- Author of the Parable of the Ten Virgins.
I.
MORE than three centuries ago, in the very year and upon the very day and hour when the Gunpowder Plot for blowing up the English Parliament was to have been executed, there was born, near the village of Towcester, in Northamptonshire, one who was destined half a century later to become one of the “shining lights” of the New England pulpit. His early years gave little promise of his subsequent distinction. At Fossecut, “a most blind town and corner.” he was put by his grandparents, to whom he was sent on his mother’s death, “to keep geese and other such country worke.” With his uncle at Aldthroe, “a little blind town adjoining,” he learned to “sing, and sport, and dance, at Whitson Ades.” Returning to his father’s house he was so harshly dealt with by the Welsh school-master, under whose tuition he was placed, that he oftentimes wished himself “in any condition to keep hogs or beasts rather than goe to school and learne.” At ten yeare of age he was left an orphan. The charge of him now devolved upon an older brother, through whose kindness he was sent at fifteen years of age to the University of Cambridge. Here he fell “into loose and bad company, to lust and pride, and gaming, and bowling, and drinking. With some serious interruptions, this course continued until one Saturday night he was carried “dead drunk” to a classmates room. When he awoke to consciousness, he was overwhelmed with shame and remorse. He went out, and during the Sabbath lay “hid in the cornfields.” And now he began to reflect upon his course. His convictions of sin were overwhelming. His doubts were terrible. His experience was well-nigh a counterpart of Bunyan’s, at almost the same time. He questioned whether the Scriptures were of God, whether Christ was the Messiah and even whether there was a God. He could not read the Bible, or hear it read, without “secret and hellish blaspheming,” calling all in question. Sometimes he was inclined to think education had made him a Christian, as it might have made him a Turk or a Papist. He fell to doubt whether he had not committed the unpardonable sin. The terrors of the Lord began to break “like floods of fire into his soul.” He was tempted to dash his head against the wall, and brain and kill himself. Thoughts of eternal reprobation and torment amazed his spirit.
For nine long months the agony endured. But peace came at last. The storm blew over, and a sweet clear light beamed upon his soul. He was a new man. His University course closed, and he began his labours as a preacher at Earles-colne, three miles from Essex. Here he continued for three years. But he was not a man of the Laudian stamp, and the Archbishop—that fierce enemy to all righteousness” as Shepard calls him—was soon upon his track. He sent for him to London, and without asking whether he would subscribe, demanded what he had to do to preach in his diocese. After many “rayling speeches” he forbade him to preach, and told him if he went anywhere else to preach, his (Laud’s) hand would reach him.
Such treatment opened Shepard’s eyes. He saw “into the evil of the English ceremonies, cross, surplice, and kneelings.” At this juncture, Laud on his visitation cited him to his court at Reldon. “What are you doing?” asked the Archbishop. “Studying,” replied Shepard. “Studying what?” asked Laud. “The Fathers,” replied Shepard. “You may thank me for that, but I charge you to depart the place,” said the Archbishop. “Where shall I go?” asked Shepard. “To the University,” answered Laud. Shepard told him he had not the means to subsist there; but in any case Laud insisted that he should leave the place.
Shepard subsequently, by the advice of others, prepared to expostulate with Laud. In doing so he narrowly escaped, for on his presence being known, his arrest was ordered. He was now at a loss whither to direct his steps. Sometimes he thought of going to Ireland, at others to Scotland, or New England. In his own land, it seemed to him that he had nothing more to do. But at this juncture he was invited to reside as chaplain with Sir Richard Darly in Yorkshire. Here he remained one year, when the visitation of Bishop Neale forced him to remove. At Northumberland, near Newcastle, he laboured for twelve months more, part of the time in private—Bishop Merton not venturing to “give him liberty,” because Laud had taken notice of him.
Thus Shepard felt himself to be fairly hunted out of England. Some of his friends who had crossed the ocean, urged him to come over and preach to them. This invitation opened the only prospect of future usefulness, and he resolved to go. But the same intolerance that would not permit him to remain, would not allow him to leave. Repeatedly was the attempt made, and repeatedly it failed. Several times he ran great risk of being arrested. He dared not go abroad openly. Even after he had set sail the vessel was driven back by a tempest, and came near being wrecked. At last the voyage was safely accomplished, and on the 3rd October, 1635, the vessel with Shepard’s family on board, cast anchor in Boston Harbour.
And now the exiled Puritan commenced his labours in the New World. Cambridge, then known as Newton, had been settled for several years. Houses had been built, the land had been laid out, and a church formed. But the limits were too narrow for the colonists. The church, with its pastor, Stone, had resolved to remove to Hartford, and Shepard’s friends bought their property. A new church—the first permanent organization—was formed, and Shepard was chosen pastor. For nearly fourteen years he occupied the post, and through all the troubles of the Hutchinson controversy he maintained his own steadfastness, and guarded the peace and purity of his Church. When the first institution of Christian learning was to be planted on the shores of the New World, no locality seemed more inviting than the one which enjoyed the pastoral supervision of Shepard. To his ability, sound judgment, and devoted piety, all looked with a confidence that was never misplaced. In the memorable Synod of 1637, he was a leading member. Its first session was opened by him “with one of his “heavenly prayers.” In the organization of new churches in the colony, his advice and assistance were often sought. Distressed himself for the lack of sufficient support, he yet bestowed his care upon securing provision for the indigent students at Cambridge, and at his suggestion, the plan was adopted of procuring voluntary contributions of corn from all parts of New England. To secure its adoption he met the Commissioners of the united Colonies at Hartford in 1644, and urged the claims of the College. At this meeting steps were taken for convoking the Synod which produced the Cambridge platform, and Shepard was doubtless the master-spirit behind the scenes. In the missionary labours of Eliot, the Indian Apostle, he took the deepest interest. He zealously promoted the erection of a College building at Cambridge, for the education of Indian youth. He watched with parental solicitude over Eliot’s first missionary station, which lay within the limits of Cambridge. While he neglected no parish duty, his heart was large enough to embrace in its sympathies every project for the extension of Christ’s kingdom.
In the midst of his usefulness, and in the meridian of his years, he was suddenly cut down by an acute disease. He died August 25th, 1649, in the 44th year of his age. His last hours were in keeping with his whole ministerial life. “O love the Lord very much,” he said to those standing by his bedside, “that little part which I have in Him, is very precious to me now.” To several young ministers gathered about his dying bed, he remarked with deep solemnity, “Your work is great, and calls for great seriousness. As to myself, I can say three things—that the study of every sermon cost me tears; that before I preached a sermon I got good by it myself; and that I always went up into the pulpit as if I were to give my account to my Master.”
Few men have ever won such testimonies to their fidelity, ability, and usefulness, as Shepard. His judgment was sound, his perceptions clear, his discrimination accurate, and his force of thought and reasoning almost irresistible. He was a master in theology, and no man understood better how to draw the line between the doctrines of the gospel and the errors of his times. Nor was he a man to keep back his convictions. Although discreet in his utterance, he was singularly independent in judgment, and he knew not the fear of man. A most devoted piety and a well-regulated zeal added to the effect of his ministrations. He never wanders in the mazes of speculation. He never utters a single sentence for display. All is instructive, practical, pungent, or strengthening. President Edwards has styled him “that famous experimental divine.” Prince says, “I have been told that he scarce ever preached a sermon but some one or other of his congregation were struck with great distress, and cried out in agony, ‘What shall I do to be saved?'” Morton calls him “a soul-searching minister.” It is reported that among his congregation it was always asked upon the Sabbath, by those who had not attended worship “Who was wrought upon to-day?”
(To be Continued).