This Huntingdonshire gentleman knew that the devil was in these things, that God was surely with the oppressed, with those who sought and found a purer worship, with those, daily increasing, who accepted that teaching of John Calvin which had inspired the Hollanders to throw off the bloody yoke of Alva and the Inquisition, with those who had ventured to plead humbly for liberty of conscience at the conference of Hampton and had been denied by King and bishops with threats and scorn, and had gone about since, ridiculed and persecuted, nicknamed "Puritans."
This man knew this as he knew the King and the bishops, the ministers, and the followers of these, were dealing with things idolatrous and horrible, stepping into the fore-courts of hell.
Ay, and taking the nation with them. How was that to be prevented—which way did God appoint?
That was the question which troubled the personal melancholy of the man in whose heart it flashed—for the King was King by Divine appointment, and if he had lent his weight and authority to these ways of misrule and oppression, idolatry and Papistry, who was to argue with him or withstand him?
Who was to appeal from the King to God?
The man in the frieze habit was conscious of a burning flame or light in himself which urged him to step forward for this distracted England's succour. But he received no summons. The face of the Lord was veiled and he was but a poor soul, possibly damned, with no knowledge of what destiny the Highest had prepared for him. He felt himself in blackest chaos; his soul, which had ever striven to obtain God's grace, now seemed tossed far from mercy on the black waters of despair.
To him, and especially in this mood, the present world was nothing; he was not given to metaphor, but in his thoughts he compared the world to a little plank he had once seen stretched across a deep and angry stream, and arched above with fairest blossoming trees. The plank in itself was insignificant, and useful only to support those who might for a moment stand thereon—the important thing was to save oneself from the black, dangerous abysses beneath, and gain, somehow, the flower-crowned heights that the trees veiled and decked.
Whether the plank be rough or smooth, narrow or wide, mattered not at all, if only one were enabled to tread thereon straightly. So it mattered not a jot to this gentleman what his station, chances, or fortunes might be in this world. Am I damned or saved? was the question that held the heart of his torment and mingled with it was another: Is there not that in me, unworthy as I am, which God might make use of to save these poor people in poor England now? Yea, though I am not bred to be a lawyer or a soldier, am I not conscious of something within me which might fit me for this work if God should call me to it?
But the heavens were black and mute to his intense prayers and his humble endeavours to commune with God, and he went his obscure way in wretchedness of heart, never faltering from the stern composure of his belief that the Lord had preordained all things, and that no act of any man's could alter a jot what was to befall.
The King and the bishops, poor puppets, believed in Freewill and such heresies of Arminianism and Popery, but this Calvinist, standing in the November vapour, knew that he was but a helpless weapon to be used as God might direct; knew he was saved or damned before his birth, and that no deed of his could alter the Divine fiat; knew he was but a machine into which the Holy Spirit might blow some sparks, but which at present was cold and empty.