_One more Meeting-house to visit; the last and the smallest of all. A
Meeting-house with no story, except the story in its name.
'"Come-to-Good!"' boys and girls from other counties will exclaim
perhaps, 'whoever heard of such a place? Why did people not call it
"Come-to-Harm," or "Ne'er-do-Weel," while they were about it?'_
_Cornish boys and girls know better. They will explain that in their
far Western corner of England there has always been an idea, and a
very good idea it is, that a name should really describe the place to
which it belongs, and should tell the hearer something about its
character. Thus it comes to pass that on one tidal river a certain
creek, covered with salt sea-water at high tide, but showing only an
expanse of muddy flats at low water, is called 'Cockles' Peep Out.'
Another creek, near by, is known as 'Frenchman's Pill,' because some
French prisoners were sent there for safety during the Napoleonic
Wars. Then, too, a busy sea-port was once called 'Penny Come Quick,'
with good reason; and another out-of-the-way place 'Hard to Come By,'
which explains itself. Most romantic of all, the valley where King
Charles's army lost a battle long ago is still known as 'Fine and
Brave.' There, the country people say, headless ghosts of defeated
Cavaliers may still be seen on moonlight nights riding up and down,
carrying their own plumed-hatted heads under their arms. All over the
county these story places are to be found. The more odd a Cornish name
sounds at the first hearing, the more apt it will often prove, when
the reason for it is understood._
_Thus it is not strange that a lonely, shut-in valley, folded away
between two steep hills, should be known as 'Come-to-Good,' since, for
more than two centuries, men and women, and little children also, have
'Come to Good' in that remote and hidden place. There, surrounded by
sheltering trees, stands the little old Meeting-house. Its high
thatched roof projects, like a bushy eyebrow, over the low white walls
and thick white buttresses, shading the three narrow casement windows
of pale-green glass with their diamond lattice panes. The windows are
almost hidden by the roof; the roof is almost hidden by the trees; and
the trees are almost hidden by the hills that rise above them.
Therefore the pilgrim always comes upon the Meeting-house with a
certain sense of surprise, so carefully is it concealed;--like a most
secret and precious thought._
_The bare Cornish uplands and wide moors have a trick of hiding away
these rich, fertile valleys, that have given rise to the proverb:
'Cornwall is a lady, whose beauty is seen in her wrinkles.' Yet,
hidden away as it is, 'Come-to-Good' has drawn people to it for
centuries. In all the country round, for generations past, one Sunday
in August has been known as 'Come-to-Good Sunday,' because, on that
day, the Friends assemble from three or four distant towns to hold
their meeting there. And not the Friends only. No bell has ever broken
the stillness of that peaceful valley, yet for miles round, on a
'Meeting Sunday,' the lanes are full of small groups of people:
parents and children; farm lads and lasses; thoughtful-faced men, who
admit that 'they never go anywhere else'; shy lovers lingering behind,
or whole families walking together. All are to be seen on their way to
refresh their souls with the hour of quiet worship in the snowy white
Meeting-house under its thatched roof._
* * * * *
_Many years ago, little Lois (whom you read about at the beginning of
this book) was taken to Come-to-Good for the first time on such a
Sunday, by her Grandmother. Even now, whenever she goes there, she
still seems to see that dear Grandmother's tall, erect figure, in its
flowing black silk mantle and Quaker bonnet, walking with stately
steps up the path in front; or stooping for once--she who never
stooped!--to enter the little low door. People who did not know her
well, and even some who did, occasionally felt Lois' 'dear
Grandmamma' rather a formidable old lady. They said she was 'severe'
and 'alarmingly dignified,' and 'she says straight out just exactly
what she thinks.' Certainly, she was not one of the spoiling,
indulgent, eiderdown-silk-cushion kind of Grannies that some children
have now; but Lois loved her with all her heart and was never really
afraid of her. What stories she could tell! What wonderful stockings
full of treasures Santa Claus brought down her chimneys on Christmas
Eve to the happy grandchild staying with her! Lois loved to sit beside
her 'dear Grandmamma,' and to watch her in her corner by the fire,
upright as ever, knitting. Even on the long drive to Come-to-Good, the
feeling of her smooth, calm hand had soothed the restless little
fingers held in it so firmly and gently. The drive over, Lois wondered
what would happen to her in the strange Meeting-house when she might
not sit by that dear Grandmother's side any longer, since she, of
course, would have to be up in the Ministers' gallery, with all the
other 'Weighty Friends.' But, at Come-to-Good, things always turn out
right. Lois found, to her delight, that she and the other boys and
girls were to be allowed to creep, very quietly, up the twisty wooden
stairs at the far end of the Meeting-house, and to make their way up
into the 'loft' where four or five low forms had been specially placed
for them. Lois loved to find herself sitting there. She felt like a
little white pigeon, high up on a perch, able to see over the heads of
all the people below, and able even to look down on the grave faces of
the Ministers opposite. The row of broad-brimmed hats and coal-scuttle
bonnets looked entirely different and much more attractive, seen from
above, than when she looked up at them in Meeting at home. Then, when
some one rose to speak, Lois liked to watch the ripple that passed
over the heads beneath her, as all the faces turned towards the
speaker. Or when everybody, moved by the same impulse, stood up during
a prayer or sat down at its close, it was as fascinating to watch them
gently rise and gently sit down again as it was to watch the wind
sweep over the sea, curling it up into waves or wavelets, or the
breeze rippling over a broad field of blue-green June barley. Lois
never remembered the time when she was too small to enjoy those two
sights. 'I do like watching something I can't see, moving something I
can!' she used to think. To watch a Meeting, from the loft at
Come-to-Good, was rather like that, she felt; though years had to pass
before she found out the reason why._
_Out of doors, when the quiet hour of worship was over, other delights
were waiting. The small old white Meeting-house is surrounded by a yet
older, small green burial-ground, where long grasses, and flowers
innumerable, cover the gentle slopes. The soft mounds cluster closely
around the walls; as if those who were laid there had wished that
their bodies might rest as near as possible to the house of peace
where their spirits had rested while on earth._
_Further off the mounds are fewer; the grassy spaces between them grow
wider; till it becomes difficult to tell which are graves and which
are just grassy hillocks. Further still, the old burial-ground dips
down, and loses itself entirely, and becomes first a wood, then
frankly an orchard that fills up the bottom of the valley, through
which a clear brown stream goes wandering._
_Yet, midway on the hilly slope above, half hidden gravestones can
still be discerned, among the grass and flowers; shining through them,
like a smile that was once a sorrow. Small, grey, perfectly plain
stones they are, all exactly alike, as is the custom in Friends'
graveyards, where to be allowed a headstone at all, was, at one time,
considered 'rather gay'! Each stone bears nothing but a name upon it
and sometimes a date. 'Honor Magor' is the name carved on one of the
oldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly 100 years old. That
is all. Lois used to wonder who Honor Magor was,--an old woman? a
young one? or possibly even a little girl? Where did she live when she
was alive? how did she come to be buried there? But there are no
answers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more
than that the tired body of Honor Magor has been resting peacefully
for nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving grasses and
ever-changing flowers at Come-to-Good._
_Ever-changing flowers? Yes; because the changing of the seasons is
more marked there than at other places. For Come-to-Good lies so many
miles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this
quiet pool, that, for a long time past, Meetings have only been held
here four times in the year. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring,--each
season brings its own Sunday. Then, and for a week or two beforehand,
the topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a
modest piece of white paper announcing that 'a Friends' Meeting will
be held at Come-to-Good on the following First Day morning, at eleven
o'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be
acceptable.'_
_August Sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a
crimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. November Sunday has
its own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden
leaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding
down in the wood. In February, the first gummy stars of the celandine
are to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little
procession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow
path to Meeting. The 'Fair Maids of February' seem to have an especial
love for this quiet spot._
_But in May--ah! May is the best Sunday of all. In May not only is the
whole valley knee-deep in grass and ferns and flowers and bluebells.
There is something still better! In May the burial-ground is all
singing and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. Garden
flowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. Purple and
deep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each
flower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away
inside. Even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that
magic valley. I am afraid Lois thought longingly, all through the
silence on a May Sunday, of the nosegay of columbines she meant to
gather afterwards. Directly Meeting was over, the children pelted down
very fast from the loft. Numbers of little feet flew across the sunlit
grass, while the elder Friends were walking sedately down the path to
the gate._
_'O Columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell,'_
_chanted the children as they frolicked about, forgetting that they
had been stiff with sitting so long in Meeting, as they gathered
handfuls of their treasures._
_All too soon they would hear the call: 'Come, children! it is time to
be going.' And then they would scamper back, their hands full of their
dear dove flowers. No wonder they felt that in leaving this sunny spot
they were leaving one of the happiest places on earth. If only they
could stay there! If only some one could be enjoying it always! What a
pity that on the forty-eight other Sundays of the year it should all
be deserted, shut up and forsaken! There might be numbers of other
wonderful flowers that nobody ever saw. There the old Meeting-house
stays all by itself the whole year round, except on those four
Sundays, even as a lonely pool of clear water remains high up on the
rocks, showing that the great sea itself did come there once, long
ago, flowing in mightily, filling up all the bare chinks and
crannies._
_Will such a high tide ever come back again to Come-to-Good? Is that
tide perhaps beginning to flow in, noiselessly and steadily, even
now?_
_Some things look rather as if it might be; for new Friends'
Meeting-houses are being built in crowded cities to-day where even the
high tide of long ago never came. But then, in lonely country places
like Come-to-Good, scattered up and down all over England, there are
many of these deserted Meeting-houses, where hardly anybody comes now
or only comes out of curiosity. Yet the high tide did fill them all
once long ago, full to overflowing, when people met within their
walls constantly, seeking and finding God._
* * * * *
_The stories in this book about our 'Quaker Saints' show at what a
cost these deserted places were won for us by our brave forefathers.
They, with their health and their lives gladly given in those terrible
prisons of long ago, gained for us our liberty to meet together 'in
numbers five or more,' to practise a 'form of worship not authorised
by law'; that is to say, without any prayer-book or set form of
service being used._
_Is our simple Quaker way of worship really worth the price they paid
for it? Or is it merely a quaint and interesting relic of a by-gone
age, something like the 'Friend's bonnet' that Lois' Grandmother wore
as a matter of course, which now is never used, but lies in a drawer,
carefully covered with tissue paper and fragrant with lavender?_
_Is our Quaker faith like that? Is it something antiquated and
interesting, but of no real use to us or to anybody to-day? Or did
these 'Quaker Saints' of whom we have heard, did they, and many other
brave men and women, whose stories are not written here, really and
truly make a big discovery? Did they, by their living and by their
dying, remind the world of a truth that it had been in danger of
forgetting? a truth that may still be in danger of being forgotten
if quite ordinary, everyday people are not faithful now in their
turn?_
[Illustration: A FRIENDS' MEETING]
_Is it really and truly true, that where two or three humble human
souls are gathered together in His Name, in the simplest possible
fashion, without any priest, or altar, or visible signs to help them,
yet our Lord is there? Can He be indeed among them still to-day? and
will He be forever, as He promised? feeding them Himself with the true
Bread of Life, satisfying their thirst with Living Water, baptizing
their souls with Power and with Peace?--_
_Children dear, you must answer these questions for yourselves,
fearlessly and honestly. No one else can answer them for you. The
answers may seem long in coming, but do not be in a hurry. They will
come in time, if you seek steadfastly and humbly. Only remember one
thing, as you think over these questions. Even if this is our way, the
right way for us, this very simple Quaker way that our forefathers won
for us at such a cost, still that does not necessarily make it the
right way for all other people too. God's world and God's plans are
much bigger than that. He brings His children home by numbers of
different paths, but for each child of His, God's straight way for
that child is the very best._
_The wise old Persians had a proverb, 'The ways unto God are as the
number of the souls of the children of men.' Let us remember this, if
we ever want to try to force other people to think about things
exactly as we do. Let us remember, too, that rivalry and pride, that
saying, or even thinking, 'My way is the only right way, and a much
better way than your way,' is the only really antiquated kind of
worship. The sooner we all learn to lay that aside, not in lavender
and tissue paper, but to cast it away utterly and forget that it ever
existed,--the better._
_It is not a bit of an excuse for us when we are inclined to judge
other people critically, to read in these stories that some of the
early Friends did and said harsh and intolerant things. They lived in
a much harsher, more intolerant age than ours. The seventeenth
century, as we know, has been called 'a dreadfully ill-mannered
century.' Let us do our very best not to give any one an excuse for
saying the same of this twentieth century in which we live. Thus, in
reading of these Quaker Saints, let us try to copy, not their
harshness or their intolerance, but their unflinching courage, their
firm steadfastness, their burning hope for every man; above all, their
unconquerable love._
_Remember the old lesson of the daisies. Each flower must open itself
as wide as ever it can, in order to receive all that the Sun wants to
give to it. But, while each daisy receives its own ray of sunshine
thankfully and gladly, it must rejoice that other very different rays,
at very different angles, can reach other flowers. Yet the Sun Heart
from which they all come is One and the Same. All the different ways
of worship are One too, when they meet in the Centre._
_Therefore it is not strange that at little secluded Come-to-Good,
where the blue doves of the columbines keep watch over the quiet
graves, I should remember a message that came to me in another, very
different, House of God--a magnificent Cathedral far away in South
Italy. There, high up, above the lights and pictures and flowers and
ornaments of the altar, half hidden at times by the clouds of
ascending incense, I caught the shining of great golden letters.
Gradually, as I watched, they formed themselves into these three words
of old Latin:_