Can warres, and jarres, and fierce contention,
Swoln hatred, and consuming envie, spring
From piety?
HENRY MORE.
The good parson of Cheddar was never informed of the severe misfortune
of his son till all danger was long past, and his convalescence was
advanced to such a point that he could assure his parents he should
soon be perfectly restored to health and to his wonted activity and
strength.
Noble and his wife were both deeply affected at the thought of all
which Cuthbert must have suffered, and at the considerate care which
he had manifested for their feelings. His letter was brief, and his
relation of the conduct of Sir Charles Lambert was given in such a
calm and quiet tone that it was plain he had learned the hard lesson
to forgive an enemy. Yet it contained some expressions which troubled
his father with the too sure presage of that course which Cuthbert was
about to follow.
He intended, it said, to leave Milverton at Michaelmas, and should
recommend that Arthur, who was sufficiently forward in his studies,
should be then entered at the University. “I shall not,” it added,
“accompany the dear boy to Oxford; indeed, with my sentiments, it
would be alike unjust to Sir Oliver and to the youth himself to retain
my present office in this family. Where a tutor is called upon to
conceal his opinions and suppress his feelings (on the most important
and the most sublime subjects which affect the present interests of
society and the everlasting happiness of man), in his daily
intercourse with his pupil, both parties are very seriously injured.”
It was particularly remarked by his mother that, in this letter, while
Cuthbert acknowledged, in general terms of warmth, the kindness with
which he had been treated throughout his illness by the whole family
at Milverton, and while he mentioned the friendliness of Juxon, of
whom they had never previously heard, and dwelt still more on his deep
obligations to Master Randal, the surgeon, he never even named
Mistress Katharine, of whom he had spoken with such a romantic warmth
in his former correspondence.
“My dear,” said Noble, “Cuthbert has been on the brink of the grave,
and his mind is full of all that has been solemn and awakening in that
awful experience; but it is not a good sign that he has avoided all
detail of that experience to us. I doubt not that his piety has been
deepened, but I am not without a fear that his head is taken up with
new notions, both of doctrine and of duty, and that he was unwilling
to open them out to us. However, if by any path he has advanced to a
nearer and more affecting view of his Redeemer than that to which he
has hitherto attained, let us rejoice and thank God. He has all along
been deficient in that simplicity of view which begets humility,
peace, and joy:--he refines too much on every subject which is
presented to his mind; muses when he should act; speculates when he
should pray; and is lost in the cold and unsubstantial clouds which
veil the mountain, when he might stand upon the serene summit in the
warm light of the Sun of righteousness.
“It was ever thus with him. In childhood we neglected to subdue his
will, and we shall suffer, and he himself will suffer for our fond but
mistaken indulgence.”
“I am sure, dear, that he was always affectionate and dutiful, and
always will be.”
“Nay, Constance, that does not follow. He will always love us, I am
well persuaded; but whether he will remain obedient to our wishes in
those trying scenes which may sooner or later be presented to our eyes
is very doubtful.”
“Well, Noble, it will be time enough to think of that when the trial
comes:--happen what may, I feel certain that all will be safe and
happy where you are. God ever takes good care of his own; and I always
feel that there is a blessing and a guard round about our dwelling,
for your dear sake.”
“Wife, how can you talk so weakly. What is there in two worms of the
earth, like you and me, that should procure for us an exemption from
calamity?--but this is unprofitable talking--sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof--to enjoy is to obey--and the voice of
thanksgiving is melody. Let us bless God for past mercies, and bless
him by trust for all future goodness.”
Their conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Peter, to
say that Master Daws, the sour precisian, who, it may be remembered,
would have before prevented the customary sports and pleasures on the
festival of the Mayday, was at the gate, and wanted to see Parson
Noble, for a few minutes, on very urgent business.
To rise and go out and ask him into his study with all courtesy was,
of course, the duty of Noble, both as a brother minister and a
Christian gentleman; but it was with no doubt as to the nature and
object of his visit that he did so, and with a desire to bring their
interview to as early a close as might consist with common civility.
The contrast of the two parsons as they entered the study, and as
Master Daws seated himself in the tall chair which Noble drew forward
for him with a quick and rather, indeed, an impatient motion, was
comic in the extreme, and would have greatly diverted any of Noble’s
old college cronies, as it would, of a truth, the good vicar himself,
could he have looked on, and been spared the vexation of playing as a
principal in the dull performance.
Master Daws was a tall, gaunt, bony personage, of a stature exceeding
six feet by nearly two inches: he presented a rigid outline of sharp
angles from his cheek bones to his pointed and protuberant ankles. His
features were coarse; his complexion muddy; his eyes round and dull;
his forehead low; and there was an expression of bad temper about the
corners of his mouth. His black hair was cut close, and he had thin
weak eye-brows.
He seated himself with a slow solemnity of manner; placed his tall
greasy cane erect between his knees, and folded his clumsy hands upon
the top of it; turned up the whites of his eyes in a pretended
ejaculation; and in a drawling tone delivered himself of his
hypocritical errand as follows:--
“My dear brother in the Lord--thou art esteemed a master in
Israel--thou hast a name to live. I would fain hope that thou art not
a willing partaker of the sins of thy people; but verily they stink in
the nostrils of all true Christians, who are thy neighbours. We have
conferred together--we are sore grieved--we are ashamed for thy
sake--and I am come to reason with thee alone concerning the
abominations which are daily committed in thy parish, lest thou perish
and thy people with thee.”
The good parson listened to this strange address without anger,
without wonder, and without reply. The graceful ease of his composed
attitude of attention,--the clear light of his kind intelligent
eyes,--his high pale intellectual forehead,--his frame slender, and a
little bent with the weight of advancing years, and the thin white
hairs scattered on his temples,--would have made the sincere but
deluded fanatic hesitate to proceed, or would have melted his
remonstrance into all that was gentle and affectionate in expression.
On the conscious, the interested, and the incensed hypocrite, however,
his calmness had the opposite effect; and Master Daws, with a most
stern tyranny of tongue, in language clumsily misquoted from the
sacred books of the prophets, and grossly misapplied, went forward to
denounce the wrath of Heaven against the poor rustics of Cheddar and
their aged pastor. This speech we would rather leave to the
imagination of such readers as may be familiar with the incongruous
and disgusting jargon in which the sour zealots and the gloomy
sectarians, who were then daily extending their severe notions,
uttered their iron anathemas against the innocent gaieties of life. At
the close of his very offensive harangue, he drew forth from his
pocket a small volume in black letter, and presented it to the good
vicar with these words:--
“Brother, I have been perhaps too warm; but the fire burned within me,
and it is accounted the first duty of a servant to be faithful. It is
my zeal for the Lord;--and herewith, in love and compassion to thy
poor blinded people, and in pity to thy soul, I do present to thee for
thy private reading, and for the instruction of thy benighted mind,
this book, which is _The Anatomie of Abuses: containing a Discoverie
or briefe Summarie of such notable Vices and Corruptions as now raigne
in many Christian Countreyes of the Worlde: but especially in the
Countrey of Ailgna: together with most fearfull Examples of God’s
Judgements executed upon the Wicked for the same, as well in Ailgna of
late, as in other Places elsewhere. Very godly, to be read of all true
Christians every where; but most chiefly to be regarded in England.
Made Dialogue-wise by Phillip Stubbes._ This wordy title-page, placing
his spectacles upon his nose, he read slowly with a nasal whine, which
the compression of the ill constructed spectacles he wore not a little
assisted.”
“Neighbour Daws,” said Noble patiently, “I do not need thy service in
this matter, seeing I have on my own shelves the book of Master
Phillip Stubbes; and I deny not that it contains some godly maxims and
sound precepts, and it may have done some good by its ridicule of
many vanities, and its condemnation of many sins and abuses: but I
think he distinguishes not between things innocent and hurtful, and
tears up many pleasant flowers of God’s giving, under the dark fancy
that they are poisonous weeds;--for the rest that thou hast spoken
thyself concerning the little flock and fold over which the providence
of God hath made me the humble and willing shepherd, I will not call
thee unmannerly and uncharitable. I have heard thee with pain, though
with patience; and, while I give thee full credit for sincerity in thy
opinions, desire not to hear them further, now or ever again.”
As thus he spoke, he rose, and indicated by that action his wish that
the interview should not be prolonged. Daws also, with a horrible
smile upon his hideous face, in which was to be discerned all the mad
irritation of a mean person, who felt himself despised, and for the
moment baffled in producing alarm, raised himself slowly from his
seat, and answered,--“Satan, the prince of hell, is lord over thy
village and thy people--and he has blinded thy aged eyes, and sealed
thy dumb mouth:--verily the Lord shall visit for these things, and
that speedily;”--so saying, he stalked out with uplifted eyes, and as
he passed the threshold stamped the dust from his feet with a
vindictive action, and departed. “I wish that Cuthbert could have
witnessed this scene,” said Noble, as he saw the ruthless and envious
bigot pass forth out of the wicket, and stride angrily across the
church-yard; “but the wish is vain.”
Upon inquiring of Peter, he learned that, on the preceding evening,
this morose personage had found a dozen children playing round a small
bonfire, in a glen about half a mile from the village, and
celebrating, as a game of play, the festival of St. John’s eve,--the
observance of which had in the present reign been discontinued. The
joyous urchins, alike innocent of pagan or popish idolatry, were
dancing about the flames, and tossing flowers into the rivulet, which
flowed past the spot where they had kindled them, when Daws, who had
his secret designs in many a walk which he took to the neighbourhood
of Cheddar, came suddenly upon them, and driving them off with
execrations and blows, kicked the half burned sticks into the
water:--the little fearless sinners, however, making a swift and
active retreat up a rock, where they felt secure from pursuit,
revenged themselves by shouts and laughter; and in this the little
fellow who had witnessed the ludicrous fall and flight of this same
Daws on May morning, and who had been again recognised by him this
evening, led the merry chorus of impudent little rebels with
conspicuous glee.
Although Noble listened to this news with a smile, the severe and
mischievous spirit evinced during his interview with Daws, both in
language, tone, and manner, gave him more uneasiness than he chose to
impart to his wife, to whom he related much of what had passed between
them in a light and jocular vein. But, alone, he could not but be
impressed with the conviction, that a curate of this harsh and
malevolent character was a very uncomfortable and unsafe neighbour,
and might hereafter prove dangerous.
However, he had now plainly paid his last visit in the quality of
brother clergyman; and, if he was ever to come in that of enemy and
accuser, he could only do so under the restraining guidance of that
mighty, merciful, and mysterious Providence, which ordereth all things
wisely and well.
The good pastor was ill qualified to counteract the intrigues, or to
contend with the violence, of parties. He was a quietist, an optimist,
a dweller at home, enjoying to-day, and taking little anxious thought
for the morrow. His hours were divided between his parish, his study,
and his garden.
Old Blount, the most honest and hospitable of English franklins, was
the only neighbour with whom he could associate upon a footing of
mutual intercourse: but there was not a threshold in the village which
he did not often cross with some friendly inquiry or cheerful words
upon his lip; not a child, that would not rather run to than from him;
and the cottage curs were too familiar with his step and voice to do
more than raise and turn their heads as they lay watching at the
doors, when Noble passed by.
His chief recreation was the weekly visit to Wells. As regularly as
the appointed day came round, the worthy parson mounted his old white
mare, with her well stuffed saddle, rejoicing, in a seat covered with
cloth of a pale sky blue, much faded, and he was carried at a
meditative jogtrot to the fair and ancient city.
Here, at the house of his friend, he would refresh his spirits by
listening to (and sometimes joining in the rich performance of) the
best madrigals of the never surpassed composers of that day, and
taking his part in most pleasant and tuneful exercises on the viol and
the lute.
The troublous aspect of the times had of late somewhat altered the
character of these meetings; and the two holyday hours were now for
the most part, if not entirely, consumed in grave and anxious
consultations on public affairs. The severe spirit of the church
reformers of that period frowned upon every semblance of pleasure: to
them the song of harvest, the dance of the village green, and the
merry catch round the winter hearth, were things sinful and forbidden,
and the peal of the solemn organ in the house of prayer and praise
was hated as an abomination.
Yet they might have read in Scripture, in the very words of holy men
of God, that “the ear of the Lord listeneth to the song of the reaper,
and the joy of harvest; and that he delights not to turn the dance of
the vintage into mourning, nor to make the young cease from their
music:” but because the good provisions of God are daily abused by the
many, who consider not the gracious Giver of them, therefore they
would have the bread of all steeped in tears, and eaten with the
bitter herbs of mourning. Of a truth, in some degree every Christian
man, and minister more especially, must be a mourner, and is: but the
spirit would fail and faint if it might not also taste the rich
consolations of a hallowed joy; and if, amid the labours, the toils,
and the mean cares of the daily pilgrimage, man might not stoop to
gather the flower at his feet, or pause to listen to the feathered
choristers of God’s own temple, it would be to refuse and put away,
with a sullen unthankfulness, the comforts which the Father of mercies
has provided.
Of such enjoyments Noble was most fearlessly fond. To him the world of
nature was a vast and richly illuminated volume; on the various
pictures of which he could pore for ever, with all the wonder, and
with all the rapture, of childhood:--“his Father made them all”--that
was his feeling. The arrows of trouble and disappointment fell blunted
from a bosom, the shield of which was a God seen, acknowledged, and
felt, in all things visible, as the very essence of love.