The accounts which had reached Whitford from Wales, of the wonderful
effects produced by David Powell's preaching there, sufficed to cause a
good deal of excitement among the lower classes in the little town, when
it was reported that Powell would revisit it, and would preach on Whit
Meadow, and also in the room used by the "Ranters," in Lady Lane.
The Wesleyan Methodists in Whitford now felt themselves at liberty to
allow their smouldering animosity against Powell to break forth openly,
for he had seceded from the Society. Some said he had been expelled from
it, but this was not true, although there was little doubt that, at the
next Conference, his conduct and doctrine would have been severely
reprehended; and, probably, he would have been required publicly to
recant them on pain of expulsion. Should this be the case, those who
knew David Powell had little difficulty in prophesying the issue.
However, all speculations as to his probable behaviour under the reproof
of Conference were rendered vain by the preacher's voluntarily
withdrawing himself from the "bonds of the Society," as he phrased it.
Then broke forth the hostile sentiments of the Whitford Wesleyans
against this rash and innovating preacher. Unfavourable opinions of him,
which had been concealed, or only dimly expressed, were now declared
openly. He was an Antinomian; he had fallen away from the doctrines of
Assurance and Christian Perfection; he had brought scandal on large
bodies of sober, serious persons, by encouraging wild and extravagant
manifestations among his hearers; his exhortations were calculated to do
harm, inasmuch as he preached a doctrine of asceticism and
self-renunciation, which, if followed, would have the most inconvenient
consequences. That some of these accusations--as, for example, that of
Antinomianism, and that of too extreme self-mortification--were somewhat
incompatible with each other, was no impediment to their being heaped
simultaneously on David Powell. The strongest disapprobation of his
sayings and doings was expressed by that select body of citizens who
attended at the little Wesleyan chapel. And yet there was, perhaps, less
bitterness in this open opposition to him than had been felt towards
him during the last days of his ministration in Whitford. So long as
David Powell was their preacher, approved--or, at least, not
disapproved--by Conference, a struggle went on in some minds to
reconcile his teaching with their practice, which was an irritating and
unsatisfactory state of things, since the struggle in most cases was not
so much to modify their practice, in order to bring it into harmony with
his precepts, as ingeniously to interpret his precepts so that they
should not too flagrantly accuse their practice. But now that it was
competent to the stanchest Methodist to reject Powell's authority
altogether, these unprofitable efforts ceased, and with them a good deal
of resentment.
The chorus of openly-expressed hostility to the preacher, which, I have
said, made itself heard in Whitford, arose, in a great measure, from the
common delight in declaring, where some circumstances unforeseen by the
world in general comes to pass, that we perceived all along how matters
would go, and knew our neighbour to be a very different fellow from what
you took him to be.
Here old Max was triumphant; and, it must be owned, with more reason
than many of his acquaintances. He had openly quarrelled with this
fanatical Welshman, long before the main body of the Whitford Wesleyans
had ventured to repudiate him.
One humble friend was faithful to the preacher. The widow Thimbleby
maintained, in the teeth of all opposition, that, though Mr. Powell
might be a little mistaken here and there on points of doctrine--she was
an ignorant woman, and couldn't judge of these things--yet his practice
came very near perfection; and that the only human being to whom he ever
showed severity, intolerance, and lack of love was himself. Mrs.
Thimbleby was not strong in controversy. It was not difficult to push
her to her last resort--namely, crying silently behind her apron. But
there was some tough fibre of loyalty in the meek creature which made it
impossible for her to belie her conscience by deserting David Powell.
The cold attic at the top of her little house was prepared for his
reception as soon as it was known that he was about to revisit Whitford;
and Mrs. Thimbleby went to the loft over the corn-dealer's store-house
in Lady Lane one Sunday evening to beg that Nick Green would let Mr.
Powell know, whenever he should arrive, that his old quarters were
waiting for him, and that she would take it as a personal unkindness if
he did not consent to occupy them. She could not help talking of the
preacher to her grand lodger Mrs. Errington, of whom she was
considerably in awe. The poor woman's heart was full at the thought of
seeing him again. And not even Mrs. Errington's lofty severity regarding
all dissenters and "ignorant persons who flew in the face of Providence
and attempted to teach their betters," could entirely stifle her
expressions of anxiety as to Mr. Powell's health, her hopes that he took
a little more care of himself than he formerly did, and her anecdotes of
his angelic charity and goodness towards the poor, and needy, and
suffering.
"I should advise you on no account to go and hear this man preach," said
Mrs. Errington to her landlady. "Terrible scenes have taken place in
Wales; and very likely something of the kind may happen here. You are
very weak, my poor soul. You have no force of character. You would be
sure to catch any excitement that was going. And how should you like,
pray, to be brought home from Lady Lane on a stretcher?"
But even this alarming suggestion did not deter Mrs. Thimbleby from
haunting the "Ranters'" meeting-room, and leaving message after message
with Nick Green to be sure and tell Mr. Powell to come up to her house,
the very minute he arrived. Nick Green knew no more than the widow the
day and hour of the preacher's arrival. All he could say was, that
Powell had applied to him and to his co-religionists for leave to preach
in the room--little more than a loft--which they rented of the
corn-dealer in Lady Lane. Powell had been refused permission to speak in
the Wesleyan chapel to which his eloquence had formerly attracted such
crowds of listeners. Whit Meadow would, indeed, be probably open to him;
but the year was drawing on apace, autumn would soon give place to
winter, and, at all events in the evening, it would be vain to hope for
a large number of listeners in the open air.
"Open air!" echoed Mrs. Thimbleby, raising her hands and eyes; "why, Mr.
Green, he ought never to think of preaching in the open air at this
season, and him so delicate!"
"Nay, sister Thimbleby," responded Nick Green, a powerful, black-muzzled
fellow with a pair of lungs like a blacksmith's bellows, "we may not put
our hand to the plough and turn back. We are all of us called upon to
give ourselves body and soul in the Lord's service. And many's the
night, after my day's work was over, that I've exhorted here in this
very room and poured out the Word for two and three hours at a stretch,
until the sweat ran down my face like water, and the brethren were
fairly worn out. But yet I have been marvellously strengthened. I doubt
not that Brother Powell will be so too, especially now that he has given
up dead words, and the errors of the Society, and thrown off the yoke of
the law."
"Dear, I hope so," answered Mrs. Thimbleby, tremulously; "but I do wish
he would try a hot posset of a night, just before going to bed."
The good woman was beginning to walk away up Lady Lane, somewhat
disconsolately, for she reflected that if Nick Green measured Mr.
Powell's strength by his own, he would surely not spare it, and that the
preacher needed rather a curb than a spur to his self-forgetting
exertions, when she almost ran against a man who was coming in the
opposite direction. They were not twenty paces from the door of the
corn-dealer's store-house, and a lamp that burnt above it shed
sufficient light for her to recognise the face of the very person who
was in her thoughts.
"Mr. Powell!" she exclaimed in a joyful tone. "Thanks be to the Lord
that I have met you! Was you going to look for Mr. Green? He is just
putting the lights out and coming away. I left a message with him for
you, sir; but now I can give it you myself. You will come up with me to
my house, now, won't you? Everything is ready, and has been these three
days. You wouldn't think of going anywhere else in Whitford but to my
house, would you, Mr. Powell?"
She ran on thus eagerly, because she saw, or fancied she saw, symptoms
of opposition to her plan in Powell's face. He hesitated. "My good
friend," said he, "your Christian kindness is very precious to me, but
I am not clear that I should do right in becoming an inmate of your
house."
"Oh, but I am, Mr. Powell, quite clear! Why it would be a real
unkindness to refuse me."
"It is not a matter to be settled thus lightly," answered Powell,
although at the same time he turned and walked a few paces by the
widow's side. "I had thought that I might sleep for to-night at least in
our friends' meeting-room."
"What! in the loft there? Lord ha' mercy, Mr. Powell! 'Tis cold and
draughty, and there's nothing in it but a few wooden benches, and the
rats run about as bold as can be, directly the lights is put out. Why 't
would be a tempting of Providence, Mr. Powell."
"I am not dainty about my accommodation, as you know; and I could sleep
there without payment."
"Without payment! Why, you might pay pretty dear for it in health, if
not in money. And, for that matter, I shouldn't think of asking a penny
of rent for my attic, as long as ever you choose to stay in it." Then,
with an instinctive knowledge of the sort of plea that might be likely
to prevail with him, she added, "As for being dainty about your
accommodation, why I know you never were so, and I hope you haven't
altered, for, indeed, the attic is sadly uncomfortable. I think there's
worse draughts from the window than ever. And it would be a benefit to
me to get the room aired and occkypied; for only last week I had a most
respectable young man, a journeyman painter, to look at it, and he say,
'Mrs. Thimbleby, we shan't disagree about the rent,' he say; 'but I do
wish the room had been slept in latterly; for I've a fear as it's damp,'
he say, 'and that that's the reason you don't use it yourself, nor
haven't let it.' But I tell him the only reason why I didn't use the
room was as you might be expected back any day, and I couldn't let you
find your place taken. And he say if he could be satisfied of that, he
may take it after next month, when you would likely be gone again. So
you see as you would be doing me a service, Mr. Powell, not to say a
pleasure."
Whether David Powell implicitly believed the good creature's argument to
be derived from fact, may be doubtful; but he suffered himself to be
persuaded to accompany her to his old lodgings; and they begged Nick
Green, who presently overtook them, to send one of his lads to the
coach-office, to bring to Mrs. Thimbleby's the small battered valise
which constituted all Powell's luggage.
"I would have gone to fetch it myself," said the preacher,
apologetically, "but, in truth, I am so exceedingly weary, that I doubt
whether my strength would avail to carry even that slender burden the
distance from the coach-office to your house."
When he was seated beside Mrs. Thimbleby's clean kitchen hearth, on
which burned a fire of unwontedly generous proportions--the widow
declared that, as she grew older, she found it necessary to her health
to have a glow of warmth in her kitchen these chilly autumn nights--when
the preacher was thus seated, I say, and when the red and yellow
firelight illuminated his face fully, it was very evident that he was
indeed "exceeding weary;" weary, and worn, and wan, with hollow temples,
eyes that blazed feverishly, and a hue of startling pallor overspreading
his whole countenance. For a few minutes, whilst his good hostess moved
about hither and thither in the little kitchen, preparing some tea, and
slicing some bacon, to be presently fried for his refection, Powell sat
looking straight before him, with a curious expression in his
widely-opened eyes, something like that of a sleep-walker. They were
evidently seeing nothing of the physical realities around them, and yet
they unmistakably expressed the attentive recognition by the mind of
some image painted on their wondrous spheres. The true round mirror of
the wizard is that magic ball of sight; for on its sensitive surface
live and move a thousand airy phantoms, besides the reflection of all
that peoples this tangible earth we dwell on. Powell's lips began to
move rapidly, although no sound came from them. He seemed to be
addressing a creature visible to him alone, on which his straining gaze
was fixed. But suddenly his face changed, and was troubled as a still
pool is troubled by a ripple that breaks its clearly glazed reflection
into fantastic fragments. In another moment he passed his thin hand
several times with a strong pressure over his brows, shut and opened his
eyes like a dreamer awakened, drew his pocket Bible from his breast, and
began to read with an air of resolute attention.
"Will you ask a blessing, Mr. Powell?" said the widow timidly.
He looked up. A comfortable meal was spread on the white deal table
before him. Mrs. Thimbleby sat opposite to him in her old chair with the
patch-work cushions; the fire shone; the household cat purred drowsily;
the old clock clicked off the moments as they flowed past--tick tack,
tick tack. Then there came a jar, a burr of wheels and springs, and the
tinkle of silver-toned metal striking nine. In a few moments the ancient
belfry of St. Chad's began to send forth its mellow chimes. Far and wide
they sounded--over the town and the flat-meadow country--through the
darkness. Powell sat still and silent, listening to the bells until they
had done chiming.
"How well I know those voices!" he said. "I used to lie awake and listen
to them here, in the old attic, when my soul was wrestling with a mighty
temptation; when my heart was smitten and withered like grass, so that I
forgot to eat my bread. The sound of them is sweet to the fleshly ears
of the body; but to the ears of the spirit they can say marvellous
things. They have been the instruments to bring me many a message of
counsel as they came singing and buzzing in my brain."
The widow Thimbleby sat looking at the preacher, as he spoke, with an
expression of puzzled admiration, blended with anxiety.
"Oh, for certain the Lord has set a sign on you!" she exclaimed. "He
would have us to know that you are a chosen vessel, and He has given you
the gifts of the spirit in marvellous abundance. But, dear Mr. Powell, I
doubt He does not mean you to neglect the fleshly tabernacle neither;
for, as I say to myself, He could ha' made us all soul and no body, if
such had been His blessed will."
"We thank Thee, O Father, most merciful. Amen!" said Powell, bending
over the table.
"Amen!" repeated Mrs. Thimbleby. "And now pray do fall to, and eat
something, for I'm sure you need it."
"It is strange; but, though I have fasted since five o'clock this
morning, I feel no hunger."
"Mercy me! fasting since five o'clock this morning? Why, for sure,
that's the very reason you can't eat! Your stomach is too weak. Dear,
dear, dear; but you must make an effort to swallow something, sir. Drink
a sup of tea."
Powell complied with her entreaty, although he expressed some misgiving
as to the righteousness of his partaking of so luxurious a beverage. And
then he ate a few mouthfuls of food, but evidently without appetite. But
seeing his good friend's uneasiness on his behalf, he said, with the
rare smile which so brightened his countenance:
"Do not be so concerned for me. There is no need. Although I have not
much replenished the carnal man to-day, yet have I been abundantly
refreshed and comforted. I tarried in a small town on the borders of
this county at midday, and I found that my ministrations there in the
spring season had borne fruit. Many who had been reclaimed from evil
courses came about me, and we gave thanks with much uplifting of the
heart. And, although I had suffered somewhat from faintness before
arriving at that place, yet, no sooner were these chosen persons got
about me, and I began to pray and praise, than I felt stronger and more
able for exertion than I have many a time felt after a long night's rest
and an abundant meal."
Poor Mrs. Thimbleby's mind was divided and "exercised," as she herself
would have said, between her reverent faith in Powell's being supported
by the supernal powers and her rooted conviction regarding the virtues
of a hot posset. Was it for her, a poor, ignorant woman, presumptuously
to supplement, as it were, the protection of Providence, and to insist
on the saintly preacher's drinking her posset? Yet, on the other hand,
arose her own powerful argument, that the Lord might have dispensed with
our bodies altogether had it so pleased him; and that therefore, mankind
being provided with those appendages, it was but reasonable to conclude
they were meant to be taken some care of. At length the widow's mental
debatings resulted in a resolution to make the hot posset, and carry it
up to the preacher's bedside without consulting him on the
subject--"For," said she to herself, "if I persuade him to swallow it
out of kindness to me, there'll be no sin in the matter. Or, at least,
if there is, it will be my sin, and not his; and that is not of so much
consequence."
In this spirit of true feminine devotion she acted, and having coaxed
Powell to swallow the cordial mixture--as a mother might coax a sick
child--she had the satisfaction of seeing him fall into a deep slumber,
he being, in truth, exhausted by fatigue, excitement, and lack of
nourishment.