The Revolution in Tanner's Lane Part 7

CHAPTER VII--JEPHTHAH

The Reverend Thomas Bradshaw, of Pike Street Meeting-House, was not a descendant from Bradshaw the regicide, but claimed that he belonged to the same family. He was in 1814 about fifty years old, and minister of one of the most important churches in the eastern part of London. He was tall and spare, and showed his height in the pulpit, for he always spoke without a note, and used a small Bible, which he held close to his eyes. He was a good cla.s.sical scholar, and he understood Hebrew, too, as well as few men in that day understood it.

He had a commanding figure, ruled his church like a despot; had a crowded congregation, of which the larger portion was masculine; and believed in predestination and the final perseverance of the saints.

He was rather unequal in his discourses, for he had a tendency to moodiness, and, at times, even to hypochondria. When this temper was upon him he was combative or melancholy; and sometimes, to the disgust of many who came from all parts of London to listen to him, he did not preach in the proper sense of the word, but read a chapter, made a comment or two upon it, caused a hymn to be sung, and then dismissed his congregation with the briefest of prayers.

Although he took no active part in politics, he was republican through and through, and never hesitated for a moment in those degenerate days to say what he thought about any scandal. In this respect he differed from his fellow-ministers, who, under the pretence of increasing zeal for religion, had daily fewer and fewer points of contact with the world outside. Mr. Bradshaw had been married when he was about thirty; but his wife died in giving birth to a daughter, who also died,--and for twenty years he had been a widower, with no thought of changing his condition. He was understood to have peculiar opinions about second marriages, although he kept them very much to himself. One thing, however, was known, that for a twelvemonth after the death of his wife he was away from England, and that he came back an altered man to his people in Bedfordshire, where at that time he was settled. His discourses were remarkably strong, and of a kind seldom, or indeed never, heard now.

They taxed the whole mental powers of his audience, and were utterly unlike the simple stuff which became fashionable with the Evangelistic movement. Many of them, taken down by some of his hearers, survive in ma.n.u.script to the present day. They will not, as a rule, bear printing, because the a.s.sumption on which they rest is not now a.s.sumed; but if it be granted, they are unanswerable; and it is curious that even now and then, although they are never for a moment anything else than a strict deduction from what we in the latter half of the century consider unproven or even false, they express themselves in the same terms as the newest philosophy.

Occasionally too, more particularly when he sets himself the task of getting into the interior of a Bible character, he is intensely dramatic, and what are shadows to the careless reader become living human beings, with the reddest of blood visible under their skin.

On this particular evening Mr. Bradshaw took the story of Jephthah's daughter: --"The Spirit of the Lord came upon Jephthah." Here is an abstract of his discourse. "It WAS the Spirit of the Lord, notwithstanding what happened. I beg you also to note that there is a mistranslation in our version. The Hebrew has it, 'Then it shall be, that WHOSOEVER'--not WHATSOEVER--'cometh forth of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the Lord's, and I will offer HIM'--not IT--'up for a burnt-offering.' Nevertheless I believe my text--it WAS the Spirit of the Lord. This Hebrew soldier was the son of a harlot. He was driven by his brethren out of his father's house. Ammon made war upon Israel, and in their distress the elders of Israel went to fetch Jephthah. Mark, my friends, G.o.d's election. The children of the lawful wife are pa.s.sed by, and the child of the harlot is chosen.

Jephthah forgets his grievances and becomes captain of the host.

Ammon is over against them. Jephthah's rash vow--this is sometimes called. I say it is not a rash vow. It may be rash to those who have never been brought to extremity by the children of Ammon--to those who have not cared whether Ammon or Christ wins. Men and women sitting here in comfortable pews"--this was said with a kind of snarl--"may talk of Jephthah's rash vow. G.o.d be with them, what do they know of the struggles of such a soul? It does not say so directly in the Bible, but we are led to infer it, that Jephthah was successful because of his vow. 'The Lord delivered them into his hands.' He would not have done it if He had been displeased with the 'rash vow'" (another snarl). "He smote them from Aroer even till thou come to Minnith. Ah, but what follows? The Omnipotent and Omniscient might have ordered it, surely, that a slave might have met Jephthah. Why, in His mercy, did He not do it? Who are we that we should question what He did? But if we may not inquire too closely into His designs, it is permitted us, my friends, when His reason accords with ours, to try and show it. Jephthah had played for a great stake. Ought the Almighty--let us speak it with reverence--to have let him off with an ox, or even with a serf? I say that if we are to conquer Ammon we must pay for it, and we ought to pay for it.

Yes, and perhaps G.o.d wanted the girl--who can tell? Jephthah comes back in triumph. Let me read the pa.s.sage to you: --'Behold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: AND SHE WAS HIS ONLY CHILD: BESIDE HER HE HAD NEITHER SON NOR DAUGHTER. And it came to pa.s.s, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back.' Now, you read poetry, I dare say--what you call poetry. I say in all of it--all, at least, I have seen--nothing comes up to that. 'SHE WAS HIS ONLY CHILD: BESIDE HER HE HAD NEITHER SON NOR DAUGHTER.'"--(Mr. Bradshaw's voice broke a little as he went over the words again with great deliberation and infinite pathos.)--"The inspired writer leaves the fact just as it stands, and is content. Inspiration itself can do nothing to make it more touching than it is in its own bare nakedness. There is no thought in Jephthah of recantation, nor in the maiden of revolt, but nevertheless he has his own sorrow. HE IS BROUGHT VERY LOW. G.o.d does not rebuke him for his grief. He knows well enough, my dear friends, the nature which He took upon Himself--nay, are we not the breath of His nostrils, created in His image? He does not anywhere, therefore, I say, forbid that we should even break our hearts over those we love and lose. She asks for two months by herself upon the mountains before her death. What a time for him! At the end of the two months G.o.d held him still to his vow; he did not shrink; she submitted, and was slain. But you will want me to tell you in conclusion where the gospel is in all this. Gospel! I say that the blessed gospel is in the Old Testament as well as in the New. I say that the Word of G.o.d is one, and that His message is here this night for you and me, as distinctly as it is at the end of the sacred volume. Observe, as I have told you before, that Jephthah is the son of the harlot. He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy. He calls them His people who are not His people; and He calls her beloved which was not beloved. G.o.d at any rate is no stickler for hereditary rights. Moreover, it does not follow because you, my hearers, have G.o.d-fearing parents, that G.o.d has elected you. He may have chosen, instead of you, instead of me, the wretchedest creature outside, whose rags we will not touch. But to what did G.o.d elect Jephthah?

To a respectable, easy, decent existence, with money at interest, regular meals, sleep after them, and unbroken rest at night? He elected him to that tremendous oath and that tremendous penalty. He elected him to the agony he endured while she was away upon the hills! That is G.o.d's election; an election to the cross and to the cry, 'Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani.' 'Yes,' you will say, 'but He elected him to the victory over Ammon.' Doubtless He did; but what cared Jephthah for his victory over Ammon when she came to meet him, or, indeed, for the rest of his life? What is a victory, what are triumphal arches and the praise of all creation to a lonely man? Be sure, if G.o.d elects you, He elects you to suffering. Whom He loveth He chasteneth, and His stripes are not play-work. Ammon will not be conquered unless your heart be well nigh broken. I tell you, too, as Christ's minister, that you are not to direct your course according to your own desires. You are not to say, -'I will give up this and that so that I may be saved.' Did not St. Paul wish himself accursed from Christ for his brethren? If G.o.d should command you to go down to the bottomless pit in fulfilment of His blessed designs, it is your place to go. Out with self--I was about to say this d.a.m.ned self; and if Israel calls, if Christ calls, take not a sheep or ox-- that is easy enough--but take your choicest possession, take your own heart, your own blood, your very self, to the altar."

During the sermon the Major was much excited. Apart altogether from the effect of the actual words spoken, Mr: Bradshaw had a singular and contagious power over men. The three, Mrs. Coleman, the Major, and Zachariah, came out together. Mrs. Zachariah stayed behind in the lobby for some female friend to whom she wished to speak about a Sunday-school tea-meeting which was to take place that week. The other two stood aside, ill at ease, amongst the crowd pressing out into the street. Presently Mrs. Coleman found her friend, whom she at once informed that Major Maitland and her husband were waiting for her, and that therefore she had not a moment to spare. That little triumph accomplished, she had nothing of importance to say about the tea-meeting, and rejoined her party with great good-humour. She walked between the Major and Zachariah, and at once asked the Major how he "enjoyed the service." The phrase was very unpleasant to Zachariah, but he was silent.

"Well, ma'am," said the Major, "Mr. Bradshaw is a very remarkable man. It is a long time since any speaker stirred me as he did. He is a born orator, if ever there was one."

"I could have wished," said Zachariah, "as you are not often in chapel, that his sermon had been founded on some pa.s.sage in the New Testament which would have given him the opportunity of more simply expounding the gospel of Christ."

"He could not have been better, I should think. He went to my heart, though it is rather a difficult pa.s.sage in the case of a man about town like me; and I tell you what, Coleman, he made me determine I would read the Bible again. What a story that is!"

"Major, I thank G.o.d if you will read it; and not for the stories in it, save as all are part of one story--the story of G.o.d's redeeming mercy."

The Major made no reply, for the word was unwinged.

Mrs. Zachariah was silent, but when they came to their door both she and her husband pressed him to come in. He refused, however; he would stroll homeward, he said, and have a smoke as he went.

"He touched me, Coleman, he did. I thought, between you and me"--and he spoke softly--"I had not now got such a tender place; I thought it was all healed over long ago. I cannot come in. You'll excuse me.

Yes, I'll just wander back to Piccadilly. I could not talk."

They parted, and Zachariah and his wife went upstairs. Their supper was soon ready.

"Jane," he said slowly, "I did not receive much a.s.sistance from you in my endeavours to bring our friends to a knowledge of the truth. I thought that, as you desired the attempt, you would have helped me a little."

"There is a reason for everything; and, what is more, I do not consider it right to take upon myself what belongs to a minister. It may do more harm than good."

"Take upon yourself what belongs to a minister! My dear Jane, is n.o.body but a minister to bear witness for the Master?"

"Of course I did not mean to say that; you know I did not. Why do you catch at my words? Perhaps, if you had not been quite so forward, Mr. Caillaud and his daughter might have gone to chapel."

After supper, and when he was alone, Zachariah sat for some time without moving. He presently rose and opened the Bible again, which lay on the table--the Bible which belonged to his father--and turned to the fly-leaf on which was written the family history. There was the record of his father's marriage, dated on the day of the event.

There was the record of his own birth. There was the record of his mother's death, still in his father's writing, but in an altered hand, the letters not so distinct, and the strokes crooked and formed with difficulty. There was the record of Zachariah's own marriage.

A cloud of shapeless, inarticulate sentiment obscured the man's eyes and brain. He could not define what he felt, but he did feel. He could not bear it, and he shut the book, opening it again at the twenty-second Psalm--the one which the disciples of Jesus called to mind on the night of the crucifixion. It was one which Mr. Bradshaw often read, and Zachariah had noted in it a few corrections made in the translation:

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why hast Thou forsaken me? Our fathers trusted in Thee; they trusted, and Thou didst deliver them. . . . Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. . . . Be Thou not far from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste Thee to help me.

. . . Save me from the lion's mouth: and from the horns of the wild oxen Thou hast answered me."

"From the horns of the wild oxen"--that correction had often been precious to Zachariah. When at the point of being pinned to the ground--so he understood it--help had arisen; risen up from the earth, and might again arise. It was upon the first part of the text he dwelt now. It came upon him with fearful distinctness that he was alone--that he could never hope for sympathy from his wife as long as he lived. Mr. Bradshaw's words that evening recurred to him. G.o.d's purpose in choosing to smite Jephthah in that way was partly intelligible, and, after all, Jephthah was elected to redeem his country too. But what could be G.o.d's purpose in electing one of his servants to indifference and absence of affection where he had a right to expect it? Could anybody be better for not being loved?

Even Zachariah could not think it possible. But Mr. Bradshaw's words again recurred. Who was he that he should question G.o.d's designs?

It might be part of the Divine design that he, Zachariah Coleman, should not be made better by anything. It might be part of that design, part of a fulfilment of a plan devised by the Infinite One, that he should be broken, nay, perhaps not saved. Mr. Bradshaw's doctrine that night was nothing new. Zachariah had believed from his childhood, or had thought he believed, that the potter had power over the clay--of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour and another unto dishonour; and that the thing formed unto dishonour could not reply and say to him that formed it: 'Why hast thou made me thus?'

Nevertheless, to believe it generally was one thing; to believe it as a truth for him was another. Darkness, the darkness as of the crucifixion night, seemed over and around him. Poor wretch! he thought he was struggling with his weakness; but he was in reality struggling against his own strength. WHY had G.o.d so decreed? Do what he could, that fatal WHY, the protest of his reason, a.s.serted itself; and yet he cursed himself for permitting it, believing it to be a sin. He walked about his room for some relief. He looked out of the window. It was getting late; the sky was clearing, as it does in London at that hour, and he saw the stars. There was nothing to help him there. They mocked him rather with their imperturbable, obstinate stillness. At last he turned round, fell upon his knees, and poured out himself before his Maker, entreating Him for light.

He rose from the ground, looked again out of the window, and the first flush of the morning was just visible. Light was coming to the world in obedience to the Divine command, but not to him. He was exhausted, and crept into his bedroom, undressing without candle, and without a sound. For a few minutes he thought he should never sleep again, save in his grave; but an unseen Hand presently touched him, and he knew nothing till he was awakened by the broad day streaming over him.

CHAPTER VIII--UNCONVENTIONAL JUSTICE

In December, 1814, a steamboat was set in motion on the Limehouse Ca.n.a.l, the Lord Mayor and other distinguished persons being on board.

In the same month Joanna Southcott died. She had announced that on the 19th October she was to be delivered of the Prince of Peace, although she was then sixty years old. Thousands of persons believed her, and a cradle was made. The Prince of Peace did not arrive, and in a little more than two months poor Joanna had departed, the cause of her departure having being certified as dropsy. Death did not diminish the number of her disciples, for they took refuge in the hope of her resurrection. "The arm of the Lord is not shortened,"

they truly affirmed; and even to this day there are people who are waiting for the fulfilment of Joanna's prophecies and the appearance of the "second Shiloh." Zachariah had been frequently twitted in joke by his profane companions in the printing-office upon his supposed belief in the delusion. It was their delight to a.s.sume that all the "pious ones," as they called them, were alike; and on the morning of the 30th of December, the day after Joanna expired, they were more than usually tormenting. Zachariah did not remonstrate.

In his conscientious eagerness to bear witness for his Master, he had often tried his hand upon his mates; but he had never had the smallest success, and had now desisted. Moreover, his thoughts were that morning with his comrades, the Friends of the People. He hummed to himself the lines from Lara:

"Within that land was many a malcontent, Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent; That soil full many a wringing despot saw, Who worked his wantonness in form of law: Long war without and frequent broil within Had made a path for blood and giant sin."

The last meeting had been unusually exciting. Differences of opinion had arisen as to future procedure, many of the members, the Secretary included, advocating action; but what they understood by it is very difficult to say. A special call had been made for that night, and Zachariah was in a difficulty. His native sternness and detestation of kings and their ministers would have led him almost to any length; but he had a sober head on his shoulders. So had the Major, and so had Caillaud. Consequently they held back, and insisted, before stirring a step towards actual revolution, that there should be some fair chance of support and success. The Major in particular warned them of the necessity of drill; and plainly told them also that, not only were the middle cla.s.ses all against them, but their own cla.s.s was hostile. This was perfectly true, although it was a truth so unpleasant that he had to endure some very strong language, and even hints of treason. No wonder: for it is undoubtedly very bitter to be obliged to believe that the men whom we want to help do not themselves wish to be helped. To work hard for those who will thank us, to head a majority against oppressors, is a brave thing; but far more honour is due to the Maitlands, Caillauds, Colemans, and others of that stamp who strove for thirty years from the outbreak of the French revolution onwards, not merely to rend the chains of the prisoners, but had to achieve the more difficult task of convincing them that they would be happier if they were free. These heroes are forgotten, or nearly so. Who remembers the poor creatures who met in the early mornings on the Lancashire moors or were shot by the yeomanry? They sleep in graves over which stands no tombstone, or probably their bodies have been carted away to make room for a railway which has been driven through their resting-place. They saw the truth before those whom the world delights to honour as its political redeemers; but they have perished utterly from our recollection, and will never be mentioned in history. Will there ever be a great Day of a.s.size when a just judgment shall be p.r.o.nounced; when all the impostors who have been crowned for what they did not deserve will be stripped, and the Divine word will be heard calling upon the faithful to inherit the kingdom,--who, when "I was an hungered gave me meat, when I was thirsty gave me drink; when I was a stranger took me in; when I was naked visited me; when I was in prison came unto me?" Never! It was a dream of an enthusiastic Galilean youth, and let us not desire that it may ever come true.

Let us rather gladly consent to be crushed into indistinguishable dust, with no hope of record: rejoicing only if some infinitesimal portion of the good work may be achieved by our obliteration, and content to be remembered only in that anthem which in the future it will be ordained shall be sung in our religious services in honour of all holy apostles and martyrs who have left no name.

The night before the special meeting a gentleman in a blue cloak, and with a cigar in his mouth, sauntered past the entrance to Carter's Rents, where Mr. Secretary lived. It was getting late, but he was evidently not in a hurry, and seemed to enjoy the coolness of the air, for presently he turned and walked past the entrance again. He took out his watch--it was a quarter to eleven o'clock--and he cursed Mr. Secretary and the beer-shops which had probably detained him. A constable came by, but never showed himself in the least degree inquisitive; although it was odd that anybody should select Carter's Rents for a stroll. Presently Mr. Secretary came in sight, a trifle, but not much, the worse for liquor. It was odd, also, that he took no notice of the blue cloak and cigar, but went straight to his own lodging. The other, after a few moments followed; and it was a third time odd that he should find the door unbolted and go upstairs. All this, we say, would have been strange to a spectator, but it was not so to these three persons. Presently the one first named found himself in Mr. Secretary's somewhat squalid room. He then stood disclosed as the a.s.sistant whom the Secretary had first seen at Whitehall sitting in the Commissioner's Office. This was not the second nor third interview which had taken place since then.

"Well, Mr. Hardy, what do you want here to-night?"

"Well, my friend, you know, I suppose. How goes the game?"

"D---m me if I DO know. If you think I am going to split, you are very much mistaken."

"Split! Who wants you to split? Why, there's nothing to split about. I can tell you just as much as you can tell me."

"Why do you come here then?"

"For the pleasure of seeing you, and to--" Mr. Hardy put his hand carelessly in his pocket, a movement which was followed by a metallic jingle--"and just to--to--explain one or two little matters."

The Secretary observed that he was very tired.

"Are you? I believe I am tired too."

Mr. Hardy took out a little case-bottle with brandy in it, and the Secretary, without saying a word, produced two mugs and a jug of water. The brandy was mixed by Mr. Hardy; but his share of the spirit differed from that a.s.signed to his friend.

"Split!" he continued; "no, I should think not. But we want you to help us. The Major and one or two more had better be kept out of harm's way for a little while; and we propose not to hurt them, but to take care of them a bit, you understand? And if, the next time, he and the others will be there--we have been looking for the Major for three or four days, but he is not to be found in his old quarters--we will just give them a call. When will you have your next meeting? They will be all handy then."

"You can find that out without my help. It's to-morrow."