University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

If Mr. Pynchon really supposed that time and a more
extended examination of his book would palliate the harsh
judgments that had been rendered upon it by the leading
men of the Bay, he was doomed to a grievous disappointment:
for the winter, spring, and summer passed by, and
the clamor concerning it only subsided to give place to a
settled determination that the book should be condemned
by the highest tribunal in the colony, and the author disgraced
in every practicable manner.

This was not unanticipated by the people of the settlement,
who, in order to give him such aid as he might desire
in the General Court, consulted him in regard to their selection
of a deputy to attend that body. He frankly indicated
his preference for Mr. Holyoke of Lynn, the father of
his son-in-law, and that gentleman was returned by the
unanimous votes of the freemen.

When Mr. Pynchon set out for the Bay, he was accompanied
by his son John, and by several of the leading men
of the town, who went down to make interest for one who
was bound to them by so many relations and associations,
but all departed with sad forebodings. The trees that hung
over the Bay Path, blushing with the surprises of the first
frost, never canopied a more silent company of travellers.
Here and there, some shrub or vine had shed down its
shower of foliage in radiant flakes, until it lay fetlock deep
upon the ground; but the hoofs of the horses, brushing it
and crushing it, scarcely broke the thread of league-long
reveries. The squirrel chattered upon the bough; the blue

jay chided the dull-eared silence that lay dreaming among
crickets, under the forest arches; coveys of partridges, like
well delivered files of musketry, discharged by single birds
their platoons of sound, and rolled off among the trees;
the startled deer leaped from his roadside cover, with tangling
vines upon his antlers, and with them wildly streaming
over his back bounded away as if he were a pet tricked
out for a holiday; and the wild turkey called to his mates,
or some answering stranger, far out among the hills. But
all these sights and sounds were unheeded by the men who
felt the importance of the stake involved in the events that
awaited them at the termination of their journey.

On the arrival of Mr. Pynchon and his friends at Boston,
they became immediately aware that their worst fears were
about to be realized. The magistrate was treated wherever
he appeared with entire neglect, and not unfrequently
with marked discourtesy. Everybody seemed to regard
him as one whose fate was sealed, and as one with whose
fortunes no one could be identified without detriment of
personal character and business or political prospects.

He entered the chamber occupied by the magistrates,
and took his seat, only to hear an order, just sent up from
the deputies, read and passed, that a protest against the
doctrines of his book should be drawn up to satisfy all men
that the Court not only did not approve them, but that it
disliked and detested them; that one of the ministers of
the colony should be appointed to refute the errors of the
book; that the author should be summoned before the next
General Court to answer for the promulgation of his heresies;
and that the book itself should be burned by the executioner
in the market-place at Boston, on the following
day, at the conclusion of the lecture.

This order was the consummation of his worst fears, and
deeply offended, and still more deeply wounded at heart,
he rose in his place, and exclaimed: “May God forgive the

malice of the author of this order, and the cruel blindness
of those who have passed it! I pronounce it an outrage
upon the rights of human reason, a denial of the liberty
wherewith Christ maketh his disciples free, an offence against
conscience, and a sin against God.”

As Mr. Pynchon slowly measured his language, quick,
angry glances crossed the room, among his associates, and,
save for the assumption of the floor by a cool and imperturbable
member, he would have been assailed by harsh and
bitter language: but the speaker who rose in response
begged the magistrates to make all due allowance to one
who had momentarily given way to a very natural excitement,
and then suggested to Mr. Pynchon the propriety of
his withdrawal from the room, as further action upon his
case would doubtless follow, and he might possibly be led
into imprudences that he would regret.

Mr. Pynchon proudly looked the man in the face until
he sat down, and then calmly surveying the room, said,—“I
have been an adviser in this body since the establishment
of the colony, touching the affairs of the colony and the
administration of justice, but neither this body, nor any one
of its members, has been constituted my adviser. Under
God, I am my own keeper, and though this Court may
deal grievously with me in my person, station, and estate, I
have the privilege, as I shall take the liberty, of watching
the sword that is thrust at me, both in this and the second
house, that no unfair advantage be taken of my unwariness.
Save the Governor and his honorable deputy, I am to-day
the peer of any man in this chamber, and I challenge the
respect due in everything to myself as an honorable gentleman,
and an assistant in the government of this colony. I
have neither been displaced nor disgraced. Neither impeachment
nor proscription has been visited upon me.
Happily, injustice is not dishonor; and truth—blessed be
God!—does not depend for its authenticity, vitality, and

power, on the breath of the General Court of the Massachusetts!”

Thus outspoke the man at last. The book which he had
written committed him before the world to his own opinions,
and when he felt the consequences of the clash with the
straitened creed that cramped the minds around him, the
chains that had been upon him for long years fell off, and
he stood in his own Christian manhood, and felt himself to
be stronger than ever in his life before. The fear of man
had passed away. The fear for the interest of truth had vanished
before the conviction that truth was able to stand of
itself. He stood upon a height from which the bigotry
around him seemed so contemptible that, while he proudly
claimed the honors due to his position, he regarded with
pity those who associated with him. He felt that, in however
false a position he might be placed before the Christians
of the Englands, Old and New, he was a freer man, a
larger Christian, and a better magistrate, for having given
a thorough expression of himself—for asserting his own
reason—for vindicating his own independence.

Previous to the scene which has been thus briefly described,
quite as exciting and interesting a one had transpired
in the House of Deputies. The order which had been
sent up for the concurrence of the magistrates covered
really the whole ground of proceedings which it was proposed
to institute against the heretical bookmaker; and it
was upon this order that a struggle most unusual was made.

The general knowledge that the case would come on
filled the hall with spectators, among whom were many of
the reverend elders of the colony, who came in to watch
the operations of the deputies—partly from curiosity, partly
from a wish to encourage the timid to stand boldy by their
duty, and partly, doubtless, to impress them with a due
sense of the importance of a faithful performance of the same.

Among them, conspicuously, were Mr. John Cotton of

Boston, and Mr. John Norton of Ipswich, the latter one
of the most learned men and able controvertists in the
colony. All of them had a scent for heresy so subtle and
acute that they could discover it lying perdu beneath a
word, or smell it in a puff of air awakened by a flourishing
figure of speech. They were great, gaunt, keen-eyed,
learned, self-devoted, powerful men of God, with more
religion of intellect than thorough spirituality, and more
zeal for doctrine than care for the nourishment of the
Christian affections. This occasion was one which called
them out from their studies, and gave them exciting food
for thought and discussion; and if their care for the interests
of orthodoxy was sometimes merged in the seductive
delights of controversy, it would prove only that nature
and grace made men and Christians then as they very frequently
do at the present day.

The deputy who offered the order, made a speech containing
no small amount of personal abuse. He felt that he
could do this with perfect safety, as he knew that the sympathy
of four-fifths of the members was with him, and that
of the whole of the audience. He spoke of the impudence
of a man like Mr. Pynchon—a learned fur-dealer, as he
was pleased to call him—in assuming to interpret the oracles
of God, and especially in controverting the doctrines
held by the New England churches, and expounded by
such learned and orthodox divines as he had the pleasure
of seeing in the house on that occasion. He spoke of the
damage that must inevitably result to the cause of true
religion, from the attack upon it of one who had been mistakenly
honored by a seat among the magistrates. He
challenged the friends of Mr. Pynchon, if any such there
might be among the deputies, to undertake his defence—to
have the hardihood to do it—to place themselves on record
as having done it—to disgrace themselves before the Christian
world by doing it.

All this was said, and much more of the same import,
with very slight allusions to the real merits of the book
which the order, in effect, condemned. The heretical character
of the book seemed to be taken for granted. The
ministers had preached upon it, and condemned it from
their pulpits. It had been discussed in private circles, and
condemned there. There was no voice raised in its behalf.
When the member took his seat, he looked around with a
triumphant air, as if he supposed no one would answer him;
but he was disappointed, in a manner which showed that
Mr. Pynchon was not mistaken in his estimate of the man
he had selected to guard his interests and character in that
house.

Mr. Holyoke rose amid whispers, and sneers, and poorly
disguised laughter, to reply, and, addressing the speaker,
said: “About twenty years ago, a worthy gentleman of
education, living comparatively at his ease in England,
became one of the patentees of the colony of Massachusetts
Bay; and in England, and New England, has been a magistrate,
and assistant in the government of the colony ever
since. He has been connected with all its affairs, has had,
at times, the charge of its treasury, and has labored amid
great discouragements and discomforts for its welfare. On
arriving in this country, he founded a settlement of importance,
which to-day has its representative in this house; and
when that settlement had passed through the dangerous
period of its infancy, he took with him a chosen band of
companions, and sought a new home in the wilderness.
The fields that he planted lie along the banks of the Connecticut,
and there are the houses which he builded. He
has been there these many years—the leader, father, magistrate
of his people—loyal to this jurisdiction, though almost
joined to the people of the South; and between his duties
there and at the Bay, has spent his time and strength among
the fatigues and dangers of long passages through the

forest. In every relation which this man has sustained—
public and private, legislative and judicial—he has done
honor to himself and the colony. As a member of the
church of Christ, his life has been blameless. As a man
bearing heavy responsibilities, he has never failed in his
duty. He has never abused a public or private trust. A
wise legislator, a just judge, a consistent Christian, a ready
counsellor, a true friend, a lover and supporter of order, and
an honest, noble man, he has lived without suspicion or reproach.
And this is the man—good, noble, venerable as he
is—the abuse of whom has been so grossly indulged in, and
so heartily enjoyed in this house to-day! I envy not the
hand that dispenses, nor the maw that accepts, such miserable
slanders and such unchristian calumnies as human
food.”

The concluding words were uttered in a tone of contemptuous
indignation, and produced a most decided sensation
among spectators as well as members. The speaker
paused for a minute, amid profound silence, and then continued:

“What is it proposed to do with this man? It is proposed
to disgrace him—to ruin him, for what is, at worst
and most, an error of judgment. To his thorough Christian
disposition, his life testifies; and this life of his, so pure, and
devoted, and noble, has confirmed to him, or should confirm
to him, in the eyes of the Christian world, the right to form
opinions upon Christian doctrine and the privilege to propound
them. The Christianity which makes a man a true
Christian—which controls his life, and sanctifies his affections,
and builds him up into a saintly estate, growing more
holy with more years, and more meek with more honors, is
a Christianity good enough for me, good enough for the
world, and good enough to teach. And when new opinions
come from good sources, it is rather the dictate of Christian
modesty to examine them with prayerful attention, than

boldly to condemn them and their author, because they run
counter to the common judgment. Has it not always been
the few who have held the right? Has not the common
judgment been wrong, in all this world's history? Shall
we sit in judgment on one of Christ's disciples? Have we
more wisdom than he? Have we more grace? Have we
lived better lives? Has God committed judgment into our
hands? Are we infallible? Do we, as a political body,
assume the interpretation of the Scriptures by any power
received of men or of God? I tell this House of Deputies
that they are doing, or trying to do, a very fearful thing.
I tell them not to lay their hands on this man, lest they
touch one of God's anointed. I tell them to refrain from
this man, and let him alone, for if this counsel or this work
be of men it will come to naught; but if it be of God, they
cannot overthrow it; lest haply they be found even to fight
against God.

“We have come to this country, nominally for the enjoyment
of the liberty of conscience, the liberty of speech, and
the liberty of action; but what liberty is that which is led
bound at the wheels of state, or stands captive at the pillars
of the pulpit? The liberty which is most in exercise here
to-day, is the liberty to oppress conscience. There is no
such thing as liberty of conscience, aside from perfect individual
liberty; and the restraint of this, is oppression no
different in kind, no less outrageous, than that exercised at
home, or even in the den of The Beast himself, at Rome.
I tell you that if this man be condemned for the utterance
of his religious opinions by this body, which has legitimately
no more to do with them than a council of savages,
the world—aye—the devil himself, may have us in derision,
and pointing, say, `behold how these Christians love one
another!'

“I see present here, to-day, several ministers of the Gospel
of Jesus Christ. It cannot be that they have been

brought here from any desire to see an independent thinker
and writer sacrificed; and I only wish that it were consonant
with the rules of this body for them to rise here, and
testify to the paramount importance of a Christian life, and
the essential necessity to vital Christianity of entire liberty
of conscience. I wish that they might rise here, and, in
their own eloquent words, point forward to that trial and
tribunal to which we all tend, where the question will not
be in regard to what church a man belongs, what creed he
subscribes, what dogmas he adopts, what opinions he holds,
but will be concerning the improvement of the one talent,
or the ten talents, with which he has been intrusted. I
pray that we may stand blameless of any violence upon his
rights, or wounds upon his reputation.”

Mr. Holyoke sat down, and, at the moment, his audience
had forgotten where and what they were. A principle
which they had never recognised, or had long forgotten,
had sprung into life before them, and they were struck with
its marvellous power and beauty. The idea that a man
could possibly be good, and yet fail to be orthodox after
their pattern—that life was something higher than light—
that character was something more essential than opinion—
and its correlative, that, with all their orthodoxy, they
might possibly be destitute of true Christianity, received
for the moment the homage of their reason, and threw
the materials of the world in which they moved into new
positions and new relations. The revelation was, however,
but momentary. The spell passed away before the cool
breath of spite, and the hot words of zeal which responded;
and when the vote was taken, only five of the whole number
of deputies were enrolled with Mr. Holyoke among
the dissentients. But the effect of his words could not
wholly die. Such seed is never sown in vain.

As soon as the order was passed, the declaration, or protest,
for which it provided, was introduced and read, and

the deputies and reverend elders bent their heads to hear
its language:

[1] “The General Court now sitting in Boston in New
England, this sixteenth of October, 1650. There was
brought to our hands a book, written, as therein subscribed,
by William Pynchon, Gent., in New England,
entitled The Meritorious Price of our Redemption, Justification,
&c., clearing it from some common errors, &c.,
which book, containing many errors and heresies generally
condemned by all orthodox writers that we have met with,
we have judged it meet and necessary for vindication of the
truth, so far as in us lies, as also to keep and preserve the
people here committed to our care and trust, in the true
knowledge and faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of our
own redemption by him, as also for the clearing of ourselves
to our Christian brethren and others in England, (where
this book was printed, and is dispersed,) hereby to protest
our innocency, as being neither parties nor privy to the
writing, composing, printing, nor divulging thereof; but
that, on the contrary, we detest and abhor many of the
opinions and assertions therein, as false, erroneous, and
heretical; yea, and whatsoever is contained in the said
book which are contrary to the Scriptures of the Old and
New Testament, and the general received doctrine of the
orthodox churches extant since the time of the last and
best reformation; and for proof and evidence of our sincere
and plain meaning therein, we do condemn the said book
to be burned in the market-place, at Boston, by the common
executioner, and do purpose with all convenient speed
to convent the said William Pynchon before authority, to
find out whether the said William Pynchon will own the
said book to be his or not; which, if he doth, we purpose
(God willing) to proceed with him according to his demerits,
unless he retract the same, and give full satisfaction,
both here and by some second writing, to be printed and
dispersed in England; all which we thought needful for the
reason above alleged, to make known by this short protestation
and declaration. Also, we further purpose, with what
convenient speed we may, to appoint some fit person to

make a particular answer to all material and controversial
passages in the said book, and to publish the same in print,
that so the errors and falsities therein may be fully discovered,
the truth cleared, and the minds of those that love
and seek after truth confirmed therein.”

After the adoption of this declaration, and the passage of
an order to have it printed and distributed in England, it
was agreed upon by the whole court that Mr. Norton, one
of the reverend elders of Ipswich, should be entreated to
answer Mr. Pynchon's book with all convenient speed.
The court then decided that Mr. Pynchon should be summoned
before the next General Court of Election, on the
first day of the session, to answer for the publication of his
heretical book, and not to depart without leave from the
court.

Notwithstanding the action that had been taken against
Mr. Pynchon, he went out of the court with a better case
than he carried in. In the magistrates, he had reclaimed
the respect which he had momentarily lost; and in the deputies,
a secret sympathy in his behalf had been awakened,
which did not find its legitimate expression in their vote.
It had appeared that he was not a man to be trampled upon
without care, and that his case was one which did dishonor
neither to his intellect nor his heart—whatever disgrace the
court might, in the exercise of its prerogatives and power,
see fit to visit upon him.

To the ministers who heard Mr. Holyoke, Mr. Pynchon
became immediately an interesting subject of labor and
discipline. They longed to get hold of him, and talk his
errors out of him—to show him the loops in his logic, the
weakness of his argument, and the fallacy of his conclusions;
and they resolved, before leaving the hall, that they would,
for the honor of Christ and the salvation of Mr. Pynchon,
procure from him a retraction of his errors, and achieve for
him a restoration to the confidence of the court and the

colony. The resolution was a bold one, when it is considered
with whom they had to deal, but the result, as will
hereafter appear, was complimentary to their perseverance
and power.

As the session broke up, the deputies divided into excited
parties, and engaged warmly in the discussion of Mr. Holyoke's
speech. The more they talked, the more clearly they
apprehended the fact that something very unusual—something
revolutionary, in fact—had been said. They wondered
they had sat so quietly, and heard such sentiments
and opinions boldly put forth. They wondered that they
had not risen, at the close of his remarks, at least, and
denounced him as a traitor to the country, and a betrayer
of true religion. They wondered that they had not seen
the tendency of the doctrines proclaimed, and that they
could have been so weak as to sit silently, and listen to
sentiments so entirely subversive of the existing order of
things.

Mr. Pynchon and Mr. Holyoke walked to their lodgings
together, and were the least excited and the happiest men
of the number. A report of the independent bearing of the
former before the magistrates, and of the noble speech of
the latter, had preceded their appearance in the street, and,
by the common people, they were regarded as heroes—as
men who must have possessed a courage almost superhuman.

Towards evening, as Mr. Pynchon was sitting in his
room busily engaged in writing, his landlady appeared,
and informed him that a couple of reverend elders were at
the door, and desired to speak with him. He bade her
invite them in, and, on passing to the door himself, met
Mr. Cotton and Mr. Norton, the two divines who have
been mentioned as in attendance at the Deputies when
Holyoke's speech was made. Mr. Pynchon received them
with more than his usual dignity, and it was with much

circumlocution, and with no assistance from him, that they
approached the object of their visit.

“We have come,” said Mr. Cotton, at last, “to speak
with you in relation to your book.”

Mr. Pynchon bowed.

“We have felt it to be our duty, as ministers of the gospel,
to approach you privately, to explain to you the effect
which your work has produced, to endeavor—praying for
God's blessing upon our effort—to point out the more
grievous errors into which we believe you have fallen, and
to labor, as God hath given us ability, for your restoration
to the favor of the General Court and the colony churches.”

“God give you such speed in your work as may bring
honor to truth and glory to Him!” exclaimed Mr. Pynchon,
while an excited flush passed over his face.

“Amen!” ejaculated the ministers in concert.

“Mr. Pynchon,” said Mr. Cotton, “you are doubtless
aware that the doctrines you have advanced in regard to the
character of the price paid for man's redemption are very
unlike those entertained by the colony churches.”

“I am, sir. Had I supposed there was no point of difference,
I should not have written the book.”

“Well, we will not discuss that matter now, for there is
not time. We come now to you as a Christian man—as one
who has the cause of true religion at heart, to show you
that, however honestly you may have written, that cause is
receiving damage at your hands.”

“I should be very sorry to believe so sad a thing,”
replied Mr. Pynchon, touched by the earnest tone in which
the minister spoke.

“And yet you cannot believe otherwise, if you will open
your eyes to see, and your ears to hear, the commotion
which you have aroused in the mind of the churches of this
colony, and even among those of the Plymouth. A rock
may be turned over where it lies, upon the level ground,

and no man hear the report or feel the shock, but starting
from the top of the mountain, it leaves a scar upon the
mountain's side, and fills the plain with smoke and ruin.”

“But a sear is the indication of a healthy action, and
smoke and ruins are not necessarily companions,” replied the
magistrate.

“I cannot accuse you of jesting,” rejoined the divine,
“but surely you must have seen enough in the General
Court to-day, to show you that much bitterness of feeling
has been aroused, and that charity and brotherly love have
been very sadly compromised.”

“For all of which, I presume, you propose to hold me
responsible. You might as well hold me responsible for your
own unreasonableness in such an imputation, as for what you
have seen to-day.”

Mr. Pynchon uttered this rebuke with an excited flash of
the eye and flush of the cheek, but Mr. Cotton received it
meekly and returned to the charge.

“Mr. Pynchon, man is, at his best estate, fallible. You
have written a book upon one of the greatest and most important
subjects that can engage the mind of a mortal, and
there is a possibility, you will admit, that you have made a
mistake, and even many mistakes. I have no doubt that
you will admit this. If so, then it becomes you, as a Christian,
to open your mind to those who attend continually
upon this very thing, and try your opinions in the light of
their learning. At any rate, the consciousness that you
may be in error, and be the cause of stumbling to many a
weaker brother, and, perhaps, may lead many souls to the
gates of death, should make you very careful before men,
and prayerful before God.”

“I thank you for your plainness of speech,” said Mr.
Pynchon, rising, “and shall be glad to see you and Mr.
Norton at some other time, but you must excuse me now,
as I have pressing business on hand.”

The two divines rose from their chairs, and Mr. Norton,
who had remained silent from the fact that he only wished
to engage the magistrate in a discussion of doctrine, asked
that gentleman if, on some future occasion, he would have
any objection to take the text of the controverted book
as the basis of conversation. Mr. Pynchon assured him that
he should be ready to engage in such a conversation at any
convenient opportunity, and then politely bowed the gentlemen
out of the house.

As soon as his door was closed, he turned to his desk to
pursue his writing, but, to his surprise, he found that a
new and most troublesome discontent had been implanted
in his heart. He had supposed that he was firmly fixed in
his opinions, but he could not but admit that he might possibly
be wrong, and he could not fail to see that the foundation
of the beautiful edifice he had reared partook—
however strong it might be—of his own frailty.

Then came up to his imagination the ordeal through
which he had agreed to pass. He had agreed to pit himself
against the most learned divines and the subtlest dialecticians
of the day in a discussion of some of the fundamental
doctrines of Christianity. This thought was full of
excitement, and his mind ran off into the field of thought
and argument with which it had become so familiar, as if
anxious to see whether the old fortifications were still standing,
and the pieces upon which he had always relied still
looked out from their embrasures. Then his mind glanced
off upon another course, as Mr. Cotton's suggestion recurred
touching the effect of his book upon the Christian cause.
This gave him more trouble than all the rest. The possibility
that he had wounded the cause of Christ—that he
had endangered the soul of believer or unbeliever—that he
had failed to do full honor to Him who had his affections,
or had detracted from the dignity of His mission—sat
gloomily at the door of his heart, and breathed into it the
most painful disquietude.

A few minutes' indulgence in thoughts like these unfitted
him for business, and he found himself unable to pursue his
writing. As he rose, and walked the floor of his apartment,
the change that had passed over his spirit within a short
time, occurred to him. He had entered the room calm and
almost exultant—his mind firm, contented, and elastic. He
was then free from the fetters he had worn through many
weary years, but, somehow, his visitors had slipped them
upon him again, and, full of doubts and fears, he felt once
more half stripped of his manhood.

Mr. Pynchon had many interviews with the divines before
he returned home. His mind became, little by little,
obscured by the fear that he might be wrong—a cloud no
larger than a man's hand at first, but growing until it darkened
his whole mental vision—and he found himself unable to
cope with the cool heads and ready speech of his antagonists.

At last, their interviews had become little more than
solemn farces, in which the divines threw down his positions,
and then setting them up, threw them down again. After
they supposed that the foe had been thoroughly reduced,
they proposed to Mr. Pynchon that he should recant his
errors. This he refused to do, until he had had opportunity
coolly to consider the whole matter after his arrival in Springfield.
He felt that he was not himself among them, or
under their influence, and that he should be faithless to God's
honor as well as his own to yield well conceived and thoroughly
considered opinions to such an unnatural pressure.

As the party which accompanied Mr. Pynchon to the
Bay set out upon their return, they were even sadder than
when they left their home; and the dead leaves that
strewed the Bay Path in one continuous line of desolated
beauty, well represented the fallen hopes that, like these
very leaves, were fluttering in suspense and tinged with
blight when their bearers passed castward not many
weeks before.