A Book Of Quaker Saints Part 41

_One more Meeting-house to visit; the last and the smallest of all. A Meeting-house with no story, except the story in its name.

'"Come-to-Good!"' boys and girls from other counties will exclaim perhaps, 'whoever heard of such a place? Why did people not call it "Come-to-Harm," or "Ne'er-do-Weel," while they were about it?'_

_Cornish boys and girls know better. They will explain that in their far Western corner of England there has always been an idea, and a very good idea it is, that a name should really describe the place to which it belongs, and should tell the hearer something about its character. Thus it comes to pa.s.s that on one tidal river a certain creek, covered with salt sea-water at high tide, but showing only an expanse of muddy flats at low water, is called 'c.o.c.kles' Peep Out.'

Another creek, near by, is known as 'Frenchman's Pill,' because some French prisoners were sent there for safety during the Napoleonic Wars. Then, too, a busy sea-port was once called 'Penny Come Quick,'

with good reason; and another out-of-the-way place 'Hard to Come By,'

which explains itself. Most romantic of all, the valley where King Charles's army lost a battle long ago is still known as 'Fine and Brave.' There, the country people say, headless ghosts of defeated Cavaliers may still be seen on moonlight nights riding up and down, carrying their own plumed-hatted heads under their arms. All over the county these story places are to be found. The more odd a Cornish name sounds at the first hearing, the more apt it will often prove, when the reason for it is understood._

_Thus it is not strange that a lonely, shut-in valley, folded away between two steep hills, should be known as 'Come-to-Good,' since, for more than two centuries, men and women, and little children also, have 'Come to Good' in that remote and hidden place. There, surrounded by sheltering trees, stands the little old Meeting-house. Its high thatched roof projects, like a bushy eyebrow, over the low white walls and thick white b.u.t.tresses, shading the three narrow cas.e.m.e.nt windows of pale-green gla.s.s with their diamond lattice panes. The windows are almost hidden by the roof; the roof is almost hidden by the trees; and the trees are almost hidden by the hills that rise above them.

Therefore the pilgrim always comes upon the Meeting-house with a certain sense of surprise, so carefully is it concealed;--like a most secret and precious thought._

_The bare Cornish uplands and wide moors have a trick of hiding away these rich, fertile valleys, that have given rise to the proverb: 'Cornwall is a lady, whose beauty is seen in her wrinkles.' Yet, hidden away as it is, 'Come-to-Good' has drawn people to it for centuries. In all the country round, for generations past, one Sunday in August has been known as 'Come-to-Good Sunday,' because, on that day, the Friends a.s.semble from three or four distant towns to hold their meeting there. And not the Friends only. No bell has ever broken the stillness of that peaceful valley, yet for miles round, on a 'Meeting Sunday,' the lanes are full of small groups of people: parents and children; farm lads and la.s.ses; thoughtful-faced men, who admit that 'they never go anywhere else'; shy lovers lingering behind, or whole families walking together. All are to be seen on their way to refresh their souls with the hour of quiet worship in the snowy white Meeting-house under its thatched roof._

_Many years ago, little Lois (whom you read about at the beginning of this book) was taken to Come-to-Good for the first time on such a Sunday, by her Grandmother. Even now, whenever she goes there, she still seems to see that dear Grandmother's tall, erect figure, in its flowing black silk mantle and Quaker bonnet, walking with stately steps up the path in front; or stooping for once--she who never stooped!--to enter the little low door. People who did not know her well, and even some who did, occasionally felt Lois' 'dear Grandmamma' rather a formidable old lady. They said she was 'severe'

and 'alarmingly dignified,' and 'she says straight out just exactly what she thinks.' Certainly, she was not one of the spoiling, indulgent, eiderdown-silk-cushion kind of Grannies that some children have now; but Lois loved her with all her heart and was never really afraid of her. What stories she could tell! What wonderful stockings full of treasures Santa Claus brought down her chimneys on Christmas Eve to the happy grandchild staying with her! Lois loved to sit beside her 'dear Grandmamma,' and to watch her in her corner by the fire, upright as ever, knitting. Even on the long drive to Come-to-Good, the feeling of her smooth, calm hand had soothed the restless little fingers held in it so firmly and gently. The drive over, Lois wondered what would happen to her in the strange Meeting-house when she might not sit by that dear Grandmother's side any longer, since she, of course, would have to be up in the Ministers' gallery, with all the other 'Weighty Friends.' But, at Come-to-Good, things always turn out right. Lois found, to her delight, that she and the other boys and girls were to be allowed to creep, very quietly, up the twisty wooden stairs at the far end of the Meeting-house, and to make their way up into the 'loft' where four or five low forms had been specially placed for them. Lois loved to find herself sitting there. She felt like a little white pigeon, high up on a perch, able to see over the heads of all the people below, and able even to look down on the grave faces of the Ministers opposite. The row of broad-brimmed hats and coal-scuttle bonnets looked entirely different and much more attractive, seen from above, than when she looked up at them in Meeting at home. Then, when some one rose to speak, Lois liked to watch the ripple that pa.s.sed over the heads beneath her, as all the faces turned towards the speaker. Or when everybody, moved by the same impulse, stood up during a prayer or sat down at its close, it was as fascinating to watch them gently rise and gently sit down again as it was to watch the wind sweep over the sea, curling it up into waves or wavelets, or the breeze rippling over a broad field of blue-green June barley. Lois never remembered the time when she was too small to enjoy those two sights. 'I do like watching something I can't see, moving something I can!' she used to think. To watch a Meeting, from the loft at Come-to-Good, was rather like that, she felt; though years had to pa.s.s before she found out the reason why._

_Out of doors, when the quiet hour of worship was over, other delights were waiting. The small old white Meeting-house is surrounded by a yet older, small green burial-ground, where long gra.s.ses, and flowers innumerable, cover the gentle slopes. The soft mounds cl.u.s.ter closely around the walls; as if those who were laid there had wished that their bodies might rest as near as possible to the house of peace where their spirits had rested while on earth._

_Further off the mounds are fewer; the gra.s.sy s.p.a.ces between them grow wider; till it becomes difficult to tell which are graves and which are just gra.s.sy hillocks. Further still, the old burial-ground dips down, and loses itself entirely, and becomes first a wood, then frankly an orchard that fills up the bottom of the valley, through which a clear brown stream goes wandering._

_Yet, midway on the hilly slope above, half hidden gravestones can still be discerned, among the gra.s.s and flowers; shining through them, like a smile that was once a sorrow. Small, grey, perfectly plain stones they are, all exactly alike, as is the custom in Friends'

graveyards, where to be allowed a headstone at all, was, at one time, considered 'rather gay'! Each stone bears nothing but a name upon it and sometimes a date. 'Honor Magor' is the name carved on one of the oldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly 100 years old. That is all. Lois used to wonder who Honor Magor was,--an old woman? a young one? or possibly even a little girl? Where did she live when she was alive? how did she come to be buried there? But there are no answers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more than that the tired body of Honor Magor has been resting peacefully for nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving gra.s.ses and ever-changing flowers at Come-to-Good._

_Ever-changing flowers? Yes; because the changing of the seasons is more marked there than at other places. For Come-to-Good lies so many miles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this quiet pool, that, for a long time past, Meetings have only been held here four times in the year. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring,--each season brings its own Sunday. Then, and for a week or two beforehand, the topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a modest piece of white paper announcing that 'a Friends' Meeting will be held at Come-to-Good on the following First Day morning, at eleven o'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be acceptable.'_

_August Sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a crimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. November Sunday has its own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden leaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding down in the wood. In February, the first gummy stars of the celandine are to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little procession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow path to Meeting. The 'Fair Maids of February' seem to have an especial love for this quiet spot._

_But in May--ah! May is the best Sunday of all. In May not only is the whole valley knee-deep in gra.s.s and ferns and flowers and bluebells.

There is something still better! In May the burial-ground is all singing and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. Garden flowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. Purple and deep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each flower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away inside. Even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that magic valley. I am afraid Lois thought longingly, all through the silence on a May Sunday, of the nosegay of columbines she meant to gather afterwards. Directly Meeting was over, the children pelted down very fast from the loft. Numbers of little feet flew across the sunlit gra.s.s, while the elder Friends were walking sedately down the path to the gate._

_'O Columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell,'_

_chanted the children as they frolicked about, forgetting that they had been stiff with sitting so long in Meeting, as they gathered handfuls of their treasures._

_All too soon they would hear the call: 'Come, children! it is time to be going.' And then they would scamper back, their hands full of their dear dove flowers. No wonder they felt that in leaving this sunny spot they were leaving one of the happiest places on earth. If only they could stay there! If only some one could be enjoying it always! What a pity that on the forty-eight other Sundays of the year it should all be deserted, shut up and forsaken! There might be numbers of other wonderful flowers that n.o.body ever saw. There the old Meeting-house stays all by itself the whole year round, except on those four Sundays, even as a lonely pool of clear water remains high up on the rocks, showing that the great sea itself did come there once, long ago, flowing in mightily, filling up all the bare c.h.i.n.ks and crannies._

_Will such a high tide ever come back again to Come-to-Good? Is that tide perhaps beginning to flow in, noiselessly and steadily, even now?_

_Some things look rather as if it might be; for new Friends'

Meeting-houses are being built in crowded cities to-day where even the high tide of long ago never came. But then, in lonely country places like Come-to-Good, scattered up and down all over England, there are many of these deserted Meeting-houses, where hardly anybody comes now or only comes out of curiosity. Yet the high tide did fill them all once long ago, full to overflowing, when people met within their walls constantly, seeking and finding G.o.d._

_The stories in this book about our 'Quaker Saints' show at what a cost these deserted places were won for us by our brave forefathers.

They, with their health and their lives gladly given in those terrible prisons of long ago, gained for us our liberty to meet together 'in numbers five or more,' to practise a 'form of worship not authorised by law'; that is to say, without any prayer-book or set form of service being used._

_Is our simple Quaker way of worship really worth the price they paid for it? Or is it merely a quaint and interesting relic of a by-gone age, something like the 'Friend's bonnet' that Lois' Grandmother wore as a matter of course, which now is never used, but lies in a drawer, carefully covered with tissue paper and fragrant with lavender?_

_Is our Quaker faith like that? Is it something antiquated and interesting, but of no real use to us or to anybody to-day? Or did these 'Quaker Saints' of whom we have heard, did they, and many other brave men and women, whose stories are not written here, really and truly make a big discovery? Did they, by their living and by their dying, remind the world of a truth that it had been in danger of forgetting? a truth that may still be in danger of being forgotten if quite ordinary, everyday people are not faithful now in their turn?_

[Ill.u.s.tration: A FRIENDS' MEETING]

_Is it really and truly true, that where two or three humble human souls are gathered together in His Name, in the simplest possible fashion, without any priest, or altar, or visible signs to help them, yet our Lord is there? Can He be indeed among them still to-day? and will He be forever, as He promised? feeding them Himself with the true Bread of Life, satisfying their thirst with Living Water, baptizing their souls with Power and with Peace?--_

_Children dear, you must answer these questions for yourselves, fearlessly and honestly. No one else can answer them for you. The answers may seem long in coming, but do not be in a hurry. They will come in time, if you seek steadfastly and humbly. Only remember one thing, as you think over these questions. Even if this is our way, the right way for us, this very simple Quaker way that our forefathers won for us at such a cost, still that does not necessarily make it the right way for all other people too. G.o.d's world and G.o.d's plans are much bigger than that. He brings His children home by numbers of different paths, but for each child of His, G.o.d's straight way for that child is the very best._

_The wise old Persians had a proverb, 'The ways unto G.o.d are as the number of the souls of the children of men.' Let us remember this, if we ever want to try to force other people to think about things exactly as we do. Let us remember, too, that rivalry and pride, that saying, or even thinking, 'My way is the only right way, and a much better way than your way,' is the only really antiquated kind of worship. The sooner we all learn to lay that aside, not in lavender and tissue paper, but to cast it away utterly and forget that it ever existed,--the better._

_It is not a bit of an excuse for us when we are inclined to judge other people critically, to read in these stories that some of the early Friends did and said harsh and intolerant things. They lived in a much harsher, more intolerant age than ours. The seventeenth century, as we know, has been called 'a dreadfully ill-mannered century.' Let us do our very best not to give any one an excuse for saying the same of this twentieth century in which we live. Thus, in reading of these Quaker Saints, let us try to copy, not their harshness or their intolerance, but their unflinching courage, their firm steadfastness, their burning hope for every man; above all, their unconquerable love._

_Remember the old lesson of the daisies. Each flower must open itself as wide as ever it can, in order to receive all that the Sun wants to give to it. But, while each daisy receives its own ray of sunshine thankfully and gladly, it must rejoice that other very different rays, at very different angles, can reach other flowers. Yet the Sun Heart from which they all come is One and the Same. All the different ways of worship are One too, when they meet in the Centre._

_Therefore it is not strange that at little secluded Come-to-Good, where the blue doves of the columbines keep watch over the quiet graves, I should remember a message that came to me in another, very different, House of G.o.d--a magnificent Cathedral far away in South Italy. There, high up, above the lights and pictures and flowers and ornaments of the altar, half hidden at times by the clouds of ascending incense, I caught the shining of great golden letters.

Gradually, as I watched, they formed themselves into these three words of old Latin:_

DEUS ABSCONDITUS HEIC.

_And the golden message meant:_

'_G.o.d IS HIDDEN HERE._'

_That is the secret all these different ways of worship are meant to teach us, if we will only learn. Let us not judge one another, not ever dream of judging one another any more. Only, wherever our own way of worship leads us, let us seek to follow it diligently, dutifully, humbly, and to the end. Then, not only when we are worshipping with our brothers and sisters around us, in church, chapel, great cathedral, or quiet meeting-house, but also (perhaps nearest and closest of all) in the silence of our own hearts, we shall surely find in truth and with thankfulness that_

G.o.d IS HIDDEN HERE.

HISTORICAL NOTES

HISTORICAL NOTES

NOTE.--The References throughout are to the Cambridge Edition of George Fox's Journal, except where otherwise stated. The spelling has been modernised and the extracts occasionally abridged.

'STIFF AS A TREE, PURE AS A BELL.'

Historical; described as closely as possible from George Fox's own words in his Journal, vol. ii. pp. 94, 100-104.

'PURE FOY, MA JOYE.'

Historical. See George Fox's Journal (Ellwood Edition), pp. 1-17. See also Sewel's 'History of the Quakers,' and 'Beginnings of Quakerism,'

by W.C. Braithwaite. See 'George Fox,' by Thomas Hodgkin (Leaders of Religion Series), for description of Fenny Drayton village, manor house, church, and neighbourhood.