HOW MR. TRUELOCKE PREACHED HIS LAST SERMON IN WEST FAZEBY.
On that Lord's Day of which I spoke, the weather was fair and bright
when we went to worship in the church where Mr. Truelocke still
ministered. Week after week more people came to hear him, for the time
was growing short, and he was much loved; so this day the church was
thronged, and we had some ado to get to our own places. As I said, the
day was fair enough when we set forth, a little too hot, indeed; but we
had not been long at our prayers before there came a gloom and a
darkness, making the church full of shadows; and I saw the sky through
the windows of a strange greenish and coppery colour.
We were singing the hymn before the sermon, when I was aware of a tall
man in a whitish garment standing directly below the pulpit, still as a
stone; it seemed to me I had seen him once before. When the singing was
done, and we were all in readiness to hear the sermon, this man suddenly
stood up on the bench, so that even in the dusky light every one could
see his tall white figure, and, looking up to Mr. Truelocke in the
pulpit, he said,--
'May I have liberty to speak a few words to this people?'
'You have liberty,' said Mr. Truelocke; then, folding his arms on the
desk, he leaned forward and looked very intently on the man, who had
turned himself to face the people. They were all rustling and stirring
in their places, very uneasy at the interruption. He stretched out his
arms in the form of a cross, and began to speak in a full and rich
voice, very musical, with strange changes in it; and always the sky grew
darker in the great window behind him while he spoke.
'Friends,' said he, 'I have listened earnestly to your singing; and now
I am constrained to speak to you and tell you the words you sang were
very unsuitable to your state. For the words were those of holy, humble
souls, who are athirst after God; and how many of you be there that
could truly answer Yea, if one should ask whether you are come here
because you hunger and thirst after righteousness? Is it not true that
the best of you only take delight in the preaching of the man who stands
in yon pulpit, because it is to you as a very lovely song of one that
can play on a pleasant instrument? but you hear his words, and do them
not. And there be some of you that only come here to display your gay
apparel, caring not how foul you are within, if you are but fair
without; and some of you appear here weekly, because it is a decent and
seemly thing to be here, and you desire the praise of men, though you
care not for pleasing God. Your religious worships and ways are vain,
for they are made up only of speaking and singing other men's words,
which are not yours, nor do ye mean them truly. You were better to sit
in humble silence before God, waiting till His Spirit, that enlighteneth
every man, should speak in secret to your spirit.
'And I have a word to thee, Emanuel Truelocke,' he continued, suddenly
turning, lifting his long right arm and pointing his long finger towards
Mr. Truelocke, whose pale countenance, framed in his long white hair,
could still be seen looking quietly at him. 'I desire to speak to thee
in love, and show thee the secret of thy ill success in thy ministerings
to this worldly people, who have not the excellent spirit that I gladly
acknowledge in thyself. The canker of gold has been on these
ministerings of thine, for thou hast yearly taken hire for them; and
therefore it is that so many of these people are cold and sickly in
divine things. But the Lord hath had mercy on thee, and will take away
from thee the mammon whereby thou hast been deceived; and for thy sake I
rejoice in thy coming downfall'--
Here there began a mighty hubbub in the place. Men stood up on benches,
shaking their sticks and clenched fists against the speaker; women
cried, 'Shame on him! pull him down! have him away!' and many rushed
upon him, struck him, dragged him down, and would soon have trampled him
under their feet, but Mr. Truelocke spoke with a voice that rang like a
trumpet, and said,--
'Do the man no harm; for shame, my brethren! Did not I tell him he had
liberty to speak? Make me not a liar by your violence!' and then I saw
several men, Andrew and Harry being foremost, raising up the stranger,
for he had been felled to his knees pushing off those who were striking
him, and leading him forth of the church. Then a mighty flash of
lightning glared through the building, and a great peal of thunder
roared and echoed after it, and the rain rushing down like a torrent
drove and beat against the windows. The stranger, who had been got to
the door, now turned round, crying,--
'Hearken, O people, to the voice of the Lord bearing witness against
your madness!' with which words he vanished, friendly hands pulling him
out of sight against his will.
A great silence seemed at once to fall upon the people, while the storm
blazed and thundered on; and in the midst of it Mr. Truelocke began his
discourse.
'My brethren,' said he, 'I did not think to have been so cruelly put to
shame as I have been by you this day. Long have I toiled to make you
follow His righteousness, who, when He was reviled, reviled not again;
long have I trusted that you were indeed partakers of that Spirit whose
fruits are love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness. Alas!
what longsuffering, what peace, what gentleness have you shown to-day?
Ye have well-nigh done a man to death in the very house of God, and
before the eyes of me your pastor. I stand rebuked here, a teacher
whose teaching is proved useless and fruitless. From this day forth I
will preach to you no more, but will lay down, a little before the law
takes it from me, the office I have so ill discharged. Now hearken to me
once more, and once only; and let not my last sermon prove so idle as
those I have preached to you before.'
With this preamble, which struck every one into awe, he began to preach
with an uncommon fervour, as one who was all on fire to have men turn
from their sins, and to close with the offers of God's mercy while yet
it was time; and this earnestness of his, and a certain passionate
tenderness in his looks and tones, something more than ordinary, would
not let us forget the resolve he had expressed. His text was, 'How shall
we escape if we neglect so great salvation?' and having enlarged on it
with such piercing eloquence as I have spoken of, and come to an end of
his discourse, he made a little pause, and then said,--
'Little as I like to mingle any private matters of mine own with the
message I stand here to deliver, I had determined, when I should come
before you for the last time, to say something of the reasons why I
cannot comply with what our rulers require of us. I will not depart
from that determination because a strange cause has moved me to lay down
mine office some few days sooner than law requires.' He stopped a
moment, looking troubled; then he resumed: 'Not my own humour, nor the
pride of a vain consistency, holds me back from compliance. I have
sought in prayer, and in study, and in discourse with my brethren, for
light on this matter; but in my mind is something still unsatisfied that
bids me persevere in my fixed opinion, so long adopted; I can do no
other. Therefore, submitting patiently to leave my church and my flock,
I pray your pardon for any fault I make in this resolution; of God's
pardon I am assured.'
Having said thus, he bowed his fatherly head, praying inwardly, and all
the congregation wept and prayed with him, though many of them
afterwards showed themselves highly displeased with the way he had taken
of rebuking their violence; also great efforts were used to make him
break his resolve of preaching there no more, it wanting more than a
week or two of the appointed day in August when he must needs desist;
but he would not yield to do more than pray publicly; and the pulpit was
for a season supplied by other men.
I am wandering away, however, from that day and its doings, of which I
have not finished the account. While Mr. Truelocke was preaching, the
storm drew off and died away in distant mutterings, so that it was in a
very great stillness that he spoke his last words. However, the rain was
still falling, though without violence, when we came out of the church;
so we waited awhile in the porch till the clouds had rolled away, many
others who did not love a wetting doing the same as we, and there was
much talking.
None of our party said aught, till Mrs. Bonithorne, one of the
wealthiest farmers' wives in the parish, turned herself to Aunt Golding,
saying,--
'Heard you ever anything so strange, neighbour, as yon awful
thunder-clap coming close on the malicious words of the brawling Quaker?
He ought to have quaked and trembled indeed at the voice of Heaven
rebuking his madness.'
'But that he did not, mistress,' said I, something too pertly, I fear;
'for he bade the people hearken to the voice of God bearing witness
against _them_.'
'Did he so?' cried she; 'the more was his impudence to wrest the
heavenly sign in his favour. But what make you then of the passing away
of the storm when Mr. Truelocke began to preach, and of the sweet calm
that had fallen on all things when he ended? was that a witness in
favour of Quaker madness?'
'Nay, I make nothing of it,' said I; and Aunt Golding added,--
'You would not interpret it as a sign of approval granted to Mr.
Truelocke for his hasty resolve never to preach to us again? For my
part, I hope he will be persuaded otherwise.'
'Truly I hope so,' said Dame Bonithorne, her ruddy colour deepening;
'for it's too cruel an affront he puts on us poor people;' and I know
not how much more she might have said, but for Harry Truelocke, who now
came up to the porch, and, beckoning Aunt Golding forth, whispered to
her how Andrew had carried the Quaker to the Grange, and now desired her
presence; at which we all set forth together, the rain having ceased;
and on the road Harry tells us, what sore disquieted Aunt Golding, that
the man had only come to West Fazeby on Andrew's account.
'It seems,' said he, 'you met him on your road hither, when he was in
the hands of some base fellows that had a mind to maul him--do you
remember such a matter?' and Aunt Golding saying how she remembered it
very well, Harry went on to say that the man, having noted Andrew's
willingness to serve him, had ever since 'had a concern on his mind for
the good youth,'--that was his phrase,--and had been led to our village,
and to the very church, being assured he would see Andrew there. 'It's a
strange, mad story,' quoth Harry.
Althea had given earnest heed to this tale, and now she asked, 'And what
says Master Andrew to such wild talk? I suppose he will use the poor
deluded wretch gently and kindly, that's his nature; but sure he will
scorn his ravings?'
'I cannot tell what Andrew may think in his heart,' says Harry moodily;
'but he uses the man as if he thought him a saint or a martyr, or both.
I wish harm may not come of this day's doings;' and he fell into a
gloomy silence.
I had never seen him look so nearly angry before. We were now got to the
Parsonage, and Harry arousing himself to take leave of us, our aunt says
to him,--
'I shall ask you to do me a great good turn, by bringing your father to
sup with us at the Grange. I would have him reason peaceably with yon
poor distraught man, and convince him of his folly; so he may do a
service to my Andrew also, if he has indeed a leaning to such
delusions.'
'Well, madam, I will do it for you,' said Harry; 'but there is only one
other person in the world to please whom I would bring my father into
such odd company as yon man's;' and he went in, looking but half
pleased; and as we took our way to the Grange I was musing who that
other person might be Harry was so fain to please.
When we got into the hall we saw Andrew sitting there and talking with
the stranger, who was now clothed like any other man. His face had been
bruised and his hair torn by the violence of the people; but, for all
these disfigurements, I, looking earnestly at him, could see he was the
very one the sight of whose ill-usage had so moved Andrew on our
journey; there was the same composed look, and the same strange inward
light in his eye.
He rose when he saw Aunt Golding come in, saluting her with the words,
'Peace be to thee!' on which she, gravely smiling, said,--
'You did not bring peace with you to our place of worship, sir; but I
trust no one will break your peace in my house, where you are welcome to
rest and refresh you this day.'
'No man can break my peace,' said he, 'my soul being ever at rest in
the Holy City, the New Jerusalem.'
'That's a good resting-place indeed,' said our aunt. 'Will you tell me
by what name I am to call you while you stay here? I think no one in our
village knows who you are.'
'Not every one can know my name, but they that have the Light,' said the
man; 'and the world can never know it.'
'But sure, man, you have a name of your own by which the world does know
you,' said our aunt a little impatiently.
'I wish not to deny it,' he replied; 'therefore fret not thyself, good
friend,--my worldly name is James Westrop. And I will tell thee what
thou askest not, that my errand hither is to this young man, Andrew
Golding. I have now told him my message, so I am free to depart; and if
thou likest not of my talk or my ways, I refuse not to leave thy house
and protection this hour.'
'But I will not have you go,' said she, 'till you are refreshed and
rested. And, in good time, here comes the Vicar, whom I have desired to
sup with us and to reason with you. You will not refuse his company? He
scorns not yours.'
'I will not refuse it,' said Westrop gravely; and Mr. Truelocke coming
in at that moment with Harry, we all went presently to table.
I marvelled greatly during the meal at Mr. Truelocke's courtesy, so
kindly did he speak to the Quaker; and he strove to excuse to him the
mad behaviour of the people, ascribing it to their regard for their
ancient pastor, now about to leave them. 'I pray you,' he said, 'to
pardon them for my sake.'
'Friend,' said James Westrop, 'I had pardoned them before they offended.
But thou art deceived if thou thinkest it was love to thee which moved
them. They could not endure my word, because their own spirits were
foul. My word was to them as the shining of a candle into a dark, dirty
place, and the sight of their foulness made them mad against me. But in
thee I perceive purity of intention; and I will gladly reason with thee
of the things of the Spirit, according to this good woman's desire.'
So after supper Aunt Golding showed the Quaker and Mr. Truelocke into a
parlour, and herself with Andrew went in to hear their reasonings; but
Althea whispered me, and said, 'Let us go and walk in the garden; I
cannot stay and hear the man's insolent talk.' So we stepped out, and
began to pace up and down one of the walks, the moon being just risen,
and the evening very sweet and calm--a pleasant change it was after the
heats and storms of that afternoon's work. Presently Harry joined us,
and said at once, 'Well, sweet ladies, so you have no mind to turn
Quakers?'
'As soon shall this rose turn nettle,' said Althea, plucking a white
rose off a bush and giving it to him. 'Keep it, I pray you; and when you
find it will sting you to touch it, then conclude Althea Dacre has
turned Quaker.'
'Give me your rose too, Mistress Lucia,' said Harry.
So I gathered one, and put it in his hand; but I felt obliged to say,--
'I cannot speak so confidently as my sister; I know nothing of these
people and their doctrines.'
'You see their doings,' said Althea indignantly; 'that should be enough.
Mr. Truelocke, Lucia and I were bred up true Churchwomen, and so I will
continue to my dying day. I love not all these sects that spring up like
weeds in the ruined places of the Church; I am for those who are
building up her walls again, and making them stronger.'
'And is this your mind too, Mistress Lucia?' says Harry. 'I fear me, if
it is, you will not approve my good father either;' at which Althea went
red and went pale, for she had not thought how her words might hit Mr.
Truelocke; but since she did not speak, I said,--
'Being so ignorant about these things, I don't like to say much, except
that I hate these new harsh laws,--axes, I think them, lopping off from
our Church her true, faithful members as if they were diseased limbs. I
fear me the poor trunk that is left will be like a headless, handless
corpse without them.'
'Well, God mend all!' said Harry, drawing a long breath. 'For my part,
all I know is, that I would these great folks who rule us now had let my
father end his days in peace, without pestering him about surplices and
Prayer-Books and the sign of the cross, all which he holds for rank
Papistry, I suppose; and I cannot wish him to lie, even about such
foolish trifles as these things appear to me. But what profits wishing?'
'Very little,' said Althea, sighing softly. 'I might wish too, all in
vain, that I had not spoken with such needless warmth even now;' and she
began entreating him to believe she had meant no disrespect to his
father; but he cut her short, assuring her he knew it already.
'My father is not in all your thoughts,' said he; 'but he is seldom out
of mine. I am ever longing to see him settled in some peaceful shelter
before I go to sea;' and he looked more downcast than I had ever seen
him.
We were got into the orchard now, winding in and out among the trees,
and Althea went musing by herself; but I could not help lingering beside
Harry, to say some comfortable words about how all folks loved Mr.
Truelocke, my aunt especially, and I knew it was in her mind to have the
old gentleman make his home at the Grange with her, if he only would.
'Ay,' says Harry; 'that's a larger "if" than you wot of, sweet Lucy. But
would it please you, as well as Mrs. Golding, to have the old man living
under this roof?' and I answered hastily,--
'Nothing could like me better than to have so kind and fatherly a man
dwelling with us, not to say that his holiness and piety would bring
down Heaven's blessing on any house that sheltered him; and I promise
you,' I went on, 'that I, for my part, would show him all a daughter's
love and duty,'--'and so will Althea,'--I would fain have added, had not
Harry cut my speech short, saying,--
'That's a charming word on your lips when you speak of my father--the
word of daughter. I hope you consider what it may mean to me.'
'Sure,' I said, 'I am very willing to take you for my brother, if that
is what you aim at.'
'No, no, Lucy,' said he; 'I wish not to be your brother. I refuse
altogether to let you think of me as such; but I have nothing to say
against Mistress Althea as a sister. Think well of my words, will you?'
and, taking my hand, he put it to his lips. And it was not the first
time, in truth, that such a courtesy had been shown me; but with a fine
gentleman it seems such a matter of course. It was not so with the frank
and blunt sailor, who had had a kind of Puritan bringing-up too; so I
suppose that was the reason it made me tremble so strangely, or perhaps
the look on his face was the cause. I was therefore not sorry to see
Althea coming up to us again.
'We had better keep nearer the house; their conference may be over, and
Mrs. Golding will not know where to find us,' she said; so we turned
back, and all three paced up and down the terrace under the windows for
a while, then we went into the hall, and sat there awaiting the end of
the disputation.
At last we saw Mr. Truelocke, Mrs. Golding. James Westrop, and Andrew,
all issuing forth together, and all but one seeming mightily disturbed.
Mr. Truelocke looked stern and sad, and Mrs. Golding had been weeping;
Andrew gazed on the Quaker with much anxiety, but with such reverence as
if he saw in him an angel of God. As for James Westrop, there was no
change in him, only his usual composure seemed a little exalted, if I
may so phrase it. He walked straight to the hall door, Andrew keeping by
him. There he made a stand, and, raising his hands as if in blessing,--
'Peace be to this house!' he said; 'I have been well entreated in it,
though it approves me not. Friend Andrew, thou and I will meet again;
but now follow me not. I may not sleep under this roof, having many
miles to go before the sun rises;' and with that he turned and walked
out of the door, which he shut after him; and Andrew, who had stopped at
his word, came slowly back to us. Althea now rose from her place and
went towards him; her eyes were very bright, and there was unusual
colour in her cheeks; indeed she seemed carried quite out of herself,
yet she kept her queenly look and gait withal.
'Mr. Golding, said she, putting her hands on his arm, 'what means that
man by his farewell to you? Sure you are not befooled and led away by
his deceiving words to believe such madness as he speaks?'
Andrew started at her touch, like a man waking from a dream. He then
looked seriously at her, and said,--
'Madam, I cannot say yet how much I believe of yon good man's doctrine;
but I will not rest till I know more of it. If I find it to be as
heavenly true as it hath seemed to me this day, not all the joys and
glories of the world should hold me back from embracing it; at which
Althea, letting her hands fall from his arm, stood as if she were turned
into stone, her eyes remaining fixed on him sorrowfully. I suppose he
could not endure that look; for he turned away sharply and went out of
the hall.
'I feared this,' said Mr. Truelocke. He looked quite weary and spent.
'These men have a strange eloquence; and I cannot wonder that such
youths as our Andrew should think their words are indeed set off by some
superior Power,--the more, since none can deny that they preach what
they practise. I would I could have imbued all my hearers with a like
burning sincerity.'
This was nearly all I heard about that long conference of theirs; for
after some more lamentations over its ill result, which, Harry whispered
me, they might have expected, Mr. Truelocke departed with his son, and
Aunt Golding remained so troubled that I did not like to question her
about what had passed. But all the more was I curious to know what the
man's doctrine was; and on the first fair occasion I found, I began to
ask Andrew to describe it to me. Poor youth! he was mightily pleased
with my inquiry, thinking, doubtless, that it sprang from a real thirst
for truth like his own; and to the best of his power he complied with my
wish. I found he had not been altogether ignorant of this new teaching
for some months back.
'We English Christians,' said he, 'have fallen into many hurtful snares
by our lack of faith in God's great gift of the Holy Spirit, the mighty
boon which the risen Saviour promised to His followers, and which truly
came according to His word. I have often wondered,' said he, 'that we
all profess and say, as often as we repeat the Creed, "I believe in the
Holy Ghost," yet we act and think as if we believed not in Him.' And
from this point he went on to tell me how George Fox, first of all, and
many others after him, had been going about the country endeavouring to
make people alive to the high privilege they had so long slighted, to
their own exceeding hurt; 'also,' said he, 'these men, in obedience to
the inward Voice that instructs them, strive to bring people off from
their formal man-made religions to the primitive purity of Christ's
religion, which consists not in rites and ceremonies, repeating of forms
of prayer, singing of hymns, and ringing of bells, but in a holy and
harmless life;' and he quoted many things out of the Sermon on the
Mount, 'which,' said he, 'the common run of Christians never dream of
obeying; but the poor Friends practise them most strictly.'
All this was most alluring to Andrew, for, as I have often noticed, he
detested nothing so much as false professions, and a show of goodness
where none was. I asked him curiously why the Friends behaved themselves
in such strange fashion in public places and churches; when he answered
me by referring to the bold speeches of ancient prophets in rebuke of
sin, and asked me if I could think that a man might now-a-days refuse to
carry God's message to sinners because it might bring him into bodily
peril? 'It were far worse,' said he, 'to disobey the Divine Voice, that
still small Voice that is heard by the restful soul, than to endure a
little pain at men's hands, or even the death of the body.' Well, I
could not wonder that he was charmed with such teachings, for while I
listened to him my own heart was moved strangely; but it evermore ended
with my resolving to keep to the opinions of my aunt and Mr. Truelocke;
I thought they were both too good to be far mistaken. But Andrew now
began to be often away from home, and he made no secret that he went to
meet with Westrop and other Friends, from whom he often had letters
also. He was never at West Fazeby on the Lord's Day; and Aunt Golding
and Althea also showed themselves mightily afflicted thereat.