THE FIELD-PREACHING
MAY 25th, 1565. The day of the first field-preaching I was allowed to attend is one I am not likely to forget, but perhaps I had better write down a few of the things that impressed me most while they are fresh in my memory.
After father, who was riding a little in advance of our party talking in low, earnest tones to our burgomaster, Von der Werf, who is, like himself, a cloth merchant of Leyden, had told me of King Philip's orders that all his subjects should attend mass, I seemed to understand what the danger Truyken had feared for us was in a way I had not done before. I felt as if I had suddenly come to a place where some great battle was being fought.
It is a real battle, too, between the law of the king and the will of God. I am sure it cannot be right to pray to pictures and images, and I remember now, that although Truyken is allowed to have her own way in most things in our household (more of it, Aunt Christiana says, than is good for her), there was just one thing in which both my parents stood firmly; and much as Truyken wished it, she was not allowed to teach me a single Latin "Paternoster," or "we Maria," so the first words of prayer I ever lisped were learned from the lips of my own dear mother.
God, who is just as great as He is good, will, I feel sure, take care of those who really wish to please and obey Him. But perhaps He will not do it just in the way we should expect, or think best. He did not send His angels to take San Roman out of the hands of those who were leading him to a martyr's death, and yet I know He could have done so if He had pleased.
But then, as father said the other day, when he and mother were reading a letter telling them of fresh sufferings inflicted upon their brethren and sisters in the faith in Spain and France, it was because the Lord had far better things in store for them than liberty, or even life upon a sin-stained earth could have been, that they were allowed to suffer and even to die for the Lord they loved. So "I will trust, and not be afraid.”
We were quite early at the place where the preaching was to be held, so that I had time to look round before the service began, and I hardly know whether I was most surprised or delighted to see my old friend and playfellow, Paul Brock, lying upon his little bed, which had been carefully lifted into his father's cart; and though the long ride must have made the lame boy very tired, there was a flush of pleasure upon his pale face.
He greeted me warmly, saying, “Oh! Mayken, this is lovely. I was wondering if heaven itself could be much more beautiful.
It seems like being in another world, just to hear the wild birds singing, and to see the flowers growing, making the grass look like a beautiful carpet; but the best of all will be that we are to hear in our own tongue the word of God read and explained.
“I begged very hard before father would consent to bring me; he said that as these field-preachings are forbidden by the king, and those who are found attending them run the risk of fines and imprisonment, he did not care to expose his cripple boy to danger. But I pleaded that being a cripple did not shut me out from being one of Christ's soldiers, and all real soldiers expect to go to war; that even if to-day our company should be routed by the Pope's soldiers, it would only be a common danger, and I should share it with those I loved best on earth.”
I hardly knew how to reply to my little friend; but as I saw his eyes rested with a gaze of wistful longing on some large white daisies growing near the hedge; I ran and gathered them for him. Soon after mother called me, and bade me sit beside her, so I did not get another opportunity to speak to Paul that day.
The people now began to arrive in great numbers. Everyone looked grave, and took their places in silence, while an outer circle of men, many of whom wore swords, and among whom was my father, burgomaster Herr Von der Werf, and several of our neighbors, seemed to be keeping a kind of guard over the whole party. Armed men stood like sentinels at the end of every woodland path leading to the open space where the company, which now numbered several thousands, had assembled. I noticed, too, that the horses and mules were not turned loose to graze as is usual when we go into the country, but fastened in such a way that at a moment's notice their riders could be in the saddle. The women and children were for safety seated in the middle, near the preacher, the men stood or sat in groups beyond, or took turns in relieving those who formed the outer circle.
Sellers of portions of scripture, hymnbooks, and some of Martin Luther's writings translated into Dutch, moved silently about offering their books for sale. They had no need to press for customers, for everyone seemed eager to buy, and yet all these books are forbidden by the Pope. To possess even one was in the eyes of the Inquisition a crime worthy of death.
The preachers for the day were Francis Junnis and Peregrune de la Grange. Both belonged to noble French families, and had already suffered much for their attachment to the reformed faith. A great silence fell upon that vast congregation as Pastor Junnis mounted a wooden stand or reading desk that had been prepared in order that he might be better seen and heard by the people, and began to read in a clear, distinct voice one of the psalms.
He had not read more than two or three verses, when the cry, "The soldiers are upon us," was raised. The women drew closer together, but did not speak or scream, while the men mounted their horses and grasped their arms. But the alarm was a false one, and in a few minutes all was quiet again, and the preacher went on as calmly as if nothing had happened.
The singing made me feel as if I must cry. It was so solemn, and yet so beautiful. It seemed as if one heart and one voice was telling out a great need, and asking a great help from God.
The last note of the hymn died away, and for a moment the only sounds heard were the murmur of the brook, or the restless pawing of some horse; then one voice was speaking, and though at first its tones were low, it grew louder as the speaker prayed not only for the great company before him, but for brethren and sisters in the faith who, he knew only too well, were even on that bright spring day pining their lives away in dark, gloomy prisons; some might, perhaps at that very moment, be undergoing the torture of the rack, or even being led to the stake.
A portion of scripture read by another pastor followed the prayer, and then the sermon began. The preacher did not try to hide the danger we all stood in. He even said that some who heard his voice might be called upon to lay down their lives for Christ's sake. But it was, he also said, far better to suffer for their Lord than to deny Him, and he told us of four martyrs who only a week before had been burnt at Lisle, by order of the Inquisition.
One, who was only a youth, had to suffer what must have been a sharper trial even than flames. As he and his three companions were being led to the stake, his aged father pressed through the crowd, and falling upon his son's neck, sobbed out: "My dear child, are you going to die thus?" The young man answered in a calm and cheerful voice, "It is a small matter, my father, for now I am hasting to live forever." But as the poor old man still wept, and clung to his son, the youth's firmness gave way, and he wept too; then turning to the priests who were urging him to recant, he said, "Oh! ye priests and friars, if we could have been prevailed upon to go to your mass, we had not been here now. But Christ Jesus has not instituted any such sacrifice." The soldiers forced the father away, and the four martyrs were led to the place of burning. As the fire was lighted, they sang with one voice, "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" and again, "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." And then-absent from the body, they were present with the Lord.
The preacher went on to tell us how God does not promise to keep His children from trouble, but to give them strength according to their day. His word does not say, "You shall not go to prison," but "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." He may allow some to die as martyrs, but His word is, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
But the preacher's voice rose as he went on, and his faithful words of warning were followed by what seemed almost like a ringing trumpet call, He urged his listeners to prize their Bibles as their greatest treasure, and bade them be willing, if needs be, to suffer the loss of all things rather than give them up. He said too, that he believed that as surely as God raised up Moses to deliver His people Israel from the bondage and brick-kilns of Egypt, so surely would He in His own time and way raise up one who would deliver poor, down-trodden Holland from the yoke of Spain.
As we rode homewards after the preaching, my father and Herr Von der Werf were talking very earnestly together, and though I could not understand all they said, I made out enough to be sure that they and many others are thinking of the Prince of Orange as the one by whom God will yet save our country. They say he is a good man, and strongly attached to the reformed faith. His soldiers love and trust him greatly, though he is a man of so few words that he is known through the ranks as "William the Silent.”