CHAPTER IV.

“The bounteous hand--I would ’most envy it; And more, the heart that’s bountiful. Oh, rich men! Be glad that God does make you bankers for Him, And bids ye sanctify your increase thus By the brave usuries of mercy.” OLD PLAY.

Upon the following Monday, Master Field was visited by the preacher Vincent, whom he had met on his arrival. He came to invite the stranger to a meeting of “the brethren,” especially convoked for the purpose of arranging, with all possible wisdom, the position of their compact and brave forces upon this forlorn hope, and for solemn mutual prayer--a Presbytery meeting, in short. Caleb Field was a man of note among his brethren; they held his wisdom and counsel in high esteem.

They were sitting in grave conversation when a messenger handed in at the door of the cottage a letter, and a small, well-secured box for Master Field. Edith started in involuntary alarm as her father passed the former through the strong fumes of a pungent perfume which he had at hand.

“We must use all precautions, Edith,” he said, calmly, as the fragrant smoke curled through the apartment: “that we are in great danger, none can doubt.”

The letter was noticeable, expounding another feature of those times.

“REVEREND SIR--

“Hearing, from various hands, that you were returning to Hampstead, I make bold to ask of you a singular favor. I hear that in aggravation of this great calamity of the pestilence, tradesmen, merchants, and other persons are discharging from their service (as I also have been forced to do) much serving-people and handicraftsmen, whereby extreme poverty and famine is like to be brought to many who have hitherto earned their own bread honestly in the sweat of their brow; wherefore being myself able to accomplish little, if I had remained in the city, having much fear of this dreadful judgment, I earnestly beg your good offices in distributing to poor, honest households, in dread of this plague, or afflicted by it, in the parishes of Hampstead, to which I am native, and Aldgate, where I plied my business, the accompanying, being certain moneys specially laid by out of the abundant increase wherewith the Lord hath blessed me, for needful charities of this calamitous time. I prefer my request with the greater boldness as knowing that you will otherwise risk yourself in endeavors for the welfare of this stricken people; nevertheless, I venture also to beseech, for the sake of our faith and persecuted Sion, that so far as may be, without hindrance to your mighty work, you would remember that your life is no common matter, to be hazarded lightly; but one for whose strength and continuance many pray who own you their spiritual father in Jesus Christ our Lord. Wherefore, praying that his angel may encamp round about you,

“I rest, Reverend Sir, “Your obliged friend and servant, “NICHOLAS GODLIMAN.”

The box contained a considerable sum of money in small coins. The care of the merchant had provided his bounty in the form most easily distributed.

“Father,” said Edith,” here is a Providence for me. I will be Master Godliman’s almoner. Your work is not with the bread that perisheth.”

“Truly,” said Master Vincent, “the maiden speaks wisely, brother. There are various gentlewomen of repute, to mine own knowledge, engaged in like work already. But Mistress Edith, bethink you first of the peril--it is no trope in these days to say we go with our lives in our hands, and you are young.”

“I am ready; indeed, Master Vincent, I am ready,” said Edith, hastily. “I came here almost in rebellion against my father’s will, but I did not come to be idle, and this office is sent for my using. Father, think you not so?”

“I think you are over youthful to calculate all the perils,” said her father, “but I must trust you now--only remember to use all needful caution; you started at my care of this charitable letter; but remember, Edith, that there are dangers in the very air, and that where I would use needful measures for mine own safety, I would do tenfold more for thine. Stir not abroad to-day, I have other counsel to give thee ere thou makest a beginning; and now, Master Vincent, it is the hour for the meeting of the brethren.”

So they went forth together. Their meeting was in a vestry attached to the old church of St. Margaret’s, in Westminister. The Presbyterian ministers of London were assembling in their classis when Vincent and Field entered the room.

In the chair sat a little, quick, lively man, with small vivacious features and keen dark eyes. He was one of that peculiar class, whose names are redolent of solemn quip and quaint antithesis, balanced with a nice art and dexterity forgotten in our times. A study chair in some fair vicarage, in “the leisure of the olden ministry,” elaborating courses of quaint sermons, and decking his beloved Bible with the flowery gathering of an antique philosophy, somewhat artificial it may be, yet having life in its veins withal, would have better realized the abstract idea of suitability in the case of Master Chester, than did the Moderator’s chair of this small but solemn assembly within the bounds of stricken London. But that race of quaint commentators was a race fearing God truly and faithfully, and their representative here, strengthened by such loyal love and reverence, had risen to the top of this bitter wave; and relaxing the scrupulous cares of composition which formed his most congenial work, was now laboring in the fervent inspiration of that dire and solemn necessity, no less zealous and manful than any there.

Beside him sat a good-looking, portly, middle-aged man, with a ruddy and healthful face. He belonged to another distinct class. Master Franklin had not the gift of originating or suggesting; but he had in an especial manner, in that docile, laborious, patient strength of his, the gift of carrying out. An unobtrusive, placid, humble man, he accomplished heaps of work unwittingly, and went on day by day in a series of dumb, unthought-of heroisms, appreciated by few men, least of all by himself; for there was little light, save the quiet radiance of goodness to set off his labor withal, and in the unfeigned humility of his honest heart, he himself would have been the first to repudiate the praise due to his constant devotion.

The preacher, Vincent, had an individuality strikingly distinct from these. Prone to examine the depths of his own sensitive spirit, he had endured at the outset of his career a fiery ordeal akin to that of the famed dreamer of Bedford; and fighting through spiritual perils, like the pilgrim of that wondrous vision, had become at last a great master in all the subtle processes and unseen movements of the heart. “Cases of conscience,” such as formed no unimportant part of the ministerial labors of those zealous times, were referred to him from all places. In probing the wounds, disentangling the twisted threads of motive and design, elucidating the hidden working, and evolving the secret struggles of the soul, he was at home and strong; and joined with this peculiar gift was a melancholy bias of mind, a tendency to despondency and speculative grief, a mood akin to that of the preacher of old, who, as the conclusion of his experience, leaves the sorrowful record to us, that all is vanity. A certain melancholy vivacity of expression and overwhelming earnestness made him, as it makes his class still, an especially effective preacher, and in this time of singular distress the effect was proportionably increased.

Caleb Field was less a man peculiar to that age than any of all these. No youthful cavalier in the gay court of Charles, had a more gladsome enjoyment of life than this sombre Puritan minister of doomed London. No tender-hearted maiden or loving mother had a sympathy more quick, a compassion more gentle than was his. So full of joyous congenial life with all that was true and honest, lovely and of good report, and withal in his strong vitality, having so great a fountain of deepest pathos within--a truly human man, akin to all who wear the wondrous garment of this mortality.

And so it happened that this man’s influence was less subject to ebbs and flowings of popular appreciation than the rest. It was as perennial and constant as life itself, for, in all that pertains to life, many-sided and various, his warm humanity made itself a part.

The other members of the Church-Court were but different phases of those various kinds of man, devoted with all their differing individualities to the one fervent, solemn work, upon which lay the awe of martyrdom, the almost certain conclusion of death.

The meeting was opened solemnly with prayer, and constituted in the name of the Lord Jesus, King and Head of His Church, and then the arrangements followed. Most of the ministers present had been ejected by the Act of Uniformity, four years before, and had again resumed the pulpits which were deserted by the conforming preachers who succeeded them, a step which they had been permitted to take without obstruction or hindrance. One by one they gave in their report.

“And thou, good brother Field,” said the moderator of the small assembly, “thou hast a quiet people in a quiet church, as I hear. Take heed their stillness lulls them not into deadness, for albeit men are quiet when they are safe, it is not always safety to be quiet. This terror has not come nigh you yet.”

“The terror has, but not the judgment,” answered Field. “My people are paralyzed with fear, although the pestilence hath not entered their bound.”

“A universal evil,” said Vincent. “Ah! brethren, would that we did but fear iniquity, as this people fears suffering. Would that we, God’s dedicated servants, had but such a lively fear of His displeasure as those have of his judgment. But, alas! in the mightiness of the temporal evil, they forget the spiritual; for what heedeth a man, if I speak to him of sin when his whole soul is engrossed with the plague.”

“In his terror, brother, speak to him of hope, and he will hearken to thee,” said Field. “When he thinks but of death, show him the Lord who hath conquered it, and he will look, and see. When he is busied with himself, tell him of that One who forgot himself for our deliverance, and he also will forget. What! is there naught but calamity here, and shall we carry our people no tidings of joy? then are we Gospellers no more. I tell you, brethren, it is the Lord--in whom is all hope, all joy, all omnipotence--that we must proclaim without ceasing at this time; men’s hearts are failing them for fear, and so it should be, for grievously hath this nation sinned; but while the Gospel remaineth on the earth, there is always occasion to rejoice. Let us lift their hearts to the heavens where He sitteth in His Godhead, who wears a humanity there akin to ours--the first fruits of them that sleep--and so I say to you, brethren, shall you deliver your people from this deadly terror, and let them meet God’s judgments in brave humility, and penitence, as becometh Christian men.”

“Yea, brother Field,” said Master Franklin, “you speak well.”

“There shall no man question that,” said Master Chester, “but God not only sendeth us seeds various for our fields, but fields various for our seed; and though the cold hill beareth not fruit, like the rich valley, there are yet vegetable kinds in their kingdom, which love the valley less than the hill. And this, thou seest, brother, is a time of panic which it becometh us, as good husbandmen, to improve into a time of penitence--sowing seeds of godly fear for the second death, even as the enemy soweth tares of terrors for the first.”

“Under favor, sir,” interposed a lay member of the court, one of the few elders present, “if I may speak before these fathers, and brethren, of what toucheth my own profession. As Master Field hath well said, this fear being a servile passion, enfeebleth the body in respect of disease, no less than the mind; and I know no greater boon that these reverend and worthy gentlemen could render to a singularly excited and troubled people, than by encouraging them to an holy boldness, by the strong consolations of the Gospel; which might be well conjoined, as humbly seemeth to me, with the especial mourning and sorrow which becomes the time, taking good heed that the natural fear overcometh not the Gospel hope.”

“Dr. Newton saith well,” repeated Master Franklin.

“The natural fear!” exclaimed Vincent, “yea, the natural fear is like to overwhelm us; so that neither spiritual hope, nor spiritual trembling, can be nourished into life, because of it. But think you I differ from my good brother, who biddeth us proclaim the Lord, the sole Lord, from whom cometh all spiritual radiance, as the light comes from the sun? Nay, truly I differ not--for wherefore do we preach, if it be not for His cause? and wherefore do they hear, if it be not for their salvation? and how are they saved, but by Him? But while I preach joy and deliverance to all who believe on His magnificent name, what can I but denounce woe, woe, woe unspeakable upon all who will reject His grace. Yea upon this sinful land, and this city which hath forgotten His name, unless they turn, and repent.”

“The Lord move them,” said Field, bowing his head reverently; “the Lord avert His judgments, and return in His loving kindness to this land; for what are we that thou should’st strive with us, oh, thou holy Lord God.”

There was an interval, during which the classis engaged in solemn devotional exercises, conducted by Vincent and Field; very fervent, in deep humility, reverence, fear, supplicating that the outstretched sword might be removed from the afflicted city.

“The people crave frequent services,” said Vincent, when these had concluded. “I desire, sir, to know if any brother will aid me. My parish is already attacked by the pestilence, and being so populous as it is, and with many poor, is likely to be sorely visited.”

“And I also, in Whitechapel,” said Master Franklin.

“I am at the command of the brethren,” said Field. “While my own people are not threatened, and besides are few, I am ready wheresoever I am needed.”

So said the youthful Janeway, who as yet was not an ordained minister, set over any especial charge; and so said others also, whom the swelling tide of the pestilence had not yet reached.

“Burroughs, the Independent, is at work near me,” said Master Chester. “I give him the right hand of fellowship, joying that though we choose us different chambers in the house of God, we yet serve alike the God of the house. In these times we are all brethren.”

“All, all!” echoed the Presbyters round him.

“Bradford, the conformist, is with me,” said Vincent. “He is faithful at his post, where so many have been unfaithful--he is a good man, though he seeth not the right way as we see it.”

“Ha!” said Franklin, “is he not one of those who forswore the Covenant?”

“He never took it, brother,” was the answer, “therefore he hath not the sin of forswearing it on his conscience.”

“Brethren,” said the Moderator, “I crave your forbearance--ye forget the due order of our assembly. Now, while we are men, I fear me it is well-nigh impossible to take into our hearts as brethren those who have sent us forth from our pulpits as preachers of Christ’s Evangel. Also if this church established in the land, be in all points faithful to the Word, then are we guilty of the sin of schism; and having a humble confidence that we are free from any love of division, but rather hold it a great and sore evil to be avoided by all means, and at all risks, save the sacrifice of the truth, I am constrained to hold that the conformed church is unfaithful. Nevertheless, we are met in One Name to uphold one great cause, and though we be in differing bands, yet are we joined in the sure bonds of one Gospel; wherefore, I recommend to you, brethren, with all charity and brotherly kindness at this time, and remembering only, as I wot well we all desire to do, Jesus Christ and Him crucified, that we labor in concert with those who differ with us on other points, but not on this, and at all times count them heartily for brethren.”

The low hum of the “Agreed, agreed,” ran round the grave assembly, and committing one another to the care of the Divine protector, in whom they trusted, the London Classis separated.