AN ALARMED PARISH.
In the same month as Mary Bosanquet was cast out of her father's home
to commence life anew as a toiler for God, John Fletcher settled down
to his work in the parish of his choice.
Madeley lies three or four miles from the foot of the Wrekin in a
winding glen, through which flows the River Severn. So far it was a
place of beauty, but in no other sense. The colliers and iron-workers
of Coalbrookdale and Madeley were ignorant, brutal, and much given to
drunkenness and profanity. The Sabbath was ignored, decency frequently
flouted, bull-baiting a favourite pastime, and religion a matter of
coarse ridicule and bitter scorn. After their day's work the
inhabitants frequently held nights of revelry, lasting until dawn,
when dancing, drunkenness, and obscenity reigned supreme.
Fletcher commenced his campaign with great earnestness and zeal. He
had no idea of contenting himself with preaching to a handful of
feeble folk twice upon a Sunday; he counted every day lost if he had
not in it brought some of his people face to face with the
requirements of God. In cottages, at street corners, or in the church,
he held a service just as often as he could gather sufficient people
together; he visited the public-houses, and even appeared at the
midnight carousals, warning men of the wrath of God, and urging them
to flee to Jesus for mercy.
The parishioners of Madeley grew decidedly uncomfortable. They desired
nothing so much as to be left alone, and the influence of this new
parson was a force with which they found it necessary to reckon. They
grew to dread the sudden opening of their tavern and dance-room doors,
and the appearance of the pale, pure-faced man, whose eyes glowed like
coals, and whose words burned and stung as he rebuked sin.
They were not used to being continually confronted with the claims of
God; they did not relish the urgency with which Fletcher insisted upon
_conversion_ rather than church-going. They turned upon him in
public; they maligned him in private; they disturbed his informal
meetings; they cursed his name. One thing they were bound to do,
however, they respected his courage and goodness, and that alone was
sufficient eventually to turn the tide.
It was a lonely time for Fletcher. He was a young man, with no
companion; he was of cultured mind, and greatly missed some kindred
intelligence and friendly spirit with which he might commune of the
things which pressed upon his soul. Little wonder that his heart
should turn towards the sweet-spirited woman whose face dwelt in his
memory with gentle persistence. He looked upon the idea of marriage,
however, as a snare to draw his thoughts from his work, and he fought
it down as something unworthy of his high calling.
"I am driven to the Lord," he wrote to the Countess of Huntingdon,
"and He comforts, encourages, and teaches me. The devil, my friends,
and my heart have pushed at me to make me fall into worldly cares and
creature snares . . . but I have been enabled to cry, 'Nothing but
Jesus and the service of His people,' and I trust the Lord will keep
me in the same mind."
Fletcher lived with the utmost frugality, for some time doing without
even a servant, and taking his meals at a neighbour's house. An idea
of his simplicity of life may be gained from a story told by one who
was at a boarding-school at Madeley which Mr. Fletcher frequently
visited:--
"One morning he came in just as the girls had sat down to breakfast.
He said but little while the meal lasted, but when it was finished he
spoke to each girl separately, and concluded by saying to the whole,
'I have waited some time on you this morning, that I might see you eat
your breakfast; and I hope you will visit me to-morrow morning to see
how I eat mine.' He told them his breakfast-hour was seven o'clock,
and obtained a promise that they would visit him. Next morning they
went at the time appointed, and seated themselves in the kitchen. Mr.
Fletcher came in quite rejoiced to see them. On the table stood a
small basin of milk and sops of bread. Mr. Fletcher carried the basin
across the kitchen and sat down on an old bench. He then took out his
watch, laid it before him, and said, 'My dear girls, yesterday morning
I waited on you a full hour while you were at breakfast; I shall take
as much time this morning in eating my breakfast as I usually do, if
not rather more. Look at my watch!' He immediately began to eat, and
continued in conversation with them. When he had finished he asked how
long he had been at breakfast. They said, 'Just a minute and a-half,
sir.' 'Now, my dear girls,' said he, we have fifty-eight minutes of
the hour left,' and he then began to sing--
"Our life is a dream!
Our time as a stream
Glides swiftly away,
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay.
"After this he gave them a lecture on the worth of time and the worth
of the soul. They then all knelt down in prayer."