THE FUNERAL.
MRS. Thorpe sent us young ones down stairs to our breakfast, and
presently came down herself, and carried away a cup of tea, and some
biscuits.
"Mr. Wesley has persuaded the poor man to lie down and take some food!"
said she. "'Tis wonderful to see the power he has over him."
"You ought to take something yourself, Mrs. Thorpe!" said Mrs. Crump,
who was presiding at the table. "You will be ill, and have a turn of
spasms again, if you keep on your feet so, without eating anything."
"I am coming down directly to give Mr. Wesley his breakfast, and then
if Rebecca thinks she can manage with Mary Lee's help in the shop, I
will lie down a bit. I am weary, that is the truth. Betty Humble will
finish sewing the trimming on those short coats for Mrs. Thistlewood's
baby, and mind it is done neatly, my girl."
She went away as she spoke, carrying the tray she had prepared. Betty
looked anything but satisfied.
"Yes, that is always the way!" she grumbled. "Mary can go to the shop
where she can see every one, and I must sit poked up stairs, sewing my
eyes out. It is too bad."
"I am sure I would willingly change places with you, if mistress were
willing!" said Mary. "I do not love to serve in the shop at all."
"Then ask her—do ask her!" returned Betty eagerly. "So many folks will
be sure to come in this morning to hear the news."
"You will do no such thing, Mary!" said Mrs. Crump decidedly. "Your
mistress knows what she is about, and I will not have her fashed with
such follies. You know very well, Betty, the last time you served in
the shop, you broke a china jar, worth a half year's work, all because
you were gaping and staring instead of minding your business. I think
the remembrance of what is up over our heads, might give you some
serious thoughts for once."
"That is just it!" whispered Betty. "I am afraid to stay up there, with
a corpse in the house."
"And what do you think the dead woman is going to do to you? However,
you can bring your work down to my room, if you like."
Amabel and I arranged our room, and then began to wonder what we
should do next; we could not practise our music, neither did we feel
like diverting ourselves with "Sir Charles Grandison." At last, Amabel
proposed that we should take our work and Mr. Thomson's poems into the
garden, and work or read as we fancied.
It was a lovely day; a breeze was blowing, just enough to cool the
air and bring in the freshness of the sea, to mingle with the smell
of the late haying, and the stocks and gill-flowers in the borders,
and make music in the great cedar that grew in the church-yard. Amabel
had just finished reading "The Autumn," when we became aware that she
had another auditor than myself. Mr. Wesley had come out of the house,
approaching with so gentle a step that we had not heard him, and stood
listening to the reading. We both rose in some little confusion, and
curtsied an answer to his polished greeting.
"Pray do not let me disturb you!" said he, as he seated himself on the
other bench of the little arbor. "It is a pleasure to find young ladies
so well employed. Will you permit me to rest here for a short time? I
have been riding since dawn."
Amabel made some polite answer, and Mr. Wesley took up the book she had
laid down.
"'Tis a fine poem, is it not?" said he. "Have you read the hymn with
which the book concludes?"
"We have not got as far as that!" said Amabel.
Mr. Wesley turned over the leaves, and began that sublime hymn,
beginning—
"These as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God."
I shall never dissociate these lines with the melodious voice and
expressive manner of Mr. Wesley. When he had finished, we sat silent
for a few minutes.
"That is beautiful!" said Amabel at last, with a kind of sigh.
"It is indeed!" answered Mr. Wesley. "I hardly know of more than one
finer."
"And what is that, Sir?" I ventured to ask.
"One that I dare say you have often read without thinking of it in that
way!" answered Mr. Wesley, smiling.
"We have read very few books," remarked Amabel. "We were brought up in
a French convent, and never saw any but 'Meditations' and 'Lives of the
Saints,' till we came to live here."
"Nevertheless, I think you know the poem I mean!" said Mr. Wesley.
"Shall I read it for you?"
"If you will be so good!" said Amabel.
He took a small Bible from his pocket, and to our surprise began to
read the hundred and fourth psalm. I had read it, and repeated it often
enough, but somehow his voice gave it a new interpretation. I could see
the bounds which had been set, that the sea might not pass—the springs
and brooks, feeding the rivers running among the hills, and nourishing
the trees, wherein the birds build their nests, the rich meadows, and
wide harvest fields.
"Is not that a picture gallery?" said Mr. Wesley, when he had finished.
"A clever artist might paint a landscape from every verse of that
psalm."
"Thank you very much," said Amabel, with that light shining in her
placid eyes which showed that her feelings were strongly moved. "I
never knew that there was so much in that Psalm before."
"Ah, my maiden, we go through the Bible as we do through the world—with
our eyes shut!" said Mr. Wesley, rather sadly. "'Open THOU mine eyes,
that I may behold the wondrous things of THY law,' should be the daily
prayer of every one of us."
"We have never read the Bible, only here and there," said I, rather
scared at my own boldness. "I have often wished that I might."
"And why, then, do you not read it, my daughter? Who is to hinder you?"
"We promised that we would not read any heretical books," said Amabel,
with rather a severe glance at me.
"But, my child, you do not call the Word of God a heretical book, do
you?"
"N—no!" answered Amabel, rather puzzled by this view of the case. "It
cannot be, of course. Bert the church teaches that it is not fit to put
into the hands of every one of the common people."
"The Church must consider our Lord and His apostles greatly in the
wrong, then," said Mr. Wesley, smiling.
"How so?" asked Amabel, startled and shocked, but interested in spite
of herself.
"Why because it is expressly told us that He preached His discourses
to great multitudes, and that the common people heard Him gladly. Also
the epistles were all written to the whole of the churches to which
they are addressed. And if the common people heard Him gladly then, why
should they not do so now? And again, you know that the Latin Bible
used by the Romish Church is called the Vulgate, do you not?"
"I know that it is, but not the reason," replied Amabel.
"Because, my daughter, it was translated, by St. Jerome, into the
common Latin, which was the vulgar tongue in those days of half the
known world—the very tongue in which the ladies talked of household
matters and the fashions of the day, and prattled with their little
ones, and scolded their maidservants even as they do now. He translated
the Scriptures that every one might drink freely of divine knowledge,
and though his version is somewhat deficient, Hebrew being not as
thoroughly studied as in later days, yet has it been a well-spring of
life to thousands of thousands of devout souls now passed to their
eternal rest."
"We are not to use our own judgment, but to be guided by the Church,"
said Amabel.
"That is what I cannot understand—I mean how we are to help using our
own judgment," I ventured to remark. "As long as we heard only one side
it might be easy enough, but when one is in the hearing all sorts of
opinions, how are we to help judging?"
"We are to believe as the Church commands," answered Amabel.
"But why? Is it not because we judge the Church to be the only safe
guide? And is not that our own judgment as much as if we came to any
other conclusion? It seems to me so."
"And you are right, my child. You can no more use another man's
judgment in such matters, than you can breathe with his lungs. A man
asserts his ownership of an estate just as much by giving it away all
in a lump, as if he bestowed it by ten shillings at a time."
"I should like to read the Bible, if it is not wrong," said Amabel.
"The bits we used to read with Father Brousseau in his great English
Bible were so interesting. But I used to wonder why he never showed us
those places where the Lord's disciples worshipped the Holy Virgin, and
where he taught them about the worship and traditions of the Church."
"Perhaps you may find out the reason when you read the book," said
Mr. Wesley, with a smile, in which a little sarcasm mingled with the
sweetness. "Well, my children, we have had a pleasant, and, I trust,
a profitable hour together. Now will you tell me where the rector of
this Church, Mr. Cheriton, lives? I must speak with him concerning the
funeral of this poor woman and her babe."
"Mr. Cheriton will save you that trouble," said the gentleman himself.
"By your leave, fair ladies."
As he spoke, he made a flying leap over the low stone wall which
separated our garden from the church-yard, and lifted his hat politely.
"Your servant, sir! I conclude I have the honor of addressing Mr.
Wesley. I trust our poor friend up stairs has been comforted by your
coming."
"I left him sleeping, and hope he may awake refreshed. I usually find
that grief is somewhat mitigated, when it can be brought to the point
of expression. 'Tis the silent and dry sorrow that kills. I have to
thank you for the service you rendered him in the hour of danger."
"It was nothing," answered Mr. Cheriton, carelessly. "'Twas not in
human nature to see an innocent man and a helpless woman trampled by a
set of brutes."
"I have seen such things in human nature a good many times of late
years," said Mr. Wesley. "From whence do such things come except
from human nature? But not to discuss that matter at present. My
poor brother has expressed a wish that I should perform the funeral
services for his wife and child. I told him that I must first consult
you, and if you saw no objection, and thought there was no danger of a
disgraceful disturbance—"
"Of course there can be no objection," said Mr. Cheriton. "I shall be
only too glad to have you do so, and as to any disturbance, the man who
dares molest you, will have to deal with me."
And he shut his mouth in a way that gave his handsome face rather a
grim expression for the moment.
"Oh, as to that, I have faced mobs too often to fear them greatly,"
said Mr. Wesley; "but I would not involve you in an unpleasant affair.
I believe, however, that the people will be peaceable enough if left to
themselves."
"I dare say. If you will do me the honor of walking with me, I will
show you the place where I think the grave may be made. Good morning,
ladies."
The gentlemen bowed and walked away together. Amabel and I gathered up
our affairs and returned to the house. She went straight up stairs,
and I went into the shop parlor to seek some thread for my work. I was
selecting my skeins from the drawer when I saw Captain Lovelace come in
and inquire for gloves. He was followed by Lady Throckmorton. I stepped
out of sight behind a screen, being somewhat anxious to observe them.
"Where is Mrs. Thorpe?" asked Lady Throckmorton as Rebecca Carter rose
to wait upon her.
Rebecca usually attended to the department of baby-linen and the like,
feeling, as she said, more freedom in selling useful things than in
dealing with laces and other unprofitable articles, but she never
hesitated to attend to the other matters when needful.
"She is lying down, having been up all night," answered Rebecca. "I can
probably serve thee."
"Oh, that reminds me!" said Captain Lovelace. "I hope the poor woman
was no worse for her fright yesterday—I mean the Methodist ranter's
wife."
"She is no worse," was the brief reply.
I saw Captain Lovelace's face clear up with an expression of relief.
"I am glad to hear it," said he, heartily.
"You need not have troubled yourself," said Lady Throckmorton,
languidly. "That kind of people are not like us. The blow which
shatters the porcelain does not hurt the common clay."
"And you say she was not hurt?" said Captain Lovelace, forgetting the
compliment which her ladyship evidently expected.
"Nay, I said not so," answered Rebecca. "I said she was none the worse,
which is true, seeing that she has but changed a painful life here for
the rest of the faithful hereafter. She is dead, and also her babe."
"Dead!" said Captain Lovelace, in a kind of whisper. "Dead!" The color
all went out of his face, and he had his hand on the counter as if to
sustain himself.
"Even so," said Rebecca, calmly. "She passed away at day dawn, praying
for forgiveness to her murderers with her latest breath, if that be any
comfort to them."
Captain Lovelace did not look as though it were any comfort to him. I
never saw a more horrified face. He stood looking at Rebecca as though
she held the gorgon's head in her hand instead of a bottle of lavender
water.
"Well, well, my good woman, we do not wish to hear her funeral sermon.
You may tell Mrs. Thorpe from me that if she expects the patronage of
ladies of fashion, she must not make her house an asylum for ranters.
She will not find her account in it, as I for one shall withdraw my
custom."
Now Rebecca was a little deaf, and, like some others in the same case,
she could make her deafness serve her turn when she did not wish to
hear or to understand. She did so in this instance.
"Account—didst thou wish for thy account? Oh yes, I can give it thee
at once," said she, and, opening a drawer, she drew forth a formidable
looking paper of several pages. "Friend Thorpe has had it ready for
several days. Perhaps thou wouldst like to take it home and look it
over, or if thou dost prefer, I can send it to thy husband."
"Pshaw!" said Lady Throckmorton. "The woman is deaf and stupid as a
post. Captain Lovelace, will you come home and dine with us, or shall I
set you down any where?"
"Your ladyship must excuse me," said Captain Lovelace. "I—I am too
disordered to be fit company for your ladyship. I feel myself very
unwell."
And, not even waiting to hand her ladyship to her carriage, as she
evidently expected, he pulled his hat over his brows and walked away.
That very afternoon, Mr. Cheriton received a twenty-pound note, with
an anonymous request that he would apply it to the funeral expenses of
Mrs. Edwards, and give the remainder, if any, to her husband.
The next day, the town was ringing with the news that Captain Lovelace
and some other gentleman, after a deep carouse, had fallen out over
the gaming table, had fought a duel at daybreak, and were both lying
dangerously wounded—Captain Lovelace probably fatally so. Truly the
sorrow of the world worketh death. He did not die, however. After a
very long and tedious illness, he was able to be abroad once more,
and for the rest of his life, was as remarkable for sobriety and
earnestness as he had formerly been for the reverse.
Mrs. Edwards' funeral was a little hurried, as Mr. Wesley was obliged
to leave town. I never saw such a concourse of people as were gathered
together. The church-yard was literally packed, but there was not the
least disturbance. When Mr. Wesley and Mr. Cheriton came out of the
church to meet the coffin at the gate, every one made way for them,
and many a rough head was uncovered as the little procession passed
by. The spot selected for the grave was close by our garden wall, so
that Amabel and I in our bow window could see and hear all that went
on. I was deeply affected, as all thoughtful persons must be, by the
wonderful solemn beauty of the English service.
"Is it not beautiful?" said I.
"Yes, indeed; I should like to read it over by myself. But hush, Mr.
Wesley is going to speak."
"'He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and
he that liveth and believeth on me shall never die.'"
These were the words Mr. Wesley took as the text of his address.
In all that vast multitude, you might have heard a pin drop, as in
carefully measured sentences, in that full melodious voice, restrained
in the midst of his utmost earnestness, he spoke of the promises
of everlasting life to the believer, of the certainty of death and
judgment, of the awful nearness of the eternal world, and besought
all to make their calling and election sure while yet the choice was
in their power. I saw Mr. Cheriton standing, in fixed and absorbed
attention, by Mr. Wesley's side.
When all was over, the multitude dispersed very gravely and silently,
with hardly a word spoken. I saw but two faces which expressed decided
disapproval. These belonged to the old clerk and the still older
sexton. We had learned to know these worthies well, and had quite won
the heart of the latter by carrying some custards of our own concocting
to his poor, toothless, bed-ridden wife.
Mr. Cheriton, as I said, stood in fixed attention till the discourse
was ended, and the people had for the most part withdrawn. Then he put
his arm within Mr. Wesley's.
"Come into my house and dine with me!" said he earnestly. "Come, I must
have more talk with you; you have put many new thoughts and feelings
into my head, and heart. Come and tell me what to make of them."
The two gentlemen walked away together, and entered the sashed door,
which opened from the church-yard, and led—so Mrs. Thorpe had told
us—into the Rector's study.
"What dost thou think of that, John Sexton?" asked the clerk of the
other old man, who was diligently fitting the sods over the grave of
poor Mrs. Edwards and her babe.
"I like it not—I like it not, Master Tubbs!" replied the sexton. "There
were never no such goings on in my young days. I haven't lived to be
eighty-six and as able to do my work as ever I was—yes, and one as has
kept his church regular ever since he can remember—yes, and helped my
father in this very church-yard, as he did his father and grandfather
afore him; to be called a miserable sinner at my time of life, except
it be by yourself and parson, in the regular way of business, Master
Tubbs. I don't say as they did right as brought the poor woman and her
babe to this pass—nor neither do I say it is right to have Methodists
and Ranters a preaching in this here church-yard of St. Anne's, either."
"Mr. Wesley is a regular clergyman of the Church of England; so Mr.
Cheriton tells me, and he ought to know," remarked Master Tubbs
dubiously. "But who ever heard of a regular-bred parson going out into
the fields and preaching to colliers and such trash, at five o'clock
in the morning? And that Mr. Wesley did this very morning on Chowdene
Fell."
"So I hear!" returned the clerk. "More than that, Master Smith, the
butcher in our street, was coming home from buying fat sheep, and he
stopped to listen. 'More shame for you, Master Smith, and you with a
family pew of your own in church,' says I.
"'You wouldn't say so, Master Tubbs, if you'd heard 'im,' says he.
'Why, those foul-mouthed men and women—as never used a good word in
their lives unless it was to swear by it, stood with the tears running
down their black grimy faces, when Mr. Wesley preached to them about
their sins being washed whiter than snow. And when he had ended, they
all crowded round him to get a word; and one after another was crying
and saying—
"'"What shall I do to be saved?" and "Oh Master Wesley, can such a
sinner as I be saved?"'
"'That just shows the truth of what I say, Master Smith,' says I.
'When did you ever see any one with the tears running down under Mr.
Cheriton's preaching or Doctor Thurston's,' says I.
"'Well,' says he, 'it seems to me like what it says in the Scripture
about going to seek the sheep that was lost.'
"That was a little too much for me, and says I, very dignified like—
"'Master Smith, I bid you good morning. I've been clerk of this here
parish thirty year, and I don't think it becomes me, to stand and hear
the Scripture applied to colliers and ballast men,' says I, and I
walked off."
"Parson's taken up with Mr. Wesley, anyhow!" said the sexton
doubtfully. "He carried him home with him."
"I wish it may end well, that's all!" returned Master Tubbs. "I don't
want our church crowded with poor folks, as it was last Sunday. Ours
has been the most select congregation in town and I don't want to see
it otherwise in my day."
For myself, I can hardly tell how the discourse affected me. It was
so utterly different from anything I had ever heard before, that I
knew not what to make of it. I wanted time to analyze my feelings and
thoughts. We sat silent awhile, and then Amabel spoke suddenly.
"Lucy, I am going to read the Bible."
"After promising not to read any heretical books!" said I.
"I have been thinking of all Mr. Wesley said to us!" she replied. "I
don't see how the Bible can be called a heretical book. As far as I
understand, there are several different kinds of Protestants, and all
of them seem to have scholars of their own. If one made a great error
in the translation, the others would be sure to find it out, and show
it up—yet it seems they all use the same translation."
"Mother Assistant used to say, that all the sectaries in Christendom
became so by reading the Bible!" said I. "She said if every body came
to read it and judge it for themselves, there would be an end of the
church. I never could understand how that could be. But what did you
think of Mr. Wesley's sermon? It was not much like one of Father
Brousseau's, was it?"
"Not at all like it! But if you ask what I think, I don't know; only
I think it is beautiful in him, to go and preach to the poor colliers
that no one has cared for. It is like what we used to hear of St.
Vincent de Paul, among the poor. I wish I could hear him once more."
We saw no more of Mr. Wesley that night, only I looked out before I
went to bed, (it was as bright moonlight as we ever have in England,)
and saw two dark figures pacing arm in arm, up and down the paved walk
which led from the rectory door to the church porch, and from their
relative size, I concluded that they were Mr. Wesley and Mr. Cheriton.
The next morning, Mr. Wesley came to bid us good-bye. He thanked Mrs.
Thorpe in warm terms for her kindness to his poor brother and sister
as he called them, and delicately offered to repay any charges she had
been at, concerning them. But this Mrs. Thorpe positively declined.
"I did but do as I would be done by!" said she. "Any woman would have
a heart harder than the nether mill-stone, who should refuse help
to another woman in her case. How a man of sense such as poor Mr.
Edwards seems to be, should expose his wife to such peril, passes my
comprehension. 'Twas sheer madness."
"He was taking his wife to Berwick to pass the time of her trouble
with her own mother, whom she had not seen for many years!" replied
Mr. Wesley. "He had preached at the Sandgate before, and had never met
with any disturbance; nor do I think there would have been any had the
people not been set on."
He then turned to Amabel and myself, who were standing behind Mrs.
Thorpe, as we had just risen from breakfast.
"And to you, my dear young ladies, what can I say but to thank you, and
leave you the blessing of a unworthy sinner. Be sure you will be in my
prayers, and my thoughts, and perhaps we may meet again. Meantime, will
you accept and read these books?"
He opened a parcel which he carried, and presented us each with a
pretty copy of the New Testament. Then once more bidding us farewell,
he went his way, passing through the shop, where stood Mrs. Wilson,
Lady Throckmorton's woman, selecting some ribbons for her mistress. As
Mr. Wesley passed her, she gave vent to a modish oath, asking perdition
to take her, if she could find anything fit to be seen.
"Madam!" said Mr. Wesley. "I advise you to consider your words. It may
be that perdition will overtake you, whether you find what you seek or
not."
Mrs. Wilson started with a kind of suppressed shriek, and then trying
to put a bold face on it, she lifted her impudent black eyes to Mr.
Wesley's face. But they fell again instantly before his, nor did she
speak another word till he left the shop.
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