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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "For Faith and Freedom," Walter Besant intricately weaves a compelling narrative set against the backdrop of the tumultuous Reformation. This historical novel showcases Besant's ability to blend rich character development with vivid depictions of 16th-century England, exploring themes of belief, identity, and personal sacrifice. The prose is marked by a lyrical quality, reflective of the Victorian era's moral complexity while presenting the clash of faith and freedom that defined the period. Besant's meticulous attention to historical detail and context serves as both a mirror and commentary on the struggles of his time, inviting readers to engage with the moral dilemmas faced by individuals torn between religious conviction and personal agency. Walter Besant, a prominent figure in the late 19th-century literary scene, was not only a novelist but also a historian and social reformer. His deep engagement with the issues of social justice and human rights likely drew him to explore the narratives of those who stood for their convictions during a time when faith could lead to persecution. Besant's background in the Church and his later liberal views on faith and politics provide a nuanced perspective that enriches the text, making it resonate with contemporary discussions on faith and freedom. This book is highly recommended for readers with an interest in historical fiction that delves into the personal and societal conflicts of belief systems. Besant's masterful storytelling, combined with his historical insights, renders "For Faith and Freedom" not just a novel but a reflection on the enduring human spirit in the quest for truth and autonomy. It is a must-read for anyone interested in the interplay of faith, freedom, and the human experience. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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For Faith and Freedom
Table of Contents
Introduction
At its heart, For Faith and Freedom pits the authority of conscience against the machinery of power. Walter Besant’s novel explores how personal belief and public duty collide when a community’s deeply held convictions meet the limits of law and custom. Rather than treating faith as a private sentiment, the book examines it as a lived commitment that shapes choices, relationships, and risks. The result is a narrative attentive to the pressures that arise when people insist on worshipping and living according to their principles, even while navigating institutions that would constrain them for the sake of order, tradition, or political expediency.
For Faith and Freedom is a historical novel by the English writer Walter Besant, published in the late nineteenth century. It reflects the Victorian fascination with earlier epochs and the moral questions they pose to the present. Set in a past age marked by religious and political friction, the story draws upon the atmosphere of periods when questions of tolerance, allegiance, and citizenship were unsettled. Without depending on arcane scholarship to be understood, the book situates readers in a world where customs, laws, and conscience intersect, inviting them to observe how ordinary lives are shaped by policy and belief across households, congregations, and civic spaces.
The premise is straightforward and compelling: men and women whose beliefs set them apart must find ways to live, love, and labor under suspicion. Besant charts their struggles with a measured blend of suspense and reflection, letting readers feel the weight of choices made under pressure. The narrative offers moments of peril and reprieve, alliances tested by circumstance, and the quiet heroism of daily endurance. What it promises is not a puzzle-box plot but an immersive moral journey, one that balances movement with attentive portraiture. Readers encounter a fully imagined social world where every decision carries both private cost and public consequence.
Stylistically, the novel bears the hallmarks of late Victorian storytelling: a clear, steady omniscient voice; patient exposition; and scenes built to illuminate character as much as incident. Besant’s prose favors lucidity over ornament, guiding readers through shifting loyalties and fraught debates without sacrificing momentum. Dialogues have the cadence of earnest inquiry, while descriptions supply the texture of period life without overwhelming the page. The mood is serious yet humane, capable of quiet tenderness and sober indignation. Those who appreciate thoughtful pacing will find the drama unfolding in deliberate turns, as convictions are tested not only in crises but also in the routines of everyday existence.
Thematically, the book considers toleration, civil liberty, and the dignity of dissent. It probes what people owe to conscience, what communities owe to their vulnerable members, and how laws can both safeguard and imperil freedom. Besant traces the moral mathematics of compromise and steadfastness, asking when prudence becomes surrender and when zeal courts needless harm. He attends to the social bonds—friendship, family, fellowship—that sustain courage, and to the costs that persecution exacts even from its survivors. The story’s ethical questions are posed not as abstract propositions but as lived dilemmas, inviting readers to weigh competing goods with sympathy and care.
For contemporary readers, the novel resonates wherever pluralism and authority meet. Its attention to minority protections, freedom of worship, and the boundaries of state power engages ongoing debates about rights and responsibilities in a diverse society. The book’s characters struggle to be seen fully—by their neighbors, by institutions, and by history—and that desire for recognition remains a defining civic challenge. Without prescribing policy, the narrative underscores how liberty depends on both robust institutions and the everyday practice of fairness, restraint, and mutual regard. In this sense, it is as much a meditation on citizenship as it is a story about faith.
Approached today, For Faith and Freedom rewards patience with a rich blend of atmosphere, moral insight, and quietly accumulating tension. Readers can expect a historically inflected narrative that favors depth of feeling over spectacle, and reflection over haste. It offers the satisfactions of classic historical fiction—vivid social textures, principled conflict, and the gradual revelation of character—while keeping its focus on questions that remain urgent. As an entry point to Besant’s broader work, it showcases his commitment to humane storytelling anchored in ethical concern. Above all, it invites an engaged reading: attentive to nuance, open to empathy, and mindful of what freedom asks of us.
Synopsis
Set in late seventeenth-century England, For Faith and Freedom traces the fortunes of Londoners living under the religious and political tensions of the last Stuart years. The story opens in the parishes east of the City, among artisans, merchants, and Nonconformist congregations who worship secretly under restrictive laws. Coffee-houses, riverside wharves, and weaving lofts supply the daily texture of work and talk, while royal policy and informers keep conscience under pressure. Walter Besant frames the private lives of his characters within the broader conflict between authority and dissent, preparing the ground for a narrative that links neighborhood loyalties with national change.
At the center are a young apprentice with prospects in trade and a prosperous merchant’s household tied to a dissenting meeting. Their world includes a vigilant minister, Huguenot refugees settled among the looms, and a guarded but sympathetic daughter whose education and spirit reflect a rising middle class. Relationships form across workshop, wharf, and chapel, bound by shared readings and discreet gatherings. The characters’ ambitions are practical—steady work, honest worship, and modest influence—yet each faces choices sharpened by surveillance and risk. Besant presents their aims plainly, establishing motives that will intersect with events far beyond their street and parish boundaries.
As the reign changes, policy hardens. With James II on the throne, fines, informers, and raids on conventicles intensify the pressure on dissenters. Scenes of interrupted services and sudden arrests show the reach of authority into ordinary life. The apprentice learns caution and code words, while the merchant weighs prudence against principle. The minister counsels patience, yet members are drawn into networks of petitioning and mutual aid. London’s talk turns sharper in coffee-houses, where merchants discuss trade and politics together. This atmosphere of watchfulness and debate prepares the characters for choices that will test their loyalties to faith, livelihood, and friends.
News from the West Country breaks the uneasy routine: the Monmouth rising stirs hope among some and alarm among others. The novel follows the ripple effects in London rather than battlefield detail. Offers of help, discreet funds, and hurried messages tempt the bold and ensnare the unwary. After the defeat at Sedgemoor, the crackdown reaches the capital through proclamations, searches, and the stern theater of justice. Trials and sentences fall heavily on rebels and sympathizers alike. One thread carries the fate of a young man drawn into suspicion, leading to imprisonment and a harsh sentence that will force him far from London and home.
A significant portion of the narrative shifts to the journey and labor of the transported, showing the Atlantic passage and plantation discipline in the Caribbean. The text presents indentured servitude alongside slavery’s harsher bondage, emphasizing the rigid order of the estates and the precarious position of the convicted. The protagonist works under overseers, learns new skills, and encounters fellow exiles, Huguenot settlers, and enslaved Africans whose resilience offers quiet instruction. Hints of redemption—legal, financial, or by escape—emerge through alliances and resourcefulness. These chapters broaden the book’s theme from English dissent to a wider meditation on constraint, endurance, and the meaning of liberty.
Meanwhile, the London plotline tracks those who remain: family members guarding livelihoods, chapel leaders navigating informers, and merchants balancing principle with caution. Coffee-houses hum with pamphlets and rumor; the trial of the Seven Bishops, the birth of a prince, and the divided counsels of courtiers supply a public backdrop to private anxieties. Discreet correspondence links friends across the ocean. Small acts—protecting a meeting-house, sheltering a fugitive, preserving a business—sustain the community’s fabric. Besant keeps attention on practicalities: money raised, debts honored, and reputations defended, while political horizons widen toward the possibility of relief from persecution without revealing personal outcomes prematurely.
The narrative gathers pace as invitations to William of Orange mature into action. Accounts of his landing, cautious defection among nobles, and the capital’s tense days are filtered through market stalls and chapels rather than council chambers. The populace watches guards change and bonfires kindle; Nonconformists weigh risks against hopes for lawful worship. Threads begun earlier converge as messages arrive from the west and from across the sea. The focus remains on choices made under uncertainty—who to trust, where to stand, how to safeguard a congregation—building toward reunion and reckoning without disclosing the specific resolutions that anchor the novel’s personal arcs.
With James II fled and a settlement negotiated, the book turns to the practical meaning of new statutes and oaths. The Declaration of Rights and the Toleration Act establish boundaries and permissions that alter daily life for dissenters, while leaving some exclusions intact. Characters test these changes in tangible ways: reopening meeting-houses, reordering business ties, and seeking restitution from informers or officials. Some wrongs are acknowledged; others are absorbed into the new order. The Caribbean thread narrows toward the possibility of return, but the narrative reserves final outcomes. Besant emphasizes adjustment and consolidation, showing freedom as a negotiated space rather than a sudden gift.
For Faith and Freedom concludes by affirming its title’s paired concerns: the safeguarding of conscience and the securing of civic liberty. Without romanticizing conflict, it depicts how ordinary people carry the cost of policy and rebellion, and how communities preserve identity through mutual aid and steady work. The book’s message is measured: toleration arrives through patience, coalition, and practical compromise, not through unbroken triumph. By aligning personal fortunes with public change, it presents the Glorious Revolution as both a constitutional milestone and a lived transition. The final impression is one of sober hope, grounded in resilience, cooperation, and lawful space for belief.
Historical Context
Walter Besant’s For Faith and Freedom situates its action in late seventeenth-century England, primarily in London’s expanding urban quarters—Stepney, Spitalfields, Southwark, and the City—while glancing toward the West Country where rebellion and repression were most dramatic. The period spans the later Stuart decades, from the Restoration of Charles II (1660) through the troubled reign of James II (1685–1688) and into the constitutional recalibration of 1688–1689. London’s coffeehouses, print shops, and dissenting meeting-houses form a vivid civic backdrop. Economic migration, especially of French Protestant refugees, reshaped particular districts and trades. Above all, the setting is defined by confessional division, surveillance, and the contested boundary between state power and conscience.
The Restoration settlement brought a reassertion of episcopacy and the so-called Clarendon Code, a legislative package aimed at enforcing religious uniformity. Key enactments included the Corporation Act (1661), Act of Uniformity (1662), Conventicle Acts (1664, 1670), and Five Mile Act (1665). On St. Bartholomew’s Day, 24 August 1662, roughly 2,000 Puritan and Presbyterian ministers were ejected from their livings. Conventicles were punishable by fines, imprisonment, and transportation. These statutes provide the legal machinery against which dissenters’ lives are organized in the novel: clandestine worship, informers, and the perpetual risk of raids and imprisonment shape the texture of everyday piety and the precarious practice of faith.
The Popish Plot (1678) and subsequent Exclusion Crisis (1679–1681) convulsed politics and streets alike. Titus Oates’s fabricated allegations of a Catholic conspiracy to assassinate Charles II led to the execution of dozens, including Oliver Plunkett, Catholic Archbishop of Armagh, at Tyburn on 1 July 1681. The Whig drive, led by Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, to exclude the Catholic Duke of York from succession mobilized petitions, processions, and the Green Ribbon Club in London. In Besant’s milieu, this feverish atmosphere—pamphleteering, shouted slogans of “No Popery,” and volatile crowds—frames how rumor, partisan identity, and fear could endanger ordinary households while politicizing Protestant nonconformists.
The exposure of the Rye House Plot (1683) consolidated a royalist reaction. The alleged plan to ambush Charles II and James, Duke of York, near Rye House in Hertfordshire unraveled after the royal progress changed course. Trials followed: Lord William Russell was beheaded on 21 July 1683, and republican thinker Algernon Sidney on 7 December 1683, his writings controversially used as treasonous evidence. The crackdown dissolved Whig networks, packed juries, and silenced presses. In the novel’s historical frame, these events register as a lesson in the vulnerability of opposition: talk of liberty becomes perilous, and the language of “freedom” is forced into guarded speech, covert meetings, and coded solidarities.
The Monmouth Rebellion (1685) and the Bloody Assizes form the most decisive crucible for Besant’s themes of conscience, peril, and resolve. James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of Charles II, landed at Lyme Regis on 11 June 1685, issuing a Declaration of the People and drawing artisans, miners, and yeomen to his banner across Dorset and Somerset. Proclaimed king at Taunton on 20 June, Monmouth’s poorly armed force was crushed at the Battle of Sedgemoor near Bridgwater on 6 July 1685, the last pitched battle on English soil. Captured and executed on 15 July 1685, Monmouth’s fall prefaced judicial terror under Lord Chief Justice George Jeffreys. Between August and September 1685, the Bloody Assizes swept through Winchester, Dorchester, Exeter, Taunton, and Wells. Contemporary reckonings suggest around 320 executions—by hanging and, in notorious cases, drawing and quartering—and roughly 800 to 850 transportations to Barbados, Jamaica, and other colonies as indentured laborers. Dame Alice Lisle, condemned at Winchester, was beheaded on 2 September 1685; Elizabeth Gaunt was burned at Tyburn on 23 October for sheltering fugitives. Fines, whippings, confiscations, and the billeting of troops extended the punishment beyond the courtroom. For a narrative anchored in “faith and freedom,” these proceedings embody arbitrary power and the price paid by dissenting communities: families shattered by transportation, congregations terrorized by informers, and a moral economy warped by judicial spectacle. Besant’s historical canvas draws on such episodes to dramatize how provincial suffering reverberated in London’s dissenting parishes—through news-sheets, returning soldiers, and refugees—tightening bonds of Protestant solidarity while sharpening the critique of tyranny.
Events in France intensified English debates on toleration. Louis XIV’s Revocation of the Edict of Nantes by the Edict of Fontainebleau (18 October 1685) outlawed French Protestant worship, spurring an exodus of perhaps 40,000–50,000 Huguenots to England. They concentrated in London’s Spitalfields, Soho, and in towns like Canterbury, establishing churches such as the French Church in Threadneedle Street and revitalizing silk weaving, clockmaking, and finance. James II’s Declarations of Indulgence (1687, 1688) sought to suspend penal laws for Catholics and dissenters alike, alarming many Anglicans. In Besant’s setting, Huguenot neighbors and English Nonconformists are juxtaposed as co-religionists in exile at home and abroad, knitting faith with economic and civic “freedom.”
The Glorious Revolution (1688–1689) reconfigured sovereignty and civil rights. Invited by the “Immortal Seven,” William of Orange landed at Torbay (Brixham) on 5 November 1688; James II fled into exile in December. The Convention Parliament offered the crown to William III and Mary II, enacting the Bill of Rights (16 December 1689), which limited prerogative, barred standing armies without consent, and secured regular parliaments. The Toleration Act (24 May 1689) granted licensed worship to Protestant Dissenters (though not to Catholics or Unitarians) while maintaining the established church. In the novel’s horizon, this settlement represents a guarded vindication: the law no longer criminalizes ordinary dissent, and the language of liberty moves from petition to statute.
For Faith and Freedom functions as a critique of confessional coercion and arbitrary governance by staging how state power penetrates homes, workshops, and parishes. By tracing surveillance, informers, and exemplary punishments, it exposes the juridical theater that sustained class and partisan hierarchies. The persecution of dissenters, the trafficking of rebels into colonial servitude, and the manipulation of treason trials indict a polity where conscience is subordinated to expediency. At the same time, the book’s attention to refugees, artisans, and apprentices challenges metropolitan complacency, asserting the political intelligence of the urban poor. In framing toleration as a civic, not merely doctrinal, achievement, it rebukes both clerical monopoly and executive overreach.
For Faith and Freedom
CHAPTER I.
FAREWELL SUNDAY.
The morning of Sunday, August 23, in the year of grace 1662, should have been black and gloomy with the artillery of rolling thunder, dreadful flashes of lightning, and driving hail and wind to strip the orchards and lay low the corn. For on that day was done a thing which filled the whole country with grief, and bore bitter fruit in after years, of revenge and rebellion. And, because it was the day before that formerly named after Bartholomew, the disciple, it hath been called the Black Bartholomew[1] of England, thus being likened unto that famous day (approved by the Pope) when the French Protestants were treacherously massacred by their King. It should rather be called 'Farewell Sunday' or 'Exile Sunday,' for on that day two thousand godly ministers preached their last sermon in the churches where they had laboured worthily and with good fruit, some during the time of the Protector, and some even longer, because among them were a few who possessed their benefices even from the time of the late King Charles the First. And, since on that day two thousand ministers left their churches and their houses, and laid down their worldly wealth for conscience' sake, there were also, perhaps, as many wives who went with them, and, I dare say, three or four times as many innocent and helpless babes. And, further (it is said that the time was fixed by design and deliberate malice of our enemies), the ministers were called upon to make their choice only a week or two before the day of the collection of their tithes[2]. In other words, they were sent forth to the world at the season when their purses were at the leanest; indeed, with most country clergymen, their purses shortly before the collection of tithes have become well-nigh empty. It was also unjust that their successors should be permitted to collect the tithes due to those who were ejected.
It is fitting to begin this history with the Black Bartholomew, because all the troubles and adventures which afterwards befell us were surely caused by that accursed day. One know not certainly, what other rubs might have been ordained for us by a wise Providence (always with the merciful design of keeping before our eyes the vanity of worldly things, the instability of fortune, the uncertainty of life, and the wisdom of looking for a hereafter which shall be lasting, stable, and satisfying to the soul). Still, it must be confessed, such trials as were appointed unto us were, in severity and continuance, far beyond those appointed to the ordinary sort, so that I cannot but feel at times uplifted (I hope not sinfully) at having been called upon to endure so much. Let me not, however, be proud. Had it not been for this day, for certain, our boys would not have been tempted to strike a blow—vain and useless as it proved—for the Protestant religion and for liberty of conscience: while perhaps I should now be forbidden to relate our sufferings, were it not for the glorious Revolution which has restored toleration, secured the Protestant ascendancy, and driven into banishment a Prince, concerning whom all honest men pray that he and his son (if he have, indeed, a son of his own) may never again have authority over this realm.
This Sunday, I say, should have wept tears of rain over the havoc which it witnessed; yet it was fine and clear, the sun riding in splendour, and a warm summer air blowing among the orchards and over the hills and around the village of Bradford Orcas, in the shire of Somerset. The wheat (for the season was late) stood gold-coloured in the fields, ready at last for the reaper; the light breeze bent down the ears so that they showed like waves over which the passing clouds make light and shade; the apples in the orchards were red and yellow, and nearly ripe for the press; in the gardens of the Manor House, hard by the church, the sunflowers and the hollyhocks were at their tallest and their best; the yellow roses on the wall were still in clusters; the sweet-peas hung with tangles of vine and flower upon their stalks; the bachelors' buttons, the sweet mignonette, the nasturtium, the gillyflowers and stocks, the sweet-williams and the pansies, offered their late summer blossoms to the hot sun among the lavender, thyme, parsley, sage, feverfew, and vervain of my Lady's garden. Oh! I know how it all looked, though I was then as yet unborn. How many times have I stood in the churchyard and watched the same scene at the same sweet season! On a week-day one hears the thumping and the groaning of the mill below the church; there are the voices of the men at work—the yo-hoing of the boys who drive; and the lumbering of the carts. You can even hear the spinning-wheels at work in the cottages. On Sunday morning everything is still, save for the warbling of the winged tribe in the wood, the cooing of the doves in the cote, the clucking of the hens, the grunting of the pigs, and the droning of the bees. These things disturb not the meditations of one who is accustomed to them.
At eight o'clock in the morning, the Sexton, an ancient man and rheumatic, hobbled slowly through the village, key in hand, and opened the church-door. Then he went into the tower and rang the first bell. I suppose this bell is designed to hurry housewives with their morning work, and to admonish the men that they incline their hearts to a spiritual disposition. This done, the Sexton set open the doors of the pews, swept out the Squire's and the Rector's in the chancel, dusted the cushions of the pulpit (the reading-desk at this time was not used), opened the clasps of the great Bible, and swept down the aisle: as he had done Sunday after Sunday for fifty years. When he had thus made the church ready for the day's service, he went into the vestry, which had only been used since the establishment of the Commonwealth for the registers of birth, death, and marriage.
At one side of the vestry stood an ancient, black oak coffer, the sides curiously graven, and a great rusty key in the lock. The Sexton turned the key with difficulty, threw open the lid and looked in.
'Ay,' he said, chuckling, 'the old surplice and the old Book of Common Prayer. Ye have had a long rest; 'tis time for both to come out again. When the surplice is out, the book will stay no longer locked up. These two go in and out together. I mind me, now'——Here he sat down, and his thoughts wandered for a space; perhaps he saw himself once more a boy running in the fields, or a young man courting a maid. Presently he returned to the task before him, and drew forth an old and yellow roll which he shook out. It was the surplice which had once been white. 'Here you be,' he said. 'Put you away for a matter of twelve year and more and you bide your time; you know you will come back again; you are not in any hurry. Even the Sexton dies; but you die not, you bide your time. Everything comes again. The old woman shall give you a taste o' the suds and the hot iron. Thus we go up and thus we go down.' He put back the surplice and took out the great Book of Common Prayer—musty and damp after twelve years' imprisonment. 'Fie!' he said, 'thy leather is parting from the boards, and thy leaves they do stick together. Shalt have a pot of paste, and then lie in the sun before thou goest back to the desk. Whether 'tis Mass or Common Prayer, whether 'tis Independent or Presbyterian, folk mun still die and be buried—ay, and married and born—whatever they do say. Parson goes and Preacher comes; Preacher goes and Parson comes; but Sexton stays'——He chuckled again, put back the surplice and the book, and locked the coffer.
Then he slowly went down the church and came out of the porch, blinking in the sun, and shading his old eyes. He sat down upon the flat stones of the old cross, and presently nodded his head and dropped off asleep.
This was a strange indifference in the man. A great and truly notable thing was to be accomplished that day. But he cared nothing. Two thousand godly and learned men were to go forth into poverty for liberty of conscience—this man's own minister was one of them. He cared nothing. The King was sowing the seed from which should spring a rod to drive forth his successor from the kingdom. In the village the common sort were not moved. Nothing concerns the village folk but the weather and the market prices. As for the good Sexton, he was very old: he had seen the Church of England displaced by the Presbyterians and the Presbyterians by the Independents, and now these were again to be supplanted by the Church of England. He had been Sexton through all these changes. He heeded them not; why, his father, Sexton before him, could remember when the Mass was said in the church, and the Virgin was worshipped, and the folk were driven like sheep to confession. All the time the people went on being born, and marrying, and dying. Creed doth not, truly, affect these things, nor the Sexton's work. Therefore, this old gaffer, having made sure that the surplice was in the place where it had lain undisturbed for a dozen years, and remembering that it must be washed and ironed for the following Sunday, sat down to bask in the sun, his mind at rest, and dropped off into a gentle sleep.
At ten o'clock the bell-ringers came tramping up the stone steps from the road, and the Sexton woke up. At ten they used to begin their chimes, but at the hour they ring for five minutes only, ending with the clash of all five bells together. At a quarter-past ten they chime again, for the service, which begins at half-past ten.
At the sound of these chimes the whole village begins to move slowly towards the church. First come the children, the bigger ones leading those who are little by the hand; the boys come next, but unwillingly, because the Sexton is diligent with his cane, and some of those who now go up the steps to the church will come down with smarting backs, the reward of those who play or laugh during the service. Then come the young men, who stand about the churchyard and whisper to each other. After them follow the elders and the married men, with the women and the girls. Five minutes before the half hour the ringers change the chime for a single bell. Then those who are outside gather in the porch and wait for the Quality.
When the single bell began, there came forth from the Rectory the Rector himself, Mr. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, who was this day to deliver his soul and lay down his charge. He wore the black gown and Geneva bands, for the use of which he contended. At this time he was a young man of thirty—tall and thin. He stooped in the shoulders because he was continually reading; his face was grave and austere; his nose thin and aquiline; his eyes bright—never was any man with brighter eyes than my father; his hair, which he wore long, was brown and curly; his forehead high, rather than broad; his lips were firm. In these days, as my mother hath told me, and as I well believe, he was a man of singular comeliness, concerning which he cared nothing. Always from childhood upwards he had been grave in conversation and seriously inclined in mind. If I think of my father as a boy (no one ever seems to think that his father was once a boy), I am fain to compare him with Humphrey, save for certain bodily defects, my father having been like a Priest of the Altar for bodily perfection. That is to say, I am sure that, like Humphrey, he had no need of rod or ferule to make him learn his lessons, and, like that dear and fond friend of my childhood, he would willingly sit in a corner and read a book while the other boys played and went a-hunting or a-nesting. And very early in life he was smitten with the conviction of sin, and blessed with such an inward assurance of salvation as made him afterwards steadfast in all afflictions.
He was not a native of this country, having been born in New England. He came over, being then eighteen years of age, to study at Oxford, that university being purged of malignants (as they were then called), and, at the time, entirely in the hands of the godly. He was entered of Balliol College, of which Society he became a Fellow, and was greatly esteemed for his learning, wherein he excelled most of the scholars of his time. He knew and could read Hebrew, Chaldee, and the ancient Syriac, as well as Latin and Greek. Of modern languages he had acquired Arabic, by the help of which he read the book which is called the Koran of the False Prophet Mohammed: French and Italian he also knew and could read easily. As for his opinions, he was an Independent, and that not meekly or with hesitation, but with such zeal and vehemence that he considered all who differed from him as his private enemies—nay, the very enemies of God. For this reason, and because his personal habits were too austere for those who attained not to his spiritual height, he was more feared than loved. Yet his party looked upon him as one of their greatest and stoutest champions.
He left Oxford at the age of five or six and twenty, and accepted the living of Bradford Orcas, offered him by Sir Christopher Challis of that place. Here he had preached for six years, looking forward to nothing else than to remain there, advancing in grace and wisdom, until the end of his days. So much was ordered, indeed, for him; but not quite as he had designed. Let no man say that he knoweth the future,[1q] or that he can shape out his destiny. You shall hear presently how Benjamin arrogantly resolved that his future should be what he chose; and what came of that impious resolution.
My father's face was always austere; this morning it was more serious and sterner than customary, because the day was to him the most important in his life, and he was about to pass from a condition of plenty (the Rectory of Bradford Orcas is not rich but it affords a sufficiency) to one of penury. Those who knew him, however, had no doubt of the course he was about to take. Even the rustics knew that their minister would never consent to wear a surplice or to read the Book of Common Prayer[3], or to keep holy days—you have seen how the Sexton opened the box and took out the surplice; yet my father had said nothing to him concerning his intentions.
In his hand he carried his Bible—his own copy, I have it still, the margins covered with notes in his writing—bound in black leather, worn by constant handling, with brass clasps. Upon his head he had a plain black silk cap, which he wore constantly in his study and at meals to keep off draughts. Indeed, I loved to see him with the silk cap rather than with his tall steeple hat, with neither ribbon nor ornament of any kind, in which he rode when he afterwards went about the country to break the law in exhorting and praying with his friends.
Beside him walked my mother, holding in her hand her boy, my brother Barnaby, then three years of age. As for me, I was not yet born. She had been weeping; her eyes were red and swollen with tears; but when she entered the church she wept no more, bravely listening to the words which condemned to poverty and hardship herself and her children, if any more should be born to her. Alas, poor soul! What had she done that this affliction should befall her? What had her innocent boy done? For upon her—not upon her husband—would fall the heavy burden of poverty, and on her children the loss. Yet never by a single word of complaint did she make her husband sorry that he had obeyed the voice of conscience, even when there was nothing left in the house, not so much as the widow's cruse of oil. Alas, poor mother, once so free from care! what sorrow and anxiety wert thou destined to endure for the tender conscience of thy husband!
At the same time—namely, at the ringing of the single bell—there came forth from the Manor House hard by the church, his Honour, Sir Christopher, with his family. The worthy knight was then about fifty years of age, tall and handsome still—in his later years there was something of a heavenly sweetness in his face, created, I doubt not, by a long life of pious thoughts and worthy deeds. His hair was streaked with grey, but not yet white; he wore a beard of the kind called stiletto, which was even then an ancient fashion, and he was dressed more soberly than is common with gentlemen of his rank, having no feather in his hat, but a simple ribbon round it, and though his ruffles were of lace and the kerchief round his neck was lace, the colour of his coat was plain brown. He leaned upon a gold-headed cane on account of an old wound (it was inflicted by a Cavalier's musket-ball when he was a Captain in the army of Lord Essex). The wound left him somewhat lame, yet not so lame but that he could very well walk about his fields and could ride his horse, and even hunt with the otter-hounds. By his side walked Madam, his wife. After him came his son, Humphrey, newly married, and with Humphrey his wife; and last came his son-in-law, the Reverend Philip Boscorel, M.A., late Fellow of All Souls' College, Oxford, also newly married, with his wife, Sir Christopher's daughter, Patience. Mr. Boscorel, like my father, was at that time thirty years of age. Like him, too, his face was comely and his features fine; yet they lacked the fire and the earnestness which marked my father. And in his silken cassock, his small white bands, his lace ruffles, and his dainty walk, it seemed as if Mr. Boscorel thought himself above the common run of mankind and of superior clay. 'Tis sometimes the way with scholars and those who survey the world from the eminence of a library.
Sir Christopher's face was full of concern, because he loved the young man who was this day to throw away his livelihood; and although he was ready himself to worship after the manner prescribed by law, his opinions were rather Independent than Episcopalian. As for Mr. Boscorel, who was about to succeed to the ejected minister, his face wore no look of triumph, which would have been ungenerous. He was observed, indeed, after he had silently gone through the Service of the day with the help of the Common Prayer-book, to listen diligently unto the preacher.
The people, I have already said, knew already what was about to happen. Perhaps some of them (but I think not) possessed a copy of the old Prayer-book. This, they knew, was to be restored, with the surplice, and the observance of Holy days, Feasts, and Fasts, and the kneeling at the administration of the Holy Communion. Our people are craftsmen as much as they are rustics; every week the master-clothiers' men drive their packhorses into the village laden with wool, and return with yarn; they are not, therefore, so brutish and sluggish as most country folk; yet they made no outward show of caring whether Prelacy or Independency was to have the sway. Perhaps the abstruse doctrines which my father loved to discuss were too high for them; perhaps his austerity was too strict for them, so that he was not beloved by them. Perhaps, even, they would have cared little if they had heard that Bishop Bonner himself was coming back. Religion, to country folk, means, mostly, the going to church on Sunday morning. That done, man's service of Prayer and Praise to his Creator is also done. If the form be changed the church remains, and the churchyard; one shepherd followeth another, but the flock is always the same. Revolutions overthrow kings, and send great heads to the block; but the village heedeth not unless civil war pass that way. To country folk, what difference? The sky and the fields are unchanged. Under Queen Mary they are Papists; under Queen Elizabeth they are Protestants. They have the Prayer-book under King James and King Charles; under Oliver they have had the Presbyterian and Independent; now they have the Book of Common Prayer and the surplice again. Yet they remain the same people, and tell the same stories, and, so far as I know, believe the same things—viz., that Christ Jesus saves the soul of every man who truly believes in Him. Why, if it were not for his immortal soul—concerning which he takes but little thought—the rustic might be likened unto the patient beast whom he harnesseth to his plough and to his muck-cart. He changeth no more; he works as hard; he is as long-enduring; his eyes and his thoughts are as much bound by the hedge, the lane, and the field; he thinks and invents and advances no more. Were it not, I say, for the Church, he would take as little heed of anything as his ox or his ass; his village would become his country; his squire would become his king; the nearest village would become the camp of an enemy; and he would fall into the condition of the Ancient Briton when Julius Cæsar found every tribe fighting against every other.
I talk as a fool. For sometimes there falls upon the torpid soul of the rustic a spark which causes a mighty flame to blaze up and burn fiercely within him. I have read how a simple monk, called Peter the Hermit, drew thousands of poor, illiterate, credulous persons from their homes, and led them, a mob armed with scythes and pikes, across Europe to the deserts of Asia Minor, where they miserably perished. I have read also of Jack Cade, and how he drew the multitudes after him, crying aloud for justice or death. And I myself have seen these sluggish spirits suddenly fired with a spirit which nothing could subdue. The sleeping soul I have seen suddenly starting into life; strength and swiftness have I seen suddenly put into sluggish limbs; light and fire have I seen gleaming suddenly in dull and heavy eyes. Oh! it was a miracle: but I have seen it. And having seen it, I cannot despise these lads of the plough, these honest boys of Somerset, nor can I endure to hear them laughed at or contemned.
Bradford Orcas, in the Hundred of Horethorne, Somerset, is a village so far from the great towns, that one would think a minister might have gone on praying and preaching after his own fashion without ever being discovered. But the arm of the Law is long.
The nearest town is Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to which there is a bridle-path across the fields; it is the market-town for the villages round it. Bradford Orcas is an obscure little village, with no history and no antiquities. It stands in the south-eastern corner of the county, close to the western declivity of the Corton Hills, which here sweep round so as to form a valley, in which the village is built along the banks of a stream. The houses are for the most part of stone, with thatched roofs, as is the custom in our country; the slopes of the hills are covered with trees, and round the village stand goodly orchards, the cider from which cannot be surpassed. As for the land, but little of it is arable; the greater part is a sandy loam or stone brash. The church, which in the superstitious days was dedicated to St. Nicolas, is built upon a hillock, a rising ground in the west of the village. This building of churches upon hillocks is a common custom in our parts, and seemeth laudable, because a church should stand where it can be seen by all the people, and by its presence remind them of Death and of the Judgment. The practice doth obtain, for example, at Sherborne, where there is a very noble church, and at Huish Episcopi, and at many other places in our county. Our church is fair and commodious, not too large for the congregation, having in the west a stone tower embattled, and consisting of a nave and chancel with a very fine roof of carved woodwork. There is an ancient yew-tree in the churchyard, from which in old times bows were cut; some of the bows yet hang in the great hall of the Manor House. Among the graves is an ancient stone cross, put up no man knows when, standing in a six-sided slab of stone, but the top was broken off at the time of the Reformation; two or three tombs are in the churchyard, and the rest is covered with mounds, beneath which lie the bones and dust of former generations.
Close to the churchyard, and at the north-east corner, is the Manor House, as large as the church itself, but not so ancient. It was built in the reign of Henry VII. A broad arched gateway leads into a court, wherein is the entrance to the house. Over the gateway is a kind of tower, but not detached from the house. In the wall of the tower is a panel, lozenge-shaped, in which are carved the arms of the Challis family. The house is stately, with many gables, and in each are casement windows set in richly-carved stone tracery. As for the rooms within the house, I will speak of them hereafter. At present I have the churchyard in my mind. There is no place upon the earth which more I love. To stand in the long grass among the graves; to gaze upon the wooded hills beyond, the orchards, the meadows, the old house, the venerable church, the yew-tree: to listen to the murmur of the stream below and the singing of the lark above; to feel the fresh breeze upon my cheek—oh! I do this daily. It makes me feel young once more; it brings back the days when I stood here with the boys, and when Sir Christopher would lean over the wall and discourse with us gravely and sweetly upon the love of God and the fleeting joys of earth (which yet, he said, we should accept and be happy withal in thankfulness), and the happiness unspeakable that awaiteth the Lord's Saints. Or, if my thoughts continue in the past, the graveyard brings back the presence and the voice of Mr. Boscorel.
'In such a spot as this,' he would say, speaking softly and slowly, 'the pastorals of Virgil or Theocritus might have been written. Here would the shepherds hold their contests. Certainly they could find no place, even in sunny Sicily or at Mantua itself, where (save for three months in the year) the air is more delightful. Here they need not to avoid the burning heat of a sun which gently warms, but never burns; here they would find the shade of the grove pleasant in the soft summer season. Innocent lambs instead of kids (which are tasteless) play in our meadows; the cider which we drink is, I take it, more pleasing to the palate than was their wine flavoured with turpentine. And our viols, violins, and spinets are instruments more delightful than the oaten pipe, or the cithara itself.' Then would he wave his hand, and quote some poet in praise of a country life—
'But, child,' he would add, with a sigh, 'one may not always wish to be in Paradise. The world's joys lie elsewhere. Only, when youth is gone—then Paradise is best.'
The service began, after the manner of the Independents, with a long prayer, during which the people sat. Mr. Boscorel, as I have said, went through his own service in silence, the Book of Common Prayer in his hand. After the prayer, the minister read a portion of Scripture, which he expounded at length and with great learning. Then the congregation sang that Psalm which begins—
This done, the Rector ascended the pulpit for the last time, gave out his text, turned his hour-glass, and began his sermon.
He took for his text those verses in St. Paul's second epistle to the Corinthians, vi., 3-10[4], in which the Apostle speaks of his own ministry as if he was actually predicting the tribulation which was to fall upon these faithful preachers of a later time—'In much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labours, in watchings, in fastings,'—could not the very words be applied to my father?
He read the text three times, so that everybody might fully understand the subject upon which he was to preach—namely, the faithfulness required of a minister of the gospel. I need not set down the arguments he used or the reasons he gave for his resolution not to conform with the Act of Uniformity[5]. The rustics sat patiently listening, with no outward sign of assent or of sympathy. But their conduct afterwards proved abundantly to which side their minds inclined.
It behoves us all to listen with respect when scholars and wise men inquire into the reasons of things. Yet the preachings and expositions which such as my father bestowed upon their flocks did certainly awaken men's minds to consider by themselves the things which many think too high for them. It is a habit which may lead to the foundation of false and pernicious sects. And it certainly is not good that men should preach the doctrines of the Anabaptists, the Fifth Monarchy men, or the Quakers. Yet it is better that some should be deceived than that all should be slaves.[2q] I have been assured by one—I mean Humphrey—who hath travelled, that in those countries where the priest taketh upon himself the religion of the people, so that they think to be saved by attending mass, by fasting, confession, penance, and so forth, not only does religion itself become formal, mechanical, and inanimate, but in the very daily concerns and business of life men grow slothful and lack spirit. Their religion, which is the very heat of the body, the sustaining and vital force of all man's actions, is cold and dead. Therefore, all the virtues are cold also, and with them the courage and the spirit of the people. Thus it is that Italy hath fallen aside into so many small and divided kingdoms. And for this reason, Spain, in the opinion of those who know her best, is now falling rapidly into decay.
I am well assured, by those who can remember, that the intelligence of the village folk greatly increased during the period when they were encouraged to search the Scriptures for themselves. Many taught themselves to read, others had their children taught, in order that they might read or hear, daily, portions of the Scriptures. It is now thirty years since Authority resumed the rule; the village folk have again become, to outward seeming, sheep who obey without questioning. Yet it is observed that when they are within reach of a town—that is to say, of a meeting-house—they willingly flock to the service in the afternoon and evening.
It was with the following brave words that my father concluded his discourse:—
'Seeing, therefore, my brethren, how clear is the Word of God on these points; and considering that we must always obey God rather than man; and observing that here we plainly see the finger of God pointing to disobedience and its consequences, I am constrained to disobey. The consequence will be to me that I shall stand in this place no more: to you, that you will have a stranger in your church. I pray that he may be a godly person, able to divide the Word, learned and acceptable.
'As for me, I must go forth, perhaps from among you altogether. If persecutions arise, it may behove me and mine to seek again that land beyond the seas whither my fathers fled for the sake of religious liberty. Whatever happens, I must fain preach the gospel. It is laid upon me to preach. If I am silent, it will be as if Death itself had fallen upon me. My brethren, there have been times—and those times may return—when the Elect have had to meet, secretly, on the sides of barren hills, and in the heart of the forest, to pray together and to hear the Word. I say that these times may return. If they do, you will find me willing, I hope and pray, to brave for you the worst that our enemies can devise. Perhaps, however, this tyranny may pass over. Already the Lord hath achieved one great deliverance for this ancient Realm. Perhaps another may be in His secret purposes when we have been chastened, as, for our many sins, we richly deserve. Whether in affliction or in prosperity, let us always say, "The Lord's name be praised!"
'Now, therefore, for the sand is running low and I may not weary the young and the impatient, let me conclude. Farewell, sweet Sabbaths! Farewell, the sweet expounding of the Word! Farewell, sweet pulpit! Farewell, sweet faces of the souls which I have yearned to present pure and washed clean before the Throne! My brethren, I go about, henceforth, as a dog which is muzzled; another man will fill this pulpit; our simple form of worship is gone; the Prayer-book and the surplice have come back again. Pray God we see not Confession, Penance, the Mass, the Inquisition, the enslavement of conscience, the stake, and the martyr's axe!'
Then he paused and bowed his head, and everybody thought that he had finished.
He had not. He raised it again, and threw out his arms and shouted aloud, while his eyes glowed like fire:
'No! I will not be silent. I WILL NOT. I am sent into the world to preach the gospel. I have no other business. I must proclaim the Word as I hope for everlasting life. Brethren, we shall meet again. In the woods and on the hills we shall find a Temple; there are houses where two or three may be gathered together, the Lord Himself being in their midst. Never doubt that I am ready, in season and out of season, whatever be the law, to preach the gospel of the Lord!'
He ended, and straightway descended the pulpit stair, and stalked out of the church, the people looking after him with awe and wonder. But Mr. Boscorel smiled and wagged his head, with a kind of pity.
CHAPTER II.
IN THE VILLAGE.
Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip himself of all his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing, he ceased not to put his trust in the Lord, and continued to sit among his books, never asking whence came the food provided for him. I think, indeed, so wrapt was he in thought, that he knew not. As for procuring the daily food, my mother it was who found out the way.
Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know what a busy and populous county is that of Somerset. Apart from the shipping and the great trade with Ireland, Spain, and the West Indies carried on from the Port of Bristol, we have our great manufactures of cloth, in which we are surpassed by no country in the world. The town of Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundred looms always at work making Sagathies and Des Roys; there are many looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part Druggets and Cantaloons; and there are great numbers at that rich and populous town of Frome Selwood, where they manufacture the Spanish Medleys. Besides the cloth-workers, we have, in addition, our knitted-stocking trade, which is carried on mostly at Glastonbury and Shepton Mallet. Not only does this flourishing trade make the masters rich and prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a master with his twenty—ay, and his forty—thousand pounds), but it fills all the country with work, so that the towns are frequent, populous, and full of everything that men can want; and the very villages are not like those which may be seen in other parts, poor and squalid, but well-built and comfortable.
Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, when she is not doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel; the girls, when they have nothing else to do, are made to knit stockings. Every week the master-clothier sends round his men among the villages, their packhorses laden with wool; every week they return, their packs laden with yarn, ready for the loom.
There is no part of England where the people are more prosperous and more contented. Nowhere are there more towns, and all thriving; nowhere are the villages better built; nor can one find anywhere else more beautiful churches. Because the people make good wages they are independent in their manners; they have learned things supposed to be above the station of the humble; most of them in the towns, and many in the villages, are able to read. This enables them to search the Scriptures, and examine into doctrine by the light of their own reason, guided by grace. And to me, the daughter of a Nonconforming preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many of them should have become stiff and sturdy Nonconformists. This was seen in the year 1685, and, again, three years later, when a greater than Monmouth landed on the western shores.
My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would earn, by any work of his own, the daily bread of the household, bravely followed the example of the women in the village. That is to say, she set up her spinning-wheel, and spent all the time that she could spare spinning the wool into yarn; while she taught her little boy first and afterwards her daughter—as soon as I was old enough to manage the needles—to knit stockings. What trade, indeed, could her husband follow save one—and that, by law, prohibited? He could not dig; he could not make anything; he knew not how to buy or sell; he could only study, write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat among his books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other, working for the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. It still makes my heart to swell with pity and with love when I think upon my mother, thus spending herself and being spent, working all day, huckstering with the rough pack-horsemen more accustomed to exchange rude jests with the rustics than to talk with gentlewomen. And this she continued to do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that her husband should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love makes us willing slaves.
My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was troubled about food. He paid no heed at all to what he ate, provided that it was sufficient for his needs; he would sup his broth of pork and turnips and bread, after thanks rendered, as if it were the finest dish in the world; and a piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be a feast for him. The cider which he drank was brewed by my mother from her own apples; to him it was as good as if it had been Sherris or Rhenish. I say that he did not even know how his food was provided for him; his mind was at all times occupied with subjects so lofty that he knew not what was done under his very eyes. The hand of God, he said, doth still support His faithful. Doubtless we cannot look back upon those years without owning that we were so supported. But my mother was the Instrument; nay, my father sometimes even compared himself with satisfaction unto the Prophet Elijah, whom the ravens fed beside the brook Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the morning and flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father thought that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner.
Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not been for the charity of our friends[8]. Many a fat capon, green goose, side of bacon, and young grunter came to us from the Manor House[7]
