Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 1 of 3

CHAPTER IV
A YOUNG PREACHER

In one of the hottest days of the summer of 184-, a young man of lofty bearing and aristocratic descent was riding on horseback carelessly along the highroad that leads from Great Yarmouth to Ipswich, and not many miles from the rising town of Lowestoft. He had a companion with him not very much older than himself, but with a face bronzed with foreign travel.

‘How hot it is!’ said the younger of the two, as he reined up his steed on the brow of a small hill, at the foot of which was a stretch of marshland draining slowly into the sea a mile off on his left, while on the other side of the marsh, given up to cattle and horses and sheep, the road led to a rising tableland, dotted with old red-brick farmhouses and stately oaks and dark firs. A painter such as Constable or Gainsborough would have soon transferred something of the peaceful rustic beauty all round to his canvas. Far off was the calm blue sea, dark with slow-sailing colliers on their way to or from the distant port of London; nearer the shore were the brown sails of the fishing boats; while among them were a few pleasure yachts, the proprietors of which were endeavouring to earn an honest penny by carrying holiday makers to the sands which mark the commencement of the Yarmouth Roads. Nowhere was the dark line of smoke which marks the modern steamer visible. England then trusted in her wooden walls and her sailors with their hearts of oak, and dreamt not of the time when all that craft should be replaced by big iron or steel built steamers, ready to sink to the bottom, with all their crew and cargo or passengers, in case of a collision, in the twinkling of an eye.

‘Hot, is it? You should have been with me in India.’

‘And got wounded as you have?’

‘Yes, if you like. A good pension heals many a nasty wound.’

‘But – ’ And here the younger man gave a joyful exclamation, ‘Why, there is Uncle Dick!’

‘True enough,’ said that individual, who was urging on his steed at a furious pace, and had just joined them. He was hawk-eyed, square-built, very red-faced, with an eye anything but expressive of saintly life. ‘What the devil are you gay fellows up to? I thought you were far away yachting.’

‘Duty,’ was the reply; ‘the fact is, I am rather tired of dissipation, and am thinking of settling down quietly.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the newcomer, who was the wealthy incumbent of a neighbouring parish. ‘But you had better tarry with me for the night, and have a carouse over some port that you can’t get hold of every day. I have done duty, and am quite at your service. This is Sunday night, and I propose a quiet rubber. The vicarage is close by. I am a bachelor, you know.’

‘Yes, we all know that. And a model priest and a pillar of the Church.’

‘Now, drop that,’ said the parson. ‘It is my misfortune that I have to wear a black coat rather than a red one. You, lucky dog! can do as you like.’

‘Well, uncle, we’ll test your hospitality,’ said the younger one of the horsemen, the elder accepting at the same time.

They had already reached the village, the main street of which consisted of a few houses and shops, with a lane which led to the village meeting – an old-fashioned building of red brick – towards which a crowd, at any rate, as much of a crowd as could be got together in the village, was making its way.

‘What are all these people up to?’

‘Going to meeting, I suppose,’ said the parson.

‘What, are meetings allowed on the estate?’

‘Unfortunately, they are. My brother’s grounds only come up to the village, and the people there do as they like. But it is getting late. Let us have a trot.’ Unfortunately, as the horsemen broke into a trot, they ran right into a group of poor people on their way to meeting. Unfortunately, a poor old woman was caught by one of the horses and thrown down.

‘Are you much hurt?’ said a young man, running to her rescue.

‘No, Mr. Wentworth,’ said one of the group. ‘Mother, I believe, is more frightened than hurt. We would have had her stop at home, but she said she must come and hear you preach. She said she was here when your father came to preach for the first time, and we could not keep her at home.’

‘And who are the men on horseback?’ who by this time were far away.

‘Why, one of ’em, the young one, is Sir Watkin Strahan, with his uncle, the parson of the next parish.’

‘Well, for a young man, he was by no means pleasant-looking. At any rate, he might have stopped to see if he had done any harm. But these rich men are all hard. Poor people have but one duty – to get out of their way, and to take their hats off to them when they meet!’

The expression of the young man was not to be taken literally. Farmer and peasant alike never took off the hat to anyone. The peasant simply made an obeisance and put up his hand to pull a lock of his front hair in proof of his deference to the ruling powers.

The crowd still clustered round the old woman, who was happily more frightened than hurt. She was one of a class rarely to be met with in our villages now, but at one time very common. She was a ‘meetinger.’ In some way she was a sufferer for the fact. When Christmas came there were coals and blankets at the Hall for such of the villagers as attended the parish church, but the ‘meetingers’ were left out in the cold; and yet they were the salt of the place – steady, orderly, industrious – content with their lot, however humble and hard. At the meeting they were all equals, brothers and sisters in Christ, believing that life was a scene of sorrow and difficulty, of darkness and poverty and death – believing also that that sorrow and pain would pass away, that that darkness would be turned into light, that the tear would be wiped from every eye, and the riches of heaven would be theirs in exchange for the poverty of earth, that death should be swallowed up in life. They studied one book, and that was the Bible. Their talk was in Scripture phrase, and it was not cant with them, but the utterance of a living faith. That faith exists no longer, but while it lasted it filled the peasant’s heart with a joy that the world could neither give nor take away, and there was peace and content in the home. There was no day like the Sunday, no treat like that of singing the songs of Zion, or of listening to the Gospel, as they held the sermon to be. Nowadays our villagers prefer to smoke a pipe and read the newspaper, and to talk of their rights. Then they were of the same way of thinking as the citizens of a small German duchy, who, when the year of revolution came across Europe, and the Grand-Duke gave them a representative government, were much annoyed at the trouble thus imposed on them, when he, the Grand-Duke, was born and endowed to do all the ruling himself.

But the old lady was better, and to her we must return, as she made her way to meeting.

The person most annoyed was the young preacher. He was shocked at the autocratic insolence of the party.

‘I shall know that young fellow on horseback,’ he said to himself, ‘if ever I meet him again, which is not very likely;’ and the young man continued his walk to the meeting, where he was to preach.

When he got there the place was crowded. Tremblingly he entered the vestry, and more tremblingly he climbed the pulpit stairs. Everybody whom he knew was there. For a village, it was a highly respectable congregation, consisting of well-to-do shopkeepers and farmers with their families, who sat in genteel old square pews lined with baize, while the labourers, in clean smock-frocks, filled the body of the place. On the floor, just under the pulpit, was the table-pew, crowded with all the musical talent of the place. Loud and long and wonderful was their performance. There are no such village choirs now, nor such congregations. The landlords have put down Dissent in that part. It is well understood that when there is a farm to let no Dissenter need apply.

The old meeting-house yard was pleasant to the eye, with its grand trees guarding the gates. It was a warm night, and the doors were wide open, and from the pulpit the eye could range over trim cottage gardens all ablaze with sweet flowers, whose scent floated pleasantly along the summer air. From afar one could hear also the echoes of the distant sea. There is a wonderful stillness and beauty in a country village on a Sunday night, that is if it be at a decent distance from town.

Even that dull red-brick meeting-house was rich in holy associations. It recalled memories of martyrs and saints, of men of whom the world was not worthy, who had given up all for Christ.

But let us turn to the present. In the pulpit is the lad whom we already know. He has been at a London college. This was his first sermon, and so still was the place that even the Sunday-school children – always the most troublesome part of the audience, and very naturally so – were silent. For a wonder, in no pew was a farmer asleep. The emotion of the dear old minister, as he sat in the family pew, was painful to witness. That lad up yonder was his only son, and had been set apart from his childhood for the service of the altar. Like another Timothy, from a child he had known the Scriptures. Like another Samuel, he had been early trained to wait upon the Lord. Had the prayers of pious parents been heard and answered? It seemed so. But who can tell what later years may do for the lad?

Let us look at him – tall, well-built, fair-haired, and blue-eyed. He was trembling and pale at first, but be was so no longer. The nervousness with which he read the Bible and offered up prayer has passed away. He has got accustomed to the sound of his own voice – a great thing for an orator of any kind.

The sermon was of the usual type – popular at that time in all Evangelical circles. It would have been deemed sinful to have preached in any other manner, and, after all, a raw lad can but preach the theology he had gone to college to learn, or which he had been taught on his mother’s knees. In religion, as in other things, you cannot put an old head upon young shoulders, but as far as he knows the preacher is emphatic and in earnest.

‘Men and brethren and sisters,’ he exclaimed towards the end of his discourse, ‘will you not accept the offered blessing? Dare you retire from this place rejecting the offer of Divine mercy and the invitations of Divine love? Will you continue in your sin and perish? Your souls that can never die are in danger. Now God waits to save you; to-morrow it may be too late. It may be that if you procrastinate now you may never again hear the offer of the Gospel. Turn your back on God now, and perhaps He may turn His back on you. From this house of prayer, from the sound of my voice, you may go home, to forget all I have said, or you may be hurried away by the rude hand of Death. I speak as to wise men. Judge ye what I say. Another throb of this heart, another beat of this pulse, another tick of that clock, and you may have gone to be alone with God. Life and death are set before you – a blessing and a curse – heaven and hell.’

As the young preacher, with eager eye and palpitating heart, sat down, it was with difficulty that the aged father could control his emotion so as to give out the hymn to be sung and to pronounce the benediction. More than one sob was heard – more than one face was bathed in tears. More than one in that crowd resolved from that day forth to lead a new and better life. It was some time before that sermon was forgotten. It was a village nine days’ wonder. A time was to come when that young preacher was to modify very considerably his theology and enlarge his creed. It is to be questioned whether, however, afterwards he ever preached with more fervour, or left a pulpit in a happier frame of mind. When a man feels what he says, what place is there in which he can feel more joyous than in the pulpit? To men in such a mood it is the very gate of heaven. Shame on the men who go into one without a Divine call and a living faith, who are preachers by training and by the acts of mistaken friends and relatives, who assume the priest’s office for a bit of bread, just as others become lawyers or medical men!

No wonder that the pulpit is a failure in our day; that men who feel themselves equal in education and spiritual life to the man in the pulpit stop away; that, in fact, men rarely darken church doors – especially the poor, the weary, and the heavy-laden, who need something more than a musical performance, or a religious ceremonial, or a sensational appeal. Yet are not these the men for whom a Saviour lived and prayed and died? When people were given to church and chapel going, something of the life and energy of the old Reformers – the Wesleys and the Whitfields, and their followers – had been left alive. The old traditions had still a force; the old habits had not died out. It had not become respectable to attend what were then really the means of grace, if I may use such an old-fashioned, conventional term. The world had not invaded the Church, and swindlers and adventurers had not discovered that if they would succeed in their schemes on the community, or get returned to Parliament, or stand well in society, they must identify themselves with one or other of the religious bodies, whose members would supply them with a decent proportion of dupes. It is a fine advertisement for a wealthy man to contribute largely to the funds of the religious body with which he is more or less connected. Such pecuniary generosity always has its reward. A working man candidate even who will get into a pulpit is also sure of success, even if he intimates that the parson does not know his business, or that the church and congregation are groping in the dark. If now and then he can get into a pulpit he is a made man.

CHAPTER V.
AFTER THE SERVICE

The village to which the reader has already paid a visit was sleepy and healthy, but not without a certain rustic grace of its own. At one end, the gates of the neighbouring park gave almost an aristocratic air to the place. Far off among the trees was the parish church, as if it never could be of any use to anybody, while the old red-brick meeting-house was a formidable rival, inasmuch as it was nearer to the people, and therefore more convenient of access. It had quite a history, that old place. Norfolk and Suffolk have been the home of Nonconformists from the earliest times. One of the first victims of the writ De heretico comburendo was a Norfolk man. Dr. Grosteste, afterwards Bishop of Lincoln, a divine of great learning and courage, who is said to have sympathised with Wycliffe, was born at Stradbrook, in Suffolk. The earliest martyr of the Reformation, according to Fox, was William Sawtree, parish priest of the church of St. Margaret in the town of Lynn, and here, as elsewhere, the blood of the martyrs was not shed in vain. Heresy continued to grow, and Mary, whom history calls the Bloody, owed her throne in no small degree to the loyalty of the old Nonconformists of Suffolk, who believed her to be the rightful heir to the Crown, and aided her effectually in asserting her rights, only stipulating that they should be unmolested in the exercise of their religion. But Mary had learnt of her Popish priests to keep no faith with heretics, and in Suffolk the race of martyrs never failed. Many Protestants fled from this fierce persecution, and some found an asylum in Frankfort.

When Elizabeth came to the throne the people still required a reformation in the Puritan sense, but Elizabeth, a Ritualist herself, had no sympathy with them. In 1592, when an Act was passed for the punishment of persons obstinately refusing to come to church, Sir Walter Raleigh declared his conviction that the Brownists at that time were not less than twenty thousand, chiefly in Norfolk and Suffolk. Their idea was that, in the language of their founder, ‘The Church planted or gathered is a company or number of Christians and believers, which, by a willing covenant made with their God, are under the government of God and Christ, and keep His laws in one communion. The Church government is the lordship of Christ in the communion of His offices, whereby His people obey His will, and have mutual use of their graces and callings to further their goodliness and welfare.’ Such was the teaching of old Browne. In the good old times he was persecuted for saying it, and people were sent to gaol for believing it. Nay, more, Barrow and Greenwood, for doing so, were hanged at Tyburn. In the village of which I write there had been many Nonconformists, and tradition told how the preacher was hidden in a tree while the people listened below. When fair times came, ejected ministers continued their services in a more open manner. Wealthy individuals befriended them, and chapels were built and endowed. In this way the meeting-house of which I speak had come into existence. On the evening of which I write it had been crowded. The one subject of conversation all that night was the sermon. At that time all the cottagers took a deep interest in theology. There was no end of theological disputations, especially among the women, and as usual among the most illiterate of the women. Some of them were hyper-Calvinists, and on a Sunday would walk miles to the nearest town in which the doctrines they loved to hear were preached. The old preacher at the Congregational chapel was not high enough for them. They were God’s elect, and they needed to be preached to as such. Then there were the Ranters, who loved to hear of a free salvation – of instantaneous conversion – of how the Ethiopian had changed his skin and the leopard his spots.

All had been to meeting that night, and all were delighted to find how the young preacher had given utterance to their peculiar and somewhat contradictory views. Then, there were the old steady friends, who feared that the young man would be led away by people’s applause. He was said to have talent, and that was not the one thing needful. He was said to be fond of human larnin’, and that was a mockery and a snare. The more narrow-minded preponderated, as they always do in religious circles, or, at any rate, as they did then. They believed that ‘Ignorance was the mother of devotion.’ They were a stumbling-block in many a promising career, ever ready to censure, ever ready to take offence, ever ready to find fault, ever ready to hint a doubt and hesitate dislike. How many have such kept away who might have been useful members of the Church! How many have they driven into doubt and scepticism and despair! How true is it that against stupidity the gods fight in vain!

It is a mistake to suppose a village life dull. It has its public opinion – its hopes, its fears, its joys. Its little life in its way is as intense as that of London or Paris. Our great men and oracles and dictators – many of our best men – come from our country villages. They are our national nurseries. We cannot breed men or women in the foul air of towns, where soul and body alike wither away. If England is to flourish, we must get back the people to the villages.

The other night Hodge paid me a visit, and to me, revolving these things in my mind, as Cicero was wont to say, the Lord Brougham after him, it seemed that it was worth putting in print Hodge’s opinions about things in general, and farming in particular. Hodge is a Liberal, and will vote for the Gladstonian candidate. Not that he takes much interest in Ireland, or has any particular acquaintance with Irish affairs. Hodge told me he did not read the newspapers, solely because he can’t read at all. He left school before he had mastered the elements, and the cause of his leaving was this: He had, as boys will do, played truant, and the next day the schoolmaster took him to the door of the school to give him a flogging. Unfortunately, the master had left his stick behind, and when he was gone, Hodge, who had his cap in his pocket, thought he might as well run away. He did so, and went to a farmer to give him a job. The farmer set him to scare the crows, and after that Hodge never went to school again. At a proper age he went to ploughing, and a ploughman he has been ever since. He married early, of course. I told him that was a pity; but, as he said, what was he to do? He had no father nor mother, and he wanted a home of his own, and, though his wife worked in a brickyard, she is as natty and tidy a little woman as you could wish to see anywhere, and the children are neat and orderly. He lives in a red-brick cottage with four rooms, for which he pays £4 a year, and has a nice little bit of garden, which produces most of the food consumed by the family – for he can’t afford butcher’s meat. Now and then, though, he buys a few bones of the butcher, or a few scraps such as a butcher has always to dispose of at the rate of sixpence a pound. He can’t eat fat pork, and he can’t smoke. He is tall, but not stout, and has a fine colour on his face, as if his occupation was healthy. His wages are 13s. 6d. a week – not a bad wage in Essex. His hours are long – from six in the morning till half-past five in the evening. On a Sunday morning he has to look after the horses; when he has done that he walks over to have a chat with his father-in-law.

He never goes to church, because he doesn’t like the goings-on in the church and the white gowns. When he goes anywhere, it is to a barn where a Primitive Methodist preaches; him he can understand, but not the Church parson; and the Methodist preaches well and does not take a sixpence. That is why he likes the Methodist preacher.

‘Why,’ said he, ‘the parson makes a poor-rate in the church.’

‘What do you mean?’ said I.

‘Why, I’ve seen the farmers go round with the plates and collect money.’

‘Oh no,’ I replied; ‘that is the offertory, and the parson gives the money to the poor.’

‘Does he?’ said Hodge. ‘I’ve never heard of his giving any money away, and he has never been near me, though I’ve lived five years in his parish.’

I explained that the late parson was old and infirm, but that the new parson would do better; and then Hodge admitted that he had heard as how he had called on a neighbour who was ill, and had left two half-crowns.

Hodge is not a teetotaler, but drinks a table-beer which his wife brews. As to public-house beer, he declares it is poison, and never touches a drop. He pays to the Foresters five-and-sixpence a quarter, and shilling for his wife, and that secures him in case of sickness ten shillings a week and medical attendance for his wife and family. He goes to bed at nine o’clock, and that means a good deal of saving in the matter of coals and candles. He frankly admitted that he had made, and could make, no provision for old age. He had one grievance. His master was a Liberal, but he had told him now that schooling was free he must pay two shillings more for his rent; ‘and that ain’t very liberal,’ he said.

Then we talked about the farmers. They were very hard on the men. When harvest time came, that was the miserablest time of the year, for the big farmer goes round to the small farmers and tells them what he is going to pay, and then the men stand out, and are idle and walking about, while a lot of foreigners – that is, people from parts adjacent – come, who are bad workers and get drunk, and are very disagreeable to have anything to do with. There ought to be no large farmers who cannot properly attend to the farms, and who keep hunters and go out hunting. He would have no hunting at all, as it destroyed the crops to have a lot of men galloping over them. Farmers could not make their farms pay, as they did not keep enough men to pull up the weeds, and he had seen fields where the thistles were as high again as the barley, and instead of carting barley the farmer had to cart weeds, and that could not pay. Again, he thought it was madness to send the manure of towns into the sea when it was wanted on the land. Farmers were very unreasonable, and that was a pity. How could a farmer expect his men to work well if they were paid starvation wages? They even starved the horses. Many a farmer on a Sunday, or when the horses were idle, took off a feed of corn from the horses. Why, did not a farmer want his dinner on a Sunday when he was not working, and was it not the same with the horses? He had seen some farmers hunting, and their horses were nothing but bags of bone.

‘Well, what do you think of allotments of two or three acres?’ said I. Hodge evidently had a poor opinion of them. If he had one, he would not have the time nor the strength to work on it, though his wife might help him, as she was used to outdoor work; and then there was the ploughing, how could that be done? Could not, I asked, a farm be cut up into allotments, and one person make a living by ploughing for the others? No, he did not think that could be done, as you could never get a lot of people to be all of one mind in that respect. It was not much use giving an agricultural labourer more than forty rods to attend to. He did not keep bees, as his master did not like them, but his father-in-law did, and he made a good deal of money by them. One thing he did by which he made a little money, and that was to breed canaries. Once upon a time he caught a blackbird and took it home. Then he sold it for five shillings, and when his wife missed the bird he put a shilling to it and bought a canary. His master’s brother gave him another; and as they laid eggs and hatched them he sold canaries, and thus made a little.

Hodge is an active politician, and attends all the Liberal gatherings of the district; but his politics are of the dimmest kind. He is attracted by the word Liberal – that is all. What he desires is to see a better understanding between the masters and men. He has got beyond the Church parson, evidently, but the farmer may yet win him back. I question whether the farmer will have sense enough to take the trouble to do that, easy though the task may be. In the majority of cases it is only a question of a shilling a week and a few kind words. Hodge has no wish to be driven off the land. He would rather remain where he is. He knows very little of the town, and is rather afraid of its wickedness and its filthy slums. All he requires is a little more consideration, a little more kindly treatment on the part of his employer. He is a good fellow, and he deserves it. But one sighs as one thinks

 
‘Of the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.’
 

But this is a digression. I now return to the Hodge of half a century ago.

It was late that night before the villagers went to bed, everyone had so much to say. There had not been such an excitement there since old Campbell, missionary to Africa, had told the people all about the poor Hottentots.

Half-way down the High Street stood the Spread Eagle – as times went, a respectable public-house, licensed to let post-horses, and warranted to provide suitable accommodation for man or beast. It is true, on the outside was painted a fierce creature, intended for a bird, with an eye and a beak enough to frighten anyone, but all was peace and harmony within. The landlady had a way of serving up mulled porter at all hours which seemed particularly attractive to her customers, especially in winter, and as the coach to London changed horses there, a good many people were in the habit of dropping in ‘quite promiscuous,’ as some of us say. On the evening of the sermon, the bar-parlour was unusually full. The landlady’s niece had been to hear the young divine, and her verdict was favourable.

‘Here’s a pretty go,’ said the Rector, who had dropped in quite accidentally, as he joined the group: ‘that young Wentworth is going to drive the people crazy. As I came past I saw all the parish there. I am sure Sir Thomas’ (the owner of the next village) ‘will be very angry when he hears of it.’

‘Right you are!’ cried the surgeon; ‘but the young fellow won’t stop here long, you may depend upon it. He is far too good for the meetingers.’

‘I wish the whole pack of them would clear off,’ continued the Rector; ‘they give me no end of trouble. If I go into a cottage, I find they have been there before me. It is just the same with the schools; they get all the children. My predecessor did not mind it, but I do.’

‘Ah,’ said the landlady, ‘I’ve heard my mother speak of him. He and the clerk had always a hot supper here on a Sunday night. Ah, he was a gentleman, and behaved as such.’

‘Rare times, them was,’ said an old farmer, joining in the conversation. ‘I remember how we used to pelt them meetinger parsons with rotten eggs. It was rare fun to break their windows while they were preaching, and to frighten the women as they came out. One day we were going to burn the parson’s house down.’

‘And why did you not?’ asked the surgeon.

‘Because the Rector’s wife was ill,’ was the reply, ‘and the Rector asked us not to make a noise near the house. But I was sorry we did not then finish the job outright. They’d all have gone. Says I, if you want to get rid of the wasps, burn their nests. I’ve no patience with a lot of hypocrites, professing to be better than other people.’

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the landlady’s niece, a privileged person, as she was both young and good-looking, ‘all I can say is, young Mr. Wentworth preached a capital sermon to-night. A better sermon I never heard. There was no reading out of a book. It was all life-like. There was no drawling or hesitation. He spoke out like a man.’

The aunt looked solemn. This would never do. The Spread Eagle had always supported Church and State, and she was not going to change at her time of life. It was too bad to find heresy in her own flesh and blood.

‘Well,’ said she, ‘of course I don’t go to meetin’, and I’m very sorry to hear what I’ve heard to-night.’

‘Well, we will forgive the young lady,’ said the Rector condescendingly, with a familiar nod, ‘on condition that she does not do it again.’

‘Agreed,’ said the surgeon. ‘I go to church,’ he continued, ‘because it’s respectable; because my father went there before me; because, if I did not, I should never be asked to dine at the Hall; because, as it is, I find it hard to make both ends meet, and should lose all my practice if I went to meeting.’