a little pile of glittering coin out of his uncle's pocket? it is sadly curious to observe how slight a taste of office suffices to infect a poor fellow with this singular disease. uncle sam's gold--meaning no disrespect to the worthy old gentleman--has, in this respect, a quality of enchantment like that of the devil's wages. whoever touches it should look well to himself, or he may find the bargain to go hard against him, involving, if not his soul, yet many of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its courage and constancy, its truth, its self-reliance, and all that gives the emphasis to manly character. here was a fine prospect in the distance. not that the surveyor brought the lesson home to himself, or admitted that he could be so utterly undone, either by continuance in office or ejectment. yet my reflections were not the most comfortable. i began to grow melancholy and restless; continually prying into my mind, to discover which of its poor properties were gone, and what degree of detriment had already accrued to the remainder. i endeavoured to calculate how much longer i could stay in the custom-house, and yet go forth a man. to confess the truth, it was my greatest apprehension--as it would never be a measure of policy to turn out so quiet an individual as myself; and it being hardly in the nature of a public officer to resign--it was my chief trouble, therefore, that i was likely to grow grey and decrepit in the surveyorship, and become much such another animal as the old inspector. might it not, in the tedious lapse of official life that lay before me, finally be with me as it was with this venerable friend--to make the dinner-hour the nucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it, asleep in the sunshine or in the shade? a dreary look-forward, this, for a man who felt it to be the best definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties and sensibilities. but, all this while, i was giving myself very unnecessary alarm. providence had meditated better things for me than i could possibly imagine for myself. a remarkable event of the third year of my surveyorship--to adopt the tone of "p. p. "--was the election of general taylor to the presidency. it is essential, in order to form a complete estimate of the advantages of official life, to view the incumbent at the in-coming of a hostile administration. his position is then one of the most singularly irksome, and, in every contingency, disagreeable, that a wretched mortal can possibly occupy; with seldom an alternative of good on either hand, although what presents itself to him as the worst event may very probably be the best. but it is a strange experience, to a man of pride and sensibility, to know that his interests are within the control of individuals who neither love nor understand him, and by whom, since one or the other must needs happen, he would rather be injured than obliged. strange, too, for one who has kept his calmness throughout the contest, to observe the bloodthirstiness that is developed in the hour of triumph, and to be conscious that he is himself among its objects! there are few uglier traits of human nature than this tendency--which i now witnessed in men no worse than their neighbours--to grow cruel, merely because they possessed the power of inflicting harm. if the guillotine, as applied to office-holders, were a literal fact, instead of one of the most apt of metaphors, it is my sincere belief that the active members of the victorious party were sufficiently excited to have chopped off all our heads, and have thanked heaven for the opportunity! it appears to me--who have been a calm and curious observer, as well in victory as defeat--that this fierce and bitter spirit of malice and revenge has never distinguished the many triumphs of my own party as it now did that of the whigs. the democrats take the offices, as a general rule, because they need them, and because the practice of many years has made it the law of political warfare, which unless a different system be proclaimed, it was weakness and cowardice to murmur at. but the long habit of victory has made them generous. they know how to spare when they see occasion; and when they strike, the axe may be sharp indeed, but its edge is seldom poisoned with ill-will; nor is it their custom ignominiously to kick the head which they have just struck off. in short, unpleasant as was my predicament, at best, i saw much reason to congratulate myself that i was on the losing side rather than the triumphant one. if, heretofore, i had been none of the warmest of partisans i began now, at this season of peril and adversity, to be pretty acutely sensible with which party my predilections lay; nor was it without something like regret and shame that, according to a reasonable calculation of chances, i saw my own prospect of retaining office to be better than those of my democratic brethren. but who can see an inch into futurity beyond his nose? my own head was the first that fell. the moment when a man's head drops off is seldom or never, i am inclined to think, precisely the most agreeable of his life. nevertheless, like the greater part of our misfortunes, even so serious a contingency brings its remedy and consolation with it, if the sufferer will but make the best rather than the worst, of the accident which has befallen him. in my particular case the consolatory topics were close at hand, and, indeed, had suggested themselves to my meditations a considerable time before it was requisite to use them. in view of my previous weariness of office, and vague thoughts of resignation, my fortune somewhat resembled that of a person who should entertain an idea of committing suicide, and although beyond his hopes, meet with the good hap to be murdered. in the custom-house, as before in the old manse, i had spent three years--a term long enough to rest a weary brain: long enough to break off old intellectual habits, and make room for new ones: long enough, and too long, to have lived in an unnatural state, doing what was really of no advantage nor delight to any human being, and withholding myself from toil that would, at least, have stilled an unquiet impulse in me. then, moreover, as regarded his unceremonious ejectment, the late surveyor was not altogether ill-pleased to be recognised by the whigs as an enemy; since his inactivity in political affairs--his tendency to roam, at will, in that broad and quiet field where all mankind may meet, rather than confine himself to those narrow paths where brethren of the same household must diverge from one another--had sometimes made it questionable with his brother democrats whether he was a friend. now, after he had won the crown of martyrdom (though with no longer a head to wear it on), the point might be looked upon as settled. finally, little heroic as he was, it seemed more decorous to be overthrown in the downfall of the party with which he had been content to stand than to remain a forlorn survivor, when so many worthier men were falling: and at last, after subsisting for four years on the mercy of a hostile administration, to be compelled then to define his position anew, and claim the yet more humiliating mercy of a friendly one. meanwhile, the press had taken up my affair, and kept me for a week or two careering through the public prints, in my decapitated state, like irving's headless horseman, ghastly and grim, and longing to be buried, as a political dead man ought. so much for my figurative self. the real human being all this time, with his head safely on his shoulders, had brought himself to the comfortable conclusion that everything was for the best; and making an investment in ink, paper, and steel pens, had opened his long-disused writing desk, and was again a literary man. now it was that the lucubrations of my ancient predecessor, mr. surveyor pue, came into play. rusty through long idleness, some little space was requisite before my intellectual machinery could be brought to work upon the tale with an effect in any degree satisfactory. even yet, though my thoughts were ultimately much absorbed in the task, it wears, to my eye, a stern and sombre aspect: too much ungladdened by genial sunshine; too little relieved by the tender and familiar influences which soften almost every scene of nature and real life, and undoubtedly should soften every picture of them. this uncaptivating effect is perhaps due to the period of hardly accomplished revolution, and still seething turmoil, in which the story shaped itself. it is no indication, however, of a lack of cheerfulness in the writer's mind: for he was happier while straying through the gloom of these sunless fantasies than at any time since he had quitted the old manse. some of the briefer articles, which contribute to make up the volume, have likewise been written since my involuntary withdrawal from the toils and honours of public life, and the remainder are gleaned from annuals and magazines, of such antique date, that they have gone round the circle, and come back to novelty again. keeping up the metaphor of the political guillotine, the whole may be considered as the posthumous papers of a decapitated surveyor: and the sketch which i am now bringing to a close, if too autobiographical for a modest person to publish in his lifetime, will readily be excused in a gentleman who writes from beyond the grave. peace be with all the world! my blessing on my friends! my forgiveness to my enemies! for i am in the realm of quiet! the life of the custom-house lies like a dream behind me. the old inspector--who, by-the-bye, i regret to say, was overthrown and killed by a horse some time ago, else he would certainly have lived for ever--he, and all those other venerable personages who sat with him at the receipt of custom, are but shadows in my view: white-headed and wrinkled images, which my fancy used to sport with, and has now flung aside for ever. the merchants--pingree, phillips, shepard, upton, kimball, bertram, hunt--these and many other names, which had such classic familiarity for my ear six months ago,--these men of traffic, who seemed to occupy so important a position in the world--how little time has it required to disconnect me from them all, not merely in act, but recollection! it is with an effort that i recall the figures and appellations of these few. soon, likewise, my old native town will loom upon me through the haze of memory, a mist brooding over and around it; as if it were no portion of the real earth, but an overgrown village in cloud-land, with only imaginary inhabitants to people its wooden houses and walk its homely lanes, and the unpicturesque prolixity of its main street. henceforth it ceases to be a reality of my life; i am a citizen of somewhere else. my good townspeople will not much regret me, for--though it has been as dear an object as any, in my literary efforts, to be of some importance in their eyes, and to win myself a pleasant memory in this abode and burial-place of so many of my forefathers--there has never been, for me, the genial atmosphere which a literary man requires in order to ripen the best harvest of his mind. i shall do better amongst other faces; and these familiar ones, it need hardly be said, will do just as well without me. it may be, however--oh, transporting and triumphant thought--that the great-grandchildren of the present race may sometimes think kindly of the scribbler of bygone days, when the antiquary of days to come, among the sites memorable in the town's history, shall point out the locality of the town pump. the scarlet letter i. the prison door a throng of bearded men, in sad-coloured garments and grey steeple-crowned hats, inter-mixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes. the founders of a new colony, whatever utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognised it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison. in accordance with this rule it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of boston had built the first prison-house somewhere in the vicinity of cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground, on isaac johnson's lot, and round about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated sepulchres in the old churchyard of king's chapel. certain it is that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. the rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the new world. like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known a youthful era. before this ugly edifice, and between it and the wheel-track of the street, was a grass-plot, much overgrown with burdock, pig-weed, apple-pern, and such unsightly vegetation, which evidently found something congenial in the soil that had so early borne the black flower of civilised society, a prison. but on one side of the portal, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered, in this month of june, with its delicate gems, which might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of nature could pity and be kind to him. this rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history; but whether it had merely survived out of the stern old wilderness, so long after the fall of the gigantic pines and oaks that originally overshadowed it, or whether, as there is fair authority for believing, it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted ann hutchinson as she entered the prison-door, we shall not take upon us to determine. finding it so directly on the threshold of our narrative, which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal, we could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the reader. it may serve, let us hope, to symbolise some sweet moral blossom that may be found along the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow. ii. the market-place the grass-plot before the jail, in prison lane, on a certain summer morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the inhabitants of boston, all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. amongst any other population, or at a later period in the history of new england, the grim rigidity that petrified the bearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured some awful business in hand. it could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated execution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but confirmed the verdict of public sentiment. but, in that early severity of the puritan character, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn. it might be that a sluggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his parents had given over to the civil authority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post. it might be that an antinomian, a quaker, or other heterodox religionist, was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle or vagrant indian, whom the white man's firewater had made riotous about the streets, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. it might be, too, that a witch, like old mistress hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die upon the gallows. in either case, there was very much the same solemnity of demeanour on the part of the spectators, as befitted a people among whom religion and law were almost identical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly interfused, that the mildest and severest acts of public discipline were alike made venerable and awful. meagre, indeed, and cold, was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such bystanders, at the scaffold. on the other hand, a penalty which, in our days, would infer a degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself. it was a circumstance to be noted on the summer morning when our story begins its course, that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd, appeared to take a peculiar interest in whatever penal infliction might be expected to ensue. the age had not so much refinement, that any sense of impropriety restrained the wearers of petticoat and farthingale from stepping forth into the public ways, and wedging their not unsubstantial persons, if occasion were, into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. morally, as well as materially, there was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of old english birth and breeding than in their fair descendants, separated from them by a series of six or seven generations; for, throughout that chain of ancestry, every successive mother had transmitted to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate and briefer beauty, and a slighter physical frame, if not character of less force and solidity than her own. the women who were now standing about the prison-door stood within less than half a century of the period when the man-like elizabeth had been the not altogether unsuitable representative of the sex. they were her countrywomen: and the beef and ale of their native land, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely into their composition. the bright morning sun, therefore, shone on broad shoulders and well-developed busts, and on round and ruddy cheeks, that had ripened in the far-off island, and had hardly yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of new england. there was, moreover, a boldness and rotundity of speech among these matrons, as most of them seemed to be, that would startle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purport or its volume of tone. "goodwives," said a hard-featured dame of fifty, "i'll tell ye a piece of my mind. it would be greatly for the public behoof if we women, being of mature age and church-members in good repute, should have the handling of such malefactresses as this hester prynne. what think ye, gossips? if the hussy stood up for judgment before us five, that are now here in a knot together, would she come off with such a sentence as the worshipful magistrates have awarded? marry, i trow not." "people say," said another, "that the reverend master dimmesdale, her godly pastor, takes it very grievously to heart that such a scandal should have come upon his congregation." "the magistrates are god-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch--that is a truth," added a third autumnal matron. "at the very least, they should have put the brand of a hot iron on hester prynne's forehead. madame hester would have winced at that, i warrant me. but she--the naughty baggage--little will she care what they put upon the bodice of her gown! why, look you, she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish adornment, and so walk the streets as brave as ever!" "ah, but," interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a child by the hand, "let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart." "what do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of her gown or the flesh of her forehead?" cried another female, the ugliest as well as the most pitiless of these self-constituted judges. "this woman has brought shame upon us all, and ought to die; is there not law for it? truly there is, both in the scripture and the statute-book. then let the magistrates, who have made it of no effect, thank themselves if their own wives and daughters go astray." "mercy on us, goodwife!" exclaimed a man in the crowd, "is there no virtue in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? that is the hardest word yet! hush now, gossips for the lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes mistress prynne herself." the door of the jail being flung open from within there appeared, in the first place, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side, and his staff of office in his hand. this personage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole dismal severity of the puritanic code of law, which it was his business to administer in its final and closest application to the offender. stretching forth the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he thus drew forward, until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity and force of character, and stepped into the open air as if by her own free will. she bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, who winked and turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its existence, heretofore, had brought it acquaintance only with the grey twilight of a dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the prison. when the young woman--the mother of this child--stood fully revealed before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much by an impulse of motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a certain token, which was wrought or fastened into her dress. in a moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her arm, and with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not be abashed, looked around at her townspeople and neighbours. on the breast of her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter a. it was so artistically done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she wore, and which was of a splendour in accordance with the taste of the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the colony. the young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance on a large scale. she had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam; and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. she was ladylike, too, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterised by a certain state and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace which is now recognised as its indication. and never had hester prynne appeared more ladylike, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the prison. those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped. it may be true that, to a sensitive observer, there was some thing exquisitely painful in it. her attire, which indeed, she had wrought for the occasion in prison, and had modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild and picturesque peculiarity. but the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer--so that both men and women who had been familiarly acquainted with hester prynne were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time--was that scarlet letter, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. it had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself. "she hath good skill at her needle, that's certain," remarked one of her female spectators; "but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it? why, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates, and make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a punishment?" "it were well," muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, "if we stripped madame hester's rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter which she hath stitched so curiously, i'll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel to make a fitter one!" "oh, peace, neighbours--peace!" whispered their youngest companion; "do not let her hear you! not a stitch in that embroidered letter but she has felt it in her heart." the grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. "make way, good people--make way, in the king's name!" cried he. "open a passage; and i promise ye, mistress prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel from this time till an hour past meridian. a blessing on the righteous colony of the massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out into the sunshine! come along, madame hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!" a lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. preceded by the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and unkindly visaged women, hester prynne set forth towards the place appointed for her punishment. a crowd of eager and curious schoolboys, understanding little of the matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran before her progress, turning their heads continually to stare into her face and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter on her breast. it was no great distance, in those days, from the prison door to the market-place. measured by the prisoner's experience, however, it might be reckoned a journey of some length; for haughty as her demeanour was, she perchance underwent an agony from every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung into the street for them all to spurn and trample upon. in our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. with almost a serene deportment, therefore, hester prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the market-place. it stood nearly beneath the eaves of boston's earliest church, and appeared to be a fixture there. in fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for two or three generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary among us, but was held, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent, in the promotion of good citizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of france. it was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. the very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. there can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature--whatever be the delinquencies of the individual--no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do. in hester prynne's instance, however, as not unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore that she should stand a certain time upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about the neck and confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish characteristic of this ugly engine. knowing well her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, and was thus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height of a man's shoulders above the street. had there been a papist among the crowd of puritans, he might have seen in this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of divine maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne. the scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before society shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering at it. the witnesses of hester prynne's disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. they were stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without a murmur at its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social state, which would find only a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present. even had there been a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must have been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of men no less dignified than the governor, and several of his counsellors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town, all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. when such personages could constitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty, or reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a legal sentence would have an earnest and effectual meaning. accordingly, the crowd was sombre and grave. the unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes, all fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom. it was almost intolerable to be borne. of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortified herself to encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself in every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those rigid countenances contorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object. had a roar of laughter burst from the multitude--each man, each woman, each little shrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts--hester prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful smile. but, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, she felt, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once. yet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered indistinctly before them, like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. her mind, and especially her memory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on the edge of the western wilderness: other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. reminiscences, the most trifling and immaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports, childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden years, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all were of similar importance, or all alike a play. possibly, it was an instinctive device of her spirit to relieve itself by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality. be that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to hester prynne the entire track along which she had been treading, since her happy infancy. standing on that miserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in old england, and her paternal home: a decayed house of grey stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half obliterated shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility. she saw her father's face, with its bold brow, and reverend white beard that flowed over the old-fashioned elizabethan ruff; her mother's, too, with the look of heedful and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since her death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter's pathway. she saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. there she beheld another countenance, of a man well stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared by the lamp-light that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was their owner's purpose to read the human soul. this figure of the study and the cloister, as hester prynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. next rose before her in memory's picture-gallery, the intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the tall, grey houses, the huge cathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date and quaint in architecture, of a continental city; where new life had awaited her, still in connexion with the misshapen scholar: a new life, but feeding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. lastly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the puritan settlement, with all the townspeople assembled, and levelling their stern regards at hester prynne--yes, at herself--who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the letter a, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold thread, upon her bosom. could it be true? she clutched the child so fiercely to her breast that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. yes these were her realities--all else had vanished! iii. the recognition from this intense consciousness of being the object of severe and universal observation, the wearer of the scarlet letter was at length relieved, by discerning, on the outskirts of the crowd, a figure which irresistibly took possession of her thoughts. an indian in his native garb was standing there; but the red men were not so infrequent visitors of the english settlements that one of them would have attracted any notice from hester prynne at such a time; much less would he have excluded all other objects and ideas from her mind. by the indian's side, and evidently sustaining a companionship with him, stood a white man, clad in a strange disarray of civilized and savage costume. he was small in stature, with a furrowed visage, which as yet could hardly be termed aged. there was a remarkable intelligence in his features, as of a person who had so cultivated his mental part that it could not fail to mould the physical to itself and become manifest by unmistakable tokens. although, by a seemingly careless arrangement of his heterogeneous garb, he had endeavoured to conceal or abate the peculiarity, it was sufficiently evident to hester prynne that one of this man's shoulders rose higher than the other. again, at the first instant of perceiving that thin visage, and the slight deformity of the figure, she pressed her infant to her bosom with so convulsive a force that the poor babe uttered another cry of pain. but the mother did not seem to hear it. at his arrival in the market-place, and some time before she saw him, the stranger had bent his eyes on hester prynne. it was carelessly at first, like a man chiefly accustomed to look inward, and to whom external matters are of little value and import, unless they bear relation to something within his mind. very soon, however, his look became keen and penetrative. a writhing horror twisted itself across his features, like a snake gliding swiftly over them, and making one little pause, with all its wreathed intervolutions in open sight. his face darkened with some powerful emotion, which, nevertheless, he so instantaneously controlled by an effort of his will, that, save at a single moment, its expression might have passed for calmness. after a brief space, the convulsion grew almost imperceptible, and finally subsided into the depths of his nature. when he found the eyes of hester prynne fastened on his own, and saw that she appeared to recognize him, he slowly and calmly raised his finger, made a gesture with it in the air, and laid it on his lips. then touching the shoulder of a townsman who stood near to him, he addressed him in a formal and courteous manner: "i pray you, good sir," said he, "who is this woman?--and wherefore is she here set up to public shame?" "you must needs be a stranger in this region, friend," answered the townsman, looking curiously at the questioner and his savage companion, "else you would surely have heard of mistress hester prynne and her evil doings. she hath raised a great scandal, i promise you, in godly master dimmesdale's church." "you say truly," replied the other; "i am a stranger, and have been a wanderer, sorely against my will. i have met with grievous mishaps by sea and land, and have been long held in bonds among the heathen-folk to the southward; and am now brought hither by this indian to be redeemed out of my captivity. will it please you, therefore, to tell me of hester prynne's--have i her name rightly?--of this woman's offences, and what has brought her to yonder scaffold?" "truly, friend; and methinks it must gladden your heart, after your troubles and sojourn in the wilderness," said the townsman, "to find yourself at length in a land where iniquity is searched out and punished in the sight of rulers and people, as here in our godly new england. yonder woman, sir, you must know, was the wife of a certain learned man, english by birth, but who had long ago dwelt in amsterdam, whence some good time agone he was minded to cross over and cast in his lot with us of the massachusetts. to this purpose he sent his wife before him, remaining himself to look after some necessary affairs. marry, good sir, in some two years, or less, that the woman has been a dweller here in boston, no tidings have come of this learned gentleman, master prynne; and his young wife, look you, being left to her own misguidance--" "ah!--aha!--i conceive you," said the stranger with a bitter smile. "so learned a man as you speak of should have learned this too in his books. and who, by your favour, sir, may be the father of yonder babe--it is some three or four months old, i should judge--which mistress prynne is holding in her arms?" "of a truth, friend, that matter remaineth a riddle; and the daniel who shall expound it is yet a-wanting," answered the townsman. "madame hester absolutely refuseth to speak, and the magistrates have laid their heads together in vain. peradventure the guilty one stands looking on at this sad spectacle, unknown of man, and forgetting that god sees him." "the learned man," observed the stranger with another smile, "should come himself to look into the mystery." "it behoves him well if he be still in life," responded the townsman. "now, good sir, our massachusetts magistracy, bethinking themselves that this woman is youthful and fair, and doubtless was strongly tempted to her fall, and that, moreover, as is most likely, her husband may be at the bottom of the sea, they have not been bold to put in force the extremity of our righteous law against her. the penalty thereof is death. but in their great mercy and tenderness of heart they have doomed mistress prynne to stand only a space of three hours on the platform of the pillory, and then and thereafter, for the remainder of her natural life to wear a mark of shame upon her bosom." "a wise sentence," remarked the stranger, gravely, bowing his head. "thus she will be a living sermon against sin, until the ignominious letter be engraved upon her tombstone. it irks me, nevertheless, that the partner of her iniquity should not at least, stand on the scaffold by her side. but he will be known--he will be known!--he will be known!" he bowed courteously to the communicative townsman, and whispering a few words to his indian attendant, they both made their way through the crowd. while this passed, hester prynne had been standing on her pedestal, still with a fixed gaze towards the stranger--so fixed a gaze that, at moments of intense absorption, all other objects in the visible world seemed to vanish, leaving only him and her. such an interview, perhaps, would have been more terrible than even to meet him as she now did, with the hot mid-day sun burning down upon her face, and lighting up its shame; with the scarlet token of infamy on her breast; with the sin-born infant in her arms; with a whole people, drawn forth as to a festival, staring at the features that should have been seen only in the quiet gleam of the fireside, in the happy shadow of a home, or beneath a matronly veil at church. dreadful as it was, she was conscious of a shelter in the presence of these thousand witnesses. it was better to stand thus, with so many betwixt him and her, than to greet him face to face--they two alone. she fled for refuge, as it were, to the public exposure, and dreaded the moment when its protection should be withdrawn from her. involved in these thoughts, she scarcely heard a voice behind her until it had repeated her name more than once, in a loud and solemn tone, audible to the whole multitude. "hearken unto me, hester prynne!" said the voice. it has already been noticed that directly over the platform on which hester prynne stood was a kind of balcony, or open gallery, appended to the meeting-house. it was the place whence proclamations were wont to be made, amidst an assemblage of the magistracy, with all the ceremonial that attended such public observances in those days. here, to witness the scene which we are describing, sat governor bellingham himself with four sergeants about his chair, bearing halberds, as a guard of honour. he wore a dark feather in his hat, a border of embroidery on his cloak, and a black velvet tunic beneath--a gentleman advanced in years, with a hard experience written in his wrinkles. he was not ill-fitted to be the head and representative of a community which owed its origin and progress, and its present state of development, not to the impulses of youth, but to the stern and tempered energies of manhood and the sombre sagacity of age; accomplishing so much, precisely because it imagined and hoped so little. the other eminent characters by whom the chief ruler was surrounded were distinguished by a dignity of mien, belonging to a period when the forms of authority were felt to possess the sacredness of divine institutions. they were, doubtless, good men, just and sage. but, out of the whole human family, it would not have been easy to select the same number of wise and virtuous persons, who should be less capable of sitting in judgment on an erring woman's heart, and disentangling its mesh of good and evil, than the sages of rigid aspect towards whom hester prynne now turned her face. she seemed conscious, indeed, that whatever sympathy she might expect lay in the larger and warmer heart of the multitude; for, as she lifted her eyes towards the balcony, the unhappy woman grew pale, and trembled. the voice which had called her attention was that of the reverend and famous john wilson, the eldest clergyman of boston, a great scholar, like most of his contemporaries in the profession, and withal a man of kind and genial spirit. this last attribute, however, had been less carefully developed than his intellectual gifts, and was, in truth, rather a matter of shame than self-congratulation with him. there he stood, with a border of grizzled locks beneath his skull-cap, while his grey eyes, accustomed to the shaded light of his study, were winking, like those of hester's infant, in the unadulterated sunshine. he looked like the darkly engraved portraits which we see prefixed to old volumes of sermons, and had no more right than one of those portraits would have to step forth, as he now did, and meddle with a question of human guilt, passion, and anguish. "hester prynne," said the clergyman, "i have striven with my young brother here, under whose preaching of the word you have been privileged to sit"--here mr. wilson laid his hand on the shoulder of a pale young man beside him--"i have sought, i say, to persuade this godly youth, that he should deal with you, here in the face of heaven, and before these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing of all the people, as touching the vileness and blackness of your sin. knowing your natural temper better than i, he could the better judge what arguments to use, whether of tenderness or terror, such as might prevail over your hardness and obstinacy, insomuch that you should no longer hide the name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. but he opposes to me--with a young man's over-softness, albeit wise beyond his years--that it were wronging the very nature of woman to force her to lay open her heart's secrets in such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multitude. truly, as i sought to convince him, the shame lay in the commission of the sin, and not in the showing of it forth. what say you to it, once again, brother dimmesdale? must it be thou, or i, that shall deal with this poor sinner's soul?" there was a murmur among the dignified and reverend occupants of the balcony; and governor bellingham gave expression to its purport, speaking in an authoritative voice, although tempered with respect towards the youthful clergyman whom he addressed: "good master dimmesdale," said he, "the responsibility of this woman's soul lies greatly with you. it behoves you; therefore, to exhort her to repentance and to confession, as a proof and consequence thereof." the directness of this appeal drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon the reverend mr. dimmesdale--young clergyman, who had come from one of the great english universities, bringing all the learning of the age into our wild forest land. his eloquence and religious fervour had already given the earnest of high eminence in his profession. he was a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self restraint. notwithstanding his high native gifts and scholar-like attainments, there was an air about this young minister--an apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened look--as of a being who felt himself quite astray, and at a loss in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in some seclusion of his own. therefore, so far as his duties would permit, he trod in the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and childlike, coming forth, when occasion was, with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as many people said, affected them like the speech of an angel. such was the young man whom the reverend mr. wilson and the governor had introduced so openly to the public notice, bidding him speak, in the hearing of all men, to that mystery of a woman's soul, so sacred even in its pollution. the trying nature of his position drove the blood from his cheek, and made his lips tremulous. "speak to the woman, my brother," said mr. wilson. "it is of moment to her soul, and, therefore, as the worshipful governor says, momentous to thine own, in whose charge hers is. exhort her to confess the truth!" the reverend mr. dimmesdale bent his head, in silent prayer, as it seemed, and then came forward. "hester prynne," said he, leaning over the balcony and looking down steadfastly into her eyes, "thou hearest what this good man says, and seest the accountability under which i labour. if thou feelest it to be for thy soul's peace, and that thy earthly punishment will thereby be made more effectual to salvation, i charge thee to speak out the name of thy fellow-sinner and fellow-sufferer! be not silent from any mistaken pity and tenderness for him; for, believe me, hester, though he were to step down from a high place, and stand there beside thee, on thy pedestal of shame, yet better were it so than to hide a guilty heart through life. what can thy silence do for him, except it tempt him--yea, compel him, as it were--to add hypocrisy to sin? heaven hath granted thee an open ignominy, that thereby thou mayest work out an open triumph over the evil within thee and the sorrow without. take heed how thou deniest to him--who, perchance, hath not the courage to grasp it for himself--the bitter, but wholesome, cup that is now presented to thy lips!" the young pastor's voice was tremulously sweet, rich, deep, and broken. the feeling that it so evidently manifested, rather than the direct purport of the words, caused it to vibrate within all hearts, and brought the listeners into one accord of sympathy. even the poor baby at hester's bosom was affected by the same influence, for it directed its hitherto vacant gaze towards mr. dimmesdale, and held up its little arms with a half-pleased, half-plaintive murmur. so powerful seemed the minister's appeal that the people could not believe but that hester prynne would speak out the guilty name, or else that the guilty one himself in whatever high or lowly place he stood, would be drawn forth by an inward and inevitable necessity, and compelled to ascend the scaffold. hester shook her head. "woman, transgress not beyond the limits of heaven's mercy!" cried the reverend mr. wilson, more harshly than before. "that little babe hath been gifted with a voice, to second and confirm the counsel which thou hast heard. speak out the name! that, and thy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy breast." "never," replied hester prynne, looking, not at mr. wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. "it is too deeply branded. ye cannot take it off. and would that i might endure his agony as well as mine!" "speak, woman!" said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the crowd about the scaffold, "speak; and give your child a father!" "i will not speak!" answered hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely recognised. "and my child must seek a heavenly father; she shall never know an earthly one!" "she will not speak!" murmured mr. dimmesdale, who, leaning over the balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the result of his appeal. he now drew back with a long respiration. "wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's heart! she will not speak!" discerning the impracticable state of the poor culprit's mind, the elder clergyman, who had carefully prepared himself for the occasion, addressed to the multitude a discourse on sin, in all its branches, but with continual reference to the ignominious letter. so forcibly did he dwell upon this symbol, for the hour or more during which his periods were rolling over the people's heads, that it assumed new terrors in their imagination, and seemed to derive its scarlet hue from the flames of the infernal pit. hester prynne, meanwhile, kept her place upon the pedestal of shame, with glazed eyes, and an air of weary indifference. she had borne that morning all that nature could endure; and as her temperament was not of the order that escapes from too intense suffering by a swoon, her spirit could only shelter itself beneath a stony crust of insensibility, while the faculties of animal life remained entire. in this state, the voice of the preacher thundered remorselessly, but unavailingly, upon her ears. the infant, during the latter portion of her ordeal, pierced the air with its wailings and screams; she strove to hush it mechanically, but seemed scarcely to sympathise with its trouble. with the same hard demeanour, she was led back to prison, and vanished from the public gaze within its iron-clamped portal. it was whispered by those who peered after her that the scarlet letter threw a lurid gleam along the dark passage-way of the interior. iv. the interview after her return to the prison, hester prynne was found to be in a state of nervous excitement, that demanded constant watchfulness, lest she should perpetrate violence on herself, or do some half-frenzied mischief to the poor babe. as night approached, it proving impossible to quell her insubordination by rebuke or threats of punishment, master brackett, the jailer, thought fit to introduce a physician. he described him as a man of skill in all christian modes of physical science, and likewise familiar with whatever the savage people could teach in respect to medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the forest. to say the truth, there was much need of professional assistance, not merely for hester herself, but still more urgently for the child--who, drawing its sustenance from the maternal bosom, seemed to have drank in with it all the turmoil, the anguish and despair, which pervaded the mother's system. it now writhed in convulsions of pain, and was a forcible type, in its little frame, of the moral agony which hester prynne had borne throughout the day. closely following the jailer into the dismal apartment, appeared that individual, of singular aspect whose presence in the crowd had been of such deep interest to the wearer of the scarlet letter. he was lodged in the prison, not as suspected of any offence, but as the most convenient and suitable mode of disposing of him, until the magistrates should have conferred with the indian sagamores respecting his ransom. his name was announced as roger chillingworth. the jailer, after ushering him into the room, remained a moment, marvelling at the comparative quiet that followed his entrance; for hester prynne had immediately become as still as death, although the child continued to moan. "prithee, friend, leave me alone with my patient," said the practitioner. "trust me, good jailer, you shall briefly have peace in your house; and, i promise you, mistress prynne shall hereafter be more amenable to just authority than you may have found her heretofore." "nay, if your worship can accomplish that," answered master brackett, "i shall own you for a man of skill, indeed! verily, the woman hath been like a possessed one; and there lacks little that i should take in hand, to drive satan out of her with stripes." the stranger had entered the room with the characteristic quietude of the profession to which he announced himself as belonging. nor did his demeanour change when the withdrawal of the prison keeper left him face to face with the woman, whose absorbed notice of him, in the crowd, had intimated so close a relation between himself and her. his first care was given to the child, whose cries, indeed, as she lay writhing on the trundle-bed, made it of peremptory necessity to postpone all other business to the task of soothing her. he examined the infant carefully, and then proceeded to unclasp a leathern case, which he took from beneath his dress. it appeared to contain medical preparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of water. "my old studies in alchemy," observed he, "and my sojourn, for above a year past, among a people well versed in the kindly properties of simples, have made a better physician of me than many that claim the medical degree. here, woman! the child is yours--she is none of mine--neither will she recognise my voice or aspect as a father's. administer this draught, therefore, with thine own hand." hester repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with strongly marked apprehension into his face. "wouldst thou avenge thyself on the innocent babe?" whispered she. "foolish woman!" responded the physician, half coldly, half soothingly. "what should ail me to harm this misbegotten and miserable babe? the medicine is potent for good, and were it my child--yea, mine own, as well as thine! i could do no better for it." as she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state of mind, he took the infant in his arms, and himself administered the draught. it soon proved its efficacy, and redeemed the leech's pledge. the moans of the little patient subsided; its convulsive tossings gradually ceased; and in a few moments, as is the custom of young children after relief from pain, it sank into a profound and dewy slumber. the physician, as he had a fair right to be termed, next bestowed his attention on the mother. with calm and intent scrutiny, he felt her pulse, looked into her eyes--a gaze that made her heart shrink and shudder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and cold--and, finally, satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to mingle another draught. "i know not lethe nor nepenthe," remarked he; "but i have learned many new secrets in the wilderness, and here is one of them--a recipe that an indian taught me, in requital of some lessons of my own, that were as old as paracelsus. drink it! it may be less soothing than a sinless conscience. that i cannot give thee. but it will calm the swell and heaving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea." he presented the cup to hester, who received it with a slow, earnest look into his face; not precisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt and questioning as to what his purposes might be. she looked also at her slumbering child. "i have thought of death," said she--"have wished for it--would even have prayed for it, were it fit that such as i should pray for anything. yet, if death be in this cup, i bid thee think again, ere thou beholdest me quaff it. see! it is even now at my lips." "drink, then," replied he, still with the same cold composure. "dost thou know me so little, hester prynne? are my purposes wont to be so shallow? even if i imagine a scheme of vengeance, what could i do better for my object than to let thee live--than to give thee medicines against all harm and peril of life--so that this burning shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?" as he spoke, he laid his long fore-finger on the scarlet letter, which forthwith seemed to scorch into hester's breast, as if it had been red hot. he noticed her involuntary gesture, and smiled. "live, therefore, and bear about thy doom with thee, in the eyes of men and women--in the eyes of him whom thou didst call thy husband--in the eyes of yonder child! and, that thou mayest live, take off this draught." without further expostulation or delay, hester prynne drained the cup, and, at the motion of the man of skill, seated herself on the bed, where the child was sleeping; while he drew the only chair which the room afforded, and took his own seat beside her. she could not but tremble at these preparations; for she felt that--having now done all that humanity, or principle, or, if so it were, a refined cruelty, impelled him to do for the relief of physical suffering--he was next to treat with her as the man whom she had most deeply and irreparably injured. "hester," said he, "i ask not wherefore, nor how thou hast fallen into the pit, or say, rather, thou hast ascended to the pedestal of infamy on which i found thee. the reason is not far to seek. it was my folly, and thy weakness. i--a man of thought--the book-worm of great libraries--a man already in decay, having given my best years to feed the hungry dream of knowledge--what had i to do with youth and beauty like thine own? misshapen from my birth-hour, how could i delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts might veil physical deformity in a young girl's fantasy? men call me wise. if sages were ever wise in their own behoof, i might have foreseen all this. i might have known that, as i came out of the vast and dismal forest, and entered this settlement of christian men, the very first object to meet my eyes would be thyself, hester prynne, standing up, a statue of ignominy, before the people. nay, from the moment when we came down the old church-steps together, a married pair, i might have beheld the bale-fire of that scarlet letter blazing at the end of our path!" "thou knowest," said hester--for, depressed as she was, she could not endure this last quiet stab at the token of her shame--"thou knowest that i was frank with thee. i felt no love, nor feigned any." "true," replied he. "it was my folly! i have said it. but, up to that epoch of my life, i had lived in vain. the world had been so cheerless! my heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but lonely and chill, and without a household fire. i longed to kindle one! it seemed not so wild a dream--old as i was, and sombre as i was, and misshapen as i was--that the simple bliss, which is scattered far and wide, for all mankind to gather up, might yet be mine. and so, hester, i drew thee into my heart, into its innermost chamber, and sought to warm thee by the warmth which thy presence made there!" "i have greatly wronged thee," murmured hester. "we have wronged each other," answered he. "mine was the first wrong, when i betrayed thy budding youth into a false and unnatural relation with my decay. therefore, as a man who has not thought and philosophised in vain, i seek no vengeance, plot no evil against thee. between thee and me, the scale hangs fairly balanced. but, hester, the man lives who has wronged us both! who is he?" "ask me not!" replied hester prynne, looking firmly into his face. "that thou shalt never know!" "never, sayest thou?" rejoined he, with a smile of dark and self-relying intelligence. "never know him! believe me, hester, there are few things whether in the outward world, or, to a certain depth, in the invisible sphere of thought--few things hidden from the man who devotes himself earnestly and unreservedly to the solution of a mystery. thou mayest cover up thy secret from the prying multitude. thou mayest conceal it, too, from the ministers and magistrates, even as thou didst this day, when they sought to wrench the name out of thy heart, and give thee a partner on thy pedestal. but, as for me, i come to the inquest with other senses than they possess. i shall seek this man, as i have sought truth in books: as i have sought gold in alchemy. there is a sympathy that will make me conscious of him. i shall see him tremble. i shall feel myself shudder, suddenly and unawares. sooner or later, he must needs be mine." the eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her, that hester prynne clasped her hand over her heart, dreading lest he should read the secret there at once. "thou wilt not reveal his name? not the less he is mine," resumed he, with a look of confidence, as if destiny were at one with him. "he bears no letter of infamy wrought into his garment, as thou dost, but i shall read it on his heart. yet fear not for him! think not that i shall interfere with heaven's own method of retribution, or, to my own loss, betray him to the gripe of human law. neither do thou imagine that i shall contrive aught against his life; no, nor against his fame, if as i judge, he be a man of fair repute. let him live! let him hide himself in outward honour, if he may! not the less he shall be mine!" "thy acts are like mercy," said hester, bewildered and appalled; "but thy words interpret thee as a terror!" "one thing, thou that wast my wife, i would enjoin upon thee," continued the scholar. "thou hast kept the secret of thy paramour. keep, likewise, mine! there are none in this land that know me. breathe not to any human soul that thou didst ever call me husband! here, on this wild outskirt of the earth, i shall pitch my tent; for, elsewhere a wanderer, and isolated from human interests, i find here a woman, a man, a child, amongst whom and myself there exist the closest ligaments. no matter whether of love or hate: no matter whether of right or wrong! thou and thine, hester prynne, belong to me. my home is where thou art and where he is. but betray me not!" "wherefore dost thou desire it?" inquired hester, shrinking, she hardly knew why, from this secret bond. "why not announce thyself openly, and cast me off at once?" "it may be," he replied, "because i will not encounter the dishonour that besmirches the husband of a faithless woman. it may be for other reasons. enough, it is my purpose to live and die unknown. let, therefore, thy husband be to the world as one already dead, and of whom no tidings shall ever come. recognise me not, by word, by sign, by look! breathe not the secret, above all, to the man thou wottest of. shouldst thou fail me in this, beware! his fame, his position, his life will be in my hands. beware!" "i will keep thy secret, as i have his," said hester. "swear it!" rejoined he. and she took the oath. "and now, mistress prynne," said old roger chillingworth, as he was hereafter to be named, "i leave thee alone: alone with thy infant and the scarlet letter! how is it, hester? doth thy sentence bind thee to wear the token in thy sleep? art thou not afraid of nightmares and hideous dreams?" "why dost thou smile so at me?" inquired hester, troubled at the expression of his eyes. "art thou like the black man that haunts the forest round about us? hast thou enticed me into a bond that will prove the ruin of my soul?" "not thy soul," he answered, with another smile. "no, not thine!" v. hester at her needle hester prynne's term of confinement was now at an end. her prison-door was thrown open, and she came forth into the sunshine, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to her sick and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal the scarlet letter on her breast. perhaps there was a more real torture in her first unattended footsteps from the threshold of the prison than even in the procession and spectacle that have been described, where she was made the common infamy, at which all mankind was summoned to point its finger. then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the combative energy of her character, which enabled her to convert the scene into a kind of lurid triumph. it was, moreover, a separate and insulated event, to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy, she might call up the vital strength that would have sufficed for many quiet years. the very law that condemned her--a giant of stern features but with vigour to support, as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm--had held her up through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy. but now, with this unattended walk from her prison door, began the daily custom; and she must either sustain and carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or sink beneath it. she could no longer borrow from the future to help her through the present grief. tomorrow would bring its own trial with it; so would the next day, and so would the next: each its own trial, and yet the very same that was now so unutterably grievous to be borne. the days of the far-off future would toil onward, still with the same burden for her to take up, and bear along with her, but never to fling down; for the accumulating days and added years would pile up their misery upon the heap of shame. throughout them all, giving up her individuality, she would become the general symbol at which the preacher and moralist might point, and in which they might vivify and embody their images of woman's frailty and sinful passion. thus the young and pure would be taught to look at her, with the scarlet letter flaming on her breast--at her, the child of honourable parents--at her, the mother of a babe that would hereafter be a woman--at her, who had once been innocent--as the figure, the body, the reality of sin. and over her grave, the infamy that she must carry thither would be her only monument. it may seem marvellous that, with the world before her--kept by no restrictive clause of her condemnation within the limits of the puritan settlement, so remote and so obscure--free to return to her birth-place, or to any other european land, and there hide her character and identity under a new exterior, as completely as if emerging into another state of being--and having also the passes of the dark, inscrutable forest open to her, where the wildness of her nature might assimilate itself with a people whose customs and life were alien from the law that had condemned her--it may seem marvellous that this woman should still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame. but there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the colour to their lifetime; and, still the more irresistibly, the darker the tinge that saddens it. her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil. it was as if a new birth, with stronger assimilations than the first, had converted the forest-land, still so uncongenial to every other pilgrim and wanderer, into hester prynne's wild and dreary, but life-long home. all other scenes of earth--even that village of rural england, where happy infancy and stainless maidenhood seemed yet to be in her mother's keeping, like garments put off long ago--were foreign to her, in comparison. the chain that bound her here was of iron links, and galling to her inmost soul, but could never be broken. it might be, too--doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole--it might be that another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. there dwelt, there trode, the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union that, unrecognised on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution. over and over again, the tempter of souls had thrust this idea upon hester's contemplation, and laughed at the passionate and desperate joy with which she seized, and then strove to cast it from her. she barely looked the idea in the face, and hastened to bar it in its dungeon. what she compelled herself to believe--what, finally, she reasoned upon as her motive for continuing a resident of new england--was half a truth, and half a self-delusion. here, she said to herself had been the scene of her guilt, and here should be the scene of her earthly punishment; and so, perchance, the torture of her daily shame would at length purge her soul, and work out another purity than that which she had lost: more saint-like, because the result of martyrdom. hester prynne, therefore, did not flee. on the outskirts of the town, within the verge of the peninsula, but not in close vicinity to any other habitation, there was a small thatched cottage. it had been built by an earlier settler, and abandoned, because the soil about it was too sterile for cultivation, while its comparative remoteness put it out of the sphere of that social activity which already marked the habits of the emigrants. it stood on the shore, looking across a basin of the sea at the forest-covered hills, towards the west. a clump of scrubby trees, such as alone grew on the peninsula, did not so much conceal the cottage from view, as seem to denote that here was some object which would fain have been, or at least ought to be, concealed. in this little lonesome dwelling, with some slender means that she possessed, and by the licence of the magistrates, who still kept an inquisitorial watch over her, hester established herself, with her infant child. a mystic shadow of suspicion immediately attached itself to the spot. children, too young to comprehend wherefore this woman should be shut out from the sphere of human charities, would creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-window, or standing in the doorway, or labouring in her little garden, or coming forth along the pathway that led townward, and, discerning the scarlet letter on her breast, would scamper off with a strange contagious fear. lonely as was hester's situation, and without a friend on earth who dared to show himself, she, however, incurred no risk of want. she possessed an art that sufficed, even in a land that afforded comparatively little scope for its exercise, to supply food for her thriving infant and herself. it was the art, then, as now, almost the only one within a woman's grasp--of needle-work. she bore on her breast, in the curiously embroidered letter, a specimen of her delicate and imaginative skill, of which the dames of a court might gladly have availed themselves, to add the richer and more spiritual adornment of human ingenuity to their fabrics of silk and gold. here, indeed, in the sable simplicity that generally characterised the puritanic modes of dress, there might be an infrequent call for the finer productions of her handiwork. yet the taste of the age, demanding whatever was elaborate in compositions of this kind, did not fail to extend its influence over our stern progenitors, who had cast behind them so many fashions which it might seem harder to dispense with. public ceremonies, such as ordinations, the installation of magistrates, and all that could give majesty to the forms in which a new government manifested itself to the people, were, as a matter of policy, marked by a stately and well-conducted ceremonial, and a sombre, but yet a studied magnificence. deep ruffs, painfully wrought bands, and gorgeously embroidered gloves, were all deemed necessary to the official state of men assuming the reins of power, and were readily allowed to individuals dignified by rank or wealth, even while sumptuary laws forbade these and similar extravagances to the plebeian order. in the array of funerals, too--whether for the apparel of the dead body, or to typify, by manifold emblematic devices of sable cloth and snowy lawn, the sorrow of the survivors--there was a frequent and characteristic demand for such labour as hester prynne could supply. baby-linen--for babies then wore robes of state--afforded still another possibility of toil and emolument. by degrees, not very slowly, her handiwork became what would now be termed the fashion. whether from commiseration for a woman of so miserable a destiny; or from the morbid curiosity that gives a fictitious value even to common or worthless things; or by whatever other intangible circumstance was then, as now, sufficient to bestow, on some persons, what others might seek in vain; or because hester really filled a gap which must otherwise have remained vacant; it is certain that she had ready and fairly requited employment for as many hours as she saw fit to occupy with her needle. vanity, it may be, chose to mortify itself, by putting on, for ceremonials of pomp and state, the garments that had been wrought by her sinful hands. her needle-work was seen on the ruff of the governor; military men wore it on their scarfs, and the minister on his band; it decked the baby's little cap; it was shut up, to be mildewed and moulder away, in the coffins of the dead. but it is not recorded that, in a single instance, her skill was called in to embroider the white veil which was to cover the pure blushes of a bride. the exception indicated the ever relentless vigour with which society frowned upon her sin. hester sought not to acquire anything beyond a subsistence, of the plainest and most ascetic description, for herself, and a simple abundance for her child. her own dress was of the coarsest materials and the most sombre hue, with only that one ornament--the scarlet letter--which it was her doom to wear. the child's attire, on the other hand, was distinguished by a fanciful, or, we may rather say, a fantastic ingenuity, which served, indeed, to heighten the airy charm that early began to develop itself in the little girl, but which appeared to have also a deeper meaning. we may speak further of it hereafter. except for that small expenditure in the decoration of her infant, hester bestowed all her superfluous means in charity, on wretches less miserable than herself, and who not unfrequently insulted the hand that fed them. much of the time, which she might readily have applied to the better efforts of her art, she employed in making coarse garments for the poor. it is probable that there was an idea of penance in this mode of occupation, and that she offered up a real sacrifice of enjoyment in devoting so many hours to such rude handiwork. she had in her nature a rich, voluptuous, oriental characteristic--a taste for the gorgeously beautiful, which, save in the exquisite productions of her needle, found nothing else, in all the possibilities of her life, to exercise itself upon. women derive a pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate toil of the needle. to hester prynne it might have been a mode of expressing, and therefore soothing, the passion of her life. like all other joys, she rejected it as sin. this morbid meddling of conscience with an immaterial matter betokened, it is to be feared, no genuine and steadfast penitence, but something doubtful, something that might be deeply wrong beneath. in this manner, hester prynne came to have a part to perform in the world. with her native energy of character and rare capacity, it could not entirely cast her off, although it had set a mark upon her, more intolerable to a woman's heart than that which branded the brow of cain. in all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it. every gesture, every word, and even the silence of those with whom she came in contact, implied, and often expressed, that she was banished, and as much alone as if she inhabited another sphere, or communicated with the common nature by other organs and senses than the rest of human kind. she stood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy, nor mourn with the kindred sorrow; or, should it succeed in manifesting its forbidden sympathy, awakening only terror and horrible repugnance. these emotions, in fact, and its bitterest scorn besides, seemed to be the sole portion that she retained in the universal heart. it was not an age of delicacy; and her position, although she understood it well, and was in little danger of forgetting it, was often brought before her vivid self-perception, like a new anguish, by the rudest touch upon the tenderest spot. the poor, as we have already said, whom she sought out to be the objects of her bounty, often reviled the hand that was stretched forth to succour them. dames of elevated rank, likewise, whose doors she entered in the way of her occupation, were accustomed to distil drops of bitterness into her heart; sometimes through that alchemy of quiet malice, by which women can concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles; and sometimes, also, by a coarser expression, that fell upon the sufferer's defenceless breast like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. hester had schooled herself long and well; and she never responded to these attacks, save by a flush of crimson that rose irrepressibly over her pale cheek, and again subsided into the depths of her bosom. she was patient--a martyr, indeed--but she forebore to pray for enemies, lest, in spite of her forgiving aspirations, the words of the blessing should stubbornly twist themselves into a curse. continually, and in a thousand other ways, did she feel the innumerable throbs of anguish that had been so cunningly contrived for her by the undying, the ever-active sentence of the puritan tribunal. clergymen paused in the streets, to address words of exhortation, that brought a crowd, with its mingled grin and frown, around the poor, sinful woman. if she entered a church, trusting to share the sabbath smile of the universal father, it was often her mishap to find herself the text of the discourse. she grew to have a dread of children; for they had imbibed from their parents a vague idea of something horrible in this dreary woman gliding silently through the town, with never any companion but one only child. therefore, first allowing her to pass, they pursued her at a distance with shrill cries, and the utterances of a word that had no distinct purport to their own minds, but was none the less terrible to her, as proceeding from lips that babbled it unconsciously. it seemed to argue so wide a diffusion of her shame, that all nature knew of it; it could have caused her no deeper pang had the leaves of the trees whispered the dark story among themselves--had the summer breeze murmured about it--had the wintry blast shrieked it aloud! another peculiar torture was felt in the gaze of a new eye. when strangers looked curiously at the scarlet letter--and none ever failed to do so--they branded it afresh in hester's soul; so that, oftentimes, she could scarcely refrain, yet always did refrain, from covering the symbol with her hand. but then, again, an accustomed eye had likewise its own anguish to inflict. its cool stare of familiarity was intolerable. from first to last, in short, hester prynne had always this dreadful agony in feeling a human eye upon the token; the spot never grew callous; it seemed, on the contrary, to grow more sensitive with daily torture. but sometimes, once in many days, or perchance in many months, she felt an eye--a human eye--upon the ignominious brand, that seemed to give a momentary relief, as if half of her agony were shared. the next instant, back it all rushed again, with still a deeper throb of pain; for, in that brief interval, she had sinned anew. (had hester sinned alone?) her imagination was somewhat affected, and, had she been of a softer moral and intellectual fibre would have been still more so, by the strange and solitary anguish of her life. walking to and fro, with those lonely footsteps, in the little world with which she was outwardly connected, it now and then appeared to hester--if altogether fancy, it was nevertheless too potent to be resisted--she felt or fancied, then, that the scarlet letter had endowed her with a new sense. she shuddered to believe, yet could not help believing, that it gave her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts. she was terror-stricken by the revelations that were thus made. what were they? could they be other than the insidious whispers of the bad angel, who would fain have persuaded the struggling woman, as yet only half his victim, that the outward guise of purity was but a lie, and that, if truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom besides hester prynne's? or, must she receive those intimations--so obscure, yet so distinct--as truth? in all her miserable experience, there was nothing else so awful and so loathsome as this sense. it perplexed, as well as shocked her, by the irreverent inopportuneness of the occasions that brought it into vivid action. sometimes the red infamy upon her breast would give a sympathetic throb, as she passed near a venerable minister or magistrate, the model of piety and justice, to whom that age of antique reverence looked up, as to a mortal man in fellowship with angels. "what evil thing is at hand?" would hester say to herself. lifting her reluctant eyes, there would be nothing human within the scope of view, save the form of this earthly saint! again a mystic sisterhood would contumaciously assert itself, as she met the sanctified frown of some matron, who, according to the rumour of all tongues, had kept cold snow within her bosom throughout life. that unsunned snow in the matron's bosom, and the burning shame on hester prynne's--what had the two in common? or, once more, the electric thrill would give her warning--"behold hester, here is a companion!" and, looking up, she would detect the eyes of a young maiden glancing at the scarlet letter, shyly and aside, and quickly averted, with a faint, chill crimson in her cheeks as if her purity were somewhat sullied by that momentary glance. o fiend, whose talisman was that fatal symbol, wouldst thou leave nothing, whether in youth or age, for this poor sinner to revere?--such loss of faith is ever one of the saddest results of sin. be it accepted as a proof that all was not corrupt in this poor victim of her own frailty, and man's hard law, that hester prynne yet struggled to believe that no fellow-mortal was guilty like herself. the vulgar, who, in those dreary old times, were always contributing a grotesque horror to what interested their imaginations, had a story about the scarlet letter which we might readily work up into a terrific legend. they averred that the symbol was not mere scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but was red-hot with infernal fire, and could be seen glowing all alight whenever hester prynne walked abroad in the night-time. and we must needs say it seared hester's bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in the rumour than our modern incredulity may be inclined to admit. vi. pearl we have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little creature, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. how strange it seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child! her pearl--for so had hester called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated by the comparison. but she named the infant "pearl," as being of great price--purchased with all she had--her mother's only treasure! how strange, indeed! man had marked this woman's sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and disastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could reach her, save it were sinful like herself. god, as a direct consequence of the sin which man thus punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place was on that same dishonoured bosom, to connect her parent for ever with the race and descent of mortals, and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven! yet these thoughts affected hester prynne less with hope than apprehension. she knew that her deed had been evil; she could have no faith, therefore, that its result would be good. day after day she looked fearfully into the child's expanding nature, ever dreading to detect some dark and wild peculiarity that should correspond with the guiltiness to which she owed her being. certainly there was no physical defect. by its perfect shape, its vigour, and its natural dexterity in the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy to have been brought forth in eden: worthy to have been left there to be the plaything of the angels after the world's first parents were driven out. the child had a native grace which does not invariably co-exist with faultless beauty; its attire, however simple, always impressed the beholder as if it were the very garb that precisely became it best. but little pearl was not clad in rustic weeds. her mother, with a morbid purpose that may be better understood hereafter, had bought the richest tissues that could be procured, and allowed her imaginative faculty its full play in the arrangement and decoration of the dresses which the child wore before the public eye. so magnificent was the small figure when thus arrayed, and such was the splendour of pearl's own proper beauty, shining through the gorgeous robes which might have extinguished a paler loveliness, that there was an absolute circle of radiance around her on the darksome cottage floor. and yet a russet gown, torn and soiled with the child's rude play, made a picture of her just as perfect. pearl's aspect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety; in this one child there were many children, comprehending the full scope between the wild-flower prettiness of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an infant princess. throughout all, however, there was a trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she never lost; and if in any of her changes, she had grown fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be herself--it would have been no longer pearl! this outward mutability indicated, and did not more than fairly express, the various properties of her inner life. her nature appeared to possess depth, too, as well as variety; but--or else hester's fears deceived her--it lacked reference and adaptation to the world into which she was born. the child could not be made amenable to rules. in giving her existence a great law had been broken; and the result was a being whose elements were perhaps beautiful and brilliant, but all in disorder, or with an order peculiar to themselves, amidst which the point of variety and arrangement was difficult or impossible to be discovered. hester could only account for the child's character--and even then most vaguely and imperfectly--by recalling what she herself had been during that momentous period while pearl was imbibing her soul from the spiritual world, and her bodily frame from its material of earth. the mother's impassioned state had been the medium through which were transmitted to the unborn infant the rays of its moral life; and, however white and clear originally, they had taken the deep stains of crimson and gold, the fiery lustre, the black shadow, and the untempered light of the intervening substance. above all, the warfare of hester's spirit at that epoch was perpetuated in pearl. she could recognize her wild, desperate, defiant mood, the flightiness of her temper, and even some of the very cloud-shapes of gloom and despondency that had brooded in her heart. they were now illuminated by the morning radiance of a young child's disposition, but, later in the day of earthly existence, might be prolific of the storm and whirlwind. the discipline of the family in those days was of a far more rigid kind than now. the frown, the harsh rebuke, the frequent application of the rod, enjoined by scriptural authority, were used, not merely in the way of punishment for actual offences, but as a wholesome regimen for the growth and promotion of all childish virtues. hester prynne, nevertheless, the loving mother of this one child, ran little risk of erring on the side of undue severity. mindful, however, of her own errors and misfortunes, she early sought to impose a tender but strict control over the infant immortality that was committed to her charge. but the task was beyond her skill. after testing both smiles and frowns, and proving that neither mode of treatment possessed any calculable influence, hester was ultimately compelled to stand aside and permit the child to be swayed by her own impulses. physical compulsion or restraint was effectual, of course, while it lasted. as to any other kind of discipline, whether addressed to her mind or heart, little pearl might or might not be within its reach, in accordance with the caprice that ruled the moment. her mother, while pearl was yet an infant, grew acquainted with a certain peculiar look, that warned her when it would be labour thrown away to insist, persuade or plead. it was a look so intelligent, yet inexplicable, perverse, sometimes so malicious, but generally accompanied by a wild flow of spirits, that hester could not help questioning at such moments whether pearl was a human child. she seemed rather an airy sprite, which, after playing its fantastic sports for a little while upon the cottage floor, would flit away with a mocking smile. whenever that look appeared in her wild, bright, deeply black eyes, it invested her with a strange remoteness and intangibility: it was as if she were hovering in the air, and might vanish, like a glimmering light that comes we know not whence and goes we know not whither. beholding it, hester was constrained to rush towards the child--to pursue the little elf in the flight which she invariably began--to snatch her to her bosom with a close pressure and earnest kisses--not so much from overflowing love as to assure herself that pearl was flesh and blood, and not utterly delusive. but pearl's laugh, when she was caught, though full of merriment and music, made her mother more doubtful than before. heart-smitten at this bewildering and baffling spell, that so often came between herself and her sole treasure, whom she had bought so dear, and who was all her world, hester sometimes burst into passionate tears. then, perhaps--for there was no foreseeing how it might affect her--pearl would frown, and clench her little fist, and harden her small features into a stern, unsympathising look of discontent. not seldom she would laugh anew, and louder than before, like a thing incapable and unintelligent of human sorrow. or--but this more rarely happened--she would be convulsed with rage of grief and sob out her love for her mother in broken words, and seem intent on proving that she had a heart by breaking it. yet hester was hardly safe in confiding herself to that gusty tenderness: it passed as suddenly as it came. brooding over all these matters, the mother felt like one who has evoked a spirit, but, by some irregularity in the process of conjuration, has failed to win the master-word that should control this new and incomprehensible intelligence. her only real comfort was when the child lay in the placidity of sleep. then she was sure of her, and tasted hours of quiet, sad, delicious happiness; until--perhaps with that perverse expression glimmering from beneath her opening lids--little pearl awoke! how soon--with what strange rapidity, indeed--did pearl arrive at an age that was capable of social intercourse beyond the mother's ever-ready smile and nonsense-words! and then what a happiness would it have been could hester prynne have heard her clear, bird-like voice mingling with the uproar of other childish voices, and have distinguished and unravelled her own darling's tones, amid all the entangled outcry of a group of sportive children. but this could never be. pearl was a born outcast of the infantile world. an imp of evil, emblem and product of sin, she had no right among christened infants. nothing was more remarkable than the instinct, as it seemed, with which the child comprehended her loneliness: the destiny that had drawn an inviolable circle round about her: the whole peculiarity, in short, of her position in respect to other children. never since her release from prison had hester met the public gaze without her. in all her walks about the town, pearl, too, was there: first as the babe in arms, and afterwards as the little girl, small companion of her mother, holding a forefinger with her whole grasp, and tripping along at the rate of three or four footsteps to one of hester's. she saw the children of the settlement on the grassy margin of the street, or at the domestic thresholds, disporting themselves in such grim fashions as the puritanic nurture would permit; playing at going to church, perchance, or at scourging quakers; or taking scalps in a sham fight with the indians, or scaring one another with freaks of imitative witchcraft. pearl saw, and gazed intently, but never sought to make acquaintance. if spoken to, she would not speak again. if the children gathered about her, as they sometimes did, pearl would grow positively terrible in her puny wrath, snatching up stones to fling at them, with shrill, incoherent exclamations, that made her mother tremble, because they had so much the sound of a witch's anathemas in some unknown tongue. the truth was, that the little puritans, being of the most intolerant brood that ever lived, had got a vague idea of something outlandish, unearthly, or at variance with ordinary fashions, in the mother and child, and therefore scorned them in their hearts, and not unfrequently reviled them with their tongues. pearl felt the sentiment, and requited it with the bitterest hatred that can be supposed to rankle in a childish bosom. these outbreaks of a fierce temper had a kind of value, and even comfort for the mother; because there was at least an intelligible earnestness in the mood, instead of the fitful caprice that so often thwarted her in the child's manifestations. it appalled her, nevertheless, to discern here, again, a shadowy reflection of the evil that had existed in herself. all this enmity and passion had pearl inherited, by inalienable right, out of hester's heart. mother and daughter stood together in the same circle of seclusion from human society; and in the nature of the child seemed to be perpetuated those unquiet elements that had distracted hester prynne before pearl's birth, but had since begun to be soothed away by the softening influences of maternity. at home, within and around her mother's cottage, pearl wanted not a wide and various circle of acquaintance. the spell of life went forth from her ever-creative spirit, and communicated itself to a thousand objects, as a torch kindles a flame wherever it may be applied. the unlikeliest materials--a stick, a bunch of rags, a flower--were the puppets of pearl's witchcraft, and, without undergoing any outward change, became spiritually adapted to whatever drama occupied the stage of her inner world. her one baby-voice served a multitude of imaginary personages, old and young, to talk withal. the pine-trees, aged, black, and solemn, and flinging groans and other melancholy utterances on the breeze, needed little transformation to figure as puritan elders; the ugliest weeds of the garden were their children, whom pearl smote down and uprooted most unmercifully. it was wonderful, the vast variety of forms into which she threw her intellect, with no continuity, indeed, but darting up and dancing, always in a state of preternatural activity--soon sinking down, as if exhausted by so rapid and feverish a tide of life--and succeeded by other shapes of a similar wild energy. it was like nothing so much as the phantasmagoric play of the northern lights. in the mere exercise of the fancy, however, and the sportiveness of a growing mind, there might be a little more than was observable in other children of bright faculties; except as pearl, in the dearth of human playmates, was thrown more upon the visionary throng which she created. the singularity lay in the hostile feelings with which the child regarded all these offsprings of her own heart and mind. she never created a friend, but seemed always to be sowing broadcast the dragon's teeth, whence sprung a harvest of armed enemies, against whom she rushed to battle. it was inexpressibly sad--then what depth of sorrow to a mother, who felt in her own heart the cause--to observe, in one so young, this constant recognition of an adverse world, and so fierce a training of the energies that were to make good her cause in the contest that must ensue. gazing at pearl, hester prynne often dropped her work upon her knees, and cried out with an agony which she would fain have hidden, but which made utterance for itself betwixt speech and a groan--"o father in heaven--if thou art still my father--what is this being which i have brought into the world?" and pearl, overhearing the ejaculation, or aware through some more subtile channel, of those throbs of anguish, would turn her vivid and beautiful little face upon her mother, smile with sprite-like intelligence, and resume her play. one peculiarity of the child's deportment remains yet to be told. the very first thing which she had noticed in her life, was--what?--not the mother's smile, responding to it, as other babies do, by that faint, embryo smile of the little mouth, remembered so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond discussion whether it were indeed a smile. by no means! but that first object of which pearl seemed to become aware was--shall we say it?--the scarlet letter on hester's bosom! one day, as her mother stooped over the cradle, the infant's eyes had been caught by the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the letter; and putting up her little hand she grasped at it, smiling, not doubtfully, but with a decided gleam, that gave her face the look of a much older child. then, gasping for breath, did hester prynne clutch the fatal token, instinctively endeavouring to tear it away, so infinite was the torture inflicted by the intelligent touch of pearl's baby-hand. again, as if her mother's agonised gesture were meant only to make sport for her, did little pearl look into her eyes, and smile. from that epoch, except when the child was asleep, hester had never felt a moment's safety: not a moment's calm enjoyment of her. weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during which pearl's gaze might never once be fixed upon the scarlet letter; but then, again, it would come at unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always with that peculiar smile and odd expression of the eyes. once this freakish, elvish cast came into the child's eyes while hester was looking at her own image in them, as mothers are fond of doing; and suddenly--for women in solitude, and with troubled hearts, are pestered with unaccountable delusions--she fancied that she beheld, not her own miniature portrait, but another face in the small black mirror of pearl's eye. it was a face, fiend-like, full of smiling malice, yet bearing the semblance of features that she had known full well, though seldom with a smile, and never with malice in them. it was as if an evil spirit possessed the child, and had just then peeped forth in mockery. many a time afterwards had hester been tortured, though less vividly, by the same illusion. in the afternoon of a certain summer's day, after pearl grew big enough to run about, she amused herself with gathering handfuls of wild flowers, and flinging them, one by one, at her mother's bosom; dancing up and down like a little elf whenever she hit the scarlet letter. hester's first motion had been to cover her bosom with her clasped hands. but whether from pride or resignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrought out by this unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat erect, pale as death, looking sadly into little pearl's wild eyes. still came the battery of flowers, almost invariably hitting the mark, and covering the mother's breast with hurts for which she could find no balm in this world, nor knew how to seek it in another. at last, her shot being all expended, the child stood still and gazed at hester, with that little laughing image of a fiend peeping out--or, whether it peeped or no, her mother so imagined it--from the unsearchable abyss of her black eyes. "child, what art thou?" cried the mother. "oh, i am your little pearl!" answered the child. but while she said it, pearl laughed, and began to dance up and down with the humoursome gesticulation of a little imp, whose next freak might be to fly up the chimney. "art thou my child, in very truth?" asked hester. nor did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the moment, with a portion of genuine earnestness; for, such was pearl's wonderful intelligence, that her mother half doubted whether she were not acquainted with the secret spell of her existence, and might not now reveal herself. "yes; i am little pearl!" repeated the child, continuing her antics. "thou art not my child! thou art no pearl of mine!" said the mother half playfully; for it was often the case that a sportive impulse came over her in the midst of her deepest suffering. "tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent thee hither?" "tell me, mother!" said the child, seriously, coming up to hester, and pressing herself close to her knees. "do thou tell me!" "thy heavenly father sent thee!" answered hester prynne. but she said it with a hesitation that did not escape the acuteness of the child. whether moved only by her ordinary freakishness, or because an evil spirit prompted her, she put up her small forefinger and touched the scarlet letter. "he did not send me!" cried she, positively. "i have no heavenly father!" "hush, pearl, hush! thou must not talk so!" answered the mother, suppressing a groan. "he sent us all into the world. he sent even me, thy mother. then, much more thee! or, if not, thou strange and elfish child, whence didst thou come?" "tell me! tell me!" repeated pearl, no longer seriously, but laughing and capering about the floor. "it is thou that must tell me!" but hester could not resolve the query, being herself in a dismal labyrinth of doubt. she remembered--betwixt a smile and a shudder--the talk of the neighbouring townspeople, who, seeking vainly elsewhere for the child's paternity, and observing some of her odd attributes, had given out that poor little pearl was a demon offspring: such as, ever since old catholic times, had occasionally been seen on earth, through the agency of their mother's sin, and to promote some foul and wicked purpose. luther, according to the scandal of his monkish enemies, was a brat of that hellish breed; nor was pearl the only child to whom this inauspicious origin was assigned among the new england puritans. vii. the governor's hall hester prynne went one day to the mansion of governor bellingham, with a pair of gloves which she had fringed and embroidered to his order, and which were to be worn on some great occasion of state; for, though the chances of a popular election had caused this former ruler to descend a step or two from the highest rank, he still held an honourable and influential place among the colonial magistracy. another and far more important reason than the delivery of a pair of embroidered gloves, impelled hester, at this time, to seek an interview with a personage of so much power and activity in the affairs of the settlement. it had reached her ears that there was a design on the part of some of the leading inhabitants, cherishing the more rigid order of principles in religion and government, to deprive her of her child. on the supposition that pearl, as already hinted, was of demon origin, these good people not unreasonably argued that a christian interest in the mother's soul required them to remove such a stumbling-block from her path. if the child, on the other hand, were really capable of moral and religious growth, and possessed the elements of ultimate salvation, then, surely, it would enjoy all the fairer prospect of these advantages by being transferred to wiser and better guardianship than hester prynne's. among those who promoted the design, governor bellingham was said to be one of the most busy. it may appear singular, and, indeed, not a little ludicrous, that an affair of this kind, which in later days would have been referred to no higher jurisdiction than that of the select men of the town, should then have been a question publicly discussed, and on which statesmen of eminence took sides. at that epoch of pristine simplicity, however, matters of even slighter public interest, and of far less intrinsic weight than the welfare of hester and her child, were strangely mixed up with the deliberations of legislators and acts of state. the period was hardly, if at all, earlier than that of our story, when a dispute concerning the right of property in a pig not only caused a fierce and bitter contest in the legislative body of the colony, but resulted in an important modification of the framework itself of the legislature. full of concern, therefore--but so conscious of her own right that it seemed scarcely an unequal match between the public on the one side, and a lonely woman, backed by the sympathies of nature, on the other--hester prynne set forth from her solitary cottage. little pearl, of course, was her companion. she was now of an age to run lightly along by her mother's side, and, constantly in motion from morn till sunset, could have accomplished a much longer journey than that before her. often, nevertheless, more from caprice than necessity, she demanded to be taken up in arms; but was soon as imperious to be let down again, and frisked onward before hester on the grassy pathway, with many a harmless trip and tumble. we have spoken of pearl's rich and luxuriant beauty--a beauty that shone with deep and vivid tints, a bright complexion, eyes possessing intensity both of depth and glow, and hair already of a deep, glossy brown, and which, in after years, would be nearly akin to black. there was fire in her and throughout her: she seemed the unpremeditated offshoot of a passionate moment. her mother, in contriving the child's garb, had allowed the gorgeous tendencies of her imagination their full play, arraying her in a crimson velvet tunic of a peculiar cut, abundantly embroidered in fantasies and flourishes of gold thread. so much strength of colouring, which must have given a wan and pallid aspect to cheeks of a fainter bloom, was admirably adapted to pearl's beauty, and made her the very brightest little jet of flame that ever danced upon the earth. but it was a remarkable attribute of this garb, and indeed, of the child's whole appearance, that it irresistibly and inevitably reminded the beholder of the token which hester prynne was doomed to wear upon her bosom. it was the scarlet letter in another form: the scarlet letter endowed with life! the mother herself--as if the red ignominy were so deeply scorched into her brain that all her conceptions assumed its form--had carefully wrought out the similitude, lavishing many hours of morbid ingenuity to create an analogy between the object of her affection and the emblem of her guilt and torture. but, in truth, pearl was the one as well as the other; and only in consequence of that identity had hester contrived so perfectly to represent the scarlet letter in her appearance. as the two wayfarers came within the precincts of the town, the children of the puritans looked up from their play,--or what passed for play with those sombre little urchins--and spoke gravely one to another. "behold, verily, there is the woman of the scarlet letter: and of a truth, moreover, there is the likeness of the scarlet letter running along by her side! come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!" but pearl, who was a dauntless child, after frowning, stamping her foot, and shaking her little hand with a variety of threatening gestures, suddenly made a rush at the knot of her enemies, and put them all to flight. she resembled, in her fierce pursuit of them, an infant pestilence--the scarlet fever, or some such half-fledged angel of judgment--whose mission was to punish the sins of the rising generation. she screamed and shouted, too, with a terrific volume of sound, which, doubtless, caused the hearts of the fugitives to quake within them. the victory accomplished, pearl returned quietly to her mother, and looked up, smiling, into her face. without further adventure, they reached the dwelling of governor bellingham. this was a large wooden house, built in a fashion of which there are specimens still extant in the streets of our older towns now moss-grown, crumbling to decay, and melancholy at heart with the many sorrowful or joyful occurrences, remembered or forgotten, that have happened and passed away within their dusky chambers. then, however, there was the freshness of the passing year on its exterior, and the cheerfulness, gleaming forth from the sunny windows, of a human habitation, into which death had never entered. it had, indeed, a very cheery aspect, the walls being overspread with a kind of stucco, in which fragments of broken glass were plentifully intermixed; so that, when the sunshine fell aslant-wise over the front of the edifice, it glittered and sparkled as if diamonds had been flung against it by the double handful. the brilliancy might have be fitted aladdin's palace rather than the mansion of a grave old puritan ruler. it was further decorated with strange and seemingly cabalistic figures and diagrams, suitable to the quaint taste of the age which had been drawn in the stucco, when newly laid on, and had now grown hard and durable, for the admiration of after times. pearl, looking at this bright wonder of a house began to caper and dance, and imperatively required that the whole breadth of sunshine should be stripped off its front, and given her to play with. "no, my little pearl!" said her mother; "thou must gather thine own sunshine. i have none to give thee!" they approached the door, which was of an arched form, and flanked on each side by a narrow tower or projection of the edifice, in both of which were lattice-windows, the wooden shutters to close over them at need. lifting the iron hammer that hung at the portal, hester prynne gave a summons, which was answered by one of the governor's bond servant--a free-born englishman, but now a seven years' slave. during that term he was to be the property of his master, and as much a commodity of bargain and sale as an ox, or a joint-stool. the serf wore the customary garb of serving-men at that period, and long before, in the old hereditary halls of england. "is the worshipful governor bellingham within?" inquired hester. "yea, forsooth," replied the bond-servant, staring with wide-open eyes at the scarlet letter, which, being a new-comer in the country, he had never before seen. "yea, his honourable worship is within. but he hath a godly minister or two with him, and likewise a leech. ye may not see his worship now." "nevertheless, i will enter," answered hester prynne; and the bond-servant, perhaps judging from the decision of her air, and the glittering symbol in her bosom, that she was a great lady in the land, offered no opposition. so the mother and little pearl were admitted into the hall of entrance. with many variations, suggested by the nature of his building materials, diversity of climate, and a different mode of social life, governor bellingham had planned his new habitation after the residences of gentlemen of fair estate in his native land. here, then, was a wide and reasonably lofty hall, extending through the whole depth of the house, and forming a medium of general communication, more or less directly, with all the other apartments. at one extremity, this spacious room was lighted by the windows of the two towers, which formed a small recess on either side of the portal. at the other end, though partly muffled by a curtain, it was more powerfully illuminated by one of those embowed hall windows which we read of in old books, and which was provided with a deep and cushioned seat. here, on the cushion, lay a folio tome, probably of the chronicles of england, or other such substantial literature; even as, in our own days, we scatter gilded volumes on the centre table, to be turned over by the casual guest. the furniture of the hall consisted of some ponderous chairs, the backs of which were elaborately carved with wreaths of oaken flowers; and likewise a table in the same taste, the whole being of the elizabethan age, or perhaps earlier, and heirlooms, transferred hither from the governor's paternal home. on the table--in token that the sentiment of old english hospitality had not been left behind--stood a large pewter tankard, at the bottom of which, had hester or pearl peeped into it, they might have seen the frothy remnant of a recent draught of ale. on the wall hung a row of portraits, representing the forefathers of the bellingham lineage, some with armour on their breasts, and others with stately ruffs and robes of peace. all were characterised by the sternness and severity which old portraits so invariably put on, as if they were the ghosts, rather than the pictures, of departed worthies, and were gazing with harsh and intolerant criticism at the pursuits and enjoyments of living men. at about the centre of the oaken panels that lined the hall was suspended a suit of mail, not, like the pictures, an ancestral relic, but of the most modern date; for it had been manufactured by a skilful armourer in london, the same year in which governor bellingham came over to new england. there was a steel head-piece, a cuirass, a gorget and greaves, with a pair of gauntlets and a sword hanging beneath; all, and especially the helmet and breastplate, so highly burnished as to glow with white radiance, and scatter an illumination everywhere about upon the floor. this bright panoply was not meant for mere idle show, but had been worn by the governor on many a solemn muster and training field, and had glittered, moreover, at the head of a regiment in the pequod war. for, though bred a lawyer, and accustomed to speak of bacon, coke, noye, and finch, as his professional associates, the exigencies of this new country had transformed governor bellingham into a soldier, as well as a statesman and ruler. little pearl, who was as greatly pleased with the gleaming armour as she had been with the glittering frontispiece of the house, spent some time looking into the polished mirror of the breastplate. "mother," cried she, "i see you here. look! look!" hester looked by way of humouring the child; and she saw that, owing to the peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in exaggerated and gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the most prominent feature of her appearance. in truth, she seemed absolutely hidden behind it. pearl pointed upwards also, at a similar picture in the head-piece; smiling at her mother, with the elfish intelligence that was so familiar an expression on her small physiognomy. that look of naughty merriment was likewise reflected in the mirror, with so much breadth and intensity of effect, that it made hester prynne feel as if it could not be the image of her own child, but of an imp who was seeking to mould itself into pearl's shape. "come along, pearl," said she, drawing her away, "come and look into this fair garden. it may be we shall see flowers there; more beautiful ones than we find in the woods." pearl accordingly ran to the bow-window, at the further end of the hall, and looked along the vista of a garden walk, carpeted with closely-shaven grass, and bordered with some rude and immature attempt at shrubbery. but the proprietor appeared already to have relinquished as hopeless, the effort to perpetuate on this side of the atlantic, in a hard soil, and amid the close struggle for subsistence, the native english taste for ornamental gardening. cabbages grew in plain sight; and a pumpkin-vine, rooted at some distance, had run across the intervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic products directly beneath the hall window, as if to warn the governor that this great lump of vegetable gold was as rich an ornament as new england earth would offer him. there were a few rose-bushes, however, and a number of apple-trees, probably the descendants of those planted by the reverend mr. blackstone, the first settler of the peninsula; that half mythological personage who rides through our early annals, seated on the back of a bull. pearl, seeing the rose-bushes, began to cry for a red rose, and would not be pacified. "hush, child--hush!" said her mother, earnestly. "do not cry, dear little pearl! i hear voices in the garden. the governor is coming, and gentlemen along with him." in fact, adown the vista of the garden avenue, a number of persons were seen approaching towards the house. pearl, in utter scorn of her mother's attempt to quiet her, gave an eldritch scream, and then became silent, not from any notion of obedience, but because the quick and mobile curiosity of her disposition was excited by the appearance of those new personages. viii. the elf-child and the minister governor bellingham, in a loose gown and easy cap--such as elderly gentlemen loved to endue themselves with, in their domestic privacy--walked foremost, and appeared to be showing off his estate, and expatiating on his projected improvements. the wide circumference of an elaborate ruff, beneath his grey beard, in the antiquated fashion of king james's reign, caused his head to look not a little like that of john the baptist in a charger. the impression made by his aspect, so rigid and severe, and frost-bitten with more than autumnal age, was hardly in keeping with the appliances of worldly enjoyment wherewith he had evidently done his utmost to surround himself. but it is an error to suppose that our great forefathers--though accustomed to speak and think of human existence as a state merely of trial and warfare, and though unfeignedly prepared to sacrifice goods and life at the behest of duty--made it a matter of conscience to reject such means of comfort, or even luxury, as lay fairly within their grasp. this creed was never taught, for instance, by the venerable pastor, john wilson, whose beard, white as a snow-drift, was seen over governor bellingham's shoulders, while its wearer suggested that pears and peaches might yet be naturalised in the new england climate, and that purple grapes might possibly be compelled to flourish against the sunny garden-wall. the old clergyman, nurtured at the rich bosom of the english church, had a long established and legitimate taste for all good and comfortable things, and however stern he might show himself in the pulpit, or in his public reproof of such transgressions as that of hester prynne, still, the genial benevolence of his private life had won him warmer affection than was accorded to any of his professional contemporaries. behind the governor and mr. wilson came two other guests--one, the reverend arthur dimmesdale, whom the reader may remember as having taken a brief and reluctant part in the scene of hester prynne's disgrace; and, in close companionship with him, old roger chillingworth, a person of great skill in physic, who for two or three years past had been settled in the town. it was understood that this learned man was the physician as well as friend of the young minister, whose health had severely suffered of late by his too unreserved self-sacrifice to the labours and duties of the pastoral relation. the governor, in advance of his visitors, ascended one or two steps, and, throwing open the leaves of the great hall window, found himself close to little pearl. the shadow of the curtain fell on hester prynne, and partially concealed her. "what have we here?" said governor bellingham, looking with surprise at the scarlet little figure before him. "i profess, i have never seen the like since my days of vanity, in old king james's time, when i was wont to esteem it a high favour to be admitted to a court mask! there used to be a swarm of these small apparitions in holiday time, and we called them children of the lord of misrule. but how gat such a guest into my hall?" "ay, indeed!" cried good old mr. wilson. "what little bird of scarlet plumage may this be? methinks i have seen just such figures when the sun has been shining through a richly painted window, and tracing out the golden and crimson images across the floor. but that was in the old land. prithee, young one, who art thou, and what has ailed thy mother to bedizen thee in this strange fashion? art thou a christian child--ha? dost know thy catechism? or art thou one of those naughty elfs or fairies whom we thought to have left behind us, with other relics of papistry, in merry old england?" "i am mother's child," answered the scarlet vision, "and my name is pearl!" "pearl?--ruby, rather--or coral!--or red rose, at the very least, judging from thy hue!" responded the old minister, putting forth his hand in a vain attempt to pat little pearl on the cheek. "but where is this mother of thine? ah! i see," he added; and, turning to governor bellingham, whispered, "this is the selfsame child of whom we have held speech together; and behold here the unhappy woman, hester prynne, her mother!" "sayest thou so?" cried the governor. "nay, we might have judged that such a child's mother must needs be a scarlet woman, and a worthy type of her of babylon! but she comes at a good time, and we will look into this matter forthwith." governor bellingham stepped through the window into the hall, followed by his three guests. "hester prynne," said he, fixing his naturally stern regard on the wearer of the scarlet letter, "there hath been much question concerning thee of late. the point hath been weightily discussed, whether we, that are of authority and influence, do well discharge our consciences by trusting an immortal soul, such as there is in yonder child, to the guidance of one who hath stumbled and fallen amid the pitfalls of this world. speak thou, the child's own mother! were it not, thinkest thou, for thy little one's temporal and eternal welfare that she be taken out of thy charge, and clad soberly, and disciplined strictly, and instructed in the truths of heaven and earth? what canst thou do for the child in this kind?" "i can teach my little pearl what i have learned from this!" answered hester prynne, laying her finger on the red token. "woman, it is thy badge of shame!" replied the stern magistrate. "it is because of the stain which that letter indicates that we would transfer thy child to other hands." "nevertheless," said the mother, calmly, though growing more pale, "this badge hath taught me--it daily teaches me--it is teaching me at this moment--lessons whereof my child may be the wiser and better, albeit they can profit nothing to myself." "we will judge warily," said bellingham, "and look well what we are about to do. good master wilson, i pray you, examine this pearl--since that is her name--and see whether she hath had such christian nurture as befits a child of her age." the old minister seated himself in an arm-chair and made an effort to draw pearl betwixt his knees. but the child, unaccustomed to the touch or familiarity of any but her mother, escaped through the open window, and stood on the upper step, looking like a wild tropical bird of rich plumage, ready to take flight into the upper air. mr. wilson, not a little astonished at this outbreak--for he was a grandfatherly sort of personage, and usually a vast favourite with children--essayed, however, to proceed with the examination. "pearl," said he, with great solemnity, "thou must take heed to instruction, that so, in due season, thou mayest wear in thy bosom the pearl of great price. canst thou tell me, my child, who made thee?" now pearl knew well enough who made her, for hester prynne, the daughter of a pious home, very soon after her talk with the child about her heavenly father, had begun to inform her of those truths which the human spirit, at whatever stage of immaturity, imbibes with such eager interest. pearl, therefore--so large were the attainments of her three years' lifetime--could have borne a fair examination in the new england primer, or the first column of the westminster catechisms, although unacquainted with the outward form of either of those celebrated works. but that perversity, which all children have more or less of, and of which little pearl had a tenfold portion, now, at the most inopportune moment, took thorough possession of her, and closed her lips, or impelled her to speak words amiss. after putting her finger in her mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer good mr. wilson's question, the child finally announced that she had not been made at all, but had been plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses that grew by the prison-door. this phantasy was probably suggested by the near proximity of the governor's red roses, as pearl stood outside of the window, together with her recollection of the prison rose-bush, which she had passed in coming hither. old roger chillingworth, with a smile on his face, whispered something in the young clergyman's ear. hester prynne looked at the man of skill, and even then, with her fate hanging in the balance, was startled to perceive what a change had come over his features--how much uglier they were, how his dark complexion seemed to have grown duskier, and his figure more misshapen--since the days when she had familiarly known him. she met his eyes for an instant, but was immediately constrained to give all her attention to the scene now going forward. "this is awful!" cried the governor, slowly recovering from the astonishment into which pearl's response had thrown him. "here is a child of three years old, and she cannot tell who made her! without question, she is equally in the dark as to her soul, its present depravity, and future destiny! methinks, gentlemen, we need inquire no further." hester caught hold of pearl, and drew her forcibly into her arms, confronting the old puritan magistrate with almost a fierce expression. alone in the world, cast off by it, and with this sole treasure to keep her heart alive, she felt that she possessed indefeasible rights against the world, and was ready to defend them to the death. "god gave me the child!" cried she. "he gave her in requital of all things else which ye had taken from me. she is my happiness--she is my torture, none the less! pearl keeps me here in life! pearl punishes me, too! see ye not, she is the scarlet letter, only capable of being loved, and so endowed with a millionfold the power of retribution for my sin? ye shall not take her! i will die first!" "my poor woman," said the not unkind old minister, "the child shall be well cared for--far better than thou canst do for it." "god gave her into my keeping!" repeated hester prynne, raising her voice almost to a shriek. "i will not give her up!" and here by a sudden impulse, she turned to the young clergyman, mr. dimmesdale, at whom, up to this moment, she had seemed hardly so much as once to direct her eyes. "speak thou for me!" cried she. "thou wast my pastor, and hadst charge of my soul, and knowest me better than these men can. i will not lose the child! speak for me! thou knowest--for thou hast sympathies which these men lack--thou knowest what is in my heart, and what are a mother's rights, and how much the stronger they are when that mother has but her child and the scarlet letter! look thou to it! i will not lose the child! look to it!" at this wild and singular appeal, which indicated that hester prynne's situation had provoked her to little less than madness, the young minister at once came forward, pale, and holding his hand over his heart, as was his custom whenever his peculiarly nervous temperament was thrown into agitation. he looked now more careworn and emaciated than as we described him at the scene of hester's public ignominy; and whether it were his failing health, or whatever the cause might be, his large dark eyes had a world of pain in their troubled and melancholy depth. "there is truth in what she says," began the minister, with a voice sweet, tremulous, but powerful, insomuch that the hall re-echoed and the hollow armour rang with it--"truth in what hester says, and in the feeling which inspires her! god gave her the child, and gave her, too, an instinctive knowledge of its nature and requirements--both seemingly so peculiar--which no other mortal being can possess. and, moreover, is there not a quality of awful sacredness in the relation between this mother and this child?" "ay--how is that, good master dimmesdale?" interrupted the governor. "make that plain, i pray you!" "it must be even so," resumed the minister. "for, if we deem it otherwise, do we not thereby say that the heavenly father, the creator of all flesh, hath lightly recognised a deed of sin, and made of no account the distinction between unhallowed lust and holy love? this child of its father's guilt and its mother's shame has come from the hand of god, to work in many ways upon her heart, who pleads so earnestly and with such bitterness of spirit the right to keep her. it was meant for a blessing--for the one blessing of her life! it was meant, doubtless, the mother herself hath told us, for a retribution, too; a torture to be felt at many an unthought-of moment; a pang, a sting, an ever-recurring agony, in the midst of a troubled joy! hath she not expressed this thought in the garb of the poor child, so forcibly reminding us of that red symbol which sears her bosom?" "well said again!" cried good mr. wilson. "i feared the woman had no better thought than to make a mountebank of her child!" "oh, not so!--not so!" continued mr. dimmesdale. "she recognises, believe me, the solemn miracle which god hath wrought in the existence of that child. and may she feel, too--what, methinks, is the very truth--that this boon was meant, above all things else, to keep the mother's soul alive, and to preserve her from blacker depths of sin into which satan might else have sought to plunge her! therefore it is good for this poor, sinful woman, that she hath an infant immortality, a being capable of eternal joy or sorrow, confided to her care--to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her, at every moment, of her fall, but yet to teach her, as if it were by the creator's sacred pledge, that, if she bring the child to heaven, the child also will bring its parents thither! herein is the sinful mother happier than the sinful father. for hester prynne's sake, then, and no less for the poor child's sake, let us leave them as providence hath seen fit to place them!" "you speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness," said old roger chillingworth, smiling at him. "and there is a weighty import in what my young brother hath spoken," added the rev. mr. wilson. "what say you, worshipful master bellingham? hath he not pleaded well for the poor woman?" "indeed hath he," answered the magistrate; "and hath adduced such arguments, that we will even leave the matter as it now stands; so long, at least, as there shall be no further scandal in the woman. care must be had nevertheless, to put the child to due and stated examination in the catechism, at thy hands or master dimmesdale's. moreover, at a proper season, the tithing-men must take heed that she go both to school and to meeting." the young minister, on ceasing to speak had withdrawn a few steps from the group, and stood with his face partially concealed in the heavy folds of the window-curtain; while the shadow of his figure, which the sunlight cast upon the floor, was tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal. pearl, that wild and flighty little elf stole softly towards him, and taking his hand in the grasp of both her own, laid her cheek against it; a caress so tender, and withal so unobtrusive, that her mother, who was looking on, asked herself--"is that my pearl?" yet she knew that there was love in the child's heart, although it mostly revealed itself in passion, and hardly twice in her lifetime had been softened by such gentleness as now. the minister--for, save the long-sought regards of woman, nothing is sweeter than these marks of childish preference, accorded spontaneously by a spiritual instinct, and therefore seeming to imply in us something truly worthy to be loved--the minister looked round, laid his hand on the child's head, hesitated an instant, and then kissed her brow. little pearl's unwonted mood of sentiment lasted no longer; she laughed, and went capering down the hall so airily, that old mr. wilson raised a question whether even her tiptoes touched the floor. "the little baggage hath witchcraft in her, i profess," said he to mr. dimmesdale. "she needs no old woman's broomstick to fly withal!" "a strange child!" remarked old roger chillingworth. "it is easy to see the mother's part in her. would it be beyond a philosopher's research, think ye, gentlemen, to analyse that child's nature, and, from it make a mould, to give a shrewd guess at the father?" "nay; it would be sinful, in such a question, to follow the clue of profane philosophy," said mr. wilson. "better to fast and pray upon it; and still better, it may be, to leave the mystery as we find it, unless providence reveal it of its own accord. thereby, every good christian man hath a title to show a father's kindness towards the poor, deserted babe." the affair being so satisfactorily concluded, hester prynne, with pearl, departed from the house. as they descended the steps, it is averred that the lattice of a chamber-window was thrown open, and forth into the sunny day was thrust the face of mistress hibbins, governor bellingham's bitter-tempered sister, and the same who, a few years later, was executed as a witch. "hist, hist!" said she, while her ill-omened physiognomy seemed to cast a shadow over the cheerful newness of the house. "wilt thou go with us to-night? there will be a merry company in the forest; and i well-nigh promised the black man that comely hester prynne should make one." "make my excuse to him, so please you!" answered hester, with a triumphant smile. "i must tarry at home, and keep watch over my little pearl. had they taken her from me, i would willingly have gone with thee into the forest, and signed my name in the black man's book too, and that with mine own blood!" "we shall have thee there anon!" said the witch-lady, frowning, as she drew back her head. but here--if we suppose this interview betwixt mistress hibbins and hester prynne to be authentic, and not a parable--was already an illustration of the young minister's argument against sundering the relation of a fallen mother to the offspring of her frailty. even thus early had the child saved her from satan's snare. ix. the leech under the appellation of roger chillingworth, the reader will remember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer had resolved should never more be spoken. it has been related, how, in the crowd that witnessed hester prynne's ignominious exposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging from the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped to find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as a type of sin before the people. her matronly fame was trodden under all men's feet. infamy was babbling around her in the public market-place. for her kindred, should the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, there remained nothing but the contagion of her dishonour; which would not fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportion with the intimacy and sacredness of their previous relationship. then why--since the choice was with himself--should the individual, whose connexion with the fallen woman had been the most intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicate his claim to an inheritance so little desirable? he resolved not to be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. unknown to all but hester prynne, and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and interest, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the ocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him. this purpose once effected, new interests would immediately spring up, and likewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of force enough to engage the full strength of his faculties. in pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the puritan town as roger chillingworth, without other introduction than the learning and intelligence of which he possessed more than a common measure. as his studies, at a previous period of his life, had made him extensively acquainted with the medical science of the day, it was as a physician that he presented himself and as such was cordially received. skilful men, of the medical and chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence in the colony. they seldom, it would appear, partook of the religious zeal that brought other emigrants across the atlantic. in their researches into the human frame, it may be that the higher and more subtle faculties of such men were materialised, and that they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies of that wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involve art enough to comprise all of life within itself. at all events, the health of the good town of boston, so far as medicine had aught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of an aged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportment were stronger testimonials in his favour than any that he could have produced in the shape of a diploma. the only surgeon was one who combined the occasional exercise of that noble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. to such a professional body roger chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. he soon manifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposing machinery of antique physic; in which every remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched and heterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if the proposed result had been the elixir of life. in his indian captivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of the properties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the european pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating. this learned stranger was exemplary as regarded at least the outward forms of a religious life; and early after his arrival, had chosen for his spiritual guide the reverend mr. dimmesdale. the young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in oxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little less than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labour for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds, for the now feeble new england church, as the early fathers had achieved for the infancy of the christian faith. about this period, however, the health of mr. dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. by those best acquainted with his habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, and more than all, to the fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp. some declared, that if mr. dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause enough that the world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. he himself, on the other hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief that if providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on earth. with all this difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline, there could be no question of the fact. his form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain. such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when roger chillingworth made his advent to the town. his first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence, dropping down as it were out of the sky or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily heightened to the miraculous. he was now known to be a man of skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs and the blossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots and plucked off twigs from the forest-trees like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what was valueless to common eyes. he was heard to speak of sir kenelm digby and other famous men--whose scientific attainments were esteemed hardly less than supernatural--as having been his correspondents or associates. why, with such rank in the learned world, had he come hither? what, could he, whose sphere was in great cities, be seeking in the wilderness? in answer to this query, a rumour gained ground--and however absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people--that heaven had wrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent doctor of physic from a german university bodily through the air and setting him down at the door of mr. dimmesdale's study! individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that heaven promotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of what is called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see a providential hand in roger chillingworth's so opportune arrival. this idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physician ever manifested in the young clergyman; he attached himself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a friendly regard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility. he expressed great alarm at his pastor's state of health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken, seemed not despondent of a favourable result. the elders, the deacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fair maidens of mr. dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that he should make trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. mr. dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties. "i need no medicine," said he. but how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous than before--when it had now become a constant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his hand over his heart? was he weary of his labours? did he wish to die? these questions were solemnly propounded to mr. dimmesdale by the elder ministers of boston, and the deacons of his church, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him," on the sin of rejecting the aid which providence so manifestly held out. he listened in silence, and finally promised to confer with the physician. "were it god's will," said the reverend mr. dimmesdale, when, in fulfilment of this pledge, he requested old roger chillingworth's professional advice, "i could be well content that my labours, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my pains, should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be buried in my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put your skill to the proof in my behalf." "ah," replied roger chillingworth, with that quietness, which, whether imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that a young clergyman is apt to speak. youthful men, not having taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily! and saintly men, who walk with god on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on the golden pavements of the new jerusalem." "nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart, with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, "were i worthier to walk there, i could be better content to toil here." "good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician. in this manner, the mysterious old roger chillingworth became the medical adviser of the reverend mr. dimmesdale. as not only the disease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved to look into the character and qualities of the patient, these two men, so different in age, came gradually to spend much time together. for the sake of the minister's health, and to enable the leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various walks with the splash and murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops. often, likewise, one was the guest of the other in his place of study and retirement. there was a fascination for the minister in the company of the man of science, in whom he recognised an intellectual cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members of his own profession. in truth, he was startled, if not shocked, to find this attribute in the physician. mr. dimmesdale was a true priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentiment largely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage continually deeper with the lapse of time. in no state of society would he have been what is called a man of liberal views; it would always be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. not the less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium of another kind of intellect than those with which he habitually held converse. it was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was wasting itself away, amid lamp-light, or obstructed day-beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. but the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort. so the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within the limits of what their church defined as orthodox. thus roger chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, both as he saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which might call out something new to the surface of his character. he deemed it essential, it would seem, to know the man, before attempting to do him good. wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. in arthur dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility so intense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork there. so roger chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind and friendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom, delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and probing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. few secrets can escape an investigator, who has opportunity and licence to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow it up. a man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician. if the latter possess native sagacity, and a nameless something more,--let us call it intuition; if he show no intrusive egotism, nor disagreeable prominent characteristics of his own; if he have the power, which must be born with him, to bring his mind into such affinity with his patient's, that this last shall unawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if such revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so often by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate breath, and here and there a word to indicate that all is understood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages afforded by his recognised character as a physician;--then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight. roger chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above enumerated. nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have said, grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide a field as the whole sphere of human thought and study to meet upon; they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affairs, and private character; they talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personal to themselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied must exist there, ever stole out of the minister's consciousness into his companion's ear. the latter had his suspicions, indeed, that even the nature of mr. dimmesdale's bodily disease had never fairly been revealed to him. it was a strange reserve! after a time, at a hint from roger chillingworth, the friends of mr. dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were lodged in the same house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. there was much joy throughout the town when this greatly desirable object was attained. it was held to be the best possible measure for the young clergyman's welfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorised to do so, he had selected some one of the many blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted wife. this latter step, however, there was no present prospect that arthur dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all suggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his articles of church discipline. doomed by his own choice, therefore, as mr. dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his unsavoury morsel always at another's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious, experienced, benevolent old physician, with his concord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the very man, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice. the new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good social rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site on which the venerable structure of king's chapel has since been built. it had the graveyard, originally isaac johnson's home-field, on one side, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited to their respective employments, in both minister and man of physic. the motherly care of the good widow assigned to mr. dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadow when desirable. the walls were hung round with tapestry, said to be from the gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing the scriptural story of david and bathsheba, and nathan the prophet, in colours still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer. here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with parchment-bound folios of the fathers, and the lore of rabbis, and monkish erudition, of which the protestant divines, even while they vilified and decried that class of writers, were yet constrained often to avail themselves. on the other side of the house, old roger chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory: not such as a modern man of science would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided with a distilling apparatus and the means of compounding drugs and chemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to purpose. with such commodiousness of situation, these two learned persons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly passing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual and not incurious inspection into one another's business. and the reverend arthur dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as we have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of providence had done all this for the purpose--besought in so many public and domestic and secret prayers--of restoring the young minister to health. but, it must now be said, another portion of the community had latterly begun to take its own view of the relation betwixt mr. dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. when an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived. when, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are often so profound and so unerring as to possess the character of truth supernaturally revealed. the people, in the case of which we speak, could justify its prejudice against roger chillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious refutation. there was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been a citizen of london at the period of sir thomas overbury's murder, now some thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under some other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with dr. forman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the affair of overbury. two or three individuals hinted that the man of skill, during his indian captivity, had enlarged his medical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savage priests, who were universally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their skill in the black art. a large number--and many of these were persons of such sober sense and practical observation that their opinions would have been valuable in other matters--affirmed that roger chillingworth's aspect had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town, and especially since his abode with mr. dimmesdale. at first, his expression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like. now there was something ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previously noticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight the oftener they looked upon him. according to the vulgar idea, the fire in his laboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed with infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was getting sooty with the smoke. to sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion that the rev. arthur dimmesdale, like many other personages of special sanctity, in all ages of the christian world, was haunted either by satan himself or satan's emissary, in the guise of old roger chillingworth. this diabolical agent had the divine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against his soul. no sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn. the people looked, with an unshaken hope, to see the minister come forth out of the conflict transfigured with the glory which he would unquestionably win. meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to think of the perchance mortal agony through which he must struggle towards his triumph. alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depth of the poor minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one, and the victory anything but secure. x. the leech and his patient old roger chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. he had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. but, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free again until he had done all its bidding. he now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. alas, for his own soul, if these were what he sought! sometimes a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from bunyan's awful doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim's face. the soil where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him. "this man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him--all spiritual as he seems--hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!" then after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. he groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep--or, it may be, broad awake--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. in spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. in other words, mr. dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into relation with him. but old roger chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathising, but never intrusive friend. yet mr. dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. he therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency. one day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he talked with roger chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants. "where," asked he, with a look askance at them--for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked straight forth at any object, whether human or inanimate, "where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?" "even in the graveyard here at hand," answered the physician, continuing his employment. "they are new to me. i found them growing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, no other memorial of the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep him in remembrance. they grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime." "perchance," said mr. dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could not." "and wherefore?" rejoined the physician. "wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to make manifest, an outspoken crime?" "that, good sir, is but a phantasy of yours," replied the minister. "there can be, if i forbode aright, no power, short of the divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried in the human heart. the heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be revealed. nor have i so read or interpreted holy writ, as to understand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of the retribution. that, surely, were a shallow view of it. no; these revelations, unless i greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting, on that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain. a knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest solution of that problem. and, i conceive moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of, will yield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable." "then why not reveal it here?" asked roger chillingworth, glancing quietly aside at the minister. "why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?" "they mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast, as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while strong in life, and fair in reputation. and ever, after such an outpouring, oh, what a relief have i witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after a long stifling with his own polluted breath. how can it be otherwise? why should a wretched man--guilty, we will say, of murder--prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!" "yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician. "true; there are such men," answered mr. dimmesdale. "but not to suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. or--can we not suppose it?--guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for god's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service. so, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves." "these men deceive themselves," said roger chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "they fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. their love for man, their zeal for god's service--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. but, if they seek to glorify god, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! if they would serve their fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! would thou have me to believe, o wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more for god's glory, or man' welfare--than god's own truth? trust me, such men deceive themselves!" "it may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. he had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament.--"but, now, i would ask of my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?" before roger chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. looking instinctively from the open window--for it was summer-time--the minister beheld hester prynne and little pearl passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. pearl looked as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. she now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until coming to the broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy--perhaps of isaac johnson himself--she began to dance upon it. in reply to her mother's command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew beside the tomb. taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature was, tenaciously adhered. hester did not pluck them off. roger chillingworth had by this time approached the window and smiled grimly down. "there is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's composition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "i saw her, the other day, bespatter the governor himself with water at the cattle-trough in spring lane. what, in heaven's name, is she? is the imp altogether evil? hath she affections? hath she any discoverable principle of being?" "none, save the freedom of a broken law," answered mr. dimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point within himself, "whether capable of good, i know not." the child probably overheard their voices, for, looking up to the window with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the rev. mr. dimmesdale. the sensitive clergyman shrank, with nervous dread, from the light missile. detecting his emotion, pearl clapped her little hands in the most extravagant ecstacy. hester prynne, likewise, had involuntarily looked up, and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted--"come away, mother! come away, or yonder old black man will catch you! he hath got hold of the minister already. come away, mother or he will catch you! but he cannot catch little pearl!" so she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. it was as if she had been made afresh out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself without her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime. "there goes a woman," resumed roger chillingworth, after a pause, "who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. is hester prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on her breast?" "i do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "nevertheless, i cannot answer for her. there was a look of pain in her face which i would gladly have been spared the sight of. but still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as this poor woman hester is, than to cover it up in his heart." there was another pause, and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the plants which he had gathered. "you inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "my judgment as touching your health." "i did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. speak frankly, i pray you, be it for life or death." "freely then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with his plants, but keeping a wary eye on mr. dimmesdale, "the disorder is a strange one; not so much in itself nor as outwardly manifested,--in so far, at least as the symptoms have been laid open to my observation. looking daily at you, my good sir, and watching the tokens of your aspect now for months gone by, i should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. but i know not what to say, the disease is what i seem to know, yet know it not." "you speak in riddles, learned sir," said the pale minister, glancing aside out of the window. "then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and i crave pardon, sir, should it seem to require pardon, for this needful plainness of my speech. let me ask as your friend, as one having charge, under providence, of your life and physical well being, hath all the operations of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?" "how can you question it?" asked the minister. "surely it were child's play to call in a physician and then hide the sore!" "you would tell me, then, that i know all?" said roger chillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face. "be it so! but again! he to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. a bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part. your pardon once again, good sir, if my speech give the shadow of offence. you, sir, of all men whom i have known, are he whose body is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with the spirit whereof it is the instrument." "then i need ask no further," said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising from his chair. "you deal not, i take it, in medicine for the soul!" "thus, a sickness," continued roger chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption, but standing up and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame. would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? how may this be unless you first lay open to him the wound or trouble in your soul?" "no, not to thee! not to an earthly physician!" cried mr. dimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of fierceness, on old roger chillingworth. "not to thee! but, if it be the soul's disease, then do i commit myself to the one physician of the soul! he, if it stand with his good pleasure, can cure, or he can kill. let him do with me as, in his justice and wisdom, he shall see good. but who art thou, that meddlest in this matter? that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his god?" with a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room. "it is as well to have made this step," said roger chillingworth to himself, looking after the minister, with a grave smile. "there is nothing lost. we shall be friends again anon. but see, now, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! as with one passion so with another. he hath done a wild thing ere now, this pious master dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart." it proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore. the young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to excuse or palliate. he marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had expressly sought. with these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the care which, if not successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. roger chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's apartment, at the close of the professional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. this expression was invisible in mr. dimmesdale's presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the threshold. "a rare case," he muttered. "i must needs look deeper into it. a strange sympathy betwixt soul and body! were it only for the art's sake, i must search this matter to the bottom." it came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the reverend mr. dimmesdale, noon-day, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter volume open before him on the table. it must have been a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. the profound depth of the minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose sleep ordinarily is as light as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. to such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself that he stirred not in his chair when old roger chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. the physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that hitherto had always covered it even from the professional eye. then, indeed, mr. dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred. after a brief pause, the physician turned away. but with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! with what a ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! had a man seen old roger chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how satan comports himself when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom. but what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from satan's was the trait of wonder in it! xi. the interior of a heart after the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously been. the intellect of roger chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. it was not, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread. calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. to make himself the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! all that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the pitiless--to him, the unforgiving! all that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance! the clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. roger chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which providence--using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning, where it seemed most to punish--had substituted for his black devices. a revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. it mattered little for his object, whether celestial or from what other region. by its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and mr. dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement. he became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor in the poor minister's interior world. he could play upon him as he chose. would he arouse him with a throb of agony? the victim was for ever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the engine: and the physician knew it well. would he startle him with sudden fear? as at the waving of a magician's wand, up rose a grisly phantom--up rose a thousand phantoms--in many shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast! all this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. true, he looked doubtfully, fearfully--even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred--at the deformed figure of the old physician. his gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied on of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to himself. for, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so mr. dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause. he took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to roger chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root them out. unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose to which--poor forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than his victim--the avenger had devoted himself. while thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, the reverend mr. dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. he won it indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. his intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. his fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of them were. there are scholars among them, who had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than mr. dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother. there were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard iron, or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. there were others again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealised, moreover, by spiritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. all that they lacked was, the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolising, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native language. these fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the tongue of flame. they would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of seeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of familiar words and images. their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt. not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that mr. dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. to the high mountain peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. it kept him down on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and answered! but this very burden it was that gave him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! the people knew not the power that moved them thus. they deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. they fancied him the mouth-piece of heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. in their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. the virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment, that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. the aged members of his flock, beholding mr. dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children that their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave. and all this time, perchance, when poor mr. dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried! it is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him. it was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. then what was he?--a substance?--or the dimmest of all shadows? he longed to speak out from his own pulpit at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "i, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood--i, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion in your behalf with the most high omniscience--i, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of enoch--i, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest--i, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children--i, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted--i, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!" more than once, mr. dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to come down its steps until he should have spoken words like the above. more than once he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. more than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken! spoken! but how? he had told his hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity, and that the only wonder was that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes by the burning wrath of the almighty! could there be plainer speech than this? would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? not so, indeed! they heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. they little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "the godly youth!" said they among themselves. "the saint on earth! alas! if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine!" the minister well knew--subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was!--the light in which his vague confession would be viewed. he had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. he had spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. and yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did. therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self! his inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old, corrupted faith of rome than with the better light of the church in which he had been born and bred. in mr. dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. oftentimes, this protestant and puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders, laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. it was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious puritans, to fast--not however, like them, in order to purify the body, and render it the fitter medium of celestial illumination--but rigorously, and until his knees trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. he kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness, sometimes with a glimmering lamp, and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. he thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify himself. in these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more vividly and close beside him, within the looking-glass. now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more ethereal as they rose. now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother turning her face away as she passed by. ghost of a mother--thinnest fantasy of a mother--methinks she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! and now, through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided hester prynne leading along little pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast. none of these visions ever quite deluded him. at any moment, by an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leather-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. but, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. it is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. to the untrue man, the whole universe is false--it is impalpable--it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. and he himself in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. the only truth that continued to give mr. dimmesdale a real existence on this earth was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would have been no such man! on one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. a new thought had struck him. there might be a moment's peace in it. attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth. xii. the minister's vigil walking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually under the influence of a species of somnambulism, mr. dimmesdale reached the spot where, now so long since, hester prynne had lived through her first hours of public ignominy. the same platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. the minister went up the steps. it was an obscure night in early may. an unvaried pall of cloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. if the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while hester prynne sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark grey of the midnight. but the town was all asleep. there was no peril of discovery. the minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night air would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's prayer and sermon. no eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. why, then, had he come hither? was it but the mockery of penitence? a mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! a mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering laughter! he had been driven hither by the impulse of that remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that cowardice which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! this feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance. and thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of expiation, mr. dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of mind, as if the universe were gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast, right over his heart. on that spot, in very truth, there was, and there had long been, the gnawing and poisonous tooth of bodily pain. without any effort of his will, or power to restrain himself, he shrieked aloud: an outcry that went pealing through the night, and was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated from the hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much misery and terror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying it to and fro. "it is done!" muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands. "the whole town will awake and hurry forth, and find me here!" but it was not so. the shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater power, to his own startled ears, than it actually possessed. the town did not awake; or, if it did, the drowsy slumberers mistook the cry either for something frightful in a dream, or for the noise of witches, whose voices, at that period, were often heard to pass over the settlements or lonely cottages, as they rode with satan through the air. the clergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of disturbance, uncovered his eyes and looked about him. at one of the chamber-windows of governor bellingham's mansion, which stood at some distance, on the line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old magistrate himself with a lamp in his hand a white night-cap on his head, and a long white gown enveloping his figure. he looked like a ghost evoked unseasonably from the grave. the cry had evidently startled him. at another window of the same house, moreover appeared old mistress hibbins, the governor's sister, also with a lamp, which even thus far off revealed the expression of her sour and discontented face. she thrust forth her head from the lattice, and looked anxiously upward. beyond the shadow of a doubt, this venerable witch-lady had heard mr. dimmesdale's outcry, and interpreted it, with its multitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamour of the fiends and night-hags, with whom she was well known to make excursions in the forest. detecting the gleam of governor bellingham's lamp, the old lady quickly extinguished her own, and vanished. possibly, she went up among the clouds. the minister saw nothing further of her motions. the magistrate, after a wary observation of the darkness--into which, nevertheless, he could see but little further than he might into a mill-stone--retired from the window. the minister grew comparatively calm. his eyes, however, were soon greeted by a little glimmering light, which, at first a long way off was approaching up the street. it threw a gleam of recognition, on here a post, and there a garden fence, and here a latticed window-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough of water, and here again an arched door of oak, with an iron knocker, and a rough log for the door-step. the reverend mr. dimmesdale noted all these minute particulars, even while firmly convinced that the doom of his existence was stealing onward, in the footsteps which he now heard; and that the gleam of the lantern would fall upon him in a few moments more, and reveal his long-hidden secret. as the light drew nearer, he beheld, within its illuminated circle, his brother clergyman--or, to speak more accurately, his professional father, as well as highly valued friend--the reverend mr. wilson, who, as mr. dimmesdale now conjectured, had been praying at the bedside of some dying man. and so he had. the good old minister came freshly from the death-chamber of governor winthrop, who had passed from earth to heaven within that very hour. and now surrounded, like the saint-like personage of olden times, with a radiant halo, that glorified him amid this gloomy night of sin--as if the departed governor had left him an inheritance of his glory, or as if he had caught upon himself the distant shine of the celestial city, while looking thitherward to see the triumphant pilgrim pass within its gates--now, in short, good father wilson was moving homeward, aiding his footsteps with a lighted lantern! the glimmer of this luminary suggested the above conceits to mr. dimmesdale, who smiled--nay, almost laughed at them--and then wondered if he was going mad. as the reverend mr. wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely muffling his geneva cloak about him with one arm, and holding the lantern before his breast with the other, the minister could hardly restrain himself from speaking-"a good evening to you, venerable father wilson. come up hither, i pray you, and pass a pleasant hour with me!" good heavens! had mr. dimmesdale actually spoken? for one instant he believed that these words had passed his lips. but they were uttered only within his imagination. the venerable father wilson continued to step slowly onward, looking carefully at the muddy pathway before his feet, and never once turning his head towards the guilty platform. when the light of the glimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister discovered, by the faintness which came over him, that the last few moments had been a crisis of terrible anxiety, although his mind had made an involuntary effort to relieve itself by a kind of lurid playfulness. shortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again stole in among the solemn phantoms of his thought. he felt his limbs growing stiff with the unaccustomed chilliness of the night, and doubted whether he should be able to descend the steps of the scaffold. morning would break and find him there. the neighbourhood would begin to rouse itself. the earliest riser, coming forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a vaguely-defined figure aloft on the place of shame; and half-crazed betwixt alarm and curiosity, would go knocking from door to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghost--as he needs must think it--of some defunct transgressor. a dusky tumult would flap its wings from one house to another. then--the morning light still waxing stronger--old patriarchs would rise up in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames, without pausing to put off their night-gear. the whole tribe of decorous personages, who had never heretofore been seen with a single hair of their heads awry, would start into public view with the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects. old governor bellingham would come grimly forth, with his king james' ruff fastened askew, and mistress hibbins, with some twigs of the forest clinging to her skirts, and looking sourer than ever, as having hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and good father wilson too, after spending half the night at a death-bed, and liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, out of his dreams about the glorified saints. hither, likewise, would come the elders and deacons of mr. dimmesdale's church, and the young virgins who so idolized their minister, and had made a shrine for him in their white bosoms, which now, by-the-bye, in their hurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves time to cover with their kerchiefs. all people, in a word, would come stumbling over their thresholds, and turning up their amazed and horror-stricken visages around the scaffold. whom would they discern there, with the red eastern light upon his brow? whom, but the reverend arthur dimmesdale, half-frozen to death, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where hester prynne had stood! carried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the minister, unawares, and to his own infinite alarm, burst into a great peal of laughter. it was immediately responded to by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the heart--but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as acute--he recognised the tones of little pearl. "pearl! little pearl!" cried he, after a moment's pause; then, suppressing his voice--"hester! hester prynne! are you there?" "yes; it is hester prynne!" she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister heard her footsteps approaching from the side-walk, along which she had been passing. "it is i, and my little pearl." "whence come you, hester?" asked the minister. "what sent you hither?" "i have been watching at a death-bed," answered hester prynne "at governor winthrop's death-bed, and have taken his measure for a robe, and am now going homeward to my dwelling." "come up hither, hester, thou and little pearl," said the reverend mr. dimmesdale. "ye have both been here before, but i was not with you. come up hither once again, and we will stand all three together." she silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform, holding little pearl by the hand. the minister felt for the child's other hand, and took it. the moment that he did so, there came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new life, other life than his own pouring like a torrent into his heart, and hurrying through all his veins, as if the mother and the child were communicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system. the three formed an electric chain. "minister!" whispered little pearl. "what wouldst thou say, child?" asked mr. dimmesdale. "wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?" inquired pearl. "nay; not so, my little pearl," answered the minister; for, with the new energy of the moment, all the dread of public exposure, that had so long been the anguish of his life, had returned upon him; and he was already trembling at the conjunction in which--with a strange joy, nevertheless--he now found himself--"not so, my child. i shall, indeed, stand with thy mother and thee one other day, but not to-morrow." pearl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand. but the minister held it fast. "a moment longer, my child!" said he. "but wilt thou promise," asked pearl, "to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noontide?" "not then, pearl," said the minister; "but another time." "and what other time?" persisted the child. "at the great judgment day," whispered the minister; and, strangely enough, the sense that he was a professional teacher of the truth impelled him to answer the child so. "then, and there, before the judgment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and i must stand together. but the daylight of this world shall not see our meeting!" pearl laughed again. but before mr. dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far and wide over all the muffled sky. it was doubtless caused by one of those meteors, which the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste, in the vacant regions of the atmosphere. so powerful was its radiance, that it thoroughly illuminated the dense medium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth. the great vault brightened, like the dome of an immense lamp. it showed the familiar scene of the street with the distinctness of mid-day, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by an unaccustomed light. the wooden houses, with their jutting storeys and quaint gable-peaks; the doorsteps and thresholds with the early grass springing up about them; the garden-plots, black with freshly-turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and even in the market-place margined with green on either side--all were visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to give another moral interpretation to the things of this world than they had ever borne before. and there stood the minister, with his hand over his heart; and hester prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little pearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting link between those two. they stood in the noon of that strange and solemn splendour, as if it were the light that is to reveal all secrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all who belong to one another. there was witchcraft in little pearl's eyes; and her face, as she glanced upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression frequently so elvish. she withdrew her hand from mr. dimmesdale's, and pointed across the street. but he clasped both his hands over his breast, and cast his eyes towards the zenith. nothing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all meteoric appearances, and other natural phenomena that occurred with less regularity than the rise and set of sun and moon, as so many revelations from a supernatural source. thus, a blazing spear, a sword of flame, a bow, or a sheaf of arrows seen in the midnight sky, prefigured indian warfare. pestilence was known to have been foreboded by a shower of crimson light. we doubt whether any marked event, for good or evil, ever befell new england, from its settlement down to revolutionary times, of which the inhabitants had not been previously warned by some spectacle of its nature. not seldom, it had been seen by multitudes. oftener, however, its credibility rested on the faith of some lonely eye-witness, who beheld the wonder through the coloured, magnifying, and distorted medium of his imagination, and shaped it more distinctly in his after-thought. it was, indeed, a majestic idea that the destiny of nations should be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of heaven. a scroll so wide might not be deemed too expensive for providence to write a people's doom upon. the belief was a favourite one with our forefathers, as betokening that their infant commonwealth was under a celestial guardianship of peculiar intimacy and strictness. but what shall we say, when an individual discovers a revelation addressed to himself alone, on the same vast sheet of record. in such a case, it could only be the symptom of a highly disordered mental state, when a man, rendered morbidly self-contemplative by long, intense, and secret pain, had extended his egotism over the whole expanse of nature, until the firmament itself should appear no more than a fitting page for his soul's history and fate. we impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye and heart that the minister, looking upward to the zenith, beheld there the appearance of an immense letter--the letter a--marked out in lines of dull red light. not but the meteor may have shown itself at that point, burning duskily through a veil of cloud, but with no such shape as his guilty imagination gave it, or, at least, with so little definiteness, that another's guilt might have seen another symbol in it. there was a singular circumstance that characterised mr. dimmesdale's psychological state at this moment. all the time that he gazed upward to the zenith, he was, nevertheless, perfectly aware that little pearl was pointing her finger towards old roger chillingworth, who stood at no great distance from the scaffold. the minister appeared to see him, with the same glance that discerned the miraculous letter. to his feature as to all other objects, the meteoric light imparted a new expression; or it might well be that the physician was not careful then, as at all other times, to hide the malevolence with which he looked upon his victim. certainly, if the meteor kindled up the sky, and disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonished hester prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then might roger chillingworth have passed with them for the arch-fiend, standing there with a smile and scowl, to claim his own. so vivid was the expression, or so intense the minister's perception of it, that it seemed still to remain painted on the darkness after the meteor had vanished, with an effect as if the street and all things else were at once annihilated. "who is that man, hester?" gasped mr. dimmesdale, overcome with terror. "i shiver at him! dost thou know the man? i hate him, hester!" she remembered her oath, and was silent. "i tell thee, my soul shivers at him!" muttered the minister again. "who is he? who is he? canst thou do nothing for me? i have a nameless horror of the man!" "minister," said little pearl, "i can tell thee who he is!" "quickly, then, child!" said the minister, bending his ear close to her lips. "quickly, and as low as thou canst whisper." pearl mumbled something into his ear that sounded, indeed, like human language, but was only such gibberish as children may be heard amusing themselves with by the hour together. at all events, if it involved any secret information in regard to old roger chillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown to the erudite clergyman, and did but increase the bewilderment of his mind. the elvish child then laughed aloud. "dost thou mock me now?" said the minister. "thou wast not bold!--thou wast not true!" answered the child. "thou wouldst not promise to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noon-tide!" "worthy sir," answered the physician, who had now advanced to the foot of the platform--"pious master dimmesdale! can this be you? well, well, indeed! we men of study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be straitly looked after! we dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep. come, good sir, and my dear friend, i pray you let me lead you home!" "how knewest thou that i was here?" asked the minister, fearfully. "verily, and in good faith," answered roger chillingworth, "i knew nothing of the matter. i had spent the better part of the night at the bedside of the worshipful governor winthrop, doing what my poor skill might to give him ease. he, going home to a better world, i, likewise, was on my way homeward, when this light shone out. come with me, i beseech you, reverend sir, else you will be poorly able to do sabbath duty to-morrow. aha! see now how they trouble the brain--these books!--these books! you should study less, good sir, and take a little pastime, or these night whimsies will grow upon you." "i will go home with you," said mr. dimmesdale. with a chill despondency, like one awakening, all nerveless, from an ugly dream, he yielded himself to the physician, and was led away. the next day, however, being the sabbath, he preached a discourse which was held to be the richest and most powerful, and the most replete with heavenly influences, that had ever proceeded from his lips. souls, it is said, more souls than one, were brought to the truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed within themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards mr. dimmesdale throughout the long hereafter. but as he came down the pulpit steps, the grey-bearded sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the minister recognised as his own. "it was found," said the sexton, "this morning on the scaffold where evil-doers are set up to public shame. satan dropped it there, i take it, intending a scurrilous jest against your reverence. but, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever and always is. a pure hand needs no glove to cover it!" "thank you, my good friend," said the minister, gravely, but startled at heart; for so confused was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himself to look at the events of the past night as visionary. "yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!" "and, since satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs handle him without gloves henceforward," remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. "but did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen last night? a great red letter in the sky--the letter a, which we interpret to stand for angel. for, as our good governor winthrop was made an angel this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof!" "no," answered the minister; "i had not heard of it." xiii. another view of hester in her late singular interview with mr. dimmesdale, hester prynne was shocked at the condition to which she found the clergyman reduced. his nerve seemed absolutely destroyed. his moral force was abased into more than childish weakness. it grovelled helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual faculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which disease only could have given them. with her knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from all others, she could readily infer that, besides the legitimate action of his own conscience, a terrible machinery had been brought to bear, and was still operating, on mr. dimmesdale's well-being and repose. knowing what this poor fallen man had once been, her whole soul was moved by the shuddering terror with which he had appealed to her--the outcast woman--for support against his instinctively discovered enemy. she decided, moreover, that he had a right to her utmost aid. little accustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to measure her ideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself, hester saw--or seemed to see--that there lay a responsibility upon her in reference to the clergyman, which she owned to no other, nor to the whole world besides. the links that united her to the rest of humankind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material--had all been broken. here was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. like all other ties, it brought along with it its obligations. hester prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy. years had come and gone. pearl was now seven years old. her mother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, glittering in its fantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar object to the townspeople. as is apt to be the case when a person stands out in any prominence before the community, and, at the same time, interferes neither with public nor individual interests and convenience, a species of general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to hester prynne. it is to the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. in this matter of hester prynne there was neither irritation nor irksomeness. she never battled with the public, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst usage; she made no claim upon it in requital for what she suffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies. then, also, the blameless purity of her life during all these years in which she had been set apart to infamy was reckoned largely in her favour. with nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no hope, and seemingly no wish, of gaining anything, it could only be a genuine regard for virtue that had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths. it was perceived, too, that while hester never put forward even the humblest title to share in the world's privileges--further than to breathe the common air and earn daily bread for little pearl and herself by the faithful labour of her hands--she was quick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man whenever benefits were to be conferred. none so ready as she to give of her little substance to every demand of poverty, even though the bitter-hearted pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to his door, or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a monarch's robe. none so self-devoted as hester when pestilence stalked through the town. in all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of individuals, the outcast of society at once found her place. she came, not as a guest, but as a rightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by trouble, as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in which she was entitled to hold intercourse with her fellow-creature. there glimmered the embroidered letter, with comfort in its unearthly ray. elsewhere the token of sin, it was the taper of the sick chamber. it had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer's hard extremity, across the verge of time. it had shown him where to set his foot, while the light of earth was fast becoming dim, and ere the light of futurity could reach him. in such emergencies hester's nature showed itself warm and rich--a well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand, and inexhaustible by the largest. her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the softer pillow for the head that needed one. she was self-ordained a sister of mercy, or, we may rather say, the world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. the letter was the symbol of her calling. such helpfulness was found in her--so much power to do, and power to sympathise--that many people refused to interpret the scarlet a by its original signification. they said that it meant able, so strong was hester prynne, with a woman's strength. it was only the darkened house that could contain her. when sunshine came again, she was not there. her shadow had faded across the threshold. the helpful inmate had departed, without one backward glance to gather up the meed of gratitude, if any were in the hearts of those whom she had served so zealously. meeting them in the street, she never raised her head to receive their greeting. if they were resolute to accost her, she laid her finger on the scarlet letter, and passed on. this might be pride, but was so like humility, that it produced all the softening influence of the latter quality on the public mind. the public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying common justice when too strenuously demanded as a right; but quite as frequently it awards more than justice, when the appeal is made, as despots love to have it made, entirely to its generosity. interpreting hester prynne's deportment as an appeal of this nature, society was inclined to show its former victim a more benign countenance than she cared to be favoured with, or, perchance, than she deserved. the rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were longer in acknowledging the influence of hester's good qualities than the people. the prejudices which they shared in common with the latter were fortified in themselves by an iron frame-work of reasoning, that made it a far tougher labour to expel them. day by day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid wrinkles were relaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might grow to be an expression of almost benevolence. thus it was with the men of rank, on whom their eminent position imposed the guardianship of the public morals. individuals in private life, meanwhile, had quite forgiven hester prynne for her frailty; nay, more, they had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the token, not of that one sin for which she had borne so long and dreary a penance, but of her many good deeds since. "do you see that woman with the embroidered badge?" they would say to strangers. "it is our hester--the town's own hester--who is so kind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so comfortable to the afflicted!" then, it is true, the propensity of human nature to tell the very worst of itself, when embodied in the person of another, would constrain them to whisper the black scandal of bygone years. it was none the less a fact, however, that in the eyes of the very men who spoke thus, the scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun's bosom. it imparted to the wearer a kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk securely amid all peril. had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her safe. it was reported, and believed by many, that an indian had drawn his arrow against the badge, and that the missile struck it, and fell harmless to the ground. the effect of the symbol--or rather, of the position in respect to society that was indicated by it--on the mind of hester prynne herself was powerful and peculiar. all the light and graceful foliage of her character had been withered up by this red-hot brand, and had long ago fallen away, leaving a bare and harsh outline, which might have been repulsive had she possessed friends or companions to be repelled by it. even the attractiveness of her person had undergone a similar change. it might be partly owing to the studied austerity of her dress, and partly to the lack of demonstration in her manners. it was a sad transformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either been cut off, or was so completely hidden by a cap, that not a shining lock of it ever once gushed into the sunshine. it was due in part to all these causes, but still more to something else, that there seemed to be no longer anything in hester's face for love to dwell upon; nothing in hester's form, though majestic and statue like, that passion would ever dream of clasping in its embrace; nothing in hester's bosom to make it ever again the pillow of affection. some attribute had departed from her, the permanence of which had been essential to keep her a woman. such is frequently the fate, and such the stern development, of the feminine character and person, when the woman has encountered, and lived through, an experience of peculiar severity. if she be all tenderness, she will die. if she survive, the tenderness will either be crushed out of her, or--and the outward semblance is the same--crushed so deeply into her heart that it can never show itself more. the latter is perhaps the truest theory. she who has once been a woman, and ceased to be so, might at any moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch to effect the transformation. we shall see whether hester prynne were ever afterwards so touched and so transfigured. much of the marble coldness of hester's impression was to be attributed to the circumstance that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and feeling to thought. standing alone in the world--alone, as to any dependence on society, and with little pearl to be guided and protected--alone, and hopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to consider it desirable--she cast away the fragment of a broken chain. the world's law was no law for her mind. it was an age in which the human intellect, newly emancipated, had taken a more active and a wider range than for many centuries before. men of the sword had overthrown nobles and kings. men bolder than these had overthrown and rearranged--not actually, but within the sphere of theory, which was their most real abode--the whole system of ancient prejudice, wherewith was linked much of ancient principle. hester prynne imbibed this spirit. she assumed a freedom of speculation, then common enough on the other side of the atlantic, but which our forefathers, had they known it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that stigmatised by the scarlet letter. in her lonesome cottage, by the seashore, thoughts visited her such as dared to enter no other dwelling in new england; shadowy guests, that would have been as perilous as demons to their entertainer, could they have been seen so much as knocking at her door. it is remarkable that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. the thought suffices them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action. so it seemed to be with hester. yet, had little pearl never come to her from the spiritual world, it might have been far otherwise. then she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with ann hutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect. she might, in one of her phases, have been a prophetess. she might, and not improbably would, have suffered death from the stern tribunals of the period, for attempting to undermine the foundations of the puritan establishment. but, in the education of her child, the mother's enthusiasm of thought had something to wreak itself upon. providence, in the person of this little girl, had assigned to hester's charge, the germ and blossom of womanhood, to be cherished and developed amid a host of difficulties. everything was against her. the world was hostile. the child's own nature had something wrong in it which continually betokened that she had been born amiss--the effluence of her mother's lawless passion--and often impelled hester to ask, in bitterness of heart, whether it were for ill or good that the poor little creature had been born at all. indeed, the same dark question often rose into her mind with reference to the whole race of womanhood. was existence worth accepting even to the happiest among them? as concerned her own individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative, and dismissed the point as settled. a tendency to speculation, though it may keep women quiet, as it does man, yet makes her sad. she discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her. as a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down and built up anew. then the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to be essentially modified before woman can be allowed to assume what seems a fair and suitable position. finally, all other difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of these preliminary reforms until she herself shall have undergone a still mightier change, in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein she has her truest life, will be found to have evaporated. a woman never overcomes these problems by any exercise of thought. they are not to be solved, or only in one way. if her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish. thus hester prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clue in the dark labyrinth of mind; now turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting back from a deep chasm. there was wild and ghastly scenery all around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. at times a fearful doubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send pearl at once to heaven, and go herself to such futurity as eternal justice should provide. the scarlet letter had not done its office. now, however, her interview with the reverend mr. dimmesdale, on the night of his vigil, had given her a new theme of reflection, and held up to her an object that appeared worthy of any exertion and sacrifice for its attainment. she had witnessed the intense misery beneath which the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had ceased to struggle. she saw that he stood on the verge of lunacy, if he had not already stepped across it. it was impossible to doubt that, whatever painful efficacy there might be in the secret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been infused into it by the hand that proffered relief. a secret enemy had been continually by his side, under the semblance of a friend and helper, and had availed himself of the opportunities thus afforded for tampering with the delicate springs of mr. dimmesdale's nature. hester could not but ask herself whether there had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and loyalty on her own part, in allowing the minister to be thrown into a position where so much evil was to be foreboded and nothing auspicious to be hoped. her only justification lay in the fact that she had been able to discern no method of rescuing him from a blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself except by acquiescing in roger chillingworth's scheme of disguise. under that impulse she had made her choice, and had chosen, as it now appeared, the more wretched alternative of the two. she determined to redeem her error so far as it might yet be possible. strengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she felt herself no longer so inadequate to cope with roger chillingworth as on that night, abased by sin and half-maddened by the ignominy that was still new, when they had talked together in the prison-chamber. she had climbed her way since then to a higher point. the old man, on the other hand, had brought himself nearer to her level, or, perhaps, below it, by the revenge which he had stooped for. in fine, hester prynne resolved to meet her former husband, and do what might be in her power for the rescue of the victim on whom he had so evidently set his gripe. the occasion was not long to seek. one afternoon, walking with pearl in a retired part of the peninsula, she beheld the old physician with a basket on one arm and a staff in the other hand, stooping along the ground in quest of roots and herbs to concoct his medicine withal. xiv. hester and the physician hester bade little pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs. so the child flew away like a bird, and, making bare her small white feet went pattering along the moist margin of the sea. here and there she came to a full stop, and peeped curiously into a pool, left by the retiring tide as a mirror for pearl to see her face in. forth peeped at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening curls around her head, and an elf-smile in her eyes, the image of a little maid whom pearl, having no other playmate, invited to take her hand and run a race with her. but the visionary little maid on her part, beckoned likewise, as if to say--"this is a better place; come thou into the pool." and pearl, stepping in mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at the bottom; while, out of a still lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of fragmentary smile, floating to and fro in the agitated water. meanwhile her mother had accosted the physician. "i would speak a word with you," said she--"a word that concerns us much." "aha! and is it mistress hester that has a word for old roger chillingworth?" answered he, raising himself from his stooping posture. "with all my heart! why, mistress, i hear good tidings of you on all hands! no longer ago than yester-eve, a magistrate, a wise and godly man, was discoursing of your affairs, mistress hester, and whispered me that there had been question concerning you in the council. it was debated whether or no, with safety to the commonweal, yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. on my life, hester, i made my intreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be done forthwith." "it lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off the badge," calmly replied hester. "were i worthy to be quit of it, it would fall away of its own nature, or be transformed into something that should speak a different purport." "nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better," rejoined he, "a woman must needs follow her own fancy touching the adornment of her person. the letter is gaily embroidered, and shows right bravely on your bosom!" all this while hester had been looking steadily at the old man, and was shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern what a change had been wrought upon him within the past seven years. it was not so much that he had grown older; for though the traces of advancing life were visible he bore his age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigour and alertness. but the former aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet, which was what she best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been succeeded by an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. it seemed to be his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a smile, but the latter played him false, and flickered over his visage so derisively that the spectator could see his blackness all the better for it. ever and anon, too, there came a glare of red light out of his eyes, as if the old man's soul were on fire and kept on smouldering duskily within his breast, until by some casual puff of passion it was blown into a momentary flame. this he repressed as speedily as possible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had happened. in a word, old roger chillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's office. this unhappy person had effected such a transformation by devoting himself for seven years to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortures which he analysed and gloated over. the scarlet letter burned on hester prynne's bosom. here was another ruin, the responsibility of which came partly home to her. "what see you in my face," asked the physician, "that you look at it so earnestly?" "something that would make me weep, if there were any tears bitter enough for it," answered she. "but let it pass! it is of yonder miserable man that i would speak." "and what of him?" cried roger chillingworth, eagerly, as if he loved the topic, and were glad of an opportunity to discuss it with the only person of whom he could make a confidant. "not to hide the truth, mistress hester, my thoughts happen just now to be busy with the gentleman. so speak freely and i will make answer." "when we last spake together," said hester, "now seven years ago, it was your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy as touching the former relation betwixt yourself and me. as the life and good fame of yonder man were in your hands there seemed no choice to me, save to be silent in accordance with your behest. yet it was not without heavy misgivings that i thus bound myself, for, having cast off all duty towards other human beings, there remained a duty towards him, and something whispered me that i was betraying it in pledging myself to keep your counsel. since that day no man is so near to him as you. you tread behind his every footstep. you are beside him, sleeping and waking. you search his thoughts. you burrow and rankle in his heart! your clutch is on his life, and you cause him to die daily a living death, and still he knows you not. in permitting this i have surely acted a false part by the only man to whom the power was left me to be true!" "what choice had you?" asked roger chillingworth. "my finger, pointed at this man, would have hurled him from his pulpit into a dungeon, thence, peradventure, to the gallows!" "it had been better so!" said hester prynne. "what evil have i done the man?" asked roger chillingworth again. "i tell thee, hester prynne, the richest fee that ever physician earned from monarch could not have bought such care as i have wasted on this miserable priest! but for my aid his life would have burned away in torments within the first two years after the perpetration of his crime and thine. for, hester, his spirit lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine has, beneath a burden like thy scarlet letter. oh, i could reveal a goodly secret! but enough. what art can do, i have exhausted on him. that he now breathes and creeps about on earth is owing all to me!" "better he had died at once!" said hester prynne. "yea, woman, thou sayest truly!" cried old roger chillingworth, letting the lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her eyes. "better had he died at once! never did mortal suffer what this man has suffered. and all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy! he has been conscious of me. he has felt an influence dwelling always upon him like a curse. he knew, by some spiritual sense--for the creator never made another being so sensitive as this--he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his heartstrings, and that an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. but he knew not that the eye and hand were mine! with the superstition common to his brotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with frightful dreams and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse and despair of pardon, as a foretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. but it was the constant shadow of my presence, the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most vilely wronged, and who had grown to exist only by this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! yea, indeed, he did not err, there was a fiend at his elbow! a mortal man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his especial torment." the unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted his hands with a look of horror, as if he had beheld some frightful shape, which he could not recognise, usurping the place of his own image in a glass. it was one of those moments--which sometimes occur only at the interval of years--when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind's eye. not improbably he had never before viewed himself as he did now. "hast thou not tortured him enough?" said hester, noticing the old man's look. "has he not paid thee all?" "no, no! he has but increased the debt!" answered the physician, and as he proceeded, his manner lost its fiercer characteristics, and subsided into gloom. "dost thou remember me, hester, as i was nine years agone? even then i was in the autumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn. but all my life had been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, quiet years, bestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own knowledge, and faithfully, too, though this latter object was but casual to the other--faithfully for the advancement of human welfare. no life had been more peaceful and innocent than mine; few lives so rich with benefits conferred. dost thou remember me? was i not, though you might deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little for himself--kind, true, just and of constant, if not warm affections? was i not all this?" "all this, and more," said hester. "and what am i now?" demanded he, looking into her face, and permitting the whole evil within him to be written on his features. "i have already told thee what i am--a fiend! who made me so?" "it was myself," cried hester, shuddering. "it was i, not less than he. why hast thou not avenged thyself on me?" "i have left thee to the scarlet letter," replied roger chillingworth. "if that has not avenged me, i can do no more!" he laid his finger on it with a smile. "it has avenged thee," answered hester prynne. "i judged no less," said the physician. "and now what wouldst thou with me touching this man?" "i must reveal the secret," answered hester, firmly. "he must discern thee in thy true character. what may be the result i know not. but this long debt of confidence, due from me to him, whose bane and ruin i have been, shall at length be paid. so far as concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and his earthly state, and perchance his life, he is in my hands. nor do i--whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth, though it be the truth of red-hot iron entering into the soul--nor do i perceive such advantage in his living any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that i shall stoop to implore thy mercy. do with him as thou wilt! there is no good for him, no good for me, no good for thee. there is no good for little pearl. there is no path to guide us out of this dismal maze." "woman, i could well-nigh pity thee," said roger chillingworth, unable to restrain a thrill of admiration too, for there was a quality almost majestic in the despair which she expressed. "thou hadst great elements. peradventure, hadst thou met earlier with a better love than mine, this evil had not been. i pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature." "and i thee," answered hester prynne, "for the hatred that has transformed a wise and just man to a fiend! wilt thou yet purge it out of thee, and be once more human? if not for his sake, then doubly for thine own! forgive, and leave his further retribution to the power that claims it! i said, but now, that there could be no good event for him, or thee, or me, who are here wandering together in this gloomy maze of evil, and stumbling at every step over the guilt wherewith we have strewn our path. it is not so! there might be good for thee, and thee alone, since thou hast been deeply wronged and hast it at thy will to pardon. wilt thou give up that only privilege? wilt thou reject that priceless benefit?" "peace, hester--peace!" replied the old man, with gloomy sternness--"it is not granted me to pardon. i have no such power as thou tellest me of. my old faith, long forgotten, comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer. by thy first step awry, thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment it has all been a dark necessity. ye that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am i fiend-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from his hands. it is our fate. let the black flower blossom as it may! now, go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder man." he waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of gathering herbs. xv. hester and pearl so roger chillingworth--a deformed old figure with a face that haunted men's memories longer than they liked--took leave of hester prynne, and went stooping away along the earth. he gathered here and there a herb, or grubbed up a root and put it into the basket on his arm. his gray beard almost touched the ground as he crept onward. hester gazed after him a little while, looking with a half fantastic curiosity to see whether the tender grass of early spring would not be blighted beneath him and show the wavering track of his footsteps, sere and brown, across its cheerful verdure. she wondered what sort of herbs they were which the old man was so sedulous to gather. would not the earth, quickened to an evil purpose by the sympathy of his eye, greet him with poisonous shrubs of species hitherto unknown, that would start up under his fingers? or might it suffice him that every wholesome growth should be converted into something deleterious and malignant at his touch? did the sun, which shone so brightly everywhere else, really fall upon him? or was there, as it rather seemed, a circle of ominous shadow moving along with his deformity whichever way he turned himself? and whither was he now going? would he not suddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and blasted spot, where, in due course of time, would be seen deadly nightshade, dogwood, henbane, and whatever else of vegetable wickedness the climate could produce, all flourishing with hideous luxuriance? or would he spread bat's wings and flee away, looking so much the uglier the higher he rose towards heaven? "be it sin or no," said hester prynne, bitterly, as still she gazed after him, "i hate the man!" she upbraided herself for the sentiment, but could not overcome or lessen it. attempting to do so, she thought of those long-past days in a distant land, when he used to emerge at eventide from the seclusion of his study and sit down in the firelight of their home, and in the light of her nuptial smile. he needed to bask himself in that smile, he said, in order that the chill of so many lonely hours among his books might be taken off the scholar's heart. such scenes had once appeared not otherwise than happy, but now, as viewed through the dismal medium of her subsequent life, they classed themselves among her ugliest remembrances. she marvelled how such scenes could have been! she marvelled how she could ever have been wrought upon to marry him! she deemed it her crime most to be repented of, that she had ever endured and reciprocated the lukewarm grasp of his hand, and had suffered the smile of her lips and eyes to mingle and melt into his own. and it seemed a fouler offence committed by roger chillingworth than any which had since been done him, that, in the time when her heart knew no better, he had persuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side. "yes, i hate him!" repeated hester more bitterly than before. "he betrayed me! he has done me worse wrong than i did him!" let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart! else it may be their miserable fortune, as it was roger chillingworth's, when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality. but hester ought long ago to have done with this injustice. what did it betoken? had seven long years, under the torture of the scarlet letter, inflicted so much of misery and wrought out no repentance? the emotion of that brief space, while she stood gazing after the crooked figure of old roger chillingworth, threw a dark light on hester's state of mind, revealing much that she might not otherwise have acknowledged to herself. he being gone, she summoned back her child. "pearl! little pearl! where are you?" pearl, whose activity of spirit never flagged, had been at no loss for amusement while her mother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. at first, as already told, she had flirted fancifully with her own image in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom forth, and--as it declined to venture--seeking a passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky. soon finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere for better pastime. she made little boats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snailshells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant in new england; but the larger part of them foundered near the shore. she seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made prize of several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm sun. then she took up the white foam that streaked the line of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps to catch the great snowflakes ere they fell. perceiving a flock of beach-birds that fed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting them. one little gray bird, with a white breast, pearl was almost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a broken wing. but then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her sport, because it grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as pearl herself. her final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and make herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little mermaid. she inherited her mother's gift for devising drapery and costume. as the last touch to her mermaid's garb, pearl took some eel-grass and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration with which she was so familiar on her mother's. a letter--the letter a--but freshly green instead of scarlet. the child bent her chin upon her breast, and contemplated this device with strange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she had been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import. "i wonder if mother will ask me what it means?" thought pearl. just then she heard her mother's voice, and, flitting along as lightly as one of the little sea-birds, appeared before hester prynne dancing, laughing, and pointing her finger to the ornament upon her bosom. "my little pearl," said hester, after a moment's silence, "the green letter, and on thy childish bosom, has no purport. but dost thou know, my child, what this letter means which thy mother is doomed to wear?" "yes, mother," said the child. "it is the great letter a. thou hast taught me in the horn-book." hester looked steadily into her little face; but though there was that singular expression which she had so often remarked in her black eyes, she could not satisfy herself whether pearl really attached any meaning to the symbol. she felt a morbid desire to ascertain the point. "dost thou know, child, wherefore thy mother wears this letter?" "truly do i!" answered pearl, looking brightly into her mother's face. "it is for the same reason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart!" "and what reason is that?" asked hester, half smiling at the absurd incongruity of the child's observation; but on second thoughts turning pale. "what has the letter to do with any heart save mine?" "nay, mother, i have told all i know," said pearl, more seriously than she was wont to speak. "ask yonder old man whom thou hast been talking with,--it may be he can tell. but in good earnest now, mother dear, what does this scarlet letter mean?--and why dost thou wear it on thy bosom?--and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?" she took her mother's hand in both her own, and gazed into her eyes with an earnestness that was seldom seen in her wild and capricious character. the thought occurred to hester, that the child might really be seeking to approach her with childlike confidence, and doing what she could, and as intelligently as she knew how, to establish a meeting-point of sympathy. it showed pearl in an unwonted aspect. heretofore, the mother, while loving her child with the intensity of a sole affection, had schooled herself to hope for little other return than the waywardness of an april breeze, which spends its time in airy sport, and has its gusts of inexplicable passion, and is petulant in its best of moods, and chills oftener than caresses you, when you take it to your bosom; in requital of which misdemeanours it will sometimes, of its own vague purpose, kiss your cheek with a kind of doubtful tenderness, and play gently with your hair, and then be gone about its other idle business, leaving a dreamy pleasure at your heart. and this, moreover, was a mother's estimate of the child's disposition. any other observer might have seen few but unamiable traits, and have given them a far darker colouring. but now the idea came strongly into hester's mind, that pearl, with her remarkable precocity and acuteness, might already have approached the age when she could have been made a friend, and intrusted with as much of her mother's sorrows as could be imparted, without irreverence either to the parent or the child. in the little chaos of pearl's character there might be seen emerging and could have been from the very first--the steadfast principles of an unflinching courage--an uncontrollable will--sturdy pride, which might be disciplined into self-respect--and a bitter scorn of many things which, when examined, might be found to have the taint of falsehood in them. she possessed affections, too, though hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest flavours of unripe fruit. with all these sterling attributes, thought hester, the evil which she inherited from her mother must be great indeed, if a noble woman do not grow out of this elfish child. pearl's inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the scarlet letter seemed an innate quality of her being. from the earliest epoch of her conscious life, she had entered upon this as her appointed mission. hester had often fancied that providence had a design of justice and retribution, in endowing the child with this marked propensity; but never, until now, had she bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design, there might not likewise be a purpose of mercy and beneficence. if little pearl were entertained with faith and trust, as a spirit messenger no less than an earthly child, might it not be her errand to soothe away the sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart, and converted it into a tomb?--and to help her to overcome the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead nor asleep, but only imprisoned within the same tomb-like heart? such were some of the thoughts that now stirred in hester's mind, with as much vivacity of impression as if they had actually been whispered into her ear. and there was little pearl, all this while, holding her mother's hand in both her own, and turning her face upward, while she put these searching questions, once and again, and still a third time. "what does the letter mean, mother? and why dost thou wear it? and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?" "what shall i say?" thought hester to herself. "no! if this be the price of the child's sympathy, i cannot pay it." then she spoke aloud-"silly pearl," said she, "what questions are these? there are many things in this world that a child must not ask about. what know i of the minister's heart? and as for the scarlet letter, i wear it for the sake of its gold thread." in all the seven bygone years, hester prynne had never before been false to the symbol on her bosom. it may be that it was the talisman of a stern and severe, but yet a guardian spirit, who now forsook her; as recognising that, in spite of his strict watch over her heart, some new evil had crept into it, or some old one had never been expelled. as for little pearl, the earnestness soon passed out of her face. but the child did not see fit to let the matter drop. two or three times, as her mother and she went homeward, and as often at supper-time, and while hester was putting her to bed, and once after she seemed to be fairly asleep, pearl looked up, with mischief gleaming in her black eyes. "mother," said she, "what does the scarlet letter mean?" and the next morning, the first indication the child gave of being awake was by popping up her head from the pillow, and making that other enquiry, which she had so unaccountably connected with her investigations about the scarlet letter-"mother!--mother!--why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?" "hold thy tongue, naughty child!" answered her mother, with an asperity that she had never permitted to herself before. "do not tease me; else i shall put thee into the dark closet!" xvi. a forest walk hester prynne remained constant in her resolve to make known to mr. dimmesdale, at whatever risk of present pain or ulterior consequences, the true character of the man who had crept into his intimacy. for several days, however, she vainly sought an opportunity of addressing him in some of the meditative walks which she knew him to be in the habit of taking along the shores of the peninsula, or on the wooded hills of the neighbouring country. there would have been no scandal, indeed, nor peril to the holy whiteness of the clergyman's good fame, had she visited him in his own study, where many a penitent, ere now, had confessed sins of perhaps as deep a dye as the one betokened by the scarlet letter. but, partly that she dreaded the secret or undisguised interference of old roger chillingworth, and partly that her conscious heart imparted suspicion where none could have been felt, and partly that both the minister and she would need the whole wide world to breathe in, while they talked together--for all these reasons hester never thought of meeting him in any narrower privacy than beneath the open sky. at last, while attending a sick chamber, whither the rev. mr. dimmesdale had been summoned to make a prayer, she learnt that he had gone, the day before, to visit the apostle eliot, among his indian converts. he would probably return by a certain hour in the afternoon of the morrow. betimes, therefore, the next day, hester took little pearl--who was necessarily the companion of all her mother's expeditions, however inconvenient her presence--and set forth. the road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the peninsula to the mainland, was no other than a foot-path. it straggled onward into the mystery of the primeval forest. this hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so black and dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above, that, to hester's mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she had so long been wandering. the day was chill and sombre. overhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen at its solitary play along the path. this flitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of some long vista through the forest. the sportive sunlight--feebly sportive, at best, in the predominant pensiveness of the day and scene--withdrew itself as they came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier, because they had hoped to find them bright. "mother," said little pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. it runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. now, see! there it is, playing a good way off. stand you here, and let me run and catch it. i am but a child. it will not flee from me--for i wear nothing on my bosom yet!" "nor ever will, my child, i hope," said hester. "and why not, mother?" asked pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of her race. "will not it come of its own accord when i am a woman grown?" "run away, child," answered her mother, "and catch the sunshine. it will soon be gone." pearl set forth at a great pace, and as hester smiled to perceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendour, and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. the light lingered about the lonely child, as if glad of such a playmate, until her mother had drawn almost nigh enough to step into the magic circle too. "it will go now," said pearl, shaking her head. "see!" answered hester, smiling; "now i can stretch out my hand and grasp some of it." as she attempted to do so, the sunshine vanished; or, to judge from the bright expression that was dancing on pearl's features, her mother could have fancied that the child had absorbed it into herself, and would give it forth again, with a gleam about her path, as they should plunge into some gloomier shade. there was no other attribute that so much impressed her with a sense of new and untransmitted vigour in pearl's nature, as this never failing vivacity of spirits: she had not the disease of sadness, which almost all children, in these latter days, inherit, with the scrofula, from the troubles of their ancestors. perhaps this, too, was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy with which hester had fought against her sorrows before pearl's birth. it was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the child's character. she wanted--what some people want throughout life--a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanise and make her capable of sympathy. but there was time enough yet for little pearl. "come, my child!" said hester, looking about her from the spot where pearl had stood still in the sunshine--"we will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselves." "i am not aweary, mother," replied the little girl. "but you may sit down, if you will tell me a story meanwhile." "a story, child!" said hester. "and about what?" "oh, a story about the black man," answered pearl, taking hold of her mother's gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her face. "how he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him a big, heavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly black man offers his book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him here among the trees; and they are to write their names with their own blood; and then he sets his mark on their bosoms. didst thou ever meet the black man, mother?" "and who told you this story, pearl," asked her mother, recognising a common superstition of the period. "it was the old dame in the chimney corner, at the house where you watched last night," said the child. "but she fancied me asleep while she was talking of it. she said that a thousand and a thousand people had met him here, and had written in his book, and have his mark on them. and that ugly tempered lady, old mistress hibbins, was one. and, mother, the old dame said that this scarlet letter was the black man's mark on thee, and that it glows like a red flame when thou meetest him at midnight, here in the dark wood. is it true, mother? and dost thou go to meet him in the nighttime?" "didst thou ever awake and find thy mother gone?" asked hester. "not that i remember," said the child. "if thou fearest to leave me in our cottage, thou mightest take me along with thee. i would very gladly go! but, mother, tell me now! is there such a black man? and didst thou ever meet him? and is this his mark?" "wilt thou let me be at peace, if i once tell thee?" asked her mother. "yes, if thou tellest me all," answered pearl. "once in my life i met the black man!" said her mother. "this scarlet letter is his mark!" thus conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure themselves from the observation of any casual passenger along the forest track. here they sat down on a luxuriant heap of moss; which at some epoch of the preceding century, had been a gigantic pine, with its roots and trunk in the darksome shade, and its head aloft in the upper atmosphere. it was a little dell where they had seated themselves, with a leaf-strewn bank rising gently on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed of fallen and drowned leaves. the trees impending over it had flung down great branches from time to time, which choked up the current, and compelled it to form eddies and black depths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier passages there appeared a channel-way of pebbles, and brown, sparkling sand. letting the eyes follow along the course of the stream, they could catch the reflected light from its water, at some short distance within the forest, but soon lost all traces of it amid the bewilderment of tree-trunks and underbrush, and here and there a huge rock covered over with gray lichens. all these giant trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on making a mystery of the course of this small brook; fearing, perhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it should whisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it flowed, or mirror its revelations on the smooth surface of a pool. continually, indeed, as it stole onward, the streamlet kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy, like the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy without playfulness, and knew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance and events of sombre hue. "oh, brook! oh, foolish and tiresome little brook!" cried pearl, after listening awhile to its talk, "why art thou so sad? pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and murmuring!" but the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the forest trees, had gone through so solemn an experience that it could not help talking about it, and seemed to have nothing else to say. pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch as the current of her life gushed from a well-spring as mysterious, and had flowed through scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom. but, unlike the little stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily along her course. "what does this sad little brook say, mother?" inquired she. "if thou hadst a sorrow of thine own, the brook might tell thee of it," answered her mother, "even as it is telling me of mine. but now, pearl, i hear a footstep along the path, and the noise of one putting aside the branches. i would have thee betake thyself to play, and leave me to speak with him that comes yonder." "is it the black man?" asked pearl. "wilt thou go and play, child?" repeated her mother, "but do not stray far into the wood. and take heed that thou come at my first call." "yes, mother," answered pearl, "but if it be the black man, wilt thou not let me stay a moment, and look at him, with his big book under his arm?" "go, silly child!" said her mother impatiently. "it is no black man! thou canst see him now, through the trees. it is the minister!" "and so it is!" said the child. "and, mother, he has his hand over his heart! is it because, when the minister wrote his name in the book, the black man set his mark in that place? but why does he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou dost, mother?" "go now, child, and thou shalt tease me as thou wilt another time," cried hester prynne. "but do not stray far. keep where thou canst hear the babble of the brook." the child went singing away, following up the current of the brook, and striving to mingle a more lightsome cadence with its melancholy voice. but the little stream would not be comforted, and still kept telling its unintelligible secret of some very mournful mystery that had happened--or making a prophetic lamentation about something that was yet to happen--within the verge of the dismal forest. so pearl, who had enough of shadow in her own little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with this repining brook. she set herself, therefore, to gathering violets and wood-anemones, and some scarlet columbines that she found growing in the crevice of a high rock. when her elf-child had departed, hester prynne made a step or two towards the track that led through the forest, but still remained under the deep shadow of the trees. she beheld the minister advancing along the path entirely alone, and leaning on a staff which he had cut by the wayside. he looked haggard and feeble, and betrayed a nerveless despondency in his air, which had never so remarkably characterised him in his walks about the settlement, nor in any other situation where he deemed himself liable to notice. here it was wofully visible, in this intense seclusion of the forest, which of itself would have been a heavy trial to the spirits. there was a listlessness in his gait, as if he saw no reason for taking one step further, nor felt any desire to do so, but would have been glad, could he be glad of anything, to fling himself down at the root of the nearest tree, and lie there passive for evermore. the leaves might bestrew him, and the soil gradually accumulate and form a little hillock over his frame, no matter whether there were life in it or no. death was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided. to hester's eye, the reverend mr. dimmesdale exhibited no symptom of positive and vivacious suffering, except that, as little pearl had remarked, he kept his hand over his heart. xvii. the pastor and his parishioner slowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by before hester prynne could gather voice enough to attract his observation. at length she succeeded. "arthur dimmesdale!" she said, faintly at first, then louder, but hoarsely--"arthur dimmesdale!" "who speaks?" answered the minister. gathering himself quickly up, he stood more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a mood to which he was reluctant to have witnesses. throwing his eyes anxiously in the direction of the voice, he indistinctly beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments so sombre, and so little relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded sky and the heavy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it were a woman or a shadow. it may be that his pathway through life was haunted thus by a spectre that had stolen out from among his thoughts. he made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter. "hester! hester prynne!", said he; "is it thou? art thou in life?" "even so." she answered. "in such life as has been mine these seven years past! and thou, arthur dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?" it was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual and bodily existence, and even doubted of their own. so strangely did they meet in the dim wood that it was like the first encounter in the world beyond the grave of two spirits who had been intimately connected in their former life, but now stood coldly shuddering in mutual dread, as not yet familiar with their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied beings. each a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost. they were awe-stricken likewise at themselves, because the crisis flung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to each heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at such breathless epochs. the soul beheld its features in the mirror of the passing moment. it was with fear, and tremulously, and, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that arthur dimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death, and touched the chill hand of hester prynne. the grasp, cold as it was, took away what was dreariest in the interview. they now felt themselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere. without a word more spoken--neither he nor she assuming the guidance, but with an unexpressed consent--they glided back into the shadow of the woods whence hester had emerged, and sat down on the heap of moss where she and pearl had before been sitting. when they found voice to speak, it was at first only to utter remarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next, the health of each. thus they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, into the themes that were brooding deepest in their hearts. so long estranged by fate and circumstances, they needed something slight and casual to run before and throw open the doors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led across the threshold. after awhile, the minister fixed his eyes on hester prynne's. "hester," said he, "hast thou found peace?" she smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom. "hast thou?" she asked. "none--nothing but despair!" he answered. "what else could i look for, being what i am, and leading such a life as mine? were i an atheist--a man devoid of conscience--a wretch with coarse and brutal instincts--i might have found peace long ere now. nay, i never should have lost it. but, as matters stand with my soul, whatever of good capacity there originally was in me, all of god's gifts that were the choicest have become the ministers of spiritual torment. hester, i am most miserable!" "the people reverence thee," said hester. "and surely thou workest good among them! doth this bring thee no comfort?" "more misery, hester!--only the more misery!" answered the clergyman with a bitter smile. "as concerns the good which i may appear to do, i have no faith in it. it must needs be a delusion. what can a ruined soul like mine effect towards the redemption of other souls?--or a polluted soul towards their purification? and as for the people's reverence, would that it were turned to scorn and hatred! canst thou deem it, hester, a consolation that i must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many eyes turned upward to my face, as if the light of heaven were beaming from it!--must see my flock hungry for the truth, and listening to my words as if a tongue of pentecost were speaking!--and then look inward, and discern the black reality of what they idolise? i have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what i seem and what i am! and satan laughs at it!" "you wrong yourself in this," said hester gently. "you have deeply and sorely repented. your sin is left behind you in the days long past. your present life is not less holy, in very truth, than it seems in people's eyes. is there no reality in the penitence thus sealed and witnessed by good works? and wherefore should it not bring you peace?" "no, hester--no!" replied the clergyman. "there is no substance in it! it is cold and dead, and can do nothing for me! of penance, i have had enough! of penitence, there has been none! else, i should long ago have thrown off these garments of mock holiness, and have shown myself to mankind as they will see me at the judgment-seat. happy are you, hester, that wear the scarlet letter openly upon your bosom! mine burns in secret! thou little knowest what a relief it is, after the torment of a seven years' cheat, to look into an eye that recognises me for what i am! had i one friend--or were it my worst enemy!--to whom, when sickened with the praises of all other men, i could daily betake myself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners, methinks my soul might keep itself alive thereby. even thus much of truth would save me! but now, it is all falsehood!--all emptiness!--all death!" hester prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak. yet, uttering his long-restrained emotions so vehemently as he did, his words here offered her the very point of circumstances in which to interpose what she came to say. she conquered her fears, and spoke: "such a friend as thou hast even now wished for," said she, "with whom to weep over thy sin, thou hast in me, the partner of it!" again she hesitated, but brought out the words with an effort.--"thou hast long had such an enemy, and dwellest with him, under the same roof!" the minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and clutching at his heart, as if he would have torn it out of his bosom. "ha! what sayest thou?" cried he. "an enemy! and under mine own roof! what mean you?" hester prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for which she was responsible to this unhappy man, in permitting him to lie for so many years, or, indeed, for a single moment, at the mercy of one whose purposes could not be other than malevolent. the very contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever mask the latter might conceal himself, was enough to disturb the magnetic sphere of a being so sensitive as arthur dimmesdale. there had been a period when hester was less alive to this consideration; or, perhaps, in the misanthropy of her own trouble, she left the minister to bear what she might picture to herself as a more tolerable doom. but of late, since the night of his vigil, all her sympathies towards him had been both softened and invigorated. she now read his heart more accurately. she doubted not that the continual presence of roger chillingworth--the secret poison of his malignity, infecting all the air about him--and his authorised interference, as a physician, with the minister's physical and spiritual infirmities--that these bad opportunities had been turned to a cruel purpose. by means of them, the sufferer's conscience had been kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which was, not to cure by wholesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being. its result, on earth, could hardly fail to be insanity, and hereafter, that eternal alienation from the good and true, of which madness is perhaps the earthly type. such was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once--nay, why should we not speak it?--still so passionately loved! hester felt that the sacrifice of the clergyman's good name, and death itself, as she had already told roger chillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative which she had taken upon herself to choose. and now, rather than have had this grievous wrong to confess, she would gladly have laid down on the forest leaves, and died there, at arthur dimmesdale's feet. "oh, arthur!" cried she, "forgive me! in all things else, i have striven to be true! truth was the one virtue which i might have held fast, and did hold fast, through all extremity; save when thy good--thy life--thy fame--were put in question! then i consented to a deception. but a lie is never good, even though death threaten on the other side! dost thou not see what i would say? that old man!--the physician!--he whom they call roger chillingworth!--he was my husband!" the minister looked at her for an instant, with all that violence of passion, which--intermixed in more shapes than one with his higher, purer, softer qualities--was, in fact, the portion of him which the devil claimed, and through which he sought to win the rest. never was there a blacker or a fiercer frown than hester now encountered. for the brief space that it lasted, it was a dark transfiguration. but his character had been so much enfeebled by suffering, that even its lower energies were incapable of more than a temporary struggle. he sank down on the ground, and buried his face in his hands. "i might have known it," murmured he--"i did know it! was not the secret told me, in the natural recoil of my heart at the first sight of him, and as often as i have seen him since? why did i not understand? oh, hester prynne, thou little, little knowest all the horror of this thing! and the shame!--the indelicacy!--the horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it! woman, woman, thou art accountable for this!--i cannot forgive thee!" "thou shalt forgive me!" cried hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves beside him. "let god punish! thou shalt forgive!" with sudden and desperate tenderness she threw her arms around him, and pressed his head against her bosom, little caring though his cheek rested on the scarlet letter. he would have released himself, but strove in vain to do so. hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face. all the world had frowned on her--for seven long years had it frowned upon this lonely woman--and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes. heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. but the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what hester could not bear, and live! "wilt thou yet forgive me?" she repeated, over and over again. "wilt thou not frown? wilt thou forgive?" "i do forgive you, hester," replied the minister at length, with a deep utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger. "i freely forgive you now. may god forgive us both. we are not, hester, the worst sinners in the world. there is one worse than even the polluted priest! that old man's revenge has been blacker than my sin. he has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart. thou and i, hester, never did so!" "never, never!" whispered she. "what we did had a consecration of its own. we felt it so! we said so to each other. hast thou forgotten it?" "hush, hester!" said arthur dimmesdale, rising from the ground. "no; i have not forgotten!" they sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree. life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along--and yet it unclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim another, and another, and, after all, another moment. the forest was obscure around them, and creaked with a blast that was passing through it. the boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forbode evil to come. and yet they lingered. how dreary looked the forest-track that led backward to the settlement, where hester prynne must take up again the burden of her ignominy and the minister the hollow mockery of his good name! so they lingered an instant longer. no golden light had ever been so precious as the gloom of this dark forest. here seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman! here seen only by her eyes, arthur dimmesdale, false to god and man, might be, for one moment true! he started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him. "hester!" cried he, "here is a new horror! roger chillingworth knows your purpose to reveal his true character. will he continue, then, to keep our secret? what will now be the course of his revenge?" "there is a strange secrecy in his nature," replied hester, thoughtfully; "and it has grown upon him by the hidden practices of his revenge. i deem it not likely that he will betray the secret. he will doubtless seek other means of satiating his dark passion." "and i!--how am i to live longer, breathing the same air with this deadly enemy?" exclaimed arthur dimmesdale, shrinking within himself, and pressing his hand nervously against his heart--a gesture that had grown involuntary with him. "think for me, hester! thou art strong. resolve for me!" "thou must dwell no longer with this man," said hester, slowly and firmly. "thy heart must be no longer under his evil eye!" "it were far worse than death!" replied the minister. "but how to avoid it? what choice remains to me? shall i lie down again on these withered leaves, where i cast myself when thou didst tell me what he was? must i sink down there, and die at once?" "alas! what a ruin has befallen thee!" said hester, with the tears gushing into her eyes. "wilt thou die for very weakness? there is no other cause!" "the judgment of god is on me," answered the conscience-stricken priest. "it is too mighty for me to struggle with!" "heaven would show mercy," rejoined hester, "hadst thou but the strength to take advantage of it." "be thou strong for me!" answered he. "advise me what to do." "is the world, then, so narrow?" exclaimed hester prynne, fixing her deep eyes on the minister's, and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a spirit so shattered and subdued that it could hardly hold itself erect. "doth the universe lie within the compass of yonder town, which only a little time ago was but a leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as this around us? whither leads yonder forest-track? backward to the settlement, thou sayest! yes; but, onward, too! deeper it goes, and deeper into the wilderness, less plainly to be seen at every step; until some few miles hence the yellow leaves will show no vestige of the white man's tread. there thou art free! so brief a journey would bring thee from a world where thou hast been most wretched, to one where thou mayest still be happy! is there not shade enough in all this boundless forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of roger chillingworth?" "yes, hester; but only under the fallen leaves!" replied the minister, with a sad smile. "then there is the broad pathway of the sea!" continued hester. "it brought thee hither. if thou so choose, it will bear thee back again. in our native land, whether in some remote rural village, or in vast london--or, surely, in germany, in france, in pleasant italy--thou wouldst be beyond his power and knowledge! and what hast thou to do with all these iron men, and their opinions? they have kept thy better part in bondage too long already!" "it cannot be!" answered the minister, listening as if he were called upon to realise a dream. "i am powerless to go. wretched and sinful as i am, i have had no other thought than to drag on my earthly existence in the sphere where providence hath placed me. lost as my own soul is, i would still do what i may for other human souls! i dare not quit my post, though an unfaithful sentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonour, when his dreary watch shall come to an end!" "thou art crushed under this seven years' weight of misery," replied hester, fervently resolved to buoy him up with her own energy. "but thou shalt leave it all behind thee! it shall not cumber thy steps, as thou treadest along the forest-path: neither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to cross the sea. leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath happened. meddle no more with it! begin all anew! hast thou exhausted possibility in the failure of this one trial? not so! the future is yet full of trial and success. there is happiness to be enjoyed! there is good to be done! exchange this false life of thine for a true one. be, if thy spirit summon thee to such a mission, the teacher and apostle of the red men. or, as is more thy nature, be a scholar and a sage among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world. preach! write! act! do anything, save to lie down and die! give up this name of arthur dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one, such as thou canst wear without fear or shame. why shouldst thou tarry so much as one other day in the torments that have so gnawed into thy life? that have made thee feeble to will and to do? that will leave thee powerless even to repent? up, and away!" "oh, hester!" cried arthur dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful light, kindled by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away, "thou tellest of running a race to a man whose knees are tottering beneath him! i must die here! there is not the strength or courage left me to venture into the wide, strange, difficult world alone!" it was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. he lacked energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed within his reach. he repeated the word--"alone, hester!" "thou shall not go alone!" answered she, in a deep whisper. then, all was spoken! xviii. a flood of sunshine arthur dimmesdale gazed into hester's face with a look in which hope and joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of horror at her boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely hinted at, but dared not speak. but hester prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed from society, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. she had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness, as vast, as intricate, and shadowy as the untamed forest, amid the gloom of which they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide their fate. her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild indian in his woods. for years past she had looked from this estranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever priests or legislators had established; criticising all with hardly more reverence than the indian would feel for the clerical band, the judicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church. the tendency of her fate and fortunes had been to set her free. the scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. shame, despair, solitude! these had been her teachers--stern and wild ones--and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss. the minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience calculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally received laws; although, in a single instance, he had so fearfully transgressed one of the most sacred of them. but this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose. since that wretched epoch, he had watched with morbid zeal and minuteness, not his acts--for those it was easy to arrange--but each breath of emotion, and his every thought. at the head of the social system, as the clergymen of that day stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its principles, and even its prejudices. as a priest, the framework of his order inevitably hemmed him in. as a man who had once sinned, but who kept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the fretting of an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer within the line of virtue than if he had never sinned at all. thus we seem to see that, as regarded hester prynne, the whole seven years of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a preparation for this very hour. but arthur dimmesdale! were such a man once more to fall, what plea could be urged in extenuation of his crime? none; unless it avail him somewhat that he was broken down by long and exquisite suffering; that his mind was darkened and confused by the very remorse which harrowed it; that, between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaining as a hypocrite, conscience might find it hard to strike the balance; that it was human to avoid the peril of death and infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy; that, finally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick, miserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and sympathy, a new life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy doom which he was now expiating. and be the stern and sad truth spoken, that the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is never, in this mortal state, repaired. it may be watched and guarded, so that the enemy shall not force his way again into the citadel, and might even in his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. but there is still the ruined wall, and near it the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his unforgotten triumph. the struggle, if there were one, need not be described. let it suffice that the clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone. "if in all these past seven years," thought he, "i could recall one instant of peace or hope, i would yet endure, for the sake of that earnest of heaven's mercy. but now--since i am irrevocably doomed--wherefore should i not snatch the solace allowed to the condemned culprit before his execution? or, if this be the path to a better life, as hester would persuade me, i surely give up no fairer prospect by pursuing it! neither can i any longer live without her companionship; so powerful is she to sustain--so tender to soothe! o thou to whom i dare not lift mine eyes, wilt thou yet pardon me?" "thou wilt go!" said hester calmly, as he met her glance. the decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its flickering brightness over the trouble of his breast. it was the exhilarating effect--upon a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of his own heart--of breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an unredeemed, unchristianised, lawless region. his spirit rose, as it were, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect of the sky, than throughout all the misery which had kept him grovelling on the earth. of a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the devotional in his mood. "do i feel joy again?" cried he, wondering at himself. "methought the germ of it was dead in me! oh, hester, thou art my better angel! i seem to have flung myself--sick, sin-stained, and sorrow-blackened--down upon these forest leaves, and to have risen up all made anew, and with new powers to glorify him that hath been merciful! this is already the better life! why did we not find it sooner?" "let us not look back," answered hester prynne. "the past is gone! wherefore should we linger upon it now? see! with this symbol i undo it all, and make it as if it had never been!" so speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter, and, taking it from her bosom, threw it to a distance among the withered leaves. the mystic token alighted on the hither verge of the stream. with a hand's-breadth further flight, it would have fallen into the water, and have given the little brook another woe to carry onward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept murmuring about. but there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost jewel, which some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be haunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and unaccountable misfortune. the stigma gone, hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden of shame and anguish departed from her spirit. o exquisite relief! she had not known the weight until she felt the freedom! by another impulse, she took off the formal cap that confined her hair, and down it fell upon her shoulders, dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a light in its abundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her features. there played around her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a radiant and tender smile, that seemed gushing from the very heart of womanhood. a crimson flush was glowing on her cheek, that had been long so pale. her sex, her youth, and the whole richness of her beauty, came back from what men call the irrevocable past, and clustered themselves with her maiden hope, and a happiness before unknown, within the magic circle of this hour. and, as if the gloom of the earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal hearts, it vanished with their sorrow. all at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven, forth burst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure forest, gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow fallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of the solemn trees. the objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness now. the course of the little brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's heart of mystery, which had become a mystery of joy. such was the sympathy of nature--that wild, heathen nature of the forest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth--with the bliss of these two spirits! love, whether newly-born, or aroused from a death-like slumber, must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world. had the forest still kept its gloom, it would have been bright in hester's eyes, and bright in arthur dimmesdale's! hester looked at him with a thrill of another joy. "thou must know pearl!" said she. "our little pearl! thou hast seen her--yes, i know it!--but thou wilt see her now with other eyes. she is a strange child! i hardly comprehend her! but thou wilt love her dearly, as i do, and wilt advise me how to deal with her!" "dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?" asked the minister, somewhat uneasily. "i have long shrunk from children, because they often show a distrust--a backwardness to be familiar with me. i have even been afraid of little pearl!" "ah, that was sad!" answered the mother. "but she will love thee dearly, and thou her. she is not far off. i will call her. pearl! pearl!" "i see the child," observed the minister. "yonder she is, standing in a streak of sunshine, a good way off, on the other side of the brook. so thou thinkest the child will love me?" hester smiled, and again called to pearl, who was visible at some distance, as the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled vision in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. the ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or distinct--now like a real child, now like a child's spirit--as the splendour went and came again. she heard her mother's voice, and approached slowly through the forest. pearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely while her mother sat talking with the clergyman. the great black forest--stern as it showed itself to those who brought the guilt and troubles of the world into its bosom--became the playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it knew how. sombre as it was, it put on the kindest of its moods to welcome her. it offered her the partridge-berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but ripening only in the spring, and now red as drops of blood upon the withered leaves. these pearl gathered, and was pleased with their wild flavour. the small denizens of the wilderness hardly took pains to move out of her path. a partridge, indeed, with a brood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented of her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. a pigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed pearl to come beneath, and uttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm. a squirrel, from the lofty depths of his domestic tree, chattered either in anger or merriment--for the squirrel is such a choleric and humorous little personage, that it is hard to distinguish between his moods--so he chattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. it was a last year's nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. a fox, startled from his sleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively at pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal off, or renew his nap on the same spot. a wolf, it is said--but here the tale has surely lapsed into the improbable--came up and smelt of pearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her hand. the truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognised a kindred wilderness in the human child. and she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the settlement, or in her mother's cottage. the bowers appeared to know it, and one and another whispered as she passed, "adorn thyself with me, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!"--and, to please them, pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and some twigs of the freshest green, which the old trees held down before her eyes. with these she decorated her hair and her young waist, and became a nymph child, or an infant dryad, or whatever else was in closest sympathy with the antique wood. in such guise had pearl adorned herself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly back. slowly--for she saw the clergyman! xix. the child at the brookside "thou wilt love her dearly," repeated hester prynne, as she and the minister sat watching little pearl. "dost thou not think her beautiful? and see with what natural skill she has made those simple flowers adorn her! had she gathered pearls, and diamonds, and rubies in the wood, they could not have become her better! she is a splendid child! but i know whose brow she has!" "dost thou know, hester," said arthur dimmesdale, with an unquiet smile, "that this dear child, tripping about always at thy side, hath caused me many an alarm? methought--oh, hester, what a thought is that, and how terrible to dread it!--that my own features were partly repeated in her face, and so strikingly that the world might see them! but she is mostly thine!" "no, no! not mostly!" answered the mother, with a tender smile. "a little longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace whose child she is. but how strangely beautiful she looks with those wild flowers in her hair! it is as if one of the fairies, whom we left in dear old england, had decked her out to meet us." it was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that they sat and watched pearl's slow advance. in her was visible the tie that united them. she had been offered to the world, these seven past years, as the living hieroglyphic, in which was revealed the secret they so darkly sought to hide--all written in this symbol--all plainly manifest--had there been a prophet or magician skilled to read the character of flame! and pearl was the oneness of their being. be the foregone evil what it might, how could they doubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined when they beheld at once the material union, and the spiritual idea, in whom they met, and were to dwell immortally together; thoughts like these--and perhaps other thoughts, which they did not acknowledge or define--threw an awe about the child as she came onward. "let her see nothing strange--no passion or eagerness--in thy way of accosting her," whispered hester. "our pearl is a fitful and fantastic little elf sometimes. especially she is generally intolerant of emotion, when she does not fully comprehend the why and wherefore. but the child hath strong affections! she loves me, and will love thee!" "thou canst not think," said the minister, glancing aside at hester prynne, "how my heart dreads this interview, and yearns for it! but, in truth, as i already told thee, children are not readily won to be familiar with me. they will not climb my knee, nor prattle in my ear, nor answer to my smile, but stand apart, and eye me strangely. even little babes, when i take them in my arms, weep bitterly. yet pearl, twice in her little lifetime, hath been kind to me! the first time--thou knowest it well! the last was when thou ledst her with thee to the house of yonder stern old governor." "and thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!" answered the mother. "i remember it; and so shall little pearl. fear nothing. she may be strange and shy at first, but will soon learn to love thee!" by this time pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on the further side, gazing silently at hester and the clergyman, who still sat together on the mossy tree-trunk waiting to receive her. just where she had paused, the brook chanced to form a pool so smooth and quiet that it reflected a perfect image of her little figure, with all the brilliant picturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of flowers and wreathed foliage, but more refined and spiritualized than the reality. this image, so nearly identical with the living pearl, seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible quality to the child herself. it was strange, the way in which pearl stood, looking so steadfastly at them through the dim medium of the forest gloom, herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a ray of sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a certain sympathy. in the brook beneath stood another child--another and the same--with likewise its ray of golden light. hester felt herself, in some indistinct and tantalizing manner, estranged from pearl, as if the child, in her lonely ramble through the forest, had strayed out of the sphere in which she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly seeking to return to it. there were both truth and error in the impression; the child and mother were estranged, but through hester's fault, not pearl's. since the latter rambled from her side, another inmate had been admitted within the circle of the mother's feelings, and so modified the aspect of them all, that pearl, the returning wanderer, could not find her wonted place, and hardly knew where she was. "i have a strange fancy," observed the sensitive minister, "that this brook is the boundary between two worlds, and that thou canst never meet thy pearl again. or is she an elfish spirit, who, as the legends of our childhood taught us, is forbidden to cross a running stream? pray hasten her, for this delay has already imparted a tremor to my nerves." "come, dearest child!" said hester encouragingly, and stretching out both her arms. "how slow thou art! when hast thou been so sluggish before now? here is a friend of mine, who must be thy friend also. thou wilt have twice as much love henceforward as thy mother alone could give thee! leap across the brook and come to us. thou canst leap like a young deer!" pearl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet expressions, remained on the other side of the brook. now she fixed her bright wild eyes on her mother, now on the minister, and now included them both in the same glance, as if to detect and explain to herself the relation which they bore to one another. for some unaccountable reason, as arthur dimmesdale felt the child's eyes upon himself, his hand--with that gesture so habitual as to have become involuntary--stole over his heart. at length, assuming a singular air of authority, pearl stretched out her hand, with the small forefinger extended, and pointing evidently towards her mother's breast. and beneath, in the mirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny image of little pearl, pointing her small forefinger too. "thou strange child! why dost thou not come to me?" exclaimed hester. pearl still pointed with her forefinger, and a frown gathered on her brow--the more impressive from the childish, the almost baby-like aspect of the features that conveyed it. as her mother still kept beckoning to her, and arraying her face in a holiday suit of unaccustomed smiles, the child stamped her foot with a yet more imperious look and gesture. in the brook, again, was the fantastic beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its pointed finger, and imperious gesture, giving emphasis to the aspect of little pearl. "hasten, pearl, or i shall be angry with thee!" cried hester prynne, who, however, inured to such behaviour on the elf-child's part at other seasons, was naturally anxious for a more seemly deportment now. "leap across the brook, naughty child, and run hither! else i must come to thee!" but pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats any more than mollified by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion, gesticulating violently, and throwing her small figure into the most extravagant contortions. she accompanied this wild outbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods reverberated on all sides, so that, alone as she was in her childish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden multitude were lending her their sympathy and encouragement. seen in the brook once more was the shadowy wrath of pearl's image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its foot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing its small forefinger at hester's bosom. "i see what ails the child," whispered hester to the clergyman, and turning pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her trouble and annoyance, "children will not abide any, the slightest, change in the accustomed aspect of things that are daily before their eyes. pearl misses something that she has always seen me wear!" "i pray you," answered the minister, "if thou hast any means of pacifying the child, do it forthwith! save it were the cankered wrath of an old witch like mistress hibbins," added he, attempting to smile, "i know nothing that i would not sooner encounter than this passion in a child. in pearl's young beauty, as in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternatural effect. pacify her if thou lovest me!" hester turned again towards pearl with a crimson blush upon her cheek, a conscious glance aside clergyman, and then a heavy sigh, while, even before she had time to speak, the blush yielded to a deadly pallor. "pearl," said she sadly, "look down at thy feet! there!--before thee!--on the hither side of the brook!" the child turned her eyes to the point indicated, and there lay the scarlet letter so close upon the margin of the stream that the gold embroidery was reflected in it. "bring it hither!" said hester. "come thou and take it up!" answered pearl. "was ever such a child!" observed hester aside to the minister. "oh, i have much to tell thee about her! but, in very truth, she is right as regards this hateful token. i must bear its torture yet a little longer--only a few days longer--until we shall have left this region, and look back hither as to a land which we have dreamed of. the forest cannot hide it! the mid-ocean shall take it from my hand, and swallow it up for ever!" with these words she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the scarlet letter, and fastened it again into her bosom. hopefully, but a moment ago, as hester had spoken of drowning it in the deep sea, there was a sense of inevitable doom upon her as she thus received back this deadly symbol from the hand of fate. she had flung it into infinite space! she had drawn an hour's free breath! and here again was the scarlet misery glittering on the old spot! so it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed invests itself with the character of doom. hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her hair and confined them beneath her cap. as if there were a withering spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed like fading sunshine, and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her. when the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to pearl. "dost thou know thy mother now, child?", asked she, reproachfully, but with a subdued tone. "wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy mother, now that she has her shame upon her--now that she is sad?" "yes; now i will!" answered the child, bounding across the brook, and clasping hester in her arms "now thou art my mother indeed! and i am thy little pearl!" in a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her mother's head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. but then--by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish--pearl put up her mouth and kissed the scarlet letter, too. "that was not kind!" said hester. "when thou hast shown me a little love, thou mockest me!" "why doth the minister sit yonder?" asked pearl. "he waits to welcome thee," replied her mother. "come thou, and entreat his blessing! he loves thee, my little pearl, and loves thy mother, too. wilt thou not love him? come he longs to greet thee!" "doth he love us?" said pearl, looking up with acute intelligence into her mother's face. "will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together, into the town?" "not now, my child," answered hester. "but in days to come he will walk hand in hand with us. we will have a home and fireside of our own; and thou shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach thee many things, and love thee dearly. thou wilt love him--wilt thou not?" "and will he always keep his hand over his heart?" inquired pearl. "foolish child, what a question is that!" exclaimed her mother. "come, and ask his blessing!" but, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her freakish nature, pearl would show no favour to the clergyman. it was only by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of which, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all. the minister--painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier regards--bent forward, and impressed one on her brow. hereupon, pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding water. she then remained apart, silently watching hester and the clergyman; while they talked together and made such arrangements as were suggested by their new position and the purposes soon to be fulfilled. and now this fateful interview had come to a close. the dell was to be left in solitude among its dark, old trees, which, with their multitudinous tongues, would whisper long of what had passed there, and no mortal be the wiser. and the melancholy brook would add this other tale to the mystery with which its little heart was already overburdened, and whereof it still kept up a murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of tone than for ages heretofore. xx. the minister in a maze as the minister departed, in advance of hester prynne and little pearl, he threw a backward glance, half expecting that he should discover only some faintly traced features or outline of the mother and the child, slowly fading into the twilight of the woods. so great a vicissitude in his life could not at once be received as real. but there was hester, clad in her gray robe, still standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had overthrown a long antiquity ago, and which time had ever since been covering with moss, so that these two fated ones, with earth's heaviest burden on them, might there sit down together, and find a single hour's rest and solace. and there was pearl, too, lightly dancing from the margin of the brook--now that the intrusive third person was gone--and taking her old place by her mother's side. so the minister had not fallen asleep and dreamed! in order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity of impression, which vexed it with a strange disquietude, he recalled and more thoroughly defined the plans which hester and himself had sketched for their departure. it had been determined between them that the old world, with its crowds and cities, offered them a more eligible shelter and concealment than the wilds of new england or all america, with its alternatives of an indian wigwam, or the few settlements of europeans scattered thinly along the sea-board. not to speak of the clergyman's health, so inadequate to sustain the hardships of a forest life, his native gifts, his culture, and his entire development would secure him a home only in the midst of civilization and refinement; the higher the state the more delicately adapted to it the man. in furtherance of this choice, it so happened that a ship lay in the harbour; one of those unquestionable cruisers, frequent at that day, which, without being absolutely outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable irresponsibility of character. this vessel had recently arrived from the spanish main, and within three days' time would sail for bristol. hester prynne--whose vocation, as a self-enlisted sister of charity, had brought her acquainted with the captain and crew--could take upon herself to secure the passage of two individuals and a child with all the secrecy which circumstances rendered more than desirable. the minister had inquired of hester, with no little interest, the precise time at which the vessel might be expected to depart. it would probably be on the fourth day from the present. "this is most fortunate!" he had then said to himself. now, why the reverend mr. dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate we hesitate to reveal. nevertheless--to hold nothing back from the reader--it was because, on the third day from the present, he was to preach the election sermon; and, as such an occasion formed an honourable epoch in the life of a new england clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode and time of terminating his professional career. "at least, they shall say of me," thought this exemplary man, "that i leave no public duty unperformed or ill-performed!" sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound and acute as this poor minister's should be so miserably deceived! we have had, and may still have, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable, of a subtle disease that had long since begun to eat into the real substance of his character. no man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true. the excitement of mr. dimmesdale's feelings as he returned from his interview with hester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried him townward at a rapid pace. the pathway among the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude natural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he remembered it on his outward journey. but he leaped across the plashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbrush, climbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in short, all the difficulties of the track, with an unweariable activity that astonished him. he could not but recall how feebly, and with what frequent pauses for breath he had toiled over the same ground, only two days before. as he drew near the town, he took an impression of change from the series of familiar objects that presented themselves. it seemed not yesterday, not one, not two, but many days, or even years ago, since he had quitted them. there, indeed, was each former trace of the street, as he remembered it, and all the peculiarities of the houses, with the due multitude of gable-peaks, and a weather-cock at every point where his memory suggested one. not the less, however, came this importunately obtrusive sense of change. the same was true as regarded the acquaintances whom he met, and all the well-known shapes of human life, about the little town. they looked neither older nor younger now; the beards of the aged were no whiter, nor could the creeping babe of yesterday walk on his feet to-day; it was impossible to describe in what respect they differed from the individuals on whom he had so recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet the minister's deepest sense seemed to inform him of their mutability. a similar impression struck him most remarkably as he passed under the walls of his own church. the edifice had so very strange, and yet so familiar an aspect, that mr. dimmesdale's mind vibrated between two ideas; either that he had seen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming about it now. this phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed, indicated no external change, but so sudden and important a change in the spectator of the familiar scene, that the intervening space of a single day had operated on his consciousness like the lapse of years. the minister's own will, and hester's will, and the fate that grew between them, had wrought this transformation. it was the same town as heretofore, but the same minister returned not from the forest. he might have said to the friends who greeted him--"i am not the man for whom you take me! i left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn into a secret dell, by a mossy tree trunk, and near a melancholy brook! go, seek your minister, and see if his emaciated figure, his thin cheek, his white, heavy, pain-wrinkled brow, be not flung down there, like a cast-off garment!" his friends, no doubt, would still have insisted with him--"thou art thyself the man!" but the error would have been their own, not his. before mr. dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other evidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling. in truth, nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral code, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the impulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled minister. at every step he was incited to do some strange, wild, wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once involuntary and intentional, in spite of himself, yet growing out of a profounder self than that which opposed the impulse. for instance, he met one of his own deacons. the good old man addressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal privilege which his venerable age, his upright and holy character, and his station in the church, entitled him to use and, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect, which the minister's professional and private claims alike demanded. never was there a more beautiful example of how the majesty of age and wisdom may comport with the obeisance and respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank, and inferior order of endowment, towards a higher. now, during a conversation of some two or three moments between the reverend mr. dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it was only by the most careful self-control that the former could refrain from uttering certain blasphemous suggestions that rose into his mind, respecting the communion-supper. he absolutely trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag itself in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own consent for so doing, without his having fairly given it. and, even with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid laughing, to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon would have been petrified by his minister's impiety. again, another incident of the same nature. hurrying along the street, the reverend mr. dimmesdale encountered the eldest female member of his church, a most pious and exemplary old dame, poor, widowed, lonely, and with a heart as full of reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her dead friends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied gravestones. yet all this, which would else have been such heavy sorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by religious consolations and the truths of scripture, wherewith she had fed herself continually for more than thirty years. and since mr. dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good grandam's chief earthly comfort--which, unless it had been likewise a heavenly comfort, could have been none at all--was to meet her pastor, whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed with a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing gospel truth, from his beloved lips, into her dulled, but rapturously attentive ear. but, on this occasion, up to the moment of putting his lips to the old woman's ear, mr. dimmesdale, as the great enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of scripture, nor aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him, unanswerable argument against the immortality of the human soul. the instilment thereof into her mind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down dead, at once, as by the effect of an intensely poisonous infusion. what he really did whisper, the minister could never afterwards recollect. there was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder in his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to the good widows comprehension, or which providence interpreted after a method of its own. assuredly, as the minister looked back, he beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy that seemed like the shine of the celestial city on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale. again, a third instance. after parting from the old church member, he met the youngest sister of them all. it was a maiden newly-won--and won by the reverend mr. dimmesdale's own sermon, on the sabbath after his vigil--to barter the transitory pleasures of the world for the heavenly hope that was to assume brighter substance as life grew dark around her, and which would gild the utter gloom with final glory. she was fair and pure as a lily that had bloomed in paradise. the minister knew well that he was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity of her heart, which hung its snowy curtains about his image, imparting to religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious purity. satan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from her mother's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted, or--shall we not rather say?--this lost and desperate man. as she drew nigh, the arch-fiend whispered him to condense into small compass, and drop into her tender bosom a germ of evil that would be sure to blossom darkly soon, and bear black fruit betimes. such was his sense of power over this virgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the minister felt potent to blight all the field of innocence with but one wicked look, and develop all its opposite with but a word. so--with a mightier struggle than he had yet sustained--he held his geneva cloak before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of recognition, and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness as she might. she ransacked her conscience--which was full of harmless little matters, like her pocket or her work-bag--and took herself to task, poor thing! for a thousand imaginary faults, and went about her household duties with swollen eyelids the next morning. before the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation, he was conscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and almost as horrible. it was--we blush to tell it--it was to stop short in the road, and teach some very wicked words to a knot of little puritan children who were playing there, and had but just begun to talk. denying himself this freak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of the ship's crew from the spanish main. and here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other wickedness, poor mr. dimmesdale longed at least to shake hands with the tarry black-guard, and recreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute sailors so abound with, and a volley of good, round, solid, satisfactory, and heaven-defying oaths! it was not so much a better principle, as partly his natural good taste, and still more his buckramed habit of clerical decorum, that carried him safely through the latter crisis. "what is it that haunts and tempts me thus?" cried the minister to himself, at length, pausing in the street, and striking his hand against his forehead. "am i mad? or am i given over utterly to the fiend? did i make a contract with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood? and does he now summon me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the performance of every wickedness which his most foul imagination can conceive?" at the moment when the reverend mr. dimmesdale thus communed with himself, and struck his forehead with his hand, old mistress hibbins, the reputed witch-lady, is said to have been passing by. she made a very grand appearance, having on a high head-dress, a rich gown of velvet, and a ruff done up with the famous yellow starch, of which anne turner, her especial friend, had taught her the secret, before this last good lady had been hanged for sir thomas overbury's murder. whether the witch had read the minister's thoughts or no, she came to a full stop, looked shrewdly into his face, smiled craftily, and--though little given to converse with clergymen--began a conversation. "so, reverend sir, you have made a visit into the forest," observed the witch-lady, nodding her high head-dress at him. "the next time i pray you to allow me only a fair warning, and i shall be proud to bear you company. without taking overmuch upon myself my good word will go far towards gaining any strange gentleman a fair reception from yonder potentate you wot of." "i profess, madam," answered the clergyman, with a grave obeisance, such as the lady's rank demanded, and his own good breeding made imperative--"i profess, on my conscience and character, that i am utterly bewildered as touching the purport of your words! i went not into the forest to seek a potentate, neither do i, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a view to gaining the favour of such personage. my one sufficient object was to greet that pious friend of mine, the apostle eliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls he hath won from heathendom!" "ha, ha, ha!" cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high head-dress at the minister. "well, well! we must needs talk thus in the daytime! you carry it off like an old hand! but at midnight, and in the forest, we shall have other talk together!" she passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back her head and smiling at him, like one willing to recognise a secret intimacy of connexion. "have i then sold myself," thought the minister, "to the fiend whom, if men say true, this yellow-starched and velveted old hag has chosen for her prince and master?" the wretched minister! he had made a bargain very like it! tempted by a dream of happiness, he had yielded himself with deliberate choice, as he had never done before, to what he knew was deadly sin. and the infectious poison of that sin had been thus rapidly diffused throughout his moral system. it had stupefied all blessed impulses, and awakened into vivid life the whole brotherhood of bad ones. scorn, bitterness, unprovoked malignity, gratuitous desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was good and holy, all awoke to tempt, even while they frightened him. and his encounter with old mistress hibbins, if it were a real incident, did but show its sympathy and fellowship with wicked mortals, and the world of perverted spirits. he had by this time reached his dwelling on the edge of the burial ground, and, hastening up the stairs, took refuge in his study. the minister was glad to have reached this shelter, without first betraying himself to the world by any of those strange and wicked eccentricities to which he had been continually impelled while passing through the streets. he entered the accustomed room, and looked around him on its books, its windows, its fireplace, and the tapestried comfort of the walls, with the same perception of strangeness that had haunted him throughout his walk from the forest dell into the town and thitherward. here he had studied and written; here gone through fast and vigil, and come forth half alive; here striven to pray; here borne a hundred thousand agonies! there was the bible, in its rich old hebrew, with moses and the prophets speaking to him, and god's voice through all. there on the table, with the inky pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst, where his thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page two days before. he knew that it was himself, the thin and white-cheeked minister, who had done and suffered these things, and written thus far into the election sermon! but he seemed to stand apart, and eye this former self with scornful pitying, but half-envious curiosity. that self was gone. another man had returned out of the forest--a wiser one--with a knowledge of hidden mysteries which the simplicity of the former never could have reached. a bitter kind of knowledge that! while occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the study, and the minister said, "come in!"--not wholly devoid of an idea that he might behold an evil spirit. and so he did! it was old roger chillingworth that entered. the minister stood white and speechless, with one hand on the hebrew scriptures, and the other spread upon his breast. "welcome home, reverend sir," said the physician "and how found you that godly man, the apostle eliot? but methinks, dear sir, you look pale, as if the travel through the wilderness had been too sore for you. will not my aid be requisite to put you in heart and strength to preach your election sermon?" "nay, i think not so," rejoined the reverend mr. dimmesdale. "my journey, and the sight of the holy apostle yonder, and the free air which i have breathed have done me good, after so long confinement in my study. i think to need no more of your drugs, my kind physician, good though they be, and administered by a friendly hand." all this time roger chillingworth was looking at the minister with the grave and intent regard of a physician towards his patient. but, in spite of this outward show, the latter was almost convinced of the old man's knowledge, or, at least, his confident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with hester prynne. the physician knew then that in the minister's regard he was no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy. so much being known, it would appear natural that a part of it should be expressed. it is singular, however, how long a time often passes before words embody things; and with what security two persons, who choose to avoid a certain subject, may approach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it. thus the minister felt no apprehension that roger chillingworth would touch, in express words, upon the real position which they sustained towards one another. yet did the physician, in his dark way, creep frightfully near the secret. "were it not better," said he, "that you use my poor skill tonight? verily, dear sir, we must take pains to make you strong and vigorous for this occasion of the election discourse. the people look for great things from you, apprehending that another year may come about and find their pastor gone." "yes, to another world," replied the minister with pious resignation. "heaven grant it be a better one; for, in good sooth, i hardly think to tarry with my flock through the flitting seasons of another year! but touching your medicine, kind sir, in my present frame of body i need it not." "i joy to hear it," answered the physician. "it may be that my remedies, so long administered in vain, begin now to take due effect. happy man were i, and well deserving of new england's gratitude, could i achieve this cure!" "i thank you from my heart, most watchful friend," said the reverend mr. dimmesdale with a solemn smile. "i thank you, and can but requite your good deeds with my prayers." "a good man's prayers are golden recompense!" rejoined old roger chillingworth, as he took his leave. "yea, they are the current gold coin of the new jerusalem, with the king's own mint mark on them!" left alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and requested food, which, being set before him, he ate with ravenous appetite. then flinging the already written pages of the election sermon into the fire, he forthwith began another, which he wrote with such an impulsive flow of thought and emotion, that he fancied himself inspired; and only wondered that heaven should see fit to transmit the grand and solemn music of its oracles through so foul an organ pipe as he. however, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go unsolved for ever, he drove his task onward with earnest haste and ecstasy. thus the night fled away, as if it were a winged steed, and he careering on it; morning came, and peeped, blushing, through the curtains; and at last sunrise threw a golden beam into the study, and laid it right across the minister's bedazzled eyes. there he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a vast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him! xxi. the new england holiday betimes in the morning of the day on which the new governor was to receive his office at the hands of the people, hester prynne and little pearl came into the market-place. it was already thronged with the craftsmen and other plebeian inhabitants of the town, in considerable numbers, among whom, likewise, were many rough figures, whose attire of deer-skins marked them as belonging to some of the forest settlements, which surrounded the little metropolis of the colony. on this public holiday, as on all other occasions for seven years past, hester was clad in a garment of coarse gray cloth. not more by its hue than by some indescribable peculiarity in its fashion, it had the effect of making her fade personally out of sight and outline; while again the scarlet letter brought her back from this twilight indistinctness, and revealed her under the moral aspect of its own illumination. her face, so long familiar to the townspeople, showed the marble quietude which they were accustomed to behold there. it was like a mask; or, rather like the frozen calmness of a dead woman's features; owing this dreary resemblance to the fact that hester was actually dead, in respect to any claim of sympathy, and had departed out of the world with which she still seemed to mingle. it might be, on this one day, that there was an expression unseen before, nor, indeed, vivid enough to be detected now; unless some preternaturally gifted observer should have first read the heart, and have afterwards sought a corresponding development in the countenance and mien. such a spiritual seer might have conceived, that, after sustaining the gaze of the multitude through several miserable years as a necessity, a penance, and something which it was a stern religion to endure, she now, for one last time more, encountered it freely and voluntarily, in order to convert what had so long been agony into a kind of triumph. "look your last on the scarlet letter and its wearer!"--the people's victim and lifelong bond-slave, as they fancied her, might say to them. "yet a little while, and she will be beyond your reach! a few hours longer and the deep, mysterious ocean will quench and hide for ever the symbol which ye have caused to burn on her bosom!" nor were it an inconsistency too improbable to be assigned to human nature, should we suppose a feeling of regret in hester's mind, at the moment when she was about to win her freedom from the pain which had been thus deeply incorporated with her being. might there not be an irresistible desire to quaff a last, long, breathless draught of the cup of wormwood and aloes, with which nearly all her years of womanhood had been perpetually flavoured. the wine of life, henceforth to be presented to her lips, must be indeed rich, delicious, and exhilarating, in its chased and golden beaker, or else leave an inevitable and weary languor, after the lees of bitterness wherewith she had been drugged, as with a cordial of intensest potency. pearl was decked out with airy gaiety. it would have been impossible to guess that this bright and sunny apparition owed its existence to the shape of gloomy gray; or that a fancy, at once so gorgeous and so delicate as must have been requisite to contrive the child's apparel, was the same that had achieved a task perhaps more difficult, in imparting so distinct a peculiarity to hester's simple robe. the dress, so proper was it to little pearl, seemed an effluence, or inevitable development and outward manifestation of her character, no more to be separated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a butterfly's wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright flower. as with these, so with the child; her garb was all of one idea with her nature. on this eventful day, moreover, there was a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her mood, resembling nothing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that sparkles and flashes with the varied throbbings of the breast on which it is displayed. children have always a sympathy in the agitations of those connected with them: always, especially, a sense of any trouble or impending revolution, of whatever kind, in domestic circumstances; and therefore pearl, who was the gem on her mother's unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance of her spirits, the emotions which none could detect in the marble passiveness of hester's brow. this effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk by her mother's side. she broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and sometimes piercing music. when they reached the market-place, she became still more restless, on perceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot; for it was usually more like the broad and lonesome green before a village meeting-house, than the centre of a town's business. "why, what is this, mother?" cried she. "wherefore have all the people left their work to-day? is it a play-day for the whole world? see, there is the blacksmith! he has washed his sooty face, and put on his sabbath-day clothes, and looks as if he would gladly be merry, if any kind body would only teach him how! and there is master brackett, the old jailer, nodding and smiling at me. why does he do so, mother?" "he remembers thee a little babe, my child," answered hester. "he should not nod and smile at me, for all that--the black, grim, ugly-eyed old man!" said pearl. "he may nod at thee, if he will; for thou art clad in gray, and wearest the scarlet letter. but see, mother, how many faces of strange people, and indians among them, and sailors! what have they all come to do, here in the market-place?" "they wait to see the procession pass," said hester. "for the governor and the magistrates are to go by, and the ministers, and all the great people and good people, with the music and the soldiers marching before them." "and will the minister be there?" asked pearl. "and will he hold out both his hands to me, as when thou ledst me to him from the brook-side?" "he will be there, child," answered her mother, "but he will not greet thee to-day, nor must thou greet him." "what a strange, sad man is he!" said the child, as if speaking partly to herself. "in the dark nighttime he calls us to him, and holds thy hand and mine, as when we stood with him on the scaffold yonder! and in the deep forest, where only the old trees can hear, and the strip of sky see it, he talks with thee, sitting on a heap of moss! and he kisses my forehead, too, so that the little brook would hardly wash it off! but, here, in the sunny day, and among all the people, he knows us not; nor must we know him! a strange, sad man is he, with his hand always over his heart!" "be quiet, pearl--thou understandest not these things," said her mother. "think not now of the minister, but look about thee, and see how cheery is everybody's face to-day. the children have come from their schools, and the grown people from their workshops and their fields, on purpose to be happy, for, to-day, a new man is beginning to rule over them; and so--as has been the custom of mankind ever since a nation was first gathered--they make merry and rejoice: as if a good and golden year were at length to pass over the poor old world!" it was as hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that brightened the faces of the people. into this festal season of the year--as it already was, and continued to be during the greater part of two centuries--the puritans compressed whatever mirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human infirmity; thereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the space of a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave than most other communities at a period of general affliction. but we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which undoubtedly characterized the mood and manners of the age. the persons now in the market-place of boston had not been born to an inheritance of puritanic gloom. they were native englishmen, whose fathers had lived in the sunny richness of the elizabethan epoch; a time when the life of england, viewed as one great mass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificent, and joyous, as the world has ever witnessed. had they followed their hereditary taste, the new england settlers would have illustrated all events of public importance by bonfires, banquets, pageantries, and processions. nor would it have been impracticable, in the observance of majestic ceremonies, to combine mirthful recreation with solemnity, and give, as it were, a grotesque and brilliant embroidery to the great robe of state, which a nation, at such festivals, puts on. there was some shadow of an attempt of this kind in the mode of celebrating the day on which the political year of the colony commenced. the dim reflection of a remembered splendour, a colourless and manifold diluted repetition of what they had beheld in proud old london--we will not say at a royal coronation, but at a lord mayor's show--might be traced in the customs which our forefathers instituted, with reference to the annual installation of magistrates. the fathers and founders of the commonwealth--the statesman, the priest, and the soldier--seemed it a duty then to assume the outward state and majesty, which, in accordance with antique style, was looked upon as the proper garb of public and social eminence. all came forth to move in procession before the people's eye, and thus impart a needed dignity to the simple framework of a government so newly constructed. then, too, the people were countenanced, if not encouraged, in relaxing the severe and close application to their various modes of rugged industry, which at all other times, seemed of the same piece and material with their religion. here, it is true, were none of the appliances which popular merriment would so readily have found in the england of elizabeth's time, or that of james--no rude shows of a theatrical kind; no minstrel, with his harp and legendary ballad, nor gleeman with an ape dancing to his music; no juggler, with his tricks of mimic witchcraft; no merry andrew, to stir up the multitude with jests, perhaps a hundred years old, but still effective, by their appeals to the very broadest sources of mirthful sympathy. all such professors of the several branches of jocularity would have been sternly repressed, not only by the rigid discipline of law, but by the general sentiment which give law its vitality. not the less, however, the great, honest face of the people smiled--grimly, perhaps, but widely too. nor were sports wanting, such as the colonists had witnessed, and shared in, long ago, at the country fairs and on the village-greens of england; and which it was thought well to keep alive on this new soil, for the sake of the courage and manliness that were essential in them. wrestling matches, in the different fashions of cornwall and devonshire, were seen here and there about the market-place; in one corner, there was a friendly bout at quarterstaff; and--what attracted most interest of all--on the platform of the pillory, already so noted in our pages, two masters of defence were commencing an exhibition with the buckler and broadsword. but, much to the disappointment of the crowd, this latter business was broken off by the interposition of the town beadle, who had no idea of permitting the majesty of the law to be violated by such an abuse of one of its consecrated places. it may not be too much to affirm, on the whole, (the people being then in the first stages of joyless deportment, and the offspring of sires who had known how to be merry, in their day), that they would compare favourably, in point of holiday keeping, with their descendants, even at so long an interval as ourselves. their immediate posterity, the generation next to the early emigrants, wore the blackest shade of puritanism, and so darkened the national visage with it, that all the subsequent years have not sufficed to clear it up. we have yet to learn again the forgotten art of gaiety. the picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the sad gray, brown, or black of the english emigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue. a party of indians--in their savage finery of curiously embroidered deerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed spear--stood apart with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even the puritan aspect could attain. nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were they the wildest feature of the scene. this distinction could more justly be claimed by some mariners--a part of the crew of the vessel from the spanish main--who had come ashore to see the humours of election day. they were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces, and an immensity of beard; their wide short trousers were confined about the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some instances, a sword. from beneath their broad-brimmed hats of palm-leaf, gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and merriment, had a kind of animal ferocity. they transgressed without fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were binding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle's very nose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling; and quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae from pocket flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. it remarkably characterised the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a licence was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore, but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element. the sailor of that day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate in our own. there could be little doubt, for instance, that this very ship's crew, though no unfavourable specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase it, of depredations on the spanish commerce, such as would have perilled all their necks in a modern court of justice. but the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at regulation by human law. the buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling and become at once if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even in the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a personage with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually associate. thus the puritan elders in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a citizen as old roger chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel. the latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far as apparel went, anywhere to be seen among the multitude. he wore a profusion of ribbons on his garment, and gold lace on his hat, which was also encircled by a gold chain, and surmounted with a feather. there was a sword at his side and a sword-cut on his forehead, which, by the arrangement of his hair, he seemed anxious rather to display than hide. a landsman could hardly have worn this garb and shown this face, and worn and shown them both with such a galliard air, without undergoing stern question before a magistrate, and probably incurring a fine or imprisonment, or perhaps an exhibition in the stocks. as regarded the shipmaster, however, all was looked upon as pertaining to the character, as to a fish his glistening scales. after parting from the physician, the commander of the bristol ship strolled idly through the market-place; until happening to approach the spot where hester prynne was standing, he appeared to recognise, and did not hesitate to address her. as was usually the case wherever hester stood, a small vacant area--a sort of magic circle--had formed itself about her, into which, though the people were elbowing one another at a little distance, none ventured or felt disposed to intrude. it was a forcible type of the moral solitude in which the scarlet letter enveloped its fated wearer; partly by her own reserve, and partly by the instinctive, though no longer so unkindly, withdrawal of her fellow-creatures. now, if never before, it answered a good purpose by enabling hester and the seaman to speak together without risk of being overheard; and so changed was hester prynne's repute before the public, that the matron in town, most eminent for rigid morality, could not have held such intercourse with less result of scandal than herself. "so, mistress," said the mariner, "i must bid the steward make ready one more berth than you bargained for! no fear of scurvy or ship fever this voyage. what with the ship's surgeon and this other doctor, our only danger will be from drug or pill; more by token, as there is a lot of apothecary's stuff aboard, which i traded for with a spanish vessel." "what mean you?" inquired hester, startled more than she permitted to appear. "have you another passenger?" "why, know you not," cried the shipmaster, "that this physician here--chillingworth he calls himself--is minded to try my cabin-fare with you? ay, ay, you must have known it; for he tells me he is of your party, and a close friend to the gentleman you spoke of--he that is in peril from these sour old puritan rulers." "they know each other well, indeed," replied hester, with a mien of calmness, though in the utmost consternation. "they have long dwelt together." nothing further passed between the mariner and hester prynne. but at that instant she beheld old roger chillingworth himself, standing in the remotest corner of the market-place and smiling on her; a smile which--across the wide and bustling square, and through all the talk and laughter, and various thoughts, moods, and interests of the crowd--conveyed secret and fearful meaning. xxii. the procession before hester prynne could call together her thoughts, and consider what was practicable to be done in this new and startling aspect of affairs, the sound of military music was heard approaching along a contiguous street. it denoted the advance of the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way towards the meeting-house: where, in compliance with a custom thus early established, and ever since observed, the reverend mr. dimmesdale was to deliver an election sermon. soon the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and stately march, turning a corner, and making its way across the market-place. first came the music. it comprised a variety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to one another, and played with no great skill; but yet attaining the great object for which the harmony of drum and clarion addresses itself to the multitude--that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to the scene of life that passes before the eye. little pearl at first clapped her hands, but then lost for an instant the restless agitation that had kept her in a continual effervescence throughout the morning; she gazed silently, and seemed to be borne upward like a floating sea-bird on the long heaves and swells of sound. but she was brought back to her former mood by the shimmer of the sunshine on the weapons and bright armour of the military company, which followed after the music, and formed the honorary escort of the procession. this body of soldiery--which still sustains a corporate existence, and marches down from past ages with an ancient and honourable fame--was composed of no mercenary materials. its ranks were filled with gentlemen who felt the stirrings of martial impulse, and sought to establish a kind of college of arms, where, as in an association of knights templars, they might learn the science, and, so far as peaceful exercise would teach them, the practices of war. the high estimation then placed upon the military character might be seen in the lofty port of each individual member of the company. some of them, indeed, by their services in the low countries and on other fields of european warfare, had fairly won their title to assume the name and pomp of soldiership. the entire array, moreover, clad in burnished steel, and with plumage nodding over their bright morions, had a brilliancy of effect which no modern display can aspire to equal. and yet the men of civil eminence, who came immediately behind the military escort, were better worth a thoughtful observer's eye. even in outward demeanour they showed a stamp of majesty that made the warrior's haughty stride look vulgar, if not absurd. it was an age when what we call talent had far less consideration than now, but the massive materials which produce stability and dignity of character a great deal more. the people possessed by hereditary right the quality of reverence, which, in their descendants, if it survive at all, exists in smaller proportion, and with a vastly diminished force in the selection and estimate of public men. the change may be for good or ill, and is partly, perhaps, for both. in that old day the english settler on these rude shores--having left king, nobles, and all degrees of awful rank behind, while still the faculty and necessity of reverence was strong in him--bestowed it on the white hair and venerable brow of age--on long-tried integrity--on solid wisdom and sad-coloured experience--on endowments of that grave and weighty order which gave the idea of permanence, and comes under the general definition of respectability. these primitive statesmen, therefore--bradstreet, endicott, dudley, bellingham, and their compeers--who were elevated to power by the early choice of the people, seem to have been not often brilliant, but distinguished by a ponderous sobriety, rather than activity of intellect. they had fortitude and self-reliance, and in time of difficulty or peril stood up for the welfare of the state like a line of cliffs against a tempestuous tide. the traits of character here indicated were well represented in the square cast of countenance and large physical development of the new colonial magistrates. so far as a demeanour of natural authority was concerned, the mother country need not have been ashamed to see these foremost men of an actual democracy adopted into the house of peers, or make the privy council of the sovereign. next in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently distinguished divine, from whose lips the religious discourse of the anniversary was expected. his was the profession at that era in which intellectual ability displayed itself far more than in political life; for--leaving a higher motive out of the question it offered inducements powerful enough in the almost worshipping respect of the community, to win the most aspiring ambition into its service. even political power--as in the case of increase mather--was within the grasp of a successful priest. it was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never, since mr. dimmesdale first set his foot on the new england shore, had he exhibited such energy as was seen in the gait and air with which he kept his pace in the procession. there was no feebleness of step as at other times; his frame was not bent, nor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart. yet, if the clergyman were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the body. it might be spiritual and imparted to him by angelical ministrations. it might be the exhilaration of that potent cordial which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest and long-continued thought. or perchance his sensitive temperament was invigorated by the loud and piercing music that swelled heaven-ward, and uplifted him on its ascending wave. nevertheless, so abstracted was his look, it might be questioned whether mr. dimmesdale even heard the music. there was his body, moving onward, and with an unaccustomed force. but where was his mind? far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with preternatural activity, to marshal a procession of stately thoughts that were soon to issue thence; and so he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing of what was around him; but the spiritual element took up the feeble frame and carried it along, unconscious of the burden, and converting it to spirit like itself. men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid, possess this occasional power of mighty effort, into which they throw the life of many days and then are lifeless for as many more. hester prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a dreary influence come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew not, unless that he seemed so remote from her own sphere, and utterly beyond her reach. one glance of recognition she had imagined must needs pass between them. she thought of the dim forest, with its little dell of solitude, and love, and anguish, and the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand-in-hand, they had mingled their sad and passionate talk with the melancholy murmur of the brook. how deeply had they known each other then! and was this the man? she hardly knew him now! he, moving proudly past, enveloped as it were, in the rich music, with the procession of majestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his worldly position, and still more so in that far vista of his unsympathizing thoughts, through which she now beheld him! her spirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion, and that, vividly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real bond betwixt the clergyman and herself. and thus much of woman was there in hester, that she could scarcely forgive him--least of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching fate might be heard, nearer, nearer, nearer!--for being able so completely to withdraw himself from their mutual world--while she groped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found him not. pearl either saw and responded to her mother's feelings, or herself felt the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister. while the procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down, like a bird on the point of taking flight. when the whole had gone by, she looked up into hester's face-"mother," said she, "was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?" "hold thy peace, dear little pearl!" whispered her mother. "we must not always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest." "i could not be sure that it was he--so strange he looked," continued the child. "else i would have run to him, and bid him kiss me now, before all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. what would the minister have said, mother? would he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?" "what should he say, pearl," answered hester, "save that it was no time to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? well for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him!" another shade of the same sentiment, in reference to mr. dimmesdale, was expressed by a person whose eccentricities--insanity, as we should term it--led her to do what few of the townspeople would have ventured on--to begin a conversation with the wearer of the scarlet letter in public. it was mistress hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, with a triple ruff, a broidered stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a gold-headed cane, had come forth to see the procession. as this ancient lady had the renown (which subsequently cost her no less a price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the works of necromancy that were continually going forward, the crowd gave way before her, and seemed to fear the touch of her garment, as if it carried the plague among its gorgeous folds. seen in conjunction with hester prynne--kindly as so many now felt towards the latter--the dread inspired by mistress hibbins had doubled, and caused a general movement from that part of the market-place in which the two women stood. "now, what mortal imagination could conceive it?" whispered the old lady confidentially to hester. "yonder divine man! that saint on earth, as the people uphold him to be, and as--i must needs say--he really looks! who, now, that saw him pass in the procession, would think how little while it is since he went forth out of his study--chewing a hebrew text of scripture in his mouth, i warrant--to take an airing in the forest! aha! we know what that means, hester prynne! but truly, forsooth, i find it hard to believe him the same man. many a church member saw i, walking behind the music, that has danced in the same measure with me, when somebody was fiddler, and, it might be, an indian powwow or a lapland wizard changing hands with us! that is but a trifle, when a woman knows the world. but this minister. couldst thou surely tell, hester, whether he was the same man that encountered thee on the forest path?" "madam, i know not of what you speak," answered hester prynne, feeling mistress hibbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely startled and awe-stricken by the confidence with which she affirmed a personal connexion between so many persons (herself among them) and the evil one. "it is not for me to talk lightly of a learned and pious minister of the word, like the reverend mr. dimmesdale." "fie, woman--fie!" cried the old lady, shaking her finger at hester. "dost thou think i have been to the forest so many times, and have yet no skill to judge who else has been there? yea, though no leaf of the wild garlands which they wore while they danced be left in their hair! i know thee, hester, for i behold the token. we may all see it in the sunshine! and it glows like a red flame in the dark. thou wearest it openly, so there need be no question about that. but this minister! let me tell thee in thine ear! when the black man sees one of his own servants, signed and sealed, so shy of owning to the bond as is the reverend mr. dimmesdale, he hath a way of ordering matters so that the mark shall be disclosed, in open daylight, to the eyes of all the world! what is that the minister seeks to hide, with his hand always over his heart? ha, hester prynne?" "what is it, good mistress hibbins?" eagerly asked little pearl. "hast thou seen it?" "no matter, darling!" responded mistress hibbins, making pearl a profound reverence. "thou thyself wilt see it, one time or another. they say, child, thou art of the lineage of the prince of air! wilt thou ride with me some fine night to see thy father? then thou shalt know wherefore the minister keeps his hand over his heart!" laughing so shrilly that all the market-place could hear her, the weird old gentlewoman took her departure. by this time the preliminary prayer had been offered in the meeting-house, and the accents of the reverend mr. dimmesdale were heard commencing his discourse. an irresistible feeling kept hester near the spot. as the sacred edifice was too much thronged to admit another auditor, she took up her position close beside the scaffold of the pillory. it was in sufficient proximity to bring the whole sermon to her ears, in the shape of an indistinct but varied murmur and flow of the minister's very peculiar voice. this vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment, insomuch that a listener, comprehending nothing of the language in which the preacher spoke, might still have been swayed to and fro by the mere tone and cadence. like all other music, it breathed passion and pathos, and emotions high or tender, in a tongue native to the human heart, wherever educated. muffled as the sound was by its passage through the church walls, hester prynne listened with such intenseness, and sympathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a meaning for her, entirely apart from its indistinguishable words. these, perhaps, if more distinctly heard, might have been only a grosser medium, and have clogged the spiritual sense. now she caught the low undertone, as of the wind sinking down to repose itself; then ascended with it, as it rose through progressive gradations of sweetness and power, until its volume seemed to envelop her with an atmosphere of awe and solemn grandeur. and yet, majestic as the voice sometimes became, there was for ever in it an essential character of plaintiveness. a loud or low expression of anguish--the whisper, or the shriek, as it might be conceived, of suffering humanity, that touched a sensibility in every bosom! at times this deep strain of pathos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard sighing amid a desolate silence. but even when the minister's voice grew high and commanding--when it gushed irrepressibly upward--when it assumed its utmost breadth and power, so overfilling the church as to burst its way through the solid walls, and diffuse itself in the open air--still, if the auditor listened intently, and for the purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain. what was it? the complaint of a human heart, sorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of guilt or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its sympathy or forgiveness,--at every moment,--in each accent,--and never in vain! it was this profound and continual undertone that gave the clergyman his most appropriate power. during all this time, hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of the scaffold. if the minister's voice had not kept her there, there would, nevertheless, have been an inevitable magnetism in that spot, whence she dated the first hour of her life of ignominy. there was a sense within her--too ill-defined to be made a thought, but weighing heavily on her mind--that her whole orb of life, both before and after, was connected with this spot, as with the one point that gave it unity. little pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother's side, and was playing at her own will about the market-place. she made the sombre crowd cheerful by her erratic and glistening ray, even as a bird of bright plumage illuminates a whole tree of dusky foliage by darting to and fro, half seen and half concealed amid the twilight of the clustering leaves. she had an undulating, but oftentimes a sharp and irregular movement. it indicated the restless vivacity of her spirit, which to-day was doubly indefatigable in its tip-toe dance, because it was played upon and vibrated with her mother's disquietude. whenever pearl saw anything to excite her ever active and wandering curiosity, she flew thitherward, and, as we might say, seized upon that man or thing as her own property, so far as she desired it, but without yielding the minutest degree of control over her motions in requital. the puritans looked on, and, if they smiled, were none the less inclined to pronounce the child a demon offspring, from the indescribable charm of beauty and eccentricity that shone through her little figure, and sparkled with its activity. she ran and looked the wild indian in the face, and he grew conscious of a nature wilder than his own. thence, with native audacity, but still with a reserve as characteristic, she flew into the midst of a group of mariners, the swarthy-cheeked wild men of the ocean, as the indians were of the land; and they gazed wonderingly and admiringly at pearl, as if a flake of the sea-foam had taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted with a soul of the sea-fire, that flashes beneath the prow in the night-time. one of these seafaring men the shipmaster, indeed, who had spoken to hester prynne was so smitten with pearl's aspect, that he attempted to lay hands upon her, with purpose to snatch a kiss. finding it as impossible to touch her as to catch a humming-bird in the air, he took from his hat the gold chain that was twisted about it, and threw it to the child. pearl immediately twined it around her neck and waist with such happy skill, that, once seen there, it became a part of her, and it was difficult to imagine her without it. "thy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter," said the seaman, "wilt thou carry her a message from me?" "if the message pleases me, i will," answered pearl. "then tell her," rejoined he, "that i spake again with the black-a-visaged, hump shouldered old doctor, and he engages to bring his friend, the gentleman she wots of, aboard with him. so let thy mother take no thought, save for herself and thee. wilt thou tell her this, thou witch-baby?" "mistress hibbins says my father is the prince of the air!" cried pearl, with a naughty smile. "if thou callest me that ill-name, i shall tell him of thee, and he will chase thy ship with a tempest!" pursuing a zigzag course across the marketplace, the child returned to her mother, and communicated what the mariner had said. hester's strong, calm steadfastly-enduring spirit almost sank, at last, on beholding this dark and grim countenance of an inevitable doom, which at the moment when a passage seemed to open for the minister and herself out of their labyrinth of misery--showed itself with an unrelenting smile, right in the midst of their path. with her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the shipmaster's intelligence involved her, she was also subjected to another trial. there were many people present from the country round about, who had often heard of the scarlet letter, and to whom it had been made terrific by a hundred false or exaggerated rumours, but who had never beheld it with their own bodily eyes. these, after exhausting other modes of amusement, now thronged about hester prynne with rude and boorish intrusiveness. unscrupulous as it was, however, it could not bring them nearer than a circuit of several yards. at that distance they accordingly stood, fixed there by the centrifugal force of the repugnance which the mystic symbol inspired. the whole gang of sailors, likewise, observing the press of spectators, and learning the purport of the scarlet letter, came and thrust their sunburnt and desperado-looking faces into the ring. even the indians were affected by a sort of cold shadow of the white man's curiosity and, gliding through the crowd, fastened their snake-like black eyes on hester's bosom, conceiving, perhaps, that the wearer of this brilliantly embroidered badge must needs be a personage of high dignity among her people. lastly, the inhabitants of the town (their own interest in this worn-out subject languidly reviving itself, by sympathy with what they saw others feel) lounged idly to the same quarter, and tormented hester prynne, perhaps more than all the rest, with their cool, well-acquainted gaze at her familiar shame. hester saw and recognized the selfsame faces of that group of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the prison-door seven years ago; all save one, the youngest and only compassionate among them, whose burial-robe she had since made. at the final hour, when she was so soon to fling aside the burning letter, it had strangely become the centre of more remark and excitement, and was thus made to sear her breast more painfully, than at any time since the first day she put it on. while hester stood in that magic circle of ignominy, where the cunning cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her for ever, the admirable preacher was looking down from the sacred pulpit upon an audience whose very inmost spirits had yielded to his control. the sainted minister in the church! the woman of the scarlet letter in the marketplace! what imagination would have been irreverent enough to surmise that the same scorching stigma was on them both! xxiii. the revelation of the scarlet letter the eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause. there was a momentary silence, profound as what should follow the utterance of oracles. then ensued a murmur and half-hushed tumult, as if the auditors, released from the high spell that had transported them into the region of another's mind, were returning into themselves, with all their awe and wonder still heavy on them. in a moment more the crowd began to gush forth from the doors of the church. now that there was an end, they needed more breath, more fit to support the gross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than that atmosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame, and had burdened with the rich fragrance of his thought. in the open air their rapture broke into speech. the street and the market-place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with applauses of the minister. his hearers could not rest until they had told one another of what each knew better than he could tell or hear. according to their united testimony, never had man spoken in so wise, so high, and so holy a spirit, as he that spake this day; nor had inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it did through his. its influence could be seen, as it were, descending upon him, and possessing him, and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay before him, and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvellous to himself as to his audience. his subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the deity and the communities of mankind, with a special reference to the new england which they were here planting in the wilderness. and, as he drew towards the close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him, constraining him to its purpose as mightily as the old prophets of israel were constrained, only with this difference, that, whereas the jewish seers had denounced judgments and ruin on their country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly gathered people of the lord. but, throughout it all, and through the whole discourse, there had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural regret of one soon to pass away. yes; their minister whom they so loved--and who so loved them all, that he could not depart heavenward without a sigh--had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would soon leave them in their tears. this idea of his transitory stay on earth gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher had produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to the skies, had shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant--at once a shadow and a splendour--and had shed down a shower of golden truths upon them. thus, there had come to the reverend mr. dimmesdale--as to most men, in their various spheres, though seldom recognised until they see it far behind them--an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than any previous one, or than any which could hereafter be. he stood, at this moment, on the very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the gifts or intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could exalt a clergyman in new england's earliest days, when the professional character was of itself a lofty pedestal. such was the position which the minister occupied, as he bowed his head forward on the cushions of the pulpit at the close of his election sermon. meanwhile hester prynne was standing beside the scaffold of the pillory, with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast! now was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured tramp of the military escort issuing from the church door. the procession was to be marshalled thence to the town hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day. once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers were seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on either side, as the governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and renowned, advanced into the midst of them. when they were fairly in the marketplace, their presence was greeted by a shout. this--though doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the child-like loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers--was felt to be an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. each felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it from his neighbour. within the church, it had hardly been kept down; beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith. there were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. never, from the soil of new england had gone up such a shout! never, on new england soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher! how fared it with him, then? were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head? so etherealised by spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth? as the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. the shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. how feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph! the energy--or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up, until he should have delivered the sacred message that had brought its own strength along with it from heaven--was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office. the glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late decaying embers. it seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a death-like hue: it was hardly a man with life in him, that tottered on his path so nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall! one of his clerical brethren--it was the venerable john wilson--observing the state in which mr. dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. the minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. he still walked onward, if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant, with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. and now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, hester prynne had encountered the world's ignominious stare. there stood hester, holding little pearl by the hand! and there was the scarlet letter on her breast! the minister here made a pause; although the music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the procession moved. it summoned him onward--inward to the festival!--but here he made a pause. bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him. he now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance judging, from mr. dimmesdale's aspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall. but there was something in the latter's expression that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague intimations that pass from one spirit to another. the crowd, meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. this earthly faintness, was, in their view, only another phase of the minister's celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven! he turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms. "hester," said he, "come hither! come, my little pearl!" it was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. the child, with the bird-like motion, which was one of her characteristics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. hester prynne--slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will--likewise drew near, but paused before she reached him. at this instant old roger chillingworth thrust himself through the crowd--or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up out of some nether region--to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do! be that as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the minister by the arm. "madman, hold! what is your purpose?" whispered he. "wave back that woman! cast off this child! all shall be well! do not blacken your fame, and perish in dishonour! i can yet save you! would you bring infamy on your sacred profession?" "ha, tempter! methinks thou art too late!" answered the minister, encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. "thy power is not what it was! with god's help, i shall escape thee now!" he again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter. "hester prynne," cried he, with a piercing earnestness, "in the name of him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last moment, to do what--for my own heavy sin and miserable agony--i withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy strength about me! thy strength, hester; but let it be guided by the will which god hath granted me! this wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his might!--with all his own might, and the fiend's! come, hester--come! support me up yonder scaffold." the crowd was in a tumult. the men of rank and dignity, who stood more immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so perplexed as to the purport of what they saw--unable to receive the explanation which most readily presented itself, or to imagine any other--that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the judgement which providence seemed about to work. they beheld the minister, leaning on hester's shoulder, and supported by her arm around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still the little hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. old roger chillingworth followed, as one intimately connected with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and well entitled, therefore to be present at its closing scene. "hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he looking darkly at the clergyman, "there was no one place so secret--no high place nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me--save on this very scaffold!" "thanks be to him who hath led me hither!" answered the minister. yet he trembled, and turned to hester, with an expression of doubt and anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble smile upon his lips. "is not this better," murmured he, "than what we dreamed of in the forest?" "i know not! i know not!" she hurriedly replied. "better? yea; so we may both die, and little pearl die with us!" "for thee and pearl, be it as god shall order," said the minister; "and god is merciful! let me now do the will which he hath made plain before my sight. for, hester, i am a dying man. so let me make haste to take my shame upon me!" partly supported by hester prynne, and holding one hand of little pearl's, the reverend mr. dimmesdale turned to the dignified and venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, who were his brethren; to the people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter--which, if full of sin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise--was now to be laid open to them. the sun, but little past its meridian, shone down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of eternal justice. "people of new england!" cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high, solemn, and majestic--yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse and woe--"ye, that have loved me!--ye, that have deemed me holy!--behold me here, the one sinner of the world! at last--at last!--i stand upon the spot where, seven years since, i should have stood, here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength wherewith i have crept hitherward, sustains me at this dreadful moment, from grovelling down upon my face! lo, the scarlet letter which hester wears! ye have all shuddered at it! wherever her walk hath been--wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to find repose--it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible repugnance round about her. but there stood one in the midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered!" it seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder of his secret undisclosed. but he fought back the bodily weakness--and, still more, the faintness of heart--that was striving for the mastery with him. he threw off all assistance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman and the children. "it was on him!" he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so determined was he to speak out the whole. "god's eye beheld it! the angels were for ever pointing at it! (the devil knew it well, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger!) but he hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful world!--and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred! now, at the death-hour, he stands up before you! he bids you look again at hester's scarlet letter! he tells you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more than the type of what has seared his inmost heart! stand any here that question god's judgment on a sinner! behold! behold, a dreadful witness of it!" with a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before his breast. it was revealed! but it were irreverent to describe that revelation. for an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude was concentrated on the ghastly miracle; while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. then, down he sank upon the scaffold! hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her bosom. old roger chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed. "thou hast escaped me!" he repeated more than once. "thou hast escaped me!" "may god forgive thee!" said the minister. "thou, too, hast deeply sinned!" he withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman and the child. "my little pearl," said he, feebly and there was a sweet and gentle smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now that the burden was removed, it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child--"dear little pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest! but now thou wilt?" pearl kissed his lips. a spell was broken. the great scene of grief, in which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father's cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. towards her mother, too, pearl's errand as a messenger of anguish was fulfilled. "hester," said the clergyman, "farewell!" "shall we not meet again?" whispered she, bending her face down close to his. "shall we not spend our immortal life together? surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! thou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes! then tell me what thou seest!" "hush, hester--hush!" said he, with tremulous solemnity. "the law we broke!--the sin here awfully revealed!--let these alone be in thy thoughts! i fear! i fear! it may be, that, when we forgot our god--when we violated our reverence each for the other's soul--it was thenceforth vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure reunion. god knows; and he is merciful! he hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. by giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast! by sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! by bringing me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people! had either of these agonies been wanting, i had been lost for ever! praised be his name! his will be done! farewell!" that final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath. the multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur that rolled so heavily after the departed spirit. xxiv. conclusion after many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold. most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy minister, a scarlet letter--the very semblance of that worn by hester prynne--imprinted in the flesh. as regarded its origin there were various explanations, all of which must necessarily have been conjectural. some affirmed that the reverend mr. dimmesdale, on the very day when hester prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance--which he afterwards, in so many futile methods, followed out--by inflicting a hideous torture on himself. others contended that the stigma had not been produced until a long time subsequent, when old roger chillingworth, being a potent necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of magic and poisonous drugs. others, again and those best able to appreciate the minister's peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful operation of his spirit upon the body--whispered their belief, that the awful symbol was the effect of the ever-active tooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting heaven's dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the letter. the reader may choose among these theories. we have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has done its office, erase its deep print out of our own brain, where long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness. it is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the reverend mr. dimmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a new-born infant's. neither, by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any--the slightest--connexion on his part, with the guilt for which hester prynne had so long worn the scarlet letter. according to these highly-respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious that he was dying--conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude placed him already among saints and angels--had desired, by yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man's own righteousness. after exhausting life in his efforts for mankind's spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of infinite purity, we are sinners all alike. it was to teach them, that the holiest amongst us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern more clearly the mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of mr. dimmesdale's story as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends--and especially a clergyman's--will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs, clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained creature of the dust. the authority which we have chiefly followed--a manuscript of old date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known hester prynne, while others had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken in the foregoing pages. among many morals which press upon us from the poor minister's miserable experience, we put only this into a sentence:--"be true! be true! be true! show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!" nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost immediately after mr. dimmesdale's death, in the appearance and demeanour of the old man known as roger chillingworth. all his strength and energy--all his vital and intellectual force--seemed at once to desert him, insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. this unhappy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph consummation that evil principle was left with no further material to support it--when, in short, there was no more devil's work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake himself whither his master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. but, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances--as well roger chillingworth as his companions we would fain be merciful. it is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his subject. philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. in the spiritual world, the old physician and the minister--mutual victims as they have been--may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love. leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to communicate to the reader. at old roger chillingworth's decease, (which took place within the year), and by his last will and testament, of which governor bellingham and the reverend mr. wilson were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property, both here and in england to little pearl, the daughter of hester prynne. so pearl--the elf child--the demon offspring, as some people up to that epoch persisted in considering her--became the richest heiress of her day in the new world. not improbably this circumstance wrought a very material change in the public estimation; and had the mother and child remained here, little pearl at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her wild blood with the lineage of the devoutest puritan among them all. but, in no long time after the physician's death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and pearl along with her. for many years, though a vague report would now and then find its way across the sea--like a shapeless piece of driftwood tossed ashore with the initials of a name upon it--yet no tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. the story of the scarlet letter grew into a legend. its spell, however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the poor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore where hester prynne had dwelt. near this latter spot, one afternoon some children were at play, when they beheld a tall woman in a gray robe approach the cottage-door. in all those years it had never once been opened; but either she unlocked it or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand, or she glided shadow-like through these impediments--and, at all events, went in. on the threshold she paused--turned partly round--for perchance the idea of entering alone and all so changed, the home of so intense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even she could bear. but her hesitation was only for an instant, though long enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast. and hester prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame! but where was little pearl? if still alive she must now have been in the flush and bloom of early womanhood. none knew--nor ever learned with the fulness of perfect certainty--whether the elf-child had gone thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had been softened and subdued and made capable of a woman's gentle happiness. but through the remainder of hester's life there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. letters came, with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to english heraldry. in the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury such as hester never cared to use, but which only wealth could have purchased and affection have imagined for her. there were trifles too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance, that must have been wrought by delicate fingers at the impulse of a fond heart. and once hester was seen embroidering a baby-garment with such a lavish richness of golden fancy as would have raised a public tumult had any infant thus apparelled, been shown to our sober-hued community. in fine, the gossips of that day believed--and mr. surveyor pue, who made investigations a century later, believed--and one of his recent successors in office, moreover, faithfully believes--that pearl was not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her mother; and that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely mother at her fireside. but there was a more real life for hester prynne, here, in new england, than in that unknown region where pearl had found a home. here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her penitence. she had returned, therefore, and resumed--of her own free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have imposed it--resumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a tale. never afterwards did it quit her bosom. but, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that made up hester's life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too. and, as hester prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure for her own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows and perplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had herself gone through a mighty trouble. women, more especially--in the continually recurring trials of wounded, wasted, wronged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion--or with the dreary burden of a heart unyielded, because unvalued and unsought came to hester's cottage, demanding why they were so wretched, and what the remedy! hester comforted and counselled them, as best she might. she assured them, too, of her firm belief that, at some brighter period, when the world should have grown ripe for it, in heaven's own time, a new truth would be revealed, in order to establish the whole relation between man and woman on a surer ground of mutual happiness. earlier in life, hester had vainly imagined that she herself might be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognised the impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious truth should be confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down with shame, or even burdened with a life-long sorrow. the angel and apostle of the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed, but lofty, pure, and beautiful, and wise; moreover, not through dusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and showing how sacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life successful to such an end. so said hester prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the scarlet letter. and, after many, many years, a new grave was delved, near an old and sunken one, in that burial-ground beside which king's chapel has since been built. it was near that old and sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. yet one tomb-stone served for both. all around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings; and on this simple slab of slate--as the curious investigator may still discern, and perplex himself with the purport--there appeared the semblance of an engraved escutcheon. it bore a device, a herald's wording of which may serve for a motto and brief description of our now concluded legend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing point of light gloomier than the shadow:-"on a field, sable, the letter a, gules" memorials of the independent churches in northamptonshire; with biographical notices of their pastors, and some account of the puritan ministers who laboured in the county. by thomas coleman. london: john snow, 35, paternoster row. 1853. introduction. in presenting some historical memorials of the independent churches in the county of northampton, it may be proper to take a glance at "the rise and progress" of nonconformity from the early days of the reformation. when the pope's supremacy was denied and some change in the church was sanctioned by henry the eighth, there were a number of protestants in england who desired the reformation from popery to be carried further than was agreeable to the reigning monarch and those that had the ascendancy in his counsels. the reformers acknowledged "that corruptions had been a thousand years introducing, which could not be all discovered and thrown out at once"; and yet the ruling powers sought by "acts of uniformity" to put a stop to all further improvement. in the days of queen elizabeth, when the protestant exiles returned who had been driven to the continent by the persecutions in the reign of mary, there was a considerable increase in the number of ministers who were dissatisfied with the reformation of the anglican church. when the act had passed, in the year 1559, entitled "an act for the uniformity of common prayer and service in the church, and administration of the sacraments," there were many ministers connected with the church who could never submit to its requirements. they were men who pleaded for a _purer_ mode of worship and discipline than the authorities would allow; and hence they were called _puritans_. they refused to wear the vestments, to read the whole of the liturgical service, and to comply with many of the ceremonial observances required; they regarded them as relics of popery, contrary to the simplicity of the gospel of christ, and opposed to the purity of his church. they suffered much during the reigns of elizabeth and the first two english sovereigns of the stuart line. "the star chamber" and "the high commission court" were established, before which they were summoned, and where they were required to answer questions proposed, that would have made them their own accusers. if they refused to answer, they were punished for contumacy; if they complied, they were punished for nonconformity. to promote the reformation in the church which they desired, the puritan ministers formed associations, instituted classes, held meetings, and appointed lectures, which they preached alternately at their different churches. the county of northampton was distinguished as one of the strongholds of puritanism. there were a considerable number of puritan divines in the churches in this county: here, the meetings of their associations were frequently held; and here, in several of the towns, their lectures were delivered; and though they had to suffer much, yet they had some noble friends in the county, who endeavoured to hold over them the shield of their protection. these were the men who, by their principles, their preaching, and their writings, were the means of promoting evangelical truth and piety in the country; and they were the men who preserved the liberties of englishmen, when they were in danger of being trampled in the dust. while hume, the historian, treats their principles as frivolous and their conduct as ridiculous, he bestows upon them this high eulogium: "so absolute was the authority of the crown, that the precious spark of liberty had been kindled and was preserved by the puritans alone; and it was to this sect that the english owe the whole freedom of their constitution." at the commencement of the reign of james i., when bancroft was archbishop of canterbury, the clergy were commanded to renew their subscription to the requirements of the church. more than seven hundred of them refused; and in that number there were fifty-seven non-subscribing ministers in northamptonshire. at a meeting of their association, held in northampton, the ministers signed the following confession: "that they believed the word of god contained in the old and new testaments to be the perfect rule of faith and manners; and that it ought to be read and known by all people; and that the authority of it exceeds all authority, not of the pope only, but of the church also, and of councils, fathers, men, and angels." the liberty enjoyed in the days of the commonwealth many of them improved to the noblest purposes--prizing the advantages they possessed, even where they did not approve of the ruling powers. at the restoration of the second charles they hoped, from the fair promises made by the king, that some changes would have been made in their favour, so that they might have ministered in the church without being required to violate the dictates of conscience; but the enemies of further reformation gained the ascendancy, and strove to drive from the church the puritan divines: they succeeded in passing "the act of uniformity" of 1662, which made the terms of conformity so strait that more than two thousand ministers were ejected by it, choosing rather to resign their livings and all their worldly prospects, and to cast themselves on the care of providence, than submit to what was required; for this act demanded their "unfeigned assent and consent to all and everything contained in the book of common prayer." it came into operation august 24th, 1662, on bartholomew-day--the day when the massacre of the protestants in france took place ninety years before, hence called by some "black bartholomew." it is stated, that this day was chosen for this act to take effect because the nonconforming ministers would then be deprived of their year's income, which would be due shortly after. the great mr. locke styles the ministers who refused to conform, "learned, pious, orthodox divines." it has been, we think, justly observed, "that ecclesiastical history furnishes no such instance as this of a noble army of confessors at one time--it is an honour peculiar to the english dissenters. never has the world seen such a sacrifice to principle." from this time the name of _puritan_ was exchanged for that of _nonconformist_. these were the men that laid the foundation of a large number of the dissenting churches which remain to this day. in the county of northampton there were sixty ministers who were ejected by this act. fourteen of this number afterwards conformed; but of one of them it is remarked, "that he never went up the pulpit stairs with comfort after he had conformed--that he was at last but half a conformist, for which he was frequently cited into the spiritual court: he freely suffered his children to go and hear the ejected ministers, and always maintained a brotherly affection towards them." they were exposed to great trials, and suffered much persecution, after their ejectment. to prevent them from preaching, "the conventicle act" was passed, forbidding more than five adult persons to meet together for worship different from the forms of the church of england, on pain of very severe penalties. after this came "the five mile act," which forbade them to reside within five miles of any corporate town where they had formerly preached, or from keeping school, or taking boarders, under a penalty of forty pounds. thus many were driven from their families and their homes; and many were heavily fined and repeatedly imprisoned. it was in the midst of sufferings of this nature that several of the churches were formed, the memorials of which are here presented. when the glorious revolution by william the third was effected, a very pleasing change in their circumstances took place. "the act of toleration" that then passed was viewed by them as a great blessing. advancing knowledge on the principles of religious liberty may have led us to see that such an act falls far short of that complete state of freedom to which we should aspire; yet there was abundant reason for our forefathers highly to value the liberty it gave them, and they blessed the memory of him by whom it was obtained. after the passing of this act, the term _nonconformist_ was exchanged for that of _dissenter_, as applied to those who availed themselves of the advantages it gave. this is the name they now bear, and which they will probably continue to bear until the time when our civil rulers shall cease to raise one denomination of christians above another, or to legislate for the church of christ. a hundred and twenty years ago, doddridge entered upon his work as pastor and tutor at northampton. these offices he filled during twenty years; and he evidently obtained, by his spirit, his preaching, his writings, and his labours as a tutor, great influence in the churches in the county, which continued to be felt many years after his death. a minister who was ordained over one of these churches forty years ago observes, "it always appeared to me a pleasing fact, as indicating the hold that doddridge had obtained on the hearts of the northamptonshire nonconformists, that his hymns were almost everywhere in use in conjunction with watts, and in all the old books used in my day the two were bound up together." the following character of the independent churches in this county is given by job orton, from the knowledge he obtained of them while resident at northampton, first as student, afterwards as assistant, with doddridge, leaving him in the year 1742. writing to a young minister, he observes--"i am sorry you have met with such poor encouragement, and especially with any ill treatment, from the people in northamptonshire. i know them well: some of them are narrow and bigoted, but in general they are serious exemplary christians, and the bulk of them are not disposed to use a minister ill who is not imprudent, and doth not directly oppose their favourite notions, which is the only way to make people hold them the faster. they are not disposed to censure a person who preaches in a serious and experimental manner, and in an evangelical strain, though he does not use many of their favourite phrases, but will bear almost anything from the pulpit where the main thing is not wanting." the idea of the present work originated in a conversation with the author of the centenary memorial of doddridge, at the autumnal meetings of the congregational union, held at northampton, 1851. if the writer could have prevailed on highly esteemed brethren in the county to have undertaken the work, he would gladly have done so; but the impression which he had of its desirableness and adaptation for usefulness produced a conviction that the attempt should be made. he has done what he could. the loss of early records in some cases, and the entire neglect to form them in others, has rendered the accounts of some of the churches very defective; but in some cases the origin and history of the churches can be correctly traced. materials have been collected from all the sources that supplied any, to which the writer could have access. his hope is, that the work will tend to serve the cause of evangelical truth and piety, that it will illustrate the nature and importance of christian churches formed and sustained on the voluntary principle, and that it may aid in some degree to extend their influence and increase their efficiency. he commends it to the candid attention of the reader, and to the blessing of the great head of the church. ashley, december 14th, 1852. n. b. the memorials commence with the churches in northampton, and the other churches in the county are placed in chronological order, according to the date of their formation, so far as that could be ascertained. contents. chapter i. page memorials of the independent churches in northampton:- section 1.--introductory statement 1 section 2.--the independent church at castle hill 9 section 3.--the independent church at king's street 37 section 4.--the independent church at commercial street 42 chapter ii. memorials of the independent church at rowell 46 chapter iii. memorials of the independent church at kettering 80 chapter iv. memorials of the independent church at market harborough 119 chapter v. memorials of the independent church at ashley and wilbarston 146 chapter vi. memorials of the independent church at welford 155 chapter vii. memorials of the independent church at creaton 179 chapter viii. memorials of the independent church at daventry 186 chapter ix. memorials of the independent church at wellingborough:- section 1.--the independent church at cheese lane 210 section 2.--the independent church at west end 226 section 3.--the independent church at salem chapel 246 chapter x. memorials of the independent church at oundle 250 chapter xi. memorials of the independent church at weedon beck 262 chapter xii. memorials of the independent church at long buckby 268 chapter xiii. memorials of the independent church at potterspury 275 chapter xiv. memorials of the independent church at yardley hastings 291 chapter xv. memorials of the independent church at kilsby and crick 304 chapter xvi. memorials of the independent church at brigstock 314 chapter xvii. memorials of the independent church at weldon and corby 327 chapter xviii. memorials of the independent church at yelvertoft 335 chapter xix. memorials of the independent church at wollaston 344 chapter xx. memorials of the independent church at peterborough 352 chapter xxi. memorials of the independent church at towcester 357 chapter xxii. memorials of the independent church at old 361 chapter xxiii. memorials of the independent church at everdon 367 chapter xxiv. memorials of the independent church at brackley 369 chapter xxv. memorials of the independent church at byfield 371 chapter xxvi. memorials of the independent church at paulerspury 373 chapter xxvii. home missionary stations--1. king's cliffe and nassington; 2. borough fen; 3. middleton 376 appendix 381 chapter i. memorials of the independent churches in northampton. section 1.--introductory statement. northampton has been distinguished in the history of this country by the struggles there maintained for the liberties of englishmen; nor has it been unknown in the efforts that have been made to secure the liberty of christian worship and the purity of divine institutions. soon after that "morning star of the reformation," john wickliffe, appeared, about the year 1369, his doctrines were introduced into northampton, and met with much favour in the town. notwithstanding the earnest opposition of the clergy, they were cherished by several persons of rank, the mayor himself being tainted with the heresy. a formal complaint was made to the king in council by one richard stannisworth, a woolstapler, that the chief magistrate, john fox, harboured in his house james collyn, a fierce maintainer of lollardy (as the sentiments of wickliffe were called), in northampton, and that they encouraged the preaching of the lollards, contrary to the prohibition of the bishop of lincoln. thus it appears that there were numbers at that time in northampton ready to welcome the days of reformation from the corruptions of popery. when the reformation was introduced, and sanctioned by the rulers of england, amongst those who sought a greater degree of purity in the worship of god than the sovereign would allow, and who could not conform to the relics of romanism that were retained, were several devoted men who laboured and suffered in northampton. francis merbury was a minister at northampton during this period, when the puritans struggled to obtain a change in the existing state of things. he was brought into many troubles for nonconformity, being several times cast into prison. on nov. 5th, 1578, he was convened before the high commission, where he underwent a severe examination, and was sent a prisoner to the marshalsea. edward snape, after being educated in the university of cambridge, became minister of saint peter's church, northampton. he was a decided nonconformist, a laborious preacher, and a zealous advocate for a pure reformation of the church. it is stated that when the parishioners of st. peter's understood that he did not account himself a full minister until he should be chosen by some particular congregation, they immediately chose him to be their minister. in 1590 he was brought into trouble on account of the associations held in northamptonshire and warwickshire. he was a zealous and active member of these assemblies, for which he was summoned before the high commission. he moved the mayor of northampton to unite with other towns in presenting a supplication to the queen, humbly beseeching her majesty to hear their cries, and grant them a more pure ecclesiastical discipline. the following anecdote is related of this persecuted servant of god: "he was cast into prison by the bishops for his nonconformity; and all his money being expended by his long confinement, he met with much unkind usage from the gaoler. the good man being one day on his knees in fervent prayer to god, and the window of his chamber being open, he observed something thrown into the room; but he resolved to finish his prayer before he examined what it was. when he rose from his knees, he found to his great surprise that it was a purse full of gold. by this unexpected supply he was more comfortable in his situation, and enabled to make his keeper more humane ever after. "the lord heareth the young ravens that cry; how much more," it is observed, in connexion with this, "will he hear his afflicted people?" humphrey fenn was several years minister at northampton--a most learned and venerable divine, whose ministry was rendered very successful: yet he underwent many troubles for nonconformity. while at northampton he experienced the cruel oppression of the times--was apprehended and committed to close prison, where he remained a long time. during his confinement the inhabitants of northampton presented a supplication to queen elizabeth, humbly and earnestly desiring her majesty to grant his release, and his restoration to his beloved ministry. in this supplication they affirmed, upon their dutiful allegiance, that during his abode in that place he had lived a honest and a peaceable life; and they gave a high character of his diligence in preaching, his obedience to god, and to those in authority. it does not appear whether this application was at all successful. mr. fenn, with some others, presented a long letter to the queen in vindication of their own innocency; but we have not discovered how long they remained in prison after that period. john penry, a very distinguished puritan, after leaving the university, was settled for some time at northampton. he was brought before the high commissioners for nonconformity, and after examination, cast into prison. after a month's confinement, he was discharged; but when he had obtained his release, they sent their pursuivants to apprehend him, and again commit him to prison. walton, one of them, went immediately to northampton, and upon entering mr. penry's house ransacked his study, and took away all the books and papers which he thought proper; but mr. penry was not to be found. upon the publication of 'martin mar-prelate,' he was again apprehended. he became at length a member of a church of brownists, meeting about london, sometimes in the fields and woods, in the dead of the night, to avoid the fury of the prelates. during his imprisonment he wrote a most pious, affectionate, and encouraging letter to mr. f. johnson, the pastor, and the rest of the brethren. it is addressed "to the distressed and faithful congregation of christ in london, and all the members thereof, whether in bonds or at liberty;" and he concludes by subscribing himself, "their loving brother in the patience and sufferings of the gospel, john penry, a witness of christ in this life, and a partaker of the glory that shall be revealed." he at length lost his life for the cause to which he was devoted, for he was executed may 29th, 1593. arthur wake was another of these worthies, who had some connexion with northampton. he was a son of john wake, esq., descended from an ancient and honourable family. he became a most popular and useful preacher. in 1565 he was presented to the living of great billing, in northamptonshire. he was very much persecuted for his nonconformity, and at length deprived of his living. in the year 1593 he was residing at northampton, and engaged as minister of saint john's hospital in this town. it is stated that "he was a divine of good learning, great piety, and a zealous, laborious, and useful preacher." by the rigorous proceedings of the ruling prelates the church was deprived of many of its brightest ornaments, and nearly all its faithful pastors were ejected, especially in northamptonshire. in the vicinity of northampton there was william fleshurne, or fletcher, b.d., rector of abington, in 1588. of him it is recorded, that in 1590 he was one of the puritan ministers who associated in general synods and particular classes at northampton, fawsley, and other places, to promote the new discipline in opposition to the established church. he obtained the vicarage of moulton in 1607, and held it till his death; but appears to have resided at abington, where he was buried the 3rd of may, 1627. dr. john preston was born at heyford, in northamptonshire, in the parish of bugbrook, 1578. he became a very popular preacher, but met with considerable opposition on account of his puritan principles. he had a strong constitution, which he wore out in the study and in the pulpit. being desirous of dying in his native county and among his old friends, he retired into northamptonshire, where he departed this life in a most pious and devout manner in the 41st year of his age, and was buried in fawsley church, old mr. dod, minister of the place, preaching his funeral sermon to a numerous auditory. his practical works and sermons were printed by his own order after his decease. william prandlove was a respectable puritan minister, who about the year 1562 became vicar of fawsley, in northamptonshire, and in 1577 he became rector of lamport, in the same county. he united with his brethren in their private associations, and took an active part in promoting the desired ecclesiastical discipline, for which, in the year 1590, he was apprehended and cast into prison, where he remained a long time. he was after carried before the high commission and the star chamber, where he underwent the severe scrutiny of his ecclesiastical inquisitors. in connexion with these statements relating to puritan ministers who maintained and suffered for their principles in the county town of northamptonshire and its immediate vicinity, it may not be considered unsuitable to state that a sir richard knightley, at fawsley in this county, who received the honour of knighthood from the earl of leicester, at fotheringay, in the 8th of elizabeth, 1566, was one of the earliest and most zealous patrons of the puritans, or opposers of the new act for the uniformity of worship, who assumed the importance of an organized party in 1568. their publications, principally from the pen of john ap-henry, better known by the assumed name of martin mar-prelate, were industriously though secretly disseminated by means of a travelling printing press, conducted by one walgrave. to elude detection, the scene of its operations was frequently changed. it was first set up at mousley, in surrey, from whence it was removed to fawsley, and worked in a private upper room, approached only by a winding staircase. its next stage was to norton, another of sir richard's seats. it was subsequently conveyed to coventry, woolston, in warwickshire, and finally to manchester, where it was seized by the earl of derby. for these clandestine proceedings sir richard and his associates were summoned before the court of star chamber, and heavily fined; but archbishop whitgift, though one of the most prominent objects of their attack, with a truly christian spirit obtained by his intercession a remission of their sentence. in the succeeding reign, sir richard ventured, with sir edward montague, sir francis hastings, and 60 or 80 other gentlemen, to petition the king on behalf of the puritan clergy of this county; but they were severely rebuked in the star chamber and at the council table for their presumption, and sir richard was dismissed both from the lieutenancy and the commission of the peace. there is another name that is connected with fawsley and the county of northampton, to which we should like to devote a single page--the name of john dod, a.m., generally styled "the decalogist," from his celebrated exposition of the ten commandments. he resided several years at fawsley, under the patronage of the knightley family. this learned puritan divine was the youngest son of john dod, esq., of shacklach, in cheshire, where he was born in 1555. he was educated at jesus college, cambridge. he was successively minister of hanwell, in oxfordshire, fenny drayton, in leicestershire, canons ashby and fawsley in this county. in a work published in 1635, entitled 'a plain and familiar exposition of the lord's prayer,' there is a dedication to his much honoured, loving friend, mr. richard knightley; where he states, "i dedicate this book unto you, that as the lord is my witness that i pray daily for you by name (and so, by his assistance, i purpose to do while i live), so i must leave some testimony behind me to men after my death (which i continually wait for) of my unfeigned and hearty thankfulness for all your favours and goodness to me and mine." he survived ten years after this, and died at the very advanced age of 90 years--was buried at fawsley, 19th of august, 1645. he published a number of different works; but his sayings acquired great provincial celebrity, and have been printed in various forms. fuller characterizes him as "by nature a witty, by industry a learned, by grace a godly, divine." his life was written by samuel clarke. mr. dod was several times silenced for his want of entire conformity to the established system; but he maintained his principles to the last, being distinguished by his fervent spirit of devotion, his entire reliance on god, his submission to the divine will, his trust in the redeemer, his heavenly-mindedness. "the righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance." though this work chiefly relates to one denomination of nonconformists in northamptonshire, it appeared to us desirable to include a short notice of these early advocates of nonconformity, especially in the town of northampton, though they did not generally come out from the church as by law established; for they laboured to obtain a further reformation, and would rather suffer than conform to all that was required. their principles and their spirit gradually led on to all that has since been manifested in the support of genuine, evangelical, vital, voluntary christianity, in the different communities that have separated from the established church. section 2.--the church at castle hill. there are some places of worship which attain notoriety entirely from some celebrated individual that has been connected with them. the talents, the learning, the preaching, or the writings of one of the ministers, have identified the place with his name. this is the case with the meeting house at castle hill, northampton. a plain structure, resembling many others that were built about the same period, it is regarded with the deepest interest, as the place where doddridge spent the greater part of his life as a pastor. in that place doddridge laboured; there stands the pulpit in which doddridge preached; to that vestry doddridge retired; there he often watched and prayed; at that table he oft presented the memorials of a saviour's love, and poured forth from the fulness of an affectionate, fervent heart, the strains of an exalted faith and piety. no certain record can be found of the first formation of the church assembling in this place. its origin is lost in obscurity. when the "act of uniformity" passed, mr. jeremiah lewis, rector of saint giles's, northampton, was ejected from his living; but such was his natural reserve, and such his retired habits, that it does not appear that he ever preached after his ejectment. he did not long survive that event. "he was a man of great meekness; remarkable for his prudence; much beloved by the neighbouring ministers." mr. samuel blower, who was ejected from woodstock, in oxfordshire, is recorded as the first pastor of this church. of his history but little is known. he was educated at oxford, and was a fellow of magdalen college. of his general character we are informed, "that he was of a meek temper, peaceable principles, and a godly life;" of his sentiments, that "he had very exalted thoughts of divine grace and redeeming love;" of the prevailing spirit of his ministry, "that he discovered a very tender regard to young persons, and would often address himself very affectionately to them, not only in his sermons, but in his visits; and that he rejoiced much when he saw anything hopeful in their characters:" of his method of preaching, that "he affected not a pompous way; nor did he dispense the truths of the gospel with the wisdom of man's words, knowing that that was not so likely to be attended with a divine blessing--scripture revelations, in scripture language, were the main subjects of his discourses:" of his friendships we are told that "he was a most desirable friend, being free and communicative, candid in the last degree, of a very sympathizing spirit with those in affliction, and particularly mindful of them in his prayers; and he was so firm and constant where he professed friendship, that it must be some very ill thing indeed that was the occasion of his breaking it off." of his devoted piety it is said, "that wherever he had an interest, he was for improving it for god to his utmost, and took every opportunity to do so." he published a funeral sermon for mrs. elizabeth tub, from psalm xviii. 46: "the lord liveth, and blessed be my rock," &c. mr. blower afterwards removed to abingdon, in berks, where he died in 1701. the records of this church commence with the following statement:- _acts and memoirs of the particular church of christ at northampton, of which mr. samuel blower was pastor._ in the year 1695, this church did, upon the departure of the rev. mr. blower, their pastor, give their unanimous call to thomas shepherd to succeed him in the pastoral office, who thereupon accepting the call, did actually succeed him in the office aforesaid. the form of the church covenant:- we, this church of christ, whose names are underwritten, having given up, ourselves to the lord and one to another according to the will of god, do promise and covenant, in the presence of god, to walk together in all the laws and ordinances of christ, according to the rules of his gospel, through jesus christ so strengthening us. (this was subscribed by about 164 names.) a memorandum on the next page states, "that thomas shepherd, accepting the call this church gave him, did own and declare his willingness and consent to walk with them as a pastor with his people, so long as they could walk comfortably together in all the ways and ordinances of the lord." under date of september 11th, 1696, we have the following statement, from which it appears that mr. shepherd's ministry at northampton was of short duration:- at a church-meeting then holden, it was publicly owned by this church that thomas shepherd, their present pastor, was not under obligation to a continuance with them, by virtue of any conditional consent or promise made upon sitting down. the conditions not being observed by this people, my engagements to them thereupon must needs cease. about a year and a half from this time, _i.e._, february 25th, 1698, mr. john hunt was chosen the pastor of this church. his father was one of the ejected ministers, a mr. william hunt, ejected from the vicarage of sutton, in cambridgeshire. he was a man of eminent piety and great usefulness, and two of his sons became devoted ministers among the dissenters. the pastor of this church was first at royston, and from thence came to northampton, and afterwards he became minister of the independent church at newport pagnell. he appears to have inserted the following passage from philip henry's 'life' among the church records:--"those ministers who will rule by love and meekness need no laws or canons to rule by, other than those of the holy scriptures." he was a man of considerable talent, and wrote several valuable works. there appear to have been 100 members admitted to the church during the ministry of mr. hunt; that ministry closed at northampton in 1709. he died at tunstead, in norfolk, in 1730. on february 22nd, 1709, after divers repeated calls, and days and times of seeking god, rev. thomas tingey gave his acceptance of the call of this people, together with the reason of it, and was solemnly ordained unto the pastoral office and charge of this church of christ--mr. dowley, of lutterworth, mr. king, of wellingborough, mr. some, of harborough, mr. norris, of welford, mr. ironmonger, of buckingham, mr. jackson, of buckby, mr. mason, of spaldwich, and mr. wills, about to be settled at kettering, and mr. dale, of creaton, being present. mr. tingey had previously been minister at newport pagnell, so that mr. hunt's removal was an exchange of situations with him. mr. tingey was an evangelical and able minister, and very zealously exerted himself, even beyond his strength, to preach the gospel in destitute towns and villages around. on leaving northampton he became pastor of an independent church in fetter lane. dr. ridgley preached his funeral sermon, and published it, in which he gives him a high character as an able and successful minister. he died november 1st, 1729, a few weeks after his settlement in london. the ministry of mr. tingey appears to have continued about twenty years, until the first part of the year 1729, for on september 28th of that year we find the first invitation given to doddridge, with a view to the pastoral office. as we have a more full account of this pastorate than of any other over the church at castle hill, and as it is invested with some peculiar interest from the labours of doddridge, so we think it proper to present the particulars to some extent before the reader. the following is a copy of the invitation:- _from the dissenting congregation at castle hill, northampton._ the church of christ in northampton sendeth greeting. reverend sir,--the dispensations of god's providence towards us in suffering the removal of our late pastor is very awful, and we hope hath lain with weight upon our hearts. it hath urged us to make prayer and supplication that god, the great shepherd, would appear and direct us in this difficult and weighty matter, and send among us one whom he will eminently own and make a great blessing unto us. sir, we have had some taste of your ministerial ability in your occasional labours amongst us, which have given a general satisfaction to the congregation; but this matter being so important, we humbly apply ourselves to you, that you would come and preach among us as a candidate for a month. we leave our brethren, who will bring this, to use what further arguments they may think meet, and recommend you to the wisdom and conduct of the divine spirit, and continue our prayers and supplications to the great god for our direction. we subscribe our names by the order and consent of the whole church. (signed by ten persons.) the prospect of this removal to northampton became a matter of great concern to doddridge and his friends. he had recently commenced his academy at harborough; he was engaged as assistant to mr. some; the latter was very unwilling for him to entertain the idea of removing at this time; and from his representations, and the regard doddridge had for his friendship, with some other circumstances, he had almost arrived at a determined refusal. but in the church at northampton there was much concern about the matter, and they did all in their power to obtain a compliance; and it was as if god worked with them. they made such representations to the ministers who were likely to have influence with doddridge, as to engage them on their side. mr. clarke, of st. alban's, wrote, october 21st, 1729- dear sir,--your resolution with respect to northampton i could not but approve, according to the view i then had of the matter; but to-day mr. bliss, of that town, called upon me with a letter from the church, in which they represent how unanimously and earnestly they desired your settlement among them, and how ready they should be in every particular to make the removal agreeable to you; and that as to the objection from your attendance upon your pupils, they would gladly accept of what time you could spare without any damage to them, as they are sensible that you have abilities to go through with both employments. they further urged, that should you refuse their invitation, it might expose them to the danger of division, and they could not join unanimously in any other call. mr. bliss also told me that they could have a house fit for your academy on easy terms, and that they would furnish some of the rooms for you at their own expense; and that if mrs. jennings did not think fit to remove her family, and is out of pocket by having provided for the reception of your pupils, they would make her a handsome present to reimburse her. in short, that the people were so set upon having you on any terms, that they would do anything for you in their power, and earnestly desired me to press you to consent. i must own, their very great zeal in this matter weighs very much with me; and the more so, because it would give you the prospect of being of great service there, and by that means in all that county, where you might be an instrument of promoting a more catholic spirit, as well as of bringing in souls to christ. i am ready to think that god has some special work for you to do there. and mr. some, the most decided and earnest opponent of the change, goes to northampton to converse with the people about the matter, intending to prevail on them to give it up; and he, in writing to doddridge, says, "the hearts of the people are moved altogether as the trees of a wood when bent by the wind; and they are under such strong impressions about your coming to them, that it is impossible for a man to converse with them without feeling something for them. the mention of your name diffuses life and spirit through the whole body, and nothing can be heard of but mr. doddridge. i find myself in the utmost perplexity, and know not what to say or do. i think i am like _saul among the prophets_; and that the same spirit which is in the people begins to seize me also." still, before his removal from harborough, he undergoes a great struggle. he had almost decided, notwithstanding all this, to remain there; went to northampton to "lay down his good friends there as gently as he could"; preached to them with this view from "when he could not be persuaded, we ceased, saying, the will of the lord be done." he thinks much of the weight of business that would lie upon him as tutor and pastor; of his own youth; the largeness of the congregation, and having no prospect of an assistant. but he is passing through a room of the house where he lodges, and hears a child reading a chapter in the bible to its mother;--the only words he distinctly catches are, "as thy day so shall thy strength be." this deeply impressed him, yet he persisted in his refusal. then a deacon of the church, whose father was ill, presents an urgent request for him to improve his father's death when he is taken away. he dies that night. doddridge is detained by his promise for the funeral. he is greatly assisted; many attend, and express the greatest satisfaction in his labours. while waiting for this funeral the young people come to him in a body, and entreat his continuance, promising to submit to every method of instruction he might propose. at length he is so overcome as to be convinced that it is his duty to accept the invitation, though still directly contrary to the advice and wishes of his friends; yet, seeing the hand of god in it, he breaks through all other restraints. after much earnest prayer, correspondence, and consultations, doddridge sends his answer to the invitation to the pastoral office, of which the following is a copy:- _to the congregation at northampton, on my acceptance of their invitation to undertake the pastoral charge._ _december 6th, 1729._ my dear friends,--after a serious and impartial consideration of your case, and repeated addresses to the great father of light for his guidance and direction, i can at length assure you that i am determined by his permission to accept of your kind invitation, and undertake the pastoral care of you, with the most ardent feelings of sincere gratitude and affection. you will easily apprehend that i could not form this resolution without a great deal of anguish, both with regard to those friends whom i am called upon to resign, and in reference to that great and difficult work that lies before me, in the care of your large congregation and my academy. but i hope that i have sincerely devoted my soul to god and my redeemer; and therefore i would humbly yield myself up to what, in present circumstances, i apprehend to be his will. i take this important step with fear and trembling, yet with a humble confidence in him, and with the hope that in the midst of these great difficulties he will not leave me entirely destitute of that _presence_ which i desire to prefer to everything which life can bestow. as for you, my brethren, let me entreat of you, that "if there be any consolation in christ, if any comfort of love, if any fellowship of the spirit, if any bowels of mercy, fulfil ye my joy." let me beseech you to remember, that by accepting your call i have entrusted the happiness of my life into your hands. prepare yourselves, therefore, to cover my many infirmities with the mantle of your love, and continue to treat me with the same kindness and gentleness as those dear and excellent friends have done whom i am now about to leave in compassion to your souls; for god knows that no temporal advantage you could have offered would have engaged me to relinquish them. may my heavenly father comfort my heart in what is now determined, by giving an abundant success to my ministrations among you, so that a multitude of souls may have reason to praise him on that account! and let me beg that you will bear me daily on your hearts before his throne in prayer, and seek for me that extraordinary assistance without which i must infallibly sink under the great work i have thus undertaken. i shall continue to recommend you, my dearly beloved, to the grace of almighty god, the great shepherd of his sheep, with that affection which now so peculiarly becomes your most devoted friend and servant, in the bonds of our common lord, philip doddridge. the account of the ordination we present, as inserted by doddridge in the records of the church:- after repeated solicitations, long deliberation, and earnest prayer to god for direction, i came to the resolution to accept the invitation of my dear and most affectionate friends at northampton on saturday, december 6th, 1729, and certified the church of that resolution by a letter that evening. i removed from harborough and came to settle here on wednesday, december 24th. on thursday, march 19th, 1730, i was solemnly set apart to the pastoral office by prayer, and fasting, and imposition of hands. mr. goodrich began with prayer and reading eph. iv.; mr. dawson prayed; then mr. watson preached from 1 tim. iii. 1, "if a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work." mr. norris then read the call of the church, of which i declared my acceptance; he took my confessions of faith and ordination vows, and then proceeded to set me apart by prayer. immediately afterwards, mr. clarke, of st. alban's, gave the charge to me; and mr. saunders, of kettering, the exhortation to the people; and mr. mattock concluded the whole solemnity by prayer. it was a delightful, and i hope it will prove a very profitable, day. i write this memoranda of it under the remembrance of a painful and threatening illness, which detained me from my public work the two ensuing sabbaths. the event is still dubious; but i leave my life and my dear flock in the hand of the great shepherd, hoping what passed on my ordination-day will be an engagement to me to live more usefully, or an encouragement to die more cheerfully, than i should otherwise have done. amen. i administered the lord's supper, for the first time, on lord's-day, april 12th, 1730. i hope we had much of the presence of god with us, and may regard it as a token for good. on the 4th of february it pleased god to add to us eight persons, in whose character and experience we find great reason to be fully satisfied. the number of names entered in the church-book, as we consider by the hand of doddridge, is 342. after about ten years' labour as pastor, tutor, and author, finding the state of the church not to his satisfaction, and feeling that he could not attend to it as it appeared to him to require, he endeavoured to engage the church to choose some assistants to him in his work among the people, under the name of elders. they acceded to the request of their pastor, and unanimously made choice of the rev. job orton, rev. john evans, as also of mr. john brown, to assist the pastor in his care of the society; and also desired mr. samuel heyworth, by divine providence resident among them, though a member of the church at rowell, to assist, by his counsels and labours, in the same office. they were solemnly recommended to god by prayer at a church-meeting, february 26, 1740, having then signified their acceptance of the call. these elders appeared at once to enter with an earnest spirit on the duties of their office. after several meetings amongst themselves, with the concurrence of the pastor and deacons they drew up a letter, to be presented to the church, expressive of what they considered to be the duties to which they were called, and of what they regarded as necessary to the good order and prosperity of the society. the letter was gratefully received by the church. special church-meetings were appointed to consider the proposals it contained, and the unanimous sanction of the members present was given to what the elders desired. regarding the letter as an interesting document, we shall here present it before the reader:- _the elders and deacons of the church of christ assembling on castle hill, northampton, to their brethren of the church, greeting._ dear brethren, beloved in the lord,--as we are chosen, in common with our pastor, to watch over you, and serve among you in offices relating to the public honour, edification, and comfort of the society, we think it our duty to address ourselves to you with one consent, on a subject which appears to us of great importance. you cannot but know, dear brethren, that our lord jesus christ, whose servants we are, has by his apostles commanded his churches that they "withdraw themselves from every brother who walketh disorderly, and not according to the traditions received from them; that they mark those that cause scandals among them; and that if any obey not the word, that they note that man, and have no fellowship with him, that he may be ashamed; and that if any brother be a fornicator, or covetous, or a railer, or a drunkard, or an extortioner" (and, upon the same principle, if he be a liar, or one that defrauds others), "they should not eat with such a one; but that" (though such as are without are to be referred to the judgment of god) "they judge those that are within, and put away from among themselves such wicked persons." these, brethren, are the precepts of christ, according to which, by our entering into church fellowship, we engaged to walk; and we apprehend that the neglect of these precepts, and the discipline in the church of christ which should be founded upon them, is a great evil, which often provokes god to withdraw from his people, and to hinder the success of other ordinances while this is neglected. we do therefore, in the name of our lord jesus christ, beseech you that ye would attend to these precepts, and would consent to proper measures for the regular exercise of discipline among us. and as we have observed that several have withdrawn themselves from the table of the lord, though their names stand as members among us, we desire that the church would take it into consideration, and that if it shall be found (as they fear it will) that some have withdrawn on account of such irregularities in their behaviour as have given scandal and offence, we cannot think the matter ought to rest merely in their withdrawing from us, but that it is our duty as a church solemnly to admonish them, and, where the offence has been great and public, to separate them from our communion, till god shall give them repentance to the acknowledgment of their sin; after which, it is our undoubted duty, on a suitable time of trial, with proper declarations of their repentance, to admit them again in the spirit of love and rejoicing in their recovery. we do therefore, in concurrence with our pastor, by whose approbation we write these things, exhort you, in the name of our lord jesus christ, that you enter into a serious disquisition of these things; and advise, that you appoint a day in which they may be solemnly discussed, at which the members of the church shall be present, and such only; at which time we, the elders, are ready to exhibit a list of several persons absenting themselves from communion, of whose cases the church will do well to judge, that such measures may be taken concerning them as the precepts of our common lord direct; and we desire that the elders may now be commissioned, in the name of the church, to give notice to such persons, if they think proper to attend at that meeting, that if they have anything to offer in favour of themselves and their own conduct, they may be heard, and all due regard be paid to their defence; they being also in the name of the church informed, that if they do not so attend, their absenting themselves without sufficient reason assigned will be taken as a confession of their being incapable of offering any excuse, so that the church will accordingly proceed against them. to this, as our unanimous advice to the church, we have here set our hands, that if any of us then should be absent, our approbation of these measures may be evidently declared; and we pray that god may guide you in all your deliberations and resolutions, to the glory of his name, and the honour and edification of this society. _april 2nd, 1741._ after this follows a number of cases presented to the church for suitable admonition and discipline. one entry we will quote, as deserving the attention of the churches of christ at the present day:- it is the unanimous judgment of this church, that the frequent acts of bankruptcy which have happened in dissenting congregations, as well as elsewhere, have brought so great a dishonour on religion, and occasioned so much mischief and reproach, that we think ourselves obliged in duty to enter our public protest and caution on this head; and we do hereby declare, that if any persons in stated communion with us shall become a bankrupt, or, as it is commonly expressed, fail in the world, he must expect to be cut off from our body, unless he do within two months give to the church, by the elders, either in word or writing, such an account of his affairs as shall convince us that his fall was owing not to his own sin and folly, but to the afflicting hand of god upon him; in which case, far from adding affliction to the afflicted, we hope that as god shall enable us we shall be ready to vindicate, comfort, and assist him, as his friends and brethren in christ. signed, in the name and presence of the church, this 1st day of may, 1741, by the pastor and deacons. shortly after this doddridge is deprived of his valuable assistant in the academy and the church, job orton; and he parts with him in a manner that indicates the high sense he entertained of his worth, and the affectionate attachment he felt to him. when it was decided for him to leave, we find this record:- our dear and reverend brother, mr. job orton, having declared his purpose of leaving us, on the invitation of the united church at shrewsbury, was solemnly recommended to god by the prayers of the church, several hours being spent in that exercise, and then was dismissed to the said church at shrewsbury by the following letter, sent by the pastor, in the name of the church:-"_the church of christ assembling on castle hill, northampton, to the church of christ in salop assembling_. "dear brethren and friends, beloved in the lord,--as the providence of god hath seen fit to remove from us to you our reverend and dear brother, mr. job orton, who has for many years resided amongst us, and has of late years, with great honour and acceptance, ministered unto us and assisted us under the office of an elder; though we cannot resign him without the most affectionate and tender concern and deep regret, yet, being obliged to acquiesce in the determination of the great head of the church, though to us a very painful one, we think it our duty by these letters to dismiss him from our stated communion to yours; which accordingly we hereby do, blessing god for all the advantages we have enjoyed by his ministry and presence, and earnestly praying that his labours may not only be highly acceptable and delightful to you, as we are persuaded they must be, but that they may be crowned with abundant success. we cannot doubt but your conduct to him will be so obliging and affectionate, as abundantly to demonstrate the sense you have of the singular favour of providence to you in sending among you so able, so faithful, and so zealous a labourer; and we earnestly desire your prayers for us, that god may make up to us, by his immediate presence and blessing, the unspeakable and otherwise irreparable loss which we sustain by his removal from us. "signed, by the unanimous direction of the church, at their church-meeting, october 1st, 1741, in the name of the whole society, "philip doddridge." another memoranda by doddridge we shall here insert:- _may 2nd, 1748._ i reviewed the list of the church from the beginning, and found that from 1694, when mr. hunt was settled as their pastor (that is, within the compass of 54 years), 784 members have been admitted, inclusive of those then found--that is, one year with another, more than 14 members each year: of which 240 only continue alive and reside still among us; of which, 58 were admitted before my settlement with the church;--and, as i have admitted 299, they show that 117, who have been admitted from that time, are either removed or dead, besides many others who were admitted before. n.b.--seventy-eight have been my pupils. this would average, during the ministry of doddridge, 16 admissions in a year. the following letter of doddridge, written about this period, containing some statements relating to his church and his feelings as a pastor, we think never before published, may here be suitably introduced. it was addressed to "the rev. mr. ryland, in warwick," father of the late dr. ryland, of bristol, and afterwards minister of college street chapel, northampton. _northampton, may 17th, 1747._ rev. and dear sir,--i am much obliged to you for your affectionate letter, and shall be very ready to give you a visit and a sermon, if providence give me a convenient opportunity; but my motions are at present uncertain, depending partly on some visits i expect from my friends, and partly upon other circumstances. be assured, sir, that if i have an opportunity i shall be very glad to see you and serve you to the best of my little power, and think myself happy in an opportunity of doing anything to promote the kingdom of christ amongst you or elsewhere. i beg your prayers for me. through the divine goodness i continue well. i have been much afflicted by the breach made in our church by the moravians, who have got from us a little congregation. the affliction has been increased by the death of some very promising and hopeful persons, especially of one who died last night, and whose age, circumstances, and character concurred to give us the greatest hopes of usefulness from him; so that it is one of the greatest blows of that kind that i have received since i came hither. my spirits are much grieved and oppressed; pray that i may be enabled to wait on the lord with quiet submission and humble hope. we congratulate you on your marriage, and heartily recommend you and mrs. ryland to the divine blessing. i am, rev. and dear sir, your affectionate brother and obliged humble servant, p. doddridge. one more entry we have in the church-book, relating to his success as a pastor:-_some remarks which have occurred to me on the state of the church since january 1st, 1747, which i note for the instruction of any future pastor._ at the time above mentioned, i took a review of the number of church members, which i found more decreased since michaelmas, 1745, than i ever knew it to be in double that time; for i found that since that time we have received only 15 members, and have lost 17; 12 have died or removed the last year, and only 8 of the 15 have been admitted this year; so that our decrease since michaelmas, 1745, is 2, and since this time twelve-months, on the whole, 4--a very discouraging circumstance, especially considering how much i have abounded in exhortations to the lord's table during the last year. n.b.--the _omission_ of the names of three, since recollected, who were admitted in 1745, made the state of affairs appear more melancholy than i afterwards found it to be. his last statement is--"in looking over the account for the year 1749, i find that 22 had been admitted, and 22 removed by death or otherwise; so that we were just as at the beginning of the year--in all, 239." these statements rather surprise us; considering what the writer of them had devolving upon him in the care of his academy, in his extensive correspondence, in his numerous and valuable publications, that he should, amidst all this, pay so particular and minute attention to the state of the church of which he was pastor. it shows strikingly the activity, ardour, and entire devotedness of his spirit. but, alas! it was too active and ardent for the material framework long to sustain the efforts to which it was impelled. hence the very next entry we meet with is, "that the rev. philip doddridge, doctor of divinity, after being twenty-one years pastor of this church, died at lisbon, to which place he had resorted for the recovery of his health, on the 26th of october, 1751, we may truly say, to the unspeakable loss of this church." how he lived and how he died is very extensively known, by the memoir published by orton--the "centenary memorial" of him recently sent forth by stoughton; so that, though we would fain linger over his memory, yet anything further respecting him would seem to be out of place here. we happen to have in our possession a copy of the poem sacred to the memory of doddridge, as it was first published by its author, mr. henry moore, who had been one of the doctor's students, and was afterwards settled as a minister in devonshire. it is the same poem in substance as is given by orton at the close of his 'memoirs of doddridge'; but it is there considerably altered from this first copy. it is thus inscribed to mrs. doddridge:- permit me, madam, to present to you the following poem, as a testimony of my high veneration for the memory of my deceased tutor, and my tender sympathy with his afflicted family. i am, madam, your most obliged humble servant, h---m----. _northampton, february, 1st, 1752._ we extract the following lines from pages 7-9:- o, snatch'd for ever, ever from our view, thou best, thou greatest of thy kind, adieu! thou, in whose ample, comprehensive mind, all the ten thousand streams of science join'd;- all the fair train of social virtues smil'd, and bright religion beam'd divinely mild. ah, love shall listen with delight no more, while from thy lips truth pours her sacred store;- no more, while studious to instruct and please, you temper serious sense with graceful ease;- no more, with zeal for god and virtue fired, by reason govern'd, and by heaven inspired, thy various eloquence our ears shall charm, command our passions, and our bosoms warm; bid in our breast seraphic raptures roll, and spread the generous flame from soul to soul; while sinners start, by conscious terror stung, and tremble at the thunder of thy tongue. once more, adieu! o friend, instructor, guide, with whom our hopes, our fairest prospects died. with what fond zeal we press'd the throne divine, to rescue from the grave a life like thine! if ardent prayers--if streaming sorrows, shed in all the bitterness of soul--could plead, our prayers, o doddridge! had revers'd thy doom, and tens of thousands wept thee from the tomb. but cease, rash muse--oh, tremble to repine! 'tis heaven demands him, and we must resign. all-perfect goodness ever wills the best: then bow submissive to the high behest, and silent drop the tributary tear that nature's forced to pay to friendship dear. though heaven forbids us to indulge our grief, a tear it will allow--the soul's relief. yet who would wish him still confin'd below, struggling with dire disease, or loads of woe? then dry the tear, suppress the rising sigh, weep not for him who could rejoice to die. e'en when the quiv'ring pulse, the panting breath, and clay-cold sweat, presag'd th' approach of death, his steady soul, by conscious virtue arm'd, no inward stings or gathering clouds alarm'd. calm as the silent surface of the sea, when ev'n the gentle breeze has ceased to play, fair hope, strong faith, his sinking soul sustain'd, in smiling peace each rising care seren'd; heav'n on the saint shed down her cheering ray, and open'd on his mind her dawning day. then his warm breast with bliss ecstatic glow'd, fir'd with th' approaching vision of his god. impatient of his soul-confining chains, eager he welcom'd the dissolving pains; already seem'd on seraphs' wings to rise, already spurn'd his dust, and tower'd into the skies. methought i saw him mount the starry way, his temples beaming with celestial day. rapt in a flamy car, sublime he flew- the flamy car fire-breathing coursers drew; swift as the lightning glimpse he flash'd along; while, waiting for his flight, a white-rob'd throng (once wretched souls, enslaved by satan's yoke, whose painful bonds his arduous labours broke), grateful and happy, smile to see him rise, and hail him welcome to th' applauding skies; ten thousand harps, harmonious as the spheres, proclaim their joy, and charm his ravish'd ears. in proceeding with the memorials of this church, now bereft of its beloved and honoured doddridge, we find that the rev. robert gilbert was called to be the pastor, and entered upon the pastoral charge at lady-day, 1753. this worthy man died december 28th, 1760. we are unable to ascertain what was the condition of the church during the ministry of mr. gilbert; but have some reason to conclude that it was not in a united or prosperous state. considerable difficulty might be expected to attend the choice of a successor to such a pastor as the one that had immediately preceded; and this more fully appeared after mr. gilbert's short course of labour had closed. mr. hextal was the next pastor of the church. he was a native of broughton, near kettering; became a member of the church at kettering under mr. saunders; for which, see the memorials of the church at kettering. he was a student at northampton under dr. doddridge; first settled at creaton, then at sudbury, from which place he came to northampton. we have no record of the time when he entered on his ministry at castle hill, and no account of anything that transpired during his ministry; but under the date of april 16, 1775, we have this record: "it was this day agreed, by a majority of eighteen brethren of this church, to dismiss the rev. mr. hextal from his office as pastor, minister, and teacher." this appears to have led to very painful altercations between the friends of mr. hextal and those that were opposed to him, which ultimately led to a separation from the church and congregation. those who were attached to mr. hextal endeavoured to regain the pulpit for him by a process of law, pleading the right of the subscribers to a vote for the pastor; but this was overruled, as contrary to the deed which gives "the power to the church (upon giving six days' notice by the deacons) to elect, place, and displace a minister as they think proper." the result was, that mr. hextal's friends withdrew, and built the chapel in king street, where mr. hextal ministered till the close of his life. the names of thirty members are given, as having been first admonished for withdrawing themselves from the church, and, refusing to return, were declared as no longer standing in this relation to them. the name of mary doddridge occurs amongst those who had withdrawn. in 'orton's letters to dissenting ministers,' we have the following passage, in a letter dated december 26, 1762: "my last letters from northampton encourage me to hope that mr. hextal will be comfortable and useful there." to this, mr. palmer, the editor, appends the following note:- an amiable and respectable minister, who removed from sudbury on account of dissensions occasioned by a party spirit in electing members of parliament, and succeeded mr. gilbert in the congregation of which dr. doddridge had been pastor, where he soon met with equally cruel usage, and was obliged to withdraw to a new chapel which his friends erected for him, where he ended his days in peace. his great candour and benevolence gave occasion to morose-minded people, who disliked some that espoused his cause, to charge him with a want of orthodoxy; whereas, in point of sentiment, he was in fact higher than the generality of acknowledged calvinists. such is the blindness of bigotry. these unhappy circumstances greatly diminished the numbers in the church. under date of april 24th, 1777, we find the names of only 64 members, showing a great decrease since the death of doddridge. rev. john horsey was unanimously invited to the pastoral office february 2nd, 1777, and testified his acceptance of it on the 2nd of march. he was dismissed from the church at ringwood, to be received as a member of the church at northampton, and then ordained as the minister. the following is the account mr. horsey gives of the ordination service:- having accepted the pressing solicitations of my friends, i was solemnly separated to the pastoral office over the church of christ assembling on castle hill, northampton, on may 14th, 1777. mr. scott, of hinkley, began with prayer, and reading the 100th psalm and 3rd chapter 1st epistle to timothy. mr. towle, of london, delivered an introductory discourse, received the church's account of the steps they had previously taken, read by mr. john wood, together with a renewal of their call; i testified likewise my acceptance of it, and delivered my confession of faith. mr. saunders, of bedworth, set me apart by prayer and imposition of hands; mr. king, of welford, gave the charge, founded on 1st cor. iv. 2; mr. rowley, of warwick, prayed; dr. mayo, of london, preached on 2nd cor. iv. 5; and mr. bull, of newport, concluded in prayer. our assisting friends officiated respectively with an amiable order and propriety, the divine spirit was eminently with us, and his blessing, we hope, will attend the important transactions of the day. _june 1st._--i administered the lord's supper for the first time; it was a very comfortable season. may god grant us his presence in our future engagements of a similar nature! mr. horsey's ministry over this people extended to the lengthened period of fifty years, during which time 170 members were added to the church. he died on may 12th, 1827. mr. horsey was a man of very gentlemanly appearance and manners, great ease, affability, and much kindness; his style as a preacher pleasing, and rather attractive, not distinguished by much energy; but we have heard that in the first years of his ministry at northampton it was popular, and drew together a rather crowded congregation. much has been said and written respecting mr. horsey's deficiency in orthodox views, or in distinct statements on some of the great points of evangelical truth. he had the charge of the academy for a time after its removal from daventry, at the resignation of mr. belsham. suspicions arising as to his sentiments on the person and work of christ, he resigned his office as tutor, and the academy was for a time broken up; nor was the church or congregation after this in a flourishing state under the ministry of mr. horsey. the attendance declined; the number of members diminished. this may be the case under certain circumstances where there is no deficiency in truth, or piety, or ability, on the part of the ministry, and hence may present no certain criterion of the one or the other; and there were a number, we believe, of truly pious devout persons of evangelical sentiments, who continued under the ministry of mr. horsey, esteemed his character, and prized his preaching. yet it must be allowed, we apprehend, that there was a certain vagueness in his statements respecting the person and work of the redeemer, which showed either that the mind of the preacher was not earnestly intent on discovering and grasping the truth, under a powerful impression of the value of the truth, or that it had formed opinions to which it was unwilling to give a clear and distinct utterance; but mr. horsey manifested the spirit of devotion, and a humble reliance on christ as the saviour of sinners, and would be found "looking for the mercy of our lord jesus christ to eternal life." when mr. horsey's infirmities increased so as to render him incapable of fulfilling all the duties of his office, mr. charles hyatt was invited to become co-pastor; but mr. horsey being removed by death before this connexion had been completed, mr. hyatt was then invited to take the pastoral charge, which he accepted, and was ordained september 25th, 1827. we present mr. hyatt's account of the engagements of the day:- after solemn deliberation and prayer to god for direction, i accepted the invitation of my kind friends at castle hill to become their pastor, and conveyed that resolution in a letter to the church, 1827. on wednesday, september 26th, i was solemnly recognized as the pastor of the church. mr. edwards, of king's head lane (now king street) meeting, commenced the services of the day by reading and prayer; mr. robertson, of wellingborough, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. toller, of kettering, asked the usual questions; mr. hyatt, senior, offered up the ordination prayer; mr. morrell, of wymondley, delivered the charge, founded on rev. ii. 10; mr. fletcher, of stepney, preached to the people, from 1st cor. xvi. 14; mr. gray, of college lane, concluded with prayer. it was a most delightful and interesting service. nearly 50 ministers were present, and the impressions then made will, it is hoped, never wear away. after this settlement, some of the friends of the late mr. horsey separated from the church and congregation, and commenced the unitarian interest in the town. on this subject we present the following statement- friday, november 22nd, 1827, we held our first church-meeting, when the following letter was read to the church:- "_to the church of christ assembling under the pastoral care of the rev. charles hyatt._ "we, the undersigned members of the church of christ assembling in castle hill meeting, having, in obedience to the dictates of our consciences, united in the formation of a society of christians, whose worship is directed solely to the one god the father, agreeably to the express injunctions of our saviour, deem it proper to withdraw, and hereby beg leave to announce our withdrawment, from the worship and communion of the church to which we have hitherto belonged, on account of the discordance existing between the mode of worship as there practised and that which we believe to have been enjoined and observed by christ and his apostles."--(signed by nine members.) the individuals who signed this letter, in connexion with some of the subscribers, formed themselves into a society professing unitarian sentiments. the list of the members at castle hill after this contains but fifty names. mr. hyatt's ministry in northampton continued six years and three months, when he removed to be co-pastor with his father in london. he preached his farewell sermon march 21st, 1833. something more than eighty members appear to have been admitted during this period. mr. hyatt was the son of the rev. charles hyatt, of shadwell, london. he was born in the year 1805. trained in the fear of god, he resolved, on leaving school, to devote himself to studies preparatory to the christian ministry. although but fifteen years of age when he formed this resolution, yet he was eligible for admission into wymondley college, under the auspices of the trustees of mr. coward, and accordingly he entered there in 1820, under the patronage of dr. collyer. he honourably occupied six years in his studies, and then became the pastor of the church at northampton. he was strongly urged by his father to resign his charge at northampton, to undertake the co-pastorate with him in the church at ebenezer chapel, shadwell--the people having invited him to this office. his acquiescence in this request proved a great source of comfort to his venerable father, with whom he indeed laboured "as a son with the father" in the gospel. he took an active part in the labours of the british and foreign sailors' society, and, in 1844, was chosen to be its secretary. the growing infirmities of his honoured father threw the whole weight of pastoral duties upon him; and his frame, always delicate and prone to disease, began to yield to the pressure of labour, which was too much for his strength. on the 16th of june, 1846, his venerated father died; and in nine short months after this, the happy spirit of the son was gathered to his fathers. this change came upon him somewhat by surprise. it is a well known symptom in pulmonary disorders, to look for restoration to health and activity even to the last; and when, therefore, he learned from his physician that there was no hope of his ultimate recovery, it was to him an unexpected announcement. but it caused him neither depression nor alarm. he was prepared for the event; and in the last days of his sickness he was favoured with a continued rapture of love, hope, and joy, which was never interrupted but by the paroxysms of pain which terminated his amiable and holy life. he died in the 42nd year of his age. rev. john bennett succeeded mr. hyatt in the pastoral charge at castle hill in june, 1833, and is the present minister of this church. the number of communicants at the present time is 160. there are 300 children in the sabbath-schools. since the commencement of mr. bennett's pastorate, four young men have gone out from this church into the regular ministry. three members of the church are almost constantly engaged in village-preaching; but there are no stations connected with the chapel. the present meeting house was built in the year 1695. it is just according to the general fashion of dissenting places of worship of that era, in respectable towns--a plain building, entirely destitute of architectural ornaments, three galleries, and large pillars to support the roof. commodious school-rooms were built for the sabbath-school in the year 1825, at a cost probably of â£500. about fourteen years ago the lower part of the chapel was entirely repaired; lobbies made for the gallery stairs, stone steps to the galleries, new aisles, and cost about â£400. it has just undergone considerable alterations--pillars removed, new roof, and new galleries, at a cost of â£500. it was re-opened for worship on wednesday, the 6th of october. we have been favoured with the following account of the services by the pastor:- on the wednesday morning the rev. j. sherman, of surrey chapel, preached an admirable sermon, to a very large and deeply interested audience, the rev. t. thomas, of wellingborough, having commenced the service with reading and prayer. in the evening the service was opened by the rev. w. todman, of yardley, hastings, who read the scriptures and prayed. the rev. dr. archer, of london, then delivered a most eloquent discourse, which was listened to with the deepest interest by an audience which filled the chapel to overflowing. the friends dined together, and took tea at the milton hall. on the following sabbath the rev. h. toller, of market harborough, preached morning and evening, with his customary power and acceptance, to overflowing congregations. the various collections amounted to more than â£85. the cordial and fraternal spirit manifested by the other dissenting churches in the town was such as to afford the deepest gratification to the friends of the redeemer at castle hill. altogether, the occasion will long be remembered with pleasure and thankfulness by this ancient christian society. in the vestry are doddridge's table, chair, and looking-glass. the present state of the church at castle hill is such as, we have no doubt, excites grateful emotions to the god of all grace from the pastor and his flock; and in the words of their beloved doddridge they would say,- "th' eternal shepherd still survives, new comfort to impart; his eye still guides us, and his voice still animates our heart." section 3.--the church at king's-street. when discord and contentions arise in a christian society they are productive of great evils--opposed to the spirit of the gospel, they prove a hindrance to the advancement of individual piety, and to the extension of the kingdom of christ among men. yet the god who "makes the wrath of man to praise him," often overrules the disagreements that arise in his churches for "the furtherance of the gospel." in the preceding account of the church at castle hill it will have been seen that during the ministry of mr. hextal dissensions arose, which led to his dismissal from his office as pastor by a majority of the church. in the month of august, 1774, mr. hextal was afflicted with a disease which rendered him incapable of fulfilling all his duties as pastor of the church at castle hill. it was therefore determined to invite an assistant; and it appears that the greater part of the church wished to have a minister who was not quite agreeable to mr. hextal and the major part of the subscribers. this was the occasion of much dissension. a great deal of acrimonious feeling was manifested; pamphlets were written on both sides; and at length a separation ensued; the chapel in king street was built, and mr. hextal carried on his ministry there. it was erected in the year 1776. in a preface written by mr. hextal to one of the pamphlets that was published, we find the following paragraph, which we extract as expressive of the principles he maintained, and the spirit he wished to exemplify and promote. after censuring the injudicious zeal of some, he observes,- i mention these things, not to encourage a disregard or indifference about the peculiar doctrines of the gospel--far be such a thought from me. i believe them, and will earnestly contend for them in the spirit of meekness. the doctrine of the divinity of christ, on which i humbly apprehend the efficacy of his atonement depends; the fall of man, or his lost estate by the great apostacy; the deity of the spirit, and the necessity of his influences to renew fallen man to the divine life, are doctrines i believe evidently discovered in scripture. these i have constantly insisted upon in the course of my ministry, for the truth of which i can appeal to those who have heard me ever since i came to this place. but it has ever been my opinion, that these doctrines, which i look upon as the distinguishing glory of the gospel, should be maintained in the spirit of love and candour, with soft words and the strongest arguments we can use; and sorry i am that the word 'candour' should sound harsh, and give offence to any christians, especially to any that belong to the church and congregation that enjoyed so long such a burning and shining light as dr. doddridge, in whose example and ministry the zeal for gospel truth adorned with moderation, benevolence, and charity, appeared with such an amiable lustre; and who, "though dead, yet speaketh" in his learned, valuable, and useful writings. * * * may we all be thoroughly convinced, and helped to act agreeable to the conviction, that he is the brightest ornament of his christian profession, the best friend to the church of christ, and partakes most of the temper of heaven, who best loves all of every denomination that he thinks bear the name of jesus, and most readily exercises candour and forbearance to those who differ from him in non-essentials. should the separation here be permitted to continue, may we live in peace, and sincerely pray for each other. here mr. hextal laboured until the close of his ministry, and ended his days amongst this people, dying at the age of 66 years. the following inscription is on a tablet in the chapel:- love one another. sacred to the memory of the rev. william hextal, a faithful minister of the gospel, and sometime pastor of this christian society; who remarkably exhibited in his life what he warmly recommended from the pulpit,--unfeigned piety to god, and universal benevolence to men. having endured many and great afflictions, both in body and mind, he entered into the rest which remains for the people of god, november 4th, 1777, aged 66. mr. porter was the next pastor of the church, entering on his office a short time after the death of mr. hextal. the register of baptisms, it is stated, was begun a.d. 1778, by thomas porter, pastor of the congregation that assembles in kingshead lane, northampton. the last entry made by mr. porter is of a baptism that took place august 8th, 1784; the next being by mr. edwards, august 13th, 1786; so that mr. porter's ministry was not continued for much more than six years. about the year 1786, mr. b. l. edwards became the pastor of this church, and filled this office for 45 years, as he died january 2nd, 1831, aged 66 years. the following account of mr. edwards appeared in the _congregational magazine_, shortly after his death:- mr. edwards pursued his preparatory studies for the ministry at the theological institution then conducted at hoxton, we believe under the tuition of drs. savage, kippis, and rees; and from thence he proceeded to the station which for so many years he has occupied with an unblemished character. as a minister of christ, he united orthodoxy of sentiment with liberality of spirit; as a man, he was admired most by those who were best acquainted with him--warm and faithful in his friendships, of a most enlarged benevolence, and universally regarded as the ardent and consistent advocate of civil and religious liberty throughout the world. the later years of life were distinguished by a growing spirituality of mind; and as he drew near to the close of his labours upon earth, he seemed to increase in the fervour of his public ministrations. the illness which terminated in his death was of short duration. on the second sabbath in december he preached three times: on the afternoon of the day he delivered a funeral discourse, founded on the exhortation of christ to his disciples, "be ye also ready," and distinguished by unusual earnestness and deep solemnity; and in the evening he closed his public labours by a sermon from psalm xxxi. 19. though from that time till within three or four days of his departure he was too unwell to leave the house, yet no painful apprehensions of immediate danger were excited in the minds of his friends. on the thursday night preceding his dissolution he became, however, materially worse, from which time he rapidly declined, until, on the morning of the sabbath, he received the summons, and entered into rest. an individual who on two occasions saw him during his illness, was gratified with the delightful frame of spirit he discovered when speaking of the heavenly world, and the blessedness of those who had reached that place. he is understood to have declared, a short time before his departure, his simple reliance upon the atonement of christ; and in the anticipation of the great change, to have adopted the words of the apostle, "i know whom i have believed." the nature of his afflictions, however, prevented him from conversing much; and though he expressed sufficient to satisfy his friends as to the calm and happy state of his mind, their hope of his meetness for the kingdom of heaven rests upon the evidence which a long life furnishes to them spent in the cause of christ, and for the good of men. his mortal remains were committed to the earth on the 11th of january, in the presence of a large assembly, within the walls of the place in which, for so long a period, he had preached the gospel of the grace of god. mr. griffiths, of buckby, delivered the funeral oration; mr. b. hobson, of welford, and mr. t. toller, of kettering, conducted the devotional parts of the service. on the sabbath following, the funeral sermon was preached to a crowded auditory, from a part of the 7th and 8th verses of the 4th chapter of the 2nd epistle to timothy, by mr. james robertson, of wellingborough. mr. edwards for many years filled the office of secretary to the association of independent ministers of the county of northampton, and was a liberal and disinterested supporter of the provident society connected with it. the following inscription is in the chapel for mr. edwards:- to the memory of benj. loyd edwards, upwards of 45 years the able, conscientious, and affectionate pastor of the congregation assembling within these walls, this tablet is placed by his bereaved flock, as a testimonial of his faithfulness in, and their gratitude for, a connexion which terminated only with his lamented death, on the 11th of january, 1831, in the 67th year of his age. mr. john woodward became the pastor of the church july 1st, 1832. it appears that though this congregation has been highly respectable, yet the number of church members has been comparatively few; for when mr. woodward became pastor, a list of members is given, numbering 33. from this time to april 5th, 1835, when mr. woodward resigned, 15 persons had been admitted to the fellowship of the church. the next pastor was mr. thomas milner, m.a., known as the author of 'the seven churches of asia;' 'the life and times of dr. watts;' 'scripture and astronomy;' 'gallery of nature;' 'descriptive atlas of astronomy,' &c., &c. november 28th, 1847, mr. g. nicholson, b.a., the present pastor, entered on his labours here. since that time 25 persons have been admitted to the church, so that the present number of communicants is 72. during the ministry of mr. milner new school-rooms were erected, at a cost of â£336. 6_s._ 5_d._ there are 95 children in the sabbath-schools. the accommodation in the chapel, we are informed, is not so great as it ought to be; nearly every seat being taken, so that there is no surplus room to which to invite the poor. architectural difficulties have hitherto stood in the way of enlargement, but it is hoped that some way of surmounting them will, in no very distant period, be found. section 4.--commercial street chapel. the independent chapel in commercial street, northampton, presents a pleasing memorial of the christian zeal and liberality of the late thomas wilson, esq., of highbury place, london--a gentleman who devoted his time, his energies, and his property to the promotion of the cause of christ, more immediately among protestant dissenters of the independent denomination. mr. wilson's attention was directed to the town of northampton as a place which, on account of its increasing population, required some additional efforts for promoting the kingdom of the redeemer. after many inquiries had been made for ground that would present an eligible site on which to erect a chapel, a purchase was made in commercial street for â£600; and a neat and respectable chapel, sixty-two feet by forty-two, was there erected, at a cost of â£2,000, besides â£100 for alterations. this was at a considerable distance from other places of worship. the chapel was opened for public service on the 9th of april, 1829. the rev. j. a. james, of birmingham, preached a very excellent sermon in the morning, on sanctification, from john xvii. 17--"sanctify them through thy truth; thy word is truth." rev. j. stratten, of paddington, preached with much energy in the evening, from 2 thess. iii. 1--"finally, brethren, pray for us, that the word of the lord may have free course, and be glorified." the chapel was for some time supplied by the rev. messrs. blackburn and j. clayton, of london; adkins, of southampton; gear, of harborough; johnson, of farnham; and prust, of highbury college. after the rev. edmund thornton prust had finished his studies at highbury, he was invited by the congregation, no church having then been formed, to supply for six months. on the 1st of december, 1829, a christian church was formed in the presence of mr. walter scott, late of rowell, now of airdale, and the late j. pinkerton, of weedon. mr. prust was afterwards chosen to the pastoral office by the church and congregation unitedly, and was ordained on the 21st of april, 1830, when the following ministers were engaged:--mr. b. l. edwards, of northampton, read the scriptures and prayed--thomas toller, of kettering, delivered the introductory discourse--john sibree, of coventry, asked the questions, and received the confession of faith--walter scott, of rowell, offered the ordination prayer--john leifchild, of bristol (now dr. leifchild, of london), gave the charge, from 1 tim. iv. 6, "a good minister of jesus christ," which was published by request--charles hyatt, sen., of london, concluded with prayer. in the evening the rev. c. j. hyatt, of northampton, read and prayed--j. w. percy, of warwick, preached to the people, from 1 thess. v. 13, 14--w. gray, of northampton, concluded with prayer. the following reference is made to the services of the day, in an advertisement prefixed to the printed charge:- the ordination was attended by a number of his brethren of the town and neighbourhood, of several denominations, who gave on that occasion an instance of brotherly love and concord that will not soon be forgotten. the young minister, with his only remaining parent, and the patron of the institution from whence he had emanated, seated on either side, received the following address from a minister of his native city, who was well authorized to bear on that occasion a public testimony to his respectable attainments, his unblemished reputation, and his amiable manners, which from a child had procured him the esteem of a large circle of friends and acquaintance. a spirit of fervent love, of ardent prayer, and of devout seriousness, characterized the services of the day, and inspired the hearts of all who witnessed them with hopes of the most pleasing results. twenty-two years have passed since then, and those pleasing results have, through the blessing of the great head of the church, to a great extent been realized. the church, which was originally formed of eight members who had received dismissions from churches to which they had previously belonged, has received from the commencement to the present time 315 members. the present number of communicants is about 150. the number of scholars in the sabbath-schools is about 400. since the decease of mr. wilson, a marble tablet has been erected in the porch of the chapel, with the following inscription:- this chapel was built a.d. 1829, at the sole expense of the late thomas wilson, esq., of highbury place, london. this tablet is erected in grateful commemoration of his liberality. the congregation have erected galleries in the chapel, with organ, and an additional school-room, at a cost of nearly â£1000. a commodious school-room has also been lately built, on a site adjoining the chapel-yard, for sunday and day infant-schools, with class-rooms for senior scholars. the daily infant-school numbers more than 120 children, and the sunday infant class about 170. a tablet in the school-room has the following inscription:--"this school-room was built a.d. 1851, for the use of sunday and day infant schools in connexion with commercial street chapel, and in memory of stephen prust, esq., of bristol, who was only prevented by death from erecting it himself." in looking at the whole, encouraging indications, we consider, may be very clearly discerned of the divine blessing attending the word of heavenly truth, and giving sanction and success to the efforts of his servants. chapter ii. memorials of the independent church at rowell. in the days of the commonwealth, when cromwell was lord protector of england, a greater degree of liberty for the worship of god and the preaching of the gospel was enjoyed, than had been known for many centuries before, or was again known till the revolution by william. during this period there came to rowell, a populous village in the county of northampton, mr. john beverley, a devoted puritan, to preach the gospel of christ. this was in the year 1654. his labours were rendered successful in bringing a number of persons to an acquaintance with the saviour he preached; and they were willing to make a profession of their faith in christ jesus. he directed those who had received the redeemer to form themselves into a congregational church, for the enjoyment of divine ordinances in their purity. mr. beverley appears to have been a man of eminent devotedness to god, partaking largely of the spirit of evangelical, practical, and experimental piety. his attainments in learning were considerable: he had been a fellow of trinity college, cambridge; but he dedicated all that he had attained to the service of god in the ministry of the gospel. he had a living offered to him worth â£200 per annum, but he preferred labouring at rowell, where he was not sure of â£50; and he greatly rejoiced in the success that attended his labours. in the year 1655, those who had been converted under his ministry became united together in the fellowship of the gospel as a christian society. a church covenant was drawn up, and signed by every member. this being the earliest of the kind that we have discovered among the northamptonshire churches, it may not be unsuitable to give it a place in these memorials. _the memor. of a covenant renewed and subscribed by the reformed church at rowell._ whereas, being by nature enemies to god and aliens from his covenant of mercy, hateful and hating one another, it pleased god of his free grace to admit us into covenant privileges by baptism, wherein we engaged, and whereby we were bound, to walk as new creatures adopted and redeemed, wholly attending to his blessed will revealed in the gospel, we do now, with shame and loathing of ourselves, most solemnly acknowledge to his glory that we have most abominably corrupted ourselves, his worship, and the holy covenant of our peace, to the blemish of our holy profession, the scandalizing of many, the grief of god's holy spirit and people, and now, through mercy, to the grief of our own spirits; so that we abhor ourselves for all our former ignorant and disorderly walking. and seeing how god hath called upon us by his word and spirit to lay hold yet again of his covenant, as in a proper season of reformation--seeing he is pleased to continue the proposal of such an unworthy people to himself, lo! how can we be ashamed of his truth and gospel? we do, therefore, humbly tender ourselves to jesus christ and his ministry, in this renewed profession and covenant subscribed--viz., that, through the grace of god, we will constantly maintain and walk according to the whole will of god revealed in the scriptures, and comprised in the articles above mentioned;[1] professing them against all error, heresy, and profaneness, in due order, as members of this one particular church, for enjoyment of all christ's ordinances, performance of all members' duties, in subjection to our pastors, ruling officers, and to each other in the lord; holding due communion with all other reformed churches of christ in the world, that so we may be built up in knowledge and holiness, better to maintain our obedience to christ, the common interest of the saints, and so more please and glorify god. accordingly attest to remember his covenant and us, in the approaching day of our blessed lord and saviour jesus christ, to whom be all glory for ever. amen. anno domini 1655. (signed, john beverley, pastor; john ponder, john cooper, elders; john fox, ralph mun, deacons. then follow the names of thirty members.) [1] the articles of faith contained in the church-book are entitled, "a translation and collection out of dr. francis junius his ecclesiasticus, as concerning the nature and administration of the church of god, professor of divinity in leiden, a choice university, in holland, about 1595." mr. beverley's was a short but a useful course at rowell. after about four years' labour amongst them, he was removed by death, june 2nd, 1658. some extracts we have seen from his diary strikingly indicate the possession of deep and experimental piety, and show that he often had great enjoyment in intercourse with god. it was seen in his spirit and conduct that he was a "man of god." his labours at rowell, though short, were attended with the most important and permanent result, the benefits of which were experienced by the descendants of his flock. he was a zealous advocate for the congregational principles of church government, writing several tracts in their support, addressing a letter to dr. owen, entreating him to employ his powers in their defence, in which he says- to whom should such a truth, in such an extremity, betake herself for relief among all her children rather than to yourself, or such as you can prevail with? and judge, if you can justly, any more fit than yourself, even yourself, who have such a name in the learned and christian world already, as that your very appearing might be sufficient vindication. may i not charge you in christ's name to rise up once more for christ, and for this part of his truth, also as in a former church case, esther iv. 14? what account can be given, but that god, foreseeing how useful you might be in such a juncture for relief of his truth now abused, did choose to set yourself in that signal place at oxford, even for so signal a service, for such a signal portion of truth? and can you forbear to extend your hand in such a cause, who can dispatch so noble a work with such ease and facility? it is justly observed by mr. maurice, that mr. beverley was a man of great zeal for the cause of god, guided by that wisdom which is from above. this zeal was expressed in his own personal labours for christ, in the place and among the people where providence had fixed him; in his great concern for those places within his knowledge where the gospel was not preached; and then in his earnest endeavours to stir up his fellow-labourers to be found forward in all their duty to christ and his house. when mr. beverley was removed by death, the church at rowell was "young and tender"; yet its members had been so well instructed in the things of the gospel, and in their connexion with each other as a christian society, that they exhorted each other and prayed together, and went constantly to desborough for a time, two miles distant, to attend on the ministry of mr. browning, who, being afterwards ejected from his living, became pastor of the church at rowell. of mr. browning's early life, conversion to god, and entrance on the ministry, some account has been preserved, from which we obtain the following information:--that he descended from pious parents--was a child of many prayers--that his parents early dedicated him to god with a view to the ministry of the gospel, and sent him to oxford with this design; but his conduct was such as to cause great grief to them, and to involve himself in distress. after some years he was brought, by the divine blessing on the faithful preaching of the gospel, to deep conviction of sin, and a real return unto god. he became united to a church at coggeshall, in essex; his pastor and friends encouraged him to devote himself to the ministry. he went with mr. simms, his pastor, to a commencement at cambridge, where he met mr. beverley, of rowell, and mr. beverley was the means of introducing him to the people at desborough; who, after hearing him preach, gave him a unanimous invitation to become their pastor, in the year 1657. he laboured successfully amongst them during five years, when, on the passing of "the act of uniformity," he gave up the living, rather than comply with the terms required. he then received an invitation to become the pastor of the church at rowell, which had been under the care of mr. beverley; and then the pious people at desborough united with those at rowell to form one society, under mr. browning's ministry. though it was a stormy day, and scenes of trial, opposition, and suffering were before them, yet this worthy minister undertook the charge, dwelt amongst them, and preached the gospel unto them; maintaining with great fervour and clearness the doctrines of divine grace, with the purity of god's worship, and the interests of holiness. in these trying days, his labours were successful in bringing, during his ministry at rowell, about 135 persons to be united to the church, many of whom came from different places around. in the year 1684, we have a brief statement in the records of the church of this nature:--"from this time dates a sore persecution and scattering which lay upon us, that we hardly got together, much less obtained church-meetings." a note to this statement observes, "this proceeding condemned afterwards by the church." again: "kept a night in prayer to god, humbling ourselves before him. we partook of the lord's supper, and admitted two members." so anxious were they to be faithful to their god and to their principles in this time of trial. mr. browning was for some time confined in northampton gaol for preaching the gospel. from thence he wrote several letters to his flock in different places where they were resident. there is one published addressed to the church at rowell, another to the brethren of the church at broughton. from the former we give the following extract, as showing mr. browning's spirit, and the wise and pious counsels he gave to his people. he addresses them as "his dear brethren and beloved," and in one part of the letter observes:- you are under the awe of that word, heb. x. 23--25. a suffering day is the trial of our love to christ. when there is no opposition it is easy. do not hypocrites do so? but this is the commendation of christ's followers; they "follow him whithersoever he goeth." "these are they that came out of great tribulation; they are before the throne, and serve him night and day; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them; the lamb in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall wipe away tears from their eyes." come, my brethren, you weep now. our tender father has a handkerchief in his hand to wipe away our tears, ere long. do not offend with weeping; too many tears may defile. "woman, why weepest thou?" was our lord's inquiry. tears of joy become the saints, and there is no danger in them; they will be sure to drop into his bosom, and draw out, it may be the like in him; for he rejoices over us with singing, he rests in his love. oh, my brethren, methinks i am with you, weeping with you, joying with you, praying with you, and hearing with you. it is true fellowship my soul has with you at a distance. i long after you much in the lord; yet rejoicingly stay his good pleasure. i would not come out a moment before his time. i would not take a step without his direction. i am wonderfully well, better and better. the cup of affliction for the gospel is sweeter, the deeper; a stronger cordial, the nearer the bottom--i mean death itself. oh the joy, unspeakable and glorious, the dying martyrs of jesus have had! how full freight have been their souls in their passage to their port! i tell you, if you knew what christ's prisoners some of them enjoyed in their gaols, you would not fear their condition, but long for it; and i am persuaded, could their enemies conceive of their comfort, in mere vexation of heart they would stay their persecutions. "therefore, my brethren, my joy, my crown, stand fast in the lord;" rejoice greatly to run your race; fear not their fear; sit loose from the world; allot yourselves this portion, that god has allotted you, "through many tribulations to enter into the kingdom of heaven." come, the worst is death, and that is the best of all. what, do we stick at dying for him, who stuck not at it for us? do we find difficulty in that, which will be an entrance into glory? do princes dread their coronation days? or any loath to come to their nuptials? foolish hearts! why do we err, not knowing, rather, not believing the scriptures? i must stay my pen to dry my eyes, because of the overflowing of god's love upon my soul. and now i see, if i had not something to keep me down, i could not bear the loads of god's favour. blessed be god, blessed be god! "let every one that hath breath praise the lord." "oh, love the lord, ye his saints!" my brethren, do not budge. keep your ground: the scripture is your law, god is your king. your principles are sober; your practices are peaceable; your obedience to superiors known, in all those things wherein your obedience is required. if men have nothing against you but in the matters of your god, rejoice and triumph in all your persecutions. the following entry we find in the records of the church relating to the death of mr. browning:--mr. thomas browning, pastor of this church, was gathered to his father's house in peace, in an evil, persecuting day, may 9th, 1685, having served his lord in this house with much pains and many tears, with much presence and success, about 23 years. after this, trials pressed heavily upon them, so that we are informed "the church had but little communion for some months, till god put it into our hearts to humble ourselves, reform his house, and set upon his work, almost lost by five or six years' persecution, and the death of our pastor. we kept a solemn day of prayer, april 22nd, 1686, with good encouragement in it, by drawing out an account of god's dealings with the souls of those following." then are given the names of seven persons admitted to the church. others were added in subsequent months of the same year; and admonitions were given to those who had fallen back for fear of persecution. after an interval of four years, when a great and momentous change had taken place in the government and in the prospects of england, by the accomplishment of the glorious revolution by william, prince of orange; and when, by the passing of the "act of toleration," nonconformists could no longer be persecuted according to law--a measure which our forefathers hailed with great joy, and which made a great change from their former condition--the church at rowell heard of the piety and talents of mr. richard davis, who was a member of a church in london of which mr. thomas cole was pastor. mr. davis came to them on probation, and they highly approved of his services--desired him to obtain his dismission from the church of which he was a member, that he might be received amongst them; and then they invited him to take the pastoral oversight of them, which invitation he willingly accepted. the account of his ordination is given in the following terms:- on the seventh day, march 22nd, 1689, the said richard davis, by fasting and prayer of the church, and imposition of the hands of the eldership in the name of the said church, was set apart to and installed in the office of pastor or bishop of the said church of christ at rowell; being the answer of many prayers of the said church. the neighbouring churches were made acquainted with their design, and sent to, that they might be present by their messengers to behold their faith and order; but when they saw how it was to proceed, several of the neighbouring ministers withdrew, saying, there was no business for them. in this the church at rowell, with their pastor, proceeded according to what they considered to be the primitive model; but it was different to the practice of the churches around them, and the pastors coming only to be spectators of their proceedings was by no means pleasing to them; hence they appear not to have looked with a very favourable eye on mr. davis, or on the subsequent proceedings of his church. mr. davis was born in cardiganshire, in south wales, in 1658; had a liberal education in his own country; and after some years removed to london, where he rose to such attainments in literature, that he was looked upon as well qualified to fill the office of master in a general school in the great city; and for several years he continued in a laborious and faithful discharge of its duties. he became a man of earnest, consistent piety. in the first part of his acquaintance with divine things he sought an interview with dr. owen--with christian kindness he was received. the doctor inquired of him, "young man, pray after what manner do you think to go to god?" mr. davis answered, "sir, through the mediator." to which the doctor replied, "young man, that is easily said; but i do assure you that it is another thing to go to god through the mediator indeed than perhaps many men, who make use of the expression, are aware of. i myself preached christ some years when i had but very little, if any, experimental acquaintance with access to god through christ, until the lord was pleased to visit me with sore affliction, whereby i was brought to the mouth of the grave, and under which my soul was oppressed with horror and darkness; but god graciously relieved my soul in the powerful application of psalm cxxx. 4, "but there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared;" from whence i received special instruction, peace, and comfort in drawing near to god through the mediator, and preached thereupon immediately after my recovery." so free was this great man of god in communicating to others what he had felt, which, with other suitable remarks then made, was of great use to mr. davis, who, resolving to follow the lord fully, made a profession of his faith in christ, and became united to a congregational church. he was soon after urged to devote himself to christ in the ministry of the gospel. he began to preach, and "with that savour of spirit," it is said, "that warmth of soul, that zeal and judgment, that those who heard were amazed, and glorified god in him." leaving the advantages of london, he came down to rowell and became the pastor of this church. he entered upon his work here with great earnestness of spirit, and pursued it with great and untiring energy. but the methods he adopted were very different to those which generally prevailed amongst the regular pastors of the day. such was the ardour of his zeal that he could not confine himself within the bounds of the congregation that met at rowell, or to the places immediately around them. his course of labour somewhat resembled that of bunyan, of whom it is said, "that he took the whole circuit of bedfordshire, and some neighbouring counties, for his diocese." but mr. davis did not confine these services for the diffusion of divine truth to his own personal ministry, but he called out and employed the brethren in the church who were considered to be endowed with suitable gifts and attainments in the knowledge of the gospel, to go and preach the word of the lord in places that were destitute of a gospel ministry. he employed what is denominated "a lay agency" to a considerable extent. there were many in those days who were strictly observant of ecclesiastical regularity, who thought none should preach but those who were educated for the work and ordained to the office. the proceedings of mr. davis gave great offence to such, and they severely censured this part of his procedure. the view which he took of the subject, and which he promoted among his people, is thus stated in the records of the church:- the church unanimously agreed, that though human learning was good in its place, yet it was not essentially necessary in the qualifications of any to be sent forth to preach the gospel; and the church unanimously agreed, that a church of christ had power within itself to choose, approve of, ordain, or send forth any to preach the gospel, either by virtue of office, or otherwise in a probationary way in order to office, without calling in the assistance of the officers or elders of other churches to approve with them, unless at any time they thought it necessary to desire their assistance by way of advice. hence the gospel was preached, to a large extent, by the pastor and some of the members of the church at rowell. considerable numbers were brought from different places to become united to that church. those who were too distant to attend regularly the sabbath services at rowell, held meetings for prayer and religious intercourse where they resided; sometimes having the lord's supper administered to them, and sometimes attending with the united church at rowell. in some places this gave rise to another church being formed, when the numbers were sufficient to sustain an interest, and to have a pastor of their own; this was the case at wellingborough, ringstead, kimbolton, &c. it is said that the members of the church have come to rowell a distance of 20 miles and more, travelling with lighted lanterns part of the way on the winter mornings, and in the same manner on their return in the evening. an interesting account is preserved of the method adopted, when the members that resided in wellingborough and its vicinity were dismissed from the church at rowell, to be formed into another church of the same order meeting at wellingborough. there were dismissed from us these following, to build a church for christ at wellingborough, which dismission ran in these words:- "whereas it is the appointed way of the lord jesus (as it may be evidently manifest and deduced from the primitive practice), when churches are growing too big and unwieldy to answer the ends of communion comfortably, and suitable to the design of congregational societies, that they then divide and multiply into more churches, whereby the gospel as to its faith, order, and worship, may come to be spread, propagated, and commended to many dark places and corners, by multiplying the golden candlesticks that are properly to hold forth the light thereof; the work of conversion, and the great method divinely appointed for gathering in the flock of god, may be most ably managed; the comfort and establishment of the saints by instruction and exhortation, with the due exercise of authority, and mutual holy watch and care, may be more effectually carried on; the conveniences of believers, their families and neighbours, most charitably consulted and provided for; and antichrist working in its various invented forms of churches, as diocesan, provincial, national, patriarchal, and catholic, as under one universal pastor and pope, fully prevented: this church therefore of the living god, that chiefly assembles at rowell, has declared over and again this to be their judgment, that when any of those dear brethren and sisters that live remotely from rowell increase into a complete number, so as to be able to answer the ends of their dividing and inchurching, and to bear the weight of those duties incumbent on a particular independent church of christ (in all which there must be high living by faith in the lord jesus), that this church of christ will not only consent to their dividing for to inchurch apart, but have declared it is their duty so to do. hereupon, after the lord jesus having increased this church of christ into a great number through his mighty blessing, and especially that branch of them that lives in and near wellingborough, our dearly beloved brethren and sisters there and thereabouts have requested us to dismiss them from us for this end, that they might incorporate into a church distinctly and apart from us, and independent of us; we, therefore, by virtue of power and authority leagued by the lord jesus amongst us, with our officers, by the present do (they having first acknowledged their faith and oneness with us in the faith and order of the gospel) dismiss our dearly beloved brethren (then follow the names of the brethren), and also with the like proviso dismiss our dearly beloved sisters (then follow the names of the female members), for that aforementioned end of incorporating together as an independent church; declaring that these, or any of these, as then actually dismissed from us, that same moment they actually incorporate by actually covenanting with the lord and one another in the presence of messengers delegated and appointed by us for that affair, and not another--and those of them that do not at first covenant, shall be deemed still members of us till they actually covenant with that body; but do then declare them dismissed from us, and give our consent for them so to do, when they shall so covenant. now, committing them to the lord jesus, to be blessed with the blessings of the upper and nether springs, and with all manner of spiritual blessings in christ jesus our lord, that they may multiply and increase accordingly to many hundreds, and be fed and watered every moment by the lamb in the midst of the throne, we do in testimony of this our letter of dismission put our names." (there were included in this dismission 27 brethren, 45 sisters.) a certain gentleman once asked mr. davis "what business he had to go up and down babbling?" for so he called the preaching of the gospel. mr. davis, in the presence of all, turned to him, and, with a countenance which testified a good cause and a good conscience, said, "sir, i was upon the work of my lord and master, jesus christ. do you know him?" whereupon the gentleman was struck with silence, and many more with amazement. the preaching of mr. davis, we suppose, must have been very fervent and affectionate, calculated to a very considerable degree to work upon the passions. it was probably in connexion with this that some disorders arose in their public assemblies. some females became hysterical, and cried out; and various indications of strongly excited feeling were manifest for a time; and numerous cases of affliction, many of them nervous disorders, appeared amongst them. these things being noised abroad, and exaggerated, caused some reproach. the subject is thus noticed in the records of the church:--"feb. 17th, 1691, a day was kept solemnly by fasting and prayer for the afflicted, where satan raged extremely; and the faith of god's children was by the uplifted arm of the mighty god of jacob made to rise proportionably, to the praise of the glory of god in christ; and since that day, through the goodness of god, the distemper has much abated on several, as a testimony that our god is the god hearing prayer in zion." again: "may 23rd, 1691, was a day kept solemnly in fasting and prayer for the afflicted, when god was eminently present; and at the close of the day some of our brethren, naming the awful name of jesus of nazareth, brought several of them to themselves, to our great amazement, and as an earnest to encourage our faith that that glorious name ere long will make them perfectly whole." again: "june 31st, 1691, was kept, the greatest part of the day, solemnly in prayer for the afflicted, for the discovery of any secret mystery of iniquity, if any was at work in reference to them; and for the more clear discovery of the matter of thomas haley, because it had been such a thorn in the flesh of this church of christ."--we present these extracts to show that there was something rather peculiar in the state of the church at this time, and in the view they took of the circumstances that arose. as a specimen of the spirit of the times we may state, that there was a pamphlet published by the opposers of mr. davis, entitled, 'a plain and just account of a most horrid and dismal plague begun at rowell, alias rothwell, in northamptonshire, which hath infected many places round about; or, a faithful narrative of the execrable and noisome errors, and abominable and damnable heresies, vented by richard davis, pretended pastor to a people at rowell, and by his emissaries, the shoemakers, joiners, dyers, taylors, weavers, farmers, &c.; together with a brief account 1. of his and his parties' practices; 2. visions and revelations; 3. great boasts; 4. admission of members into their society; 5. his people's self-condemnedness; 6. the number and quality of his hearers' admired fits; 7. some queries to the country people as matter for further search; 8. an expostulation and advice to the people of rowell. by mr. p. rehakosht, &c., inhabiting on the east side of the seat of the plague. london: printed for the author, 1692.' whoever this author might be, the spirit of his work reflects far greater discredit on himself than any of its charges do on the pastor and his flock. mr. davis condescended to reply, and near the close of his pamphlet we find the following noble passage: if there be any errors i maintain, i care not how soon they fall, though i fell with them; nay, if i could be convinced that i erroneously worded any matter, i should soon publicly declare against my own wording. it is not my own honour i seek, but the honour of him that sent me; and i hope i am always ready to bury my own honour in shame, provided i could secure thereby his name from dishonour and contempt. i should think hard of no confession of mine that should give glory to god. but if it be the truth of christ i am assaulted for (as thereto i am persuaded it is), then all the attempts against it will be in vain: his truth is like himself--eternal, and will abide steadfast, bright, and insuperable, when i and my opposers are moulded to dust and ashes. in parting, i shall again recommend to them gamaliel's prudent advice, viz., to let us alone; for if this council be not of god, it will fall of itself; but if it be of god, it shall stand in spite of all their rage and persecution, and they themselves will at last be found fighters against god. mr. davis had to pass through a large measure of censure and rebuke from his brethren. intelligence was conveyed to the london ministers of mr. davis's very disorderly proceedings in sending out the members of his church to preach; also, respecting disorders in the assemblies, and some reports of erroneous doctrine, as if he were approaching antinomianism. remonstrances were sent down to him. mr. davis stood upon his defence. he was harshly treated; and being of an ardent temperament, some things would be done and said by him that the prudent would not justify. a public controversy arose. pamphlets were published on both sides; and neither side, perhaps, could be considered blameless in the matter. that there were some eccentricities in the case of mr. davis, and some incautious expressions, every impartial person we suppose would allow; but the spirit of fervent piety, the ardent attachment to the doctrines of divine grace, combined with a deep sense of the obligations to christian holiness, and some eminent attainments in the divine life, with great labours, and much success, commend mr. davis to the grateful remembrance of all the friends of truth and piety. the following testimony was borne to the sentiments and preaching of mr. davis, by the members of the church at rowell:- we, the members of the church of christ over which mr. r. davis is pastor, and his constant hearers, having seriously considered the principles laid to his charge, do declare and testify they are utterly false, and that the current of his doctrine has been as he himself has laid it down. and further, the design of his preaching amongst us has been to offer pardoning grace, through the blood of christ, freely to sinners; to press them to accept thereof on pain of damnation; to press us to holiness, from the principle of saving faith; to advance the person and offices of the lord jesus--likewise, the person, offices, graces, and gifts of the spirit; and likewise, to advance electing grace reigning through the righteousness of christ jesus. we also attest, that all those evil practices laid to his charge, and especially the ridiculous falsehoods about admissions, are abominable untruths;--whereunto we have subscribed our names at the general church-meeting, it being a solemn day of fasting and prayer. (signed by 40 brethren, members of the church.) the authors of the 'history of dissenters' state: "with all his peculiarities and extravagancies, which were probably increased by the unkind and bitter opposition of his brethren, richard davis appears to have been a very pious man, and an extraordinary zealous minister of christ. from some occasional sermons of his which were published, it is plainly seen that he must have been remarkably popular. there is a simplicity, an animation, and a pungency in them, which, if seconded by a suitable elocution, must have made a powerful impression on the hearts of his hearers. his zeal was of the most ardent kind; and england at that time, perhaps, scarcely could produce a man of more ardent labours in the redeemer's cause. not satisfied with performing the duties of the pastoral office to his flock at rowell, he added the character of an itinerant too, and extended his journeys 80 miles in every direction around the place of his abode. his converts became members of his church; and as they lived at a distance, and could only attend on particular occasions, they had religious meetings among themselves for prayer, for conversation, for preaching, as opportunities were afforded. that they might enjoy these in the greatest abundance, he called forth the most intelligent members of the church into action, and employed them in itinerating within his extensive circle. "of these lay preachers, whom mr. davis sent out, several afterwards became pastors of churches, formed from the societies which he had collected in the towns and villages in which he was wont to preach. to the honour of mr. davis it may be mentioned, that he had imbibed a principle, the want of which at that time was exceedingly injurious to the cause of religion, and circumscribed within narrow limits the usefulness of many excellent men--it may be named the principle of propagation. on this principle did mr. davis act, and he united in himself the office and character of pastor, itinerant, and primitive bishop, presiding over his humble presbyters who aided him in the labours of his diocese. while we throw a veil of compassion over his infirmities, it must give pleasure to every friend of religion to witness the fervour of his zeal, and the multiplicity of his labours, to extend the knowledge of christ as far as his exertions could possibly reach. let posterity give to his memory the praise which is justly due, and hail richard davis as the morning star of propagation."--_history of dissenters_, vol. i. p. 396. in the year 1691 deaconesses were chosen to act in this church. though this is not a general practice now in the churches, it is still thought by many learned men that there are references to such appointments in the writings of the apostles. phebe is considered to have been a deaconess of the church at cenchrea; and those whose qualifications the apostle points out in his letter to timothy, which our translators understood to be the wives of the deacons, are thought by many to be persons appointed to this office, "deaconesses." mr. davis died in the 56th year of his age. when constant prevailing indisposition made it evident that his end was drawing nigh, the mutual affection expressed between him and the church of which he was pastor was very remarkable. he would say to them with the greatest tenderness, "i die, but god will surely visit you;" while he would wrestle in prayer on their behalf, that the great shepherd would take care of them in the wilderness. and their cries ascended to heaven for his stay amongst them; and floods of tears did they pour out to their heavenly father on this occasion. but the time was come when he must die. his work was done; he must be called to his rest. under date of september 10th, 1714, we have the following record:--"mr. richard davis, pastor, after he had faithfully, with hard labour and travail, through many and great difficulties, slanders, reproaches, and persecutions, for about five-and-twenty years, served the lord in this house, he was taken to rest, and to receive the crown of glory." about a month previous to this, it was concluded at a church-meeting to invite mr. maurice as an assistant to mr. davis. on the death of mr. davis, mr. maurice was invited to the pastoral office, which invitation he accepted, and was solemnly set apart to the office in the presence of messengers from other churches, with fasting and prayer, on the 6th of january, 1715. mr. maurice was a native of wales; a member of one of the churches in the principality; by them called to the ministry; settled for a time at olney, in buckinghamshire, and from thence removed to rowell. the ministry of mr. maurice, in this situation, was continued for nearly 24 years, as he died at rowell, 1738. he was a laborious and successful preacher of the gospel; and his pen was employed in expounding and enforcing divine truth, and in illustrating the great principles of congregational church polity and the social influence of religion. the congregation continued to be large and increasing, so that on may 29th, 1734, it is recorded, "a talk concerning, and some subscriptions towards, enlarging the meeting house, if the lord will." and it appears that the present meeting house was built in the course of the next year; for mr. maurice published a sermon from psalm cxxii. 4, entitled, 'the tribes of the lord appearing before him; or, families in public worship: a sermon preached at the opening of the new meeting house at rowell, november 9th, 1735.' near the close of the discourse mr. maurice observes,- with regard to the place, where now for the first time we are met to worship the lord, if it is possible in any sense for the stone to cry out of the wall, and the beam in the timber to answer it; if stones can speak, as our lord said they would, if the children of men held their peace--then god has a voice in this work of his providence, which the man of wisdom will hear. it calls upon us to bless the lord for our established liberty of conscience, and for the amazing methods providence made use of to procure, continue, and confirm it. our fathers were glad to meet together in woods, deserts, and desolate places, for the worship of god, as much as they could out of the way of barbarous, cruel, and bloody informers; and yet were often hunted out and found by these servants of the powers of darkness, and put in prisons and dungeons for the sake of the truth--their families deprived of the necessaries of life by merciless and terrible fines and seizures: but, blessed be the lord for the revolution! and may the glorious and immortal memory of king william be in great esteem by all the churches of christ; and among them let us, let our children, and their children's children bear a part, in high praises to the god of tender providence at the remembrance of deliverances and enlargements past; and through the same tender mercies conveyed to us, and we hope to be continued to the end of time, may we be helped to make the best use and improvement of our liberty in all religious zeal for the faith and worship of our redeemer; in sincere evangelical love to each other; and on all occasions in cheerful acknowledgments of duty to that illustrious family under whose wings it is preserved to us, by the providence of the most high. and we are called to own his grace who giveth the everlasting gospel, and gathereth poor sinners under the sound of it, making our assemblies so numerous as to stand in need of so large a place; and thankful we should be to the same almighty hand for giving capacity, and a willing mind, to so many of us to contribute cheerfully to the charge. we hope generations to come will bless god for this; and as for us, we must say as david did: "what are we, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort? for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee." the generous assistance of our friends in london and elsewhere i hope we shall always thankfully acknowledge, and own the bountiful hand of our god therein; and i can never, without being deeply affected, relate or think of the extraordinary kindness of a religious family, descended from one of the godly elders first fixed in this church of christ. what things does our god treasure up in his providence! nor should we forget to be thankful to the lord, who, through all the work, though attended with many difficulties and some dangers, mercifully preserved all the persons concerned, so that without bruises or wounds they can view their finished work. a controversy arose during the ministry of mr. maurice on the point, "whether it was the duty of unconverted sinners who heard the gospel to believe in jesus christ." mr. maurice was greatly concerned that such a question should arise, and published a small pamphlet, entitled, 'the modern question modestly stated.' to this there was a reply published; and then he wrote, 'the modern question confirmed and proved,' viz., that the eternal god does by his word make it the duty of poor unconverted sinners, who hear the gospel preached or published, to believe in jesus christ.' this was not printed until after mr. maurice's death, for it is said to be "by matthias maurice, late pastor to a church at rowell, in northamptonshire, 1739." it has an address to the reader by mr. bradbury, of london, who says, "the author of this work was a person whose learning, temper, and piety, made him very dear to me. at his desire i have perused and published these papers. he has in his letters assured me of the great concern this affair gave him, when a question of so much importance to the work of ministers and the duty of mankind came to be a matter of debate. the church, to whom he was an affectionate pastor, has lain under a reproach which this book, and their desires to have it published, will effectually roll away." we introduce this work chiefly on account of a statement it contains from the church. prefixed to this little volume we find the following, signed by 52 of the brethren of the church:- _the testimony of the church of christ at rowell, against the pernicious new opinion, at their meeting, august 31st, 1737._ whereas of late it has been stated, embraced, and maintained by some, that god does nowhere in the scripture make it _the duty_ of poor unconverted sinners, who hear the gospel preached, to believe in jesus christ for salvation, we, the church of christ at rowell, being greatly concerned that god's revealed will should be so daringly opposed, and earnestly desirous that we, and our children, and all that name the name of christ, may for ever be delivered from such a pernicious dangerous error, do in the most solemn manner, in the presence of the great god and our saviour, testify our abhorrence thereof, and declare, that in the strength of christ we will contend earnestly for the doctrine of faith once delivered to the saints, of which doctrine we look upon this to be a very valuable part--that god does in his word make it _the duty_ of poor unconverted sinners who hear the gospel preached, to be truly concerned for their souls and believe in jesus christ for salvation. the denial of this we look upon to be a denial of the law of god, not to be borne with in an orderly church, and attended with dangerous consequences against the gospel and all the life and power of evangelical, practical religion. wherefore, what god delivered to our fathers, and what our fathers in his fear delivered down to us, we think ourselves bound in conscience to deliver to our children; namely, that god does command unconverted sinners to repent and believe in his son for everlasting salvation; and may our children deliver this with greater zeal, and with most desirable success, to following generations. amen. mr. maurice published a volume entitled, 'faith encouraged'; 'faith working by love--four sermons on 1 john iii. 23;' 'monuments of mercy; or, some of the distinguishing favours of christ to his congregational church at rowell;' also, a sermon on 'the help of the holy spirit in prayer.' but his most interesting and useful work we consider to be, 'social religion exemplified, in several dialogues, giving an account of the first settlement of christianity in the city of caerludd, and of the administration of the ordinances and discipline of the gospel in the church there planted: with the remarkable success with which christ blessed his own institutions to the recovering of its backsliding members, the satisfaction of those who were under spiritual distresses, and the edification and comfort of the whole society;--in which many cases of conscience are judiciously answered.' this is a copy of the title-page of the first edition, 1740. it appears that this work came out in separate parts, and that the whole was not published until some time after the death of mr. maurice. there were 134 members of the church when mr. maurice died. the next pastor was mr. jonathan sanderson. application was first made to mr. wheeler, of axminster, in devonshire, who came and preached to them four sabbaths, but entirely declined all thoughts of settling with them. after this, mr. job orton was invited; but he declined accepting the invitation. then application was made to mr. sanderson, who promised to come and assist them for three or four sabbaths, when he had finished his studies with mr. eames. after a trial he was invited to become their pastor; when he thought the call of god so clear and plain, that he could not refuse complying with it, though considerable offers, more to his temporal advantage, were made to him. in may, 1741, he was set apart to the office. he gives the following account of the solemnity:- on this day, the church renewed their call to me to take upon me the pastoral charge of them under the great shepherd. upon that, after having given the church a particular account of my faith, publicly declared my acceptation of their call to the pastoral office, i gave up myself in a solemn manner to the great work they had called me to. ebenezer. * * * * * on june 3rd of the same year we had a day of prayer appointed, and invited several sister churches in communion with us to join in seeking a blessing upon us as a church, and upon my poor labours amongst them. dr. doddridge spake to the people, and mr. hall, of london, gave me a word of exhortation upon the occasion. the ministry of mr. sanderson was devoted and useful, but short. only six years after the time of his settlement we find it recorded, "mr. jonathan sanderson fell sweetly asleep in christ jesus, april 18th, 1747." when he entered on his office, and transcribed the names of those that were then members of the church, he wrote--"the lord grant that the church of christ at rowell may increase in numbers, gifts, and graces, and purity, under the pastoral care of their unworthy servant, for christ's sake, j. s. so be it. amen." 38 members were added to the church during his short ministry. mr. sanderson was a native of bradfield, a village about eight miles from sheffield, in yorkshire. he became early devoted to god, and dedicated himself sincerely to the work of the sanctuary. in the year 1737, when about 19 years of age, he entered a seminary in london, patronized by the independent fund, then under the direction of mr. eames, f.r.s., who, in the esteem of his contemporaries, was one of the most learned men of the age. the piety of mr. sanderson when at the academy appears to have been of the most decided, humble, evangelical, and experimental character. his preaching was very acceptable and useful, so that opportunities were presented to him to have settled in london, and he was advised by some of the ministers of his acquaintance to do so; but he yielded to the invitation of the people at rowell, and believed that he saw plainly the finger of god pointing him there. he was received with much kindness and cordiality, and was greatly encouraged in the prospect of usefulness there presented. he was welcomed into the county by dr. doddridge, who addressed to him the following letter, almost immediately after he came to rowell:- permit me, my dear brother and friend--for so, though personally unknown, i will take the liberty to call you; permit me, with the utmost sincerity and pleasure, to assure you of my thankfulness to the great shepherd of israel for bringing you into these parts, to be employed among us, and under him, in the delightful work of feeding his flock, his pleasant flock. i rejoice to hear by many hands of the acceptance you meet with at rowell, and of the respect you have of neighbouring brethren and friends, who are so happy as to be at all acquainted with you; respect, which i fully concluded from the manner of your writing (in which i saw at once so much of the gentleman, the scholar, and the christian) you could not fail to meet with in these parts, where, i bless god, we are not utterly forsaken of the spirit of serious piety and faithful friendship. were not my engagements so many as they are, and now increasing by the care of finishing my 'expositor' as soon as possible, i would have waited upon you before this. but i send these to beg the favour of you to breakfast with me at mr. saul's, at kettering, thursday se'nnight, if god spare our lives till then; and to contrive your affairs so as to go with me from thence to wellingborough, where i shall dine that day, if god permit. by this means i shall have the pleasure of enjoying your company, and also of introducing you to the acquaintance of a friend or two there, with whom, if you do not yet know, it will be agreeable to you to form an acquaintance, or if you do know them, to improve that acquaintance. i desire you would make my cordial service acceptable to all my dear friends at rowell, for whom i have an unfeigned and tender regard; and assure yourself that i have all imaginable propensity to enter into a free, easy, and respectful friendship with you; and that, heartily recommending you to him in whom, i hope, our friendship does and will centre, i am, reverend and dear sir, your most affectionate brother and humble servant, p. doddridge. _northampton, march 16th, 1740._ mr. sanderson commenced his labours at rowell with great diligence and zeal; tokens of the divine blessing attended his labours. but his frame appears to have been too feeble to sustain the amount of labour in which he engaged, and it was not very long before symptoms of an unfavourable nature were discovered. notwithstanding the great affection manifested towards him at first, and the encouraging prospect opening before him, trials soon arose among his people. there were some whose spirit and conduct had been the occasion of painful trial to his predecessor, mr. maurice; and they began, but too quickly, to show a similar spirit towards him: those who denied the gospel call to sinners as such, and who wanted all the privileges of christianity without its obligations. some of them soon withdrew their subscriptions from him, and talked of building a new meeting. there was a worthy deacon of his church, who stood firmly by him, and who wrote a very sensible letter, kindly and faithfully expostulating with them on their conduct; in the course of which he observes, "we are not without several sad instances which have fallen under our own cognizance, of churches who, upon ceasing to contribute to a handsome maintenance of their pastor what was in their power, without injury to their families, have gradually dwindled and come to nothing. the reason of this, we apprehend, is very obvious; for when churches cease to walk in the path of duty, the blessed god is pleased to suspend the influence of his grace, and to visit them with his afflictive hand. we are not arguing for a superfluity, for that you are incapable of doing; but only for a proper expression of love and kindness to your pastor," &c. mr. sanderson proved to be consumptive, and gradually grew worse, until he was removed by death in the 29th year of his age. dr. doddridge was amongst the number that visited him in his last illness; and after his visit he wrote a kind letter to the father of mr. sanderson, in which he says, "greatly have i loved him and esteemed him, as one of the most completely excellent and accomplished persons of his age that i have ever known. greatly has god honoured him, as the instrument of usefulness, during these few years of ministerial service." after the death of mr. sanderson, a friend wrote--"poor rowell lies in sackcloth. oh, that she might know in this her day the things that make for her peace! they have my best wishes and earnest prayers that the lord, the god of the spirits of all flesh, may find out a man to stand in the gap, and fill up the breach which he has so awfully made, that the congregation of the lord may not be as sheep which have no shepherd." in the year 1741 dr. doddridge published two sermons, the substance of which had been delivered at rowell--'the scripture doctrine of salvation by grace through faith, illustrated and improved.' in an address prefixed to these discourses to the church and congregation of protestants at rowell he says,- i cannot conclude this short address without congratulating you on the abundant goodness of god to you as a church, in bringing among you that worthy and excellent person, mr. sanderson, under whose pastoral care you are now so happily placed. i know he is a faithful witness to the truths of the gospel, and rejoice in that rich abundance of gifts and graces which renders him so fit to state and improve them in the most advantageous as well as the most agreeable and delightful manner. i hope and believe that the grace he so humbly owns his dependence upon will add happy success to his labours; and i heartily pray that you and neighbouring churches may long be happy in him, and that god, who has by such various and gracious interpositions in your favour expressed his paternal care of you, may still delight to dwell among you. shortly after the death of mr. sanderson, mr. moses gregson was chosen, with great unanimity, to the pastoral office. his ordination took place april 20th, 1748. upon this occasion, the service was conducted in the method generally adopted in other dissenting churches. dr. doddridge asked the usual questions, and took the confession of faith; mr. king, of london, preached to the people; and dr. guyse gave the charge. mr. gregson continued pastor for about forty years. during the course of his ministry 88 members were admitted to the church. when years increased and infirmities came on, so as to render him incapable of discharging all the duties of his office, mr. john wood was invited to become co-pastor with mr. gregson; but before mr. wood entered on this office, the death of mr. gregson took place. in consequence of this change mr. wood was invited to become the pastor of the church, which he accepted, and was set apart to the office in september, 1789; when mr. smith, of bedford, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. wood, of creaton, offered the ordination prayer; mr. horsey, of northampton, delivered the charge; and mr. toller, of kettering, preached to the people. no records are preserved of the pastorate of mr. wood, though it continued until march 25th, 1811, a period of twenty-one years and six months, when mr. wood resigned his office as pastor of the church at rowell. after an interval of two years, mr. walter scott, from hoxton academy, was set apart to the pastoral office, on the 20th of may, 1813. on that occasion, mr. whitehead, of creaton, delivered the introductory discourse; ordination prayer, mr. toller, of kettering; charge, mr. gill, of harborough, from 2 tim. iv. 22; sermon, by mr. richards, from 1 thess. v. 12, 13. in the evening, mr. griffiths, of long buckby, preached from zech. vii. 25. mr. scott's ministry was highly acceptable and useful, distinguished by a great fulness and rich variety of matter, and greatly valued through the county. it continued for twenty years, until the year 1833, during which period about 130 members were added to the church. new school-rooms were erected in the front of the front of the chapel in the year 1826. with his labours as pastor, mr. scott united the duties of tutor. for several years he had under his care a number of young men, most of whom were designed for the ministry, in a course of preparatory training, previous to their entering the academy at hoxton, afterwards highbury. his labours in this department were considered to be eminently useful, so as ultimately to raise him to a higher sphere as a tutor. in the year 1833 mr. scott received an invitation to become the resident divinity tutor of the college at airedale, near bradford, yorkshire, with which he at length considered it his duty to comply. when it was first presented to him, "he laid it before the church, desiring their advice and prayer. they unanimously expressed their desire that he would remain with them; and some of them did so in the strongest terms, stating it as their conviction that he ought not by any means to leave. after serious consideration, prayer to the divine being, and asking the advice of several ministers, he however came to the conclusion that it was his duty to leave. the church in general were brought to say, "the will of the lord be done." some idea may be formed of mr. scott's habits while at rowell, from a passage in an address delivered to the students at airedale, and published in the year 1835. recommending them in one part of it carefully to attend to the preservation of their health, he says,- i would, in a special manner, recommend to you to take regular, abundant, and systematic exercise. on this subject i can speak with confidence, not only from observation, but from experience of both the most painful and the most pleasant kind. i assure you, that by neglecting exercise, by untimely late hours, and immoderate study, i injured most seriously my health. by systematic, determined, vigorous exercise, i have banished disease, regained my health, and even increased the vigour of both mind and body. had it not been for exercise and attention to diet, as the means in the hand of god, it is my firm persuasion, rather it is with me matter of absolute certainty, that, instead of being able in the possession of good health to address you on this occasion, i should have been the helpless victim of more diseases than one which had begun to invade my frame; or rather, i should have been numbered with the dead. i have observed several running the same course which i had partly run, without having been arrested in it as i was; and the consequence has been, that though they were younger than i was, and at one time quite as healthy, they have years ago been consigned to the tomb.... i am very much disposed to believe, or rather i have no doubt, that, had the history of students and ministers in general been accurately written, the way in which they have neglected their health, entailed diseases on their frame, and shortened their lives, would furnish some of the most striking instances on record in the pages of history, of imprudence in those who ought to be eminent for prudence, and of folly in those whose office it is to teach wisdom to others. i have no doubt that some early and apparently premature removals of eminent ministers from this world, which have been thought to be most mysterious and unaccountable dispensations of divine providence, would be found to be the necessary result of their own conduct, in neglecting some of the most obvious rules of prudence for the preservation of their health. to have prevented that removal, god must have wrought a miracle. mr. scott is also the author of one of the volumes of congregational lectures on 'the existence and agency of evil spirits.' after the removal of mr. scott, the church at rowell was supplied by several ministers, for some time remaining unsettled. on the 5th of october, 1836, mr. gallsworthy, a student at airedale, visited rowell, and preached for seven sabbaths, when the church unanimously agreed to invite him to become their pastor. this invitation he accepted; the ordination service being held october 4th, 1837, when messrs. toller, of kettering, hobson, of welford, scott, late of rowell, and green, of uppingham, were engaged in the principal services of the day. the ministry of mr. gallsworthy only continued until december 24th, 1841, when he left rowell, and became minister to a church at pinchbeck, in lincolnshire. during his ministry 60 members were added to the church. some months after mr. gallsworthy had left rowell, the present minister, the rev. richard jessop, from oldham, in lancashire, accepted an invitation to the pastoral office, and commenced his stated labours at rowell the 9th of october, 1842. since that time more than 60 members have been added to the church. a new school has been erected for the infant sabbath-school; and at the present time considerable alterations are about to be made in the meeting house--re-pewing, new roofing, and enlarging--at an expense of from â£700 to â£800. the number of scholars in the sabbath-schools is 320. six villages are supplied with sabbath evening services by the members of the church. present number of communicants is 130. in reviewing the history of a church that has been in existence now for nearly 200 years, what abundant reason is there for full satisfaction with the great principles on which it was founded, as agreeable to the word of god, and the means of sustaining, under god, the faithful ministry of the word of life, and the administration of the ordinances of the gospel in their purity! attached to the same principles, and exhibiting their happy and holy influence, this church of christ we trust will still go on and prosper--the great head of the church attending it with his constant presence and blessing. chapter iii. memorials of the independent church at kettering. there are some places which present no claim on public notice from anything remarkable in their situation, their population, or their buildings; yet attain celebrity from the character, talents, and services of certain individuals that have been connected with them. this is the case with the town of kettering. it is a comparatively small town, containing about 5,000 inhabitants, standing about the centre of the northern division of the county of northampton; but this place has attained to some considerable degree of renown, on account of the religious advantages with which it has been favoured. by some persons it may be thought of with interest, as the birth-place of dr. gill and mr. brine, eminent ministers of the gospel in their day; but it is far more extensively known, as the place where a toller and a fuller, though of different denominations, laboured together in the same cause during a space of more than thirty years. no town probably, for its size, has been so distinguished, by having two ministers, of such a high standing, engaged for so long a period as stated pastors of two societies. their talents and attainments were of a different order, but though different, equally eminent. fuller was most extensively known on account of his services to the baptist mission, and his able and useful publications, whilst he was highly esteemed as a minister of the gospel--toller, as a preacher of original manner, and remarkable interest and power, was greatly valued, and will be long remembered. but for a considerable period we find the town of kettering distinguished by the faithful ministration of gospel truth. the puritans, in 1591, are said to have held several meetings here and in the neighbourhood. two hundred years ago, mr. thomas maidwell, an eminent minister of christ, preached the gospel here, having become rector of the parish about the year 1650. mr. maidwell was a native of geddington, a village three miles from kettering. he was educated at cambridge, became a good scholar, an excellent preacher, and a man of eminent piety. in the year 1662 he was ejected from the living, and ranked among the devoted nonconformists of the day. after his ejectment he frequently preached in his own house, and in other houses in the town; until at length he opened a meeting house, which would hold from 300 to 400 hearers. in what year this took place is unknown. he lived for thirty years after his separation from the church. like many of his brethren in those days, he was tried by persecution. one h. sawyer, esq., a large landed proprietor in the parish, was a bitter enemy to the nonconformists, and often tried to get mr. maidwell into his power. he frequently escaped with difficulty, sometimes in disguise. it is said that he was once cast into prison. he was also banished from his home by the "five mile act," retiring for some time from kettering, it is supposed to the house of h. barwell, esq.,[2] of marston trussell, near market harborough. from thence he wrote to his people at kettering three very excellent pastoral letters, which have been preserved. an extract from the first of these will be sufficient to show something of the principles and spirit of this minister of christ. my dear friends: grace and peace be multiplied.--since i heard of the great distress you are in on several accounts, it cannot but much affect and afflict me; and the rather, because my present dangers and sufferings add to yours, which makes the burden heavier to us both. but if our god, who directs, helps us to cast our burden on him, he will sustain it, and us under it, as at present he doth, blessed be his name! for though "we are troubled on every side, yet we are not distressed; though perplexed, yet not in despair; though persecuted, yet not forsaken; though cast down, yet not destroyed." though we bear in our outward man "the dying of the lord jesus," yet if the life, spirit, and vigour of christ be exercised in our inward man, we shall live to him eternally hereafter, as spiritually here. but the want of that divine vigour and true christian magnanimity fills most souls with despondency, bowels with sighs, and tongues with complaints. yet we have no reason to murmur against or complain of our god, who doth all things justly, and wisely, and well, but of ourselves, who neither know, do, nor suffer as we ought; but "in many things we offend all," and therefore all suffer justly. it's true, you will say--what is to be done under our present suffering? [2] mr. edward barwell was lord of the manor of marston, when bridges wrote his 'history of northamptonshire.' then he goes on to give them most suitable and important directions; such as, "let every one search his and her ways." "let not self-examination be superficial, but special, thorough, affectionate, heart-melting, soul afflicting, extraordinary, becoming so dark a day." "press after a personal, relative, thorough reformation of what is amiss in heart, tongue, and life." "have a daily vigorous recourse by a lively faith unto christ." "let that faith, in the reality and eminence of it, be more and more manifested in our new obedience." he gives them directions as to the purity of their worship--their spirit towards each other--their sitting loose to the world--giving up themselves entirely to god--giving all diligence in their christian course--seeking to attain joy and peace in believing--and then closes in these words:- thus, my dear hearts, i have answered your desires in your last i received; heartily letting you know, that though i am absent in body from you to my great grief, yet i am present with you in spirit, daily praying for you, longing to see you, which i should have done "once and again had not satan hindered," which he will do till christ comes and binds him in chains and removes him out of the way, and gives his people a quiet and full enjoyment of himself in each other. which, that he may, is the earnest prayer of your unworthy pastor, solicitous for your souls' good. i am, sirs, &c., communicate this to ours. t. m. it is uncertain in what year the church was formed, as the first entry in the oldest church-book is without date. the following is the first statement: "an account of the names of those who are in church fellowship at kettering, and have engaged to walk together according to the rules of the gospel, under the ministry of mr. maidwell, pastor there." then follow the names of 95 members residing in kettering, and 91 in other places in the vicinity: total number of members, 186. the church was formed on congregational principles, with a pastor, two elders, and two deacons. mr. maidwell continued his labours almost to the last, and died january 9th, 1692, about 80 years of age. he was buried in the chancel of the parish church, a stone being placed over his grave, with a latin inscription, now scarcely legible. we are informed that "he was abundant in labours; never weary of his work, and seldom wearied in it: that he had the happy art of winning souls to christ; that such was his peculiar aptitude for religious conversation, making a spiritual improvement of all earthly business and concerns he was engaged about, that it was considered a question, whether he did more good or converted more souls in the pulpit or out of it. he had an amiable temper, and breathed much of the spirit of his divine master, recommending continually the gospel he preached by his lovely and consistent deportment." one "of whom the world was not worthy," but whose "memory is blessed." "he was a burning and shining light, and there were many who rejoiced to walk in his light." after the death of mr. maidwell, mr. thomas milway became pastor of the church. the date of his settlement is not given, but it is supposed to have taken place between january, 1692, and june, 1694. it is supposed that he came from bury to kettering. his pastorate was but a short one, not more than four or five years. at the commencement of his ministry the church numbered 167 members, and 61 were added while he was pastor. in the list of members at the commencement of mr. milway's labours, we find the name of john gill, the father of the celebrated dr. gill, and the name of elijah brine, father of mr. william brine, a baptist minister of some eminence, contemporary with dr. gill. about the year 1696, mr. william wallis, a ruling elder in the church, embraced the sentiments of the baptists, and took upon him to baptize by immersion some of the members of the church. this being brought forward in a church assembly, in which it is said "to have been proved that he had no right or power to do so," he desired his dismission, which was granted him; after which he began to preach in another place in the town; and six or seven of the members, embracing the same sentiments, left the church with mr. wallis, and thus he became the first pastor of the baptist church in kettering. from the parish register it is found that mr. milway was buried april 3rd, 1697. in the 'nonconformist memorial,' mention is made of a mr. shepherd, as succeeding mr. maidwell at kettering; but the evidence presented by the register of mr. shepherd's burial at kettering shows that he must have immediately succeeded mr. milway, and that his labours here only continued for a few months, for he was buried march 21st, 1698. no account of his services is preserved in the records of this church. we are informed that "he was a minister in the established church at tilbrook, in bedfordshire. when the "bartholomew act" passed, at first he conformed; continuing for some years in his living, a great blessing to the town and neighbourhood. he had the true spirit of his office; his preaching awful and affecting, and his life very holy. being much followed from places around, the clergy greatly disliked him--used to reflect upon him at their visitations--looked upon him with an evil eye; so that at length, finding his situation very uncomfortable, he quitted his living, became pastor of a dissenting congregation at oundle, and came from thence to kettering, where he died." the next pastor of the church was mr. william terry, supposed to have come from hitchin to kettering. he remained but a short time here, and then removed to london. during his ministry 36 persons were added to the church. from the recollections of an aged intelligent woman it is stated, that mr. terry was popular as a preacher--that he had travelled in holland and germany, and did not seem inclined to settle long in any place. in the year 1709 mr. john wills became pastor of the church. it is stated concerning him, "that he was a gentlemanlike man, of popular talents." during the first three or four years of his ministry 27 members were added to the church; but his conduct at length gave a great blow to the cause with which he had become connected. he acted in a manner so contrary to the christian character, and so injured himself as a christian minister, as to be discarded by the church. between the dates of august, 1712, and july, 1715, he was charged with notorious lying, and other scandalous sins, for which he was repeatedly admonished by the church; but not giving satisfaction by his spirit and conduct, he was dismissed. after this he remained in kettering about four years; set up a separate interest; drew up a church covenant, july 15th, 1715, in which mention is made of 46 members, most of whom had belonged to the other church, having been drawn away by him, though most of them returned during the ministry of his successor. his bad conduct caused him to be soon rejected by the party that went off with him. there was another part of his conduct towards his former charge which appears to have been very dishonourable. the people had raised a subscription, and purchased a dwelling-house for their minister, with a considerable garden. mr. wills occupied it as the minister, but wished to make some addition to it, and to secure himself prevailed on the people to have the house surrendered to him, which, from the regard they then had for him, they unwisely permitted to be done. consequently, after the church had dismissed him from his office, he still retained the house, and at length sold it, keeping the whole amount of the money, pleading as his excuse that it was but as much as he had laid out upon it, with other disadvantages that he had in removing. he went to wellingham, cambridgeshire. such things as these would present some serious hindrances to the advancement of religion among the people, while a man of this character sustained the office of pastor, and afterwards sought to draw away disciples after him. on the 11th of november, 1714, mr. thomas milway, jun., the son of the former pastor of this name, was settled over them. at the time when his settlement took place, 112 persons are registered as belonging to the church. during his ministry, which continued only for six years and a half, 48 members were admitted. he removed to ipswich in march, 1721. in reference to the removal of mr. milway from kettering to ipswich, we have received the following extracts from the church records of the latter place:- at a church-meeting, the 26th of october, 1720, the church gave a call to mr. thomas milway, at kettering, to the pastoral office, in the following words, and signed as underwritten by the brethren of the church:- "_to the rev. mr. thomas milway, at kettering._ "dear sir,--the sovereign lord of life and death having called to rest from his labours and affliction here our late dear pastor, the rev. and worthy mr. benjamin glandfield, the congregational church of christ at ipswich are thereby left as sheep without a shepherd. we, the members of the said church, have humbled ourselves before the lord by fasting and prayer, imploring his direction under this solemn dispensation, and do think our present duty is, the endeavouring to fill up that relation by calling one duly qualified for the pastoral office; and having several times had experience of the excellent gifts and graces god in his mercy hath bestowed on you, we cannot but acknowledge how generally acceptable they are to this church and auditory; and having had several informations of your present circumstances at kettering, and the way plain and easy for a removal; and considering that your settlement with us in the pastoral office is likely to be of great service to the interest of christ in these parts, and for the uniting and settling of this church, which otherwise is like to fall into great confusions--therefore, we, the brethren of the church aforesaid, at a meeting this 26th of october, 1720, do hereby call and desire you to take the pastoral office in this church, praying the lord, the great shepherd of the sheep, to direct, incline, and settle you with us, unto whose divine providence we commit this great affair, trusting the lord will enable us to perform those duties required of us. we desire you at a convenient time as possible to return answer to our desires and call, which will greatly oblige, dear sir, your most affectionate friends and servants in one lord, (signed) "thos. wyneall, } "joseph wyatt, } deacons. "with many others, brethren of the church." in another page, in mr. milway's own handwriting, there are the names of the 41 brethren and the 79 sisters who joined in the call of thomas milway to the pastoral office. "all these distinctly," he observes, "and one by one, gave their consent to my taking the pastoral office. the 10th of august, 1721, was a day set apart for solemn prayer to implore a blessing upon my pastoral labours," when he records the names of the ministers who engaged and were present, and adds, "we have good grounds to hope the lord was with us, and did assist in the work; and that a spirit of supplication was poured out upon us. for which, his abundant mercy, may we bless him for ever; and may a gracious god say to pastor and people, 'from this day will i bless you.' amen and amen." short was the course of his ministry here; for we are further informed, that "the rev. thomas milway died the lord's-day, may 31st, 1724, in the morning, aged 47. he lies buried in the aisle, immediately in front of the pulpit, as does his wife, mrs. mary milway, who died september 9th, 1751, aged 75. he appears to have been honoured and useful during his short ministry at ipswich. during this period, about the year 1715, the meeting house at kettering was threatened, and thought to be in danger of being pulled down by a lawless mob. the reaction that had taken place in favour of the dissenters when they aided in effecting the glorious revolution by william the third, had now passed by. during the reign of anne, the enemies of dissent exerted themselves to abridge their liberties. the trial of sacheveral, a high church bigot, under the whig ministry, and the triumph he obtained among the people, produced a great excitement. mob violence was employed against the dissenters, and many meeting houses were pulled down. the death of anne, in 1714, was succeeded by the peaceful accession of the first monarch of the house of hanover, who at once declared that "he was determined to adhere to the principles of toleration, and endeavour to unite all his protestant subjects by affording them all equal protection." but there were numbers who considered it hard not to be allowed to persecute by law, and who therefore determined to avenge themselves and their defeated party by setting the law at defiance, in order to enjoy the luxury of worrying dissenters. hence in many towns in england, during this year, dissenters were insulted, and their places of worship pulled down or burned. but the meeting house at kettering, though threatened, was preserved. "the mob supposed that the building was well guarded within by people armed for the purpose, which prevented them from making the attempt. it is not known what defence was made, but no mischief was done." at the time when mr. milway, junior, removed from kettering, a small congregation of dissenters in the noted town of coventry had a mr. thomas saunders preaching to them. he was a descendant from lawrence saunders, the martyr, who was burnt at coventry in queen mary's days, 1555. the family had possessed a large estate at or near bedworth, but lost the greater part of it on account of religion. a mr. julian saunders, uncle of this mr. thomas saunders, was a nonconformist minister at bedworth; and under him the nephew was educated for the ministry. on lord's-day, may 21st, 1721, mr. saunders preached, we suppose for the first time, at kettering. such was the favourable impression produced by his services on that day, that he was thought by the congregation to be a proper person to become their pastor; and they immediately began to take steps towards bringing him into this relation to them. it was treated by both parties, the church and the minister, as a matter of high importance. the society to which mr. saunders ministered at coventry was very unwilling to part with him. the church at kettering was equally anxious to obtain his services; and then he states, as one great reason that influenced his decision, "he should have ten times the number of people to preach to that he had at coventry." after a suitable time for further trial, for consultation, and prayer for divine direction, he at length accepted the invitation of the church at kettering, and entered on his stated engagements there september 14th, 1721. he was set apart to the pastoral office by solemn services on november 23rd of the same year. the following is the account mr. saunders gives of the services of the day:- thursday, november 23rd, 1721, was appointed a day of fasting and prayer upon the account of our sitting down together. mr. cartwright, of buckby, begun with prayer, and prayed well. mr. some read over the call of the church, and asked my acceptance, and then prayed, and indeed prayed in prayer. mr. tingey, of northampton, preached from 2 chron. xv. 2. mr. jennings concluded with prayer, and mr. norris prayed among us in the evening. and now to thee, o god! must i give an account for this, and all my actions. i have been persuaded in my own mind, and am still, that i ought to labour where i can do most for god, and that thou, lord, wilt take it well at the hands of thy servants that study so to do. let us be made blessings to each other. let us find thy presence and grace with us. let much be done for god amongst us, that may effectually answer the clamour of malicious persons, and "put to silence the ignorance of foolish men," as well as be made confirming to thy people here. propter jesum christum salvalorem nostrum, cui nunc et in secula seculorum gloria. amen. "in his younger days," observes mr. some, in giving some account of mr. saunders, "he was much addicted to those amusements and diversions in which too many in the present day lavish away their precious time, while their best and most valuable interests are neglected. but "it pleased god," who designed him for eminent service, "to call him by his grace, and to reveal his son in him," which effectually reclaimed him from the follies of youth, and led him afterwards frequently to drop a tear over them, praying that they might be remembered no more. as soon as he had received the grace of god, it was his great concern to watch against everything that might obstruct his progress in religion, and to use all proper means to promote and strengthen the christian temper in all its branches. it was a strong desire to do good to the souls of men, by "teaching transgressors the ways of god, that sinners might be converted to him," which inclined him to devote himself to the work of the ministry. he found so much real satisfaction in religion, that he was willing others might taste its pleasures; and he saw so much danger in a course of sin, that he thought he could not do a kinder office than to warn men of it, that they might escape the pollution and condemnation to which it would expose them. he was not so early in his preparation for this holy employment as some others; but with the blessing of god on his great industry and indefatigable endeavours, he soon came forth qualified with such endowments which are of the greatest importance to render ministers useful to the church of christ. he became eminently qualified for the ministry of the gospel, and his labours were greatly blest to his people, by whom he was held in the highest esteem. the congregation so increased soon after mr. saunders came to kettering, that it was found necessary to build a larger place of worship, which the congregation did in the year 1723. this building stands to this day, though it has undergone considerable alterations. it is 50-1/2 ft. by 45-1/2 within the walls, with three galleries. it is calculated to seat more than 800 hearers. at its erection some gentleman in or near london gave a handsome chandelier, with 24 sockets. during the ministry of mr. saunders, mr. william hextal, son of mr. hextal, a farmer at broughton, a village about three miles from kettering, became a member of the church, and studied under mr. saunders for a time, preparatory to his entering doddridge's academy, with a view to the ministry. it is recorded in the church-book--"at a church-meeting held june 2nd, 1731, mr. william hextal was received into our communion; and as he is now engaged in learning for the work of the ministry, i gave him a solemn charge in relation to these things; and added several things that i apprehended he should practise as a christian, in order to his being a minister." at the close of his academic course, mr. hextal was settled at creaton, afterwards removed to sudbury, and from thence to northampton. mr. saunders published a funeral sermon preached at woodford, near kettering, from rev. xiii. 14, entitled 'the blessedness of pious persons after death considered.' also, a letter was printed, which he wrote in his last illness to his people; which was, by his direction, publicly read to them after his funeral sermon. "well worth the attention," it is said, "of all destitute churches." he died in the midst of his life and usefulness, after an illness of some months, july 21st, 1736. in the records of the church it is stated that "he was an evangelical preacher, had a very happy delivery, an agreeable temper, and graceful appearance; was much respected by the church people, and much endeared to his own flock, who lamented their loss many years after." his funeral sermon was preached by mr. some, of harborough, from a passage mr. saunders had chosen, 1 cor. xv. 10--"not i, but the grace of god that was with me." we shall quote some passages from this discourse, relating to the character and qualifications of mr. saunders:- he had a great gift in prayer, and could express himself very copiously and pertinently in that sacred exercise, especially on particular occasions. his preaching was plain, scriptural, and experimental, in the good old puritanical strain. he did not affect "the enticing words of man's wisdom," which please the fancy; neither was he nicely curious in the form of his discourses; but it was his endeavour to touch the conscience and impress the heart. he insisted largely on the peculiar doctrines of the gospel, especially on the atonement of christ and the sanctifying influences of the spirit. he looked upon these as the two pillars in the new testament temple, without which the whole building would soon fall to the ground. these were his favourite subjects, his delightful topics, which triumphed in his sermons, and diffused themselves through all his performances. he never failed to introduce them whenever the argument in hand led to them; and sometimes, like holy paul, with whose writings he was so much delighted and edified, he did not scruple a digression which might exalt the name and grace of a redeemer, and endear him to himself and his hearers. he was fully persuaded that these were the essential parts of the gospel scheme; that they were clearly revealed in the holy scriptures; that they could not be dropt without giving up christianity: and what he had felt of the importance of them to himself was one great reason of his inviolable attachment to them. he was diligent in his work, and in labours more abundant. besides the care of his own congregation, which was very large, he frequently visited his friends abroad; preached several lectures; and was ready to lay hold on every opportunity to do good: and god wonderfully owned and blessed his labours. there were many added to the church under his immediate care, and a promising harvest appeared to be springing up there, even when god laid him aside and called him to receive his reward. may it grow up to maturity, to the joy of such as may enter on his labours. but his usefulness was not confined to his own people: there are several in other places, both in the great city and in the country, which have reason to bless god for the benefit which they received by his ministry. his course was short, but it was well run. he had not quite twenty years allowed for public service in the church of christ; but there are few in these later times that have done so much in so short a time. he was a person of great moderation, and behaved with much decency and candour towards those who differed from him. he claimed a liberty of judging for himself in matters of religion, and as readily granted the same to others; which did not proceed from a coldness and indifference towards that which appeared to him to be "the faith once delivered to the saints," but from an earnest desire to secure and propagate it. it was his fixed and settled judgment that the mind of man could not be forced; that things must be received in the light in which they appear to the understanding; that heat and passion eclipse the glory of gospel truths; and that severe censures, given out by fallible and uninspired men, would prejudice persons against them. to his own people he was a tender and affectionate shepherd, sympathizing with them in their trials, counselling them in their difficulties, relieving and supporting them in their straits, and praying earnestly for them in all their troubles. so cordially was he united in affection to them, that no solicitations could prevail upon him to remove from them, though considerable offers were made him from abroad, and great importunity used to prevail on him to accept them. this endeared him very much to his flock, and did not a little contribute to the success of his labours among them. he met with many uncommon afflictions, under which he generally appeared easy and cheerful. he did not burden his friends with long and tedious complaints, but poured them out before that god who is able to "help in every time of need"; and he was supported and carried comfortably through several of them. they certainly gave him uneasiness, and might impair his health; but they contributed very much to the improvement of his better part: he came forth out of the furnace as "gold tried in the fire"; and some of the best sermons he ever preached were those which succeeded his severest exercises. these led his thoughts very far into the mysteries of providence, and enabled him to set many of its darkest scenes in a fair light, that he might comfort those that were in any trouble by the comfort wherewith he had been comforted of god. the sentiments and counsels of dying christians, especially of ministers who have been devoted to their work, have some peculiar solemnity and weight. on this account we shall give a few passages from a letter, written by mr. saunders to his flock during his last illness, which was by his direction publicly read to his people immediately after his funeral sermon. dearly beloved in the lord,--you well know that for a great while i have laboured under the afflicting hand of god, during a considerable part of which time i could not tell but i might be again permitted to speak to you in his name; but when at length all reasonable hopes of this kind were cut off, i began to think of writing a few lines to leave with you. my weakness increasing put me off those thoughts, until the importunity of a friend animated my former resolution and set me upon it. providence favoured me with a station of service among you for upwards of fourteen years, during which season i was led through a great variety of trying afflictions; under which, as god was pleased to direct and support me in a very surprising way, and at last delivered me, so i must in justice say that you behaved to me in the most affectionate and christian manner. you were sharers with me in my afflictions; your mouths, upon every emergency, were readily opened unto god for me; you rejoiced with me in the removal of my affliction and every favourable turn given to my affairs; and you bore the many interruptions of my service with unparalleled patience and cheerfulness. this could not fail of begetting in me the greatest endearedness and tenderest affection for you; so that my soul was knit to you. my great concern was to serve you; i never thought myself so happy as when i was labouring among you; and often begged that, if it were consistent with the will of god, i might live and die amongst you. and i can now look back with pleasure, to think that i was enabled to refuse all the solicitations i had to leave you. god has been seen amongst us; there has been a glory upon our assemblies; and the great ends of a gospel ministry, such as the conversion of some, and the training up of others for a better world, i hope have been in some measure attained amongst us. but now i speak no more, nor you hear me any more. and yet, though i am gone from you, i persuade myself, from the cheerful attention you paid to my services while among you, that you will at least lend an ear to what in this manner i say to you. in this respect you may truly apply that passage--"being dead, he yet speaketh." in a further paragraph he states- i have no other foundation for my own soul than what i have represented unto you as the only foundation for you to build upon, and that you know is god's everlasting love, displayed and drawn out in the sending of his son, and all that he has done, is doing, and will do for us; and in the complete work of the spirit in forming us for, and bringing us unto, the full possession and enjoyment of all at last. and what a glorious work, my friends, is this! you have it in miniature when the soul is born again: there is then every essential part; but there must be a great many perfecting strokes before the piece will be complete, and fit to be set in the presence chamber above. there are some sour and knotty pieces, that require more hewing and polishing than others. in some, the constitutional evil may perhaps not be removed, until the constitution itself be broken; which may in some measure account for the difference of the dispensations that good men pass through in this world. after other weighty remarks, he gives them advice as to the choice of a successor:- (1.) don't forsake the assembling of yourselves together, to cry unto the lord of the harvest to send a labourer amongst you: a loiterer will do you no good. keep up, and all of you frequent, prayer-meetings. "if you seek him, he will be found of you." whilst god is with and amongst you, all will be well. i have never yet seen, but where churches have waited upon god, and kept up their application to him, they have succeeded well at last, though sometimes it has been long first. "he has never said to the seed of jacob, seek ye me, in vain." (2.) let your first views of the person you fix upon be, at what he himself is: i mean, endeavour above all things to have a man of religion, who shall be able to talk over the great things of god in a feeling, experimental manner. if this be not the case, whatever his gifts may be, and how popular soever his talents, vital religion will dwindle under his ministrations; or, if you should maintain the name, the thing will be lost. neither the orthodoxy of his judgment nor the popularity of his delivery will ever compensate the want of this. nor can you expect a blessing from heaven, and that success should attend the service of that man that is not inward with god, and hearty for him in what he does. "the tree is known by his fruits." (3.) when you have satisfied yourselves in the best manner you can as to the religious part, then have regard to prudence and temper. if a man have not prudence, what will he do that must necessarily be concerned with so many different dispositions--families under a great variety of circumstances, as well as those who are round about them? and if he is not a man of temper, you will have the less pleasure and advantage from his conversation. some will neglect him; others will be afraid to communicate their sentiments unto him. how many, otherwise famous men, who seemed to be formed for considerable service, have miscarried here! (4.) remember, you are in a state of imperfection yourselves; and such, after all your care, will be the person you have to labour among you: a man subject to like passions and infirmities with yourselves--one who at times may need your pity and forbearance, as you share in his. however, though this be a reason against being too curious and tedious, yet, on the other hand, do not be too hasty in your determination. "in the multitude of counsellors there is safety." you are to make the choice and determine the affair; but, in order to your doing this with steadiness and prudence, advise with some grave, solid persons, that you know are concerned for your welfare, and will give you the best direction they can. (5.) i beseech and entreat you, that you "fall not out by the way, seeing you are brethren." be together as the primitive church was, with one accord as well as in one place. oh, that of you it might be said, as of them, that "the multitudes that believed were of one heart and of one soul." bury for ever--bury all former prejudices. how would my soul have rejoiced to have seen that happy day! but i please myself to think it will soon be, and therefore shall use the apostle's words (phil. ii. 1, 2), "if there be any consolation in christ." i had a design of saying something more; but he that has cut me short in all the other parts of my work, has done so in this last attempt of respect and labour of love: but they are the words of a dying man, and the real sentiments of my heart. i shall leave that passage with you (acts xx. 32), "and now, brethren, i commend you to god and to the word of his grace," &c. in the year 1727, mr. saunders being in london, doddridge supplied the pulpit at kettering for a sabbath, when he was minister of kibworth. a letter mr. saunders wrote to doddridge immediately after this will just serve to show that while mr. saunders was blessed with much comfort and usefulness, it was not every one of the members of his church that had imbibed the spirit of their pastor. _to mr. doddridge._ _june 1st, 1727._ my very dear and valuable friend,--i am extremely obliged to you for your kind and consolatory epistle, and also for your kind services last lord's-day; but am very sorry that my clerk should abscond. i suppose it was to give a specimen of his high orthodoxy, and for fear his tender conscience should be defiled with some of good old mr. baxter's divinity. now this man, who is so much afraid for himself, has lately put a son apprentice in london, where he frequently hears swearing in the family, and is obliged to go to church, and has not liberty so much as to come and hear me now i am in town. but i always observed that the most highly orthodox, are remarkably defective in some branch or other of the christian character. this is the man, too, who was so much offended because mr. brock was not excommunicated for going to church, who has now obliged his own child to attend it for seven years! i hope my very good friend doddridge will take no notice of his conduct, nor in the least slight his friends at kettering upon that account. there are not many such as he, though i cannot say but there is more than one; but were they generally of his mind, i would preach the gospel to the wild indians before i would serve them. you have a great many sincere friends in kettering that love you well, and are always pleased with your good services; and i may without compliment say, when i am there, that you have one who esteems you according to your desert, and that, in my opinion, is beyond any man of your standing i ever knew. after the death of mr. saunders the church wished to have mr. wood, afterwards dr. wood, of norwich, to be their pastor, but he declined acceding to their request. mr. benjamin boyce, then a student at northampton, under dr. doddridge, was invited on probation; and on may 7, 1740, he was ordained. of the ordination service mr. boyce gives the following account:- mr. julius saunders, of denton, introduced the solemnity with a very serious and suitable prayer; after which mr. floyd more fully engaged in prayer, with great copiousness of expression, and i hope with great fervency. mr. simson preached a very plain and evangelical sermon from 2 cor. iv. 7--"we have this treasure in earthen vessels," &c. mr. goodrich read the invitation of the church, to which the deacons present expressed their consent in the name of the church by lifting up their hands, with which i declared my determination to comply. the same person received my confession of faith, which i publicly read; and after asking me several questions usual upon such an occasion, prayed over me. dr. doddridge gave me a very affectionate and important charge, which i desire never to forget; and to the people, a very free and affectionate exhortation. the whole solemnity was concluded by mr. dorsley in prayer. oh that god would make his strength perfect in my weakness, and his grace in my unworthiness! oh that a double portion of his blessed spirit may be poured upon me, who am so weak an instrument! and that such grace may be given me, who am less than the least of all saints, that i may "preach the unsearchable riches of christ," and may be owned of him in my sincere desires and mean endeavours, if it is agreeable to the purpose of his grace, to fit and prepare many souls, that are either brought home or are yet strangers to him, by faith and holiness, for the complete enjoyment of "the inheritance of the saints in light." thus may the church of god be daily increased and edified, till all its pastors and all its members shall meet together to ascribe glory and grace to him that sits on the throne and the lamb for ever. amen. mr. boyce continued his ministry for 30 years over this people. during that period 161 members were added to the church, and at his death the church numbered 120 members. he died october 24th, 1770, aged 54 years. "mr. boyce was a native of coventry, educated for the ministry at northampton; in size rather under the middle stature. he was a close student, a practical and experimental preacher." the meeting house was new roofed soon after the commencement of his ministry, which indicates that it could not have been done well at the first, as it had only been built about 18 years. several new pews were made over the stairs leading to the galleries, and where forms had before been set; which pews were immediately filled, and continued so, as did all the others, until his death. he was buried in the aisle before the pulpit, where his wife also, and mother, and two children were interred; and a handsome stone, with a suitable inscription, was placed in the front of the desk. "he lived much beloved, and died much lamented." robert hall observes, "that mr. boyce sustained the pastoral office for a long series of years with the highest reputation and success; and his death was deplored as an irreparable calamity, leaving it very improbable that a successor could be speedily found capable of uniting the suffrages of a people whose confidence and esteem he had so long exclusively enjoyed. such is the imperfection of the present state, that the possession of a more than ordinary portion of felicity is the usual forerunner of a correspondent degree of privation and distress; and the removal of a pastor who has long been the object of veneration generally places a church in a critical situation, exposed to feuds and dissensions arising out of the necessity of a new choice." this appeared in the case of mr. boyce's immediate successor. mr. addington, of harborough, delivered the funeral oration at the interment of mr. boyce, and mr. gregson, of rowell, preached the funeral sermon, from 1 thess. iv. 13, 14. in the closing part of that sermon we find the following statements in the account given of mr. boyce:- it should be known that he feared the lord, like good obadiah, greatly, from his youth. he gave himself up to the church of christ under the pastoral care of mr. simpson, of coventry, when he was 16 years of age. he acquired a rich stock of useful and valuable knowledge from those who were admirably capable of imparting from their rich treasures. thus furnished, he began the sacred work of the ministry before he was 21 years of age, and has told you, in the last letter he will ever write, "it was the determination with which i preached my first sermon among you, to know nothing comparatively, but jesus christ, and him crucified; and i trust it has been my sincere concern to continue in that resolution to the last, testifying repentance towards god, and faith in the lord jesus christ." you are his witnesses, my dear brethren, how well, through divine grace, he abode by his determination, and you well know that the doctrines of the rich, free, and sovereign grace of god were his delight to study and to preach; and you must know how wisely and judiciously he stated them--with what caution, guarding against every extreme, and every abuse of those great and glorious truths. you cannot but know with what discreet zeal, with what plainness and fidelity, he published the grace of god in the ever-blessed and glorious redeemer. was not this the chief topic he delighted to insist upon? and particularly to show what holy, divine, and heavenly influence it ought to have upon the hearts and lives of men? and did he not do this in a very persuasive and pathetic manner? did he not preach christ jesus the lord, and constantly in his ministrations lay no other foundation than christ jesus, which god has laid in zion, for your faith and hope to build and rest your eternal concerns upon? how has he declared in that very serious and affectionate epistle he sent you, "i know no other foundation that god has laid in zion; and the more i survey the excellence of it, as given us in the scriptures, the more i can say it is tried and precious. nothing else will do to support the stress of our eternal hope, or indeed the pressure of painful afflictions. blessed be god, here is support! here is consolation! it rejoices me to think that there are so many that can add the testimony of their experience to mine." the great god had blessed him with a happy temper and amiable carriage and behaviour. he knew how to weep with those that weep, and to rejoice with those that rejoice. he abhorred the mean conduct of too many in this degenerate world, the speaking evil of others; and was he not an example to believers in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity, and in prudence, for almost thirty-three years (which was almost double the number of the years of his predecessor), amongst you, the people of his charge? oh how comfortable and delightful was the frame of his mind in this his last illness, which suddenly came on him, made rapid progress in extinguishing such a useful and precious light in this our israel! on the last saturday se'nnight, being the 20th of october, when he lay down upon his dying bed, he found great comfort from those words, in romans viii., former part of the 34th verse: "who is he that condemneth? it is christ that died." he spake these words with tears of joy. his language was, "whom have i in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth i desire beside thee." when he was asked how he did by one of his friends, he answered, "i am well, for the consolations of god are neither few nor small; god has not left me, nor will he leave me." when i asked him how it was with him with respect to a better world, his answer was, with great pleasure in his countenance, "i can cheerfully trust my good god." he seemed always, during the intervals of his wanderings, to be praying, and before he died was very sensible; and, as far as can be learned, he spent his last breath in committing you, his dear people, to god in prayer (in which he had an excellent gift), and then sweetly fell asleep in jesus, after having finished his appointed work and service. mrs. boyce died little more than six months after the death of her husband, and that shortly after giving birth to an infant. from her funeral sermon, preserved in manuscript among the records of the church, we present the following extract:- after having summoned the tender and happy husband from the amiable partner of his joys and cares, and left her in widowhood to mourn his absence for awhile, he calls her to follow him--takes her away from all her new-formed and pleasing connexions, and (affecting consideration!) takes her likewise from her new-born babe. methinks i could now take the dear little forsaken stranger, and present it to you in my arms (in the arms of my affection i do)--hear it saying, in accents truly tender and striking, "pity me, pity me, o my friends, all ye my late worthy father's friends, my dear mother's friends, for the hand of the lord hath bereaved me; those who might have been the guides of my youth he has taken away." say you not?--yes, i think i read the language in some of your countenances, and in your tears--"though father and though mother, dear babe, have forsaken thee, the lord take thee up." referring to the death of mr. boyce, the preacher observes- though, as a congregation, he has taken away from you an able, faithful, useful shepherd, who watched for your souls as one that must give an account--even under a trial and loss great as that is, it becomes you not to censure or complain. our good friend who is now taken away manifested the happy influence of the gospel hope in the composure of her spirit under that great loss which she lately sustained, and through the afflictions by which she was removed, thankfully embracing and sweetly relying upon the redeemer's consolation to his disciples in john xiv. 2-4, "in my father's house are many mansions," &c. referring to him who has recently been taken away from her and from you, she said, with apparent pleasure, in her last illness, "i shall soon be with the good man in glory"; speaking in joyful terms of being taken to sing praises with the saints in glory, for ever and ever. in the month of april, 1771, an invitation was given to mr. john fuller to remain amongst them twelve months on trial, with a view to his becoming the pastor. at the expiration of that time a unanimous invitation was given to him. mr. fuller was ordained august 6th, 1772, when we find messrs. denny, wright, king, gregson, dr. ashworth, addington, hextal, and dowley, were engaged. mr. fuller had been a member of the church in gravel lane, london, under the pastoral care of the rev. noah hill. but in little more than two years from this time, dissatisfaction arose in the church with the ministry of mr. fuller. it is stated, that "several persons proposed an assistant to mr. fuller, but the proposal was rejected by mr. fuller and his friends." the assistant proposed was a mr. richard fuller, cousin to the pastor. under date of august 14th, 1774, we are informed "that a dissatisfaction having arisen in the minds of some of the church members and subscribers with mr. fuller's preaching, and there being no prospect of peace and happiness, he this day declared his resigning his charge as minister and pastor; but supplied the congregation by others until michaelmas, always behaving with a good temper and spirit, although his ministry was not by several approved." in our early days we have heard from some of the older members of the church that the text of mr. fuller's farewell sermon was (gen. xlv. 24) joseph's counsel to his brethren, "see that ye fall not out by the way." but after the removal of mr. fuller, great discord and confusion prevailed in the church and congregation. the friends of the late pastor, who were attached to his person and ministry, were greatly displeased with the conduct of those who had been the means of his removal. many things were done and said which were very painful to both parties, created much ill feeling amongst themselves, and exposed them to the derision of the men of the world. after some time they sent an invitation to mr. saunders, of bedworth, who they understood was desirous to remove; but the invitation not being unanimous, it was declined. their attention was soon after directed to the rev. t. n. toller, who was a student in the academy at daventry. mr. toller first preached to them as a supply, october 1st, 1775, when he was not quite twenty years of age. the first text was acts xiii. 26: "unto you is the word of this salvation sent." in the following april, two of the deacons went to daventry to invite mr. toller to become their stated supply for three months; at the expiration of this time, he was again invited for nine months; after which he received an invitation to become their pastor, which invitation was cheerfully signed, june 15th, 1777, by 87 persons, as the call of the church to the pastoral office. the ordination service was held may 28th, 1778, when messrs. gregson, of rowell, palmer, of hackney, addington, of harborough, robins, of daventry (mr. toller's tutor), toller, of london (uncle to the pastor), and bull, of newport, engaged in the services of the day. thus commenced the longest pastorate with which the church had yet been favoured; for mr. toller continued to labour amongst them until february 26th, 1821, making forty-five years and five months from the time of his first preaching at kettering until his death. it was a ministry of much acceptance, extended influence, and great usefulness. it restored peace to a divided people; it preserved them in unbroken harmony through all its course; the congregation having often a crowded appearance, and the church being generally in a prosperous state; not so much perhaps by the numbers added to the church, as by the advancing piety, devotion, consistency, and intelligence of its members. there were 221 members added to the church during the course of mr. toller's ministry. these members, we have no doubt, might have been greatly increased, had the methods adopted in some places for bringing forward candidates for the communion of the church prevailed under the ministry of mr. toller. we should like to convey some idea to the mind of the reader of the nature of that ministry with which the congregation at kettering were now favoured. it was in his stated services amongst his own people that the peculiar excellencies of mr. toller were developed. it was our privilege in early life to sit under that ministry, but we think we shall fail to present a correct view of the impression we have on our mind as to the distinguishing features, the peculiar beauties, of that ministry; and if we were to do this, the general reader would think it too highly coloured, as our first impressions of sacred things, our deepest and most lively emotions of a religious nature, in connexion with all that we may since have known or attained, appear to us to have been derived, under god, from the ministry of mr. toller. his person was above the middle stature; his appearance in the pulpit venerable and commanding; his voice deep and powerful; his manner all his own, and of such a character as to chain the attention of the audience--always earnest, sometimes most fervent and impressive, rising to a high degree of impassioned eloquence when his assemblies were crowded, as on the afternoon of the sabbath. his language was always clear, forcible, and plain, suited to the manner of his preaching; his sentiments most decidedly scriptural, evangelical, and practical, with a considerable portion of experimental piety. his ministry presented a full exhibition of the christian temper. his discourses were distinguished by great conciseness yet fulness of matter, presenting often the most familiar but beautiful illustrations. some of his most impressive sermons were formed entirely on the applicatory plan--some of them founded on scripture inquiries, such as, "what think ye of christ?" "dost thou believe on the son of god?" &c. during a very large portion of his ministry he delivered expository discourses on the morning of the sabbath, which were distinguished by great beauty, variety, and richness of improving remarks. the afternoon sermon generally rose out of the morning exposition; not so frequently from a text taken from the paragraph expounded as a passage suggested by the main subject of exposition. but the prayers he offered in the stated services of the sanctuary were perhaps the most remarkable of the whole--the manner was so solemn; the tone so devotional; the adorations so sublime; the confessions so abasing; the petitions so full, fervent, and appropriate; the thanksgiving so expressive and exalted; the surrender so complete and unreserved; the whole placing us so much in the presence of god, leading us to feel what we were before him, what we needed from him, what provision was made for us, what we were receiving, and what services we should render; often leading us on to the dying hour, and to the opening grandeurs of eternity. the value of such a ministry was apparent in the many cases of eminent piety that appeared amongst those that were trained up under it. much of the christian temper, the spirit of devotion, lively faith in the redeemer, and the power of practical religion, were manifested in a considerable number of cases, considering the size of the place. there were "living epistles of christ, known and read of all." we remember an eminently pious female member of the church, of whom the pastor said, when improving her death, "he should esteem it an honour to be permitted to hold up her train in the heavenly world." while this showed the deep humility of the pastor, it showed the high estimate he had formed of the devoted member. in the year 1799 mr. toller received invitations from the congregations at carter lane, london, and at clapham, to become their minister, with an offer of great pecuniary advantages; but such was the attachment felt to him by his people at kettering, as manifested in their great anxiety on the subject, and in the affectionate addresses presented to him on this occasion, that he gave a decided negative to these urgent and repeated solicitations. in an address he delivered from the pulpit, in answer to those which he had received from his people, he bore a noble testimony to the kindness with which he had ever been treated by them; observing, "twenty-four years ago i came to this place, under considerable and peculiar disadvantages, arising from extreme youth, inexperience, and the then critical and disjointed state of the congregation. i entered upon the station with fear and trembling, and with scarce a peradventure of being able to give any general or lasting satisfaction. during this interval, i have gone through many trying afflictions, some of which you have known, and others, some of the most trying, you have never known. i have many faults to remember this day before god, much coldness of heart, many neglects of duty, and much unfruitfulness in my office; but i will do you the justice to say, that i have no injuries from you to enumerate, no personal ill behaviour from a single individual in all this time to complain of; and if you had all treated my great master with a regard proportioned to that i have received from you, i should have been the happiest and most blessed minister on earth," &c. he closed his days and his ministry together. apoplectic seizures had weakened his frame, and at length had rendered him incapable of fulfilling all the duties of his office; while they indicated to him that his end was drawing nigh. in a letter written to his people, he intimated his wish to have an assistant. they invited the eldest son of their pastor, then preaching at wem, in shropshire, to become assistant to his father. this invitation he accepted; but before he entered on this new sphere of duty, the earthly career of his beloved and venerated father closed in death. "he preached on lord's-day morning, february 25th, 1821, with much of his usual animation, from isaiah lxiii. 7-13, and remarked at the close of the discourse what encouragement this passage affords the widow and the fatherless to put their trust in god, finishing his last public discourse with these lines of doddridge: "to thee an infant race we leave, them may their father's god receive; that ages yet unborn may raise successive hymns of humble praise." he spent the evening surrounded by his family, and conversing with his children in a strain of cheerful piety; and after a night of sound repose arose as well as usual the next morning. about noon, leaving the parlour, he was found a few minutes after in an apoplectic fit, or a seizure resembling apoplexy. several medical men repaired to the spot, but life was extinct. his remains were interred in the ground belonging to the meeting house on thursday, the 8th of march. on that occasion mr. horsey, of northampton, read the scriptures and prayed, and mr. edwards, of the same place, delivered the funeral oration. mr. hall, of leicester, preached the funeral sermon on the same day from heb. xiii. 7--a sermon which presented a most impressive representation of the responsibility attaching to a people that had been favoured with such a ministry, and the tremendous consequences that must follow the misimprovement of such advantages. mr. toller only published during his life a sermon on the "faithful saying," entitled "a plain and popular view of the evidences of christianity"; a sermon occasioned by the death of the rev. samuel palmer, of hackney, mr. toller's most intimate friend, from 2nd timothy i. 10--in which occurs this striking passage:- suppose this house had been three times its present size, and had been filled for half the century past with a constant crowd of hearers; suppose the fame of the venerable man now gone had been shouted to the skies, and he had been held up as the pride and prince of preachers; but after all, this had been _all_:--suppose selfish motives had been supreme, under the disguise of love to souls; a mere notional religion had been propagated; people had been only amused, and amazed, and made to wonder and admire; but no minds really instructed, no hearts humbled, no sinners turned from the errors of their ways, no christian graces implanted, no christian duties promoted; in this case all these fifty years (as we have seen) must end; and what is the consequence? what would all this parade and popularity have proved to him? only the bursting of a glittering bubble; the retreat of an actor from the stage amidst the clappings of the theatre, which he was to hear no more. there is one passage of scripture which, when realized, is worth all the cases of this kind which could occur put together, viz., when a dying minister can look round on a weeping, affectionate flock, and say, "ye are our epistles, written upon our hearts," &c. i say, the genuine application of such a passage as this to a dying minister would be worth infinitely more than all the applause and popularity in the world. two discourses, occasioned by the death of the princess charlotte of wales, were also published. since the death of mr. toller two volumes of sermons, and a volume of expository discourses on the book of ruth, have been published, as transcribed from the author's shorthand manuscripts. to the first volume of sermons was prefixed a memoir of mr. toller, by his friend the rev. r. hall. we will transcribe from that memoir an ever-memorable anecdote, or rather, the ever-memorable use the preacher made of a domestic incident to illustrate a most important subject:- on one occasion he preached from isaiah xxvii. 4--"let him take hold of my strength, that he may make peace with me; and he shall make peace with me." "i think," said he, "i can convey the meaning of this passage, so that every one may understand it, by what took place in my own family within these few days. one of my little children had committed a fault, for which i thought it my duty to chastise him. i called him to me, explained to him the evil of what he had done, and told him how grieved i was that i must punish him for it. he heard me in silence, and then rushed into my arms and burst into tears. i could sooner have cut off my arm than have then struck him for his fault; he had 'taken hold of my strength, and had made peace with me.'" after the death of mr. toller his son was invited for six months as a probationer for the pastoral office; at the expiration of that time he received a unanimous call to that office, which he accepted, and was ordained in october, 1821, when messrs. j. hall, horsey, edwards, scott, bull, and hillyard were engaged in the principal services of the day. thus, the eldest son of the late pastor, who had been educated for the ministry at the academy at wymondley, succeeded to the place of his father in the most harmonious manner, and with the most cheering prospects of comfort and usefulness. during the 31 years that have elapsed since then, that harmony has been uninterrupted, that comfort and usefulness continued--the son pursuing a similar plan to that which the father adopted, in expounding the word of god on one part of the sabbath, to give enlarged views of scripture truth, and to present the almost boundless variety the book of god contains, habitually aiming to preserve a connexion between one part of the sabbath services and the other. during the ministry of the present mr. toller 211 members have been added to the church. in the year 1849 very extensive alterations were made in the meeting house, together with the building of a new vestry, school-rooms, class-rooms, and a dwelling-house for the sexton; the whole cost of which was about â£1400, which was paid off within two years from the re-opening. the place is greatly changed from what it was. the large chandelier, with its dove and the olive leaf, is gone; the beautiful gaslight taking the place of the candles. the old pulpit is removed from its place, having long ago lost its noble sounding-board, it being now understood that the voice is better heard without such an appendage. the spacious windows on each side of the pulpit are lost, to make way for the new school-rooms, which are open to the chapel. but the whole, we believe, has been greatly improved; additional room having been made for the hearers on the sabbath, for the week-evening lecture, and also for the accommodation of the sabbath-school, its bible and its infant classes. the present number of church members is nearly 200; the scholars in the schools about 280. services are conducted in seven villages by members of the church, chiefly on sabbath evenings. an impartial review of the whole will, we believe, present to the pastor and the flock the most abundant reason to "thank god and take courage." in the history of this church, we cannot but observe the very interesting fact which it presents, of 75 years having been already filled up by the ministry of the father and the son (and we trust that there is a probability of years of useful service being added in the case of the latter to the period that has passed), during which a christian society and a numerous congregation have been preserved in peace, with the interests of vital religion advancing. while such a fact speaks well for the spirit and continued improvement of the people, it says much also for the christian temper, the consummate prudence, the able and successful labours of the pastors, while to god they would unitedly ascribe all the glory. at warkton, about two miles from kettering, occasional services are held. in this village mr. thomas stone, another of the puritan ministers, was rector--"a person of good learning," it is said, "and great worth: a zealous puritan, and a member of the classes." "he died, an old man and full of days, in the year 1617." bridges observes, "that he was inducted into the living of warkton in the year 1553." if this statement be correct, he must have been rector of that place 64 years. he was a learned man, of great uprightness, and uncommon plainness of spirit, minding not the things of this world; yet, according to wood, "a stiff nonconformist, and a zealous presbyterian." at geddington, the birth-place of mr. maidwell, the first pastor of the independent church at kettering, there is a chapel regularly supplied on the sabbath evenings. this place of worship was provided by mr. nathaniel collis, for many years a respectable bookseller in kettering, and a deacon of the church--geddington was his native place. services are also conducted on sabbath evenings at great oakley, five miles from kettering; occasionally at orlingbury, five miles in another direction; also at thorpe and loddington. broughton. the dissenters of kettering have conducted occasional services in the village of broughton, about three miles distant on the road for northampton, for many years past. but rather more than five years ago, there were four or five young men in this village who began to think of the things which belonged to their everlasting peace; they formed themselves into a little band, and resolved that they would meet weekly and study the holy scriptures, and encourage each other in the ways of god. they subsequently joined a christian church at kettering. becoming anxious for the welfare of those around them, they had a cottage licensed for preaching; that was found too small for those who wished to attend. in the meantime several other christian friends came to the village, and at length, in the year 1850, a chapel was erected; it is a neat structure, capable of containing about 200 hearers. in january, 1851, a christian church was formed, consisting of 19 persons; mr. toller and mr. robinson, of kettering, being present, and conducting the services. this village church is formed on the broad principle of christian union, designated simply a christian church, without denominational distinction; its present number of communicants is 22. there is preaching here on the afternoon and evening of the sabbath, by friends from kettering and other places. an interesting sabbath-school is conducted, numbering more than 60 children. the teachers express the earnest desire that many of them may be gathered into the fold of christ, and become useful in their generation. this place was once noted as the residence of the eminent puritan divine, robert bolton, b.d. he was presented to the rectory in the year 1609, and continued until his death, in 1631. it is stated concerning him, that "he was a most authoritative and awakening preacher, being endowed with the most masculine and oratorical style of any in his time;" that "he was so deeply engaged in his work, that he never delivered a sermon to his people in public till he had preached it to himself in private." "his remains were interred in the chancel of broughton church, where there is a half-length figure of him with his hands erected in the attitude of prayer, resting on a book lying open before him; and underneath is a monumental inscription in black marble, of which the following is a translation:"- here lies, peaceably sleeping in the lord, the body of robert bolton, who died december the seventeenth, in the year 1631. he was one of the first and most learned of our church. his other excellencies all england knoweth, lamenting the day of his death. mr. bolton published a number of works; those most known in the present day are his 'directions for walking with god,' and his 'four lost things.' chapter iv. memorials of the independent church at market harborough.[3] if a stranger were passing through the small but respectable town of market harborough, on the road to leicester, with the intention of observing what was most worthy of notice, he would see on the right of the principal street, in the upper part of the town, a handsome structure, of considerable dimensions for the size of the place. on the front of the building he might notice the inscription--"independent chapel." if an intelligent traveller, he would think, surely this was not the first origin of independency here! this must have been erected for a body of some standing in the town. on inquiry, he would find that there had been an old meeting house, which had stood at the top of the lane leading for great bowden for more than 150 years, during the whole of which period a numerous and respectable body of dissenters had assembled in it; but that the building, with its plain walls, its high pews, its deep galleries, its antique pillars, and irregular form, had been entirely taken down; and this chapel, in a more eligible position, had been raised by the present congregation. and he might be informed that it was nobly done; for after the most liberal subscriptions, amounting to â£1600, a moiety of which was lost by the failure of the bank in which they were deposited: (in consequence of this, an appeal was made to the public, the result of which about made up the loss sustained:) the whole amount that remained to complete the cost was raised on the day of opening; the sum expended in the erection of the chapel exceeding â£3000. [3] market harborough is in the county of leicester; but being just on the verge of northamptonshire, it has always been connected with the association in that county, and hence has a place in these 'memorials.' from this introductory statement, we shall lead the reader back to the early history of this cause. in looking backward for 190 years, we find that by the "act of uniformity," passed in the year 1662, mr. thomas lowry was ejected from the church in this place. though we have no record of his life or his labours, beyond the statement "that he was a native of scotland, and had a living in essex before he came to harborough," yet by his nonconformity he teaches us that he had embraced principles which led him to refuse to bow to the dictates of men in the things of god, and which prompted him rather to sacrifice his worldly interests than what related to truth and a good conscience. the probability is, that some of the people to whom he had ministered would become nonconformists with their pastor; but whether he obtained any opportunities of preaching to them after his ejectment is not known. subsequent events lead us to the conclusion that the principles of nonconformity must have obtained a number of adherents in harborough and its vicinity; because we find that, eleven years after the passing of the "act of uniformity" (_i.e._, in the year 1673), mr. matthew clarke became the stated pastor of an independent congregation here. this brings before us the first clear and certain information relative to the early history of this cause in harborough. a short distance from leicester lies the village of narborough, where, at the restoration of charles ii., mr. matthew clarke was the rector; the living being worth at that time about â£120 per annum. his father and grandfather had both been ministers in the church. he was educated, under the best masters, with a view to the profession--first, in the charter house, in london; afterwards, under dr. busby, at westminster; and under dr. temple, at trinity college, cambridge. he was a diligent student; became eminent for his scholarship: but what was still more important, he became early devoted to god; associated himself with some students who were remarkable for piety, and who engaged in such exercises as tended to prepare for the work of the christian ministry, for which they were designed. he obtained the degree of m.a. he was presented to the living of narborough in 1657. after pursuing his labours there for five years, he was ejected as a nonconformist. he was earnestly pressed to conformity by mr. stratford, the patron of the living, but could not by any means bring his conscience to a compliance with what the law required. for conscience' sake he was a sufferer. devoted to his work, he took every opportunity of preaching the gospel in leicestershire and parts adjacent. he was watched narrowly by some furious justices of the peace; and though he had the happiness often to escape, yet he was three times a prisoner in leicester gaol, for the crime of preaching the gospel! after dwelling for a time in a lone house in leicester forest, and being driven from thence by the "five mile act" to stoke golding, he was invited to harborough, where he came and settled in 1673; and had a large congregation. this appears to have been the first and the permanent settlement of protestant nonconformists of congregational principles in this place. in connexion with harborough, mr. clarke also took the charge of a congregation meeting at ashley, a village about five miles from the former place; and during the whole course of his subsequent ministry he regularly preached at ashley in the morning, and at harborough in the afternoon, every lord's-day. his ministry appears to have been highly valued, and to have been eminently successful; at the close of it the church numbered 202 members, a very large proportion of them living in the villages surrounding harborough--some of them a number of miles distant. in the character of mr. clarke were combined unbending integrity and conscientiousness, with great kindness of spirit and manner. of the first we have proof in his decided nonconformity--in his willingness to suffer rather than to sin--in his following the path of duty, whatever might be the dangers to which it exposed him--in his steady pursuit of all the labours of his calling until laid aside by his last affliction--in his firm resistance of acts of injustice and oppression, as shown when, being convinced that the king's tax on his salary was unjust, he firmly and successfully refused payment: of the latter we have proof in his affectionate regard to the truly pious wherever he beheld them--in the peaceful temper which he breathed--in the kind and profitable intercourse he promoted between his brethren--and in the conciliatory spirit he manifested towards those who were the enemies of the gospel, or of the cause he supported. mr. clarke had one son, named after him, who for a time became an assistant to his father in the work of the ministry at harborough. the venerable father contrived, amidst all that he suffered for conscience' sake (and he drank largely of the bitter cup), to take peculiar care of the education of his son, whom he early instructed in the learned languages, together with several young persons who were studying under his tuition for the ministry. the parent's wish to see his son a preacher of the same gospel for which he was suffering was honourable to himself, but it seems to have led him to devote that son to the work without waiting to see whether god approved; which, but for the grace bestowed upon the youth, might have been a fatal injury to himself and thousands more. after revolving the question seriously in his mind, and reflecting on the sacrifices which the ministry would require, the son was at length animated to comply with the father's desire, by the consideration that they that "turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for ever and ever." on examining his own religious character, he said that he had endured much distress because he could not discern that remarkable change which many had experienced; still, however, he dreaded above all things a hypocritical profession; and though at first he thought his abstinence from sin, as well as his attention to secret prayer and other duties, might have arisen from a fear of offending his parents, yet he trusted that at last they sprang from the principle of love to god. after he had acquired, not only latin and greek, but also several of the oriental languages, in which his father possessed uncommon skill, and had added to them a familiar acquaintance with italian and french, he went to study for the ministry under mr. woodhouse, a celebrated teacher in shropshire. from thence he removed to london; and having joined a church there, and heard several of the most celebrated preachers, he returned to leicestershire, where he began his ministry as assistant to his father, amidst the storm that raged in the year 1684. he was so useful that very large additions were made to his father's church while he was with him. "when he was present," says mr. neal, "at the declaration which the new converts made of the powerful impressions received under his ministry, oh, how he would humble and abase himself before god in prayer, and set the crown of his success upon the head of free grace!" during the first three years of his ministry he also laid the foundation of several congregations in that country. he was in 1687 called to preach at sandwich, in kent, where he was detained by the importunity of those who derived benefit from his labours; but after two years was recalled by the equal solicitations of his father and the flock in leicestershire. but though he then settled with them, they were compelled by a sense of duty to give him up almost immediately, for, having preached an occasional sermon in london, he was invited to assist mr. ford in miles' lane. this was his final removal from harborough. after mr. ford's death he became the sole pastor of the church, was the means of changing a declining cause into one of the most prosperous churches in london, and attained a very high degree of popularity and usefulness, which were maintained by the divine blessing even to the close of his life. with the inspiration of friendship added to that of genius, dr. walls composed a latin epitaph, which was inscribed on his tomb in bunhill-fields; and at the request of friends he gave an english translation, which would furnish an eloquent and spirited memoir of the deceased. this epitaph we insert here, because harborough was the scene of his youthful days, his early education, his decided piety, and his first stated engagements in the ministry, which were so excellent and successful as to give promise of all the future eminence he attained. it may be found in the last volume of watts's works, page 439. sacred to memory. in this sepulchre lies buried matthew clarke, a son bearing the name of his venerable father, nor less venerable himself: trained up from his youngest years in sacred and human learning: very skilful in the languages: in the gift of preaching, excellent, laborious, and successful: in the pastoral office, faithful and vigilant: among the controversies of divines, moderate always, and pacific: ever ready for all the duties of piety: among husbands, brothers, fathers, friends, he had few equals: and his carriage toward all mankind was eminently benevolent. but what rich stores of grace lay hid behind the veil of modesty, no human mind can search, no friend declare, nor fame reveal, nor has this mournful marble power to tell. yet there's a hast'ning hour--it comes!--it comes! to rouse the sleeping dead, to burst the tombs, and set the saint in view. all eyes behold, while the vast records of the skies, unrolled, rehearse his works, and spread his worth abroad; the judge approves, and heaven and earth applaud. go, traveller; and whereso'er thy wandering feet may rest in distant lands, thy ear shall hear his name pronounced and blest. he was born in leicestershire, in the year 1664. he died in london, march 27th, 1726, aged 62 years, much beloved and much lamented. the elder mr. clarke continued his labours at harborough and ashley, until he was seized with palsy on one side; after which, perceiving that his work was done, and his end drawing nigh, he removed to his daughter's (mrs. allen, of norwich), where he died, about 1708, nearly 80 years of age. there is preserved, in the handwriting of mr. some, a copy of a church covenant, that appears, from its early date, to have been adopted during mr. clarke's ministry. being one of the oldest of the kind, and very concise, we think it deserves to be transcribed and inserted here. we do solemnly, in the presence of the lord jesus christ, "who walks in the midst of the golden candlesticks; who hath his eyes like a flame of fire, and his feet like fine brass," declare, that by the grace of god we will henceforward endeavour to reform whatever is amiss amongst us, according to the best understanding we have of the holy scriptures, which we believe to be the only rule of faith and worship; humbly avouching the lord to be our god, and humbly hoping that he hath avouched us, though most unworthy, to be his people. subscribed may 30th, 1690. the persevering labours, the consistent character, the extended efforts, and important influence of mr. clarke in this situation, appear in the members that composed the church, as before stated, and 172 of whom were gathered from about 30 villages in the vicinity. the village chapels being few in number in those days, the nonconformists travelled from the places around to assemble for worship at harborough and ashley, as the centres where, on the lord's-day, they could meet together. the next pastor of the church is one concerning whom the language is verified, that "the memory of the just is blessed"; for though the modesty and deep humility of mr. some were such that he forbade any memorials being published of his life and character, and before his death destroyed all his papers that presented anything of this kind, yet his name is mentioned with great veneration and esteem to this day. it appears probable that he was assistant or co-pastor with mr. clarke a short time before the close of his labours; that he came to harborough about the year 1706, as his name stands in the first trust deed of ashley meeting house about that time, as the recognized minister of both places. he took the sole pastoral charge in 1709, as he then entered the names of all the members of the church in a book, which he preserved. he united the pastorate of ashley with harborough, and laboured at both places in the manner of his predecessor, connecting with them also a considerable extent of village itineracy, by which his character was much endeared and his ministry greatly blest. mr. some had one son, who was training for the ministry, but who died before he fully entered on the work. he was for a time a fellow-student with doddridge, and became his most intimate friend; so that, immediately after his death, doddridge writes to mr. clarke, of st. albans- it pleased god, in the afternoon of yesterday, to take away my dear companion and brother, mr. some. there was no person in the world of his age whom i respected more or loved so well. at the academy we were partners in study; and since i came to harborough he would, when his health would permit it, take frequent journeys with me to kibworth on the lord's-day. and what sweet counsel have we taken together when "we went to the house of god in company!" i have been informed of some of his expressions of respect and tenderness for me, which affect me exceedingly. he has ordered me to preach his funeral sermon from psalm lxxiii. 26: "my flesh and my heart fail me, but god is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever." but my mind is so shattered with grief, and mine eyes filled with tears, that i hardly know how to read or write. in another letter he says: "mr. some, though he appears to feel it like a parent, yet supports himself under it with a serenity and fortitude worthy of so excellent a christian and minister." the eminence to which mr. some attained, and the success of his ministry, is partly attested by the fact that 270 persons were added to the church during his pastoral labours. doddridge came to reside at harborough while minister at kibworth, to enjoy the society and friendship of mr. some. in the year 1729 he became his assistant, taking services alternately at kibworth, harborough, and ashley; and by the earnest advice of mr. some he commenced his academy at harborough. when the dissenting ministers in the neighbourhood agreed to meet at lutterworth, to spend a day in humiliation and prayer for the revival of religion, mr. some preached upon that occasion a very important appropriate discourse--from rev. iii. 2: "be watchful and strengthen the things which remain, that are ready to die"--"on the methods to be taken by ministers for the revival of religion." he also published a very excellent funeral sermon for mr. saunders, of kettering, from the text he had chosen, 1st cor. xv. 10: "not i, but the grace of god which was with me." we have further discovered a small volume of 56 pages, entitled 'the assembly's catechism explained, and the principles of religion therein contained confirmed by the holy scriptures, by david some. second edition, 1727.' it has an interesting preface, a part of which we shall copy, as illustrative of the views entertained by this eminent man, and the methods he adopted for the improvement of the rising generation. the design of the following pages is to render public catechising easy and profitable. when young persons see a great deal before them, which they are required to commit to memory, they soon grow weary of this exercise, and find excuses to absent themselves from it. this difficulty is removed by the narrow limits of this essay. i fear there are many in all our assemblies "who need to be taught the first principles of the oracles of god," and yet their age and circumstances prevent their submitting to this way of instruction. there is a particular regard had to these in this composure. the questions are so framed that there is room for enlarging upon them, as the importance of the argument may require. the treating upon the heads of divinity in this way insensibly leads into a freedom and easiness of expression, which is hard to attain in a more set and continued discourse: this hath the more direct tendency to inform the judgment and fix the attention. i have seldom observed a drowsy hearer whilst i have been engaged in this part of my work; i wish i could say so of the other parts of it. i hope i need not make any apology for adding the scriptures; this will be acceptable to everyone who values them. besides, this will acquaint children betimes with their bibles, and teach them that their religion is derived from that sacred book as the fountain of it. * * * * * * if any should condemn the whole of this undertaking as paying too great a regard to human composures, i can assure them that i have long since learned to call no man master upon earth. i have not attempted to explain the doctrines contained in this catechism because it was composed by that learned body of men, the assembly of divines, but because i verily believe that for the substance of them they are agreeable to the word of god. i was early instructed in them, and have now reviewed them with some attention and care, lest the prejudices of education should have been the principal reason of my adherence to them; and after the most impartial search, i cannot discover anything so absurd and inconsistent in this scheme of religion as some have represented: and i hope i may be allowed the liberty of judging for myself. i am fully convinced of the usefulness of public catechising, by more than twenty years' experience. i have seen the good effects of it, and purpose to allow it a share in my public labours while god continues life and a capacity for service; and if any of my worthy brethren shall make use of this weak performance, i heartily wish that the divine blessing may attend their endeavours to promote real religion and practical godliness. d. s. as a specimen of the method he adopted, we present to the reader the short section "of assurance and other blessings." _q._ what are the benefits which in this life do either accompany or flow from justification, adoption, and sanctification? _a._ the benefits which do either accompany or flow from justification, adoption, and sanctification, are assurance of god's love, peace of conscience, joy in the holy ghost, increase of grace, and perseverance therein to the end. may true believers be assured of god's love? yes. (rom. v. 5.) "the love of god is shed abroad in our hearts." may they have peace of conscience? yes. (rom. xv. 13.) "the god of hope fill you with all peace in believing." may they have joy? yes. (rom. v. 11.) "we also joy in god." is the holy ghost the author of it? yes. (gal. v. 22.) "the fruit of the spirit is joy." shall true christians grow in grace? yes. (prov. iv. 18.) "the path of the just shineth more and more unto the perfect day." is perseverance the christian's duty? yes. (phil. iii. 14.) "i press towards the mark." and their privilege? yes. (1st peter i. 5.) "who are kept by the power of god, through faith unto salvation." what may we infer from hence? i. that religion is not a melancholy thing. (prov. iii. 17.) "her ways are ways of pleasantness." ii. growth in grace is an evidence of the truth of it. (mark iv. 8.) "others fell on good ground, and did yield fruit that sprang up and increased." iii. that weak christians should not be discouraged. when his death occurred, doddridge wrote--"it is to my unutterable grief that i hear this day that our dear friend, mr. some, is dead. i hardly know how to bear it." again: "we know in whose hands our lives are, and those of our friends who remain--a soul-quieting thought, which i would apply to the unspeakable loss i have sustained in the death of that great and good man, that invaluable friend, mr. some, whom i honoured and loved as a parent." mr. barker, of hackney, wrote--"the death of the excellent person you have lately lost afflicts me greatly. there are few such ministers anywhere, and few such men in any age. i know that his modesty was excessive, but am sorry to find that it has deprived us of those memoirs, which, touched over by your hand, would have been very instructive and entertaining; but if we must not read his life and character, let us remember and imitate his exemplary piety, prudence, and diligence. this truly revered and excellent man died may 27th, 1737. god was pleased to favour him with a serene and cheerful exit, suited to the eminent piety and usefulness of his life. "i am well satisfied," remarks doddridge, "that considering how very generally he was known, he has left a most honourable testimony, in the hearts of thousands, that he was one of the brightest ornaments of the gospel and the ministry which the age has produced; and that all who have had any intimacy with him must have esteemed his friendship amongst the greatest blessings of life, and the loss of him amongst its greatest calamities." an interesting memorial exists, written by mr. some, which shows the method he adopted in admitting candidates to the church; clearly indicating what he considered their qualifications should be; what was the nature of the connexion they were about to form; and with what spirit and purpose they should unite themselves to the society to which they desired to be admitted. _questions to be addressed to candidates for communion._ 1. wherefore do you desire communion with this church? 2. will you endeavour to walk circumspectly and peaceably amongst us, as it becomes a disciple of the lord jesus christ? 3. will you attend upon the ministry and ordinances of this church as often as you can? 4. do you purpose to stand by us, and steadfastly to adhere to us, if times of difficulty and trial should come? 5. do you therefore, in the presence of god and his people here assembled, give up yourself to the watch and care of this church, promising to submit to the discipline that is exercised therein, so far as it is agreeable to the mind of christ revealed in his word? if these be your designs, then in the name of our blessed redeemer, and with the consent and approbation of this church, i open the doors thereof for your admittance into it, and declare you a member of it, earnestly desiring that god would bless you in it. towards the close of mr. some's ministry the chapel house was purchased of walter renals, and bought by knightley holland, for the use of the minister for the time being. in the year 1844 this house was taken down, and the new chapel erected near to the spot where it had stood; for some years before it having ceased to be occupied by the minister of the place. after doddridge removed to northampton, as mr. some, through the failure of his strength, was incompetent to undertake the whole of the services devolving on him, he was provided with another assistant in 1730, in mr. j. halford, a native of northampton, who, though he never enjoyed the advantages of an academical education, possessed good natural talents. he remained until 1734, when he removed to horselydown. after the removal of mr. halford, mr. some had no other assistant to the day of his death, but most probably restricted his labours. he died in the 57th year of his age; "and," said this holy man of god with his dying breath, "if any ask how david some died, let it be answered, that he sought and found mercy." dr. doddridge preached his funeral sermon, after his remains had been interred in the chancel of the parish church of great bowden. the knowledge of the spot is only preserved by tradition, which must be attributed to that fatal modesty which induced him in his last moments to commit his writings to the flames. his best earthly memorial is in the affection and reverence with which his name has been so long cherished. after the death of mr. some we find an unsettled interval of fifteen years, during which many changes took place; and no records were preserved by the church of the events that occurred, or of the state of things amongst them. we learn from the correspondence of doddridge, that the year after the death of mr. some, mr. toaker received an invitation of such a pressing nature to become the pastor of the church at harborough, that he was constrained to accept the call; but two years after this he speaks of the ordination of one of his students, mr. isaac wilkinson, over the church at harborough, being fixed to take place may 9th, 1740. then again, in a letter written to dr. clarke, of st. albans, february 27th, 1741, he speaks of ashley and harborough as being vacant. in the list of doddridge's students, given at the close of the last volume of his 'correspondence,' we have the names of samuel smalley, as settled at harborough, who entered the academy in 1737; and of jabez hirons, as minister at harborough, who entered the academy in 1745. all that we can gather from these statements is, that the congregation was during this period in a very unsettled state, not having become united for any length of time under any pastor, or having anyone to settle peacefully and usefully over them until the year 1752, when a pleasing change took place in the choice of mr. stephen addington. it appears that mr. addington was a native of northampton, and a student under dr. doddridge, by whom he was treated with all the kindness of a father. he commenced his labours at spaldwick, huntingdonshire. he had not, however, been there more than two years before this situation was offered to his acceptance, which had been chosen and marked out for him in the wishes, at least, of his foster parent. the following circumstance led to the appointment: upon the resignation of a pastor who had never felt himself at home among the people, their choice was divided between two persons, who had been proposed by their respective friends. at length it was wisely agreed by both parties to withdraw their suffrages from each in favour of a third candidate, if one could be found who should be agreeable to the whole congregation. at this juncture mr. addington was recommended to them by the rev. mr. gilbert, of oakhampton, and in 1752 received a unanimous invitation to settle amongst them. accordingly, in the month of july he removed to harborough, and established himself in the very house where his good friend had lived. he was ordained in september, 1753, on which occasion the service was conducted by the rev. mr. gilbert, of northampton, mr. goodrich, of oundle, mr. boyce, of kettering, mr. gregson, of rowell, and dr. ashworth, of daventry. the first five years of mr. addington's residence were devoted exclusively to the duties of his pastoral office. his congregation was considerable, and some of them came from a distance of several miles; but the church at ashley had now a pastor of its own, so as no longer to require the stated engagements of the minister at harborough. so entirely did mr. addington appear to possess the confidence and affections of his people, that he became scarcely less their friend and counsellor in their various secular concerns than their spiritual guide and instructor. the leading object of all his plans was their moral and religious improvement. in pursuance of this great design, it was mr. addington's custom to distribute and associate as many of his people as he could into classes, according to their age, sex, and situation. in these societies they were in the habit of meeting at stated times for prayer and religious converse, often attended by their minister; the societies were always under his superintendence, and once in every year (about christmas) each of them spent a comfortable evening together at his house. even the female servants had their annual day, on which, after assembling in the meeting house, and spending a part of the afternoon in cleaning it, they partook of a social and friendly entertainment provided for them. mr. addington's labours among his people were both acceptable, and beneficial to the great purposes of the christian ministry. his strain of preaching was chiefly practical and experimental, and his delivery animated and affectionate. but beside his many ministerial and pastoral engagements, mr. addington at length added the arduous undertaking of a boarding-school, in which he succeeded the rev. mr. token, of kibworth, whose school was removed to harborough. during a part also of this period he extended his pastoral charge to the congregation at kibworth. at this time he was by no means a strong and healthy man; and after continuing his exertions of one kind or another for nearly thirty years, he began to find some failure in his energy and activity; and under this impression it seemed prudent to contract the sphere of his duties. whilst preparing to carry his design into effect, circumstances occurred which eventually issued in his removal; the active part which he took in the politics of the day somewhat affecting both his usefulness and his comfort towards the close of his residence at harborough. while he was thus circumstanced, he received an invitation to a charge in miles lane, london, which determined his removal in october, 1781. it was not, however, without the severest struggle that he resigned a connexion that had long been endeared to him by almost everything calculated to produce and to cherish reciprocally in the parties the most cordial esteem and the liveliest affection. the connexion might indeed not be said to have been broken up, but exchanged for an intimacy differing only in the mode and in the degree of its friendship, and which continued to the end of his days. after mr. addington's removal from harborough, he became tutor of an academy first established at mile end, which afterwards existed at hoxton, and then at highbury. "the friends of evangelical truth, lamenting the heterodoxy or coldness of another seminary, associated to provide for the churches pastors of a different spirit. at first they engaged some ministers of established reputation for piety and orthodox sentiments, to give lectures at their own houses to such young men as were selected from the churches in london and its vicinity. this mode, however, soon proved so inconvenient that they were compelled to provide in 1783 a building at mile end, to which they invited stephen addington, minister of market harborough, as tutor of what was now called 'the evangelical academy.' the friends of the institution procured him a diploma of doctor of divinity; but as he had lately relinquished a similar charge under the impression of declining vigour, he had scarcely begun to 'gird up the loins of his mind' to the duties of his new office with the hope of extensive usefulness, before he was attacked by a severe indisposition, which laid him aside for some time. though he recovered beyond expectation, and resumed his labours with new ardour, he was again disabled by affliction, and at length compelled to resign his office as tutor in 1789. "as he had been chosen pastor of the congregation in miles lane, he continued to labour there under the pressure of infirmities, but encouraged by the generous attachment of his flock, for years after he resigned his academical charge." in february, 1796, he was called away from his labours and trials by death, in his sixty-seventh year. "he was an amiable man, of correct deportment, ardent piety, and zeal for usefulness. his learning was extensive rather than profound; he projected more works than he found time to execute; and his dread of living in vain induced him to grasp at objects to which his strength was inadequate. as a preacher, he was more esteemed than admired, for his elocution was defective, though earnest; and his thoughts, always good, were seldom great. his 'treatise in defence of infant baptism,' and his 'life of the apostle paul,' are the best known among his publications, of which our limits will not allow us to give the full list."--so write the authors of the 'history of dissenters,' vol. iv., p. 264. of the 'treatise on baptism,' job orton says--"addington hath lately published a small piece upon it, which i think comprehends everything valuable that hath been written." a dedication to his congregation at harborough is prefixed to this treatise, from which we make the following extract:- my dear friends,--you have, in the following pages, the result of a free and serious inquiry into the scripture doctrine of christian baptism. after reading many controversial tracts on the mode and subjects of this ordinance, i found myself obliged to examine the sacred pages before i could be thoroughly satisfied either as to the manner or time of life in which it ought to be administered. previous to this inquiry, i endeavoured to divest myself of every prejudice, and determined to follow the truth whithersoever it might lead me. far be it from me to assert that i have nowhere mistaken the language of the holy spirit in the several passages that either give an account of the administration of christian baptism or tend to explain the nature and design of the institution; but this i hope i can say, that i have endeavoured to enter into the true meaning of them, and have explained them in a sense that appears to me (upon the maturest consideration) most consistent and scriptural. i think myself obliged to tell you, that the inquiry has afforded me abundant satisfaction. the reasons for our practice of baptising children, and that by sprinkling or pouring of water, appear to me now in a much stronger light than before; and i am more fully convinced than ever that the specious objections that are thrown out against it have no solid foundation in reason or the word of god. this is dated, harborough, september 6th, 1770. the interval was not very long from the resignation of mr. addington to the settlement of mr. gill, as mr. addington's resignation is dated august 12, 1781, and mr. gill commenced his labours in the early part of 1782. during the interval the pulpit was supplied by neighbouring ministers, and the students from the academy at daventry; among the latter of whom was mr. belsham, afterwards recognized as the champion of socinianism. the principal candidates were mr. bennett, who afterwards settled at kiderminster; mr. cooke, who finally settled at halifax; and a mr. severn. during this state of indecision, mr. garner, in his travels into yorkshire, heard of mr. gill, who, being highly recommended as an excellent man, was introduced to the church at harborough. mr. gill was a native of netherthong, a small village near holesfirth, in yorkshire. he was educated at the academy at heckmondwicke, and commenced his labours at swanland, not far from hull. after a residence of about eight or nine years in that place, he was invited to the pastoral office over this church and congregation. mr. gill's acceptance of the invitation is dated march 22nd, 1782. mr. gill continued his labours after this union for a long period, with honour to himself and benefit to others. he was permitted to preach the gospel to them for more than six-and-thirty years, while he lived among them for at least half a century. a paralytic affection rendered it necessary that he should retire from his labours and resign his charge, in the year 1818. in the interval between this period and his death, he was, with the exception of the time he spent at coventry with a son, regular in his attendance at the meeting where he had ministered; and though all the powers of his mind were much impaired, his relish for the word was undiminished, and his habits of devotion never left him to his dying hour. this holy and venerable servant of god breathed his last at the house of his son-in-law, mr. french, of great bowden, on the evening of february 2nd, 1832, at the age of 79. he was buried in the ground connected with the meeting, when mr. wild delivered the funeral oration; mr. bicknell, of crick, and mr. robertson, of wellingborough, engaged in prayer; mr. chater, of kibworth, giving out the hymns. his funeral sermon was preached on the sabbath following, by mr. scott, of rowell, from acts xi. 24: "he was a good man," &c. (the character of barnabas). during the ministry of mr. gill 248 members were added to the church. having some recollections of mr. gill's person and ministry, from having heard him a few times in the latter part of his labours, in his own place of worship and in neighbouring places, we should describe him as rather above the middle stature; very grave in his aspect; his manners gentle and kind; his spirit devotional and fervent; always serious in his work; his matter plain, pious, experimental, decidedly evangelical in sentiment: his voice was not of great compass. mr. gill was not distinguished by grasp of mind, power of reasoning, depth of thought, or extent of information. his powers, whether natural or acquired, were not of a high order. his case shows us what may be done by the weight of character, fervent consistent piety, without superior mental endowments, in filling a respectable station with credit and usefulness. mr. gill was considered to be exemplary in visiting his flock, and to this was added the care of a considerable boarding-school, which he had for a number of years; and our impression is, that more time was spent in such engagements than could comport with the efficient discharge of the duties of the pulpit. hence we fear, from what was manifested in the state of the church and congregation after his retirement, that the result of his labours was not of the most satisfactory kind. on the resignation of mr. gill, mr. jukes, now of bedford, supplied harborough for many months with great acceptance. mr. francis, of lancaster, also came as a candidate for a short time. mr. gear, now of bradford, wiltshire, then a student at hoxton academy, succeeded as a probationer, and was invited by a large majority to take the oversight of the church. the want of entire unanimity led mr. gear at first to decline accepting the invitation; but, upon its being renewed, he ultimately complied with the call, and was ordained to the pastoral office in october, 1822. the ministers engaged were messrs. notcutt, of wilbarston, now of ipswich; robertson, of stretton, afterwards of wellingborough; maslem, of hertford, mr. gear's pastor; dr. harris, of hoxton, mr. gear's tutor; scott, of rowell, now tutor of airedale academy; green, of uppingham; and roberts, of melton. mr. gear continued his labours at harborough until the year 1830, when, not finding that concord and good feeling between him and the people necessary for each other's mutual advantage and happiness, he complied with an invitation he received from bradford, in wiltshire. letters were addressed to him signed by 375 persons, urging his stay at harborough, but he declined to do so. after his departure, a handsome gift of plate was presented to him, as a memorial of esteem and affection from his numerous friends. mr. gear's removal, and a difference of opinion concerning the candidates which were recommended and heard, led to considerable altercation and painful division of feeling. the following ministers supplied the pulpit as probationers: mr. johnson, from highbury; mr. wooldridge, from gideon chapel, bristol; mr. hewlett, late of newberry. mr. slye, of potterspury, was unanimously invited to visit harborough as a probationer; but, having no desire to remove from his people, refused. mr. wild, late of gainsborough, and educated under mr. joseph fletcher, of blackburn, was recommended to the friends at harborough by dr. raffles, of liverpool. in may, 1831, mr. wild was invited to spend three or four sabbaths, at the expiration of which time he received an invitation to the pastoral office; but conceiving the time he had spent among them too limited to form a just opinion of the people and the suitabilities of the place, he engaged to spend a month or five weeks more before he gave his final answer to the wishes of the people. mr. wild accepted the invitation, and his recognition as the pastor took place november 9th of the same year. dr. raffles, of liverpool; scott, of rowell; toller, of kettering; roberts, of melton; chater, of kibworth; hewlett, of lutterworth, engaged in the services of the day. mr. wild's ministry here was of short duration, and attended with the want of unanimity and peace; so that in the year 1835, perceiving the continuance of dissatisfaction, with no prospect as he thought of party feeling abating, and consequently little hope of future comfort and usefulness, he sent a notice of his intention to resign, which was read by mr. hobson, of welford, on lord's-day, january 11th, 1835, his ministry having continued about three years and a half. the present pastor (mr. h. toller) is the fifth surviving son of the late rev. t. n. toller, of kettering. he pursued a course of preparatory study under mr. walter scott, late of rowell; and afterwards was a student at coward college, london. at the expiration of his studies, he was invited as a probationer to harborough, and ultimately to take the pastoral charge, which he accepted, and was ordained october 27th, 1836. his brother, mr. thomas toller, of kettering, delivered the charge--mr. edward mial, then of leicester, the introductory discourse; and mr. mursell, of the same place, preached to the people. though the church and congregation could not be considered in a happy, prosperous state, when this settlement took place, yet they gradually attained to a condition of peace and prosperity to which they had for some years been strangers. in the ninth year of mr. toller's ministry the present chapel was built, to which we have referred at the commencement of this account. on the day of opening, large assemblies were collected together, and a noble spirit of liberality was manifested. dr. reed, of london, preached in the morning, from num. x. 29; dr. leifchild, in the evening, from rom. v. 9. mr. alexander, of norwich, preached on the next sabbath. the whole amount collected at these opening services was â£199. 1s., and donations were presented of sufficient amount at once to set the chapel entirely free from debt. all this made it a season of gladness and of lively interest to the people. since this effort they have gone forward with renewed vigour and united energy. the number of members added to the church during the present pastorate is 179. the present number of communicants is 163. the general sabbath-school connected with the place contains 150 children. in the infant-school, conducted on the sabbath, there are 80 children. for the use of the latter, a room has been recently erected over the general school-room, with class-rooms for the elder children, at a cost of â£230, the whole of which has been paid. occasionally services are conducted, chiefly on sabbath evenings, by several members of the church, in five villages in the vicinity of harborough. the whole aspect of things in this christian society now presents a happy illustration of the sentiment, that a united people, under a faithful pastor, will go on and prosper. chapter v. memorials of the independent church at ashley and wilbarston. it might appear to be difficult to some of the nonconformists of the present day to decide, why their forefathers should fix on this village as a place where they should carry on the stated ministrations of the gospel, and form a church on congregational principles. the population of the village is too small to present a suitable sphere in itself for a dissenting congregation, while the episcopal church has the patronage of the state and receives her emoluments. it was probably regarded by those engaged in its formation as presenting a central spot, where the nonconformists who resided in surrounding villages might conveniently assemble. hence, during its early history the hearers travelled from a number of places in the vicinity. one of the stated hearers, who died at an advanced age a few years ago, and who had been connected with the place from his earliest days, informed the writer that he remembered hearers coming from thirteen villages to attend under the ministry of the gospel at ashley. since that period chapels have been erected in several of those villages, in which stated services are conducted; and this, as a matter of course, diminishes the number of travellers to the old places. the history of the independent church at ashley is connected, during the first 60 or 70 years of its existence, with that of market harborough. it was formed under the labours of the same minister, about the same time (1673), and continued under the charge of the same pastors until some time after the death of mr. david some. for the character and labours of its first pastors (mr. matthew clark and his son, succeeded by mr. some, who had doddridge as an assistant for a time), the reader is referred to the preceding memorials of the church at harborough. the record of members of the church, preserved in the handwriting of mr. some, shows that church-meetings were held at ashley, members admitted there, the lord's supper administered; proving that it was regarded as a distinct christian society, under the pastoral charge of the minister of the church at harborough. after doddridge came to reside at harborough, and became assistant to mr. some, he took his turn in preaching at ashley. tradition says, that on one occasion he baptized nine children at the house of a respectable farmer at weston, about a mile from ashley, whose family were long connected with the place, and at whose house the minister frequently, in those days, dined on the sabbath. from doddridge's own pen we learn that some of his published sermons to young people were preached at ashley, for he dedicates them to the young people in the congregations at northampton, harborough, kibworth, hinchley, and ashley, as the places where they had been preached. the following note is appended to the sermon entitled 'the orphan's hope,' from psalm xxvii. 10: "when my father and mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up":--"this sermon was preached at ashley, in northamptonshire, march 6th, 1725, to some young persons whose father, mother, and sister had all died of the small-pox a few days before." in the introduction to the discourse he observes- there are few precepts of the gospel which will appear more easy to a humane and generous mind than those in which we are required to weep with them that weep; and surely there are few circumstances of private life which will more readily command our mournful sympathy than those of that afflicted family, to the poor remains of which you will naturally, on the first hearing of these words, direct your thoughts, and perhaps your eyes too--the circumstances of a family which god hath broken with breach upon breach--of those distressed children whose father and mother have forsaken them almost at once, and who have since been visited with another stroke, which if alone had been very grievous, and when added to such a weight of former sorrows is, i fear, almost insupportable. i believe all of you who are acquainted with the case sincerely pity them, and wish their relief; but i am under some peculiar obligations to desire and attempt it, not only on account of my public character, but as i know the heart of an orphan, having myself been deprived of both my parents at an age at which it might reasonably be supposed a child should be most sensible of such a loss. i cannot recollect any scripture which was then more comfortable, as i think none could have been more suitable, to me, than that which is now before us. he touchingly and beautifully addresses the orphan family towards the close of the discourse. it must have been eight or ten years after the death of mr. some, which took place in 1737, before the church at ashley had a pastor placed over it separate from the church at harborough, for the first pastor here appears to have been a mr. john west, who had been a student at northampton in doddridge's academy; for though we have no account preserved of the period when he commenced or when he closed his ministry, yet we find that he entered the academy at northampton in the year 1740. if immediately on the close of his studies he became the pastor of the church at ashley, according to the usual term this would not take place until 1745 or 1746; and as we find another pastor chosen within eleven or twelve years from this time, and have no further account of mr. west, it is probable that he closed his life and his ministry at a comparatively early age. in the year 1757, mr. samuel bacon was chosen pastor of the church at ashley, in which office he continued for 32 years. the residence of mr. bacon's family was sutton-in-ashfield; he studied for the ministry at the academy at mile end, when dr. conder and mr., afterward dr., gibbons were the tutors. it is supposed that ashley was mr. bacon's only charge; during his ministry here his residence was at wilbarston. no particulars have been preserved of his character or ministry, the success of his labours, or the state of the church while he was pastor. he appears to have been highly esteemed, and was spoken of by his friends as one of the most lovely, amiable men they ever knew. mr. bacon was one of the first trustees for the meeting house at weldon and the property connected with it, and one of the monthly lecturers there for a number of years, frequently conducting also the extra service they obtained on a sabbath evening in addition to the monthly lecture. at corby also mr. bacon had some engagements of a similar nature. we find his name inserted in the account of the ordination of mr. j. fuller, at kettering, in 1772. he died rather suddenly, february 6th, 1789, and was buried in the meeting house, beneath the pulpit, where mrs. bacon was also interred, and mrs. talbot, one of his three daughters. in the same year that mr. bacon died, mr. george bullock was invited to become the pastor, and entered on his stated ministry; residing, like his predecessor, at wilbarston. he was a student at mile end when dr. addington was tutor, and we have heard that he was a favourite student of the doctor's; one memorial of this we have seen. there is in the hands of a daughter of mr. bullock a neat pocket bible, in two volumes, published in 1640, that evidently was used by dr. addington when he preached in the villages in the vicinity of market harborough, having on the fly-leaves the texts of the sermons noted down very neatly, with the places where they were preached, and the time of the service; also four hymns selected from the olney hymns by newton and cowper, suitable to sing at the services, written in shorthand, according to the system of jeremiah rich, improved by doddridge. this bible was given by his tutor to mr. bullock, as the following memorandum, written in each volume by mr. bullock, testifies:- george bullock. the gift of my very dear, highly honoured, much esteemed friend and tutor, the rev. s. addington, d.d., no 5, grove house, mile end, london, november 6th, 1788. about four years after mr. bullock commenced his ministry at ashley, a building was purchased and fitted up at wilbarston for a meeting house. occasional services in a licensed room had for some time been held; and the attendance increasing, it was thought desirable to have a larger place and more regular services. this meeting house was opened in the year 1793, and from that time it was connected with ashley, to have one service by the pastor every sabbath morning or afternoon alternately, and occasionally a sabbath evening lecture; so that he became the minister of both congregations, regularly travelling from one place to the other to conduct these services. in the early part of mr. bullock's ministry at ashley there was some considerable increase in the congregation and the church; but this did not continue to the close of his course. after labouring for about twenty years, in the month of january, 1809, he was seized with a paralytic affection, which laid him aside entirely from all public service. he resigned his charge, seeing no prospect of restoration, in march, 1810; and in the year 1811 he died, at the age of 48 years, and was interred in the meeting house at wilbarston, where a tablet is erected to his memory. after this mr. william notcutt was invited to the pastoral office, and was ordained june 6th, 1811. mr. notcutt preached at both places in the manner of his predecessor, and during some part of his ministry took monthly services at slawston and hallaton; but now there is a stated pastor, who preaches regularly at both these places. during the ministry of mr. notcutt a vestry was added to the meeting house at wilbarston for week-evening services and for the sabbath-school. in the year 1820 the meeting house was enlarged, at an expense of about â£200. the ministry of mr. notcutt continued here about 15 years, and in that time about 50 members were added to the church. in march, 1826, he resigned his charge, and removed to ipswich, where he is still labouring as pastor of the independent church in tacket street. after this removal, there was an unsettled interval of about five years. for a short time the two congregations separated, and tried to have a minister for each, when a mr. bromiley was at ashley and mr. hill at wilbarston. while mr. bromiley was at ashley the meeting house underwent some alterations--was new pewed, and the inside considerably improved; but it still remains, as to the appearance of the building, in the state of one of the oldest nonconformist village meeting houses, with its thatched roof without, and its uncovered beams within; and it may stand for years to come as a venerable relic of the olden times. the first trust deed of the present meeting house is dated 1706. after a short trial of separation, it was thought to be best to re-unite the two places; and in the year 1831 the present minister, mr. thomas coleman, who had previously been pastor of the independent church at wollaston, was unanimously invited to take the charge of both congregations, and he has conducted the services at both places for 21 years. at this time it was thought desirable that the residence of the minister should be at ashley, as most in the centre of the connexion; a dwelling-house was therefore prepared, adjoining the meeting house, as the residence of the minister for the time being; ground was purchased for the building, a garden, and a small burying place behind the meeting. the alteration of the meeting, the purchase of the ground, the building, &c., must have cost more than â£400, which has been entirely paid off. there are about 17 acres of land that have been purchased with moneys left to the interest by different persons, which are put in trust for the benefit of the minister for the time being. there are now standing, as members of the church, about 56 persons; the sabbath-schools contain about 60 children. there are occasional services conducted in three villages in the vicinity, where there are rooms licensed for public worship. if we took pleasure in dwelling on opposition encountered, we could record instances which would reflect dishonour on the opposers, while in the result the goodness of god and the power of the gospel were manifested. nor might it be thought unsuitable to place amidst these 'memorials' a statement of the following facts, while names are concealed:--that a new rector, appointed to one of these villages, seemed determined to distinguish himself by opposing the occasional services that had been held in a licensed house for twenty years. he summoned his parishioners to meet in the church; told them his design to put a stop to the preaching in the house; announced it as a very improper thing to have preaching in a house, and in a room where people lived; and when reminded of the saviour's promise, that "_wherever_ two or three are gathered together in his name," replied, "ah, that might be all very true in those days, when there were no churches built nor clergymen appointed; but it did not apply now." having gained the great man of the village on his side, nothing would do but they must have a notice drawn up and served on the occupiers of the cottage where the service was held, that they must leave it, if they did not give up the preaching; and this was persisted in; though a noble earl who had property in the village, to whom the pastor sent a statement of the case, expressed his decided wish that the service should be continued in its usual course,--and when after considerable effort another room, more commodious, was obtained, gave a handsome donation towards fitting it up for the service, and expressed his fervent wish that the lord would give his gracious blessing to the services that might be held there. in the varied circumstances connected with this case, there was a striking display--on the one side of the narrowness and oppression engendered by the spirit of bigotry, and on the other of the liberality and kindness of enlightened christianity. a few years have passed since then, and the occasional services are still continued. a voluntary christian society, situated like this at ashley, in the course of such a long period, having now existed for 175 years, must have undergone many changes. the erection of new places of worship in localities where its hearers and members in the early period of its history used to reside, has at length confined its connexions to four or five villages in its immediate vicinity, and they are of small population, and several of the old dissenting families have been removed from them. being simply an agricultural district, without trade or manufactures, there is no prospect of much increase. as young persons rise into life they remove to other places for employment, and some of the most active and useful have been thus lost to the place that gave them birth: but still a small church remains to bear its testimony to the great principles of the gospel, and to the truth and faithfulness of god; and it may yet extend and prosper, by united believing prayer and earnest effort, under the blessing of the great god of zion. chapter vi. memorials of the independent church at welford. in the extra-parochial district of sulby, about a mile from the village of welford, was founded in the twelfth century a monastery for a certain order of monks. it was handsomely endowed, and dedicated to the virgin mary. the site is now occupied by farm buildings. but as another illustration of the changes which occur in this mutable world, there resided, 180 years ago, in some part of that abbey, a man who would not conform to the dictates of his fellow men in the things of god--"a man of worth, a man of letters too;" one eminent for learning, talent, piety, usefulness; who laid the foundation of two dissenting interests in the county of northampton, and kept a dissenting academy at sulby, or a seminary for the education of young men, several of whom became eminent dissenting ministers. this person was the rev. john shuttlewood, a.b. he was born at wymeswold, in the county of leicester, january 3rd, 1632, of respectable parents, who sent him to the grammar-school at leicester, and afterwards to christ's college, cambridge, where he obtained the degree of a.b. he was ordained to the ministry in 1654, not by episcopal ordination it would appear, but in the method more generally adopted in the days of the commonwealth, in the congregation of raunston, with an honourable testimonial from the classical presbytery of wirksworth, in the province of derby. the deep humility, piety, and devotedness of his spirit were manifest by a solemn dedication of himself to god, drawn up about this time in latin, of which the following is a translation:- o my god, on account of my sins thou hast afflicted me with thy judgments! thou art just, o lord! in all thy dispensations towards me, because i have grievously offended against thee. i have followed the world; i have too much indulged the flesh; and i have been very often overcome by satan. to thee i give up myself, to live to thee. and now, before god, the searcher of hearts, i promise and engage to leave my worldly concerns to the companion of my life; to renounce the flesh with its affections; and to study the good of the souls which thou art committing to my care. now, o lord! do thou so strengthen and fortify me by the spirit of grace against all these my enemies, that i may obtain the victory over them. and that i may seriously perform these my good resolutions, let this paper, signed by my name, be a witness against me, if i lie before thee. john shuttlewood. a man of such a spirit we should expect to find among those who refused to conform to the terms prescribed to the ministers of the church, soon after the restoration of the second charles. on this account he was ejected from the living of raunston and hoose, and afterward exposed to great suffering for his nonconformity, and his attempts to conduct the worship of god and preach his word in a way his conscience approved. in the year 1668, when he was uniting with some others in singing a psalm, one mr. b., with thirty or forty horsemen, with swords drawn and pistols loaded, came and seized him with many that were worshipping with him. several of both sexes were beaten and driven into the field, and there dismissed upon promising to appear the next day before a justice of the peace. mr. shuttlewood was conveyed to leicester gaol, where he was a prisoner for some months. after the "conventicle act" passed, he was again seized by one charles gibbons, a notorious persecutor and profane swearer--taken by him from one justice of the peace to another; and warrants were issued to distrain upon him for â£20, upon the owner of the house where he preached for â£20, and 5_s._ apiece on others. in 1674 mr. shuttlewood was living at lubenham, a village about two miles from market harborough. there his house was entered when he was conducting divine service; a warrant was obtained to distrain upon him for â£40, when seven of his milch cows were taken and sold. a short letter is preserved which was written to his wife from leicester gaol, which shows the exemplary resignation, meekness, and faith with which he passed through his trials. it was written february 20th, 1668. my dear wife,--myself and fellow prisoners are in good health. i bless god, i am very well satisfied with his dispensations towards me in reference to my landlady's proceedings; so that i am no longer disquieted with them, nor solicitous about them, but patiently wait god's gracious disposal of me. perhaps infinite wisdom foresees some inconveniency which we are not aware of, and therefore is about to remove us. i am loath to leave the society of my dear brethren, mr. clarke and mr. southal; but i hope in the end god will so dispose of us, that we shall have cause to say, it is best for us to be where god shall carry us. i know not which way to look; but our "god is a very present help in a time of trouble," and will let us see that it is not our forecast, but his providence, which shall provide an habitation for us. let us rather beg an improvement than a removal of his dispensations. remember me to my father, children, &c. thus, in haste, i remain, &c. the mr. clarke, mentioned in this letter, we suppose to have been matthew clarke, the first pastor of the independent church at harborough and ashley, as he was cast three times into the same prison, and was connected with mr. shuttlewood in sufferings, and also in services and enjoyments. he was obliged frequently to change his abode--sometimes in leicestershire, sometimes in northamptonshire, to escape from his foes; acting on the directions given by his lord, "if they persecute you in one city, flee unto another." after a time he went to reside at sulby, a place remarkable for its picturesque and secluded situation. the family of the paynes, at sulby hall, then favoured the nonconformists. here he appears sometimes to have had a flourishing seminary. a memorandum of his in a pocket almanack states "that six students were added to his academy in one year." the following persons, amongst others, studied under him, and rose to eminence: mr. julius saunders, afterwards minister at bedworth; mr. john sheffield; mr. matthew clarke, son, we suppose, of mr. clarke of harborough, afterwards minister in london; dr. joseph oldfield; mr. wilson, the father of mr. samuel wilson, of london; and mr. thomas emlyn. in the memoirs of the last of these it is said, "that his parents chose to bring up their son to the ministry among the nonconformists; and that for this purpose he was sent, in the year 1678, for academical education to mr. shuttle_worth_ (should have been shuttle_wood_), at sulby, near welford, in northamptonshire." here he stayed four years. in the year 1679 he took a journey to cambridge, and was admitted to emanuel college, but returned again to mr. shuttlewood. these circumstances indicate that mr. shuttlewood resided at sulby a considerable time. it was during this period that he gathered a congregation at welford and at creaton. but such was the spirit of the times, and such the dangers to which the nonconformists were exposed, that at welford, in the year 1674, they met in a secluded part of the town, on the premises of mr. edmund miles, where they fitted up a place of worship, which was the first dissenting meeting house there; but such were the activity and zeal of their enemies, that they thought it prudent to vary their places of meeting, and to set a guard against the inroads of their foes. they might have adopted the language of nehemiah as their own: "we made our prayer unto our god, and set a watch day and night because of them." there was a house occupied by mr. charles hanscomb, secluded in a narrow yard from the main street, and open to a field in the direction of mr. shuttlewood's house. here the persecuted minister and his people often met, one of the number being appointed to watch, while the rest were engaged in worship; so that when the informers were seen to approach notice might be given to mr. shuttlewood and his hearers, who escaped by the window into the fields. sometimes they met in the pastures which surrounded the house at sulby, amidst the darkness and the damps of night. these were days of trial, when the reality of religious principle was tested and its power appeared. mr. shuttlewood was blest with a robust, vigorous constitution, yet was of a very tender spirit; and the death of one of his children so deeply pierced him as to bring on many bodily complaints, which he carried with him to his grave. his constitution was greatly injured by the sufferings he endured, and also by his preaching at unseasonable hours, and in unsuitable places; so that his health at length rapidly declined, and he died when on a visit to the church at creaton, march 17th, 1688, in the 58th year of his age. a humble stone was erected to his memory in the churchyard, with this brief but honourable inscription:--"multum dilectus, multum deflendus"--"much beloved, much lamented". now the flock at welford were as sheep without a shepherd. they had not been formed into a regular christian church under the ministry of mr. shuttlewood; and for about ten years they were destitute of a pastor, or any stated ministrations of divine truth amongst them. some of them, during this period, travelled as far as bedworth, in warwickshire, upwards of twenty miles, to hear mr. julius saunders. such was the love these servants of christ had for the gospel, that in the dark mornings of the winter season they travelled by the light of a lantern as far as lutterworth, where they left it till their return in the evening, when it was again lighted to conduct them home. it appears that there were many in those days that would travel as far as their feet would carry them, rather than be entirely deprived of the ministry of the gospel. some extracts from the records of the church at bedworth, kindly sent to the writer by the present pastor of the church, show that there were, in the year 1687, five persons from welford added to that church. this was the second year in the history of that church; and at the close of it the pastor wrote, "thus has god increased us and doubled our numbers, and many of them stars of the first magnitude." william powers, from welford, who joined the church at bedworth, appears to have been a man of eminent piety. on one occasion mr. saunders writes, "it was while brother powers was earnestly praying the lord to thrust forth labourers into his harvest, that i was set at liberty from the bond that was on my spirit." in 1688, a female servant in one of the welford families attending at bedworth was added to the church. in the fourth month of that year a church-meeting is held at welford, when several persons from elkington and cottesbrook are added to the church. in the last month of this year we find two more from welford joined to the church at bedworth; but the pastor records, that in the third month of the next year "there was great dissatisfaction expressed at a church-meeting, on account of my going to welford and preaching there the last lord's-day, where there seems to be a mighty work of god upon the hearts of many carrying on." mr. saunders wished to devote one sabbath in the month to the people that met at welford; but this was strongly opposed by some of the church at bedworth, who probably desired to have the pastor always with them on the sabbath. one valentine drake showed great opposition to the pastor going to preach at welford; "but the church," adds mr. saunders, "gave me liberty; they declared that it was meet that, as a ruling elder, i should appoint my own meetings to preach." "the trouble was great that i met with, all about going to welford one lord's-day in the month." the opponents ultimately prevailed, so that the minister was obliged to give up the services there. "in the 9th month, 1689, a solemn assembly of the church. the church refused to cast out valentine drake for all that he had done; and he had done much evil. he drew many after him; made a schism in the church; manifested fiery passions in our church-meetings; and so far prevailed, that i was necessitated to break off from going to welford, whereby that great and blessed work that was going on was made to cease. many that had a hand in breaking it never flourished in their souls after. in those days my hands were weak." "in 1691, brother william powers, from welford, was chosen to be a ruling elder. on the twelfth day of the twelfth month, at welford, the brethren being assembled together--mr. davis, brother tebbirt, and brother taylor, from rowell--i gave brother powers a charge to fulfil his office; he declared his willing mind to do so, and that he did accept of the office." "elizabeth ridgly, of haslebeech, northamptonshire, joined this church, 1687. she was a diligent saint, who came to our church-meetings seventeen long miles, twelve times in a year, and that on foot." it is supposed the distance was not far short of twenty-seven miles. some of the welford hearers attended at kettering and at harborough until the year 1698, when the rev. john norris came to welford. he had been educated to sheriffhales, in shropshire. when mr. norris came to welford, the days of liberty and peace had so far dawned upon the nonconformists that they could no longer be persecuted according to law; and his ministry proving very acceptable to the people, a new meeting house was built capable of seating 500 hearers, which was opened in the year 1700; and in the same year mr. norris formed them into a christian church. the first time he administered the lord's supper, there were twenty-six members united in celebrating the saviour's death; but after a few months the number increased to sixty members. the ground on which the meeting house was built was given by the paynes, of sulby hall; and five of the members of this family united with the twenty-six who first formed themselves into a church under mr. norris. mr. norris was very popular as a preacher, much beloved as a christian minister, especially by his brethren in the ministry. he was engaged at the ordination of doddridge, at northampton, in asking the questions, and offering the ordination prayer. doddridge regarded him with affection and veneration, as a father. he died very suddenly, february 8, 1738, in the sixty-third year of his age: he was buried in the churchyard. the following lines on his tombstone were written by doddridge:- decked with each manly and each christian grace, the friend of god, and all the human race- while earth and heaven beheld him with delight, from earth to heaven he winged a sudden flight. lo! angels pressed to bear their charge above, to kindred realms of piety and love. doddridge preached his funeral sermon, from genesis v. 24: "and enoch walked with god, and he was not, for god took him." we present a few passages from this discourse, descriptive of the character and ministry of mr. norris. i may be permitted publicly to acknowledge (says doddridge) the sense i have of the favour of divine providence, in leading me so early into the acquaintance of this excellent person, and blessing me with so great a share of his friendship, with which i was honoured from my first entrance into the ministry, and which his singular humility and condescension, wisdom and piety, have rendered exceedingly delightful and improving to me in all the succeeding years of life. and surely i should be greatly deficient in the duty of this day, if i did not solemnly charge it upon you frequently to recollect your obligations to the divine goodness in giving you so able and so tender a shepherd, and in continuing him amongst you for so long a time with such cordial love, that repeated, unanimous, and earnest solicitations from the most considerable congregations in the neighbouring counties could not prevail upon him to remove from you. so evident was it that "he took the oversight of you, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind." it may eminently be said of you, my friends, in a spiritual sense, that you have been "fed with the finest of the wheat," as the pure and uncorrupted truths of the gospel have been preached amongst you with plainness and seriousness, and in the spirit of love. your minds have not been amused with useless subtilties and barren speculations; you have not been vexed with strifes of words, unprofitable and vain; nor grieved with passionate invectives against your brethren of any denomination--invectives, which are never more criminal than when delivered in the name of the lord, and which too often turn the food of souls into poison, and that which should have been for their welfare, into a trap. this "good man brought out of the good treasure of his heart good things"; his generous and benevolent soul overflowed with sentiments of candour and love; and he was never more in his own element, than when he was telling you that "the kingdom of god is not meat and drink, but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the holy ghost": and i firmly believe, that in the thirty-eight years of his ministry among you he never delivered a sermon or a sentence inconsistent with that great principle. i join with you in lamenting that none of those elaborate and judicious discourses which he delivered among you, from sabbath to sabbath, are, or can be, published to the world: for though it is certain that his graceful and venerable aspect, and his easy yet lively manner, gave a peculiar beauty to them as delivered by himself; yet, when i consider how judiciously his thoughts were selected, how methodically they were disposed, and with what propriety, elegance, and spirit they were expressed, i am well assured they would generally have been esteemed a rich addition to that great number of practical writings with which our age and country is already blest, and with which i hope it will still abound. * * * * * * * and, for what he was in the domestic relations of life, i had almost said, i wish it may not be too long, but i will rather say too tenderly, remembered. the loss of a husband so constantly obliging, so affectionately sympathizing, so well furnished as a prudent guide and a pleasant companion, and so well disposed for the offices of both, will, i fear, be too deeply felt. may the sense of it be tempered with those divine consolations which he was so eminently fit to administer, but which have not surely lost their value, and will not, i trust, lose their relish, though no longer administered by him. may the children which were dear to him as his own, never forget with how much diligence he instructed them; with how much importunity and constancy he prayed for them; and with what tenderness he watched over all their interests. i may add, even in the decline of life this light was growing brighter and brighter; and though his removal, while his capacities of usefulness were to the last so great, must be very affecting to you, yet i cannot forbear saying that you have some peculiar reason to be thankful for the manner and circumstances of his death. nature was not racked with tormenting pains, nor worn out by a tedious, consuming illness; but the good man grew a little drowsy towards the evening of his long day, and, having "served his generation according to the will of god," gently "fell asleep" as he was going from one apartment of the house to another, and all the business and struggle of dying was over in less time than could have served him to get up the stairs, as he was attempting to do. it is a delightful thought, that god dismissed his servant in so peaceful a manner that his death so much resembled a translation, and "he was not, for god took him." mr. norris preached the last sabbath he lived, and concluded the public service with a copious, lively, and affectionate prayer for his people, which could not have been more suitable if he had known he was then taking his last farewell. after the death of mr. norris, job orton preached his first sermon at welford, and received an invitation from the people to become their pastor; but this he declined, as he did several other invitations, on account of his engagements as assistant to dr. doddridge in the academy. another of the doctor's pupils, a mr. charles bulkley, was settled over the church at welford; but early in the next year after his ordination he changed his sentiments on the doctrines of the gospel, and on the ordinance of baptism; consequently, he was requested by the church to resign his office as pastor over them, which he did, and retired to london, where he joined the general baptists. at this juncture, mr. bottrill, a gentleman of considerable property, connected with the church at welford, was at weldon, a village about eight miles from oundle; and there he happened to hear a young minister preach, who was a native of oundle, and was on a visit to his widowed mother, who resided there. this apparently incidental circumstance was the means of bringing about a connexion that was long continued, and of a very happy and useful character. this young minister was mr. king, son of a late pastor of the independent church at oundle. when mr. bottrill returned home, he induced the church at welford to invite mr. king to preach to them, which he did for two sabbaths, much to their satisfaction. after some further probation, he received a unanimous invitation to become their pastor, which he accepted, and was ordained in the spring of the year 1743; the rev. mr. hill, of london, and dr. doddridge, preached on the occasion. when mr. king became pastor, the number of members in the church was 87. there are some interesting circumstances connected with mr. king's early history, worthy of notice. if he was, like samuel, early devoted to god, it was in connexion with his mother having the spirit of hannah in pleading for him, and giving him up to god. his father was the rev. joseph king, highly respected as the independent minister at oundle. his mother, mrs. hannah king, was a lady distinguished for her piety and intelligence; and she earnestly desired to have a son, that she might devote him to the service of the sanctuary. her desire being granted in the birth of a son, she, like hannah, called his name samuel, as a constant memorial of her prayers and her purpose. she fondly hoped to see him trained by paternal instruction for the christian ministry, when, by a mysterious providence, with a sudden stroke she was bereft of her beloved partner, in the midst of his usefulness and in the vigour of his life, being but 46 years of age. still, amidst the sorrows, the trials, and difficulties of widowhood, her boy not four years of age, and a family dependent upon slender means for support, this mother cherished her fond impression concerning this son. at an early age he was placed in the grammar-school at oundle, and made great proficiency; from thence he was removed to the classical school for dissenters at mount sorrell, leicestershire, then under the direction of mr. thomas watson and mr. abel ragg--the same mr. ragg who had been doddridge's fellow pupil and intimate friend, and who died in the same year with his other beloved friend and fellow pupil, mr. david some, junior. from his earliest days, mrs. king endeavoured to impress her son's mind with the important truths of the gospel; and the lord blessed her efforts and heard and answered her prayers, in the conversion of her son. when he had left home his religious impressions were deepened by the epistolary admonitions of his mother, and by the religious instructions of his tutors. when he removed from this school he lived for a time with an uncle at long thorpe, who was an extensive farmer, and steward to sir francis st. john, who lived there. in this situation he improved the leisure afforded by agriculture in a diligent attention to mental and devout exercises. thus occupied, he came to a settled determination to enter the ministry; which purpose, after due consideration, he disclosed to his mother. this was joyful intelligence to her; and she lost no time in communicating it to a friend and patron, mrs. cooke, of newington, a lady greatly esteemed for her piety and liberality. with characteristic promptitude and kindness, she immediately engaged to support him while prosecuting his studies at the academy. he was placed under the tuition of dr. abraham taylor, at deptford, in 1735; he continued there till 1740, when the institution was removed to stepney. mr. king attended the ministry of mr. thomas bradbury, at new court, with whose church he became connected. while he was at deptford, a party of the students went one evening to bathe, when mr., afterwards dr. thomas gibbons, going beyond his depth, was in danger of drowning. no one present could swim except mr. king, who at the moment was standing at the water side at a short distance. on hearing the cries of the other students he hurried to the spot, plunged into the water, caught mr. gibbons by the hair when in the act of sinking, and thus rescued him from a watery grave, as animation was suspended, and was with considerable difficulty restored. dr. gibbons ever after retained a most affectionate attachment to mr. king, and after he was settled at welford paid him several visits and preached for him, and always recurred to this providential deliverance with grateful recollections. the congregation at welford, when mr. king became its pastor, was considered to be large and respectable, hearers attending on the sabbath from fourteen villages around. in connexion with this circumstance it may be mentioned, that in some of those villages there are now stated congregations, either of the independent or baptist denomination, with pastors placed over them, while the congregation at welford is as large as ever; which shows a considerable increase in the number of dissenters in those parts in the course of the last century. mr. king was very diligent and laborious in the work to which he had become devoted, preaching several nights in the week in the villages around, beside the constant services of the sabbath. his ministry was rendered eminently useful, so that the church doubled its numbers in the early years of his pastorate. he married miss elizabeth norris, the only child of his predecessor, by whom he had a family of ten children. it was a circumstance not honourable to his people, considering their numbers and the wealth of some individuals among them, that mr. king had to struggle with pecuniary difficulties, which almost led to his removal from them. a pressing invitation was sent to him from the congregation at castle gate, nottingham, to be co-pastor with the venerable james ross, m.a., with an offer of more than double the salary that he was receiving at welford. the difficulties attending him here, with his numerous family, inclined him to attend to this call; but when it became known to his people, they waited upon him, expressed their great regret that he should think of leaving them, their firm attachment to him, reminded him of the providential way in which he was brought amongst them, and referred to the happy effects of his labours; which, after some deliberation, prevailed, so that he determined to continue with them and to maintain the struggle with the difficulties that attended him. but the providence of god at length appeared for him. a miss cooke, an aged maiden lady, the only survivor of a wealthy family, bequeathed to him some property, which, with some other legacies he received, enabled him to give his children a liberal education, and to place his sons in respectable situations; and also, in some degree, to gratify his benevolent feelings in the exercise of liberality to those who were in distress. during the ministry of mr. king, mr. john wood, a native of welford, became a member of the church, and was called to the work of the ministry. he passed with great credit through his academical course at daventry, and became first minister at sudbury, in suffolk, and afterwards at creaton, in northamptonshire, where, after twenty years' labour, he died. the young people of mr. king's flock engaged a large portion of his solicitude; his public and private instructions were eminently blessed to many of them. it was a great gratification to this excellent minister to be able to sustain his aged mother in the decline of her days--to promote her comfort by receiving her into his house, where she died, in 1763, at the advanced age of 81 years. with what delight would such a mother behold the answer to her prayers in the devoted labours and usefulness of this son, whom she had asked of the lord, and consecrated to him; and with what peculiar interest must such a son look on that aged mother as she was ripening for heaven, to whom, under god, he owed all that he had attained! he lost his beloved partner, who was of great value in such a sphere, after a lingering illness, in the 60th year of her age. when his own infirmities increased and strength failed, so as to render him incapable of fulfilling the duties of his office, after about 40 years' labour amongst them he resigned his charge in 1782, and went to reside at the house of the rev. james horsey, of northampton, who had married one of his daughters. there, enjoying the affectionate attentions of his daughter, he peacefully ended his days, november 6th, 1788, in the 74th year of his age. his remains were conveyed to welford for interment; a funeral sermon was preached by his son-in-law, mr. horsey, to a crowded audience, from words chosen by the deceased (jude, verse 21): "looking for the mercy of our lord jesus christ unto eternal life." the sermon was printed at the request of the church and congregation. mr. horsey observes- about forty years ago god placed his servant in this part of his vineyard, and enabled him to labour, both in season and out of season, to defend his cause in this town and neighbourhood. that his talents were generally acceptable, most who hear me know. the plainness of his style (for he always aimed to be understood by the lowest of his hearers), the evangelical complexion of his doctrine, and the seriousness of his address, endeared him peculiarly to other congregations as well as his own; and numbers in this and in neighbouring counties ascribe to his instrumentality their first serious thoughts of god and eternity. with many present he has laboured even from your infancy, endeavouring, by an attention to catechising, suggesting the most simple and easy remarks, to bring you to an early acquaintance with the holy scriptures. and no greater pleasure could he feel than to see the children of his charge "walking in the truth." as you have risen into life, he has regularly addressed you by his annual instructions to the youth of the assembly, cautioning against the paths of the destroyer, and directing your feet in the way of peace. oh, how often have i seen him, with marks of inward reverence and undissembled piety, sit like good old simeon "waiting for the consolation of israel"! and when a word has been dropped, to bring his former charge to his remembrance, with the tenderest tokens of friendship, and the falling tears of affection, would he waft up a prayer to heaven for your prosperity. mr. king only published two sermons, one preached to his own people on the murrain among the cattle, and another delivered at the ordination of mr. joshua symonds, at bedford, 1767. after mr. king's resignation there were three pastors, each of whom continued for a very short time over the people at welford. mr. william severn was ordained may 22nd, 1782. it is stated that he was a very popular preacher, possessed of uncommon talents; that his sabbath evening and week-day lectures were anticipated with great pleasure by his hearers, who were strongly attached to him: but he resigned his charge in less than two years, went to hinckley, in leicestershire, and at length, we regret to state, departed from the faith he once preached, and died some years after in connexion with a socinian congregation in hull. a mr. northend was the next who was invited to welford; but the invitation was far from unanimous, so that, though he accepted it, his services continued for a very short time. in the spring of 1789 mr. evan johns was settled as their pastor; but this gentleman, we are informed, much injured his usefulness, and lessened the esteem of his friends for him, by practising the absurd theory of animal magnetism, which induced him to tender his resignation, and he left, in 1790, for bury st. edmund's. in 1792, mr. john clement bicknell, a student at newport pagnell, was invited on probation; and in february, 1793, he was ordained pastor. the following ministers were engaged on that occasion, viz.:--messrs. hillyard, of bedford; greathead, of newport; grundy, of lutterworth; carver, of wellingborough; summers, of wellingborough; gill, of market harborough; davis, of wigston; gardner, of kilsby. soon after this settlement, the old meeting house being much out of repair, it was determined to erect a new one in a more eligible part of the town, near the residence of the pastor. this was opened for worship in 1793; and a few years after, in 1799, a more respectable house was built for the minister on the site of the old one, which together cost the people about â£1500; and, to their honour, the whole was in a short time discharged. the church appears to have decreased in number during the changes that had taken place, as there are only 41 names given as members when mr. bicknell was settled. in the course of his ministry 56 members were added. he filled the pastoral office at welford for about 18 years and 9 months, as he resigned his charge in 1811. in the latter years of his life mr. bicknell was minister at crick, where he died at an advanced age, in the year 1849. in october, 1812, mr. benjamin hobson, of driffield, yorkshire, visited welford as a probationer, on the recommendation of mr. gill, of market harborough. after supplying four sabbaths, he received a unanimous invitation from the church and congregation to the pastoral office, which he accepted, and entered on his stated labours february 21st, 1813. the number of members in the church at this time is stated as 43. mr. hobson was born at sheffield, in the year 1780. in the account given of his early life, we have another case presented, amongst the thousands that have been known in the church of god and in the ministry of the gospel, of one who had to trace his early impressions of religion to the efforts of a pious mother. from early youth he was the "subject of pious emotions," which he always attributed with grateful and filial affection to the piety and prayers of his mother. "her earnest importunity at family prayer for the salvation of her children," he said, "often affected me, and i believe was the means of leading me to see the value of my soul and the necessity of dependence on jesus christ." he derived benefit from some of the last sermons of the rev. jehoiada brewer, and at length joined the church under the care of rev. james boden. he commenced his studies for the ministry at homerton; but during the first year his health was so affected that he was obliged to return home. this led to a change in the place where his studies were to be pursued. at the urgent request of his mother, that he might not be placed so far from home, in case sickness should return, he obtained admission into the college at rotherham in 1802, having for his tutors dr. edward williams and mr. maurice phillips. he pursued his studies with commendable diligence, and obtained general esteem by his consistent piety. his first pastoral charge was at driffield, in yorkshire, where he was ordained on the 8th july, 1806. here his labours were useful and his ministry prized; but in the year 1813, influenced in a great degree by the advice of his friend and relative, mr. g. collison, of hackney, and mr. g. gill, of market harborough, he removed to welford: and here he continued until within four months of the close of his life, serving this people as their faithful and affectionate pastor for about thirty-five years; and he did this with general acceptance and prevailing usefulness. during his ministry 115 members were added to the church. his devoted piety was always manifest. with an earnest concern to promote the highest welfare of his charge, with an ardent attachment to the cause of god, with strong desire to advance the kingdom of the redeemer, and to be a blessing to those around him, he steadfastly pursued his labours. he had much of the spirit of devotion--was a man of prayer, a man of god. his preaching was earnest and affectionate, plain and faithful. he was the attentive village pastor, that took some delight in visiting his flock. if his talents were not of a high order, they were of a useful character. if his mind was not powerful, his spirit was affectionate and fervent, and his views of evangelical truth clear and decided. if a sanguine temperament rendered him at times too susceptible, religious principle triumphed, and christian prudence prevailed. he had a large share of domestic happiness, earnestly seeking the spiritual welfare of his children, their early acquaintance with god, and decision for the saviour. he had the happiness of seeing all of them, in the morning of life, "choosing the good part which shall not be taken away from them." he greatly loved the missionary cause, and endeavoured to promote a missionary spirit amongst his people. he had one son. that son was engaged in the medical profession, but he was at length anxious to go as a medical missionary to china. the father's love to the missionary cause was now put to the test; and its sincerity was fully proved. though for a time conflicting feelings agitated his mind, and parental affection prompted him to say, "anything but _this_," yet in the strength of the lord god he was enabled to present this sacrifice with a willing mind, and could but rejoice that he was counted worthy to be so closely identified with the missionary cause. he was secretary for about ten years to the northamptonshire independent association, and was generally held in high esteem by his brethren. the last meeting of this association, before mr. hobson removed, was held at welford, when he resigned his office, and the ministers present testified in a gratifying manner their esteem and affection. in the year 1847 his declining health rendered it necessary that there should be some change in his ministerial duties. an attempt was made to obtain an assistant; but increasing indisposition, arising from chronic bronchitis, together with some things appearing which were painful to his feelings, decided him at length to relinquish the work, and try the effect of a change of air. he left welford on the 18th of may, 1848, and numbers of his people felt and said that not their faithful minister only, but their father and their friend, they were about to lose. he went to the island of guernsey, with the hope that a milder climate might benefit his health and recruit his strength. but he continued to decline; and just four months after bidding farewell to his people at the sacramental table, he was called from the scenes of time to join the church triumphant above. in the closing scene, looking at life in the light of eternity, what he had been enabled to do in the service of god seemed to be nothing in comparison with what he had failed to accomplish. his feelings for some weeks were not only checkered, but very painful. the state of his mind was dark and distressing, arising, no doubt, from physical weakness, and the completely relaxed state of the nervous system. but the last week was one of great mercy. the enemy was not suffered to distress, nor fears to agitate: his mind was kept "in perfect peace, being stayed on god." he often spake of christ as the _rock_. he died on the evening of the sabbath, september 3rd. his remains are deposited in the new cemetery at saint peter's port, guernsey. the event of his death was suitably improved there by the rev. w. wild, from phil. iii. 9; and at welford by his successor, from hebrews xi. 4: "he being dead, yet speaketh." mr. hobson was succeeded in his labours at welford almost immediately by mr. walter gill, who had pursued his studies for the ministry at the seminary at hackney. he entered on his probationary services in may, 1848, and was ordained in the month of april in the following year. mr. ransom, mr. gill's classical tutor, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. toller, of kettering, offered the ordination prayer; mr. toller, of harborough, asked the usual questions; mr. keynes, of blandford, delivered the charge; and mr. james, of birmingham, preached to the people in the evening. the present number of members in the church is about 80. there are 130 children in the sabbath-schools connected with the congregation, viz.--boys, 72; girls, 58: there are 23 teachers. there are occasional services conducted on sabbath evenings in the village of south kibworth, where there is a small chapel held in trust by some of the welford friends. chapter vii. memorials of the independent church at creaton. in the accounts of the nonconformist ministers who in the year 1662 sacrificed their livings in the established church, in obedience to what they regarded as the claims of truth and of conscience, we find the name of mr. richard hook, ejected from the rectory of creaton, northamptonshire. after his separation from the church he preached for some time in his own house; but he afterwards removed from creaton, and went to reside at northampton. though we have no certain information as to the results of mr. hook's ministry, yet there is some reason to conclude that a number of the people left the church with their pastor, and sought for spiritual instruction, as they had opportunity, under the ministry of the nonconformists. it was probably after the removal of mr. hook from creaton that mr. shuttlewood, another of the nonconformist ministers, began to preach the gospel in this place. at that time his residence was at sulby abbey, near welford, and his labours appear to have been then divided chiefly between welford and creaton. for a more particular account of mr. shuttlewood, his labours and his sufferings in the cause of god, we must refer the reader to the memorials of the church at welford. but it was when on a visit to his friends at creaton that he was seized with an affliction that quickly terminated his useful life, and raised his spirit to that "rest that remaineth for the people of god." here he ended his days, and here his remains were interred in the churchyard, where a plain stone was erected to his memory. mr. ironmonger is said to have been the next nonconformist minister here, after mr. shuttlewood. in an account of the ordination of mr. tingey, a predecessor of doddridge at northampton, we find a mr. john ironmonger, of buckingham, engaged. we think it probable that this was the person that for a time ministered at creaton. a mr. dale, minister at creaton, was present at the ordination of mr. tingey, in 1709. the pastor immediately succeeding was mr. barker; then mr. chambers is recorded as the next minister here, and he died in 1735. after this came mr. hextal, who was a native of broughton, in northamptonshire; a member of the church at kettering; for some time studied under mr. saunders, his pastor, preparatory to his admittance into the academy at northampton under dr. doddridge, which he entered in the year 1732. on the completion of his studies, it is stated that he settled at creaton in 1736; but his ordination did not take place until 1738, for there is still preserved in the handwriting of doddridge the testimonial that was given on the day of ordination, of which the following is a copy:- _creaton_, _april_ 26, 1738. this is to certify, that the rev. mr. wm. hextal, having given full satisfaction as to his abilities and qualifications for the work of the ministry, was this day set apart to the pastoral office by prayer, fasting, and the imposition of our hands, at the desire of the church of christ in this place, who unanimously invited him to the exercise of the said office amongst them. witness our hands--p. doddridge, d.d.; jas. watson, leicester; thos. cartwright; j. drake, yardley; j. hunt, newport; saml. tailor. we find a list of members of the church, containing forty-seven names of persons that were communicants at the time of mr. hextal's settlement; then follow the names of twenty-one members, over which the pastor has written, "taken in since i came." these members were resident in ten different villages. in the handwriting of mr. hextal we find a copy of the following recommendation. though it is without date or any full direction, yet it appears to have been an application to the manager of some fund for assistance. the congregation at creaton, lately under the care of mr. chambers, have unanimously made choice of mr. hextal to succeed him, after finishing a regular course of academical learning at northampton acceptably, and where his temper and conduct secured him very respectful regard from the people. as his abilities, principles, and character are very satisfactory to us, and, according to our view of things, worthy of the esteem of others, we take the liberty to recommend him to your favour and encouragement, as one that promises usefulness, and we think, by the divine blessing, may be instrumental in supporting the interests of christianity in that society. your favourable view of this our recommendation will lay an additional obligation on ------. _to the rev. the ministers, and the other gentlemen, managers, &c._ it was a short time after the settlement of mr. hextal, that a minister's meeting being held at creaton, dr. doddridge preached his interesting sermon, entitled 'christian candour and unanimity stated, illustrated, and urged,' from phil. ii. 1, 2, which was afterwards published, with a dedication to the countess of huntingdon. the ministry of mr. hextal at creaton continued until the year 1752, when he removed to sudbury. the next pastor was mr. warburton. for some time he assisted mr. gilbert, the successor of doddridge at northampton, and preached at creaton in the afternoon of the sabbath. mr. gilbert dying in 1760, mr. warburton confined his labours to creaton, where he was minister for about twenty years. after his removal, mr. john wood, from sudbury, was unanimously chosen his successor the same year. mr. wood was a native of welford, sent out by the church there, during the ministry of mr. king, to preach the gospel: he was educated at the academy at daventry. he laboured here for about twenty years, and closed his life and his services in the church on earth in this place. he died april 7th, 1790, "leaving the church," it is observed, "in a declining state." the next pastor was mr. joseph whitehead, who came to creaton in 1793, and continued his labours here for twenty-three years. when mr. whitehead entered on his ministry here there were twenty-two members of the church, and seventy-one were added during the years of his pastorate. in the second year of mr. whitehead's labours the present meeting house was erected. the old building, which held about 400 persons, was occupied on a lease of ninety-nine years, supposed to have commenced about the date of 1694, as it was at the expiration of that lease that the new place of worship was reared. the fidelity and zeal with which mr. whitehead discharged his ministerial office was crowned with such success as greatly to increase the church and congregation. the medical assistance which he was always ready to afford to those who needed it, rendered him extensively useful to the afflicted poor in his neighbourhood. his candid and friendly disposition endeared him to his brethren in the ministry. his exemplary patience, under painful bodily affliction, displayed the excellence of his christian principles. as he advanced in life, he evidently appeared to grow in grace; acting habitually under the eye of his master, he was prepared for his change. "blessed is that servant whom his lord when he cometh shall find so doing." he died at the house of his friend, the rev. h. knight, of yelvertoft, after a few hours' illness. his remains were interred, with every token of respect, at the foot of the pulpit where he so often urged upon his people the great doctrines and precepts of the gospel. six of his brethren bore the pall. the rev. mr. jones, minister of the parish church, attended, as a token of his high esteem for the deceased. the rev. g. gill, of harborough, began the funeral service with prayer; the rev. b. l. edwards, of northampton, delivered a very affecting and appropriate address; the rev. j. gronow, of weedon, concluded the solemn service. a large congregation of people assembled on the occasion, whose undissembled grief showed how much he was beloved. on the following lord's-day the rev. h. knight, in whose house he died, improved the affecting providence, from heb. xiii. 7-9. the place of worship was thronged before the service commenced, and many hundreds could not gain admittance. mr. t. aston succeeded mr. whitehead. he had pursued his studies for the ministry at hackney, and was ordained over this church and congregation september 23rd, 1817. on that occasion mr. hobson, of welford, commenced the service with reading and prayer; mr. gill, of harborough, stated the nature of a gospel church; mr. knight, of yelvertoft, offered the ordination prayer; mr. d. w. aston, of buckingham, brother to the ordained minister, delivered the charge, from col. iv. 17; mr. toller, of kettering, preached from luke x. 11; mr. griffiths, of long buckby, concluded. mr. aston admitted thirty-two members to the church during his ministry, which continued until about the year 1826, when mr. williams became the pastor of the church, who gives the following account of his ordination to that office:- having received a unanimous invitation from the church and congregation at creaton to become their pastor, i was ordained october 7th, 1828. mr. edwards, of northampton, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. griffiths, of long buckby, offered the ordination prayer; mr. scott, of rowell, gave the charge; and mr. hobson, of welford, preached to the people. mr. aston left creaton about two years before. the first year of the interval was supplied by mr. robertson, afterwards of wellingborough; and the second, by an interesting young man of the name of jocelyne, who was on probation, and had received a call from the church to remain, but was prevented entering on the pastoral office by death. he ruptured a blood-vessel by digging one day in the garden; went to the west of england for the benefit of his health; but was soon called, as we hope, to the country where none of the inhabitants shall say any more, i am sick. j. williams. we find a record of forty-seven members as belonging to the church when mr. williams commenced his labours, and fifty-one were admitted during his ministry, which continued until march, 1840. of the removal of mr. williams it is stated, "that it was owing to the secession of some individuals from the church and congregation, who, being baptists, succeeded in raising a baptist interest in spratton, about a mile from creaton. mr. williams very handsomely left 150 volumes for the use of his successors." mr. martin succeeded mr. williams as pastor. his first visit was in may, 1840, when he preached two sabbaths. mr. fletcher, from highbury, preached five sabbaths as a probationer, but retired on discovering that the congregation was not unanimous. mr. martin preached four sabbaths in august and september, when he received an invitation to become a probationer for three months, at the close of which he was unanimously called to the pastoral office, and was ordained april 28th, 1841; when messrs. bull, of newport, prust, of northampton, griffiths, of buckby, harry, of london, and toller, of kettering, were engaged in the principal services of the day. the ministry of mr. martin continued here for little more than seven years; for it is recorded that he preached his farewell sermon at creaton on sabbath-day afternoon, may 21st, 1848, having accepted an invitation to the pastorate of whitefield chapel, wilson street, long acre, london. during his ministry forty-five members were added to the church. mr. mandeno, from newport, salop, the present pastor of the church, entered on his stated engagements at creaton on the first sabbath in october, 1848. the present number of communicants is 60. there are 80 children in the sabbath-school. occasional services are conducted in two villages in the vicinity of creaton. chapter viii. memorials of the independent church at daventry. circumstances of rather common and incidental occurrence are sometimes the immediate precursors of events which are followed by important results to future generations, while they may have a bearing on the eternal interests of a number of undying spirits. something of this nature appears in the origin of the christian church, of the independent denomination, in the town of daventry. nonconformity took early root in this place. after the bartholomew act, secret meetings for worship were frequently held late at night, and conducted occasionally by ministers, at a house in the hamlet of drayton, where considerable numbers from the town and neighbourhood often assembled, in which was a backdoor opening into the fields, to facilitate retreat in case of detection--no unnecessary precaution, in those days of persecution. a mr. worth, ejected from the living of kilsby, preached at daventry for some time after his ejectment. the following account was given to dr. ashworth, about the year 1747, by mr. thomas porter, a member of the church, then 80 years of age, or upwards--a man of a very respectable character and remarkably sensible. an aged minister, who lived some considerable distance beyond daventry, in his way to london lay at the swan inn (formerly the principal inn) in this town, where he was taken ill, and confined for a week or longer. mr. lindsey, who kept the house, and all his family, behaved to him with much kindness, and it appears to have been a very regular house. the minister, on the evening before he departed, desired the family to come into his room, when he particularly thanked mr. lindsey and each of his family for their civility to him, and expressed much satisfaction in the good order of the house; "but," said he, "something leads me to fear there is not the fear of god in this house. it grieves me to see such honesty, civility, economy, and decency, and yet religion is wanting, which is 'the one thing needful.'" on this, he entered into a close conversation on the nature and importance of real and inward religion, which he closed with telling them he had with him a little book, lately printed, which he would give them, and wished them to read it carefully; then gave them 'baxter's poor man's family book.' this fixes the date to 1672, or later--the year in which that book was printed. it is not certain who the minister was, or that mr. lindsey ever saw him again or knew his name; but it is suspected that it was baxter himself. mr. lindsey read the book with pleasure, sent for other of mr. baxter's works, and he, and some of his children, became excellent characters. upon this he grew weary of the inn, and, being in plentiful circumstances, retired to a house in the middle of high street, which had a small close behind it, at the extremity of which, upon the back lane, there stood some out-buildings, which he converted into a meeting house. the people enjoyed it during his life, having now got a settled minister, and formed into a church. this was probably after the revolution. he always intended, and often promised, to settle it in form; but dying suddenly, it never was done. the heir-at-law was well inclined to it, but melancholy, so that the people dare not trust to a settlement from him. at length they purchased it of those in whom it was vested, repaired it, and continued to use it until 1722, when mr. mattock, then the minister at daventry, built the present place, the old one being by this time much too small. "the original license granted to mr. lindsey, or, as he is there called, linzey, in pursuance of the royal declaration of indulgence, with the signatures of the king and lord arlington, the secretary of state," says the late george baker, esq., in his 'history of the county of northampton,' "is now in my possession; and being the only document of the kind known to be extant in this country, a copy of it is subjoined." charles r. charles, by the grace of god king of england, scotland, france, and ireland, defender of the faith, &c., to all the mayors, bailiffs, constables, and others our officers and ministers civil and military, whom it may concern, greeting. in pursuance of our declaration of the 15th of march 167-1/2, we have allowed, and we do hereby allow, of a roome or roomes in the house of allen linzey, of daventry in northamptonshire, to be a place for the use of such as do not conform to the church of england, who are of the persuasion commonly called presbyterian, to meet and assemble in order to their public worship and devotion. and all and singular our officers and ministers, ecclesiastical, civil, and military, whom it may concern, are to take due notice hereof; and they, and every one of them, are hereby strictly charged and required to hinder any tumult or disturbance, and to protect them in their said meetings and assemblies. given at our court, at whitehall, the 8th day of november, in the 24th year, of our reign, 1672. by his majesty's command, arlington. this society ranks with the independent or congregational, and not the presbyterian denomination, as named in this license. at what time a settled ministry was first enjoyed here is not exactly known; but the first pastor of the church was mr. andrew barnett, born at uppington, in shropshire, the youngest of ten children. his father, mr. humfrey barnett, appears to have been celebrated as a preacher, and as a man of devoted consistent character. people in the country around would flock to hear him twice on the lord's-day, which was a very unusual thing in those times. he refused to read the 'book of sports,' and preached against it; but was cited by the bishop, and obliged to retire out of that diocese. he was accounted one of the first puritans in shropshire, principally on account of his serious preaching and his devoted life. this son, who became pastor of the church at daventry, was educated at trinity college, cambridge--was ejected from the rectory of roddington, in shropshire, in 1662. he did not suffer so much for his nonconformity as many of his brethren; having some knowledge of medicine, his skill in diseases obtained him favour among the neighbouring gentry. but on one occasion, being invited privately to preach on the lord's-day, a neighbouring justice came in while he was praying, and fined him for preaching. mr. barnett appealed to the quarter sessions, and pleaded that he had not preached, for he was only engaged in prayer; but his plea was overruled, for the king's attorney declared that the defendant's praying was preaching; so that on this judgment he was cast, and his fine doubled. he had to pay â£40. he was a man of considerable solidity of judgment, a useful preacher, and highly valued by those who best knew him. he published a funeral sermon for queen mary, from psalm ii. 3, 4, dated daventry, may 21, 1694; and entitled, 'the helmet of hope, christ in us the hope of glory.' thomas flavell, the eldest son of john flavell, the eminent nonconformist divine, was the next pastor; but of his life and ministry we have no account. john mason appears to have succeeded mr. flavell for a short time. the father of mr. mason was rector of water stratford, in buckinghamshire, where he died in 1724, having ministered there for 20 years. he was the author of the 'select remains' which form the golden little volume that dr. watts so highly recommended to the public. mr. mason did not remain at daventry more than a year or two, when he removed to spaldwich, in huntingdonshire, where he died. he was the father of john mason, author of the well-known treatise on 'self-knowledge,' who was first minister at dorking, in surrey, and subsequently at cheshunt, in hertfordshire, where he preached to a considerable congregation. his diligence was attested by his labours as a pastor, tutor, and author. several of his works are of a very useful character, though not rising to the highest order of excellence. mr. john cambden was the next pastor. his ministry was only for a short time; but whether he died here, or removed, is not known. he published a 'funeral sermon upon the death of madam mary thornton, the pious relict of the late truly virtuous and honourable john thornton, esq., of brock hall, in northamptonshire, who departed this life june 19, 1713. preached at daventry; with some account of her life.' mr. jolly, their next minister, continued with them a rather longer time; but before the year 1720, he gave place to a successor in mr. daniel mattock, who ministered for about 14 years. his preaching appears to have been so attractive and successful that it considerably raised the interest, and rendered it necessary to erect a larger meeting house, which was done in the year 1722, and is the building which is now standing. in a letter of dr. doddridge's, dated december 22, 1726, he says--"mr. mattock goes on most triumphantly at daventry, and makes the most illustrious figure of all mr. jenning's pupils in these parts." mr. mattock exerted himself to preach the gospel in the neighbouring villages, as well as to the stated congregation at daventry. there are two anecdotes related in reference to these village services, which illustrate the spirit in which they were regarded by different clergymen in the vicinity. while mr. mattock was minister of daventry, having several persons belonging to his congregation who came from villages in the vicinity, and being desirous of extending the knowledge of the gospel as far as his time and strength would admit, he proposed to some of his country friends to get their houses registered for places of religious worship. this being done, mr. mattock went on a lord's-day evening, for the first time, to one of the villages, and preached a lecture. the clergyman of the parish, hearing of this "rude intrusion," as he termed it, felt much exasperated, and determined to go and remonstrate against it. as he was going to the house where the service was held, he met, much to his annoyance, several of his parishioners coming from the lecture. in the height of his resentment he addressed first one, and then another, "what, have you been to the conventicle?" "what! have you been to hear the fanatic?" "are you not ashamed of your conduct?" &c. soon, however, he arrived at the house; and mr. mattock, being apprized of his coming, very politely accosted him, and offered him his chair, begging him to be seated--which genteel request he, with apparent reluctance, condescended to comply with. being seated, the rector begins by saying, "so, i find that you have been preaching here." "yes, sir." "and pray, sir, what right have you to come into my parish, to invade my province? this parish is _mine_, and i am their _lawful_ pastor. i wish therefore to know, by what authority you take this liberty." "sir," replied mr. mattock, "i beg leave to inform you, if you do not already know, that i am qualified according to law as a dissenting minister, and am therefore authorized to do as i have done." "aye! who authorized you, sir, to invade my province?" "the legislature, sir, by the act of toleration. i do nothing by preaching here, but what is strictly legal." "well, it is strange to me that the legislature should allow you this liberty." "i hope, sir," said mr. mattock, "that you do not find fault with the legislature of your country." "no, no, god forbid that i should; but i still wonder that it should grant you such an indulgence. but, sir, i have another question to ask you; pray what is your object in coming here? what do you propose to yourself in doing it?" "sir, my only motive is the hope of doing good to my fellow creatures." "good!" replied the rector, with a contemptuous sneer: "i don't know what good _you_ can expect to do, for _i_ can do no good upon them. they are a parcel of fools. i can make _a fool_ of the wisest of them, in a quarter of an hour." "sir," says mr. mattock, "you give your neighbours a very bad character; but however, if they are bad as you represent them, they have the more need of instruction, that they may be convinced of their folly, and be made wise unto salvation; and if it pleases god to bless the instructions of his word, it will be so, and my desire will be accomplished." to this he made no reply, but casting his eyes round the house, says, "but can you imagine that god almighty will condescend to notice any worship which is performed in such a place as this? solomon thought that he could not make the holy temple, which he dedicated to the worship of the deity, fine enough for the purpose; therefore to suppose such condescension as you seem to expect in the deity is to affront him." mr. mattock replied, "sir, we know no holiness of places in gospel times, but all places are alike holy where 'god is worshipped in spirit and in truth'; and we have every reason to hope for and expect the presence and blessing of christ, who has said, 'where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them.'" "but," asks the clergyman, "is this place secured for this purpose by law?" "yes, sir, it is registered in the bishop's court." "and do you intend to make a practice of coming here?" "i shall come, sir, when it is convenient to myself, and as long as the people give me encouragement by their attendance to do so." upon this the rector rose hastily and departed; but he sent his clerk the next morning to inquire of mr. mattock three things-1. whether he was qualified as a dissenting minister to preach? 2. whether the place he occupied as a place of worship was legally secured? 3. whether he intended to continue coming there? to this mr. mattock replied, "i answered these three questions in the affirmative last night; but if your master was not satisfied, why did he not come himself, or send for me?" the honest clerk said "that his master could not do either, because _he was going out with the hounds_." admirable apology! but there was another instance, which presented a pleasing contrast to this. mr. mattock, having preached in another village on the lord's-day evening, was returning home the next morning, and the clergyman of the parish, having been to take a short ride, met mr. mattock; so, after the usual compliments were exchanged, the clergyman said, "so i perceive, sir, that you have been sowing some seed in my parish." "yes, sir." "well," replied the worthy vicar, "i am glad of it; and may god grant that the seed which you sow, and that which i sow, may both spring up together, and do good to the souls of men." at length, to the deep regret of the congregation, mr. mattock accepted an invitation to remove to birmingham. this we suppose to have taken place about 1734. in some extracts from the diary of mrs. savage, daughter of philip henry, we find the following notices of mr. mattock. under date of december 8th, 1740:--"this morning good mr. mattock, of birmingham, entertained us awhile with his good company. he said, my father was in many things like abraham, which made me look over a small collection i made long ago from annotations on john 9th, that they that would prove themselves the children of abraham must endeavour to follow his example, come at god's call, follow wherever he leads, and resign their dearest interests; be strangers and sojourners in the world; keep up the worship of god in their families; and above all, must always walk before god in uprightness." again:--"_march 12th, 1744_ (_monday_).--sad tidings of the sudden illness and death of good mr. mattock, minister of the old meeting at birmingham. a very useful person. such good ministers the world can ill spare. a stroke of the palsy. lord, what is man--the wisest, the best, the most healthful? what shall we say? what shall we do? thou hast the ordering of all events. 'the righteous perish; we should lay it to heart.' it is affecting to see such taken away, and such left--poor worthless creatures as i yet left." during two years, the congregation at daventry was supplied by neighbouring ministers and probationary candidates. the next pastor, mr. james floyd, was ordained may 6th, 1736. about ten years after this, at midsummer, 1746, mr., afterwards dr., caleb ashworth was chosen his assistant, and in september of the same year co-pastor. in a few years after, mr. floyd wholly resigned in favour of his colleague; but continued to reside in the town till his death, which took place july 24th, 1759, in his 55th year. his successor preached his funeral sermon, and at the desire of the family and congregation published it, under the title of 'hope, the christian mourner's relief.' dr. ashworth was born in lancashire in 1719, educated for the ministry at northampton under dr. doddridge, who recommended him in his will for his successor in the following terms:--"and i do hereby declare, that so far as i can judge no man living will be more fit for the office, since the removal of my dear friend and associate, mr. job orton, than the rev. mr. caleb ashworth, of daventry; and if it should so happen, as i think it very probably may, that the congregation should desire to put themselves under his ministerial care, i do hereby make my dying request to him that he would accept the united charge, and thereby perpetuate those schemes which he knows i am forming for the public service, the success of which is far dearer to me than my own life." coward's trustees approved of the nomination, and mr. ashworth refusing to quit his pastoral charge at daventry, the academy was removed thither in 1752. he was presented with an unsolicited diploma of d.d. from a scotch university in 1759. on the 18th of july, 1775, he died of dropsy in the chest, and was buried in the churchyard, where an altar stone is placed to his memory, on which is the following inscription:- here rest in hope, the remains of the rev. caleb ashworth, d.d.; pastor of a congregation of protestant dissenters, and director of the academy in this town. he died july 18, 1775, aged 54. with indefatigable application, with genuine well-regulated zeal, and with growing reputation and success, he exerted his eminent abilities and extensive acquaintance with sacred and human literature in the service of his great master, and in promoting the important interests of learning, religion, and charity. "blessed is that servant whom his lord when he cometh shall find so doing." mr. samuel palmer, who had been a pupil of the doctor's, published 'the want of labourers in the gospel harvest considered and improved'--a sermon preached at hackney on occasion of the death of dr. ashworth. several others, in different publications, have eulogized their tutor in the highest terms; one of them, in a memoir of a fellow student, observes--"dr. ashworth was a man who, though not distinguished by that acumen of genius and vigour of imagination which some have possessed, yet by strong sense, inflexible resolution, and indefatigable labour, acquired a store of theological learning not often exceeded, and through a long train of years discharged the office of divinity tutor with a respectability and success which have seldom been equalled." some of the doctor's students becoming unitarians, suspicion has been expressed as to the evangelical soundness of the views entertained by the tutor; but the evil appears to have been, that there was a sub-tutor who took the heretical side on disputed points, while the principal tutor, with all his love for truth, indulged his candour and kindness to excess. dr. priestley says "that dr. ashworth took the orthodox side of every question," and "that dr. ashworth was earnestly desirous to make me as orthodox as possible." the doctor was author of 'reflections on the fall of a great man--a funeral sermon on 2nd sam. iii. 38, on the death of dr. watts, 1749'; a funeral sermon for mr. floyd; also, a funeral sermon for mr. clark, of birmingham, entitled 'the regard christian congregations owe to their deceased ministers represented and urged, from heb. xiii. 7'; 'a collection of psalm tunes, with an introduction to the art of singing;' also, 'a hebrew grammar, with complete paradigms of the verbs'; 'an easy introduction to plane trigonometry,' &c. mr. robins was the next pastor and tutor. after the death of dr. ashworth, it became a matter of great anxiety amongst the friends of the academy who should be appointed his successor. there was one to whom many eyes were turned; but great fears were entertained, lest the extreme diffidence and modesty of his spirit should prevent him from acceding to the earnest requests that were presented to him. this was the rev. thomas robins, who was at this time minister at west bromwich, in staffordshire. he was born at keysoe, near bedford; studied for the ministry under dr. doddridge, at northampton; first settled at stretton, in warwickshire, 1755. the present minister's house at stretton was built for him. he came to west bromwich in 1761, where he continued until his removal to daventry, in 1775. at this period job orton wrote--"the death of dr. ashworth, though it has been long expected, has been a very painful event to me. mr. robins preached his funeral sermon last lord's-day to a great auditory, from these words: 'where is the lord god of elijah?' coward's trustees, all the neighbouring ministers, and many in this and other neighbourhoods, think that no person is more proper to fill up this vacancy than mr. robins, especially as he is exceedingly acceptable to the congregation at daventry. he hath been strongly urged to take up the prophet's mantle, but he has an unconquerable diffidence of his own abilities; i wish the many applications he hath received from ministers of all sentiments and denominations may overcome it. if he absolutely refuse, i know not who will be thought of. i pray god to direct in this very important concern." in another letter he writes--"you have heard by this time, august 31st, 1775, that mr. robins has accepted the invitation to daventry. i had a great deal of trouble in writing to him, and engaging all my friends and correspondents to apply to him, who all concurred in thinking him the most proper person. i do not know a single objection, and i cannot hear of anyone else that makes one. the divines and the laity, of all principles and persuasions in these parts, are agreed in their opinion of him, and everybody is well pleased that he has accepted the office. i look back with pleasure and thankfulness on the pains i have taken in this affair, and firmly believe i shall never have reason to repent it." mr. robins printed 'an abridgement of matthew henry's work on the lord's supper,' which was the only work he could be prevailed on to print, excepting some memoirs of mr. thomas strange, of kilsby, "one of the wisest and best of men." mr. palmer, of hackney, says, "this was done on my earnest solicitation; and those who are the best judges on such a subject, and who best knew mr. strange, will concur with me in pronouncing this so excellent a performance, as to render it a matter of deep regret that the same pen should have been employed in no other original composition." robert hall has written, in his 'memoir of the rev. t. n. toller'- among many other mental endowments, mr. robins was remarkable for delicacy of taste and elegance of diction; and perhaps my readers will excuse my observing, that the first perceptions of these qualities which the writer of these lines remembers to have possessed, arose from hearing him preach at northampton, on a public occasion. it is to be lamented that he has left none of those productions behind him, which a correct and beautiful imagination, embodied in language of the most classic purity, rendered so impressive and delightful. the qualities of his heart corresponded to those of his genius; and though long before his death his bodily infirmities obliged him to relinquish a commanding station and retire into obscurity, he retained to the last such an ascendancy over the minds of his former pupils, and such an interest in their affections, as nothing but worth of the highest order can command. we may here correct an error into which mr. hall has fallen, in stating that mr. robins _was first assistant_ to dr. ashworth. he did not come to reside at daventry until the death of dr. ashworth, as his successor. but while the friends of mr. robins were delighting themselves in his ability and success, lo! in the midst of his days and his usefulness, he is compelled to resign all public services and retire into private life. after discharging his offices with increasing reputation and success for six years, his ministerial usefulness was suddenly destroyed, by imprudently preaching three times to a large congregation at kettering one sabbath whilst labouring under a severe cold, by which exertion he irrecoverably lost his voice; and being thus incapacitated for fulfilling the duties of the pulpit or the lecture-room, he relinquished his public engagements, and with great humility and contentment passed the remainder of his life in the secular employment of a bookseller and druggist. he died may 20th, 1810, and was buried in the churchyard, where, on an upright stone, is inscribed a high eulogium, from the pen of his pupil and successor. the rev. t. n. toller, of kettering, who studied in the academy at daventry, and spent the last year of his course under mr. robins, improved the death of his former tutor in a discourse delivered to his own people the next sabbath morning, from 2 kings ii. 12: "and elisha saw it, and he cried, my father, my father, the chariot of israel and the horsemen thereof! and he saw him no more." it is a high gratification to the writer, and he trusts it will prove such to the reader, that he has the opportunity of enriching these 'memorials' with mr. toller's description of the character of mr. robins, as given in the closing part of this sermon, having transcribed it from the author's manuscript,[4] never before published. [4] the manuscript was kindly lent to the author for this purpose by the family of the late mr. toller. i have been this last week to assist in depositing in the dust one of the most amiable and excellent of men. there was not one friend present, i believe, but felt the weight of his worth, when his remains were let down into the silent grave, not excepting the clergyman who buried him--who, in a room full of dissenting ministers, bore the most explicit and honourable testimony to his name. but there was a sense in which the person who now addresses you might, perhaps, with more propriety than any individual there, adopt and apply the peculiar language of the distressed prophet, "my father, my father!" i felt, when i stood by his grave, that i had lost a father--that i was interring a father; for i always looked up to him, and venerated and loved him, as a parent; for truly he had been a father to me. i was his senior student: the last and most important year of my academical course i spent under his roof and tuition: he taught and treated me as a son. it was owing to his advice, under god, that i am this day standing in this pulpit; his decided opinion had more weight with me than that of everybody else. i did always implicitly confide in his judgment. i was sure of his prudence; could entirely trust his fidelity. on a hundred occasions have i experienced his tenderness and his kindness, and, blessed be god! never did i receive in all my intercourse a frown from him; while a hint, by way of reproof, from him, would have had more weight and gone further into my heart than a hundred stripes from another hand. and during all the thirty-four years which have elapsed since i left his roof, i have always secretly considered him as my principal, standing, stable friend, to whose judgment and kindness i could with most confidence look under any particular difficulty, exigency, or perplexity; so that you may suppose, under these circumstances, in connexion with the thought of having buried the greater part of the friends of my youth--you must suppose that, in attending such a funeral, i must have felt very peculiar sensations; that i was burying a friend indeed: i will not say the nearest and dearest by the ties of nature, for that is not true; but my most valuable, confidential, intellectual, religious, particular friend. but not only were these sentiments excited by my own personal feeling; they were strengthened by the unanimous testimony of all who had any thorough intimacy with him--any comprehensive knowledge of his qualifications and character. i believe, never did any man go down to the grave followed by more genuine sentiments of respect from those that knew him, and were capable of appreciating his real worth. there have been more brilliant, shining, striking, nay, useful characters than he (for during the last thirty years of his life providence mysteriously laid him aside from a sphere of usefulness for which he was peculiarly adapted, and in which he gave universal satisfaction); but taking him altogether, considered as a whole, he was the most consistent, accurate character i ever knew in my life. as a man, as a friend, a literary character, a person of general knowledge, an amiable, honourable, upright, uniform, devotional christian, i never knew his equal. i can truly say, with an eminent london minister, "his was the completest character i ever knew." nor, in this sense, do i think he has left his equal behind him; there was such a coincidence, such a collection, such an assemblage of excellences, which were always very striking to his friends. some people have great excellences of one kind, and great corresponding faults of another; but there was such a balance of qualities of everything in him, as i have often been charmed with and admired. oh, that i could say more! and many and many a time have i left his company with this reflection: "surely this is the disciple that jesus loves; for where can i look round and find a man in so many respects so much like himself?" and that mixture of reverence and love which i have always experienced in his company has put me in mind of what i could not but suppose i must feel, only in a far greater degree, if i were admitted into the presence and to the conversation of the blessed redeemer. his fine sense, clearness of understanding, skill and dexterity in stating a subject or conducting an argument; the extent of his knowledge upon most subjects that could be called important or useful ones; and all this connected with the sweetness of his temper, the humility of his manner and deportment, the liveliness and affability of his address, what i may call the ingenuity as well as christianity of his character;--for i have often heard it remarked, and often observed it myself, that were an absent person censured or slandered, if there was anything to be said in his favour mr. robins would find out what was to be said, and would make you see that it was not a blind and suppositious notion that dictated it, but that there was reason in what he said. nevertheless, he could be angry at sin, and yet sin not. he could reprove folly with a frown that a man must _be all a fool_ if he did not feel. it has been said, that some of his more distant relations, that were rather wild in their conduct, though they could not but love him, were more afraid of him than of any other man upon earth: such is the force of the frown of goodness. i this week heard a person say, that a frown from him would have gone deeper than from any man in the world. realizing, my friends, such traits as these, which i am sure nobody that knew him could or would contradict, in connexion with the richness and fulness of his piety, the evangelical and scriptural consistency of his sentiments, the depth of his love to the saviour, his deep conviction of the truth of the gospel and dependence upon it (for he died as a poor sinner, wholly resting there; and again, and again, and again said, what a poor miserable creature i should be without the gospel!)--if he had been literally the very chief of sinners, he could not have seemed to depend less upon anything he was or had done in a meritorious sense; he would not even bear to hear any hints about his former qualifications as a minister, or his honourable conduct as a christian, which all that knew him, knew his great master would include under the final "well done, good and faithful servant," and place among the "works of faith and labours of love," and never forget them:--if, i say, you realize all this, in connexion with his respectability, integrity, and punctuality as a tradesman since he became one, and his universal influence and weight in the town where he resided (a situation by no means advantageous to him in this respect as a dissenter), can you wonder that one is charmed with such a character? would it have been right that i should have passed it by in silent contemplation for my own edification only? when he was capable of exercising his ministerial function, there was a peculiar sweetness and gracefulness in his attitude and delivery in the pulpit; great seriousness of air and manner, and a wonderful copiousness and variety and readiness, in his prayers; a vein of the most humble yet elevated piety running through the whole--an evangelical savour, clothed always with the utmost propriety and sometimes unaffected elegance of expression. since he was laid aside from pulpit labours, if we could prevail upon him to pray at our ministers' meetings in private, it was the richest feast of the day; and in connexion with his disabled circumstances as to public work, he would sometimes dissolve all into tears. i remember, at the close of these occasions, a very respectable minister, with his eyes bathed in tears, whispered to me, "this man prays like an angel." in his sermons, which were well finished compositions of their kind, there was this peculiarity--that they were highly acceptable and edifying to all descriptions of serious sensible people, among the poor and the rich, the learned and the unlearned--poor people that had good sense as well as piety, and learned people that had piety as well as good sense: all, in a word, who had good sense to understand him, and piety to relish what he said, used to love to hear mr. robins. the last time he ever preached within these walls (on which occasion he attempted to exert himself more than usual, owing to the largeness of the place compared with his own), he appears to have got his bane. he strained the organs of speech so as to bring on the disease that laid him aside. he preached on that passage, "the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day." i have often thought since, as redounding to the credit of this congregation, of the universal satisfaction which that sermon gave to all descriptions of well-disposed hearers--the plainest and most illiterate christian, as well as those best informed. the case was this: though he was one of the finest of composers, yet he spake from the heart; and what he said went to the heart. since he was laid aside, though his usefulness was greatly curtailed, yet he was far from being useless. modesty prevented his ever publishing any of his own compositions; yet as a friend, as an adviser, as a companion, he has been eminently useful. a respectable minister at his funeral said, "he never, with one exception only, gained so much instruction from any man in private conversation as from mr. robins." though laid aside from the service of the sanctuary, he lived respected and beloved to his seventy-seventh year; and when attended to his grave, not only was he accompanied by a number of as sincere mourners as ever followed a corpse, but the nearest earthly relation he had, and whom he had patronized from infancy, was utterly incapable of joining the train--sat weeping over her bible, and almost stupified with grief, saying, "he was all the world to her: and him she had lost." here is the cutting thought suggested in the text, that went nearer to the surviving prophet than any other--"his master was taken from his head," "and he saw him no more." this thought i felt when i stood close by his grave: "i shall see him no more. here i take my final leave. i have received my last instruction. i shall hear his voice and behold his countenance no more." but while i was weeping over this clause, those words in the burial service went down with an emphasis to my heart, never felt by any grave before--words too promiscuously applied, too often; but their special appropriateness to him struck us all--"as much as it hath pleased almighty god of his great goodness to take to himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life." "ah!" thought i, "you may say it in all its emphasis over this grave. i will not go away saying, with the prophet, 'i shall see him no more'; blessed be god for the hope that i shall see him again! yea, thy brother, thy father, thy minister, thy tutor, thy friend, shall rise again. may i but be honoured, o my judge! with a place at thy right hand, and with such an addition to my happiness as to be joined in everlasting bonds of friendship with him i so much loved and honoured on earth, to improve and enjoy together to all eternity. amen." mr. thomas belsham, who had been assistant tutor here in metaphysics, mathematics, and natural history, till 1778, when he settled at worcester, succeeded mr. robins in 1781, and returned to daventry, at the solicitation of the congregation and the trustees, in the double capacity of pastor and principal or theological tutor. he continued here until 1789, when, having fully embraced unitarian sentiments, his continuance in the office of tutor being directly contrary to the will of the founder of the academy, he apprized the trustees of the change, and resigned the situation. after this the academy returned again to northampton. mr. thomas willis paterson was the next pastor. he had recently completed his course of study here; but in 1796 he accepted an invitation from the congregations at bardon park and ashby-de-la-zouch, in leicestershire, when he went to reside at donnington-on-the-heath, where he died in august, 1812. mr. john morrell, afterwards ll.d., was chosen to succeed him, but removed in about two years, and became minister of a unitarian chapel at brighton, in sussex. mr. george watson was invited to the pastoral office in october, 1799. he was a native of kettering; and, becoming early decided for the saviour, he devoted himself to the work of the ministry. he became a member of the church at kettering, under the ministry of mr. boyce. in the records of that church we find this statement:- _sept. 3rd, 1772._--at our church-meeting, george watson, son of mr. wm. watson, our clerk, who had before dedicated himself to the work of the ministry and entered upon a course of preparatory studies for it, having in writing given an account of the dealings of god with his soul, was admitted to full communion with us. he pursued his studies in the academy at daventry; was first settled at howick, in lancashire; afterwards became assistant preacher to the rev. thomas taylor, of carter lane, london, from whence he was invited to this congregation, over which he presided until 1816, when he resigned and went to reside at birmingham, where he died, august 1st, 1817, in the 66th year of his age. he published 'liberality to the poor and sick recommended, in a sermon preached at harwich for the benefit of the manchester infirmary, 1792'; 'a brief memoir of the rev. thomas robins, late of daventry; with a sketch of the sermon preached may 26th, 1810, on occasion of his death; and some biographical additions.' the congregation was unsettled after this for two years, when mr. john whittenbury succeeded mr. watson in the pastoral office, and was ordained here february 8th, 1818. during his ministry two new galleries were added to the meeting house. mr. whittenbury, we learn, entered the academy at rotherham in the year 1808, then under the able tuition of the late dr. williams. having passed through the usual course of study, he was first ordained at darlington, july 28th, 1814, where he laboured with great assiduity, and, although amidst many discouragements, not without some tokens of the divine blessing. he at length accepted an invitation to become the pastor of the church at daventry, and continued his labours here for eight years. he subsequently removed to a destitute congregation at newport, salop; from thence he went to liverpool, in 1838, to endeavour to revive an interest that had fallen into decay. failing in the accomplishment of this object, he then devoted his time and energies to promote the interests of the various religious societies connected with the town, particularly "the town mission," "the seaman's friend society," and "bethel union," by the committees of which he was held in great esteem. he died january 3rd, 1845, aged 55 years. mr. j. davis, the present minister, succeeded mr. whittenbury, becoming the pastor of this church in the year 1826. "in 1728, the congregation purchased a house in sheaf street for the residence of the minister, which was rebuilt by subscription at the time dr. ashworth erected the adjoining house for the academy. the meeting house, which stands in the minister's yard, is approached from the street through a gateway, and is a substantial stone building, 42 feet long by 42 feet wide." it has now three galleries. during the ministry of the present pastor, new school-rooms have been erected. the present number of communicants is 94. there are 190 children in the sabbath-schools. there are some endowments connected with this place; one, of â£12 per annum, towards the support of a charity-school for boys and girls. chapter ix. memorials of the independent churches in wellingborough. section 1.--the church at cheese lane. where the events relating to the early history of a community have not been put upon record about the time they occurred, or where the records, when made, have been subsequently neglected and lost, it becomes scarcely possible to discover its origin, or to obtain any correct information relating to its progress. this is the case, we regret to state, with the independent church, cheese lane, wellingborough; it appears to be scarcely possible now to discover the date of its origin, or the circumstances under which it was formed. in wellingborough and its vicinity there were ministers of christ, 190 years ago, who belonged to that noble band of worthies who renounced their worldly prospects in connexion with the church by law established, rather than violate the dictates of conscience, on the passing of the act of uniformity in the year 1662. before the days of the ejected ministers, there resided at the village of wilby, little more than two miles from wellingborough, mr. andrew perne, a.m., a worthy puritan minister. he was born in 1596; was chosen fellow of katherine hall, cambridge, where he probably received his education. having finished his studies at the university, he became rector of wilby, in northamptonshire, where he continued a laborious, faithful, and successful preacher, 27 years. he often preached before the parliament, and several of his sermons were published, one of which is entitled, 'gospel courage; or, a christian resolution for god and his truth. in a sermon preached before the honourable house of commons, at margerett's, westminster, at a public fast, the 21st of may, 1643.' being called up to london, he gained a high reputation, and was offered considerable preferments; but he refused them all, resolving to return to his charge at wilby. he appears to have been a man of considerable eminence and great usefulness. his awakening sermons, and exemplary life and conversation, produced a signal and happy reformation; his people revered and loved him as a father. "he was full of spiritual warmth," says mr. ainsworth, one of the ejected ministers, who preached and published his funeral sermon, "filled with a holy indignation against sin, active in his work, and never more in his element than when he was in the pulpit." "as his life was holy, so his death was happy." he blessed god that he was not afraid to die; nay, he earnestly desired to be gone, and often cried out, during his last sickness, "when will that hour come? one assault more, and this earthen vessel will be broken, and i shall be with god." his remains were interred in the chancel of wilby church, where at the foot of the altar is the following monumental inscription to his memory:- here lieth interred mr. andrew perne, a faithful servant of jesus christ; a zealous owner ever of god's cause in perilous times; a powerful and successful preacher of the gospel; a great blessing to this town and country, where he lived twenty-seven years. he departed, december 13, 1654. the influence of the ministry and character of mr. perne would no doubt extend to the town of wellingborough, and might be one means of producing that regard for the principles of the gospel and the purity of the church that actuated the early nonconformists, who had many of them to suffer much for the principles which they maintained, and the course they conscientiously pursued. a mr. thomas andrews, of the university of cambridge, was ejected from the vicarage of wellingborough. the living was given to him by the lord or lady brooke. while he continued in it, he was generally respected by the ministers of his neighbourhood, twelve of whom took their turn at his weekly lecture on a wednesday. his frugality, while he continued the incumbent, saved him some hundreds of pounds, so that he was better provided for after his ejectment than many of his brethren. when cast out of his living, he repaired to meers ashby, where he preached at a mr. preston's, in the night. he often preached also at lady tyrrell's. he was a man of great courage, agreeable behaviour, and much beloved by his neighbours. there was also a mr. alsop, ejected from the living of wilby, near wellingborough, who came and resided here after his ejectment, and exercised his ministry as the times would permit. it is recorded that he was bound over to the sessions for preaching at oakham, and that he lay six months in northampton gaol for praying with a sick person. mr. rowlet, ejected from sudbury, in this county, appears to have united with mr. alsop in his labours. in the time of king charles's indulgence, there was a meeting every lord's-day at wellingborough, upheld by mr. alsop and mr. rowlet, and the latter continued preaching here until removed by death. his constitution was feeble, for mr. alsop said of him, "if this man had but a body to his soul, he would be incomparable." he is represented by such as attended on his ministry and knew him well, as a most agreeable preacher, who used to charm his hearers. he died of consumption. mr. henry wills, who had been rector of loddington, in this county, is said to have preached privately (probably in some retired place, or in the silent hours of the night) to the people of wellingborough, where his memory was exceedingly precious for a long time, especially for two things--the extraordinary suitableness of his compositions to the minds of the weakest, notwithstanding the fulness and depth of his matter, and the great piety and refreshing savour which seasoned his common conversation. it is related concerning him, that "he was an able scholar, a considerable mathematician, of great skill in the law, an eminent preacher, and of a most agreeable carriage." how early an independent church was first formed here, from which this in cheese lane descended, or when a stated pastor was first settled over it, we have not discovered. it is stated, that this church first met for divine worship in a meeting house situated in a yard at the back of some premises in silver street. in 1746, it was such an old building, and in such a dilapidated state, that it was found to be necessary to erect a new place of worship; when the present meeting house was raised at the bottom of the lane where the cheese fair was kept, and hence called cheese lane meeting. at that time, mr. king, who was a friend and correspondent of dr. doddridge's, had been for many years pastor of the church. the earliest notice we find of mr. king as minister at wellingborough is in the controversy with mr. davis, of rowell, in 1692, in which mr. king took a part. we find his name also as minister at wellingborough, among those who were present at the ordination of mr. tingey, at northampton, in the year 1709. the next notice we have found of mr. king as minister here is in a letter from doddridge addressed to him, dated december 29th, 1723, in which the writer engages to visit mr. king and to preach for him on a week evening, observing, "it is with the utmost readiness and pleasure i embrace the opportunity of serving you which you propose in your obliging letter, especially as it gives me an opportunity of cultivating that friendship with which you are pleased to honour me, and which i look upon as a very particular happiness." when the dreadful fire that took place in 1738 had laid waste a considerable part of the town, destroying 205 dwelling-houses besides 806 out-buildings, a fast-day was kept and some special public religious services were observed, and dr. doddridge was invited to preach on the occasion. he improved the event in a very serious, suitable, faithful sermon, from amos iv. 11, which was published at the request of the people, with a dedication to those inhabitants of wellingborough at whose request the sermon was published. we expect this sermon was preached in the old meeting house, in which the congregation at cheese lane formerly worshipped. in the dedication the doctor observes- i have laboured as much as possible to write from the life. the ruins of your town, the distress of your families, and the mixture of hope and fear attending the present situation of your affairs, have been as it were before my eyes and on my heart in almost every sentence; and i have frequently mingled these meditations with earnest prayers to god that he would so lead me into the secret recesses of your souls, that what you before heard and will now read may be like a nail fastened in a sure place. mr. king, it is stated, was succeeded by mr. david bradbury, who left wellingborough about the year 1764, and was succeeded by mr. french, who kept a very respectable boarding-school while residing here. he had studied under dr. doddridge, at northampton. he afterwards removed to london. mr. orton was the next minister; but in early life he died of consumption, about the year 1776. then succeeded to mr. orton mr. thomas, who had been a student at the academy at daventry, first under dr. ashworth and then under mr. robins. he was ordained about the same time as the late mr. toller was settled at kettering, they having closed their academical course nearly together. mr. thomas resigned his charge about 1786, after having been pastor about eight years, and went to enfield. he was succeeded by mr. robert jacomb. he had been in a very unsettled state of health in london, where he was assistant to the rev. hugh worthington, at salter's hall; and being called to experience here a very heavy domestic trial, in the almost sudden death of his wife, when they had been married but a short time, his depression of spirits became so great that he left, though very reluctantly, and went to bath. the successor to mr. jacomb was mr. henry summers. in reference to this change we find the following statement:- in consequence of the removal of the rev. r. jacomb from wellingborough in 1791, the church and congregation usually meeting for divine worship in cheese lane became destitute of a pastor and teacher. in this situation it became necessary for the society to look out for a successor; and in march, 1792, mr. henry summers, who was assistant to the rev. robert winter, of hammersmith, after sufficient trial was made, received a unanimous invitation to the pastoral office, of which he soon after declared his acceptance. but short was his time of service: soon was he called to close his labours on earth. he died of fever, when he had sustained the pastoral office scarcely four years in this place. in the early part of the year 1796 we find it recorded "that it pleased divine providence to bereave this church and congregation of their pastor, the rev. henry summers, who, after a short illness, departed this life january 27th, 1796." his funeral sermon was preached by the rev. john wood, of rowell. from the time of his death until midsummer, the congregation was supplied partly by the neighbouring ministers, who voluntarily offered their services for the benefit of his widow, and partly by the students at the academy at northampton. by the general consent of the whole society, at length an application was made to mr. daniel washbourn, then a student at northampton, to supply them during the academical vacation, with which he complied. after ministering to them for several weeks with increasing acceptance and satisfaction, the church and congregation determined to invite him to become their pastor, and accordingly sent him a pressing and affectionate invitation, signed by 131 persons, which, after fervent prayer and mature deliberation, he accepted. on thursday, november 3rd, of the same year, the ordination service took place. the following is the account preserved of that interesting occasion:- a very numerous auditory assembled; and from the testimony of ministers and people, it may be asserted with the strictest truth, the services of the day were particularly solemn, suitable, and instructive. mr. richard winter, of hanover street, london, commenced with a short prayer and reading some suitable portions of scripture (ps. xcvi., and the two first chapters of paul's epistle to titus); mr. edwards engaged in the general prayer; mr. worthington, of salter's hall, london, delivered an introductory discourse, in which he stated with ability and conciseness the grounds and advantages of such a service among protestant dissenters. he then proposed four questions to mr. washbourn, which were answered by him, and engaged in the ordination prayer--a prayer peculiarly solemn and pathetic. the charge, from gal. i. 10, last clause, was delivered by mr. horsey, of northampton; and mr. toller, of kettering, preached the sermon to the people, from 1 thess. v. 12, 13: both these discourses were admirably adapted to the occasion. mr. chadwick, of oundle, concluded with an excellent prayer. hymns were read by mr. luccock. after the dinner, it was unanimously proposed and requested that the ordination service be published; which was agreed to by the gentlemen concerned.[5] there was a service in the evening, which mr. wood, of rowell, introduced with prayer; mr. winter preached a very suitable sermon, from 2 cor. iii. 5; and at the request of several of the ministers, mr. washbourn concluded the solemnities of the day with prayer. the kind providence of god appears to smile on this connexion, formed and ratified between minister and people; both rejoice in the pleasing prospect of usefulness, harmony, and love. may the great head of the church continue the special tokens of his presence and regard amongst us! amen. [5] a note to this statement observes, that the services, nearly all printed, were never completed nor published, owing to the neglect and indolence of mr. worthington, who undertook to superintend the publishing, and unaccountably failed in discharging the trust committed to him. thus wrote the pastor, under the first impressions of a happy settlement over this people; and for nearly sixteen years he continued his labours among them. during the far larger portion of that time they appear to have been years of comfort and usefulness; but, as another instance added to the vast numbers which show the uncertainty attending the most pleasing connexions and prospects in this fallen state, at length such circumstances arose as separated the pastor from his flock. some disagreements arising between the influential members of the church and congregation, they went on to such a length as to issue in a separation--the building of salem chapel, and the formation of the church assembling there. this was so painful to mr. washbourn, that he sent in his resignation, in which he expressed himself in the following words:--"while i desire to entertain no sentiments of hostility towards those who have thought proper to desert my ministry and to form themselves into a separate community, i cannot but consider that they are responsible for my being removed from this part of the lord's vineyard, where my labours were honoured with the divine blessing." mr. washbourn removed to hammersmith, and never came to wellingborough again. while filling this situation it is observed, "that he enjoyed to a high degree the respect of the surrounding ministers, particularly that of the late mr. toller, of kettering, whose friendship and popularity he frequently referred to with peculiar delight." mr. washbourn was minister at hammersmith for twenty-two years; and here we find it remarked, "that his preaching--solid, judicious, and deeply spiritual--was very soon highly estimated by his new charge, the greater part of whom at that time were families of considerable standing in society, as well as of high respectability and influence in the church. not a few were brought to christ who had seen the meridian of life unvisited by mercy, and who survived to bless his memory and to render it blessed." but we find that "it pleased the great head of the church, who retains the prerogative of determining the trials of his servants, greatly to obstruct the usefulness of the latter part of his life, and to render it the scene of peculiar affliction, by the rapid progress of a constitutional malady--overwhelming depression. the most remarkable feature in this visitation was its periodical character. six weeks of unutterable gloom, during which he was bereft of every ray of spiritual consolation, and an equal term of unusual enjoyment in religion and in social intercourse, maintained an almost unvarying succession throughout the two or three last years of his earthly pilgrimage. but he has frequently said to his colleague, 'i know, my dear sir, it is all physical. i know it--i have proved it; and i know god sees it needful for me, or he would not permit it.'" he died on monday, the 10th day of november, 1834, in the 64th year of his age; and it is said "that few public men, moving in a comparatively quiet and unobtrusive sphere, have gone down to the grave accompanied by such deep expressions of unequivocal regard, from all classes in the circle where they lived and laboured, as did this devoted minister of christ." soon after mr. washbourn had left wellingborough, mr. robert jacomb, the former pastor of the church, came on a visit; and seeing the uncomfortable state in which the people were, he kindly consented to prolong his stay, and preached to them with his former acceptance. an invitation was given him to resume his labours, which he accepted; and after an interval of twenty years he again became the pastor of the church. his services were continued until repeated attacks of disease, and the increasing infirmities of age, obliged him to resign his charge in the year 1826. he continued to reside in wellingborough until his death, which took place in the year 1832. mr. jacomb, we have heard, was a descendant from the early nonconformist ministers of that name. he always appeared to conduct himself with the ease, affability, and politeness of the gentleman, and with the spirit of the christian. his temper was amiable, and it was his constant aim to promote the spirit of piety and of peace among his people. in the spirit of devotion, and with a sincere concern for the highest welfare of his flock, he conducted the services of the sanctuary. he was highly esteemed to the close of his days. mr. james robertson was the next pastor, commencing his ministry here in october, 1826. he continued his services until a distressing mental malady, from which he never recovered, laid him aside from his public work and cut him off from the society of his friends. mr. robertson was a native of newcastle-upon-tyne; became a student of wymondley college; was pastor for some years of the independent church at stretton-under-fosse, commencing his ministry there july 29th, 1809, and was ordained in august, 1810. the ministers officiating were messrs. h. knight, r. hall, and t. n. toller. "for upwards of four years before his death he was the subject of intense mental and physical suffering, which much beclouded his fine intellect; and the deep waters of tribulation went over his soul." "in him," it is justly said, "were united the elegant accomplishments of the classical scholar, and the graver acumen of the profound theologian; which, added to the unaffected fervour of his piety, the benevolence of his disposition, and the sterling integrity of his general character, embalmed his memory in the hearts of a large circle of friends, who deplore his loss." he died at wellingborough june 23rd, 1842, and was interred in the burying ground belonging to the meeting. his most intimate friend, mr. walford, of uxbridge, who was classical tutor for some years at homerton college, officiated at the funeral; and mr. toller, of kettering, preached the funeral sermon the next sabbath evening, from zech. i. 5: "your fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live for ever?" a tablet was erected by his widow to his memory, and placed at the right side of the pulpit. mr. robertson was secretary to the northamptonshire association, from the death of mr. edwards, of northampton, until he was laid aside from active service. he was a frequent contributor to the _eclectic review_, and wrote many valuable articles of biblical criticism, besides others of a more general character. his attainments in learning were eminent; his intellectual power was considerable--his general information extensive; his skill in criticism was great; while he was a man of inflexible integrity, pre-eminently "without guile"--a sincere and steadfast friend, with much kindness of heart. his stern and unbending regard to principle sometimes occasioned a roughness of exterior, and occasionally appeared to assume an austere and unkind aspect. some of his sermons discovered talent of a high order for composition, containing superior thoughts, clothed in powerful language. the following record we find respecting mr. robertson's affliction, and the views entertained by the people under it:- in the month of january, 1838, it pleased god to visit with a painful mental affliction the rev. james robertson, the pastor of the church, so as totally to disqualify him for conducting the services of the sanctuary, or holding any intercourse with the people of his charge. several months after the commencement of his illness, the pulpit was generously supplied on sabbath-day by neighbouring ministers. the friends, however, at length deeply feeling their destitute condition, and perceiving the congregation on the decline, were led anxiously to deliberate on the course which a due concern for their own spiritual improvement and the welfare of zion required them to take; at the same time keeping in view their obligations to their honoured and afflicted pastor. after frequent consultations among themselves and with various ministers in the county, and much prayer, it was suggested, that as no symptoms of returning health appeared, the connexion ought to be dissolved. it was with great regret that the friends perceived that such a proposal must come from them, rather than from their pastor himself; but the state of his mind being such as to unfit him for the transaction of business, it became, on their part, a matter of necessity and painful duty. accordingly, in the month of september, 1838, a letter to this effect, approved by the church and congregation, was addressed to mrs. robertson, after which other correspondence took place, which it is unnecessary to detail, and the relation terminated. in the beginning of the year 1839 the rev. e. t. prust, of northampton, introduced to the notice of the friends the rev. g. taylor, who, in consequence of severe indisposition, had been obliged to resign a previous charge in the vicinity of manchester, but whose health was so far restored as to enable him to resume his ministerial labours. he was accordingly invited to preach for a few sabbaths in the month of april. at the expiration of this time, he was invited to the pastoral office; which, after proper consideration and advice, he accepted. a recognition service was held on thursday, october 24th, the order of which was as follows:--"reading and prayer, rev. j. renals; questions, rev. e. t. prust; designation prayer, rev. t. toller; address to mr. taylor, rev. t. east, founded on john xii. 26, last clause; address to the people, rev. j. blackburn; concluding prayer, rev. r. davis. "in connexion with the above service, special united meetings were held at the three chapels in the town: those for prayer, on monday evening, wednesday and thursday morning. on tuesday evening, rev. thos. milner preached; on wednesday evening, rev. t. east; and on thursday evening there was a united communion service. the whole of the services were well attended, and great interest was excited." after a short but active, affectionate, and faithful ministerial course here, mr. taylor's health again began to decline, which soon brought his labours in the ministry to a final close. he was under the necessity of resigning his office. his letter of resignation was dated june 24th, 1845, having scarcely completed six years of pastoral labour in this place. he died at birmingham in 1846, at forty-two years of age, in the faith and hope of the gospel, leaving a widow and rising family especially to mourn his loss. mr. taylor was born in birmingham, february 10th, 1804. his parents were eminent for their piety, and his father was for many years a deacon of the church assembling in ebenezer chapel, under the pastoral care of mr. timothy east. he received an excellent classical education at the school of mr. j. hammond, independent minister, at handsworth, of whom he always spake with much respect. he was called in early life to the knowledge of the truth, under the powerful ministry of mr. east. the grace which he had received soon made him a decided christian, and pointed him out as one likely to be useful in public service. his thoughts were soon directed to the work of the ministry; he pursued a course of study at highbury college, where his attainments were respectable, and where he gained the affectionate attachment of his fellow students. his first situation as a pastor was at new windsor, near manchester. here he continued until, after eight years' service, he was obliged by the state of his health to resign his charge, and preached his farewell sermon from the words of the apostle, "i would that ye knew what great conflict i have for you," &c., which was listened to with the deepest interest; and many sorrowed, "that they should see his face no more" as their beloved pastor. after an interval of two years, his health appeared to be sufficiently recovered for him to resume his stated labours, and he then accepted the invitation to become the pastor of this church. here he ministered with considerable success for a short period, the church and congregation increasing; but the interest at first excited was not sustained until the close of his ministry, which might partly arise from the weakness of his constitution rendering him incapable of the continued mental and physical effort which the stated engagements of the pastor for a series of years demand. after about six years spent in this situation, symptoms of decline appeared. he sought relief by spending six months on the southern coast, but it proved in vain; his disorder increased. it become necessary for him to resign his second charge; and he retired to end his days amongst his friends in his native town, where he closed his course, in the possession of the peace and hope of the gospel. mr. taylor was amiable, honourable, and affectionate; he had a strong principle of piety towards god, a deep vein of devotional feeling, a firm reliance on the merits of the saviour. his great aim was to be useful in the conversion of sinners and advancing the kingdom of the redeemer. some months after the death of mr. taylor, the rev. j. watson, then tutor of newport pagnell academy, introduced to the notice of the church the rev. j. f. poulter, of queen's college, cambridge. when mr. poulter had supplied the pulpit for some weeks with acceptance, he was invited to take the pastoral charge, which invitation he accepted, and was ordained thursday, december 17th, 1846, when the rev. j. watson, of newport, delivered the introductory discourse; rev. t. toller proposed the questions; rev. e. t. prust offered the ordination prayer; rev. w. forster, of kentish town, delivered the charge. mr. poulter is the present minister of this church and congregation. in the year 1850 new school-rooms were erected, at the cost of rather more than â£300. the site was presented by mr. w. warren, and the design given by mr. e. sharman. at the opening services the rev. h. allom, of union chapel, islington, preached; rev. samuel martin, of westminster, in the evening, from proverbs xx. 11. mr. john gibbs, of wellingborough, who died may 19th, 1813, left by will the sum of â£100 in the hands of his executors, to be by them invested in the funds or other good security, the interest of which is to be paid annually on st. thomas's-day, december 21st, to the minister of this place, independent of the salary paid him by the congregation. section 2.--the church at west end. to be able to discover very distinctly the origin of a christian society of 160 years' standing, and from thence to trace the varied events of its history, is especially interesting to those minds that love to observe how the great head of the church carries on the affairs of his kingdom by the varied operations of providence and of grace, employing the agency of his servants, and showing the influence of christian principle in promoting his great designs. if the reader will look back to the memorials of the church at rowell, and will notice the itinerating labours of mr. davis, the third pastor, with the success that attended them, in connexion with the efforts of some of the brethren in that church, he will there see how this church at wellingborough originated. there were a considerable number of persons who had derived benefit from the labours of mr. davis, residing in wellingborough and its vicinity, who had become members of the church at rowell. after some time, it was thought that their number was sufficient to form a distinct christian community, _i.e._, an independent church, with its officers. they received a regular dismission from the church at rowell for this purpose. the copy of that dismission we have given in the account of that church (page 57), from which they were dismissed; and we find the same preserved in the records of this church--the one account furnishing a complete corroboration of the other. the first statement after this is- the 22nd day of the eighth month, 1691, was kept solemnly in fasting and prayer at wellingborough by us whose names are hereafter written, for our embodying and enchurching together; when, after that the former part of the day was spent in prayer, direction, and exhortation, our dismission from the church of christ at rowell was then read by their messengers. after this it is recorded- having covenanted each apart, and then in the name of christ, in these words--"we do, in the presence of our lord jesus christ our crowned king, his holy angels, his people, and all the people here present, give ourselves up to the lord and to one another by the will of god, joyfully promising and engaging to walk with the lord jesus christ and with his people in the observation of all gospel ordinances, and in the discharge of all relative duties in the house of god, and as the presence of the lord shall enable us"--we lifted up our hands thereunto, and afterwards subscribed our names. we, having been dismissed from the church of christ which we did belong to, and having given up ourselves to the lord and to one another by the will of god, and to this subscribed, in the presence of many witnesses, as becomes a church of the lord jesus christ, having all the power amongst ourselves to manage all matters belonging to us as a church of the lord jesus. after this they proceed to choose two ruling elders, who covenanted with the people in the presence of the lord to be faithful to the charges committed to them; the church also covenanted to carry it towards them as a people to their officers. then they chose mr. bettson, who had been approved by the church at rowell for the ministry of the word, to become their pastor; and on an appointed day they proceed to ordain him to this office, in a manner similar to that which had been adopted by the church of which they had formerly made a part. they state- we proceeded to ordain our brother bettson, in which our elders brother henseman and brother osborn laid their hands on brother bettson and prayed, setting him before the lord, testifying to the lord that that was the man they had chosen to the office of a pastor; and after prayer, laid their hands on him again, and declared to the people that he was their pastor; and the ruling elders gave him authority, entering into covenant with him as to right them in their transactions. there were several pastors of other churches present, as mr. bear, mr. greenwood, mr. davis, besides brethren of other churches. on the 14th day of the same month they say- we then agreed, and solemnly passed this as a church act, that we would not bear with any that were with us that whispered against any of the brethren, or backbited any, looking upon it as abusing that rule in the 18th chapter of matthew; also very dishonourable to the lord jesus, and injurious to the church; separating between chief friends, and giving occasion to the enemies to blaspheme. the ministry of mr. bettson appears to have been evangelical, earnest, and successful, so that 174 members were added to the church during his ministry, which continued for 33 years. during the early years of that ministry much comfort and usefulness is indicated; but the latter part of it appears to have been attended with some heavy trials. in the earliest part of their history they held numerous church-meetings; had members belonging to the church from many different places. occasionally they held church-meetings at olney, 12 miles from wellingborough, in which place and neighbourhood a number of the members resided, until at length they were formed into a church in that place. "mr. bettson," it is observed, "was a man possessed of much prudence, piety, and perseverance. his trials were many; for preceding the choice of an assistant, another minister came to the town to preach in opposition to mr. bettson. many hearers left, and the interest was greatly reduced." from their church records, it appears that they performed the marriage ceremony among themselves. the covenant of marriage is thus expressed:- i, j. n., take thee, m. m., to be my wedded wife, and solemnly promise, in the presence of the lord jesus christ, to be a loving, tender, and faithful husband, until death. i, m. m., take thee, j. n., to be my wedded husband, and solemnly promise, in the presence of the lord jesus christ, to be a loving, tender, faithful, and obedient wife, until death. "the date of the first certificate of marriage is 1692, and the date of the last that was given 1714." _wellingborough, 22nd day of the 10th month._ these are to certify all whom it may concern, that samuel bearly and susannah jeffs, both of wellingborough, did enter into the estate of matrimony the day and year above written. as a testimony of firmly indenting and joining in a marriage covenant, they have hereto unchangeably put to their hands and seals, the day and year above written. in the presence of the witnesses, robert bettson. samuel bearly. john foxe. susannah jeffs. it appears that the banns were published in the parish church where the parties lived, according to the following account:-preceding marriage, mr. bere received a note from the place where the parties lived, according to the following testimony:- "these are to certify all whom it may concern, of the banns of matrimony between brize, of the parish of clifton, in the county of bucks, on the one part, and ann rollins, of this parish, in the county of northampton, on the other part, were published three several times in the parish of wollaston, without any let or contradiction, as the rubrick directs, by me. "j. maris, vicar of wollaston. "_wollaston, july 27, 1702._" when a christian society is in circumstances of peculiar difficulty and discouragement, it is important that their state should engage the sympathies and draw forth the counsels of other christian societies, as a means of encouragement and assistance under the struggles to which they are called. acting on this principle, this church, under its trials, applied for advice to other churches, and received the following letter from the church at rowell, expressive of their sympathy and their counsels: dear brethren in the lord,--our messengers, sent upon your desire to assist you in your faults, informed us that you wanted advice respecting your duty towards those members who wilfully left their places amongst you, broke their solemn covenant with you, and entered into a separate covenant with excommunicated persons, to carry on a separate cause with them. our messengers further informed us of the unanimous advice given by the messengers of several churches, that you should proceed against them as covenant-breakers; making use of christian endeavours, evangelical admonitions, for their recovery, if the lord pleases to bless to the same end; and in case of obstinacy to cut them off. of this advice we heartily approve as a church of christ; and desire that the spirit of the lord may be with you in it, and enable you to go comfortably through it, and give you success in it. we pity you under your great and sore trials, and, as helping you, prayed for you, that you may be filled with all the fulness of god. we pity any who have been deluded from their duty under specious pretences, and desire that the god of all grace would give them speedily to renounce them. however, the lord give unto you (the weak handed) to be found in the way of your duty, for therein is peace. abstain from your own wisdom; let your weapons be spiritual and mighty through god, to whose care we remit you, and remain your sympathizing brethren, m. maurice. thos. reynals. willm. fullen. sometimes a change in the ministry, when an interest is brought into such a state that it can hardly stand its ground, has a favourable effect; and may, under the divine blessing, be the means of bringing about a pleasing change. thus it proved in the history of this church. mr. bettson's age increasing and energies declining, they agreed to invite a co-pastor. a mr. grant, another member of the church at rowell, was chosen to this office. finding his ministry acceptable, they wrote to the church at rowell, requesting his dismission to them, that he might be ordained as joint pastor with mr. bettson. the church granted their desire, and in their letter of dismission we find the following passages:- it affecteth us greatly that the lord seemeth to smile upon his precious cause amongst you, so that we hope the night of your affliction is far spent, and the day of much more abounding joy and consolation is at hand. "weeping endureth for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." we are glad that any of our dear brethren and sisters, who in the dark and cloudy day have been turned aside from their duty, are brought to their covenanted places in the church. we have no reason to doubt but the spirit of god will in a gracious manner bring others. when he is pleased to plead, who can resist? and we hope the same spirit will enable you to carry it in all meekness of wisdom toward them, leaving the issue to god. we bless god that the ministry of our beloved brother william grant has been made so useful amongst you, and that the spirit of god doth so fit it for edification and conversion. we pray that such fruits may abound more and more; and in order thereunto, upon your request and his desire, the church has ordered us, in their names, to sign his dismission to your fellowship. we should be very glad of the continuance of his fellowship with us, and his labours amongst us; but seeing our dear lord calleth him to work amongst you, and inclineth his heart thereto, we submit, and think it our duty to rejoice in your mercy. in reference to the ordination of mr. grant, we are informed that "letters were ordered to be written in the name of the church to the several churches therein named, for their messengers to come over and behold our order, and assist us in the ordination of brother william grant." thursday, september 21st, 1723, was appointed for this purpose. this being the day set apart for brother william grant's ordination, the church assembled for it, in order to carry on the solemn work, which was conducted as follows:- after some time spent in prayer, the church appointed brother william curtis to be their mouth to propose the matter to the church, and also to brother grant. the matter being proposed to the church, they gave their consent, by standing up and lifting up their hands; no objection being made by any of them. by their mouth it was proposed to brother william grant, whether or no he did willingly give up himself to the lord and his church, to serve the lord and them in the work and office of a pastor; which call of god and his people he testified that he willingly obeyed and accepted. that being done, the messengers of the several churches then present, as a testimony of their joy and communion, gave the right hands of fellowship. then brother hanneswell prayed, and mr. maurice preached, and brother curtis concluded the meeting with prayer; and in the evening brother grant preached; and so we concluded the day. mr. grant's ministry proved so acceptable, that it soon became necessary to enlarge the old meeting, which was done in the year 1726. a circumstance which appears to have been rather unusual in the life of a plain country pastor 120 years ago, took place in the history of mr. grant, followed by some interesting results. "on june 11th, 1732, the church gave consent for mr. grant to go to london." this was probably his first visit to the metropolis. what was the special occasion of such an important step being taken does not appear; but it was on this visit that it is supposed the following well-authenticated events took place. "mr. grant was introduced to the study of a learned brother, for whom he was to preach. this and the other book was pointed out as of great importance, and discovering great erudition in the author. mr. grant said, 'sir, i have had no literary advantages; therefore such works are lost to me.' 'i am very sorry, then, that you are to preach to my people, who have always been accustomed to such ministers as have had a very liberal education. but, mr. grant, if you should be confused in your sermon, i beg you will soon close the subject.' lady c----, seeing mr. grant's homely dress, felt much timidity about him, and no small aversion to hear him: but at the close of the service lady c---and the minister were ready to testify their approbation; and from this time such was her ladyship's partiality to mr. grant, that he frequently went to london in the week to preach a lecture, and returned for the sabbath; and her ladyship often came to wellingborough to spend the lord's-day." from this time mr. grant had a happy change in his temporal circumstances; for, connected with the liberal aid of her ladyship, another event took place which terminated in his favour. one of his hearers had â£200 left her, but found great difficulty in obtaining her right. mr. grant interfered, and obtained it for her. such was her gratitude, that she left him â£100 at her death. during the first part of mr. grant's ministry at wellingborough, he had to struggle with great pecuniary difficulties; but he now found true what a poor woman said to him on first coming to wellingborough--"mr. grant, i wonder what induced you to come to such a reduced and poor people; how do you think you can be supported?" then, as the effect of an instantaneous impression, she said, "the lord says, 'the silver and the gold is mine'; and you, sir, shall have your share." mr. grant was in very good circumstances at the close of his life. in 1734 they determined to build a new meeting house. they counted the cost of such a building, erected in a plain manner, as they thought would then comfortably contain their congregation, and found it to be about â£200. they built the walls, and put up part of the roof; but found themselves, being still poor and weak, under the necessity of asking the assistance of friends. this was obtained, so that the whole expense was shortly cleared. mr. grant's ministry extended over the lengthened period of forty-eight years, during which 259 members were added to the church. it was on september 9th, 1770, that he preached for the last time, being very ill, and for some time before this having been carried to the pulpit. on march 22nd, 1771, after a long and painful illness, borne with christian patience and fortitude, mr. grant's death took place, closing a devoted and successful ministry. it is observed, that "mr. grant was very lively in the pulpit. his work appeared so much like the work of heaven, that it often very much surprised his hearers." "his charity was such, that he would deprive himself of some comforts for the benefit of the poor." a friend said to him, "i wonder, mr. grant, that you do not keep a better fire this cold weather." he replied, "other people want fires as well as myself." he was a firm dissenter, and had a great aversion to all saints' days, &c. his people frequently pressed him to preach on christmas-day: at last he complied with reluctancy, and chose these words--"ye are of your father the devil, and his works will ye do." when the dreadful fire took place at wellingborough in 1738, such was the distress of the inhabitants that party names were forgotten; and the town requested the rev. mr. grant and the rev. mr. homes, the clergyman, to combine in collecting for the poor sufferers. when mr. homes saw the great influence that mr. grant had, and the unlimited respect paid to him, he determined he would go with nobody else, even on this charitable occasion. mr. homes retained a great respect for him to the close of his days, and would frequently say, "he was an honest and great man." in the closing years of his life, mr. grant was deprived of sight. an aged woman came to him on one occasion, when two of his friends were leading him to the pulpit, and said, "sir, how do you do? for i cannot see you." he rejoined, "nor can i see you; but let us rejoice: there will be no blind people in heaven." the following outline of a sermon is preserved from one of mr. grant's manuscripts (psalm lxxix. 8). after a long introduction, he gives the following divisions:- i. that god, as he is the god of zion and the god of his church, does sometimes remember against his own people their former iniquities, or the church was mistaken here. "oh, remember not against us," said they, "our former iniquities." either god did remember against the church their former iniquities, or i say the church was mistaken; for the church apprehends it so by her prayer. at this time she very plainly believes god did remember against her her former iniquities, and was now dealing with her by laying his rod upon her; therefore under it she cries, "remember not against us our former iniquities; let thy tender mercies speedily prevent us, for we are brought very low." ii. when a professing people, or particular persons, are under chastisements and the severe rebukes of their god, to plead his tender mercies is the best argument. "let thy tender mercies," says the church, "speedily prevent us;" that is, prevent our ruin, or we should be destroyed--we should be brought to nothing as a church if thou sufferest the enemy to go forward in destroying them that are useful, cutting them off as they have done in times past, and the bodies of the saints should be still continued to be given as meat to the beasts of the field and to the fowls of heaven, as in verse 2--then we should be brought to ruin: but, "oh let thy," &c. iii. we see from the words of our text, that the people of god may plead in their petitions their low estates for god's help; this may come in by way of petition in prayer. our miseries and god's mercies are very proper pleas at the throne of grace. the poor publican made use of both in his prayer: "god be merciful to me a sinner." iv. something by way of use, as (1.) does god remember the sins of his people by way of chastisement? let us take heed how we sin against him. (2.) learn from hence, when god is chastising you, and laying his rod upon you, to turn to him that smites you, when he calls you by his rebukes. many turn from god. (3.) we learn from hence, as the church prays that god would not remember against her former iniquities, so we should do. the following letter is inserted because it presents some pleasing indications of the spirit that prevailed in mr. grant and his people. the church of christ at wellingborough, under the pastoral care of william grant, to those christian brethren and sisters who have lately asked their dismission from the church of christ at lutterworth, under the pastoral care of john dowley, sendeth greeting, wishing grace and peace, &c. dear brethren,--we, seeking the glory of our dear lord jesus, and the peace and prosperity of his cause in general, have been willing to concern ourselves in your affair so far as to seek the lord about it, and then to weigh and consider well the case, which we have now done at no less than four sundry times; and our conclusion is, that we cannot receive you upon such a dismission: for, instead of a recommendation, you have an accusation, that you could not come to a temper; and then a conclusion, that your separation is groundless. how far this accusation and conclusion are just we cannot be proper judges, who live at so great a distance, and have no opportunity of conversing with the members of the church, that so we might thoroughly know both sides; for, until then, we cannot see how we can judge righteously in the affair. all that we can further do in the case is, to mourn over it before the lord. the breaches and hurts of zion are many. oh (have we not all reason to cry) that the lord would arise in his glory, and build up her walls, and heal all her breaches! we earnestly desire that the lord may appear for his cause in lutterworth, that you may have christ's gospel and his law powerfully and plainly preached amongst you, that all that fear god in those parts may unitedly feed together in the ways of the lord, and your children may be converted, and the seed of strangers also. thus we subscribe ourselves your brethren in the best bonds. owned in our church-meeting, november 27th, 1741, and signed by us in the name of the church. wm. grant. the original letter, in the handwriting of mr. grant, is in the possession of t. grundy, esq., northampton. when mr. grant's infirmities greatly increased, both he and his people were anxious to obtain an assistant before his departure. prayer was presented fervently on this behalf, that they might have a pastor come after god's own heart. the fears of the people were great, on account of their attachment to the ministry of mr. grant, that no one would be so acceptable as to keep them together; as they considered few so acceptable in the pulpit as mr. grant. after several disappointments in probationers for the office, there remained this ground of hope--unity of spirit and prayer were given and continued. after a time they received information of mr. john carver, who was pastor of a small church in the village of kirtling, cambridgeshire, as one that was very likely to suit them. he came and preached to them two sabbaths. general satisfaction prevailed in the church and congregation; without one dissenting voice they desired him to come and remain among them. mr. carver accepted their call, and removed with his family to wellingborough, october 30th, 1770. the ordination took place june 20th in the following year, which appears to have been conducted according to the more general practice of the churches. mr. smith, of oundle, read the hymns; mr. hayton began in prayer; mr. bond, of toft, delivered the introductory discourse, and asked the usual questions; mr. simmons, of bedford, gave the exhortation to the people, from col. ii. 5, 6; mr. ashpiner, of poole, in dorset, prayed; mr. gregson, of rowell, gave the charge, from rom. i. 16; mr. walker, of olney, concluded the service. "and, blessed be the lord!" it is added, "it was a very solemn day. every part of it was conducted with great order and satisfaction." then we have the covenant of the church renewed; and another covenant after revolt, partly given in the following terms:- we, the members of the church of the living god assembling at wellingborough, having greatly revolted from our dear lord, in a deep sense of both former and later miscarriages against his love, blood, honour, crown, and dignity, as king of souls and churches, &c. this seems to be imperfect, as it breaks off abruptly here. during mr. carver's ministry, we find three who became members of the church, that afterwards became pastors of christian societies--viz.: mr. perry, the first pastor of the church at wollaston; mr. hennell, its second pastor; and mr. hillyard, the first pastor of the church at brigstock, and afterwards for many years minister at olney. in the year 1791 the present meeting house was built. we are informed "that there was much conversation previously on the subject; and at length the congregation agreed to do it, if the expense could be defrayed among themselves, without dependence on others." this was a noble spirit. a subscription was opened among them, and found to be of sufficient amount to warrant their proceeding in the business. while the building was going forward they conducted a part of their service in cheese lane meeting, by the kind permission of the stated congregation there. on the 11th of september, 1791, they met for the first time in their new place of worship. "the satisfaction arising from having a commodious large place of worship for ourselves and our posterity, without assistance from anyone, was great indeed." the following account of mr. carver's life, character, and ministry, was drawn up by the late mr. bull, of newport, the friend of newton and cowper. the rev. john carver was born a.d. 1733, at southill, in bedfordshire, and was several years a member of the independent church in that place, of which church his father was a deacon. that piety and those talents which shone with increasing lustre to the close of his life, discovered themselves at a very early period; but unaffected modesty and conscientious motives prevented his entering into the ministry till he had completed his thirtieth year. he began by privately exercising his gifts before the church, and afterwards established an evening lecture among his poor neighbours, to whom he preached after the labours of the day were closed. he continued these exercises, and some occasional services, a considerable time before he relinquished his secular employment and devoted himself entirely to the service of the church. at length, however, he accepted the unanimous and urgent invitation of a small but affectionate congregation at kirtling, near newmarket, in cambridgeshire. with this people he remained until his removal to wellingborough, where he continued his ministry with great respectability and usefulness near twenty-seven years, his life and his labours ending on january 31st, 1797. mr. carver had not the advantage of an academical education; but his understanding, naturally vigorous, was cultivated by reading and reflection. in conversation he was habitually serious without gloom, and cheerful without levity. he possessed to an uncommon degree the happy talent of giving a devotional turn to almost every subject. far from assuming any consequential airs, he alone seemed insensible to what every one else perceived, that he was the life and soul of the company. while the advanced christian felt himself edified by the depth and solidity of his remarks, the young, to whom he paid a particular attention, were charmed by his affectionate address, the simplicity of his language, and the aptness of his illustrations. though he did not pretend to an acquaintance with the original languages, his biblical knowledge was truly respectable. a sound judgment, a correct taste, and extraordinary diligence in reading and studying the word of god, joined with a proper use of our best commentators, enabled him to appear to great advantage as an interpreter of scripture. in preaching, he never addressed the passions, but in subservience to reason and truth. in explaining and defending the doctrines and precepts of christianity he was calm, perspicuous, and often very ingenious. he was a firm but not dogmatizing advocate for the sentiments usually styled calvinistical. in the practical and applicatory parts of his discourse he was peculiarly striking. his numerous hearers will doubtless long remember with what solemnity of voice and manner, with what pointed energy of expression, he warned the young, the thoughtless, and the dissipated; with how much skill and tenderness he administered the consolations of the gospel to those who laboured under spiritual discouragements. on these occasions, not only his voice and gesture, but his countenance, and not unfrequently his tears, expressed the interest he felt in their eternal welfare. he greatly excelled in prayer. often was his large congregation visibly affected by the seriousness and importunity of his addresses at a throne of grace. in private life he was truly exemplary. as a husband and a father, his prudence, gentleness, and love, the evenness of his temper and regularity of his conduct, commanded the veneration and promoted the happiness of his family. under the pressure of great, not to say unparalleled afflictions, he was resigned; when troubles came in upon him as a mighty flood, his heart was still fixed, trusting in the lord. those who have witnessed his deportment on the most trying occasions have confessed their astonishment, and felt themselves constrained to say, "verily this is the lord's doing, and marvellous in our eyes." one part of his character we must not omit. he was an eminently peaceable man. to obtain and preserve peace he would sacrifice everything, a good conscience only excepted. the happy fruits of this disposition, and the beneficial effects of such an example, will, we trust, continue to be enjoyed many years by those who have had opportunity of observing his great anxiety and unwearied exertions for the sake of peace. in his last illness, though his disorder was of a very painful and distressing nature, yet neither the extremity of his sufferings on the one hand, nor their long continuance on the other, did ever extort from his lips a single expression of impatience or distrust. his understanding was unimpaired and his faith unshaken to the last moment; and he expired in the act of repeating that triumphant song, "o death! where is thy sting? o grave! where is thy victory?" after the death of mr. carver, the congregation was unsettled for some time, and was dependent on supplies through the next two or three years. at length mr. bell was invited to become their pastor. but his ministry proved of short continuance. it is said, "that he was possessed of good talents; but was very high in doctrine, denied the gospel call to sinners as sinners--that he manifested too great a degree of levity, having much jocular wit." "he came to wellingborough like a burning light, and went out like a candle in the estimation of many. there were, most probably, faults on both sides; but some sad effects resulted, it is considered, from his sentiments and his levity." he continued only two or three years. mr. renals was the next pastor of this church. his ordination took place january 7, 1804. on that occasion, "mr. hennell, of wollaston, formerly a deacon of the church, engaged in supplicating the divine presence and blessing; mr. whitehead, of creaton, delivered the introductory discourse, asked the usual questions, and received mr. renals' confession of faith; mr. bull, of newport, offered up the ordination prayer, with imposition of hands; the charge succeeded, by mr. grundy, of lutterworth, from i tim. iv. 6; mr. gill, of harborough, addressed the people, from phil. ii. 29; mr. washbourn, fellow labourer with mr. renals in the same town, concluded with prayer. the congregation assembled again in the evening, when, after prayer by mr. hillyard, of bedford, mr. toller, of kettering, preached from psalm xxii. 30, and mr. phillips, of chedworth, gloucestershire, closed the service with prayer." in connexion with this account it is stated, "that a very large concourse of people, and thirty ministers, were the agreeable witnesses of this important and happy settlement; and it is with the sincerest pleasure we add, that the most complete union subsists between both the independent ministers of this town, and that the spirit of brotherly love prevails among the people. may it be perpetual!" mr. renals' ministry extended over 43 years in this situation, so that he was one of a remarkable list of four pastors of this church, whose united services here make up 150 years. during the pastorate of mr. renals, 113 members were added to the church; he resigned his charge in the year 1847. numerous changes had taken place in the congregation during mr. renals' labours among them; there was a considerable decline in the number of hearers in many of the latter years of his ministry, and the church became reduced to thirty members; this would be partly owing to another independent church being formed in the town, and partly to unpleasant circumstances that arose among them. but mr. renals had some sincere and attached friends to the close of his life. he was born in the village of rempstone, in nottinghamshire, april, 1769. his mother was a pious woman of the baptist persuasion, from whose counsels and prayers he derived spiritual advantage. when he arrived at mature age, he resided some time in leicester, where he frequently heard and much admired that eminent clergyman, the rev. thomas robinson, of st. mary's, well known for his clear evangelical views, and for the zealous and devoted manner in which he preached the gospel in that town for many years. mr. renals afterwards settling in nottingham, became a member of the church at castle gate meeting, then under the pastoral care of the rev. richard alliott, by whom he was introduced to rotherham college, which he entered in the autumn of 1798. being then nearly thirty years of age, and not having had the advantages of preparatory training, the tutors wisely deviated from their usual course, and directed his attention chiefly to theological studies. he first preached for a time at hinchley, in leicestershire, going thither in 1802, but removed to wellingborough in the closing part of the next year. he had a vigorous constitution; preached three times every lord's-day; was a warm advocate for maintaining the afternoon service, in opposition to the modern plan of morning and evening only. he frequently preached on a week evening, in some of the villages in the vicinity of wellingborough. he was a man of genuine piety, decided attachment to the principles of the gospel, sterling integrity, and considerable activity. if his mind was not strictly logical, his spirit was devotional; if his temper was not always amiable, his heart was sincere; if prudence did not guide in every effort, the aim, we believe, was always upright; if there was not excessive candour, there was much genuine kindness. advancing years presented a softening, meliorating, ripening influence. he would labour in the cause of god, until entirely prevented by his last affliction. while he cordially welcomed his successor in the ministry, and offered a fervent prayer at his ordination for him and for the people over whom he had so long presided, "he continued preaching most sabbaths at the village of finedon, whither he was preparing to go when his last affliction compelled him to desist and relinquish the attempt." after a few weeks of considerable suffering, borne with exemplary patience and fortitude, enjoying perfect peace and a hope full of immortality, he died, being nearly 80 years of age. mr. cornelius curtis tyte, from the academy of rotherham, was unanimously invited as successor to mr. renals. he was ordained in october, 1847, when mr. bellamy, of sheffield, now of buckingham, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. renals offered the ordination prayer; and dr. stowell, mr. tyte's tutor, delivered the charge, from col. iv. 17. in the evening, mr. toller, of kettering, preached to the people from acts ii. 42. since this time 21 members have been added to the church. the present number of communicants is 37. there are 100 children in the sabbath-schools; in actual attendance, between 80 and 90. occasional services are conducted in one village in the vicinity of wellingborough, the village of finedon. the happy union of the present pastor and his people, and the harmony that subsists between them and the other ministers and congregations generally in the town, present, we trust, a cheering prospect for the future, that "walking in the fear of the lord, and in the comfort of the holy ghost, they may be greatly edified and multiplied." section 3.--the church at salem chapel. the independent church at salem chapel, wellingborough, was originally formed by those who separated from the church at cheese lane meeting, in the same town, in the year 1812. however much this separation might be regretted at the time, after the lapse of forty years it would be unwise to attempt to enter into the grounds of that separation. the unpleasant feelings at first produced have, we trust, long ere this entirely subsided, and the pastors and the people can now go forward in harmonious co-operation for the promotion of the same great cause to which they are devoted. it was on the evening of the lord's-day, september 21st, 1812, that the church was formed here, in the presence of the rev. joseph whitehead, of creaton, and the rev. shadrach jackson, of old. they united in a church covenant, which they have thus expressed:- we hope that by grace we have been brought to see our last state and condition; to behold the remedy prepared in the gospel, christ jesus the lord; to flee to him as such; to put our trust in him for life and salvation: and we do hereby resign up ourselves to christ, in church fellowship and communion, resolving and promising in his strength to devote ourselves entirely to him; to believe his promises, live by faith upon them, obey his precepts, hearken to the voice of his providence, and serve him according to all the laws, statutes, and ordinances of his house; taking the written word for our rule, and aiming at the glory of god in all things. we do further covenant and agree to walk together in christian fellowship; regularly and constantly to attend all the ordinances of god's house; and that we will watch over one another in love, seeking each other's happiness and welfare, by sympathizing with the afflicted, comforting the mourner, strengthening the weak, confirming the wavering, reclaiming the backslider, and by every possible means do all that we can to promote each other's peace, comfort, and edification in christ jesus our lord; while we study the peace and prosperity of the whole church, that god may be in the midst of her, and abundantly bless her. thus christians of old "first gave up themselves to the lord, and then to each other by the will of god." the first pastor of the church was the rev. pollard davis, whose ordination took place june 1st, 1813, when we find mr. gill, of harborough, mr. whitehead, of creaton, mr. bull, of newport, mr. fuller, of kettering, mr. chater, of kibworth, engaged in the services of the day. mr. davis's ministry continued until january 24th, 1821, when he resigned his charge. he appears to have admitted 23 members to the church. rev. c. t. sevier was the next pastor, who entered on his charge in the year 1822, and continued for about 12 years, removing from wellingborough in the year 1834. rev. j. bevan was the immediate successor of mr. sevier, entering on his pastoral labours september 20th, 1835. the ministry of mr. bevan was of short continuance at wellingborough; receiving an invitation to become the pastor of a church at liverpool, he soon resigned his charge here. he was succeeded by the rev. robert davis, who, having received a unanimous invitation to become their pastor, entered on his stated services february 18th, 1838. the number of members in the church when mr. davis became pastor appears to have been 79, and at the close of his ministry they numbered 107. mr. davis removed from wellingborough to turvey, in bedfordshire. in july, 1846, the present minister, the rev. thomas thomas, who was educated at homerton college, after supplying the congregation about six months, was ordained to the pastoral office. on that occasion, the rev. j. a. morris, of london, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. toller, of kettering, offered the ordination prayer; dr. pye smith (mr. thomas's tutor) delivered the charge; mr. robinson, of kettering, preached to the people. the attendance was large, and the services of an interesting character. since mr. thomas commenced his ministry, new school-rooms have been erected for the accommodation of the sabbath-schools. the cost of them was â£300. they were opened on tuesday, september 18th, 1849, when the rev. dr. reed, of london, and the rev. j. toller, of kettering, preached. there are 184 children in the sabbath-schools. the present number of communicants is 100. the villages supplied with regular services in the vicinity of wellingborough are doddington and wilby, and occasionally orlingbury. as this church is of comparatively recent formation, and as all those that have sustained the pastoral office over it are, we believe, still living, the account we can present is necessarily short. the present pastor and his flock will rejoice in the tokens of divine favour they have received; and will go forward, we trust, with the cheering hope of continued and yet more abundant supplies of divine blessings, so that peace and prosperity may now be increasingly and permanently experienced in this department of zion. chapter x. memorials of the independent church at oundle. in attempting to trace the principles of nonconformity to their earliest manifestations in the town of oundle, after the reformation from popery, we find two puritan divines ministering here in the course of the sixteenth century. these were men who could not conform to all the rites and ceremonies of the church as by law established, and who had to suffer much for their refusal to comply with its requirements. the first of these was eusebius paget, who was born at cranford, in this county, and educated in christ's college, oxford. during his abode at oxford he broke his right arm, and was lame of it ever after. when he removed from the university he became vicar of oundle and rector of langton, but was exceedingly harassed on account of his nonconformity. on january 29th, 1573, he was cited by scambler, bishop of peterborough, who first suspended him for three weeks, and then deprived him of his living, worth â£100 per annum. several others were suspended and deprived at the same time, because they could not with a good conscience subscribe to certain promises and engagements proposed to them by the bishop. and this dr. edward scambler, successively bishop of peterborough and norwich, was the first pastor of a protestant congregation in london in the reign of queen mary; but was compelled, on account of the severity of the persecution, to relinquish the situation. he was a learned man; very zealous against the papists; and was probably driven into a state of exile. but surely he forgot his former circumstances, when he became a zealous persecutor of his brethren in the days of elizabeth; not remembering that they were as conscientious in their objections to what they considered to be the remains of popery in a reformed church, and in their endeavours to obtain a purer mode of discipline and worship, as he had been in his efforts against what he formerly disapproved. after this mr. paget was preferred to the rectory of kilkhampton, in cornwall. when mr. paget and his brethren were deprived, they presented a supplication to the queen and the parliament for their restoration to their beloved ministry, but to no purpose; they must subscribe, or be buried in silence. further suffering awaited mr. paget: his unfeeling persecutors, not content with cutting him off from his ministry and his living, ordered him to be taken into custody and sent up to london. he was therefore apprehended, with mr. john oxenbridge, another leading person in the association in northamptonshire and warwickshire, and they were both carried prisoners to the metropolis, by an order from archbishop grindal. it does not however appear how long they were kept in custody, nor what further persecution they suffered. mr. paget filled different situations in the ministry afterwards, and was repeatedly subjected to ecclesiastical censures. he died in london, may, 1617. wood says of him, "he was many years a constant and faithful preacher of god's word"; and fuller styles him "a golden sophister, a painful preacher, and author of an excellent history of the bible." he had a son, ephraim paget, who was born in northamptonshire, probably at oundle, in 1575, who became a puritan minister. it was probably not very long after mr. paget was thus driven from oundle, that hugh clark, a.m. was settled in the ministry here. he was born at burton-upon-trent, august 15th, 1563, and educated first in jesus college, cambridge, then in the university of oxford. it is stated, "that when he came to oundle he found the people in a state of the most deplorable ignorance and profaneness, living in the constant profanation of the lord's-day by whitsun ales, morris-dancing, and other ungodly sports. for a considerable time he laboured to convince them of their sins and to reclaim them from their evil ways, but without any prospect of success. though god visited several of the ringleaders by successive remarkable judgments, they still persisted in their profane sports. they seem to have made a covenant with death, and to have been at agreement with hell. at length, however, there was a pleasing alteration. they began to take serious heed to the ministry of the word; their lives became reformed, and many were called to a saving knowledge of the gospel." during mr. clark's abode in this place he experienced several remarkable providential deliverances, among which was the following: having in his 'sermon on the sabbath-day' announced the just judgment of god against certain particular sins to which the young people were much addicted, the next morning a lusty young man came to his house wishing to see him. mr. clark, having invited him into his chamber, and knowing his vicious character, sharply reproved him, and warned him of his awful danger; and god wrought so effectually upon his heart by this pointed and faithful dealing, that the man, falling down on his knees and crying for pardon, pulled out a dagger, by which he had determined to murder him. "i came hither," said the man, "with a full resolution to stab you; but god has prevented me. this was occasioned by your terrifying sermon yesterday; but if you please to forgive me, i shall never attempt any such thing again." mr. clark freely pardoned the offence, and after giving him suitable advice, dismissed him. in the year 1590 mr. clarke removed from oundle to wollaston, in warwickshire, where he was chosen to the pastoral office by the people, and received the presentation to the living from sir roger wigston. he was once indicted for high treason, because he had prayed that "god would forgive the queen her sins"; but was acquitted. he was a constant, zealous, and laborious preacher, a person of great learning and piety, useful in his ministry, and an acute and powerful disputant. his death occurred november 6th, 1634, in the 72nd year of his age. three of his descendants were numbered amongst the ejected ministers in the year 1662. at the time of the restoration of charles ii., it appears that mr. richard resbury was vicar of oundle, and that he became one of the nonconformist ministers, resigning his living six weeks before bartholomew-day. here he afterwards preached in his own hired house, practised medicine with some success, and was advised with by persons of all ranks. we are informed that he was a man of brisk parts, and very facetious; but had the general reputation of a solid divine, and made a considerable figure in this county. he was particularly honoured for what he wrote in opposition to mr. john goodwin, on the arminian controversy. in addition to what he published on this subject, he wrote 'the tabernacle of god with man; or, the visible church reformed: a discourse of the nature and discipline of the visible church.' robert wild, d.d., who was ejected from the living of ayno, in this county, after his ejectment came to reside at oundle. he was a native of st. ives, in huntingdonshire; educated at st. john's college, cambridge. he published 'the arraignment of a sinner at the bar of divine justice: an assize sermon, preached at oxford, 1655, and dedicated to john cartwright, esq., of ayno.' several other works appeared as the production of his pen. he was noted for his facetiousness, but was very serious in serious things. as an illustration of this, it is related that mr. job orton received the following statement from an ancient christian in northamptonshire:- mr. baxter, being much displeased at some instances of his facetiousness which he had heard of, called on him, in his way from kidderminster to london, to reprove him, as the times were very dark; and he appears to have thought that there was something especially unsuitable in this to such days of trial. when he came to ayno, he found the doctor just gone to church, it being observed by him and his people as a fast-day. mr. baxter goes to the church, seats himself in one corner, and becomes so deeply interested, and so well satisfied, that when the service was over he came to the doctor, thanked him for his service, and desired that he would reprove and rebuke him sharply, as he deserved it. being desired to explain himself, mr. baxter said, "for my great uncharitableness and folly in regarding reports," &c.; and then told him why he had called upon him. after dr. wild came to reside at oundle, it pleased god to visit mr. resbury, the ejected vicar, with the palsy; and the doctor wrote letters to all parts of the country in order to raise him some money to take him to bath, for his relief. a mr. stancliff wrote of him, "that he was excellently qualified unto his ministerial work; none more melted and melting in prayer, nor more serious and fervent in preaching christ and his gospel." he died at oundle, in the year 1679. a little before his death he preached on rev. xiv. 12: "here are they that keep the commandments of god, and the faith of jesus;" when he said, "it is but a short time, and i shall be in paradise." there was also in these days a mr. strickland negus, ejected from chester, in this county, who was one of the thursday lecturers at oundle. it appears to have been the custom of the puritan ministers of this county, while in the church, to have week-day lectures preached at their different churches by their brethren alternately. of mr. negus it is said, that "he was a truly good man, and a useful preacher." mr. edward cauthorn, ejected from tansover, was one of the lecturers at oundle, where he had a good estate, and whither he came to reside after his ejectment; and here he died in 1665 or 1666. "he was a man of great meekness, and a very able preacher." whether these nonconformist ministers went so far as to form a church here on congregational principles, we are not informed; but their example and their services appear to have been the means of a regular congregation being gathered in these early days of nonconformity; and probably the spirit of persecution might not now discover itself so much here as in some other parts of the country, which might be one reason why several of those who were cast out of the church resorted to this place. that there was a stated congregation, and probably a church formed, appears to be manifest by the next fact in relation to these things that we find recorded; which is, that mr. shepherd, who had been minister at tillbrook, in bedfordshire, on quitting his living a few years after the passing of the act of uniformity, became pastor to a dissenting congregation at oundle. this is the minister of whom it is stated, in our account of the church at kettering, "that he had the true spirit of his office, his preaching being very awful and affecting, and his life very holy." about 1697 he removed to kettering, where, a few months after, he died. there is a tradition generally credited in oundle, that the meeting house was built immediately after the passing of "the toleration act," in 1790 or 1791. the founder was joseph hewson, a draper in the town, who erected the building on his own freehold, for the use of himself and other nonconformists in the neighbourhood, who, as in other places, were but too happy to emerge from the state of depression into which they had been cast, to a state of comparative liberty: but in 1724, david hewson, of market harborough, also a draper, son and heir of the founder, sold the property to the society for the nominal sum of â£40; and in the month of august, the same year, the first trust deed was made, settling the building for ever as a place of religious worship, and conveying the fee of the freehold to twelve trustees. it was in the deed denominated a place for a presbyterian congregation, but now the church is formed on the principles of the independents. after mr. shepherd's removal from oundle, there appears to have been a mr. atkinson pastor of the church, for on the sacramental cups is this inscription: "the rev. mr. atkinson being our present pastor, 1713." the next pastor was mr. joseph king, who probably might be first assistant and afterwards successor to mr. atkinson, as there were three of mr. king's children buried in oundle churchyard, the first in 1712, the other two in 1714. mr. king died in 1720. a tombstone was erected to his memory in the churchyard, on which is a latin inscription. the following is a translation:- joseph king died 29th jany., a.d. 1719/20, aged 46. thy spirit upright, and thy heart sincere; true piety engaged thy fervent love; instructed from above to feed the flock committed to thy care; and with the eloquent they will thy name revere. happy to have fulfilled thy sacred toil, the end arrives, and here thou liest. blest man! thy name for ages shall survive. the monument that marks thy dust shall fall, decays the marble tomb, the sepulchre comes down: the fame which goodness gives shall long survive them all. mr. king was the father of mr. samuel king, who was minister at welford for forty years. this son was born in 1815, and was little more than four years of age when his father died. he was regarded as given in answer to maternal prayer; for his mother, mrs. hannah king, a woman of a devoted spirit, earnestly desired to have a son that might become a minister of the gospel. she long survived her husband; lived to realize her highest desire on this behalf; and had the happiness of closing her days, in a good old age, in the house of her son, when he was minister of the independent church at welford. on an upright stone in the churchyard of that village there is the following inscription, probably expressive of the affectionate remembrance of her son:- in memory of mrs. hannah king, relict of the rev. joseph king, of oundle, who departed this life the 25th day of april, 1763, aged 81 years. farewell, bright soul, a long farewell, till we shall meet again above, in the sweet groves where pleasures dwell, and trees of life bear fruits of love. sweet soul, we leave thee to thy rest; enjoy thy jesus and thy god, till we, from bonds of clay released, spring out, and climb th' heav'nly road. the next pastor of the church at oundle was mr. daniel goodrich; his name was inserted in the first trust deed of the meeting house, in 1724. in the account which doddridge gives of his ordination at northampton, in 1730, he mentions mr. goodrich, of oundle, as commencing the service by prayer and reading the scriptures. in the memoirs of mr. sanderson, one of the pastors of the church at rowell, we find a short letter from mr. goodrich, dated december 26th, 1740, which pleasingly indicates the spirit of piety, and the attachment of the writer to evangelical principles. i thank you for your long expected favour, and am glad to find that you hang upon the covenant; it is the great prop and support of our souls. pleasant frames, and to live by sense, are what we are fond of; but faith and patience must have their perfect work here--these shall have nothing to do above. then the redeemed of the lord shall live by sight, in full fruition--see face to face, and know as they are known; no clouds shall come between their beloved and them; no corruptions from within, no thorns and briars from without; and a brother shall not then be as a thorn hedge; but as god is love, we shall be like him, swallowed up in love to god and to one another. a little while, and thus it shall be. the wilderness is but a short passage, though difficult and troublesome. our lights are but to burn here for a little while. the lord grant, that we may so shine that our heavenly father may be glorified. i beg the lord may fit you for your work, and crown your labours with success, &c., &c. d. goodrich. at the ordination of mr. boyce over the church at kettering, mr. goodrich was engaged in asking the questions and offering the ordination prayer. he died february 25th, 1765, aged 66 years. in the report of homerton college, the name of jeremiah longfield is given, as a student who settled at oundle. though the exact date does not appear, it seems to have been soon after the death of mr. goodrich. the next in succession appears to have been mr. wm. ward, who was ordained at oundle, and continued there for about four years, when he removed to dudley. after mr. ward, mr. wright, from ringwood, was the pastor for twelve years. he died at boston, and was buried in the chapel at oundle, where also his wife and two daughters were interred. mr. r. forsyth was pastor for two years, and then mr. reynold hogg, who was afterwards minister at kimbolton and thrapstone, and treasurer of the baptist missionary society. mr. isaac cooke was pastor for two years, when he removed to narborough. mr. joseph chadwick became the pastor of this church in the year 1790, and continued his ministry here for forty years. mr. chadwick was a native of trull, near taunton, in somersetshire, where he was born in 1751. he has been heard to say, that his father was a man of no energy, and that whatever advantage he might gain from parental instruction, or example, or aid, was derived from his mother. we have heard, that he was a descendant from the early nonconformists, and he evidently took a great interest in the memorials of their trials and sufferings. of this he gave a singular proof at a meeting of the county association, held at ashley, when he delivered a sermon from heb. x. 34, "and took joyfully the spoiling of your goods, knowing in yourselves that ye have in heaven a better and an enduring substance;" at the close of his discourse reading some memoranda of the sufferings and losses, the fines exacted, the goods sold, &c., of our nonconformist forefathers. there was a person of the same name, a mr. joseph chadwick, ejected from the living of winesford, in somersetshire, of whom mr. chadwick was great-grandson. he was also a descendant of mr. thorn, ejected from weymouth, dorset. in his youth he was apprenticed to a peruke-maker and hair-dresser, at taunton. during the course of his apprenticeship, his general conduct and marked piety, and ardent thirst for knowledge, as indicated by his love of reading, attracted the attention of john toller, esq., an attorney at taunton, and the grandfather of the late rev. t. n. toller, of kettering. that gentleman, it is thought, bought out the latter part of mr. chadwick's apprenticeship, and sent him to study under the rev. mr. kirkup, of south petherton, who had been the preceptor of the late mr. toller's early years. with mr. kirkup mr. chadwick continued two years, and made remarkable progress in his studies, especially in the classics. at the expiration of his residence with mr. kirkup, he was sent, under mr. toller's patronage, to the western college, as his name stands in the list of their students. he was first settled at wellington, somersetshire; from whence, after a few years, he removed to sherborne, in dorsetshire, and came from thence to oundle. he was a man of considerable learning, and an indefatigable reader of the most solid works in theology and in general literature. he resigned his charge at midsummer, 1831. he died may 7, 1841, in the 90th year of his age. mr. toller, of kettering, preached his funeral sermon. mr. ebenezer prant, from highbury college, succeeded mr. chadwick. he resigned his charge in 1835, and is now one of the secretaries to the london missionary society. mr. abraham calovius simpson, ll.d., of the glasgow university, was the next pastor, serving this church and congregation in the ministry of the gospel from 1836 to 1841, when he resigned his charge. the present pastor, mr. alfred newth--who studied at homerton college, and had been previously settled at ripley, near christ church, hants--came to oundle in the year 1842, as the successor of dr. simpson. the present number of communicants is about 70. there are 120 children in the sabbath-schools. occasional services are conducted in two villages in the vicinity of oundle, viz., tansor and glapthorne. chapter xi. memorials of the independent church at weedon beck. in the village of weedon, about eight miles from northampton, where there is a royal military dã©pã´t with barracks for 1500 men, storehouses and magazines capable of stowing 200,000 small arms, there stands an independent chapel for preaching the gospel of peace, and maintaining the cause of christ by the voluntary aid of his followers. it is a respectable village chapel, capable of seating about 500 hearers; it has a grave-yard in the front, and commodious school-rooms behind. at the time of the restoration, a mr. george martin was vicar of weedon. such was his loyalty, that he lost an arm for the king in sir george booth's rising. but, as one that "exercised himself to have a conscience void of offence both towards god and man"--first fearing god, then honouring the king--when the act of uniformity passed, he renounced his connexion with the church rather than violate his conscience. such was the spirit of the times, that in 1667 he was in warwick gaol for some months, for preaching the gospel. some time after his ejectment he exercised his ministry amongst a small number of worthy people at stony stratford, who had a great value for his memory a considerable time after. "he was," we are informed, "a serious, holy, good-tempered, and courageous man." it is probable that the cause of nonconformity in weedon owes its origin to the vicar's separation from the church. such an event would excite the attention of the people, and promote inquiry among them; and they would be led to seek those ministrations without the church of which they were deprived within her pale by the oppressive enactments of the day. there had been a number from weedon and the neighbourhood who had gone to the church at norton to hear mr. robert allen, another of the ejected ministers, who was a very popular preacher, whose church was crowded with hearers from the places around. "a congregation was jointly formed here and at floor prior to 1668, in which year the first trust deed is dated." the earliest known minister of this society was mr. peyto. this person was engaged in the ordination service of mr. j. heywood, at potterspury, in 1740. he was succeeded by mr. thomas howe, a native of northampton, and one of the daventry students. "he removed before 1770 to yarmouth, in norfolk, where he continued until his death. he published several pamphlets and sermons." this is the second pastor, as recorded in baker's history of this county. but in the early history of the church at west end, wellingborough, we find the following notice of a mr. saywell, who appears to have been minister at floor and weedon: "we ordered a letter to the church at floor, with our judgment that mr. saywell was a member and an officer there, and ought to abide till his ministry was fulfilled. we ordered another to the church at weedon, to satisfy them with it, and to encourage them to wait with patience." this person must have been about the second pastor that was placed over them. mr. samuel braybrook, another daventry student, is recorded as succeeding mr. howe, and as afterwards settling at rendham, in suffolk. then we find the names of mr. john offord and mr. phares; and then mr. william severn, concerning whom we are informed "that he was a native of nottingham; at an early age became a popular preacher among the methodists; was for two years a travelling associate with their celebrated founder, john wesley. but his sentiments undergoing a change, he went to study divinity at edinburgh, on leaving which university he accepted an invitation to this society, from whence he removed to welford in 1782, afterwards to hinckley, in leicestershire, where he embraced unitarianism. he died at hull, in june, 1813, in his fifty-ninth year." after this, we have the name of mr. renfrew; and after him, mr. evan johns, who removed to welford; then mr. t. spencer, who was appointed in 1790, and resigned in a few years after. mr. joseph gronow was chosen to succeed mr. spencer. he was ordained april 27th, 1797, when the rev. messrs. chipperfield, wood, horsey, bicknell, toller, and denny engaged in the several parts of the service. "mr. gronow's ministry was very acceptable and useful. he died dec. 9th, 1817. he lost a beloved wife a few months before his own death. during four months' severe illness, probably brought on by the loss of his wife and the removal of a highly esteemed friend, he manifested a truly christian spirit. he had been pastor of the church more than 21 years, and the means of greatly improving the state of the society. few ministers have been more generally beloved by those who knew them, or have lived more in the affections of their people. in the time of his illness preparations were making for his going to bath, with the hope that the waters might, under the blessing of god, restore his health; but when all the arrangements were nearly completed, and the funds necessary for such a journey provided, through the liberality of benevolent individuals, it pleased god to remove him. the affliction which he suffered during the last fortnight of his life was most painful; but the closing scene was remarkably peaceful. his remains were interred the following monday, with every token of respect, under the pulpit where he had so often preached the gospel of christ. many of his brethren attended the funeral, six of whom supported the pall. his death was improved by mr. h. knight, of yelvertoft, from acts xx. 38, to a most numerous and deeply affected congregation." on a neat mural tablet of white marble, at the right hand of the pulpit, is the following inscription:- this stone has been raised by an affectionate congregation to the memory of their beloved pastor, the rev. joseph gronow, who for more than twenty-one years continued diligently, faithfully, and successfully to discharge the duties of his office. his affection, simplicity, sympathy, and sincerity conciliated the respect of all who knew him, and peculiarly endeared him to his flock. with great calmness, and with a blessed hope of a glorious immortality, he closed his mortal course, december the 9th, 1817, aged 49. "though dead, he yet speaks to his people," for whose salvation he always manifested the greatest solicitude. mr. gronow was about the middle stature, plain in appearance; as a preacher, serious, affectionate, fervent. plainness and simplicity marked his language and the plan of his sermons, while they were full of evangelical truth, setting forth experimental and practical piety. he preached as one concerned for the honour of his great master and the good of immortal souls. mr. gronow had been assistant for a short time to mr. maurice, of stretton-under-fosse, before he came to weedon. he was succeeded by mr. james pinkerton, who had been a student at the newport academy, and was ordained here may 6th, 1819, and was pastor of this church for thirteen years. in the year 1831 he resigned, and removed to totteridge, near london; but he had not filled this situation more than two years, we believe, before he was summoned from the scenes of time and the services of the church on earth. mr. pinkerton was of a very amiable and pious spirit, devoted to his master's work. his sermons appeared to be well prepared, full of important and appropriate thought, discovering some energy of mind, and delivered with animation of manner. he frequently preached at the meetings of the county association, and was always heard with interest. at the close of 1831, the present pastor, mr. isaac evans, came on probation, and was ordained july 24th, 1832. during the ministry of mr. evans a new school-room has been erected, at the cost of â£120, which was opened in the year 1847. the sabbath-school is conducted here, containing about 125 children. the present number of communicants is 80. one service is conducted at floor every sabbath, where the congregation is considered as a branch of the church at weedon. the present chapel there was built in the year 1810. some alterations and improvements have recently been made in the chapel at weedon, at a cost of â£115, which will, we trust, add to the comfort of the place and the accommodation of the congregation. all would be accompanied with the fervent and united desire of the pastor and his flock that abundant tokens of the blessing of the great head of the church may attend all their efforts. chapter xii. memorials of the independent church at long buckby. the populous village of long buckby, containing more than 2600 inhabitants, has a neat and commodious independent chapel, capable of seating about 700 hearers, with convenient school-rooms, and a respectable dwelling-house for the minister. previous to the erection of the present building there was an old chapel, which had stood for many years in another situation; but it is much to be regretted in this case, as in some others, that no accounts have been preserved of the origin or early history of this church. before the year 1662, when mr. richard allen, who became one of the ejected ministers, preached in the parish church of norton, a short distance from this village, amongst other places mentioned from which hearers came to attend on his ministry, there were some from long buckby; but whether it was very soon after the ejectment of their favourite preacher that they sought the ministration of the nonconformists in this place we have no account. the earliest notice we find of an independent minister at long buckby is in the account of the ordination of mr. tingey, at northampton, in 1709, when a mr. jackson, minister at long buckby, was present. in the account which mr. sanders, one of the pastors of the church at kettering, gives of his ordination, as preserved in the records of that church, which took place november 23, 1721, he states--"mr. cartwright, of buckby, began with prayer, and prayed well." this proves to us that there was a mr. cartwright, a dissenting minister, at buckby, 131 years ago. again, we find his signature attached to the certificate of mr. hextal's ordination at creaton in 1738, which shows us that his ministry extended over some considerable period in this place. he was also engaged in the ordination of mr. j. heywood, at potterspury, in 1740. as a further memorial of him, we have discovered a very old upright gravestone in the churchyard of long buckby, erected to his memory. with some considerable difficulty we deciphered the inscription, which states concisely his age, the time of his death, and the character he bore. in memory of the rev. mr. thomas cartwright, who died april 13th, 1744, aged 57; having by a diligent, faithful, and humble discharge of the various duties of the christian and ministerial life, obtained a good report of all men, and of the truth itself; being most highly esteemed of those by whom he was most intimately known. mr. cartwright left a widow, who survived him thirty-nine years. the next pastor of this church was a mr. walker, but of his life or ministry we find no records preserved. mr. richard denny became pastor of this church in 1763, and continued his labours for nearly forty years. during his ministry the present meeting house was built, in 1771; and in one part of that ministry a remarkable revival of religion took place, followed by permanent results of the most important kind. he was the last surviving student of dr. doddridge, for whom he retained to his last day the strongest affection. he survived until the year 1813, when he died at the age of nearly 90 years, having been disabled from regular public service for almost twenty years. mr. denny was born at barby, a small village in northamptonshire. having pious parents, he was from a child the subject of religious impressions. serving an apprenticeship at lutterworth, the preaching of the gospel he heard there deepened and ripened these impressions, so that he was led at an early age to make a solemn dedication of himself to god as his creator and redeemer. he was recommended to an eligible mercantile situation in the metropolis; but a peculiar coincidence of circumstances rendered his application unsuccessful, and, as he had long felt a great desire to devote himself to the work of the ministry, and that desire having been confirmed by his attendance while in london on the labours of mr. whitefield, the sacred flame of holy zeal was so enkindled in his breast, that from an ardent concern to honour his saviour in the conversion of sinners, he now consecrated himself to this work. being introduced to the notice of dr. doddridge, he kindly and cordially received him under his tuition. though there was a great disparity between him and his tutor in talents and acquirements, yet there was a great resemblance in christian affection, holy zeal, and ardent piety; and such was his regard to the "dear doctor," as he generally styled him, that he often mentioned his name and his excellencies with the tear glistening in his eye. he was placed in two situations as minister after leaving the academy before he came to reside at long buckby; but here was the scene of the largest portion of his ministerial life, his labour, and his success; and at one particular time, as we have hinted, he was honoured with what was considered as remarkable success. he had been repeatedly complaining of the want of a blessing on his labours, and was greatly discouraged; but he wrestled hard, to use his own expression, by fervent and constant prayer, for a blessing to attend his efforts, and his great master heard the voice of his supplication. there was an extraordinary revival in the congregation at large; many were awakened to the most serious concern about their everlasting interests; and in the course of two or three years about forty members were added to the church. after he had resigned his charge, in consequence of advancing years, he set an attractive example of piety and holy consistency; his lively and spiritual conversation was rendered useful to many. in his intercourse with christian friends he manifested the supporting and cheering influence of religion under the infirmities of age, affording the most pleasing evidence of its reality and power. he was so remarkable for his kind and affectionate disposition, that he was often compared to the apostle john. he could converse on divine subjects to the last, when his frame was enfeebled and his mental powers weakened. dr. watts' hymns were his constant companions; and those sentiments in them which appear almost too seraphic for common minds, exactly suited the element in which he lived. in his last hours he said, "i shall soon see the blessed, blessed redeemer, and the dear doctor doddridge." when he could no longer speak, he intimated a wish that his finger might be placed on a particular verse in watts' hymns. this is the language in which he wished to express the sentiments and feelings of his soul, when his lips could no longer move- "dearest of all the names above, my jesus and my god, who can resist thy heavenly love, or trifle with thy blood?" he died april 13th, 1813, and his remains were interred in the meeting house he had been the means of erecting, and near the pulpit he had so long and so usefully filled. six neighbouring ministers attended his funeral, and one of them, mr. gronow, of weedon, delivered an affecting and suitable address on the occasion. the following sabbath the funeral sermon was preached by his successor, mr. d. griffiths, to a very crowded audience, from rev. xiv. 13: "and i heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, write, blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth; yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them." the immediate successor of mr. denny was mr. mosely, who came from atherstone to buckby, continued here about eight years, and then removed to hanley, in staffordshire. it was during the ministry of mr. mosely that the present dwelling-house was built for the minister. mr. daniel griffiths was the next pastor of the church; he commenced his stated ministry at buckby march 27th, 1803, and was ordained the 17th of november following, when mr. anthony, of bedford, began the service by prayer and reading the scriptures; mr. horsey, of northampton, delivered the introductory discourse, asked the questions, and received the confession of faith; mr. denny, the former pastor, offered the ordination prayer; mr. toller, of kettering, gave the charge, from 1st tim. iv. 13-16; mr. gill, of harborough, addressed the people, from deut. i. 38; mr. knight and mr. morrell were engaged in the devotional parts of the service; and mr. cox, of clipstone, preached in the evening, from matt. vi. 33. the ministry of mr. griffiths was continued in this place for thirty-nine years. in the year 1819, the congregation having much increased, the chapel was considerably enlarged, and a fourth gallery erected, at an expense of more than â£300, which was cheerfully defrayed by the people. at the re-opening of the chapel in september, the late mr. toller, of kettering, preached, and it is supposed to have been the last time that he officiated out of his own pulpit. mr. robertson, then of stretton, in warwickshire, "preached," observes mr. griffiths, "a noble sermon in the evening, from 'all souls are mine.'" in the year 1825 a new and commodious school-room was erected, by means of a legacy of â£50 left by mr. david ashby for that purpose; the remainder of the cost being defrayed by the relatives of mr. ashby. mr. griffiths resigned his charge on the 19th of december, 1841. he still survives, and, with the remaining strength of declining life, is able to preach once on the sabbath to assist his son, who is minister at cannock, in staffordshire. after the resignation of mr. griffiths, the congregation was supplied for some time chiefly by the students from spring hill college; but at length an invitation was given to mr. apperly, from blackburn academy, who entered on his pastoral duties on the 2nd of october, 1842. the ministry of mr. apperly continued for about ten years. we regret to state that the congregation did not remain in a united or prosperous state; and on the 4th of july, 1852, mr. apperly resigned and emigrated to australia. his friends, as a token of their regard, made him a present of thirty guineas before his departure. the present number of communicants is near 50. there are 100 children in the sabbath-schools. the interest of â£230, and the rent of a small close of land, amounting in the whole to about â£17 per annum, belong to the place towards the support of the minister for the time being. a village containing the population there is in long buckby, with everything convenient for the worship of god, the ministry of the word, and the instruction of the young, in the commodious chapel and school-rooms, presents an interesting sphere of labour; and we hope to hear that this cause again revives and extends, under the labours of a devoted and successful pastor. mr. f. evans, of ulverston, lancashire, has accepted an invitation to the pastoral office, and was to commence his stated labours here october 31st, 1852. chapter xiii. memorials of the independent church at potterspury. the independent church in this place has existed about 160 years; not tracing its origin quite to the earliest days of nonconformity, but commencing about thirty years after the passing of the "bartholomew act." it was not by the immediate operation of that act, leading an ejected minister to raise a congregation of nonconformists here, as in many other places, but by its gradual influence, that it led on to the formation of this church. at the time of the passing of the act referred to, in 1662, the village was favoured with the ministry of mr. joseph newell, who was sufficiently conscientious not hastily to submit to the requirements of this act, for he suffered himself to be ejected from his living, though he subsequently conformed; but the minister by whose labour this church was formed was the rev. michael harrison, who preached in the parish church of caversfield, bucks, and resided in the vicarage there, where he had performed the duties of a faithful minister of christ for a number of years. he became dissatisfied with the terms of conformity; maintained familiar intercourse with evangelical dissenters; and at length became fully prepared to recede from the church. dr. calamy, who was then studying at oxford, says: "there were at this time monthly fasts appointed by authority, and generally observed very regularly, to implore the divine blessing in order to the success of our forces. at one of these fasts i was at bicester, and assisted old mr. cornish, who was indisposed, at his meeting house, in the morning; and afterwards walked over to caversfield, about a mile distant, the dissenters in a body bearing me company. there i preached in the public church in the afternoon, and had a crowded church from the country round. mr. m. harrison preached in the church, of which mr. beard was patron; and he lived in the house adjoining. but mr. harrison was now from home, in northamptonshire, where he was gathering a congregation of dissenters about potterspury, designing to quit the church and settle among them." mr. harrison's efforts were successful; he soon gathered around him some friends, removed to reside amongst them, formed a congregational church, and purchased a property, on which he fitted up a place of worship. when mr. harrison removed to pury, a mr. john warr, who formerly lived in the neighbourhood of caversfield, came with him to enjoy the benefit of his ministry. and connected with this circumstance is another, which will show something of the spirit of the times. "when mr. harrison came to pury, he brought a pulpit with him, which he deemed it necessary to conceal; therefore, to prevent it being known, mr. warr, being a shoemaker, contrived to fill it with shoe-pegs, and brought it among his own goods in a waggon from bicester." some property his wife possessed, in the county of chester, it is supposed was sold, to enable mr. harrison to purchase the premises on which his dwelling-house and the meeting house were fitted up. when the barn which formed the humble meeting house was prepared, at the request of the people dr. calamy preached at the opening, and had a numerous auditory. it should here be observed, that the disinterestedness and sincerity of mr. harrison were strikingly evinced by his willingness not only to relinquish his clerical stipend, but to hazard his own private property amongst a people who had never been accustomed to make voluntary efforts for the support of the gospel ministry. he trusted, however, to the great principles for which he made these sacrifices, and to the faithfulness of their glorious author; and he did not trust in vain. after labouring here about nineteen years, mr. harrison removed in the year 1709, and became the minister of an independent church at st. ives, in the county of huntingdon, where he continued to labour for many years, and died in january, 1726, leaving two daughters to lament their loss. the property at pury now passed into other hands; for mr. harrison, on leaving, sold it to a gentleman in the neighbourhood of london; reserving, however, to the people the pulpit and other fittings of the meeting house. the congregation for some time rented the place; but subsequently purchased the whole property, and vested it in the hands of trustees. the immediate successors of mr. harrison did not continue long at potterspury, and of their labours little is known. the first of these was the rev. mr. bennett, who, declining to take the pastoral office, soon removed, and was followed by the rev. isaac robinson, who sustained the pastoral office about four years. in 1714, the rev. wm. bushnell was the pastor, and continued to preach here till michaelmas, 1729, when he left, and removed to andover, in herefordshire; and from thence, in 1732, to nailsworth. he was succeeded at pury by the rev. samuel taylor. the minister of whom we have the fullest account, and whose ministry appears to have been most extensively and permanently useful in this church, though attended with some eccentricities that diminished its value, was the rev. john heywood, who came from lincoln to this place in 1739. "after preaching here for about twelve months, he was ordained september 25th, 1740; on which occasion mr. petto, of floor, began the service with prayer; mr. cartwright, of long buckby, prayed before sermon; mr. hunt, of hackney, preached the sermon to the people; mr. clark, of st. alban's, offered the ordination prayer, accompanied with imposition of hands; dr. doddridge gave the charge; and mr. drake, of yardley hastings, concluded with prayer." when mr. heywood passed his examination previous to his ordination, he was required to maintain the following thesis in latin--"the scriptures a rule of faith." the manuscript, carefully and curiously written, together with the hymn which he composed to be sung at the ordination, remains to the present day, as a proof of his learning and a specimen of his talents. the ordination hymn, and about forty others which he composed for the use of his congregation, were afterwards published, dedicated to dr. doddridge, with whom mr. heywood was on intimate terms, and to whom he expresses himself as under very great obligations. at the time of this settlement the church appears to have consisted of fifty-seven members, of whom fifteen had been admitted by mr. harrison, one by mr. robinson, twenty-four by mr. bushnell, and nineteen by mr. taylor. the following church covenant was drawn up by mr. heywood, which is agreed to by all who join the church:- _church covenant._ 1. we avouch the lord this day to be our god, and ourselves to be his people, in the truth and sincerity of our hearts. 2. we call heaven and earth, angels and men, to witness this day that we recognize our baptismal covenant, and give up ourselves to god the father, son, and spirit, as our creator, redeemer, and sanctifier, in an everlasting covenant never to be forgotten. 3. we do bind ourselves, in the presence of god, to walk together in his ways; to attend upon his word and ordinances of his grace; resolving to cleave to the lord jesus christ, and to him alone, for pardon and salvation. 4. we do sincerely promise, through divine assistance, to make the glory of god our aim and end; to watch against everything that would offend god, grieve his holy spirit, and bring a reproach upon the good way of god. 5. we solemnly promise to walk with all our fellow christians with all humility and tenderness; to love one another, even as christ has loved us, and given himself for us; to avoid jealousies, suspicions, backbitings, censurings, provokings, secret risings of spirit against them; to bear and forbear, to give and forgive, as our dear lord has taught us. 6. at all times we desire, by the help of divine grace, to watch against everything that would offend our fellow christians, and promise to be willing to submit to the advice and council of our minister and fellow christians. 7. we promise to behave with all possible loyalty and allegiance to his sacred majesty king george, and to pray for him and all his royal family, that god may bless them, and confound all the designs and blast the counsels of all his enemies, both at home and abroad. 8. we promise to cultivate the duties of the closet, and to promote family prayer, that god may dwell with us and bless us, and all that are dear to us. we also promise to abound in the strict sanctification of the lord's-day, and to bring all we can under the droppings of god's sanctuary. and all this we promise, not in our own strength and power, but in the name and strength of our lord jesus christ, with whose blood we desire this covenant may be sprinkled. such was the active spirit and ardent zeal of mr. heywood, that he engaged in an extensive range of itinerant labour, not only in the villages in which his predecessors had preached, but in many and more remote places, where, but for his abundant efforts, the gospel would have been unknown. he kept a journal of all the places in which he preached. great prosperity in the church appeared to be the result of these zealous and faithful labours. mr. heywood addressed a pastoral letter, on "the nature and importance of regeneration," to the church and congregation, which are represented as residing in about twenty places around potterspury, the names of which are given. in this wide sphere of pastoral labour, mr. heywood used to travel for many years on an old grey horse, which often stumbled, and sometimes fell; but he, nothing injured or dismayed, would prosecute his journey with his waistcoat open, and the long ends of his neckcloth streaming in the wind, while his tall lank figure, his slovenly appearance, and his too often despised employment, caused him to be regarded by many as among the most eccentric of men. this impression was doubtless increased by the colloquial style of his village discourses, in which he often condescended to employ the most common provincial expressions. the excellent mr. robins, in his memoir of mr. strange, of kilsby, speaks of mr. heywood as "that singular gentleman, much more famed for his zeal than for the prudence or propriety of his conduct." but he made suitable preparation for his more stated labours, and preserved his taste for classical and polite literature; a great many sermons, beautifully written in a peculiar kind of long hand, prove the former, while his association with noblemen of patriotic and classical minds in the neighbourhood proves the latter. his grace the duke of grafton not only condescended to visit him, but gave him free access to his library at wakefield, as he did also his immediate successor. the duke was in principle a dissenter, and in sentiment a unitarian. though his grace differed widely from both mr. heywood and his successor, he was very kind to them both; he once, at least, attended at the meeting at pury, and till the time of his death subscribed â£10 a year to the support of the cause. his subscription was continued some time after his death, but withdrawn at the decease of the rev. isaac gardner. but earl temple, the noble proprietor of stowe, formed a much closer intimacy with mr. heywood; his classic wit, sound learning, and inflexible patriotism, induced his lordship to spend much time in the company of this worthy pastor. on the death of george ii., he preached and printed a sermon on the occasion, which he dedicated to his noble friend. an amusing anecdote in connexion with this nobleman is related of mr. heywood, in the following words:- soon after the accession of george iii., as was usual on such occasions, the dissenting body went up to the throne with an address of congratulation. mr. heywood, who was known to them, went up with them; but when he came into the royal palace at st. james's, he happened to see there his friend earl temple, with whom he immediately entered into conversation. nothing could equal the vexation of the london ministers, when they saw mr. heywood enter the room at dr. williams's library, where they were assembled to go to the royal palace, nor their surprize at finding that he was the only one of their number who had a friend at court; for their plain-looking country brother had no sooner entered than he was recognized by earl temple. while mr. heywood was conversing with the noble earl, the ministers were admitted to his majesty's presence, kissed hands, and were in the act of returning, which being perceived by earl temple, he suggested to mr. heywood the danger of losing the opportunity he came to enjoy. mr. heywood instantly turned round, and passing by his brethren who were returning, called out to the king, as he retired from the throne, "stop, please your majesty, stop! i have come all the way from potterspury to kiss your majesty's hand, and i hope i shall be allowed the honour." the king, with all that excellency of disposition for which he was remarkable, turned round and presented his hand. mr. heywood gave it two or three hearty kisses, adding, "god bless your majesty! and i hope you will make a good king." scenes and associations like these, however, formed but parentheses in the history of this devoted man, whose general occupation in the instruction of the young, village preaching, and pastoral visits, secured him more satisfaction, and doubtless more honour too, than the noblest friendships earth could have supplied. scarcely a church-meeting was held without some addition to the society through his useful labours. it appears that during the many years he was pastor, there was not more than one person suspended from church fellowship for improper conduct. mr. heywood was unfortunate in his marriage relation, and for twenty-eight years endured all the painful consequences of not taking heed to "marry in the lord"; his home was uncomfortable, his work as a minister of the gospel often impeded, and its difficulties increased. the violence of disposition, equalled only by the selfishness, of his wife, formed quite a contrast to the amiableness and liberality of his own. the effects of this unsuitable union were partly apparent in his neglected person and comfortless appearance; but what his spirits suffered from it was known only to god, to whom it was presented in the many prayers he offered up on her account. these prayers were ultimately answered, and in the year 1768 he had the great happiness to receive her into the church of which he was pastor. other domestic afflictions came upon him; particularly the loss of a beloved and only son, who, having evinced true piety from his earliest years, was devoted to the ministry, and studying with dr. ashworth, at daventry; when on the 3rd of may, 1762, he was drowned while bathing, in the eighteenth year of his age. the pressure of these afflictions, together with the effects of unremitting labour and frequent exposure to wet and cold in his village excursions, began to show themselves in his constitution, and his health and strength declined. his dread, however, of being an idle servant, induced him to continue his efforts to the utmost extent. at length he was obliged to relinquish all public engagements but those of his own pulpit, for which he soon became unequal; but when he could no longer ascend the desk or walk to the meeting house, he insisted on being carried there, and, seated in one of the aisles, like the beloved apostle he continued to exhort his people to come to christ. his great affection and solicitude for children and young persons was always displayed; and when confined to his bed in his last sickness, this anxiety did not forsake him, for he would have the young people of his charge assembled in interesting groups around his bed-side, and, after addressing them with much christian feeling, he desired them to kneel down that he might lay his hands upon them, with fervent petitions for the divine blessing to rest upon them. at length, while surrounded by a few of his chosen friends, to whom he bore a peaceful testimony of the grace of christ, he fell asleep in the lord on the 1st of january, 1778. his venerable friend, the rev. william bull, of newport, preached his funeral sermon. whilst this excellent man displayed at times an eccentric manner, and there might be something imprudent connected with his zeal, yet his excellent temper, disinterested labours, sound learning, and true piety, secured for him the respect and veneration of many; and the formation of several flourishing congregations, and the conversion of many souls, prove that he did not labour in vain. as might have been expected, when mr. heywood's village labours decreased, the church and congregation became much reduced, and it required the services of a young and devoted man to revive the declining interest. mr. john goode, a student at newport academy, had assisted mr. heywood before his death, and he was invited to become the pastor, and was ordained october 24th, 1782, when his tutor, mr. bull, gave him the charge, from 1st kings xx. 11: "let not him that girdeth on his armour boast as he that putteth it off." the declining congregation was greatly revived; for though mr. goode did not attempt to fill the whole sphere of labour which his predecessor occupied, yet he preached in all the principal places. a decisive proof of his success remains in the present meeting, and the pastoral house adjoining. the old meeting house, which had originally been a barn or out-building belonging to what was called "padder's farm," and in which the congregation had assembled from its first establishment, was now pulled down with the old house adjoining, in which mr. harrison and his successors had resided. the present meeting house and parsonage were erected on the site, and the former was opened for public worship by mr. bull on the 9th of august, 1780. mr. goode was born at buckingham, march 26th, 1754. he served a regular apprenticeship to an apothecary there. during his early days, buckingham church was favoured with the ministry of the excellent rev. david simpson, afterwards of macclesfield, well known as the author of the 'plea for religion and the holy scriptures.' mr. goode and his brother, afterwards the rev. william goode, the successor of the celebrated romaine, at blackfriars, were brought to the knowledge of the truth under the ministry of mr. simpson. when brought earnestly to attend to his own salvation, he had a lively and anxious solicitude after the salvation of others. he was in the habit of rising early, and, accompanied by a few young friends, going to preach in some of the neighbouring cottages, and then returning to his daily duties at the time of commencing business. he also frequently met a few friends in the evening at a private house for prayer, and the exhortations he then delivered appear to have been made useful to many, who lived to exemplify the power of religion. it is a pleasing fact, which deserves to be recorded in connexion with this little social meeting, that the great head of the church was at this time training up three of its members to occupy important stations of usefulness in distinct portions of his vineyard--the subject of this account, his brother (afterwards the clergyman of blackfriars), and the rev. james hinton, for many years the highly-esteemed and useful pastor of the baptist church in the city of oxford. mr. goode determined on devoting himself to the work of the ministry, entered the academy at newport, and from thence came to pury, where he continued for fourteen years. the duke of grafton favoured mr. goode with many marks of kind attention and friendship. an epistolary correspondence which passed between them at different times is still preserved, which, while it illustrates the liberal and condescending respect of the nobleman, exhibits the consistent though gentlemanly demeanour of the christian pastor, availing himself of any opportunity that offered to do good. at length mr. goode removed to london: the church at white row, deprived by death of a popular and excellent minister, the rev. mr. trotman, invited mr. goode to become their pastor. this removal was very unfavourable to the church and congregation at pury; a sad state of trials and difficulties was soon experienced. at white row mr. goode continued to labour for thirty years, during a considerable portion of which he had a large congregation, and was the instrument of conversion and edification to many. in the latter part of his ministry, in consequence of removals and deaths, it was much reduced; but in the year 1819 there were 150 members in communion. after the removal of mr. goode, the members of this church who resided at towcester, deeming it more expedient to form themselves into a separate church than continue their attendance at pury, five miles distant, were dismissed from this connexion for this purpose, which was the commencement of the independent church in that town. the rev. george vowell, of homerton academy, was invited as a candidate for the pastoral office after mr. goode's removal, and entered upon his labours here. he had not long resided at pury before he was married to miss hall, the only child of mr. abraham hall, a gentleman of considerable reputation and property, in aldermanbury, london; but not many weeks after this, symptoms of a rapid decline made their appearance, and terminated his short but honourable life, november 20th, 1795, aged 23 years. the rev. stephen morrell preached here for some months, and afterwards settled at kilsby. early in 1795, rev. william whitefoot preached for several sabbaths; but as his doctrinal sentiments were not approved by all the congregation, he withdrew to hanslope, and with him the members of the church who resided there seceded, and in that village a separate cause was attempted. during the two following years, the rev. messrs. savage, may, and saunders preached as candidates, but no permanent arrangements were concluded. in september, 1798, the rev. e. white was invited as a candidate for the pastoral charge; and in march, 1799, the church, which had by this time fallen into a very low state, was re-organized under his direction, there being only eight of the members then remaining united together out of forty-seven which had belonged to the church under mr. goode's ministry; five others were admitted at the time of the re-organization. mr. white continued to preach at pury till october, 1800, when he finally declined accepting a call to the pastoral office, and removed to hertford, where he was ordained in april, 1801. he ultimately went to chester, and died there may 5th, 1811. during the time the church and congregation were in this low condition no person took a more lively interest in their affairs than the rev. samuel greathead, of newport; he not only frequently preached to them and administered the lord's supper, but suggested to them such plans as were likely, through the blessing of god, to revive the interests of religion among them. in 1805 he recommended to them the rev. isaac gardner, then preaching at newport, in essex, as a person likely to suit them as a pastor. mr. gardner came to reside among them, and it was hoped that the time had come for god again to favour this part of his zion; but mr. gardner's age rendered him incapable of the exertions required, and during the sixteen years he remained at pury his infirmities were such as to render him more fit for a station of comparative ease than for one requiring all the zeal and activity of youth. during the ministry of mr. gardner another church was formed at stony stratford, which drew off some of the best subscribers, and left but few to uphold the mother church; but about this time a mr. smith, one of the friends to this church, left â£100, the interest to be paid to the minister for the time being for ever. mr. gardner died on the 21st of october, 1821, in the 67th year of his age. a small neat tablet, by the side of the pulpit, marks the spot where his remains are deposited. again the church was supplied from the newport academy, and the rev. james slye, one of the students, was invited to become the pastor. he succeeded mr. gardner in 1823, and was ordained on the fifteenth day of june, 1825, on which occasion the rev. james pinkerton, of weedon, began with reading the scriptures and prayer; the rev. e. barling, of buckingham, delivered the introductory discourse, and asked the usual questions; the rev. d. w. aston, of buckingham, offered the ordination prayer; the rev. t. p. bull, of newport, gave the charge, from phil. i. 17; the rev. william chapman, of greenwich, preached to the people, from 2nd cor. v. 18; and the rev. t. adkins, of southampton, concluded with prayer. mr. slye's settlement was attended with a happy revival in the congregation; two new galleries were soon after erected for the accommodation of the children of the sabbath-school; and in 1826, the room in which the evening lecture had been carried on (yardley gabion) being found too small to contain the increased attendance, a new chapel was erected, in which service is regularly conducted on the sabbath evening. mr. slye still fills the office of pastor here, and continues his acceptable and useful services amongst this people. the report of the north bucks association, to which this church belongs, states "that at potterspury the attendance is still good, and there is reason to believe the word is not preached without effect. the sabbath-school continues in an encouraging state. this place has been visited during the past year by a deputation from the missionary society, and the sum of â£16. 16_s._ 3_d._ has been transmitted to the funds of that institution. grafton and alderton are supplied from this church as formerly, at both of which places the attendance is good. the present number of church members is 65. there are 130 children in the sabbath-school. in 1846, two new school-rooms were erected. services are conducted in three villages in the vicinity." thus this church has been preserved to the present time, through changing circumstances and many difficulties; yet the name of the redeemer is still honoured among them, and vital christianity promoted. chapter xiv. memorials of the independent church at yardley hastings. the name of this village is familiar to many of the lovers of poetry from cowper's celebrated lines on "yardley oak," standing in "yardley chase," about a mile and a half from the village. a stranger paying a visit to yardley might have his attention excited by the appearance of a large and beautiful stone building, as an independent chapel, with a respectable minister's house on the south side of the chapel, and spacious school-rooms on the north. the whole of the buildings, standing on an elevation and being enclosed by a wall and ornamental iron railing, add much to the appearance of the village. it would be highly gratifying to any friend to dissenting churches to be able to tell from what small beginnings this rose, who commenced an independent interest here, what difficulties were overcome, what trials were borne, and with what success the efforts were crowned. but in these respects disappointment meets us. those who first laboured here, and laid the foundation of this church, were more anxious, we presume, to have their services approved and recorded on high, than to secure a record of them to be handed down to their successors in the church below. we think it would have been wiser if they had left us some written memorials of the labours in which they engaged, and of the blessing that attended them, not for our gratification merely, but for our encouragement and improvement. the earliest trust deed of a meeting house at yardley is dated 1719, and it speaks of the building as having been recently erected. the first notice that we have been able to find of a stated minister in this place occurs in the certificate of doddridge's ordination at northampton, in 1730. one of the signatures to that document is mr. j. drake, of yardley. the same name occurs in a certificate which we have seen, preserved in the handwriting of doddridge, of the ordination of the rev. w. hextal, at creaton, in 1738. mr. drake was also present at the ordination of mr. haywood, of potterspury, in the year 1740, and he also officiated in the ordination service and signed the certificate of the late rev. w. bull, of newport, in october, 1766. thus we learn that he was for a considerable number of years minister of this place. it was also stated by the late mr. bull, that during the latter years of his life he resided at olney, was pastor of the independent church there, and was accustomed to preach one part of the sabbath at yardley, and the other part at olney. about the year 1782, the church at yardley, being destitute of a minister, requested mr. thomas raban, of olney, to render them his assistance. after supplying them with acceptance for some time, he was invited to become their pastor, and was ordained in 1783. there are some interesting particulars preserved of the character and labours of mr. raban, which we shall briefly present to the reader. he was born at turvey, in the county of bedford--the village that was for years distinguished by the ministry of legh richmond, and by the results of his ministry leading to the formation of an independent church in that place. mr. raban was apprenticed at olney, where he first heard the truths of the gospel from mr. moses brown, author of 'sunday thoughts,' then the vicar of olney. when about ten years of age, he was deeply convinced of sin, and guided to the saviour of sinners. he became a stated hearer and an affectionate friend of mr. brown's, and joined in communion with the church. he had occasional opportunities of hearing mr. whitefield, and to his dying day he retained the savour of the truths which that eminent servant of christ delivered. speaking of mr. whitefield, he would say, "i once had the honour of having him hang on my arm; and, to be sure, i thought myself the happiest of men:" at another time--"i attended him as a guide to a village where he was going to preach, to my unspeakable gratification." he sometimes also attended mr. hervey's ministry, and would speak of his sermons with renewed satisfaction and delight to the end of his life. about the year 1778, in conjunction with an intimate friend, he began to exhort at prayer-meetings attended by members of the establishment. they persevered in this practice for some time solely with the view of being serviceable to their fellow christians in that neighbourhood; though the lord, by this step, was preparing them for spheres of usefulness in another direction, and the great bishop of souls soon found employment for both of them. this friend of mr. raban's was mr. perry, who afterwards became minister at wollaston. when mr. raban had accepted the invitation to yardley, he was much devoted to the spiritual interests of his flock; but having a numerous family, he continued at olney, following his occupation as a mechanic or builder. this enabled him to serve his flock with scarcely any reward but their affections and their prayers. in addition to his labours at yardley, he preached lectures in different places; and it is worthy of remark, that he was the first dissenting minister who established a lecture at woburn, bedfordshire, where there is now a settled congregation. several remarkable escapes from danger and death were experienced by mr. raban. on one occasion, being in an unfinished building two stories high, his foot slipped and he fell to the ground and pitched upon an axe, the edge of which stood upright; it cut his hat, but missed his head, and he sustained little or no injury. at another time, a large piece of timber, on which he had set his foot, heaved up and fell with him into a saw-pit, and an anvil of a hundred pounds' weight, connected with the wood, fell upon him; but it only bruised his leg, which was soon healed. there was another still more remarkable preservation which he had to record. as he was assisting in raising a beam in a mill, the rope slipped, when the beam, under which he stood, fell with him from a height of four stories; but though much injured by the fall, his life was wonderfully preserved. at another time, he was driving a team with a load of hay down a narrow lane, when, by attempting to get on the other side of the waggon, he was thrown under the wheel; but he had the presence of mind to call to the horses to stop, which they did in a moment, and thus he was once more saved from instantaneous death. such deliverances must have deeply affected the heart of a good man, and have led him with some deep emotion to say, with the psalmist, "who redeemeth our life from destruction." but within the last month of his existence, the truth of cowper's beautiful lines were exemplified- "safety consists not in escape from dangers of a frightful shape; an earthquake may be bid to spare the man that's strangled by a hair." on lord's-day, may 9th, he was engaged in preaching at woburn. after service, when leaving a friend's house, his foot slipped over a pebble--he fell, and found his right leg was broken; and that was the means of bringing him to the end of his life, on the 31st of the same month. "in his person," it is said, "mr. raban was tall, being full six feet high, of an athletic habit, and of regular features. his perceptions were quick, his memory strong, his spirit ardent and undaunted, mingled with a good degree of patience and perseverance; in fine, he enjoyed the union of those good qualities which rendered his life highly serviceable and honourable in the situation where infinite wisdom had placed him." the rev. william bull, of newport, preached his funeral sermon, at yardley, from 2 chron. xxxii. 33 ("and all judah and jerusalem did him honour at his death"), in which he gave the following account of mr. raban's character and ministry:- it may appear needless for me to dwell upon the character of your deceased pastor, to persons who have known him so many years; but i believe very few, except his own family, were so intimately acquainted with him, either as a man, a christian, or a minister. he had long been accustomed to open his mind freely to me; and i have remarked, that those who best knew him esteemed him most; so i am conscious the more i saw of his heart the stronger affection i felt for him. few persons have filled up a greater variety of relations in life than our departed friend. early habituated to business, his increasing family and peculiar circumstances led him into complicated scenes of worldly engagements, all of which, to the best of my knowledge, he discharged with unblemished integrity and uncommon disinterestedness. in such a situation, i believe, no man ever lived wholly without censure, much less a real christian, and least of all a minister of the gospel. envy is sure to attack such a character on one side or the other. failings, from which the best of men are never exempt, are often in such cases dwelt upon with pleasure, if not magnified with diligence. however, i can truly say, that scarcely any man i know had fewer or smaller faults than my late dear friend. whatever they were, they may now properly be buried with him, while his good works, in which he abounded to the glory of god and the good of men, have followed him to another world. his disposition as a man was peaceable, loving, and friendly. his weeping family bear testimony to his peculiar tenderness and love, both as a husband and parent. it is my duty to unite with his friends in speaking of that kindness and disinterestedness with which he administered every service in his power to all who enjoyed his familiar friendship. i do not doubt but the town of olney will miss and lament him, and so will this church and congregation; and i am sure several ministers of the gospel will feel the wound deeply. his hope of salvation was firmly grounded on the lord jesus christ; his views of the gospel were evangelical and clear; his experience deep and lively; and his desires after real holiness of heart and life were steadfast and influential. while from the first of his separation from the established church he was conscientious and firm in his dissent, no person was ever more removed from bigotry towards any party. he was friendly and affectionate to pious people, and useful to the encouragement of ministers whose judgment in trivial matters differed from his own. seldom has the loss of one individual been so deeply and affectionately felt as his will be, on this account. an earnest desire to be useful to those about him strongly marked all his actions, whether it respected their temporal or their spiritual concerns. it is no wonder, therefore, that he took peculiar delight in preaching that free grace which he himself had tasted and enjoyed. to this his congregation can bear a decided testimony; and i hope, my dear friends, you will prove your love to the gospel which so long has been freely preached to you, by your exertions for its continuance now your worthy pastor is no more. "remember him who has had the rule over you, whose faith follow, considering the end of his conversation." he is gone to give an account of his ministry; and very soon you must follow him, to give your account of the use and abuse you have made of his labours of love. how happy are those who went before him to glory! and how happy will it be for you, if you follow after! as to his family, prudence tenderness and love say, be sparing. i commit them all to the support of his lord and their lord, to his god and their god. his dying prayer for his son in the ministry was, that he might be kept in a humble and faithful attachment to the truths of the gospel; and to this i add my hearty amen! upon the whole, there might be some things in his example for us to avoid; but i am sure there were many for us to imitate. his happy spirit is now doubtless before the throne, enjoying the friendship of his companion and fellow labourer, mr. perry. now their labours are ended, in the enjoyment of that "rest which remaineth for the people of god." "there, on a green and flowery mount, their weary spirits sit, and with transporting joy recount the labours of their feet." the next minister who was placed over this people was mr. john hoppus, who accepted an invitation to the pastoral office, and was ordained in may, 1804. mr. hoppus was born in london, 1761; and becoming early acquainted with real religion, he joined the church under the care of the rev. w. bennett, moorfields, availing himself also, on suitable occasions, of the pulpit instructions of the rev. messrs. newton and romaine; and the rev. rowland hill greatly attracted his admiration, on account of his fervent and zealous address. he sympathized with that school of christians which sprung from the labours of whitefield, whose letters, detailing his labours in britain and america, were always perused by mr. hoppus with delight. the very name of their author was sufficient to animate him to earnest conversation, when oppressed by bodily affliction and declining years. indeed, such was his admiration of the zealous spirit of whitefield, as recorded in his history, that to feel and to express the same sentiment in the hearing of mr. hoppus was one of the readiest avenues to his friendship. while engaged in business, he became connected with the london itinerant society, preaching in many places in the vicinity of the metropolis; and his labours proved very acceptable and useful. the following remarkable instance is deserving of notice: "when he was preaching on one occasion at lewisham, a lady who through domestic trouble was resolved on suicide, and was on her way to commit the deed, passed the door of the place where mr. hoppus was at that moment speaking of the sin of judas, who "went out, and hanged himself." hearing the preacher's voice, she entered, was much struck with his earnest manner, and applied the subject to her own case. she told him, in a subsequent interview, that he had been the means of saving both body and soul." mr. hoppus at length resigned his business, to devote himself entirely to the work of the ministry. he removed to newport pagnell, to avail himself of the advantages of the academical institution there, under the care of the rev. w. bull. while there, he was highly esteemed by his worthy tutor, his fellow students, and many of the good people in the town and neighbourhood. he had several invitations to the pastoral office, but declined the others to accept the one he received from yardley, though the cause was then in so low a state that the church consisted of only nine members, and the congregation of about forty hearers. but it was soon found necessary to erect a gallery, and remodel the interior of the chapel; and as there was no house suitable for the minister, a commodious one was erected adjoining the chapel, by the liberal permission of the marquis of northampton, the ground landlord. mr. hoppus was a devoted village pastor; he paid great attention to the young, and a weekly meeting was held at his house on saturday evenings, for the catechetical instruction and the encouragement of those young persons who appeared religiously disposed. he excelled in pastoral visitation; was much in the habit of introducing religious conversation in families, and in the work-rooms of the lacemakers. he endeavoured to extend the knowledge of the gospel to the villages around him. for many years he preached on stated evenings in the week at denton, easton, and grendon, as well as at yardley, beside visiting other places. sometimes he conducted services in the open air. he had a very happy method of dropping a word of religious advice to persons whom he accidentally saw at their worldly calling: in this he was very useful, not only in conciliating the minds of some, but often of implanting deep and permanent impressions. in the year 1813, in the midst of great pastoral success, a fire broke out, which destroyed many houses in the village; and the chapel also was destroyed, which had stood nearly a century. this grievous trial would have overwhelmed a mind of less energy and enterprise, as the people at yardley were totally unable to defray the expense of a new building. mr. hoppus, however, immediately set about the arduous task of appealing to christian benevolence, and after many months of unwearied labour raised a sufficient sum in the adjacent counties and the metropolis to erect a chapel of twice the size of the other place. a gallery was afterwards added, to accommodate a still increasing congregation. but during a pastorate of thirty years, he had to share in some of the trials of the faithful minister. he often lamented that his hands were not more strengthened by the conversion to god of such as might have proved influential in discountenancing vice and immorality by an exemplary life, in consequence of their better circumstances. in some cases his fidelity gave offence. after having been accustomed, till his seventy-second year, to preach three times on the sabbath, increasing infirmities induced him to resign the pastoral office. the last time he preached at yardley was on may 4th, 1834; and he administered the lord's supper to his late charge only a few weeks before his death. in the latter years of his life mr. hoppus often appeared to enjoy much happiness in religion, and when unable to sleep would speak much and fervently of the great truths of the gospel, and the glorious anticipations of believers. he would repeat many scripture passages and hymns from which he derived comfort and edification. it was often evident to those around him that his mind was maturing for the great and blissful change that awaited him. he had recovered from an attack of indisposition, and still appeared to retain a portion of the vigour of his naturally fine constitution. on the 30th of august, 1837, he had taken some exercise in his garden, and in the evening had prayed in his family as usual; but he had not long retired to rest before he was heard to breathe deeply twice, apparently in sleep. his appearance indicated what proved to be the event. medical aid was called in, but the vital spark had fled. thus, in his seventy-seventh year, did this servant of god obtain what he had for years desired might be granted him in death, "an easy dismission." mr. hoppus was interred in the burial-ground of the chapel. the funeral sermon was preached, according to the long expressed wish of the deceased, by his esteemed friend, the rev. t. p. bull, from a text chosen by himself--1 cor. xv. 58. mr. hoppus's labours were eminently disinterested. "i have stated," said mr. bull, in his sermon, "that he was in business seven years; and, successful as he was, when his industry, perseverance, and talents for business are considered, if he had continued in it he might have accumulated much wealth. but it was not his object to seek that which has been the ruin of so many; and at yardley you have seen, my friends, that he 'sought not yours, but you.' as to his life, it is unnecessary to say anything, for you all know his consistency. his views of the gospel were clear. his religion was that of the heart: it was sterling, rational, and practical, and influenced his life and conduct. he 'travailed in birth for souls.' when he came to yardley, the place of worship was small, the church was small, and there was no minister's house. he enlarged the chapel, built the house; and when the chapel was burned down, he accomplished the laborious task of collecting, and built this commodious place." "what he did for the cause of christ at yardley will remain as his monument to future times." these particulars are taken from an account written by mr. hoppus's only daughter. his only son is professor hoppus, of the london university. after mr. hoppus had resigned the pastoral office, the rev. j. bunn succeeded him, commencing his stated labours in january, 1834. he removed to abergavenny, in wales, in 1838. during the ministry of mr. bunn, two new galleries were added to the chapel. the rev. james spong, of newport pagnell academy, succeeded mr. bunn, becoming pastor in october, 1838. he resigned about the end of 1840. the rev. william todman, the present pastor, took the oversight of the church and congregation and commenced his labours on the 5th of june, 1842. during the ten years that have elapsed since then, the large and convenient school-rooms have been built adjoining the chapel, at a cost of nearly â£400. in the daily infant-school there are upwards of 80 children, and in the sabbath-school 260. many additions have been made to the church, and the congregations never were better than at the present time. the number of communicants is about 116. occasional services are conducted in the villages in the vicinity of yardley. the state of this interest shows what may be done, under the divine blessing, to sustain and advance a christian society on voluntary principles, in a situation of not the most promising character, by men of a devoted spirit, concerned to promote the glory of the saviour and the welfare of immortal minds. chapter xv. memorials of the independent church at kilsby and crick. the independent congregation in these places owes its origin, there is reason to conclude, to the labours of ministers ejected by the act of uniformity. mr. worth, who had been vicar of kilsby, and mr. stephen fowler, who had been rector of crick, were useful here, after their ejectment. concerning the former, palmer states "that he preached for a while, as a nonconformist, at daventry and chipping norton"; on other authority it is stated that "he also continued to labour at kilsby." of the latter we are informed, that "after leaving the church at crick, he came to reside at kilsby; and that, after attending the services of the church in the day, he repeated a sermon in his own house, in the evening of the sabbath, to such as chose to attend." the labours of these two devoted ministers of christ were rendered useful to several families in the village, so that they became attached to the preaching of the gospel and to the mode of conducting religious worship as it was practised among the nonconformists. of mr. worth it is stated that "he had three sons, ministers among the dissenters"; of mr. fowler, that "his rectory at crick was very valuable, but it proved no temptation to him to conform against his conscience." he was a very popular preacher, and indefatigable in his labours. he died through an excess of hard study and too frequent preaching, as he went to newbury upon the removal of mr. john woodbridge, who was ejected there. we are informed that "he was eminent for the holiness of his life, his zeal and constancy in his work at all times, his great moderation, and many other excellent qualities." there was also a mr. richard thorpe, ejected from barby, a village about a mile from kilsby. such was his high attainment in the exercise of prayer, that none of the ministers in those parts were thought to excel him. the youth of the village stood in great awe of him, so as to be kept from profaning the sabbath, as had been too common there. he was so much taken up with spiritual things, that he left all his worldly concerns to the care of a faithful servant. after his ejectment, he preached in his own house on thursdays without molestation. the separation of these eminent men from the established church, and their labours in this vicinity, were the means of bringing some to be decided nonconformists; but their number for many years was too small to constitute a separate church, for the support of a pastor, so that they travelled on the sabbath to attend the dissenting ministry at long buckby and daventry, and invited the ministers of these places to preach a week-day lecture at kilsby, in a house licensed for this purpose. their numbers gradually increased; the room became too small for them; they purchased another house, and fitted it up as a place to be appropriated to religious worship. this was in the year 1738. when this was done, the ministers of daventry and buckby engaged to preach to them alternately on the sabbath morning. the number of hearers still increased, so that early in the year 1750 they built a gallery for the further accommodation of the people. at this time they had attained to such a degree of strength as to indulge the thought of having a stated pastor over them. in the latter part of this year, with the hearty concurrence of the ministers by whom the lecture had been preached, they invited mr. thomas strange to minister amongst them, with a view to a settlement. after a suitable trial, the following invitation to the pastoral office was presented to him:- _kilsby, june 1st, 1752._ dear and reverend sir,--we, a church of protestant dissenters in and near this place, have through a remarkable kind providence enjoyed the benefit of your labours for upwards of twelve months to our entire satisfaction, and we hope, through the blessing of god, to our advantage. and, sir, as your religious sentiments, piety, zeal, and ministerial ability afford an encouraging prospect of your usefulness, it appears to us very desirable that you would now, sir, enter into the relation of a pastor to us, in which request you may depend upon our unanimity, and our endeavour to make your situation comfortable and useful, by our constant prayers and all other means proper to us as private christians, who are, sir, your cordial friends and most humble servants. (signed by thirty-two names.) this invitation mr. strange accepted; and though the numbers, the place of worship, and the accommodations he found were unusually defective, yet he went with the noble resolution of exerting all his powers for the increase and improvement of his humble charge; and his exertions were uncommonly great, prudent, and successful. mr. strange was born at evenley, in the county of northampton. when he was about six years of age his father was removed by death; but the father had discerned in his son, at that early age, such a thoughtful spirit as led him to express a wish that he might in after life become a christian minister. as he grew up, to obtain good books was his greatest aim; and when he had obtained a new one, he would scarcely allow himself time for his meals. he would conduct family worship at sixteen years of age, with great seriousness and propriety. on the family removing to shelston, near buckingham, he formed an intimate acquaintance with mr. boughton, afterwards a fellow student with him, and subsequently minister at buckingham. these two friends, in the ardour of their youthful zeal, walked ten miles on the lord's-day to hear mr. haywood, of potterspury, and became members of his church. mr. strange felt a great desire to be devoted to the work of the ministry, but could see no prospect of attaining that desire. but his mother mentioned the subject to mr. hayward; he introduced it to dr. doddridge, who, with his usual generosity and zeal, kindly engaged to procure for such a youth all necessary supplies during his academical course. he entered the academy at northampton in 1745, and continued there for six years, and then entered on his ministry at kilsby, where he pursued his labours as a christian pastor till near the end of his days. the following is a copy of mr. strange's certificate of ordination:- _kilsby, september 11th, 1753._ these are to certify whom it may concern, that we whose names are hereunto subscribed, pastors of churches, having received satisfaction concerning the rev. mr. thomas strange, as to the regularity of his education, the soundness of his judgment, the seriousness of his temper, and his other qualifications for public service in the ministry, have this day proceeded to set him apart to that work by prayer and imposition of hands, and cordially unite in recommending him to any church who may need his assistance. r. gilbert. james floyd, daventry. john dowley, lutterworth. george hampton, banbury. john heywood, potterspury. samuel king, welford. caleb ashworth, daventry. an unhappy peculiarity in the elocution and gesture of mr. strange in the pulpit prevented the popularity to which his other excellencies entitled him; but these defects became so annihilated to his stated hearers by nobler impressions, that they were surprised when strangers were disgusted by them. he generally preached twice at kilsby and once at crick on the lord's-day, and conducted a fourth service either at barby or hillmorton, having also to walk about eight miles. the congregations increased under him, so that in two years after his settlement they were obliged to erect two new galleries in the house at kilsby. in the year 1763 they found it necessary to build a new place of worship. towards this object they subscribed liberally, for their circumstances, raising amongst themselves â£170; and by means of an appeal to other congregations, their plan of building a place at a cost of â£400 was accomplished. a plain, commodious, and substantial meeting house was erected. a few years after, finding the private room in which the meetings at crick were held very strait and inconvenient, out of an estate settled by mr. henfrey on the dissenting society mr. strange erected a small but decent place of worship there, and about the same time purchased a cottage at hillmorton, and fitted it up for the same purpose. the people purchased the premises adjoining the chapel for a dwelling-house for their minister, which, by mr. strange's skill and industry, were greatly improved. he was one of the most useful and one of the most noble-hearted of village pastors; he catechised the young people of his charge, he visited the afflicted and tried, he kept a day-school for the benefit of the rising generation, the profits of which he devoted to pious and charitable purposes. as his own family grew up, he admitted six boarders to his house, at twelve guineas per annum and one guinea entrance. frugality, neatness, and hospitality, were never more perfectly united than in his dwelling. a salary of â£40, with the interest of â£300, and some occasional benefactions, would hardly admit of a hired servant; mrs. strange, therefore, and her daughters, managed the whole business of the family (washing and brewing not excepted), with admirable ease and regularity. whoever entered, or at whatever hour, no dã©shabillã©, either in the house or inhabitants, no confusion or bustle, was perceived, nor any want of decent accommodation or cordial welcome. no time, no money was wasted; and by this means, little as they possessed of either, they always had some of each to spare at the call of indigence, friendship, or civility. no worthy supplicant or proper visitor left the house complaining; yea, the most concealed wants or distresses of their neighbours seldom escaped the kind vigilance of its inhabitants, or were suffered to remain without some endeavour to alleviate them. yet, with all this kindness, mr. strange found every year a surplus to add to the little stock reserved for his family. he has often been heard to say, "that though when single he could scarcely make both ends meet, since his marriage he had been able to save a few shillings." a higher compliment to mrs. strange he could not easily have paid. indeed, that management must have been truly astonishing, which out of his income, and with his liberality, could lay by, in no long course of years, several hundred pounds for his widow and his four children. the authors of the 'history of dissenters' say, "let it not be supposed that this was the fruit of niggardly penury; the man was liberal, and had the spirit of a prince." he took time by the forelock. on a monday, though his sabbath was a laborious day in travelling and preaching, it was his custom to rise an hour or two before the family, to draw out the schemes of his intended discourses on the ensuing sabbath, as a directory to his thoughts, reading, and conversation through the week. when he was getting near to his sixtieth year, his strength greatly declined, and he felt that his end was drawing nigh. in his last affliction he said to some of his brethren who accidentally met at his house, "i have always valued and preached the doctrine of grace, but nothing gives me so much concern, on a review of my ministry, as that i have no more insisted upon and pressed the fruits of grace." when all united in their testimony to the practical strain of his preaching, he added, "as death and eternity draw nigh, i see more than ever i did before the infinite importance of these fruits, and the comparative insignificance of all opinions without them." as to the person of christ, he desired his flock might be assured that "he died in a firm belief that jesus christ was the true and proper son of god, in whom dwelt all the fulness of the godhead bodily; a doctrine," he added, "which i firmly believe, but do not attempt to explain." "i wish to die," he said on another occasion, "a broken-hearted sinner, renouncing everything of my own, and depending entirely for future happiness on the free grace of god, through the atonement and righteousness of christ." his last words to his surrounding friends were, "farewell, till the day of the lord jesus. the lord have mercy, spiritual and eternal mercy, on every one of you, upon this congregation, and upon the whole israel of god. the lord gave, and the lord hath a right to take away; blessed be the name of the lord!" he died september 1st, 1784, aged sixty years. thus lived and died the first pastor of the independent church at kilsby. concerning his death, the historians before referred to, say--"the tears and groans of his flock attested the greatness of their loss: it would be, indeed, a less difficult task to find a suitable successor to the see of canterbury, than to the village of kilsby." subsequent events indicate that there is considerable truth in this statement; for though sixty-eight years have passed since the death of mr. strange, and kilsby has had in that period pastors of varied excellence and usefulness, not one has yet been found to live, and labour, and die amongst them after the manner of the first pastor. the noble-spirited village pastor's wife is worthy of a short record, as we find the following notice of her death, written by the rev. h. knight, of yelvertoft:- december 12th, 1819, died at yelvertoft, in the county of northampton, aged 84, dorothy, the widow of the late rev. thomas strange, many years protestant dissenting minister at kilsby. she was "an israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile." to the last she manifested an ardent attachment to the redeemer, and a great delight in the ordinances of religion. as her course was holy, so it pleased god that her end should be peaceful. under the most severe affliction, which terminated her life, she was supported by those words--"the lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall i fear? the lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall i be afraid?" from which mr. knight preached her funeral sermon. knowing in whom she believed, and longing to depart that she might be with christ, she sweetly breathed her spirit into his hands. her truly amiable spirit, unaffected piety, exemplary conduct, and christian benevolence, endeared her to all who knew her. "the righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance." the records of this church have not been to any extent preserved, so that the numbers that entered into communion during the ministry of mr. strange cannot be ascertained; and the names of the subsequent pastors, with the date of their ministry, constitute nearly all that can be now presented. mr. jacob harwood was ordained here in 1786. he removed to the neighbourhood of leeds. mr. h. gritten was pastor in 1790. mr. thomas gardiner was the next minister, and he left in 1794. mr. morrell came in november of that year, and left at midsummer, 1799. mr. thomas spencer came at michaelmas in that year, and left in 1805. mr. thomas jones almost immediately succeeded, and removed in 1811. mr. morgan followed mr. jones, and continued until 1824. two or three ministers occupied the pulpit successively until 1827. on the 28th of june in that year mr. thomas porter was ordained. mr. porter was from the academy at hackney: at his ordination, mr. pinkerton, of weedon, prayed and read the scriptures; mr. griffiths, of buckby, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. hobson, of welford, offered the ordination prayer; mr. collison, mr. porter's tutor, delivered the charge; mr. scott, of rowell, preached to the people. mr. porter resigned his charge at kilsby, nov. 10th, 1839, and removed to godalming, in surrey. mr. james rees jones accepted the pastoral charge, and was ordained june 18th, 1840. he removed to bolton, in lancashire, in 1851. crick. the connexion between the congregations at kilsby and crick continued until the removal of mr. morgan, in the year 1824, when fifteen members resident in crick separated themselves from the church at kilsby; and early in 1825 mr. bicknell, formerly of welford, became their pastor. during his ministry, which continued for fourteen years, twenty-three members were added to the church. he resigned, in consequence of age and infirmity, in 1838. mr. cuzens, the next pastor, commenced his ministry in july of the same year, and left in october, 1841. he admitted eight members to the church. mr. hall, who succeeded mr. cuzens, came in january, 1842, and resigned in september, 1850, removing to rugeley, in staffordshire. twenty-eight members were admitted during the ministry of mr. hall. mr. thomas islip, late of stamford, ministered here from may, 1851, to january, 1852; since that time, supplies have been obtained. the present number of members is 37. there are 35 children in the sabbath-school. chapter xvi. memorials of the independent church at brigstock. in the village of brigstock, which contains upwards of 1200 inhabitants, an independent church was formed about seventy-four years ago. there was a small band of decided christians, attached to the principles of nonconformity, who in the year 1778 united together in the faith of the gospel, to sustain a christian ministry and to have the ordinances of christ administered unto them. this took place with the encouragement and advice of some ministers of christ in their vicinity, who had occasionally preached unto them, and knew the circumstances in which they were placed; but there are some interesting memorials preserved of events which preceded, and which manifestly prepared the way, under the blessing of the great head of the church, for the formation of a regular christian society in this place. it is stated on satisfactory evidence, that during the time of the plague in london, a godly tradesman of the name of leigh retired to this village; and it appears that the piety of this christian and his family, with the attention they paid to the means of grace among the nonconformists of the neighbourhood, at kettering, or at rowell, with whom they for many years became identified, was gradually the means of awakening the attention of others to the subject of true religion and to the cause of nonconformity. this presents us with a pleasing example of the useful influence that may be exerted by a christian household, in exciting attention to the means of grace and the principles of the gospel in a benighted neighbourhood. as their numbers increased, they attended at different places around them, as it might suit their convenience or their taste, those places being from eight to thirteen miles distant; some of them becoming decided christians, they united in christian fellowship with those churches where they generally attended. thus things continued until the days of doddridge's ministry, when some stated services were commenced at brigstock, of which the following account has been preserved:- many in this place, several years ago, were very desirous of having the gospel preached amongst them, as they are six miles from oundle, eight from kettering, nine from rowell, and ten from wellingborough,[6] and have bad roads all around us; consequently old people, and such as have large families, could seldom hear the word, these being the nearest places in which it was preached. therefore they made their case known to the rev. mr. doddridge, and by his means obtained an exhibition from the independent fund for the support of a monthly week-day lecture, which was preached for some time by the following ministers, viz.: messrs. doddridge, saunders, boyce, hextal, haywood, and grant. a blessing attended the word; our numbers greatly increased; many joyfully received the gospel, and became very desirous of hearing it, if possible, on a lord's-day. they entered into a subscription for a lecture once a month on lord's-day, which was the means of enlarging our interest still more. we continued in this state many years, till, having many that we hoped had received the grace of god, we began to think of embodying into a church, and had it recommended to us by the ministers that used to attend our lecture, especially the rev. mr. addington, who, being providentially cast amongst us for the first time about the year 1774, talked with us particularly upon this subject. what he said appeared to rest on many minds, and convinced us that it was our duty to attend on all the ordinances of christ: we therefore sought direction and assistance from god in prayer; and after watching for some time the openings of providence, mr. hillyard, a member of the church at wellingborough, under the pastoral care of mr. carver, was recommended as a proper person to be our minister. we took opportunities of hearing him often; and it being always to our satisfaction, we applied to him to come amongst us. we first invited him for a quarter of a year, and when that was expired, for a year, fully approving his gifts and his general views of christian doctrine and discipline. thereupon, being desirous to honour christ, as king and head of the church, and to testify our allegiance to him; in hope likewise of the fulfilment of his promise, "where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them," we desire to give up ourselves and ours to the lord, to be ruled by his laws and to attend all his ordinances, agreeable to our confession of faith and church covenant. and after having given ourselves to the lord, we also give ourselves to one another, by a declaration of god's dealings with us, in a meeting appointed for that purpose, and the mutual giving and receiving the right hand of fellowship. witness our hands, the 4th of march, 1778. (here follow the names of ten brethren.) [6] the document quoted above does not state the distances correctly. oundle is seven miles, kettering eight, rowell eleven or twelve, and wellingborough thirteen miles distant. then, in their church covenant drawn up and subscribed june 9th of the same year, they say- we, the professed disciples of christ, whose names are hereunto subscribed, meeting together for the worship of god in brigstock, having long enjoyed the means of grace through the favourable indulgence of god towards us, cannot think it will be for the glory of god to continue any longer as scattered individuals, like lambs in a large place, but judge it our duty, both from the openings of providence and from rules lying before us in god's word, to cleave to him with fuller purpose of heart than heretofore we have done, each one for ourselves, and, in the judgment of charity, each one hoping well for each other; and having given ourselves to the lord, in a perpetual covenant that shall never be forgotten, do here, in the presence of god, angels, and men as our witnesses, give each other the right hand of fellowship, binding ourselves by covenant and by oath to walk together according to that order which is, for distinction sake, called congregational, according to the abrahamic covenant, including believers and their children, which we find pointed out to us in the new testament by our lord jesus christ and his holy apostles. having thus covenanted together under christ our sovereign lord and head, we look upon it our duty to him solemnly to engage, in his strength, to maintain those truths which are essential to real christianity, against all opposers whatever, at the expense of our properties and our lives, if god in his providence should call and strengthen us so to do. (then follow the articles of their faith.) in reference to the commencement of mr. hillyard's ministry, who was the first pastor of this church at brigstock, we find the following records preserved by the church at wellingborough, of which he was a member:- _march 2nd, 1775._--the church was informed that brother hillyard had given an exhortation to some of the brethren, who should report to the church their thoughts next meeting. _may 5th._--brother hillyard exercised his gift before the church, when it was unanimously agreed that he should continue until the path of duty was more plain. in 1776, _june 6th_, the church met by appointment, and sent brother hillyard to preach whithersoever the lord is pleased to call him. in 1778, _may 3rd_, a letter was read from brigstock, saying that they had formed themselves into a church, and requested that we would send messengers to behold their faith and order, on the 9th of june. that church afterwards agreed, by the advice of ministers, to invite brother hillyard to be ordained their pastor, and for this purpose requested his dismission. he was ordained may 20th, and on this occasion mr. toller, of kettering, mr. robins, and mr. toller, of london, preached. of mr. hillyard's early ministrations it is stated, "that they were distinguished by a glowing, holy, and enlightened zeal, accompanied with great modesty and diffidence. he was fully sensible of the disadvantages under which he laboured for want of a more liberal education, yet earnestly desirous of devoting all that he had attained, all that he possessed, to the good of souls and the furtherance of the gospel. with much regret he was compelled to relinquish his station at brigstock, on account of the inability of the people to meet the wants of his increasing family. he then settled for a few years at kimbolton, in huntingdonshire, until he fixed for the remainder of his life at olney, in buckinghamshire, where during forty years he experienced the great goodness of his god and saviour. he fell asleep on the twelfth of july, 1828, in the eighty-third year of his age. his address was plain, powerful, and pointed. his ministry was abundantly blessed; his place of worship at olney was enlarged four times." an unsettled interval, attended with repeated changes, appears to have followed mr. hillyard's removal. a mr. griffin appears immediately to have succeeded mr. hillyard; then mr. maurice phillips was placed here for a short time--he came in the year 1790, when this place became united with weldon, under one pastor: mr. phillips afterwards became tutor of rotherham college, in connexion with dr. williams. mr. morgan, from dr. williams' academy, was a candidate for one year (1796); mr. william bull, for nine months; mr. spencer also ministered unto them for one year (1798). about the year 1798 we read, "that mr. mitchel was universally approved of, and about being settled with us; but he removed to leicester, and the hopes of the people were disappointed." it does not appear that any person was settled long as pastor for a number of years. this undoubtedly had a very unfavourable influence as to the numbers in church fellowship, for the next pastor observes, when he first admitted four members to the church, "for nearly twenty years there had been no addition to the little band, the result probably of being without a pastor." "the number of communicants at the time of my first dispensing the lord's supper was only five, and two of them were members of another religious community. the members of the church were reduced to eight only, and for some reasons three did not unite with us at the table. o thou spirit divine, carry on the work of salvation, that many may first give themselves to the lord, and then unto us for christ's sake! 'by whom shall jacob arise, for he is small, but by thee, o lord?'" again he wrote--"with gratitude i now look back nine years, and with holy joy my heart exclaims, what has god wrought, through whose blessing the church has increased to upwards of sixty members! this is the lord's doing; it is marvellous in our eyes." thus wrote mr. robert pickering, who was the next that was settled over them as a minister of christ. but during this unsettled interval, a new meeting house was built. a statement of their case was drawn up, sanctioned by the names of a number of ministers, soliciting aid from the churches towards this object, dated 1798. in this document they say- we now have stated supplies, in hopes that the great head of the church will send us a pastor that will go in and out before us, and feed our souls with spiritual food. our numbers being increased to about two hundred, the place which has been rented about fifty years being very small, and we being only tenants at will and under a discharge to quit at lady-day next, we have been under the necessity of purchasing a house, with ground to it sufficient for the purpose of erecting a new place for public worship, on which we have built a shell, the walls of stone, and covered with slate, to finish which in a plain comfortable manner will cost in the whole expense about â£300. we are not able to raise more than â£100 amongst ourselves, there being no individual belonging to the congregation of independent fortune; therefore we are obliged to make our case known, and to request the assistance of our friends of other congregations. by the assistance rendered the building was completed, and the expense ultimately cleared. it was in the year 1803 that mr. pickering, who had been a student at rotherham college, was introduced to the notice of the congregation at brigstock; and after ten months' probation, he was publicly ordained to the pastoral office. mr. pickering was born at ashby-de-la-zouch, in the county of leicester, march 12th, 1777. his entrance into a state of spiritual life he dates about the spring of 1794, when he says- it pleased god to convert me to himself under a sermon preached by the rev. mr. moseley, from matt. vii. 21: "not every one that saith unto me, lord, lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my father that is in heaven." i have not much recollection of what was said, but remember that such was the impression made upon my mind that i was much affected: on reaching home, i walked about the garden in much distress. when i reflected upon that heaven of which i had been hearing, i could not help exclaiming, "i shall never reach there." alarmed at my dreadful state as a sinner, i began to seek after god by prayer and a more constant attendance at the chapel, and eagerly sought every opportunity of pouring out my heart before him in the closet, the shop, or the field. nor was it long before god was pleased to break in upon my soul with light and comfort. soon after, i found great encouragement in a discourse from john vi. 37: "him that cometh unto me, i will in no wise cast out." my experience at that time was not the same as many of god's people. i had not that horror, darkness, and awful dread which some have passed through. no, blessed be immanuel! he "drew me with the cords of a man, and with bonds of love." mr. pickering became a member of the church at atherstone, where he then resided; and soon after this he began to engage in occasional religious services for the benefit of others; and on the 29th of august, 1798, he entered the academy at rotherham. on the completion of his studies he laboured for a year at driffield, in yorkshire; but difficulties arose, which rendered it unsuitable for him to remain. he was invited on probation by the people at brigstock. "i selected," he says, "as the ground of my first address to the congregation of brigstock, rom. i. 16: 'i am not ashamed of the gospel of christ.' to the speaker it was a merciful season, and a time of saving impression to a person who afterwards joined the church of christ. in the afternoon i preached at weldon, and in the evening at corby." these places combined in promoting the temporal support of the same minister, while they mutually reaped the benefit of his pious labours. for the first twenty years of his ministry mr. pickering preached statedly at brigstock and weldon every lord's-day, and once a month, in the evening, at corby also. on the 21st of june, 1804, he was ordained to the pastoral office. "the religious services of the day," he observes, "were very impressive, and highly interesting. the brethren engaged were messrs. toller, whitehead, gronow, bullock, wood, spencer, and chadwick." "the day after my ordination, a deep sense of the important work and awful responsibility of the ministry induced me to cry to god for assistance, that he would cheer me with his presence and assist me on all occasions. the care of the church was much upon my spirit, and the eternal welfare of souls before me. how weighty the charge! how weak the instrument! and how arduous the employment! oh, to be spiritually minded, watchful, and useful! lord, form my mind to bear all the trials and duties of my station, and thine shall be the praise!" mr. pickering's labours were continued here for thirty-three years. he was the pious, affectionate, kind, amiable, and faithful pastor of the village church. he had, on the whole, a peaceful and useful course; always plain and serious, evangelical and devout, in his engagements as a minister, while his daily temper and conduct recommended the gospel he preached. he died suddenly, august 27th, 1836. he was interred in the front of the chapel where he had so long preached. mr. green, of uppingham, delivered the funeral oration; mr. renals, of wellingborough, who had been a fellow student with mr. pickering, preached the funeral sermon, from john xi. 16: "let us also go, that we may die with him." mr. renals prepared and published a memoir of his friend. on his last birth-day, mr. pickering wrote- _march 12th, 1836._ i am this day fifty-nine years of age. i was nineteen when i began to exhort my fellow sinners residing in villages to think of god; and two years after, the christian church procured admission for me at rotherham college; so that i must have been engaged, more or less, about forty years in the work of the lord. all these years i have found him a good master--a friend near at hand, ever ready to help, and a constant refuge to my soul; still employing me in hoary age, and rendering my services somewhat useful in his cause. when mr. pickering was settled, a new gallery was erected; and in the course of his ministry, in the year 1819, a large vestry, measuring 20 feet by 17 feet, with a school-room of equal size over it, and both opening into the meeting house, were added, to accommodate the young and the poor. the meeting house, the vestry, and school-room together, are calculated to accommodate 450 persons. on the death of mr. pickering, the destitute and afflicted people applied to rotherham, and mr. isaac vaughan came on probation, respecting whose introduction to brigstock the following is recorded:- isaac vaughan, having been invited by the church and congregation at brigstock, and having visited the place, entered upon his labours the third sabbath in july, 1837. his ordination took place on the 2nd of may, 1838, when a very large concourse of people assembled, and a goodly company of ministers, many of whom were called upon to take part in the services. mr. thomas toller delivered a most beautiful introductory discourse; mr. h. stowell, mr. vaughan's tutor, gave an interesting and impressive charge; mr. j. green offered the ordination prayer; and mr. e. t. prust preached to the church and congregation a very appropriate sermon. the services were peculiarly solemn and interesting, and the impression good. in the spring of 1841, after four short years, mr. vaughan saw fit to remove to olney (subsequently to the new tabernacle, london), and the people were again as sheep without a shepherd, and were in an unsettled state for several years. many supplied the vacant pulpit, among whom may be mentioned mr. hillyard, since of pocklington, and mr. simpson, now of shepton mallett, both of whom stayed a considerable time, and were made useful during their temporary sojourn among the people. in january, 1845, the cause had become greatly weakened and the attendance reduced, so that the spirits of the people were much depressed, when their attention--which in 1842 had in vain been directed to the present minister, mr. thomas lord, then pastor of the independent church at wollaston--was again turned in that direction, and ultimately with success. he entered upon his labours on the 18th of the following may. the union was formed under hopeful circumstances, and has hitherto continued most cordial and harmonious. "in the year 1847, being the jubilee of the erection of the place of worship, it was found needful," states the present minister, "to effect considerable repairs and improvements. the people came forward with a willing mind and a liberal spirit, and raised upwards of â£40, which, with some other donations, was sufficient to prevent any remaining debt." "there is," he observes, "no record of members prior to the time of mr. pickering being settled, who, numbering himself one, entered all those that were in fellowship; and from that time a record has been kept. the whole number admitted, up to the present time, has been 201; of these many have fallen asleep. in the year 1824, seventeen were dismissed in peace and love, to form a separate church of the same order at weldon. a few have tired and fainted, and walk the ways of god no more; some have removed to a distance; while about sixty remain in communion. the average attendance on public worship through the year verges upon 300. the sunday-schools contain about 110 children, the average attendance being about seventy each part of the day. these are attended to by about twenty teachers, who are most of them on the lord's side. a separate service is maintained for the benefit of the children every lord's-day, which is conducted by the minister, deacons, and others in rotation. several who have been trained in the schools have become children of god, but stand connected with other churches, where they have been called in the providence of god to reside. "there is no pecuniary endowment of any kind in connexion with the church at brigstock, but a good house erected for the residence of the minister, about thirteen years ago, upon which there has rested a debt, which is slowly decreasing, and constitutes the only difficulty which presses upon the people, who are, almost without a single exception, working people. there is no day-school in connexion with the chapel, which is a serious drawback; but the want is partially met by schoolroom and scholastic privileges which exist in the village, which, however, through high church and puseyistic influences, are not so efficient or acceptable as might be. "on the whole, the christian friends at brigstock have much to be thankful for; and, in language employed at a late public meeting of the church and congregation, minister, and other friends, they say--'in looking backward, we cry, "hitherto hath the lord helped us"; and in looking forward, we "thank god and take courage." in looking inward, we feel that we are the subject of manifold deficiencies, and confess our need of a fresh baptism of heavenly and spiritual blessings; and looking upward, we cry, "o lord, revive thy work" "o lord, we beseech thee, send now prosperity." amen.'" chapter xvii. memorials of the independent church at weldon and corby. in the early part of the last century, there resided in the village of little weldon a freestone mason, mr. edward nutt, who was a protestant dissenter of the independent denomination. he usually attended divine worship at the independent meeting in kettering, under the ministry of the excellent mr. thomas saunders. after the death of mr. saunders, he travelled to oundle on the sabbath, to hear mr. goodrich; but, not satisfied with going himself to obtain improvement and enjoyment under the ministry of the gospel, he was anxious to bring it home to the inhabitants of the village in which he resided, with the hope that it might be rendered useful to them. therefore, at the quarter sessions at northampton, july 17th, 1706, he had his dwelling-house and premises registered for the worship of god, and then he began to have occasional preaching there by the dissenting ministers in the vicinity. the following copy of the license granted him has been preserved:- _northamptonshire._ these are to certify, that edward nutt, of the said county, did certify to her majesty's justices of the peace, assembled at their general quarter sessions of the peace, held for the county aforesaid, on tuesday, the 16th day of july, that the dwelling-house of the said edward nutt, with its appurtenances, situated in weldon aforesaid, in the said county of northampton, is set apart and intended a place of meeting for protestant dissenters to meet for the exercise of their religious worship and service of god. given under my hand, and the seal of my office, this 17th day of july, anno domini 1706. j. horton. in his dwelling-house mr. nutt had occasional services conducted for several years; but about the year 1736 or 1738 he fitted up, in a very plain manner, a small barn, where the meeting house now stands: it had a small window, a square pulpit, three stone steps to the pulpit, and the people sat on forms. thus it continued, and here the services were held until the present meeting house was built. mr. nutt left by will to the rev. d. goodrich, of oundle, and the rev. samuel king, of welford, his dwelling-house, with its appurtenances, a close of pasture land, and one hundred pounds, which they were to receive at the death of his wife; and mrs. nutt made the same parties joint executors of her will, and residuary legatees. it was understood that this property was meant to be applied for the maintenance of some services in the village of weldon by dissenting ministers. the parties to whom it was left, well knowing that it was the desire of mr. and mrs. nutt to have a sermon preached there once a month or oftener, by dissenting ministers of the independent denomination, consulted with some of the neighbouring ministers as to the best mode of securing the money for this purpose. it was ultimately determined to lay it out in the purchase of a piece of land in titchmarsh field, the rents and profits of which continue to be received towards the support of the minister for the time being. the dwelling-house was found to expose the executors to some trouble in obtaining tenants and keeping it in repair, so that they determined on the sale of the house, with its appurtenances, for which they received â£80. the half of this sum was expended in the enclosure of the land at titchmarsh, and the other half was applied towards the building of the new meeting house. some years after, the dwelling-house was again purchased for the residence of the minister, when they had a settled pastor at weldon. while mr. nutt was living, his business calling him very much from home, the services were irregular, being ordered so as to suit the convenience of mr. nutt and the ministers that he invited to preach: what little expense was incurred was borne by him. after his decease, the services were held with greater regularity; and after the death of mrs. nutt, the ministers that usually preached met annually at weldon, in july, to fix the course of lecture for the next year, and audit the accounts for the last. the plan was, to have a sermon once a month, on sabbath evenings, in the summer, and on thursday at eleven o'clock a.m., in the winter; and there was seven shillings and sixpence a time allowed out of the estate and money left by mr. and mrs. nutt; the surplus paid for a lecture on other sabbath evenings, which was usually preached by mr. bacon, pastor of the independent church at ashley. the preachers of the monthly lecture were generally the ministers of oundle, kettering, bowell, ashley, harborough, welford, and uppingham, all of whom gave up to mr. m. phillips, the minister at brigstock, when it was determined to connect weldon with that place. as the lectures could not be much oftener than once a month, on the lord's-day evening; and being in the forenoon on the week-days, were very thinly attended, it was considered by the ministers, trustees, and others, that it would be better for the people at weldon to become united with the church at brigstock, and so to get a regularly educated minister between them. at that time, a mr. griffin was minister at brigstock; but being seventy-six years of age, he was willing to retire as soon as the people could obtain a successor. "just at that time," writes mr. nathaniel collis, of kettering, who felt a lively interest in their concerns, "i had occasion to write to dr. williams, tutor to the academy, then at oswestry, and took the opportunity of inquiring whether any young man was there suitable for such a situation, on which the doctor recommended mr. maurice phillips: he was a welchman, and came at the midsummer vacation, 1790. at first he was a poor speaker in english, but in a few months so improved as to become a very acceptable preacher; and he was a close student." upon his coming, he regularly preached at brigstock and weldon, so that both places had preaching once every sabbath, and sometimes an additional service in the evening; and he generally preached once a month at corby, on a sabbath evening. under these arrangements, the attendance considerably increased at weldon. they made some enlargement of the place of meeting; but the number of hearers still increasing, and the place being an old building, low, and inconvenient, they at length determined on building a new meeting house. according to the plan that was formed, it was to be twenty feet wide, thirty-three feet long, sixteen feet high to the top of the side walls, and cove of the ceiling about three feet higher, all inside measure; which, it was thought, would be large enough to seat them all on the ground floor, and be high enough for a gallery, if it should be wanted. the foundation stone was laid may 23rd, 1792. the whole expense of the building was â£182. 9_s._ 3_d._ all these particulars have been minutely recorded by mr. collis, with the manner in which the money was obtained, and every donation that was received for the purpose; and he adds to his account the following characteristic note: "if the meeting house had had but one door, and a much less window, it would have been better, and saved some pounds in the expense." but, to his honour be it recorded, he gave a larger sum towards the building than any other subscriber. this place continued in connexion with the church at brigstock until the time when mr. pickering, who had for twenty years served both congregations, determined on confining his labours chiefly to the latter place. during the ministry of mr. pickering, the weldon congregation increased; so that it was thought necessary to erect a gallery across the end of the meeting, to face the pulpit, five seats deep, which was done in the year 1808, at an expense of â£39. about the year 1824, mr. pickering resigned his connexion with weldon, and the members of the brigstock church residing here received their dismission to form themselves into a distinct church of christ, when they came to the determination to endeavour to obtain a stated pastor to reside at weldon, and to preach regularly on the sabbath at weldon and corby. after some time, they gave an invitation to mr. john philip, who became their first pastor here, and laboured among them about twelve years, and then was called to close his life suddenly in their service. one sabbath morning, while engaged in preaching, he ruptured a blood vessel, was carried from his pulpit to his house, and, after a short time, died in his chair. mr. toller, of kettering, improved his death, from zech. i. 5: "the prophets, do they live for ever?" the next minister was mr. moffat, who was with them but a short time. he was succeeded by mr. s. a. bradshaw. after the removal of mr. bradshaw, an invitation was given to mr. thomas thomas, from newport academy, who became their pastor, and was ordained may 25th, 1848. the following account of the ordination service we find in the records of the church:--"on this day," it is stated, "mr. thomas was ordained. mr. coleman, of ashley, commenced by reading portions of scripture, and prayer; mr. thomas toller delivered the introductory discourse, and asked the questions; mr. green, of uppingham, offered the ordination prayer; mr. j. bull, m.a., of newport, delivered the charge; mr. robinson, of kettering, preached to the people in the evening. the services were numerously attended, and were peculiarly interesting: near 300 ministers and friends took tea together, in a close lent for the purpose. mr. robinson preached in the chapel close, in the evening; near upon 500 persons were present, and appeared much interested with the faithful and appropriate discourse." mr. thomas is still the minister of the congregations at weldon and corby. the village of corby is situated about two miles to the west of weldon, containing about eight hundred inhabitants; a small sum of money was given a hundred years ago for the preaching of a lecture here on a sabbath evening by independent ministers. this appears to have been first preached by mr. west, who was minister at ashley, and afterwards by mr. bacon, his successor. when the congregation at weldon was taken into connexion with the congregation at brigstock, the corby lecture was preached by the brigstock minister; but in the year 1824, when it was determined to have a settled minister at weldon, it was agreed that he should preach once every sabbath at corby; and this is the arrangement at the present time. about the year 1834, william rowlatt, esq., who was born at corby, but who was then residing at burton, in the parish of christchurch, in the county of southampton,[7] anxious to do something for the benefit of his native place, first erected good school-rooms for day-schools of both sexes in corby and its vicinity, and liberally endowed them, and gave a dwelling-house for the teachers. by a deed of gift, they were transferred to the british and foreign school society, and are placed under the superintendence of a local committee. they are efficiently conducted by the present teachers, mr. d. fisher and miss ross. the schools have already proved a great advantage to corby and the surrounding villages. soon after the schools were erected, the old meeting house was greatly improved, by a new gallery, pews, and pulpit, at the expense of mr. rowlatt; and he has left an endowment of â£500 to be placed on government security, the interest to be applied towards the support of the minister. whatever opinion may be entertained as to the principle or the working of endowments for religious objects, the kindness of mr. rowlatt's spirit and design must be acknowledged, and that hitherto the result has been good. [7] the name, in legal proceedings, of hampshire. there is a sabbath-school connected with this place, consisting of fifty-four children. the school connected with the congregation at weldon numbers twenty-one children. the present number of communicants is twenty-seven. in the year 1850, the sum of â£55 was left by mrs. mary french, partly for the purpose of renewing the trust deeds of the minister's house and the close belonging to this interest, and partly for making improvements in connexion with the premises. the larger part of this sum has already been applied according to the will of the donor. while we record the pecuniary aid thus afforded to a small body of nonconformists in these places, who have no wealthy individuals amongst them, and who have to stand against much influence that bears against the advancement of their principles, we trust it is ever borne in mind that the promotion of the cause of pure and undefiled christianity, the conversion of sinners unto god, and the advancement of believers in divine knowledge, faith, holiness, and love, are the great objects for which a christian church is formed and the ministry of the gospel sustained. here may these objects be abundantly promoted! chapter xviii. memorials of the independent church at yelvertoft. in the village of yelvertoft, which has a population of between six and seven hundred inhabitants, there is a neat independent chapel, capable of accommodating near four hundred persons, situated about the centre of the village, with school-rooms adjoining. passing on to a rather lower part of the village, on the opposite side may be observed a respectable dwelling-house, with garden and orchard, which is the residence of the independent minister. to be able to go back to the commencement, and trace the onward progress of such a cause, thus situated, must be especially gratifying to those who are now connected with it, while it might be gratifying to all who take an interest in the things that relate to the kingdom of christ and the highest welfare of men. it is not more than sixty years since the present chapel was erected, an independent minister regularly settled as pastor, and a church formed on congregational principles; but in the early part of the last century, occasional services were conducted here by dissenting ministers, chiefly from welford, where those residing in yelvertoft who dissented from the established church were in the habit of attending. in the book containing the records of the church, we find an account of the earliest efforts made by nonconformists in this village, and how they led on to the formation of the present interest. this account we shall now present to the reader. some time before any attempt at all was made to introduce the preached gospel into this place, and also during the time that the weekly lectures only were enjoyed, a few persons were in the habit of going to welford (about five miles distant), where they could attend that mode of worship which appeared to them most agreeable to the word of god; and there can be little doubt that it was at the suggestion of some of them that the preaching of the gospel here was commenced. when this took place (which must be now, if it occurred in the time of mr. norris, who died in 1738, nearly one hundred and twenty years ago),[8] a private house was licensed, to afford the minister at welford an opportunity to preach a week-day lecture. it is probable, though difficult to ascertain with certainty, that mr. norris, of welford, was the first that ever preached the gospel in this place amongst dissenters. his service consisted of a monthly lecture on a tuesday afternoon, which was continued by his successor, the rev. samuel king. the number that usually attended on these occasions was between twenty and thirty, composed in part of the revered ancestors of those families that form no small part of the present congregation. [8] some alteration has been made in the account here, to bring it to an agreement with the present date, 1852. in the year 1758, a place was fitted up out of an old barn, in a central part of the village, for the better accommodation of those who attended. then it appears, at least towards the close of mr. king's service, in addition to the monthly lecture, the students from the independent academy, then at daventry, supplied occasionally on the sabbath-day--procured, perhaps, through the instrumentality of mr. richard norton; and partly from this circumstance, together with occasional help when it could be had, and the greater convenience of the place for worship, the congregation gradually increased, notwithstanding the fact that a dissenting place of worship was considered by many a degradation, and the name of dissenter or presbyterian, which were confounded with each other, had considerable odium attached to it. it is to be observed, however, that the means of grace about this time were very irregularly enjoyed, for, besides its being but seldom on the sabbath, the monthly lecture was continued only nine months in the year, beginning about the first tuesday in october, and continuing till midsummer. [the lecture being preached on the afternoon of a week-day, we suppose they found it necessary to omit the service during the busy seasons of agriculture, the hay time and the harvest.] from tradition, which is indeed the chief source whence this imperfect account has been drawn, it would seem that the first person who assumed anything like the character of a settled minister was a mr. bryson, the author of a book explanatory of the 8th chapter of the epistle to the romans. he was one of those ministers the late countess of huntingdon in her liberality provided, as a means in the hands of christ to extend his church. he stayed here about two years. as her ladyship had been solicited to permit mr. bryson to continue, he being much approved of after he had been heard a little while, it is likely that she would consider herself as bound to attend to the necessities of this place, for three more gentlemen who were under her directions followed in succession. the next who succeeded was a mr. green, whose services were enjoyed but one year. after him followed a mr. porter, who, leaving at the expiration of a year, was succeeded by a mr. pritchard, who it seems did not stay quite one year. these ministers being, as to their personal expenses, permitted to draw upon their patroness, the people had only to provide them board and lodging; they boarded amongst the friends, as circumstances determined. the labours of these men were followed up by those of a mr. coulson, who divided his attention between rugby and this place. he resided some time at hillmorton, but afterwards came and lived here, and this place then enjoyed the whole of his services. he commenced his labours in the year 1783, and continued until the year 1788, occupying during his residence here a house adjoining the premises used as a place of worship. about three months after the removal of mr. coulson, in which there was no public worship (an inconvenience which the cause here had experienced more than once), mr. garner, who properly speaking was settled at kilsby, preached here one part of the day for about three months, his services commencing at michaelmas and ending at christmas the same year. mr. jones was the next person who endeavoured to advance the redeemer's cause in this place. he lived at west haddon, whose services at both places were all which at the time they enjoyed. he continued in this sphere about two years--first preached here in the beginning of the year 1789, and left in november of the year 1790. although we have reason to hope that during all these years the labours of the several persons above named were not entirely useless, but that some persons were suitably impressed with divine things, and lived and died under the influence of them, contributing in some humble proportion to preserve the worship of the true god, yet it is certain that a church was never formed, and that the ordinance of the lord's supper was never administered, until a period to which we are now approaching. those who felt themselves to be members of the invisible church of christ, and were desirous of commemorating his dying love, sought the privilege in the neighbouring churches, as their particular views led them. it was in the beginning of march, in the year 1791, that mr. knight was, by the good providence of god, called to this place; and it was now that the cause of christ, after experiencing many vicissitudes and serious interruptions in its progress, was destined to enjoy a greater permanency and regularity in the means of grace than it had ever done from its first existence. mr. knight was a student from the academy at mile end. he left the academy to come and reside amongst this people when the cause of christ did not present a very encouraging appearance; and he was removed from hence to his eternal rest, this being the only place that enjoyed the stated labours of that highly esteemed servant of god. he served his great master in this place from march, 1791, to september, 1822, a period of more than thirty years. during his ministry the cause of religion was considerably improved. the present chapel, a very compact one, capable of accommodating two hundred and sixty persons [it has since been enlarged] was erected in the year 1792, in a very suitable part of the village, and near the site of the former place. whilst it was erecting, the service of god was performed in a spacious barn. mr. knight had been here some time when his ordination took place. the following ministers took the principal parts in the services of that day: mr. grundy delivered the charge, from titus ii. 15, last clause; mr. gill preached to the people, from 2 thessalonians iii. 16. mr. horsey preached in the evening, from acts xiii. 40. the service was highly interesting, bringing together great numbers, being rather novel at that time to many in this neighbourhood. after the ordination a church was formed, which at the beginning was small; but in the course of mr. knight's ministry several were added as the fruit of his labours. as must be expected, however, in a place circumstanced as this is, the church never reached to any very great number. it has so happened, indeed, that soon after any who promised to be a great acquisition to the church, and to form its brightest ornament, were joined to it, they were removed by providence to some other place; and when the church has been deprived of two or three of its members venerable for their experience, by the stroke of death, the church's loss being their eternal gain, the void thus made has not been speedily made up; so that the church has assumed those appearances which have served alternately to raise and depress the spirits of those who tremble for the ark of god. some, indeed, of those who have been reluctantly transferred to other churches, remain, not only as monuments of divine mercy and preserving grace, but as proofs of usefulness attending the ministry of the gospel here; and many have fallen asleep in christ, a part preceding and the others following him who had been the honoured instrument of their conversion. here the account closes, as written by one hand. it appears to have been penned shortly after the death of mr. knight. we have some rather slight recollections of mr. knight. the year preceding his own death he was present at the funeral of the rev. t. n. toller, of kettering, when he offered a solemn suitable prayer before the delivery of the funeral sermon by mr. hall. at the half-yearly meeting of the association, held the next april, at rowell, he delivered a sermon in reference to the character and death of mr. toller, from acts xiii. 36: "after he had served his own generation according to the will of god, he fell on sleep." the next year mr. knight died, in an equally sudden manner. in person he was robust, with a florid countenance; his manner in the pulpit was earnest and impressive, but laborious, strained, and sometimes painful to the occasional hearer; his voice was powerful, but rather harsh. a ministry faithful and persevering left its testimony in the hearts of his people. he was highly esteemed by his brethren, and by a considerable circle of christian friends. for about six months from this time the pulpit was kindly supplied by the neighbouring ministers; after which, mr. nettleship, from rotherham academy, was invited on probation for a month, which invitation was renewed with a view to a final settlement; but he declined acceding to it. after an interval of two months, during which several students from mr. scott's seminary at rowell preached, mr. gibson, from rotherham, paid a probationary visit, and on further invitation resided here three years, at the expiration of which he was induced by various circumstances to direct his attention to some other part of the vineyard of the lord. this left the congregation again destitute of a minister, and opened the way for the introduction of mr. barber, who had been educated for the ministry at wymondley, and came here the 30th of july, 1826. his ordination took place october 9th, 1827, on which occasion the following ministers were engaged:--mr. gawthorne, of derby, stated the nature of a christian church; mr. scott, of rowell, gave the charge; mr. pinkerton, of weedon, preached to the people; mr. hobson, of welford, offered the ordination prayer. mr. gravestock, of old, addressed the congregation in the evening. mr. barber remained the highly respected pastor of this christian church until october, 1831, when, agreeably to his own wish, he removed to go into america. he and his wife set sail on the 20th of october. the congregation was supplied two sabbaths by students from rowell; and on the 23rd of the same month in which mr. barber left, mr. islip, late pastor of the independent church at ketton, rutlandshire, entered on his stated labours here. it was during the ministry of mr. barber that the dwelling-house for the minister was rebuilt, and fitted up in the state in which it now appears. in the spring of the next year after mr. islip commenced his ministry, the chapel was enlarged ten feet in length, and completed by the 8th of july. the cost of enlargement was â£110, which, with a debt remaining on the house, was in the spring of 1837 entirely defrayed by the united efforts of the friends. mr. islip's ministry was attended with a good degree of comfort and success, but was of rather short continuance here, for, owing to the unfavourable state of his health, he was obliged to resign his charge after about six years' labour in this situation. he was succeeded by mr. g. nettleship, who, after labouring thirteen years and a half in another situation in cumberland, accepted now the united invitation of this church and congregation to become their pastor. mr. nettleship commenced his stated labours here on the 18th of june, 1837, and removed from yelvertoft in the year 1846, when he was shortly after succeeded by the rev. thomas james, the present pastor of the church. the number of church members recorded when mr. barber commenced his ministry in 1826 was twenty-one; and five in addition appear to have been admitted by him. about the same number we find when mr. islip took the pastoral charge of this people in 1831. on the first sabbath in april, 1837, the minister writes--"this closes the services and the pastorate of thomas islip: twenty-eight admitted." when mr. nettleship commenced his labours, there appears to have been forty-five members in the church; and there were thirty added during his ministry. since mr. james accepted the pastoral office, thirty-two additions have been made to the church; and during his ministry new school-rooms have been erected for the children of the sabbath-school, at a cost of â£116. the present number of communicants is above 80. there are 130 or 135 children attending the sabbath-schools. there is a chapel in the village of swinford, about four miles from yelvertoft, connected with this cause, in which a regular sabbath-evening service is conducted by the pastor of this church. there have been occasional services here for some years past, and a new chapel was erected a few years ago. thus we have seen that there has been a gradual and pleasing advancement in this cause, giving hope of still further tokens of the divine presence and favour; while the pastor and his flock unitedly plead, "let thy work still appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children." chapter xix. memorials of the independent church at wollaston. the independent church in the village of wollaston is of rather recent formation. not more than sixty-four years have passed since the professing christians residing in this place who dissented from the established church were formed into a regular independent christian society; but in looking back to the early days of nonconformity, we find a mr. edmund matthews, a man of good learning, sound judgment, and serious piety, who had been the vicar of wollaston, resigning the living, refusing to submit to the terms imposed by the act of uniformity, coming out from the church, and taking his place among the noble band of nonconformist worthies. it was a considerable sacrifice that he had to make, for truth and a good conscience. "cut off from his former means of support, he lived privately at wellingborough, and practised as a medical man, but was often reduced to great straits. when things were at the lowest, he would commit his wife and seven children to the care of providence; and god mercifully appeared for them. he was laid on the bed of affliction, and saw his end approaching, with the prospect of leaving his family unprovided for. there came a messenger from two of his relations, one a draper and the other a minister, bidding him be easy about his wife and children, for the one would clothe them all, and the other provide them with food;" and to show how well they were disposed of, it is stated "that his wife afterwards practised medicine, and sent two of her sons to the university, while the eldest daughter married a knight." mr. matthews was a man full of compassion and genuine charity; exemplary for faith, meekness, patience, resignation to the will of god, and reliance on the promises. he had great comfort in death. it does not appear that mr. matthews made any attempt to raise a congregation or to carry on his ministry after his ejectment; but as there were nonconformist ministers who in this early period took opportunities to preach the gospel at wellingborough, which is within four miles of wollaston, those who separated from the established church in the latter place would travel to the former to attend those services, and would become connected with the independent churches that were early formed there, while they endeavoured to obtain occasional services in the village where they resided. it was soon after the middle of the last century that the present chapel was built, viz., in 1752; but it was not until the year 1788 that the church was formed and the first pastor settled. in that year mr. perry, of lavendon mill, near olney, was invited to take the pastoral charge over them. he was the intimate friend and had been the fellow-labourer of mr. raban, who was pastor of the church at yardley hastings. they had been connected with the established church at olney; both of them had engaged in delivering exhortations at meetings for social prayer and for the mutual improvement of their fellow christians who belonged to the church. these engagements were the means of introducing them to further service, so that they both became pastors of independent churches in these villages, which were but a short distance from their former abode. in the records of the church at west end, wellingborough, it is stated that "at a church-meeting held october 5th, 1778, mr. perry, of lavendon mill, who had for some time before exercised his gifts among dissenters, though at that time in connexion with the church of england as by law established, having testified his desire to join this church with a view to his being sent out to the ministry in an orderly way, he came, and gave an account of his call to speak the word, the reasons that induced him to approve of the order of congregational churches, and his reasons for desiring to join with this church. he was proposed to the church to join next church-meeting." in a month from this time another meeting was held, when "mr. perry gave in his experience to great satisfaction, and then, according to former appointment, preached amongst us to good satisfaction also; and the church being consulted, they thought it was plainly their duty to send brother perry out to preach the gospel wherever the lord should be pleased to call him, and concluded the next church-meeting should be held for that end and purpose." then it was unanimously agreed that brother perry should preach wherever providence should call him. it appears that mr. perry put himself into the hands of this church that they might judge of his qualifications for the ministry, with a determination to submit to the judgment they formed. in the year 1778 it is recorded, "we dismissed brother perry to the newly formed church at wollaston, and on may 28th he was ordained their pastor." some time before this mr. perry had been preaching at wollaston, and when he was invited to the pastoral office twenty-four persons had united together in the fellowship of the gospel. at the ordination service, mr. hillyard prayed; mr. carver stated the nature of the service, and proposed the usual inquiries; mr. raban offered the ordination prayer; mr. carver gave the charge, from rev. ii. 10--"be thou faithful unto death," &c.; mr. bull preached to the people, from phil. i. 27--"only let your conversation be as it becometh the gospel of christ." in the evening mr. greathead prayed, and mr. goode preached from psalm li. 18--"do good in thy good pleasure unto zion," &c. mr. perry's ministry, after his settlement, was of short duration, scarcely extending to five years; during its continuance he admitted twelve members to the small society. on february 28th, 1793, he died. he was interred at lavendon the sabbath following, when mr. raban preached the funeral sermon, from 1 thessalonians ii. 8--"so, being affectionately desirous of you," &c. he was a man of a truly pious, affectionate spirit, and was much beloved by the little flock over which he presided. immediately after the death of mr. perry, another member of the church at wellingborough, who had been chosen to the office of a deacon there, but who was resident in wollaston, was called to take the oversight of this infant church. in the records of the church to which he belonged it is stated, under the date of april 8th, 1793, "brother david hennell exercised his gifts by expounding scripture to the church in the vestry, which was very acceptable." october 3rd, "he was dismissed to the pastoral office, having the united and fervent desire of his church for his usefulness and comfort." the friends at wollaston record, "immediately after the burial of our late worthy pastor, the lord was pleased to show us he had seen our distress and heard our cries, for he was disposing the mind of a dear friend of this place to the work of the ministry--mr. david hennell. his gifts were tried at wellingborough, at the church to which he belonged, under mr. carver, and approved; they in christian love gave him liberty, unanimously, to come and statedly preach amongst us. the ordination service was held october 8th, 1794, when mr. raban commenced and asked the questions; mr. carver delivered the charge, from matthew xxviii. 20--'teaching them to observe all things,' &c.; mr. bull preached to the people, from 1 thessalonians v. 12, 13--'i beseech you, brethren, to know them which are over you in the lord,' &c. mr. hillyard, junior, preached in the evening, from acts xi. 23." mr. hennell continued his services as pastor for twenty-nine years, and during that time the place of worship underwent some enlargement, and some additions were gradually made to the church, seventy-five members being added during the course of his ministry. at the commencement of the year 1822, owing to advancing years and increasing infirmities, mr. hennell felt it to be his duty to resign his office, which he did on lord's-day, january 21st. immediately after this, the attention of the people was directed to mr. thomas coleman, who was a member of the independent church at kettering, then under the pastoral care of the rev. t. n. toller. mr. coleman had preached at wollaston for the first time on the christmas-day previous to the resignation of mr. hennell, and was now invited to preach to them on probation. this engagement was continued until midsummer, when he was invited to become the pastor, and was ordained september 5th, 1822. the following is the record preserved of the ordination service:- mr. west, of harrold, read the scriptures and prayed; mr. morris, of olney, delivered the introductory discourse and asked the questions; mr. hennell, the former pastor, gave a brief statement of the steps that had led to the formation of the present connexion; mr. coleman stated the motives which he trusted influenced him to engage in the work, the reasons why he preferred to exercise his ministry among dissenters, and his views of the doctrines of the gospel; mr. jacomb, of wellingborough, offered the ordination prayer; mr. renals, of the same place, delivered the charge, from 1 tim. iv. 16--"take heed to thyself and to thy doctrine," &c.; mr. toller, of kettering, preached to the people, from 1 peter ii. 2--"as new-born babes desire the sincere milk of the word," &c. mr. pickering, of brigstock, preached in the evening, from col. i. 12--"giving thanks unto the father," &c. a sabbath-school was first formed here after this settlement. mr. hennell survived nearly eight years after the ordination of his successor, and acted during the whole of that period in the most kind and affectionate manner towards him. he died july 28th, 1830. by his request, his death was improved by his successor, from words chosen by the preacher as appropriate to his character and the peaceful close of his life (luke ii. 29): "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word." in the year 1831 mr. coleman removed from wollaston, having received an unanimous invitation from the church and congregation at ashley and wilbarston. during his ministry twenty-two members had been admitted to the church. after this, mr. edwards was engaged in preaching to the people for about ten months. when he had left them, different supplies were engaged, until, at the commencement of the year 1834, mr. thomas lord, who was a member of the independent church, castle hill, northampton, was engaged as a supply. his services proving acceptable, after a suitable time of trial he was invited to become the pastor, and was ordained october 24th, 1834, when mr. morris again stated the nature of a christian church, and asked the questions; mr. renals offered the ordination prayer; mr. bennett, of northampton, delivered the charge, from 1 tim. iv. 6--"a good minister of jesus christ;" mr. phillips, of harrold, preached to the people, from phil. ii. 1--"if there be therefore any consolation in christ," &c. mr. vorley, of charlton, preached in the evening, from phil. i. 27--"only let your conversation," &c. mr. lord's ministry here continued until the year 1845, when he removed to brigstock. during the course of it about fifty members were added to the church; but ere it closed, some declensions took place. considerable improvements were made in the place of worship, by its being repewed and a new vestry erected, at a cost of about â£250. a dwelling-house was also purchased and fitted up for the minister, and made over to the interest, by the liberality of mr. john ward, of knutson. on the third sabbath in august, 1846, mr. john anderson became the pastor; but he resigned his office in july, 1847. in the year 1848, mr. e. w. finch, from mr. frost's seminary at cotton end, near bedford, became the minister of the place; but on march 27th, 1851, mr. finch resigned, and removed to portshead, somerset. fourteen members were added to the church by mr. finch. in october, 1851, mr. d. herschell came to wollaston, and is at present ministering there. there are now about forty-one members in the church. there are about fifty children in the sabbath-school. occasional services are conducted in villages in the vicinity. amidst various and frequent changes of late, this interest still remains, attended with difficult circumstances. may it be greatly revived, its numbers increased, and its efficiency promoted! chapter xx. memorials of the independent church at peterborough. the independent church at peterborough appears to have originated in the labours of a mr. glascott, a minister belonging to lady huntingdon's connexion, who came to this place about the year 1776 or 1777, to preach the gospel of christ. he first took his stand under the cross in the market-place. he was often interrupted in his services, and experienced much opposition; but on some occasions there was seen the lady of ---orme, esq. standing beside him, which proved some protection to him from the assaults of the rude assemblage around. there was also the late mrs. baker, who was one of the first fruits of his ministry, who became an eminent christian, useful in the cause of god, regarded as a mother in israel, surviving to a good old age. after some time they obtained a small building for public worship, on the premises of mr. ashby, of westgate street. at length an opportunity was presented for building a more commodious place. roger parker, esq. was willing to let them have the piece of ground where the chapel now stands, for the small sum of five guineas; but the circumstances connected with this agreement show that to the poor emphatically the gospel was preached, for they were unable to raise the sum above specified, and were obliged, when they met mr. parker at the office of the attorney where the agreement was to be fulfilled, to inform him privately that they could not raise the amount required; and he put his hand into his pocket and nobly gave them the five guineas, that they might fulfil the contract before the attorney. the chapel was erected in 1779 or 1780. mr. thresher was the first minister that was settled over them. but such was the intolerant spirit then prevailing in the place, that much persecution was endured by the minister and his people. they were frequently assailed on leaving the chapel, pelted and sometimes almost covered with mud and dirt. after mr. thresher's ministry closed amongst them, mr. woodward became the pastor. he preached every third sabbath at pinchbeck, near spalding, to which place he subsequently removed. the people had to struggle with great difficulties, and the congregation became very low; so that at length the chapel was closed, and remained shut up for about seven years. at the end of this period a lay preacher from northampton visited peterborough; and seeing the desolate state of things, he endeavoured to collect the scattered few, and to preach the word unto them. application after this was made to thos. wilson, esq., who sent supplies from hoxton academy. the chapel was re-opened and stated services restored about the year 1804. the labours of mr. harris, one of the students from hoxton, proved very acceptable; he received an invitation to become the pastor, and was ordained over them. in his days the congregation flourished; he became very popular, and great numbers heard the word from his lips. such was the interest that his preaching excited, that the late bishop madan, who manifested a liberal spirit towards dissenters, has been known to stand at the entrance of the chapel, with his hat in his hand, to hear mr. harris. but he removed to swansea about the year 1810. after this, supplies were again obtained from hoxton. mr. jeanes was invited to become the pastor; his preaching was acceptable and useful; but a few years after he removed to market deeping. mr. cave was another of the students who accepted an invitation to minister here; but after a few years he removed to yaxley. the next minister was a mr. phillips, who had been in lady huntingdon's connexion, and had ministered in zion chapel, london. he was pastor for a few years, and some success attended his labours; but the people again wishing for a change, mr. phillips retired in the year 1818, but continued to reside in peterborough, and preached occasionally. he was at length seized with paralysis: tried by long and heavy affliction, under which he was very graciously sustained. he died in the year 1831. mr. j. e. isaac was the next minister who received an invitation to the pastoral office. the congregation was in a very low state when he entered on his labours, but it increased under his ministry; and after he had laboured for three years, the church was re-organized, and mr. isaac was ordained may 22nd, 1821. on that occasion, mr. jervis, of ramsay, commenced the service; mr. holmes, of wisbeach, delivered the introductory discourse; mr. morrell, of st. neots, offered the ordination prayer, and gave the charge; mr. wright, of stamford, preached to the people. in the course of his ministry, mr. isaac had some serious trials to contend with; but he persevered in his labours, and they were rendered in some measure successful; so that in the year 1832, the chapel having become too small for the congregation, it was thought desirable to attempt an enlargement. this was effected, and the place was re-opened for divine worship in july of that year: on that occasion, dr. pye smith preached in the morning and evening, and mr. haynes, of boston, on the following sabbath. about this time a sabbath-school was commenced in connexion with the chapel. there are the names of about thirty persons recorded "who," it is observed, "regarded mr. isaac as their spiritual father." but under date of 1834 we find the statement, that the church saw the necessity of a change, on account of the great decrease in the number of hearers; so that mr. isaac resigned in september of that year. some time after this, mr. penman became the minister, and was ordained february 3rd, 1836. about this period, application was made to earl fitzwilliam for the grant of a piece of ground on the south side of the chapel, on which to build a school-room for the use of the sabbath-school. this was obtained, at a rental of five shillings per annum, on a lease of ninety-nine years. the cost of building, with some alterations in the chapel, was about â£205. during the last five years, mr. william palmer has been the pastor of this church. his labours have been rendered very successful, in increasing the congregation and making many additions to the church. side galleries have been added to the chapel, at a cost of â£100. there have been 120 members in peterborough and yaxley added to the church. the sabbath-school has increased from 60 to 200 children. but in the month of october, this year (1852), mr. palmer was obliged to resign his charge and retire from his labours for a season, on account of long and severe affliction. thus another change has come over this people; but if the spirit of the gospel prevails amongst them, they will receive direction from above, and god will carry forward his designs of mercy by the ministry of his truth and the other appointed means of his grace. chapter xxi. memorials of the independent church in towcester. in the early part of the 17th century, mr. samuel stone, one of the puritan divines, ministered in the church at towcester. he was born at hertford, and educated in emanuel college, cambridge. having finished his studies, he resided for some time in the house of the excellent mr. richard blackerby, where he received useful instructions, and imbibed the spirit and principles of his venerable tutor. afterwards he became minister at towcester, in northamptonshire, where his superior accomplishments and great industry were manifest to all. this, however, could not screen him from the oppression of the times, as he was an avowed but modest nonconformist to the ecclesiastical impositions. at length, seeing no prospect of enjoying his liberty in his native country, he resolved to withdraw from the scenes of persecution and retire to new england, where he arrived in the year 1633, and there he died, july 20th, 1663. it is observed, that "mr. stone was a pious, learned, and judicious divine, equally qualified for the confirmation of the truth and the refutation of error. his ministry was attended with the powerful demonstration and application of the truth: his views of church discipline were congregational." the first regular services by dissenting ministers that are known to have been held at towcester were conducted chiefly by mr. heywood, while he was pastor of the church at potterspury. he preached for some time, every third sabbath morning, in a licensed house; and in the same place, a mr. stranger, a baptist minister, residing at weston, preached occasionally. in the year 1764, the pious people of both denominations united to build a meeting house for their mutual accommodation. when mr. goode became the pastor at pury, he continued the services in the manner of his predecessors, and his labours were crowned with a happy degree of success. but a change occurred, which interrupted the union which had hitherto subsisted between those who held different views on the subject of baptism. in 1782 a mr. reddy, a baptist minister, came to reside at towcester, and then the stated use of the new meeting house was refused to mr. goode and his hearers, who, in consequence of this, met for three years after in a private house. the attendance increasing, it was deemed necessary to build another place of worship, in which they were generously assisted from various quarters. on the removal of mr. goode from pury, they obtained supplies from newport and hoxton academies. april 6th, 1794, the members of the church at potterspury that resided in towcester separated from that church for the purpose of commencing an independent church here, mr. thomas slattery, from hoxton academy, preaching to them for the first time on that day. on may 5th, 1794, eleven persons were formed into a christian church, mr. hillyard, of olney, presiding. for some time they were supplied by various ministers, messrs. bull, greathead, and hillyard occasionally administering the lord's supper. at length mr. gunn, a student from hoxton academy, was invited to become the pastor, and he was ordained october 16th, 1796. upon this occasion mr. denny, of long buckby, offered the ordination prayer; the solemn engagements mutually confirmed between the people and the minister they had chosen were introduced by some observations on the proper tendency and principles of such a transaction, from mr. greathead, of woburn; mr. bull, of newport, gave the charge, from col. iv. 17; mr. horsey, of northampton, addressed the church, from 2nd cor. iv. 15. in little more than three years after this settlement mr. gunn removed to aylesbury, and was succeeded at towcester by mr. joshua denham, who commenced his ministry here february 9th, 1800. mr. denham continued his services as pastor until the year 1814, when he resigned, and was succeeded by mr. joseph gravestock, from newport academy, who was ordained on the 17th of august in that year, when mr. jackson, of old, began with prayer; mr. thomas morrell delivered the introductory discourse; mr. watson offered the ordination prayer; mr. bull gave the charge, from ezek. iii. 17; mr. aston preached to the people, from 1st thess. v. 13. mr. jackson preached in the evening. on the death of mr. jackson mr. gravestock removed to old; when, after a period of four years, mr. hitchin became the pastor, in july, 1818. in the year 1823 mr. hitchin removed to hockliffe, and mr. william hawkins, from newport academy, was chosen to the pastoral office. mr. hawkins laboured here between twenty and thirty years; during his ministry a new chapel was erected. mr. buckingham, minister at potterspury, went out from this church. mr. s. causby, the present minister, entered on his labours in july, 1851. the records of the church contain 146 names of members admitted to the church from its formation to the present time; but for seventeen years, _i.e._ from 1815-1832, the book appears to have been neglected, and no names were entered. the number of members at this time is 50. there are 110 children in the sabbath-schools, and 24 teachers who take part in their instruction. chapter xxii. memorials of the independent church at old. in the village of old there is a neat brick building as an independent chapel, with a small burying-ground enclosed in connexion with it; and nearly adjoining it is a dwelling-house for the minister. though this chapel was not erected until the year 1809, yet we have to look backward for a little more than a hundred years to observe the first efforts that were made to obtain some stated services by nonconformist ministers in this place. it appears highly probable that the gospel was occasionally preached at old and scaldwell (the latter village being about a mile from the former) in the early part of the last century. we have found, in the records of the independent church at rowell, that there were a number of persons who were members of that church residing in scaldwell and its vicinity soon after the commencement of the last century, who expressed a desire to be formed into a separate church in that place, on account of the distance they were from rowell; but their numbers were thought not to be sufficient then to justify such a step. in the year 1750, mr. thomas palmer, of old, great grandfather to the late mr. palmer, by deed of bargain and sale invested certain premises at old in the hands of four trustees, that out of the rents and profits thereof they should pay â£5 per annum, by four quarterly payments, to some dissenting minister, teacher, or preacher, to do divine service and preach a sermon once a month at old for ever. neighbouring ministers performed this monthly service for some time. the attendance on this lecture was so good as to lead the friends to obtain more frequent services, which were conducted in a barn on the property. some of the hearers were in the habit of attending the baptist meeting at walgrave, a short distance from old; but the practice of strict communion cut them off from participating in divine ordinances there, so that it was at length determined to form a church at old, and to look out for a stated pastor. mr. shadrach jackson, from the newport pagnell institution, visited old in the year 1808, and preached in the barn with acceptance and success. the increasing attendance rendered it desirable and indeed necessary to have a more suitable and commodious place for divine worship, and the present chapel was erected on the premises, at a cost of â£850. at the ordination of mr. jackson, his tutor, the late mr. william bull, the friend and correspondent of newton and cowper, delivered an affectionate and impressive charge, taking for his motto the remarkable words of joseph, addressed to his brother benjamin (gen. xliii. 29): "god be gracious unto thee, my son." the late mr. hillyard, of bedford, in his own peculiar, affectionate, and persuasive manner, gave a most excellent address to the people, from the words of ruth (i. 16, 17): "entreat me not to leave thee," &c. mr. jackson was a native of doncaster. he early became acquainted with mr. samuel hobson, of sheffield, afterwards pastor of the church at maldon, beds. the late mr. thorpe, of bristol, married the sister of mr. hobson, and to him both these young men were considerably indebted for their ministerial prospects. both of them became students at newport; they were both men of ability--hobson having perhaps most philosophy, and jackson most genius and pulpit unction. the latter was a striking and impressive preacher, decidedly popular, not failing to secure the attention of his audience. he had an excellent gift in prayer, and was often called upon to pray at the meetings of his brethren in the county association. but it was not a long course of service that was allotted to him. his health was not good; he was subject to an affection of the throat; but it is thought that the affliction which ended in death was brought on by his preaching one night in wet clothes at the neighbouring village of holcott. he never ceased to feel the effects of that night, and gradually sunk, though occasionally giving some hopes of recovery. after a long and painful affliction, he died, september 3rd, 1817. his remains were interred near the pulpit, and a tablet was erected to his memory by subscription. mr. hillyard, minister at bedworth, who was a member of the church at old, and has supplied some of these particulars, states--"i saw him just as he was dying, being then about nine years of age; he mentioned my name. almost the last thing he said referring to himself was, 'a sinner saved by grace.' i well remember the deep impression his death made on my mind; and all the circumstances of the funeral; and the funeral sermon being preached by the late mr. toller, from acts xx. 24: 'and none of these things move me, neither count i my life dear unto myself, so that i might finish my course with joy, and the ministry which i have received of the lord jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of god.'" the writer of these 'memorials' attended that service, and has a vivid recollection of the crowded assembly, the impressive sermon, the solemn tones and the tears of the preacher, with the testimony he bore to the increasing spirituality of mr. jackson's mind during the closing period of his life. in the first part of mr. jackson's ministry the prospects of the society were very encouraging; but it soon became manifest that, although the church is not of this world, yet, being in the world, it is more or less affected by those visitations that transpire therein, for three very efficient friends and supporters of the cause were soon removed by death. these events, with the early removal of mr. jackson, and some dissensions that afterwards arose, greatly weakened the cause, and cast some gloom over its prospects. the church was now supplied by neighbouring ministers and students until april, 1818, when mr. joseph gravestock, of towcester, who had been a short time fellow student with mr. jackson, came to old as a supply. as his connexion with the church at towcester was dissolved, his services being acceptable here, after a period of probation he received an invitation to the pastoral office. on the 3rd of september, in this year, he removed with his family to old; and on the evening of his arrival, preached from heb. xiii. 8 ("jesus christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever"), having special reference to the death of his predecessor, who had been in the world of spirits just one year, and dwelling on the immutability and all-sufficiency of the ever living redeemer. "amidst varied scenes, producing diversified fears and hopes, mr. gravestock (who is still living) pursued his ministerial course till september, 1843, when failure of health and other circumstances induced him to resign his office and terminate his labours in a farewell address, from rev. ii. 10: 'be thou faithful unto death, and i will give thee a crown of life.'" the stated ministry of mr. gravestock at towcester and at old extended to nearly thirty years, for he was ordained at the former place august 17th, 1814, when mr. jackson commenced the service with prayer; mr. bull, his tutor, delivering the charge; mr. aston, of buckingham, preaching to the people; and mr. jackson preaching in the evening. after this resignation, supplies were obtained until 1845, when mr. ingram moody was invited to the pastoral office, in which he continued until 1849, when he resigned and emigrated to australia. after the removal of mr. moody, mr. john spence, of kettering, a member of the independent church under the pastoral care of mr. toller, who had for some time previously engaged in occasional services in the vicinity, was invited to supply the pulpit at old. his ministry proving acceptable to the people, at the expiration of four months he received an invitation to become the pastor, and entered on his stated labours in january, 1850, and has now become the resident minister of the place. in the spring of 1852, alterations and improvements were made on the premises, the burying ground enclosed, at the expense of about â£60. on lord's-day, june 13th, three sermons were preached (morning and evening, by mr. toller, of kettering; afternoon, by mr. samuel marsh, of moulton), when collections were made towards the expenses incurred. numerous congregations assembled in the afternoon and evening. on the following day a public tea-meeting was held, when 200 persons took tea; after which there was a public meeting, when mr. j. stockburn, of kettering, presided. mr. spence read a brief history of the cause, when effective addresses were delivered by several ministers and gentlemen that were present. the collections and donations produced â£36. 17_s._ 11-1/2_d._, leaving a debt of â£23. 2_s._ 0-1/2_d._, which it is hoped will be entirely extinguished at the next anniversary, and by means of exertions that may be made previous to that time. the prospects of the church appear to be more pleasing than they have been for some years past; and we trust that the present pastor and his flock will go forward with united efforts and realize an abundant blessing, peace and prosperity being richly enjoyed among them, that the great head of the church in all may be glorified. in connexion with this cause at old there is a small place of worship at scaldwell, where one service on the sabbath is generally conducted. the number of communicants at present is twenty-six. there are twenty-five children in the sabbath-school--number in minister's bible class, thirty; and occasional services are conducted in villages in the vicinity. from this village society three independent ministers have been raised up, viz.: mr. t. hillyard, of bedworth; mr. gammage, of ketton; and mr. gammage's son, mr. henry gammage, of dunmow, essex. chapter xxiii. memorials of the independent church at everdon. the village of everdon, four miles from daventry, contains nearly 800 inhabitants. there were no regular efforts made here for the preaching of the gospel by dissenters until the year 1811. mr. barge, a member of the independent church at weedon, under the influence of compassion for the state of the inhabitants, fitted up a small place of worship at his own expense, measuring twenty-two feet by ten feet, which was opened may 30th, 1811, and regularly supplied twice on the sabbath by mr. meacock, a member of the independent church, west orchard, coventry; and occasionally in the week by mr. gronow, of weedon. the services were well attended, and the place was soon found to be too small for the number of hearers; which induced mr. barge to give a piece of ground for the erection of a new chapel, which was opened october 26th, 1813, on which occasion mr. jerrard, of coventry, preached from rev. i. 12, 13, and mr. whitehead, of creaton, from matt. xviii. 20, and mr. w. p. davis, of wellingborough, from num. x. 29. this building was invested in the hands of trustees of the independent denomination. several persons from the neighbouring villages began to attend the services, and there was a pleasing prospect of success. the following spring a church was formed by mr. gronow, and mr. meacock was invited to become their pastor, and was ordained on the 23rd of august, when messrs. morgan, of kilsby, watson, of daventry, gronow, of weedon, whitehead, of greaton, bicknell, of brownsover, knight, of yelvertoft, and griffiths, of long buckby, were engaged in the services of the day. an endowment of â£500 was bequeathed to the chapel by william falwell, esq., the interest of which is to be applied toward the support of the minister for the time being. much opposition has been experienced here, but some have been brought to the knowledge of the truth. the villages of bradley, newnham, and farthingstone have shared, at different periods, in the pastor's labours; but in his later years mr. meacock chiefly confined his services to everdon. at length, through the increasing infirmities of age, after labouring for a period of thirty-two years amongst his little flock in peace and harmony, he resigned the pastoral office the first sabbath in april, 1845, and was succeeded by mr. s. g. stirmey, the present pastor. mr. stirmey observes, that at the present time the church is reduced to a low state, and that the sabbath-school numbers but about thirty children; for great efforts are made, and very considerable influence is employed, on the side of the established church, so that the difficulties with which this cause has to struggle are very considerable. chapter xxiv. memorials of the independent church at brackley. brackley is a small market town and ancient borough, near the south-west extremity of the county: it has, in former times, been a place of considerable importance. in the early days of methodism, john wesley might have been seen sometimes, preaching to a rustic throng from the steps of the market-house. but the independent church in this place is of very recent date, and its history will therefore be comprised within a very small compass. a short time previous to the year 1835, "the north bucks association" made an ineffectual attempt to obtain a place of worship in this town. at length a room was secured for the purposes of divine worship and preaching the gospel. this proving inadequate to accommodate the attendants, in 1836 a chapel was erected, at a cost of â£650, capable of seating about 300 persons. the services of mr. john ashby, formerly a student at newport, now minister at stony stratford, were engaged by the newly formed congregation, and he laboured here for somewhat more than a year. after his removal, the pulpit was principally supplied by students from newport academy. in january, 1838, mr. g. smith, late of halesworth, accepted an invitation to labour here. in the same year a church was formed, consisting of twenty persons--the ordinance of the lord's supper was first administered june 24th of that year; but in the beginning of 1839 mr. smith was compelled by indisposition to resign his connexion with the church. again supplies were obtained from the newport seminary, until 1842, when mr. w. r. lewis commenced a probationary course of labour, and afterwards settled as the pastor. under his superintendence the church was re-organized; but after the lapse of three or four years circumstances arose which rendered his removal to a more extended sphere of labour a subject for consideration, which resulted in his resignation about christmas, 1846. in 1847, mr. robert davis, who had been pastor at turvey, bedfordshire, accepted an invitation to minister in this place, and continued his services until december, 1851. the church, again being destitute of a pastor, was supplied for a time by ministers from the vicinity; until, in august of this year (1852), mr. t. roberts, late student at newport pagnell, accepted an invitation to become the pastor under somewhat pleasing circumstances; and it is hoped that his ministry will be rendered truly useful, that the church may be increased, and the name of the redeemer glorified. the present number of communicants is thirty-three; children in the sabbath-school, rather more than fifty. chapter xxv. memorials of the independent church at byfield. the village of byfield, containing more than 1000 inhabitants, has in it a small independent church, of recent origin; but it has struggled with many difficulties, and a number of changes have taken place during its short history, of which we can only present some very concise statements. about thirty years ago, some persons residing here, who were members of a dissenting church in the vicinity, determined to invite some of the neighbouring ministers to preach the gospel of christ in this place. for three months the services were conducted in a room, which was rented and fitted up for the purpose. the home missionary society then agreed to give â£30 as a grant for one year, and recommended mr. grey as the minister, formerly of oakham, rutlandshire. during the first year of his ministry, which was 1827, a neat little chapel was erected. mr. grey remained three years, during which time his ministry was rendered useful. a short time after mr. grey had left, the place was supplied by mr. kidgell, from newport academy, who became the pastor of the church in 1831. his ministry was continued here for four years. mr. phillips next supplied the place for three months, under whose ministry things greatly revived; but through some misunderstanding, he quitted the pleasing scene of usefulness that appeared to be opening before him, the church much regretting his removal. after this mr. moses became the pastor, and continued with them three years. then a mr. sanderson was invited for twelve months, in consequence of an advertisement; "but since then," it is remarked, "the church has had no faith in advertising ministers." mr. kidgell then returned to his former scene of labour, and remained for eighteen months, but under considerable discouragement. after his final removal, the congregation was supplied by neighbouring ministers and occasional preachers for more than twelve months. at length they invited a mr. berrill, who remained with them seven years. he laboured under many difficulties, weathered many storms, and at length retired from the situation. for ten months they remained destitute, having supplies as they could be obtained. in march, 1849, their present minister, mr. robson, came to supply them, and was invited to remain. he found the place in a very low state, but things have taken a favourable turn. the chapel is now well attended, and seventeen members have been added to the church. the present number of communicants is thirty-three. in the sabbath-school there are thirty children, instructed by six teachers. chapter xxvi. memorials of the independent church at paulerspury. in this village, known as the birth-place of the celebrated dr. carey, of the baptist mission at serampore, the independent church is of recent formation. in the year 1826 a chapel was erected, and the whole of the expenses were cleared off by the exertions of mr. hawkins, independent minister, of towcester. about the autumn of 1841, mr. buckingham, the present minister of this place, was invited to preach in the chapel on the week evenings. his services proving acceptable, attention being excited, and indications of usefulness appearing, the congregation expressed a desire to enjoy the benefit of his stated labours. in connexion with this proposal, arrangements were made between the congregation at paulerspury and the church at towcester, for the chapel, then the property of that church, to be put in trust for the use of this congregation. in the summer of 1842 mr. buckingham began to labour statedly among the people, and was much encouraged by the increasing attention, and the disposition manifested by the people to hear the word. a sabbath-school was formed, when between forty and fifty children attended: it had a gradual increase, until, in the following year, the number of scholars rose to 200. since then the numbers have varied, owing to different causes which will arise in this changing world. the congregation increased so, that it was found necessary to erect two side galleries, in addition to the front gallery that had been already formed. the week-day services were also well attended. a small number of persons, most of whom had been brought to an acquaintance with divine things under mr. buckingham's ministry, were desirous of enjoying the benefits of church fellowship, and were encouraged to give themselves to the lord and to each other in these bonds of the gospel; and were accordingly formed into a church, consisting of sixteen members, on the 28th of february, 1844. the services on the interesting occasion were conducted by messrs hawkins, of towcester; slye, of potterspury; j. bull, of newport pagnell; and wager, of stony stratford: then the ordinance of the lord's supper was first administered to them, in which persons of different religious denominations united, who appeared to feel a deep and lively interest in the solemnity. in the beginning of the year 1845 some of the members of the church experienced much persecution, which caused a few to halt, and others to keep back. it rose to such a height, at one time, as to threaten the extinction of the rising energies of the church; but through the kind interposition of a gracious providence, a reaction took place, and the wrath of man was made to praise god. in the early part of the year 1847, the subject of mr. buckingham's ordination was mentioned; neighbouring ministers having hitherto administered the lord's supper. after much deliberation and prayer, the subject was laid before the ministers of the north bucks association, and after mature consideration the approval of their committee was expressed. it was arranged that the ordination service should take place on the 24th of november, 1847. on that day, mr. hawkins commenced the services; mr. j. bull expounded the principles of congregationalism in an introductory discourse; mr. slye proposed the questions; mr. davis offered the ordination prayer; mr. t. p. bull gave the charge; mr. aston preached to the people. the year immediately succeeding this, mr. buckingham's health began very seriously to fail, and he was obliged to desist from preaching for several months, during which time supplies were obtained. his health is still very delicate, and but for frequent assistance he would be obliged to resign the pastoral oversight of his much attached people. in consequence of the large number of school children, it was deemed advisable to erect new school-rooms for their better accommodation. in the year 1850 the school-rooms were erected, at a cost of â£150. through the kindness of friends, and especially the friends at pury, the whole is now cleared off. a burial ground is attached to the chapel, and more than fifty interments have taken place since it was appropriated for this purpose in 1843. in regard to the future, the pastor observes "that the prospects are very cheering." on the sabbath and week-evening services the attendance continues steady and regular, and never better than at the present time. the church has continued to increase. the present number of communicants is seventy-two; sabbath-school children, one hundred and fifty-nine--teachers, forty. we trust the blessing of the lord will still rest upon them, and that, "walking together in the fear of the lord, and the comfort of the holy ghost, they will be edified and multiplied." chapter xxvii. home missionary stations. 1.--king's cliffe and nassington. in the north-eastern part of the county of northampton there are two home missionary stations. in the first of these the agent statedly preaches at king's cliffe and nassington, having a chapel at castor also under his superintendence. the church that has been formed at king's cliffe originated in the efforts of the general baptists about thirty years back. the rev. mr. payne, who belonged to that denomination, and was minister of baradon, rutlandshire, preached the gospel here, and had a chapel erected. but mr. payne shortly after left the neighbourhood; and after repeated efforts by baptist ministers, with but little success, the place was resigned into the hands of the independents. the northamptonshire association of independent churches took the place under their direction for a time, in connexion with nassington, and the rev. j. matthews and the rev. j. dann laboured in these places, having their residence chiefly at the latter village. a church was formed at nassington on the 8th of april, 1835; and the present chapel was opened for public worship on the 21st of may, 1839, when the rev. b. hobson, of welford, and the rev. e. t. prust, of northampton, preached. in the year 1841 the station was taken into connexion with the home missionary society. in march, 1844, the rev. g. amos, one of the society's agents, was sent on probation, and accepted as the minister of the two churches. on the 24th of june in that year his ordination took place, in the chapel at nassington: the ministers who engaged were the rev. messrs. islip, of stamford, gammage, of ketton, goode, of peterborough, newth, of oundle, smith, of wymondham. in october of that year mr. amos commenced his residence at king's cliffe. the ground on which the chapel was first erected here being private property, and as no satisfactory arrangements for its purchase could be made, it was at length determined to give it up, and to build a new one. the present independent chapel in king's cliffe was built in the year 1846; the opening services were held on the 29th of september. the rev. j. richardson, of tottenham court chapel, london, preached two sermons on the occasion; and on the following sabbath sermons were preached by the rev. j. matthews, of shepton, norfolk, the rev. a. newth, of oundle, and the rev. w. robinson, of kettering. a school-room was built in 1847, and opened for a day-school in october of that year. the cost of the chapel and the school-room was about â£500. of this sum, there now remains a debt of about â£150. at castor a neat chapel was erected in 1848; the rev. t. toller, of kettering, and the rev. e. t. prust, of northampton, preached when it was opened for divine worship. there are thirty-seven members in the church at king's cliffe, and forty in the church at nassington--total, seventy-seven. the sabbath-school in the former place has one hundred and thirty children, and the sabbath-school in the latter place, seventy--total, two hundred. 2.--borough fen. this place is extra parochial, the property of sir culling eardley eardley, bart., situated six miles north of peterborough. the gospel was introduced here about twenty years ago, by the wesleyan methodists; the preaching services were then conducted in a room of the house now occupied by the minister. in 1836 sir culling built a neat and spacious building, which is used both as a daily school-room and chapel. for several years the preaching services were conducted by the master. a congregation having been thus collected, and sunday-schools opened, it was considered to be a promising sphere for regular ministerial labour; and accordingly, in 1843, mr. d. blellock was stationed here as a home missionary. after the removal of mr. blellock in 1846, mr. alexander yuill was settled here, who, after a few months of acceptable and useful labour, fell asleep in jesus. in january, 1849, mr. j. b. bishop, the present pastor, was invited to settle over the congregation worshipping in this place and in peakirk. through mr. bishop's instrumentality a christian church was formed, march 30th, 1849, numbering thirteen members. the following places are connected with this station, viz.: peakirk, crowland (lincolnshire), glinton, and new borough. there are now twenty-seven church members, seventy-five sabbath-school children, and one day-school. 3.--middleton. in the year 1844, a neat and commodious village chapel, capable of seating near two hundred hearers, was erected here, at a cost of more than â£300; and this year (1852) school-rooms have been added, which have cost nearly â£100. it is supplied generally in the afternoon and evening of the sabbath, and there is in connexion with it a sabbath-school containing nearly one hundred children. appendix. i. the following statements will show the amount of money that has been expended on the chapels, school-rooms, ministers' houses, &c., in connexion with the independent denomination in northamptonshire, during little more than the last quarter of a century. â£. _s._ _d._ northampton- castle hill--new school-rooms and improvements in the chapel, 1825-1852 1,400 0 0 king street--new school-rooms 336 6 5 commercial street--new chapel, galleries and organ, new school-rooms, 1829-1851 3,800 0 0 rowell--improvements in the chapel, 1852 800 0 0 kettering--new school-rooms and improvements in the chapel, 1849. 1,400 0 0 harborough--new chapel and new school-room, 1844-1850 3,230 0 0 ashley--improvements in the chapel and minister's house, 1827-1832 400 0 0 wellingborough- cheese lane--new school-rooms, 1850 300 0 0 salem chapel--new school-rooms, 1850 300 0 0 weedon beck--new school-room, improvements in the chapel 235 0 0 long buckby--chapel enlarged, new school-room, 1819-1825 350 0 0 potterspury--new school-rooms 208 17 0 potterspury--yardley gobion, new chapel 368 4 10-1/2 yardley hastings--new school-rooms 400 0 0 brigstock--minister's house, improvements in the chapel 456 12 9 yelvertoft--chapel enlarged, new school-rooms 226 0 0 wollaston--new vestry, improvements in the chapel, minister's house 645 4 3 ---------------- carried forward â£14,856 5 3-1/2 â£. s. d. brought forward 14,856 5 3-1/2 peterborough--new school-room, galleries in the chapel, 1834-1848 350 0 0 towcester--new chapel and school-rooms, 1846 1,134 3 10 old--improvements in the chapel and premises, 1852 60 0 0 brackley--new chapel, 1836 650 0 0 paulerspury--new chapel, vestry, galleries, and school-rooms, 1826-1850 606 12 0 king's cliffe--new chapel and school-room 500 0 0 nassington--new chapel 300 0 0 castor--new chapel 260 0 0 middleton--new chapel, 1844; school-room, 1852 400 0 0 broughton--new chapel 100 0 0 ------------- â£19,217 1 11-1/2 ii. the number of communicants and sabbath-school children. communicants. children. northampton, castle hill 150 300 northampton, king's street 72 95 northampton, commercial street 160 400 rowell 130 320 kettering 200 280 harborough 163 260 ashley and wilbarston 56 60 welford 80 130 creaton 60 80 daventry 94 190 wellingborough, cheese lane 70 190 wellingborough, west end 37 84 wellingborough, salem 100 200 oundle 70 120 weedon beck 80 125 long buckby 50 100 potterspury 65 130 yardley hastings 116 260 kilsby and crick 60 at crick 35 --- --- carried forward 1,813 3,359 communicants. children. brought forward 1,813 3,359 brigstock 60 110 weldon and corby 27 75 yelvertoft 80 130 wollaston 41 about 50 peterborough 120 200 towcester 50 110 old 26 25 everdon 30 brackley 33 50 byfield 33 30 paulerspury 72 159 king's cliffe and nassington 71 200 borough fen 27 75 middleton 100 ---- ---- 2,453 4,703 iii. provident society. there is a society in connexion with the independent churches, bearing the title of "the provident society for the relief of aged and afflicted ministers and their families in the county of northampton and its connexions." this society was established in the year 1811: its funds at the present time amount to about â£6,400, and they are receiving a small increase by annual collections and subscriptions, the interest of the funds being applied to the relief of the claimants. in the year 1817, about six years after its establishment, the first claims were made; since that time, the sum of nearly â£5,000 has been distributed to ministers and to the families of ministers who were members. the importance of this society is amply proved by the extent of relief that claimants have received from its funds. its management is conducted entirely free of expense, and it will be capable of rendering efficient aid to all its members who, in accordance with its rules, present their case for assistance at the annual meetings of its members. iv. the following list contains the names of the villages in the county that are supplied with sabbath evening services, chiefly by the independent churches. some of the villages have an afternoon service on the sabbath, and some of them an occasional service on a week evening. the list is not to be regarded as quite complete. in some instances, the independents unite with other denominations in supplying the villages in their vicinity. alderton. barby. bowden, great. bozeat. broughton. cold ashby. cransley. doddington. draughton. east haddon. farndon. finedon. floor. geddington. glapthorne. glinton. grafton regis. great oakley. lubenham. loddington. mears ashby. middleton. newborough. orlingbury. oxendon. peakirk. rockingham. scaldwell. south kilworth. sutton bassett. swinford. tansor. thorpe. weston by welland. welham. warkton. wilby. yardley gobion. index. academy at mile end, 137 addington, dr. stephen, pastor at harborough, 135 allen, mr. richard, ejected from norton, 268 alsop, mr., ejected from wilby, 212 amos, mr. g., home missionary, 377 anderson, mr. john, minister at wollaston, 350 andrews, mr. thomas, ejected from wellingborough, 212 anecdotes of mr. edward snape, 3; dr. owen, 55; mr. r. davis, 59; mr. t. n. toller, 113; opposition to a village service, 153; dr. gibbons, 168; mr. mattock, 191; mr. grant, 233; mr. clark, 252; mr. heywood, 281; mr. raban, 294; mr. hoppus, 298 apperley, mr. james, pastor at long buckby, 274 ashley and wilbarston, 146 ashworth, dr. caleb, pastor and tutor at daventry, 195 aston, mr., pastor at creaton, 183 atkinson, mr., puritan minister, 257 bacon, mr., pastor at ashley, 149 barber. mr., pastor at yelvertoft, 342 barnett, mr. andrew, pastor at daventry, 189 bedworth, dissenters from welford travelled to, 162 bell, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 242 belsham, mr., pastor and tutor at daventry, 206 bennett, mr. john, pastor at northampton, 35 bennett, mr., at potterspury, 277 bettson, mr. robert, pastor at wellingborough, 228 bevan, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 248 beverly, mr. john, first pastor at rowell, 46 bicknell, mr. john, pastor at welford, 173 blower, mr. samuel, pastor at northampton, 10 bolton, mr., puritan minister, 117 boyce, mr. benjamin, pastor at kettering, 100 boyce, mrs., her death, 105 brackley, 369 bradbury, mr. david, pastor at wellingborough, 215 bradshaw, mr. s. a., pastor at weldon, 332 braybrook, mr., pastor at weedon, 264 brigstock, church at, 314 broughton, church at , 116 browning, mr. john, pastor at rowell, 49 buckingham, mr., pastor at paulerspury, 373 buckby long, church at, 268 bullock, mr. g., pastor at ashley, 150 bunn, mr., pastor at yardley, 302 bushnell, mr., pastor at potterspury, 278 cambden, mr., pastor at daventry, 190 cartwright, mr. thomas, pastor at buckby, 269 carver, mr. john, pastor at wellingborough, 238 causby, mr. stephen, pastor at towcester, 360 cauthorn, mr. edward, lecturer at oundle, 255 chadwick, mr. joseph, pastor at oundle, 260 church covenant at rowell, 47; harborough, 126; northampton, 11; wellingborough, 247; potterspury, 279; brigstock, 316 clarke, mr. hugh, puritan minister at oundle, 252 clarke, mr. matthew, pastor at harborough and ashley, 121 clarke, mr. matthew, junior, 123 coleman, mr. thomas, pastor at ashley, 152 commercial street, northampton, church at, 42 cooke, mr., pastor at oundle, 260 creaton, church at, 179 crick, church at, 313 cuzens, mr., pastor at crick, 313 dale, mr., pastor at creaton, 180 dann, mr. j., pastor at nassington, 376 daventry, church at, 186 davis, mr. john, pastor at daventry, 208 davis, mr. p., pastor at wellingborough, 247 davis, mr. r., pastor at rowell, 54 davis, mr. robert, pastor at wellingborough, 248 deaconesses chosen in the church at rowell, 64 denham, mr. joshua, pastor at towcester, 359 denny, mr. r., pastor at buckby, 269 dod, mr. john, puritan minister, 7 doddridge, dr. philip, pastor at northampton, 13 drake, mr. j., pastor at yardley, 292 edwards, mr. b. l., pastor at northampton, 39 epitaph on matthew clarke, by dr. watts, 125 evans, mr. isaac, pastor at weedon, 266 evans, mr. f., pastor at buckby, 274 everdon, church at, 367 fawsley, the puritan press at, 7 fenn, mr. humfrey, puritan minister, 3 flavell, mr. thomas, pastor at daventry, 190 fletcher, mr. william, puritan minister, 5 fowler, mr., ejected from crick, 304 floyd, mr., pastor at daventry, 195 forsyth, mr., pastor at oundle, 259 french, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 215 fuller, mr., pastor at john kettering, 106 gallsworthy, mr., pastor at rowell, 78 gardiner, mr. thos., pastor at kilsby, 142 gardner, mr. isaac, pastor at potterspury, 288 gear, mr., pastor at harborough, 142 geddington, 116 gibson, mr., pastor at yelvertoft, 340 gilbert, mr. r., pastor at northampton, 29 gill, mr. g., pastor at harborough, 139 gill, mr. walter, pastor at welford, 177 glascott, mr., pastor at peterborough, 352 goodrich, mr. d. oundle, 258 grant, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 231 gravestock, mr. j., pastor at old, 364 gregson, mr. m., pastor at rowell, 75 gronow, mr. j., pastor at weedon, 264 griffiths, mr. d., pastor at buckby, 272 griffin, mr., pastor at brigstock, 318 goode, mr., pastor at potterspury, 284 hall, mr., pastor at crick, 313 halford, mr., assistant to mr. some, 133 harborough market, church at, 119 harris, mr., pastor at peterborough, 353 harrison, mr. m., pastor at potterspury, 275 harwood, mr., pastor at kilsby, 312 hawkins, mr., pastor at towcester, 359 hennell, mr. d., pastor at wollaston, 347 heywood, mr., pastor at potterspury, 278 hillyard, mr., pastor at brigstock, 317 hitchin, mr., pastor at towcester, 359 hextal, mr., pastor at northampton, 37 hobson, mr. b., pastor at welford, 174 hogg, mr. r., pastor at oundle, 259 hook, mr., ejected from creaton, 179 hoppus, mr. j., pastor at yardley, 297 horsey, mr. j., pastor at northampton, 30 howe, mr., pastor at weedon, 263 hunt, mr. j., pastor at northampton, 12 hyatt, mr. c., pastor at northampton 34 ironmonger, mr., pastor at creaton, 180 isaac, mr., pastor at peterborough, 354 islip, mr. thomas, pastor at yelvertoft 341 jackson, mr., pastor at buckby 268 jackson, mr. s., pastor at old 362 jacomb, mr. r., pastor at wellingborough, 215 james, mr. t., pastor at yelvertoft, 342 jelly, mr., pastor at daventry, 190 jeanes, mr., pastor at peterborough, 354 jocelyne, mr., at creaton, 184 johns, mr. e., pastor at welford, 173 jones, mr. thomas, pastor at kilsby, 312 jones, mr. jas. rees, pastor at kilsby, 313 kettering, church at, 80 kilsby and crick, church at, 304 king, mr. samuel, pastor at welford, 166 king, mr. joseph, pastor at oundle, 257 king's street chapel, northampton, 37 knight, mr., pastor at yelvertoft, 338 knightley, sir richard, favours the puritan, 6 letters from mr. browning, when in prison, 51 letter of dismission from rowell, 57 letter of mr. maidwell, 82 letter of mr. saunders, 96 letter of mr. shuttlewood, 157 lewis, mr. j., ejected from northampton, 9 longfield, mr. j., pastor at oundle 259 lord, mr. thomas, pastor at brigstock, 324 lowry, mr. thomas, ejected from harborough, 120 maidwell, mr. t., pastor at kettering, 81 mandeno, mr., pastor at creaton, 185 martin, mr. g., ejected from weedon, 262 martin, mr., pastor at creaton, 185 mason, mr., pastor daventry, 190 matthews, mr. e., ejected from wollaston, 344 matthews, mr. j., at king's cliffe, 376 mattock, mr., pastor at daventry, 191 meacock, mr., pastor everdon, 367 meeting house threatened, 89 merbury, mr. f., puritan minister, 2 milway, mr. thos., pastor at kettering, 84 milway, mr. thos., junior, pastor at kettering 87 mitchel, mr., brigstock 319 modern question, 68 moody, mr. t., pastor at old, 365 moffatt, mr., pastor at weldon, 332 morgan, mr., pastor at kilsby, 312 morrell, mr., pastor at potterspury, 287 moseley, mr., pastor at buckby, 272 negus, mr. s., lecturer at oundle, 255 nettleship, mr. g., pastor at yelvertoft, 342 newth, mr. a., pastor at oundle, 261 newell, mr. g., pastor at potterspury, 275 nicholson, mr. g., pastor at northampton, 42 norris, mr., pastor at welford, 162 northampton, churches at, 1 northend, mr., pastor at welford, 173 notcutt, mr. w., pastor at ashley, 151 offord, mr., pastor at weedon, 264 old, church at, 361 orton, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 215 oundle, church at, 250 paget, mr. eusebius, puritan minister, 250 palmer, mr. wm., pastor at peterborough, 355 paterson, mr., pastor at daventry, 206 penry, mr., puritan minister, 4 perne, mr. andre, minister 211 perry, mr., pastor at wollaston, 345 peterborough, church at, 352 phares, mr., pastor at weedon, 264 philip, mr. john, pastor at weldon, 331 phillips, mr. maurice, pastor at brigstock, 318 pickering, mr. r., pastor at brigstock, 319 pinkerton, mr., pastor at weedon, 266 porter, mr., pastor at northampton, 39 porter, mr. thos., pastor at kilsby, 312 potterspury, church at, 275 poulter, mr. j. f., pastor at wellingborough, 225 prandlove. mr., puritan minister, 6 prout, mr. e., pastor at oundle, 261 preston, dr. john, a puritan minister, 5 prust, mr. e. t., pastor at northampton, 43 puritans preach at kettering, 81 raban, mr. t., pastor at yardley, 292 redsbury, mr. r., ejected from oundle, 253 renals, mr. j., pastor at wellingborough, 243 renfrew, mr., pastor at weedon, 264 robertson, mr. james, pastor at wellingborough, 220 robins, mr., pastor and tutor at daventry, 198 robins, mr., character of, by mr. toller, 201 robinson, mr. i., pastor at potterspury, 277 rowell, church at, 46 rowlet, mr., ejected from sudbury, 213 rowlatt, wm., esq, 333 sanderson, mr. j., pastor at rowell, 70 saunders, mr. julius, pastor at bedworth, 161 saunders, thomas, pastor at kettering, 90 saunders, thomas, character of, by mr. some, 91 scott, mr. walter, pastor at rowell, 76 severn, mr. w., pastor at welford, 172 shepherd, mr. thos., pastor at northampton, 11 shepherd, mr., pastor at oundle, 256 shuttlewood, mr. john, pastor at welford, 155 simpson, a. c., dr., pastor at oundle, 261 slye, mr. j., pastor at potterspury, 289 snape, mr. edward, puritan minister, 2 some, mr. david, pastor at harborough, 127 some, mr. david, junior, 127 spence, mr. john, pastor at old, 365 spencer, mr. thomas, pastor at kilsby, 312 spong, mr., pastor at yardley, 302 stirmey, mr., pastor at everdon, 368 stone, mr. edward, puritan minister, 357 stone, mr. thomas, puritan minister, 115 strange, mr. thomas, pastor at kilsby, 306 strange, mrs. thomas, 311 summers, mr. h., pastor at wellingborough, 216 taylor, mr. s., pastor at potterspury, 278 taylor, mr. g., pastor at wellingborough, 223 terry, mr. wm., pastor at kettering, 86 thomas, mr., pastor at wellingborough, 215 thomas, mr. thos., pastor at wellingborough, 248 thomas, mr. thos., pastor at weldon, 332 thorpe, mr., ejected from barby, 305 thresher, mr., pastor at peterborough, 353 todman, mr. william, pastor at yardley, 302 toller, mr. h., pastor at harborough, 143 toller, mr. t. n., pastor at kettering, 107 toller, mr. t., pastor at kettering, 114 towcester, church at, 357 tyte, mr. c. c., pastor at wellingborough, 245 unitarian letter of separation, 33 vaughan, mr. i., pastor at brigstock, 323 vowell, mr. g., pastor at potterspury, 287 walker, mr. w., pastor at buckby, 269 wake, mr. a., puritan minister, 5 warburton, mr., pastor at creaton, 182 washbourn, mr. d., pastor at wellingborough, 216 watson, mr. g., pastor at daventry, 207 weedon beck, church at, 262 weldon and corby, 327 welford, church at, 155 wellingborough, churches in, 210 west, mr. j., pastor at ashley, 148 white, mr. e., pastor at potterspury, 287 whitefoot, mr., pastor at potterspury, 287 whitehead, mr. j., pastor at creaton, 182 whittenbury, mr., pastor at daventry, 208 wilby, 210 wild, dr. robert, pastor at oundle, 254 wild, mr. w., pastor at harborough, 143 williams, mr., pastor at creaton, 184 wills, mr. h., ejected from loddington, 213 wills, mr. john, pastor at kettering, 86 wilson, mr. thomas, 42 wollaston, church at, 344 wood, mr., pastor at creaton, 182 wood, mr. j., pastor at rowell, 75 woodward, mr., pastor at northampton, 41 worth, mr., ejected from kilsby, 304 wright, mr., pastor at oundle, 259 yardley hastings, church at, 291 yelvertoft, church at, 335 london: printed for john snow, 35, paternoster row. * * * * * transcriber's notes: inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been resolved in all cases where it was possible to divine the author's intent with a reasonable degree of certainty. page 88 "...at a meeting this 26th of october, 1820, do hereby call and desire you.." the transcriber has taken the liberty to change 1820 to read 1720, as this appears to be a typographical error. again on page 91 "...and entered on his stated engagements there september 14th, 1821" has been changed to read 1721. on page 313 "mr. cuzens, the next pastor, commenced his ministry in july of the same year, and left in october, 1831." 1831 is in error; likely 1841. has been changed to read 1841. 