“When I view abroad both regiments,The world’s and thine,Thine clad with simpleness and sad events,The other, fine—Full of glory and gay weeds,Brave language—braver deeds!”George Herbert.
“When I view abroad both regiments,The world’s and thine,Thine clad with simpleness and sad events,The other, fine—Full of glory and gay weeds,Brave language—braver deeds!”George Herbert.
“When I view abroad both regiments,The world’s and thine,Thine clad with simpleness and sad events,The other, fine—Full of glory and gay weeds,Brave language—braver deeds!”George Herbert.
TheCarlisle hostel was full of guests—a singular circumstance—for the quaint and humble suburban inn was out of the ordinary road of travelers. The landlady, an honest, ruddy, bustling dame, with a strong leaning to the persecuted Presbyterians, hastily led Edith and her guardian up-stairs into a little bright bed-chamber, whose latticed window looked out through embowering foliage, over the well-filled garden, upon the road they had just traversed.
’Tis but an homely place,” said Mrs. Philpot, “to put a gentlewoman in; but, forsooth, Mistress Edith, we be often put to our wit’s-end that live in a public way, for there’s young Sir Philip Dacre below, with all his serving-men—and wherefore he came hither I wot not, for we’re none such light folks as to put up with the ways of wild young gallants like him, that would have their gentle blood cover all. No, no, says I, we’ll have none of your gaydoings here—you must e’en tramp off to old Roger Whittaker’s that never wants room for such as would do themselves or other folk a mischief. A plague on him! it’s e’en him, and such like as him, that has driven canny customs from the Border; and the curate no less—and that’s a meet place for a minister—drinking and dribbling at his ingle-side, morn and even. Let’s have done with them, I say! they’re a worse set than the old priests with their mass-books, and their women’s garments!”
“And my father,” said Edith, “is he not here?”
“And in truth, Mistress Edith, with my clatter I had nigh forgotten the message the good gentleman gave me. He will be here ere noon; it is ten of the clock now; and if thou wilt content thee in this poor place I’ll bring thee something thou’st not tasted afore since thou cam’st to Cumberland; and somewhat to comfort thee also, Dame Dutton, though I reckon thou hast no sweet tooth for dainties any more than mysel’; but I’ll have thee a comfortable snack afore thou’st gotten thy hood undone. Sit thee down, dame, thou’s kindly welcome.”
“And it’s little business Sir Philip Dacre can have in Joe Philpot’s hostel, I trow,” said Dame Dutton, suspiciously, as the landlady left the little apartment. “Did’st never see this gallant, Mistress Edith? I did fancy there were lace and feathers at the great window below; but my old eyes serve me not as they once did—and certain there were idle grooms enow; but I marked not the Dacre coat. Thou would’st see who sat at the great window, sweetheart?”
“Nay, truly, Dame Dutton,” said Edith: “I marked no great window, for I was eager to see my father.”
“That wert thou! t’would be a false heart that doubted thee,” said the old woman, repentant of her momentary suspicious fear. “Yet I know naught ill of the lad, for all I speak, if it were not that he is his mother’s son—and, lo! you now, Mistress Edith, my hood hath been loosened these five minutes, and there is no tidings of Dame Philpot and her good cheer.”
“She will be here anon, dame,” said Edith, opening the lattice.
Standing where she did, she could see a corner of the court-yard of the inn, busy as it was, beyond its wont. The great window, where sat the unconscious object of Dame Dutton’s fears, was immediately below.
She had been standing thus for some time, conscious of the sweet air and sunshine, and vacantly watching the figures in the yard, when a cavalier, dressed in the fantastic fashion of the time, rode briskly in at the gate. His rich dress was travel-soiled, his attendants looked dusty and fatigued, and calling hurriedly for refreshments, he waited the return of the servants who ran to obey his orders, as if he did not mean to alight.
“Ha, Sir Jasper!” exclaimed some unseen person below, whose voice had a finer modulation than belonged to the Border. “What makes you so far from town?”
“From town!” echoed the new comer; “in what hyperborean region have you hidden yourself, gentle Sir Philip, that your happy ignorance needs to ask? From town! why the town itself, I fear, ere long will take to traveling:—the matter is who shall get furthest away in these days.”
“A marvel!” said Sir Philip Dacre, laughing. “I fancied you courtiers could breathe no air less dainty than the perfumes of Whitehall.”
“Faith, there are odors abroad less delectable,” said the cavalier, shrugging his shoulders. “Hast not heard of the enemy who hath established his garrison—for longer, I fear me, than the bivouac of a night—in yonder unhappy London?”
“Enemy! what mean you?”
“Truly what I say, good Philip—the leader of yonder forces suffers no equivoque; the roads are covered with fugitives who never learned to fly before. Myself am not apt to turn my back on an enemy’s line of battle; but yonder grim rascal is not to be faced. The king himself has fled.”
“Now pray heaven it be not Oliver risen again,” exclaimed Dacre, in a tone of anxiety.
“Oliver! nay, it is another incarnation of the evil one frightfuller than he. Hark thee, Sir Philip—the plague!”
“The plague!”
Edith could hear the ring of the young man’s sword and spurs as he sprang to his feet. The bystanders in the yard began to form a circle round the cavalier and his servants, eager to hear, and yet afraid to press upon those who had so lately left the neighborhood of the pestilence.
“So I e’en bethought myself of seeing what cheer my noble kinsman holds in Naworth,” said the cavalier, with an affectation of carelessness. “When old London hath shaken herself free of her spectral visitant, she will have the greater zest for the contrast. Thou should’st hie thee to Court. Sir Philip: never better chance for thee, man.His Majesty goes to Oxford—where all the learning of merry England will overshadow him.”
“Nay, nay,” said Dacre, hastily. “Fenton, make ready to proceed; let those only go with us who do not fear; take no man against his will. I have but newly touched English ground, Sir Jasper, and was on my way to greet my mother. Know you if she is still in London? I must hasten now to bring her home.”
“Then hast thou less philosophy than I gave thee credit for, Sir Philip,” said the stranger, emptying as he spoke a goblet of wine; “for in good sooth I know no noble lady more entirely able to care for her own safety, and her household’s, than the Lady Dacre; and bethink thee, good friend,shehath but to escape out of the danger she is already in, whereas thou would’st thrust thyself into what affects thee not. Tush, man, think of it again—it is an enterprise savoring of his conceit who went forth a knight-errant in the Spanish story; thou knowest him of La Mancha? If thou hadst been among yonder fair ladies of Lisbon, I should warrant thee to hear of his exploits full plenty.”
“I crave your pardon, Sir Jasper,” said Dacre, gravely. “I am no Quixote, nor am I used to depart from my purposes at stroke of wit or jesting. I pray you alight and share my meal with me: it will detain you little on your journey, and I would fain hear further of this pestilence.”
“Hear to him—hear to him!” exclaimed the landlady, concealing her pleasure under a semblance of annoyance as she touched Edith on the shoulder, and showed her the little table spread with refreshments. “He will bring theother swaggering cavalier over my honest threshold, and what will Dame Whittaker say to that, I trow! I know not when she had as many plumed caps in her court-yard, Round-heads and Puritans as they call us. Well-a-day! and you would hear of that woeful plague and how the cavalier yonder—lo! now he is alighting and yonder does my goodman hold the stirrup—was flying from the face of it. Ah, Mistress Edith! look at his sword and that scar on his brow was gotten in the wars; and what a mighty man he is, like the giant in the Scripture that David slew, and yet the like of him flies before the pestilence and thinks no shame to tell it! To think of that now.”
“But he is not a minister of the Word,” said Edith to herself unconsciously.
“A minister! bless you, who would fancy that? Nay, truly, he is a wolf in his own proper hide; and that is none so ill as the sheep’s clothing of yon poor dazed curate, that keeps muddling his brains from Sabbath to Saturday with Roger Whittaker’s sour ale. And see you, Mistress Edith, here is a cup of chocolate for you, the very same that the great ladies of the court break their fast withal. I got it from Tom Blackstone, a lad of this country, that’s gotten to be a skipper from Newcastle, when he came to see his old mother that lives nigh by the Scots gate; and I’d take a taste mysel’ for company, though, an it were not just newfangled. Well, Dame Dutton, look at the beer how it sparkles in the cup, as bright as the wine that my good man has been drawing for the gentle company in the great parlor. Thou never saw better ale I warrant thee.”
“Nor tasted,” said Dame Dutton, heartily, “and I would, my poor Raaf, had but this to warm his old blood when he comes in from the hills o’ nights; for it’s a hard life, Mistress Philpot, and a dull night will this be, with thy chair empty. Mistress Edith, and thy sweet self gone among perils. Well-a-day! but Master Field is a bold man.”
“Ay, truly,” said the landlady, looking inquisitively at Edith, “it must be urgent business that carries him to London e’enow; but there will be company on the road, Mistress Edith, for I chanced to hear young Sir Philip say as much to the other noble gentleman, as that he was on his way: and when he heard of that fearful plague, he would bring home his mother, he said. Bring home his mother, I trow! as if the Lady Dacre ever did one deed in this blessed world for any body’s will but her own.”
’Twould be a strange will, Mistress,” said Dame Dutton, “if she chose to stay among the sick folk in the stricken city; for Master Field would make thy blood cold to tell thee of it; but the Lady Dacre likes not Thornleigh, and wherefore should she?”
“Ay, wherefore, indeed?” echoed Mistress Philpot, looking at Edith.
These looks and hints made Edith uneasy; she resolved to ask her father what their meaning was, but she wisely forebore questioning the kindly dames beside her, both of whom, good-humored, honest, affectionate matrons, as they were, had no objections to a little innocent gossip.
“But Thornleigh has never been inhabited since I came to Cumberland, has it, Dame Dutton?” said Edith, “and yet this gentleman seemed to come from it to-day!”
“Ay, Sir Philip has been in foreign parts,” said the hostess, “traveling here-away, there-away. I can scarce tell you where: in France and a long away further off than France: in the countries, I reckon, where snow lies summer and winter, where they have that queen that is so wise, like the Queen of Sheba in the old times; and wonderful tales Master Fenton was telling of them, when you came in, Mistress Edith. So, from thence, the young knight came in a ship to Scotland, and after he had tarried awhile there (and Master Fenton do say it be dreadful to see how they torture decent folk yonder, for hearing a preaching or singing a psalm) he traveled up through the country, and came to Thornleigh last night—and this morning he was for starting again, but because his men could get naught decent from the old crazed housekeeper, he came to get them a right meal afore they should start on their journey. Does any thing ail you, Mistress Edith?”
Edith had risen from the table, and stood at the window.
“No, no,” she said, fastening her hood and mantle, nervously; “but yonder comes my father.”
A stout horse, with a pillion attached to its saddle, was led out as she spoke. Master Field crossed the court-yard hastily, and ascended the stairs. When he entered the room he drew his daughter to the window, and pointing to where an hostler led the animal about, made a last attempt to dissuade her from accompanying him. Edith said nothing in return: she only slid her hand through her father’s arm, and holding by him firmly, bade her kind friends farewell.
“Now father, I am ready; let us go.”
And after another very brief delay, they went forth upon their perilous journey.
The strange cavalier, with his train, rode from the gate at the same time—a singular contrast. The much-lauded, gay, graceful, gallant cavalier, with his noble blood, his inheritance of chivalrous feeling, and honor, his peculiar attribute of personal bravery, on prancing steed and with clang of spur and warlike sword, went out, holding his noble head high, a fugitive flying before the Plague. And beside him rode forth the grave man and the delicate girl, traveling with their lives in their hands, for their Lord’s sake, and their people’s, to meet the great enemy in its stronghold; making no vaunt of their resolve, having no presumption in their stout hearts—grave, heroic, silent—loyal to a king who hath more thrones in his wide dominion than that of England.
The father and the daughter conversed little; it was a solemn journey. Along those peaceful highways, past those homely cottages, in the abundance of their rude health and security, skirting the draped feet of those serene and everlasting hills, while perchance this same May sunshine should fall upon some fearful indiscriminate grave in yonder distant city, which alone could record that there they died.
It was no time for speech—in awe and grave valor they traveled on.
They had proceeded thus for some few hours on their way, when the sound of a horse’s feet behind, made Master Field turn his head. Sir Philip Dacre was riding in haste after them, considerably in advance of hisattendants. He was a young man of moderately good looks, with a mien more scholar-like than courtly. Edith had heard his name mentioned only in the must cursory manner before this day; but it seemed from the conversation that ensued, that her father knew him.
“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, eagerly, as he joined them, “you also must have heard of this scourge which has entered London. I pray you tell me if those who are flying from it do not aggravate its terrors. Is it indeed as fatal as men say?”
“I fear me, Sir Philip,” was the grave answer, “that men know not yet a tithe of those terrors they speak of; but it is true that a universal panic hath seized the city, and without doubt the servile passion of fear is one of its many allies, and doth prepare its way.”
“I am hastening thither,” said Dacre. “I fear over-boldness more than panic—and I must endeavor to bring my mother away.”
The Puritan made no answer; Edith felt a slight thrill through his strong frame, and he quickened his horse’s pace.
“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, with emotion, “long ago, when I met with you at Oxford, you returned good for evil; now, in the face of death, shall we not be at peace? Yonder hostess told me you were bound for London. I divine your errand; you go to face this Plague. Ah, sir! shall I bid you then forget what your magnanimous heart forgave so nobly, when the power to protect and help was on your side? Since that time, I have seen other laws than those of England. Evil deeds of men to whose party I belong by inheritance andhereditary right, I repudiate heartily and with sincerity. I have no share with this impure court, this arbitrary government. Your personal wrong, Master Field—”
“Mention it not—mention it not!” said the minister, waving his hand; “I am a man, Sir Philip, subject to like temptations of passion as other men. Heartily, and in all humbleness, I have endeavored to forgive; but try me not again by bringing my first bitterness to my remembrance—my personal wrong is a dead wrong—disturb not the oblivion of its peace.”
“And yet,” said the young man, gently, “and yet I have wept for it ere I well knew what sorrow meant. Yonder old walls of Thornleigh could bear me witness how bitterly the boy lamented over that cruel deed; but, to speak of other matters less private than this—I have no sympathy, Master Field, with the injustice which has banished you from your place. My desires and hopes are more with you than against you. We are both on our way to face death—it may be we shall never see these hills again; let us go together, and in peace.”
The Puritan extended his hand; the young man grasped it heartily. Greater difference of rank or faith, birth or years, could not have hindered the infallible brotherhood of those twain—alike stout, generous, and manful, loving their fellows and their God!
“You look pale and gaze,And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,To see the strange impatience of the heavens:But if you would consider the true causeWhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,Why all these things change, from their ordinance,Their nature, and pre-formed facultiesTo monstrous quality, why, you shall findThat Heaven hath infused them with these spiritsTo make them instruments of fear, and warningUnto some monstrous state.”Julius Cæsar.
“You look pale and gaze,And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,To see the strange impatience of the heavens:But if you would consider the true causeWhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,Why all these things change, from their ordinance,Their nature, and pre-formed facultiesTo monstrous quality, why, you shall findThat Heaven hath infused them with these spiritsTo make them instruments of fear, and warningUnto some monstrous state.”Julius Cæsar.
“You look pale and gaze,And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,To see the strange impatience of the heavens:But if you would consider the true causeWhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,Why all these things change, from their ordinance,Their nature, and pre-formed facultiesTo monstrous quality, why, you shall findThat Heaven hath infused them with these spiritsTo make them instruments of fear, and warningUnto some monstrous state.”Julius Cæsar.
Theyhad at last entered London; it was a genial May day, warm and balmy, and the sun was beginning to descend the western sky. As they approached the city, numberless little companies, carefully avoiding contact with each other, met them on the road, leaving the vicinity of the pestilence; on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, with heavy wagons loaded with household stores and furniture, citizens, nobles, clergymen, and laborers, were alike flying for their lives.
But in the quaint outskirts of the town there was still little difference perceptible. Men went about plying their ordinary business; shops were open; the stream of traffic had not yet received its final check. Only various featuresof change, singular and ominous, presented themselves here and there. Apothecaries’ booths abounded on every side, full of all manner of nostrums—remedies, and preventives for the fatal disease, before whose acknowledged presence London trembled. Almost as plentiful at street-corners and ends of alleys, were the brazen symbols of the astrologer, the mysterious signs of fortune-tellers, and other spiritual quacks, vending their perilous stuff for the relief of that craving, coward appetite of fear, at once foolhardy and timorous, which seeks to investigate the hidden fate of its own selfish future. Sometimes the twin empiricisms united in one person, were signified in signboard, or notice, at some much-frequented door. The singular excitement of the time was evident every where.
Passengers warily walking in the middle of the street—sudden shrinking and confusion here and there, when some invalid, with bandaged throat and pale face, was descried limping among the common stream—struck Edith with an indefinite pang as they rode slowly onward. They had parted with their fellow-traveler a short time before, having themselves made a considerable circuit, in order to visit the family of an ejected minister in Surrey. Sir Philip had gone on without delay to his mother’s house, in Westminster, and Caleb Field and his daughter, with as much speed as their wearied horse would permit them, were pursuing their way to the residence of an old parishioner, on the Hampstead Road, who had offered to receive them.
The first church they passed was open; from its doors poured a stream of people, newly dismissed from one of the many solemn services of that fear-stricken time. Thepreacher, a dark, grave man, wearing over his black dress the Geneva band, was last of all. He was passing on, without lifting his eyes, eagerly conversing with a youth who walked beside him.
“Master Vincent,” said Field, as he passed by, “does the work prosper with you in this evil time?”
“Ah! is it thou, good brother Field?” cried the preacher, greeting him cordially; “thou art welcome to a troublous place. Doth the work prosper, say you? Alas! brother, where is it that we can do other than echo that lamentation of the prophet: ‘Who hath believed my report?’”
“Nay, but let us hope for better things,” said the stouter-hearted Puritan; “surely we may look that many brands shall be plucked from this burning. The people are earnest, as I hear, in seeking the Word and prayer, and I wot well these have been blessed symptoms, brother Vincent, since it was said of Saul, the persecutor in old times, ‘Behold he prayeth.’”
“Fear—fear, only fear,” answered Vincent, despondingly, with a nervous twitching of his mouth; “fear—not of the Lord, brother, but of the Plague.”
“And who shall say when the twain may join?” said Field. “Ah! brother, think’st thou it is thedeaththey fear, and not the after judgment, and yonder wondrous life beyond? An it were not for these, trust me, the material grave would lose its terrors.”
“And thou hast ventured thy child in this doomed city?” said Vincent, hurriedly. “I will not bid thee welcome, gentle Mistress Edith, for this is no place for thee. Know’st thou the very air is heavy with the pestilence?I marvel, Master Field, that thou broughtest thy daughter into this peril.”
“It is her own wayward will, not mine,” was the answer. “Now there is no way of amending it, we must have the issue with our Master in heaven. What do men say of the pestilence? Does it diminish or increase?”
“Diminish! think’st thou God’s judgment on iniquity passeth away so lightly? Nay, it increases hour by hour. It begins to advance eastward, as they tell me. Citizens are flying from the wealthiest houses in the city; the magistrates are concerting severe means of prevention, binding the flame with flaxen band. Men talk fearfully of some plan for shutting up the infected houses; yet who can tell? What are such precautions as these against the fierce flame of the Almighty’s anger?”
“Yet it is right to use all means,” said Field, mildly “and Edith and I are scarce taking the best for our own comfort after our journey, and we keep you from your companion, Master Vincent.”
“A singular youth,” said the preacher, hurriedly, the twitching of his upper lip giving him, while he spoke, an unusual expression of melancholy earnestness, as he glanced at the young man, who stood respectfully out of hearing behind; “the enemy trieth him with strong delusions, persuading him that he hath committed the sin unto death. I have made him my special charge. He is like that young ruler whom the Lord loved; I hope well of the lad. I ask thee not to my lodging, brother Field, for the pestilence is near me. Good even, and peace and our Father’s presence be with you. I will see you again ere long.”
They passed on. Along the street, thrusting the very few passengers on the footpath aside in his precipitous career, a man thinly clad, with horror in his pale face and wild eyes, came dashing forward. They heard his cry indistinctly before he approached.
“What is it, father, what is it?” whispered Edith, fearfully. She thought him some unhappy lunatic escaped from confinement.
But the passers-by showed no signs of terror; they looked at him with compassionate eyes; they uttered ejaculations of prayer, strange to hear in that public place and time. The unhappy wanderer rushed on, uttering his sharp, monotonous cry: “Oh! the great and terrible God!” and men looked on in solemn quietness, not marveling. The healthful blood ran cold in the young veins of Edith Field. What cries were these for the streets of a mighty city!
They proceeded on—so many deserted houses frowning dark with their closed doors and windows upon the life around—so many signs of panic and terror, from wild apprehensions of God’s wondrous vengeance, like that of the maniac who had passed them, to the helpless, tremulous anxiety of those serving maids and laboring men who crowded about the apothecary’s door—combined to throw a cold blight of despondency upon the strangers. Up in the clear sky before them, Edith’s eye had been caught by the glorious golden hue of a singular cloud. The heavens were flooded with the light of the setting sun; in beautiful relief against the blue sky, the cloud turned forth its mellow roundness to the gentle summer breeze, gliding onward stately and slow, as you may see a full sail sometimes on the verge of the far horizon, with the sunshine in its bosom. As Edith observed it, they came up to a knot of people gathered in the middle of the street.
“Lo!” exclaimed a female voice, “how he stretches forth his sword, and his eyes like fire gazing over the city—and his face terrible, and yet so fair—and his garments like a wondrous mist, with the sunshine below! Ah! sirs, do ye not see him? Lo! now he bends to the east and to the west, with his sword gleaming like a diamond stone, awful to see! Can ye not see him?—can ye not see him? or hath his glory blinded your eyes?”
She was gazing up with passionate earnestness at the cloud as it floated above.
“Yea, yea, yonder is the flashing of his sword over St. Paul’s!” cried a man beside her.
“I see him! I see him!” said another; “what a glorious creature he is!”
A thin, mild, contemplative man, on whose lip a habitual smile of gentle pensiveness seemed to hover, stood on the outskirts of the crowd, looking up with serene blue eyes, toward this wondrous object in the heavens.
“Dost see him, sir?” exclaimed the first speaker, jealous, as it seemed, of the gentle smile. “Dost see the angel?”
“Nay, truly, good neighbor,” said the meditative man, “I see but a singular fair cloud.”
“Out, thou profane mocker!” cried another; “Dost not see how the Lord sends forth his signs and wonders upon us? Woe’s me for us—a doomed people! Woe’s me! woe’s me!” and the speaker wrung his hands.
“Master Defoe,”[A]said Caleb Field, addressing this bystander, who seemed in some danger of suffering from his gentle and mild expression of skepticism, “may I beg a word with you? You remember Caleb Field?”
[A]There are certain ugly dates which thrust themselves in the way of this encounter; but without doubt so good and honest a citizen as he who wrote the “History of the Plague,” may be permitted to give evidence as to his own state and dwelling-place in a time so remarkable, as well as those troublesome chronologists with whom the parish register is supreme authority.
[A]There are certain ugly dates which thrust themselves in the way of this encounter; but without doubt so good and honest a citizen as he who wrote the “History of the Plague,” may be permitted to give evidence as to his own state and dwelling-place in a time so remarkable, as well as those troublesome chronologists with whom the parish register is supreme authority.
“Most pleasantly, Master Field,” said the famous dreamer, whose wondrous island solitude, so many youthful souls have dwelt in since those times, “though I can scarce say I have pleasure in welcoming thee back to London. If thou wert safe in a healthful place, good friend, why put thyself in needless peril?”
“And if you question me thus,” said Master Field, “may I not turn upon yourself? When so many fly, why does Master Defoe remain within the fated bounds of London?”
“Truly, for what men would call fantastic reasons,” said the author, with his thoughtful smile: because there were various guidings of me, in my humble way, that pointed, as I thought, to my tarrying. In the Lord’s hands is the issue; but you, Master Field, and this youthful gentlewoman, whom I hold to be the fair little maiden, your daughter, whose countenance I remember long ago—good even, Mistress Edith—I marvel to see you here in this perilous place, where men must tremble lest the very air we breathe be poison.
“Ah! good friend, give you the preachers of the gospelso little credit,” said the Puritan, “that what men can dare for their goods and traffic, ye think we would shrink from, for the name of our King? Trust me, Master Defoe, it is far otherwise. He who supplanted me in my charge has fled, and can I leave them in their extremity, without counsel, and without instruction? Nay, nay, it is not the shepherd who should flee!”
“It is a righteous errand,” said Defoe; “and howsoever we differ in our bright times, it joys me, that in the face of this peril we are all brethren, which shows us happily what it shall be when we have suffered the passage of death, and are met in the fair land beyond, as we know not, truly, how soon we shall be. You see the singular frenzy of this people, and how their vehement fancy, hath skill to make visions for them. I know not any thing more noticeable than even this; for methinks it is less terror for than certainty of God’s judgment.”
“And it is not suddenly sprung up, but hath risen slowly and universally as I hear,” said the minister.
“Since the first notice of that hapless Frenchman’s decease,” said Defoe, “in the close of the by-gone year—he who died in the parish of St. Giles—the sword has been hanging over our heads ever since, waving hither and thither as yonder woman described the angel’s of her fancy. Saw’st thou aught in the heavens, Mistress Edith, like what she said?”
“I saw a beautiful golden cloud,” said Edith, on whose mind the description of the angel had made a deep impression, “and I know not—perchance, it might have a clearer form to her.”
The author turned to her smilingly.
“It was a beautiful thought; and a young soul sees not superstition in so fair garments.”
“Nay, nay,” said Edith, with diffidence, “but, the Word says not certainly, that such visions shall not be.”
“Yea, Edith,” said her father, “the sword of the Spirit is quick and powerful. The Lord has given us a sufficient weapon in giving us his Word—and this is not the age of miracles.”
“Yet it is a wondrous time,” said Defoe, “much sin provoking this terrible judgment, and withal, though we look for this judgment so certainly, so great continuance in sin. There is need of you, Master Field; there is need of all faithful men who will speak the truth in boldness; and I pray God you be preserved to see the ending of this visitation.”
The house of Master Field’s parishioner upon the quiet road to Hampstead, was an antique building of wood, with picturesque gables and low-roofed, angled rooms. It had a considerable garden round it, and was bright with the fresh suburban look, trim and well-cared for, which strikes the eye so pleasantly in contrast with crowded streets, and noise and bustle. The inmates were a brother and sister, ancient, lonely, widowed people. John Goodman was childless, and had been faithful all his lifetime to the memory of a girlish wife whom he had buried, long years ago. His sister, Dame Rogers, was a widow, having one sole daughter, who bore the gracious name of Mercy, a simple girl of sixteen years. John Goodman was a gardener, supplying with his vegetable stores, the chief dealers in one of the large city markets, and was able to sustain himself and his family comfortably. It was areligious, godly house, simply pure, and observant of the worship and ordinances of God.
In a little fresh bed-chamber, with budding honeysuckle and young roses looking in at its small lattice, Edith took grateful rest, the first night after their arrival.
“Has it come near you yet?” she asked, as Dame Rogers and the bashful Mercy attended her into her apartment, on a little pallet in which Mercy herself was to sleep.
“Nay, thank goodness, it hasn’t come thus far,” said Dame Rogers, “but forsooth, Mistress Edith, it comes further every day, and one can’t reckon on an hour. ’Twas but yesternight that Alice Saffron, the laundry-woman’s daughter came in, as white as that sheet, to tell us how her mother had gone to carry home the clean linen to Master Gregory’s, the great silk mercer in Eastcheap. There were ten of a fair family, besides apprentices and porters, and such like; and all were as life-like as you or I (save us, we know not when it may be our turn) when she went with the great basket for the things a week afore. And look you, Mistress Edith, when Dame Saffron came to the house yestermorning, they were all gone; every one of the fair children, and the mother, dead of the plague; and Master Gregory himself, poor man, wandered out raving into the fields, mayhap to die there by himself as like as any thing; and the serving people fled. Lord bless us! it makes one’s blood freeze to hear such tales; and they say ’tis but beginning yet.”
“And the people are all afraid?” said Edith.
“Afraid! bless you, Mistress Edith, that’s but a quiet word for it. The folk are clean out of their wits with thepanic that’s upon them; and seeking to false helps, lackaday! in their darkness, when there is but One that can deliver. Tell Mistress Edith, Mercy, of yonder evil place that Alice Saffron beguiled you to, when you were last at market. The Almighty keep us! I know not if there will be any market ere long, and what will become of us then?”
“Please you, Mistress Edith,” said Mercy, bashfully, “it was a dark room, with a little fire in a brazier, and perfumes like what Dr. Newton gave to my uncle to keep evil smells away burning in it, and the smoke and the good scent going through the room. And there was a tall man with a cap of black velvet upon his head, and a long robe, like what the great ladies wear, with embroideries upon it; and he could read the stars like the words in a book and told fortunes by them the way they were shining in the sky. So Alice asked if the plague would be long, and he said, ‘Yea, yea, mighty and great, such as was never seen in this world before.’ And Alice said, would it come to Hampstead, and he made answer, ‘It will go every where, thou fool, till it slay its thousands in the sunshine, and its tens of thousands in the night.’ And with that Alice began to weep, and so did I, for I was afraid; and Alice said, ‘Ah, sir, and shall we die?’ and then he told her she should be saved, but he would say naught for me. And Alice said mayhap if I had given him somewhat, he might have told me some good tidings, but I had naught; and perchance if he knew I was to die, it was best not to tell me, for I should have fallen down with fear.”
“Ah! Mercy, my sweet child, speak not so,” exclaimed Dame Rogers, as an involuntary tear slid over Mercy’s round, smooth cheek, “an he had known evil tidings he would have told thee to have frighted thee. Break not thy poor mother’s heart with such a terror.”
“Nay, he knew not aught,” said Edith gently, laying her hand on the shoulder of Mercy, who sat on a low stool beside her. “Doth God reveal who shall die, and who shall live to man? Let us not fear, Mercy, while all things are in His hands.”
“Well, I know not,” said Dame Rogers, after a pause; “they have their learning from the Evil One, I wot, yet full oft it comes true; and certain the enemy hath great power and wisdom, as I have heard thy own worthy father say, Mistress Edith.”
“Nay, that is sure,” said Edith; “but he hath not the power to slay and to make alive, Dame Rogers; and the Lord shows not his secret counsel to a fallen spirit.”
“And in good sooth it is pleasant to talk to thee, lady,” said the dame; “and thou seest, Mercy, how Mistress Edith can clear thee of those foolish doubts of thine, for all that she hath been little longer in the world than thine own silly self. And that is truth-like, without doubt, for the Lord taketh counsel with no one, and with the adversary least of all, not to say that he is the father of lies and deceitfulness. Well, I will think no more on’t. And thou art weary, Mistress Edith, and we do but keep thee from rest: do thou bestir thee, Mercy, and help. A fair good even, and good rest, and peace; and if the Lord will, I will call you early on the morrow.”
That precautionary clause, “if the Lord will,” was any thing but a form in those days: solemn and seemly at all times, it had an especial weight in that season of singularperil, when those who parted for the night had before them the fatal probability that they should never receive mortal greeting again, upon an earthly morrow.
Below, the Puritan sat with his humble host: their conversation was of ecclesiastical matters—the silenced ministers, the persecuted church—and, in the narrower parochial circle, of the wants and necessities of their own especial people. Upon the morrow, which was the Sabbath, Master Field intended to resume his place in his own pulpit, the conforming vicar who had supplanted him having already removed to a safer distance from the stricken city.
“No fear of any hindrance, sir,” said John Goodman, in answer to a question from the minister; “we’ll be all but too glad to see you in the old place again: and for the other side, no fear of them, Master Field: for why? as many of them as could do aught in the way of shutting the church on you have gone away, or buried themselves in their own houses, for fear of this judgment; and for the rest, bless you! they’re in that state of trouble and trembling, that they’d listen to any man that spoke the Gospel to them, an’ he was but solemn and earnest enough; and, saving them that be solemn and earnest, there’s few other remaining in these parts to preach: the like of this terror sifts out the faint-hearted as you would sift seed. But whatever they hold for, they’ll be all glad to welcome you, sir, for they do all have a kind memory of you of old.”
And the next day, a brilliant Sabbath, when May had well-nigh ripened into June, the ejected minister again preached in his former pulpit. The church was filled tooverflowing. The air within was heavy with the perfumes used by the worshipers; a universal awe and solemn attention sat upon all faces; no longer a listless lounge, no longer a piece of necessary form, but a brief space instinct with momentous businesses—a swift crowd of weighty moments, which those earnest men and women, looking death in the face, discovered now, were all too short for special dedication to the wondrous interests of yon unseen eternity. The Lord was among them—a man of war!
“The bounteous hand—I would ’most envy it;And more, the heart that’s bountiful. Oh, rich men!Be glad that God does make you bankers for Him,And bids ye sanctify your increase thusBy the brave usuries of mercy.”Old Play.
“The bounteous hand—I would ’most envy it;And more, the heart that’s bountiful. Oh, rich men!Be glad that God does make you bankers for Him,And bids ye sanctify your increase thusBy the brave usuries of mercy.”Old Play.
“The bounteous hand—I would ’most envy it;And more, the heart that’s bountiful. Oh, rich men!Be glad that God does make you bankers for Him,And bids ye sanctify your increase thusBy the brave usuries of mercy.”Old Play.
Uponthe following Monday, Master Field was visited by the preacher Vincent, whom he had met on his arrival. He came to invite the stranger to a meeting of “the brethren,” especially convoked for the purpose of arranging, with all possible wisdom, the position of their compact and brave forces upon this forlorn hope, and for solemn mutual prayer—a Presbytery meeting, in short. Caleb Field was a man of note among his brethren; they held his wisdom and counsel in high esteem.
They were sitting in grave conversation when a messenger handed in at the door of the cottage a letter, and a small, well-secured box for Master Field. Edith started in involuntary alarm as her father passed the former through the strong fumes of a pungent perfume which he had at hand.
“We must use all precautions, Edith,” he said, calmly,as the fragrant smoke curled through the apartment: “that we are in great danger, none can doubt.”
The letter was noticeable, expounding another feature of those times.
“Reverend Sir—“Hearing, from various hands, that you were returning to Hampstead, I make bold to ask of you a singular favor. I hear that in aggravation of this great calamity of the pestilence, tradesmen, merchants, and other persons are discharging from their service (as I also have been forced to do) much serving-people and handicraftsmen, whereby extreme poverty and famine is like to be brought to many who have hitherto earned their own bread honestly in the sweat of their brow; wherefore being myself able to accomplish little, if I had remained in the city, having much fear of this dreadful judgment, I earnestly beg your good offices in distributing to poor, honest households, in dread of this plague, or afflicted by it, in the parishes of Hampstead, to which I am native, and Aldgate, where I plied my business, the accompanying, being certain moneys specially laid by out of the abundant increase wherewith the Lord hath blessed me, for needful charities of this calamitous time. I prefer my request with the greater boldness as knowing that you will otherwise risk yourself in endeavors for the welfare of this stricken people; nevertheless, I venture also to beseech, for the sake of our faith and persecuted Sion, that so far as may be, without hindrance to your mighty work, you would remember that your life is no common matter, to be hazarded lightly; but one for whose strength and continuancemany pray who own you their spiritual father in Jesus Christ our Lord. Wherefore, praying that his angel may encamp round about you,“I rest, Reverend Sir,“Your obliged friend and servant,“Nicholas Godliman.”
“Reverend Sir—
“Hearing, from various hands, that you were returning to Hampstead, I make bold to ask of you a singular favor. I hear that in aggravation of this great calamity of the pestilence, tradesmen, merchants, and other persons are discharging from their service (as I also have been forced to do) much serving-people and handicraftsmen, whereby extreme poverty and famine is like to be brought to many who have hitherto earned their own bread honestly in the sweat of their brow; wherefore being myself able to accomplish little, if I had remained in the city, having much fear of this dreadful judgment, I earnestly beg your good offices in distributing to poor, honest households, in dread of this plague, or afflicted by it, in the parishes of Hampstead, to which I am native, and Aldgate, where I plied my business, the accompanying, being certain moneys specially laid by out of the abundant increase wherewith the Lord hath blessed me, for needful charities of this calamitous time. I prefer my request with the greater boldness as knowing that you will otherwise risk yourself in endeavors for the welfare of this stricken people; nevertheless, I venture also to beseech, for the sake of our faith and persecuted Sion, that so far as may be, without hindrance to your mighty work, you would remember that your life is no common matter, to be hazarded lightly; but one for whose strength and continuancemany pray who own you their spiritual father in Jesus Christ our Lord. Wherefore, praying that his angel may encamp round about you,
“I rest, Reverend Sir,“Your obliged friend and servant,“Nicholas Godliman.”
The box contained a considerable sum of money in small coins. The care of the merchant had provided his bounty in the form most easily distributed.
“Father,” said Edith,” here is a Providence for me. I will be Master Godliman’s almoner. Your work is not with the bread that perisheth.”
“Truly,” said Master Vincent, “the maiden speaks wisely, brother. There are various gentlewomen of repute, to mine own knowledge, engaged in like work already. But Mistress Edith, bethink you first of the peril—it is no trope in these days to say we go with our lives in our hands, and you are young.”
“I am ready; indeed, Master Vincent, I am ready,” said Edith, hastily. “I came here almost in rebellion against my father’s will, but I did not come to be idle, and this office is sent for my using. Father, think you not so?”
“I think you are over youthful to calculate all the perils,” said her father, “but I must trust you now—only remember to use all needful caution; you started at my care of this charitable letter; but remember, Edith, that there are dangers in the very air, and that where I would use needful measures for mine own safety, I would do tenfold more for thine. Stir not abroad to-day, I haveother counsel to give thee ere thou makest a beginning; and now, Master Vincent, it is the hour for the meeting of the brethren.”
So they went forth together. Their meeting was in a vestry attached to the old church of St. Margaret’s, in Westminister. The Presbyterian ministers of London were assembling in their classis when Vincent and Field entered the room.
In the chair sat a little, quick, lively man, with small vivacious features and keen dark eyes. He was one of that peculiar class, whose names are redolent of solemn quip and quaint antithesis, balanced with a nice art and dexterity forgotten in our times. A study chair in some fair vicarage, in “the leisure of the olden ministry,” elaborating courses of quaint sermons, and decking his beloved Bible with the flowery gathering of an antique philosophy, somewhat artificial it may be, yet having life in its veins withal, would have better realized the abstract idea of suitability in the case of Master Chester, than did the Moderator’s chair of this small but solemn assembly within the bounds of stricken London. But that race of quaint commentators was a race fearing God truly and faithfully, and their representative here, strengthened by such loyal love and reverence, had risen to the top of this bitter wave; and relaxing the scrupulous cares of composition which formed his most congenial work, was now laboring in the fervent inspiration of that dire and solemn necessity, no less zealous and manful than any there.
Beside him sat a good-looking, portly, middle-aged man, with a ruddy and healthful face. He belonged to another distinct class. Master Franklin had not the gift of originating or suggesting; but he had in an especial manner, in that docile, laborious, patient strength of his, the gift of carrying out. An unobtrusive, placid, humble man, he accomplished heaps of work unwittingly, and went on day by day in a series of dumb, unthought-of heroisms, appreciated by few men, least of all by himself; for there was little light, save the quiet radiance of goodness to set off his labor withal, and in the unfeigned humility of his honest heart, he himself would have been the first to repudiate the praise due to his constant devotion.
The preacher, Vincent, had an individuality strikingly distinct from these. Prone to examine the depths of his own sensitive spirit, he had endured at the outset of his career a fiery ordeal akin to that of the famed dreamer of Bedford; and fighting through spiritual perils, like the pilgrim of that wondrous vision, had become at last a great master in all the subtle processes and unseen movements of the heart. “Cases of conscience,” such as formed no unimportant part of the ministerial labors of those zealous times, were referred to him from all places. In probing the wounds, disentangling the twisted threads of motive and design, elucidating the hidden working, and evolving the secret struggles of the soul, he was at home and strong; and joined with this peculiar gift was a melancholy bias of mind, a tendency to despondency and speculative grief, a mood akin to that of the preacher of old, who, as the conclusion of his experience, leaves the sorrowful record to us, that all is vanity. A certain melancholy vivacity of expression and overwhelming earnestness made him, as it makeshis class still, an especially effective preacher, and in this time of singular distress the effect was proportionably increased.
Caleb Field was less a man peculiar to that age than any of all these. No youthful cavalier in the gay court of Charles, had a more gladsome enjoyment of life than this sombre Puritan minister of doomed London. No tender-hearted maiden or loving mother had a sympathy more quick, a compassion more gentle than was his. So full of joyous congenial life with all that was true and honest, lovely and of good report, and withal in his strong vitality, having so great a fountain of deepest pathos within—a truly human man, akin to all who wear the wondrous garment of this mortality.
And so it happened that this man’s influence was less subject to ebbs and flowings of popular appreciation than the rest. It was as perennial and constant as life itself, for, in all that pertains to life, many-sided and various, his warm humanity made itself a part.
The other members of the Church-Court were but different phases of those various kinds of man, devoted with all their differing individualities to the one fervent, solemn work, upon which lay the awe of martyrdom, the almost certain conclusion of death.
The meeting was opened solemnly with prayer, and constituted in the name of the Lord Jesus, King and Head of His Church, and then the arrangements followed. Most of the ministers present had been ejected by the Act of Uniformity, four years before, and had again resumed the pulpits which were deserted by the conforming preachers who succeeded them, a step which they hadbeen permitted to take without obstruction or hindrance. One by one they gave in their report.
“And thou, good brother Field,” said the moderator of the small assembly, “thou hast a quiet people in a quiet church, as I hear. Take heed their stillness lulls them not into deadness, for albeit men are quiet when they are safe, it is not always safety to be quiet. This terror has not come nigh you yet.”
“The terror has, but not the judgment,” answered Field. “My people are paralyzed with fear, although the pestilence hath not entered their bound.”
“A universal evil,” said Vincent. “Ah! brethren, would that we did but fear iniquity, as this people fears suffering. Would that we, God’s dedicated servants, had but such a lively fear of His displeasure as those have of his judgment. But, alas! in the mightiness of the temporal evil, they forget the spiritual; for what heedeth a man, if I speak to him of sin when his whole soul is engrossed with the plague.”
“In his terror, brother, speak to him of hope, and he will hearken to thee,” said Field. “When he thinks but of death, show him the Lord who hath conquered it, and he will look, and see. When he is busied with himself, tell him of that One who forgot himself for our deliverance, and he also will forget. What! is there naught but calamity here, and shall we carry our people no tidings of joy? then are we Gospellers no more. I tell you, brethren, it is the Lord—in whom is all hope, all joy, all omnipotence—that we must proclaim without ceasing at this time; men’s hearts are failing them for fear, and so it should be, for grievously hath this nationsinned; but while the Gospel remaineth on the earth, there is always occasion to rejoice. Let us lift their hearts to the heavens where He sitteth in His Godhead, who wears a humanity there akin to ours—the first fruits of them that sleep—and so I say to you, brethren, shall you deliver your people from this deadly terror, and let them meet God’s judgments in brave humility, and penitence, as becometh Christian men.”
“Yea, brother Field,” said Master Franklin, “you speak well.”
“There shall no man question that,” said Master Chester, “but God not only sendeth us seeds various for our fields, but fields various for our seed; and though the cold hill beareth not fruit, like the rich valley, there are yet vegetable kinds in their kingdom, which love the valley less than the hill. And this, thou seest, brother, is a time of panic which it becometh us, as good husbandmen, to improve into a time of penitence—sowing seeds of godly fear for the second death, even as the enemy soweth tares of terrors for the first.”
“Under favor, sir,” interposed a lay member of the court, one of the few elders present, “if I may speak before these fathers, and brethren, of what toucheth my own profession. As Master Field hath well said, this fear being a servile passion, enfeebleth the body in respect of disease, no less than the mind; and I know no greater boon that these reverend and worthy gentlemen could render to a singularly excited and troubled people, than by encouraging them to an holy boldness, by the strong consolations of the Gospel; which might be well conjoined, as humbly seemeth to me, with the especialmourning and sorrow which becomes the time, taking good heed that the natural fear overcometh not the Gospel hope.”
“Dr. Newton saith well,” repeated Master Franklin.
“The natural fear!” exclaimed Vincent, “yea, the natural fear is like to overwhelm us; so that neither spiritual hope, nor spiritual trembling, can be nourished into life, because of it. But think you I differ from my good brother, who biddeth us proclaim the Lord, the sole Lord, from whom cometh all spiritual radiance, as the light comes from the sun? Nay, truly I differ not—for wherefore do we preach, if it be not for His cause? and wherefore do they hear, if it be not for their salvation? and how are they saved, but by Him? But while I preach joy and deliverance to all who believe on His magnificent name, what can I but denounce woe, woe, woe unspeakable upon all who will reject His grace. Yea upon this sinful land, and this city which hath forgotten His name, unless they turn, and repent.”
“The Lord move them,” said Field, bowing his head reverently; “the Lord avert His judgments, and return in His loving kindness to this land; for what are we that thou should’st strive with us, oh, thou holy Lord God.”
There was an interval, during which the classis engaged in solemn devotional exercises, conducted by Vincent and Field; very fervent, in deep humility, reverence, fear, supplicating that the outstretched sword might be removed from the afflicted city.
“The people crave frequent services,” said Vincent, when these had concluded. “I desire, sir, to know if any brother will aid me. My parish is already attacked bythe pestilence, and being so populous as it is, and with many poor, is likely to be sorely visited.”
“And I also, in Whitechapel,” said Master Franklin.
“I am at the command of the brethren,” said Field. “While my own people are not threatened, and besides are few, I am ready wheresoever I am needed.”
So said the youthful Janeway, who as yet was not an ordained minister, set over any especial charge; and so said others also, whom the swelling tide of the pestilence had not yet reached.
“Burroughs, the Independent, is at work near me,” said Master Chester. “I give him the right hand of fellowship, joying that though we choose us different chambers in the house of God, we yet serve alike the God of the house. In these times we are all brethren.”
“All, all!” echoed the Presbyters round him.
“Bradford, the conformist, is with me,” said Vincent. “He is faithful at his post, where so many have been unfaithful—he is a good man, though he seeth not the right way as we see it.”
“Ha!” said Franklin, “is he not one of those who forswore the Covenant?”
“He never took it, brother,” was the answer, “therefore he hath not the sin of forswearing it on his conscience.”
“Brethren,” said the Moderator, “I crave your forbearance—ye forget the due order of our assembly. Now, while we are men, I fear me it is well-nigh impossible to take into our hearts as brethren those who have sent us forth from our pulpits as preachers of Christ’s Evangel. Also if this church established in the land, be in all points faithful to the Word, then are we guilty ofthe sin of schism; and having a humble confidence that we are free from any love of division, but rather hold it a great and sore evil to be avoided by all means, and at all risks, save the sacrifice of the truth, I am constrained to hold that the conformed church is unfaithful. Nevertheless, we are met in One Name to uphold one great cause, and though we be in differing bands, yet are we joined in the sure bonds of one Gospel; wherefore, I recommend to you, brethren, with all charity and brotherly kindness at this time, and remembering only, as I wot well we all desire to do, Jesus Christ and Him crucified, that we labor in concert with those who differ with us on other points, but not on this, and at all times count them heartily for brethren.”
The low hum of the “Agreed, agreed,” ran round the grave assembly, and committing one another to the care of the Divine protector, in whom they trusted, the London Classis separated.