Chapter 22
William Dewsbury's countenance kindled with fresh life and vigour. 'Yea, my child,' he answered, 'light did indeed illuminate us on that same moonshine night of which thou speakest, when we went, my Ann and I, to Lieutenant Roper's house to hear the Stranger preach. All our lives we had both been seeking, but now by the Power of the Lord, the time was come for us to find. We went to hear a Stranger. But no stranger was George Fox. Rather did we recognise him, from the first moment of that meeting, as the own brother of our souls. Up and down the length and breadth of the land I had journeyed, seeking for deliverance and for truth. Now, in my own county of Yorkshire, my deliverer was found. It was not alone the words he spake, though they were forcible and convincing, much more it was the irresistible Power of the Lord breathing through him that brought us to our knees. All men could see as they looked upon his goodly form, not then marred by cruel imprisonments and sufferings, that he was a man among ten thousand. But to me he was also a chosen vessel of the Lord; for power spoke through him, yea, to my very heart. I have told thee, Mary, of my long searchings after truth, and of those of my dear wife. There was no need to mention one of them to George. With the first words he spake it was clear to me that he knew them all, he could read our necessities like an open book. Well hath it been said of him that "he was a man of God endued with a clear and wonderful depth; a discerner of other men's spirits, and very much a master of his own." Our hearts clave unto him at once. We could scarcely restrain ourselves until the meeting should be at an end, to disclose our inmost souls unto him. Then at last, when all the multitude had departed, we watched Friend George set out on his homeward way. We followed him in all haste, my Ann and I, until we came up with him in a lonely field. The moon shone full on his face and on our seeking faces, revealing us to each other. At first he gazed on us as if we were strangers. For all we had longed ardently to tell him, we found no words. Only a long time we stood together silently, we three, with the dumb kine slumbering around us in the dewy meadows; we three, revealed to one another in the full light. Then at last we confessed to the Truth before him, and from him we received Truth again. There is no Scripture to warrant the sprinkling of a few drops of water on the face of a child and calling that Baptism; but there is a Scripture for being baptized with the Holy Ghost and with fire. That true essential Baptism did our spirits receive in very deed that night from God's own minister of His Everlasting Gospel.
'Thus, then and there, were we three knit together in soul; and the Lord's Power was over all.'
The old man's voice died away into silence. His thoughts were far off in the past. The loneliness of the prison was forgotten, little Mary knew that her evening's task was done. Very gently she flitted from his side, arranged his bed for the night, and then slipped, noiselessly as a shadow, into her little inner cell, scarcely larger than a cupboard. Here she undressed in the darkness and laid herself down on her little straw pallet on the floor. But she had brought the precious windflowers with her. 'They are so white, they will be like company through the dark night hours,' she said to herself, placing the glass close to her bed. Presently, through a tiny slit of window high up in the prison wall, one sentinel star looked down into the narrow cell. It peeped in upon a small white figure straight and slim amid the surrounding blackness of the cell, with 'dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane'; but Mary's eyes were wide open, her ears were listening intently for her grandfather's softest call.
Gradually the ray of starlight crept up the prison wall and disappeared; soon other stars one by one looked in at the narrow window and passed upwards also on their high steep pathways; gradually the eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes lay upon the white cheeks. Drowsily little Mary thought to herself, 'I am glad my mother will soon be here, but it hath been a very happy evening. Truly I am glad I came to help dear grandfather, and to be his little prison maid.'
Only one starry white windflower, clasped tight in her fingers through the long night hours, gradually drooped and died.
XXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING
_'It was impossible to ignore the Quaker because he would not be ignored. If you close his meeting-house he holds it in the street; if you stone him out of the city in the evening, he is there in the morning with his bleeding wounds still upon him.... You may break the earthen vessel, but the spirit is invincible and that you cannot kill.'--JOHN WILHELM ROWNTREE._
_'Interior calmness means interior and exterior strength.'--J. RENDEL HARRIS._
_'Be nothing terrified at their threats of banishment, for they cannot banish you from the coasts and sanctuary of the Living God.'--MARGARET FOX._
_'Grant us grace to rest from all sinful deeds and thoughts, to surrender ourselves wholly unto Thee, to keep our souls still before Thee like a still lake; that so the beams of Thy love may be mirrored therein, and may kindle in our hearts the beams of faith, and love, and prayer. May we, through such stillness and hope, find strength and gladness in Thee O God, now, and for evermore.'--JOACHIM EMBDEN, 1595._
_'For the soul that is close to GOD_ _In the folded wings of prayer,_ _Passion no more can vex,_ _Infinite peace is there.'_ _EDWIN HATCH._
XXII. AN UNDISTURBED MEETING
Quiet and lonely now stands the small old farmhouse of Drawwell, on the sunny slope of a hill, under the shadow of the great fells. To this day the old draw-well behind the house, which gives its name to the homestead, continues to yield its refreshing draught of pure cold water. 'It is generally full, even in times of drought, and never overflows.'[32] To this day, also, the 'living water,' drawn in many a 'mighty Meeting' held around that well in the early years of Quakerism, continues to refresh thirsty souls.
* * * * *
It was to Drawwell Farm that George Fox came with his hosts Thomas and John Blaykling, on Whitsun Wednesday evening in June 1652, at the end of Sedbergh Fair. From Drawwell he accompanied them to Firbank Chapel, the following Sunday forenoon. There, high up on the opposite fell, he was moved, as he says in his Journal, to 'sit down upon the rock on the mountain' and 'discourse to over a thousand people, amongst whom I declared God's everlasting Truth and word of life freely and largely, for about the space of three hours, whereby many were convinced.'
More than once in after days, George Fox returned again thankfully to Drawwell, seeking and finding rest and refreshment for soul and body under its hospitable, low, stone roof, as he went up and down on those endless journeys of his, throughout the length and breadth of England, whereby he 'kept himself in a perpetual motion, begetting souls unto God.'
Many hallowed memories cling about Drawwell Farm,--as closely as the silvery mist clings to every nook and cranny of its walls in damp weather,--but none more vivid than that of the Undisturbed Meeting of 1665.
George Fox was not present that day. His open-air wanderings, and his visits to the home under the great fells were alike at an end for a time, while in the narrow prison cells of Lancaster and Scarborough he was bearing witness, after a different fashion, to the freedom of the Spirit of the Lord. George Fox was not among the guests at Drawwell. No 'mighty Meeting,' as often at other times, was gathered there that day. There was only a company of humble men and women seated on forms and chairs under the black oak rafters of the big barn that adjoins the house, since the living-room was not spacious enough to hold them all with ease, although their numbers were not much above a score.
The Master and Mistress of Drawwell were present of course. Good Farmer Blaykling, with his ever ready courtesy and kindness, looked older now than on the day, thirteen years before, when he and his father had brought the young preacher back with them from the Fair. He himself had known latterly what it was to suffer 'for Truth's sake,' as some extra furrows on his brow had testified plainly since the day when 'Priest John Burton of Sedbergh beat John Blaykling and pulled him by the hair off his seat in his high place.' Happily that outbreak had passed over, and all seemed quiet this Sunday morning, as he took his place in the big barn. His wife sat by his side; around them were their children (none of them young), the farm lads and lasses, and several families of neighbouring Friends. But it chanced that the youngest person present, one of the farm lasses, was well into her teens.
'Surely it was the loving-kindness of the Lord' (motherly Mistress Blaykling was wont to testify in after years) 'that brought the ordeal only upon us, grown men and women, and not upon any tender babes.' The Meeting began, much like any other Meeting in that peaceful country, where Friends ever loved to gather under the shadow of the hills and the yet mightier overshadowing of the Spirit of God. The Dove of Peace brooded over the company. Even as the unseen water bubbled in the dark depths of the old draw-well close by, so, in the deep stillness, already some hearts were becoming conscious of--
'The bubbling of the hidden springs, That feed the world.'
Soon, out of the living Silence would have been born the fresh gift of living speech....
When suddenly, into all this peace, there came the clattering of horses' hoofs along the stony road that leads to the farm, followed by loud voices and a pistol shot, as a body of troopers trotted right up to the homestead. Finding that deserted and receiving no answers to their shouts, they proceeded to the barn itself in search of the assembled Friends. The officer in charge was a young Ensign, Lawrence Hodgson, a very gay gentleman indeed, a gentleman of the Restoration, when not only courtiers but soldiers too, knew well what it was to be courtly.
He came from Dent, 'with other officers of the militia and soldiers.' Now Dent was a place of importance, in those days, and looked down on even Sedbergh as a mere village. Wherefore to be sent off to a small farm in the outskirts of Sedbergh in search of a nest of Quakers was a paltry job at best for these fine gentlemen from Dent. Naturally, they set about it, cursing and swearing with a will, to shew what brave fellows they were. For here were all these Quakers whom they had been sent to harry, brazening out their crime in the full light of day. By Act of Parliament it had been declared, not so long ago either, that any Quakers who 'assembled to the number of five or more persons at any one time, and in any one place, under pretence of joining in a religious worship not authorised by law, were, on conviction, to suffer merely fines or imprisonment for their first and second offences, but for the third, they were to be liable to be transported to any of His Majesty's plantations beyond seas.' A serious penalty this, in those days second only to death itself, and a terror to the most hardened of the soldiery; but here was a handful of humble farmfolk, deliberately daring such a punishment unafraid.
'Stiff-necked Quakers--you shall answer for this,' shouted Ensign Hodgson as he entered 'cursing and swearing' (so says the old account) 'and threatening that if Friends would not depart and disperse he would kill them and slay and what not.' 'You look like hardened offenders, all of you, and I doubt this is not a first offence.' So saying, the Ensign set spurs to his horse and rode up and down the barn, overturning forms and chairs, slashing at the women Friends with the flat of his sword, while some of the roughest of his followers poked the sharp points of their blades through the coats of the men, 'just to remind you, Quaker dogs, of what we could do, an' we chose.'
Amid all this noise and hurly-burly, the men and women Friends sat on in stillness as long as possible. Only when their seats were actually overturned, they rose to their feet and stood upright in their places. They were ready to be beaten or trampled upon, if necessary; but they would not, of their own will, quit their ground. Strangely enough, the wives did not rush to their husbands or cling to them; the men did not seek to protect the women-folk. They all remained, even the lads and lasses, self-poised as it were, one company still; resting, as long as they could, quietly, in the inward citadel of peace. In spite of all the hubbub, the true spirit of worship was not disturbed.
At last the soldiers, determined not to be baffled, came to yet closer quarters and drove their unresisting victims, willy nilly, before them from under the sheltering rafters of the barn. The Friends were roughly hustled down the steep hillside and driven hither and thither, but still the meeting was not interrupted, for their hearts could not be driven out from the overshadowing presence of God.
So the great fells looked down upon a strange scene a few minutes later,--a strange scene, yet one all too common in those days. A cavalcade of glittering horsemen with their flowing perukes, ruffles, gay coats, plumed hats, and all the extravagances of the costume of even the fighting man of 'good King Charles's golden days.' In the centre of this gay throng, a little company of Friends in their plain garments of homespun and duffel, moving along, with sober faces and downcast eyes, speaking never a word as their captors prepared to force them to their destination--the Justice's house at Ingmire Hall near Sedbergh.
Now from Drawwell Farm to Ingmire is some little distance. The way is hilly, and the roads are narrow and rough. Bad going it is on those roads even to-day, and far worse in the times of which I write. Therefore the troopers quickly grew weary of their task, weary of trying to rein in their mettlesome horses to keep pace with the slow steps of their prisoners, weary, too, of even the sport of pricking at these last with their swords, to try to make them go faster.
They had barely reached the bottom of the slope when Ensign Hodgson, ever a restless youth, lost patience. As soon as he found his horse on a bit of level road, he called to his men, 'Halloo! here's our chance for a canter!--We'll leave the Lambs to follow us to the slaughter-house at their own sweet will.' Then, seeing mingled relief and consternation on the men's faces, he slapped his thighs with a loud laugh and said: 'Ye silly fellows, have no fear! No Quaker ever yet tried to escape from gaol, nor ever will. We can trust them to follow us in our absence as well as if we were here to drive them. Quakers haven't the wit to seek after their own safety.'
The audacity of the plan tickled the troopers. Following Hodgson's example, they, one and all, raised their plumed hats and, rising high in their stirrups, bowed with mock courtesy, as they took leave of their prisoners.
'Farewell, sweet Lambkins,' called out the Ensign, 'hasten your Quaker pace and meet us at the slaughter-house at Ingmire Hall as fast as you can, OR' ... he cocked his pistol at them, and then, dashing it up, fired a shot into the air. With wild shouting and laughter the whole troop disappeared round a turn of the road. 'To Sedbergh,' they cried, 'to Sedbergh first! Plenty of time for a carouse, and yet to arrive at Ingmire Hall as soon as the Lambs!'
Arriving in Sedbergh at a canter they slackened rein at a tavern and refreshed themselves with a draught of ale and an hour's carouse, before setting off to meet their prisoners at the Justice's house.
When they arrived at Ingmire Hall, to their dismay, not a Quaker was in sight. Sending his men off to scour the roads, Ensign Hodgson himself dismounted with an oath on Justice Otway's doorstep, and went within to inquire if the Quakers from Drawwell had yet arrived.
'The Quakers, WHOM YOU WERE SENT TO FETCH from Drawwell and for whose non-appearance you are yourself wholly responsible, HAVE NOT ARRIVED,' answered the Justice tartly, raising his eyebrows as if to emphasise his words. All men knew that good Sir John Otway was no friend to persecution; and gay Lawrence Hodgson was no favourite of his.
With a louder oath than that with which he had entered the house, the Ensign flung out of it again, and rode off at the head of his men--all of them discomfited by their vain search, for not a Quaker was to be seen in the neighbourhood. The 'Lambs' were less docile than had been supposed. After all, they had successfully managed to avoid the 'slaughter-house'; they must have retreated to Drawwell, if they had not even seized the opportunity to escape.
Back again along the road to Drawwell, therefore, the whole sulky company of horsemen were obliged to return, much out of humour. Cursing their leader's carelessness, as he doubtless cursed his own folly, they trotted along, gloomily enough, till they came to the bend of the road where the homestead comes in sight, and where they had taken leave of their prisoners. There, as they turned the corner, suddenly they all stopped, thunderstruck, pulling their horses back on to their haunches in their amazement.
The Lambs had not escaped! Though they had not followed meekly to the slaughter-house, at least they had made no endeavours to flee, or even to return to the sheepfold on the hillside above them. All the time that the soldiers had been carousing in the alehouse, or searching the lanes, the little company of Friends had remained in the very same spot where the soldiers had left them nearly two hours before.
And there they were still, every one of them;--sitting on the green, grassy bank by the wayside. There they were, quietly going on with their uninterrupted worship. Yes; out there, under the shadow of the everlasting hills, untroubled by the shadow of even a passing cloud of fear, the Friends calmly continued to wait upon God.
FOOTNOTES:
[32] This paragraph is taken from E.E. Taylor's description of Drawwell.
XXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS
_'My concern for God and His holy, eternal truth was then in the North, where God had placed and set me.'--MARGARET FOX._
_'I should be glad if thou would incline to come home, that thou might get a little Rest, methinks its the most comfortable when one has a home to be there, but the Lord give us patience to bear all things'--M. FOX to G. Fox, 1681._
_'I did not stir much abroad during the time I now stayed in the North; but when Friends were not with me spent pretty much time in writing books and papers for Truth's service.'--G. FOX._
_'All dear Friends press forward in the straight way.'--JOHN AUDLAND._
_'Is not liberty of conscience in religion a fundamental?... Liberty of conscience is a natural right, and he that would have it, ought to give it, having liberty to settle what he likes for the public.... This I say is fundamental: it ought to be so. It is for us and the generations to come.'--OLIVER CROMWELL._
XXIII. BUTTERFLIES IN THE FELLS
Above all other Saints in the Calendar, the good people of Newcastle-upon-Tyne do hold in highest honour Saint Nicholas, since to him is dedicated the stately Church that is the pride and glory of their town. Everyone who dwells in the bonnie North Countrie knows well that shrine of Saint Nicholas, set on high on the steep northern bank of the River Tyne. Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole North, is St. Nicholas. Therefore, in olden times, one Roger Thornton, a wealthy merchant of the town, saw fit to embellish it yet further with a window at the Eastern end, of glass stained with colours marvellous to behold. Men said indeed that Merchant Roger clearly owed that window to the Saint, seeing that when he first entered the town scarce a dozen years before, he came but as a poor pedlar, possessed of naught but 'a hap, a halfpenny, and a lambskin,' whereas these few years spent under the shadow of the Saint's protection had made him already a man of great estate.
Roger Thornton it was who gave the Eastern window to the Church, but none know now, for certain, who first embellished the shrine with its crowning gift, the tall steeple that gathers to itself not only the affection of all those who dwell beneath its shadow, but also their glory and their pride. Some believe it was built by King David of Scotland: others by one Robert de Rede, since his name may still be seen carven upon the stone by him who has skill to look. But in truth the architect hath carried both his name and his secret with him, and the craftsmen of many another larger and more famous city have sought in vain to build such another tower. By London Bridge and again at Edinburgh, in the capitals of two fair kingdoms, may indeed be seen a steeple built in like fashion, but far less fair. One man alone, he whose very name hath been forgotten, hath known how to swing with perfect grace a pinnacled Crown, formed of stone yet delicate as lacework, aloft in highest air. Therefore to this day doth the Lantern Tower of St. Nicholas remain without a peer.
A Lantern Tower the learned call it, and indeed the semblance of an open lantern doth rise, supported by pinnacles, in the centre of the Tower; but to most men it resembles less a lantern than an Imperial crown swung high in air, under a canopy of dazzling blue. It is a golden crown in the daytime, as it shines on high above the hum of the city streets in the clear mid-day light. It becomes a fiery crown when the sun sets, for then the golden fleurs-de-lys on each of the eight golden vanes atop of the pinnacles gleam and glow like sparks of flame, climbing higher and ever higher into the steep and burnished air. But it is a jewelled crown that shines by night over the slumbering town beneath; for then the turrets and pinnacles are gemmed with glittering stars.
That Tower, to those who have been born under it, is one of the dearest things upon this earth. Judge then of the dismay that was caused to every man, woman, and child, when Newcastle was being besieged by the Scottish army during the Civil Wars, at the message that came from the general of the beleaguering army, that were the town not surrendered to him without delay, he would train his guns on the Tower of St. Nicholas itself, and lay that first in ruins. Happily Sir John Marley, the English Commander, who was likewise Mayor of the Town, was more than a match for the canny Scot. And this was the answer that the gallant Sir John sent back from the beleaguered town: that General Leslie might train his guns on the Tower and welcome, if such were his pleasure, but if he did so, before he brought down one single stone of it, he would be obliged to take the lives of his own Scottish prisoners, whom the guns would find as their first target there.