SQUIRE FULLER RECEIVES A DEPUTATION.
“Scorn not the smallness of early endeavour,
Let thy great purpose ennoble it ever;
Droop not o’er efforts extended in vain;
Work! work, with a will; thou shalt find it again.
Fear not! for greater is God by thy side
Than armies of Satan against thee allied.”
_Anon._
The lovely spring had deepened into a warm, fruitful summer, the corn
was rapidly ripening for the scythe, and the orchards were beginning
to bend beneath a burden of expanding fruit, when the Rev. Theophilus
Clayton mounted his antique gig, and directed Jack, the circuit horse,
on the road that led to Nestleton Magna. That good man had but just
finished his dinner of plain and frugal fare--such lusts of the flesh
as expensive cates and costly luxuries were far beyond the reach of
all his tribe--and his intention was to drop into Farmer Houston’s for
a cup of tea, and then to talk over a scheme for a new chapel, which
was rendered necessary by the fact that the spacious kitchen was quite
unequal to the increasing congregation. Jack bore his master onward at
his usual slow and sober pace, and Mr. Clayton gave himself up to a
sort of waking dream, now thinking over his evening sermon, now
weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ of the proposal to “arise and build,”
when he was roused from his ponderings by means far more effective
than agreeable.
“Here’s a Methody parson, lads! Let’s have a shy at him!”
Scarcely had he time to turn his head towards the speaker, and scan
the group of lazy loafers congregated by the roadside at the corner of
Midden Harbour, before he was saluted with a shower of stones, which
fell on startled Jack, rattled on the ancient gig, and one of them, at
any rate, made an unnecessary indentation in his silk hat, whose long
term of faithful service demanded more respectful treatment. Waxing
indignant at this gratuitous and cowardly attack, he turned to
expostulate with the lawless batch of wastrels, when a well-aimed
brickbat from the hand of Black Morris struck him on the cheek, and,
after drawing a stream of blood, fell into the body of the gig. Mr.
Clayton, maintaining his presence of mind, brought down his whip upon
the withers of the startled pony, which broke into a gallop, and bore
him through the village with the crimson token of the outrage still
wet upon his face.
When he drove up to Farmer Houston’s gate, quite a knot of villagers
gathered around him, alarmed and indignant at the scurvy treatment he
had received. He lifted up the quarter brick which had dealt the ugly
wound, and said, with a smile, for he was a hero in his way, “That’s
the mischievous gentleman that did it, and you see, like a true
soldier, I carry my scars in front.”
“Oh, what a shame!” “Who did it?” “Who threw it?” were the
exclamations of the farmer and his household, as warm water and
sticking-plaster were being provided. The prudent preacher, however,
in the spirit of his Master, thought of the probable results to Black
Morris if he mentioned his name, and so he contented himself with a
general statement that he had been maltreated by a set of scoundrels
at Midden Harbour.
Well done, Mr. Clayton! Your kindly forbearance will bear richer fruit
than you imagine, and, like many another persecution meekly borne for
the Master’s sake, will in no wise lose its reward. After the needful
attention had been bestowed on his wounded cheek, and a few cups of
tea had refreshed his inner man, Theophilus was himself again: and
when Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver, and Farmer Houston were closeted
with him in close committee on the new chapel, he was able to guide
their deliberations with his accustomed skill.
The first, and, indeed, the crucial point was the question of a site.
The entire village, with the exception of the undesirable locality of
Midden Harbour, was the property of Squire Fuller; and the very first
step was to ask that gentleman to sell or lease them a plot of ground
suitable to the requirements of the case. Their hopes of success were
by no means strong; but Mr. Clayton, who was never much given to
beating about the bush, proposed that they should form themselves into
a deputation, and see the squire on the subject.
“It’s no use going to the steward,” said Farmer Houston, “for he hates
the Methodists like poison, and would set his foot on us if he could.”
“I’m willing to try the squire,” said Natty Blyth, “if you think it’s
best; but I don’t expect he’ll be particularly glad to see me, seeing
that Master Phil’s unlucky fancy has angered his father with me and
mine.”
“Nivver mind that,” chimed in Old Adam; “t’ aud squire knoas it’s
neean o’ your deein’, and as for its bein’ unlikely, he’ll be fooast
te deea as God tells ’im, an’ if it’s His will ’at we sud hev a
chapel, it isn’t Squire Fuller nor t’ devil aback on ’im ’at can
hinder uz! Let’s pray aboot it. We’ll fost ax the Lord, ’at hez t’
hearts ov all men in His hands, an’ then ax t’ squire, an’ leeave t’
rest wi’ God.”
This admirable hint was at once acted on, and Mr. Clayton asked the
old hedger to engage in prayer. Adam went straight to the point at
once--a practice not too common, as many a heavy and listless
prayer-meeting can testify.
“Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “Thoo knoas ’at we want te build a sanctuary i’
Thy honour, an’ for t’ good o’ sowls. Thah good Spirit’s meead wer
borders ower strayt for uz. We beseeach Tha te give uz room te dwell
in. Thoo can oppen t’ way as eeasily as Thoo oppen’d t’ Rid Sea for t’
children o’ Isra’l, an’ Thoo can tonn t’ heart o’ Squire Fuller as
Thoo tonn’d t’ heart o’ King Pharaoh. We’re gannin’ te see ’im i’ Thah
neeam, an’ for t’ seeak o’ Thah cause. Gan wiv uz, Lord; wi’ Thoo wiv
us we’re bun’ te prosper. Thoo wadn’t hev crammed t’ kitchen wi’
precious souls te hear Thah Wod if Thoo didn’t meean te gether ’em all
inte t’ Gospel net. Lord, t’ ship’s full an’ beginnin’ te sink! Bud it
can’t sink while t’ prayers o’ Thah people hod it up. Lord help uz!
and gan wiv uz, for Jesus Christ’s seeak. Amen.”
O wondrous power of faithful prayer! The four men rose from their
knees, ready and eager for the interview, and as Farmer Houston was
able to affirm that the squire was at home, they resolved at once to
go forward in the name of the Lord.
Waverdale Hall, the seat of Ainsley Fuller, Esq., J.P., was a large
and imposing building, in which the Italian style of architecture was
exhibited to the best advantage, and which was said to have been
erected under the personal superintendence of that noted deviser of
aristocratic piles, Inigo Jones. Situated in the midst of a large and
well-wooded park, and partially surrounded by trim terraces and
well-kept ornamental grounds, it formed the centre of a landscape of
which the inhabitants of Waverdale were justly proud. Our brave
quarternion of Methodists made their way to a side entrance to the
stately mansion, and in answer to their call, a grave-looking,
white-headed butler, ushered them into the bounteously-furnished
library, whose multitudinous bookshelves laden with ancient and
modern literature, so excited the astonishment of Adam Olliver, that
he could not help exclaiming,--
“What a parlous lot o’ beeaks! Pack’d like herrin’s iv a barrel!
Thoosan’s upo’ thoosan’s. Mah wod, Natty! bud they must mak’ t’
squire’s heead wark te’ read ’em. They a’most tonn me dizzy te leeak
at ’em.”
Again the butler appeared, cutting short Old Adam’s wonderment, and
ushered them into the presence of the stern and stately squire, whose
reception of them was courteous enough but cold. Farmer Houston, as
the tenant of a farm which had been in the Houston family through many
generations, was personally known to Squire Fuller, who accosted him
by name.
“Good evening, Mr. Houston. Take a seat, but first introduce me to
your friends.”
Mr. Clayton received a cold and distant bow; Nathan Blyth a
scrutinising gaze, more piercing than pleasant; but that good man and
true, bore him as a true man should.
“And this,” said Farmer Houston, “is one of my labourers, who has been
an old and trusted servant to myself and my father for more than fifty
years. His name is Adam Olliver.”
The squire bowed in honest reverence to the time-worn veteran, who
bore such a certificate of character, and asked them to what he was
indebted for the honour of their visit.
Farmer Houston stated their case. He spoke of the lowly band of
Methodists who lived in the village and worshipped God as their taste
and conscience taught; of the services held in Adam’s cottage, and
then in his own kitchen; how even that was now too small for the
congregation; how they desired to build a little chapel for the more
decent and successful carrying out of their work, and how they had
come to ask him to sell or lease to them a scrap of land, on which to
build their house of prayer. “Mr. Clayton,” he said, “will answer any
questions as to our doctrines or proceedings, and we shall be deeply
grateful, sir, if you can see your way to grant us our request.”
“I do not think there is any need to ask questions,” said Mr. Fuller,
with an ominous shake of the head. “You have the parish church, which
is sufficiently large to hold all who choose to go. My friend the
rector is a most estimable man, and I do not see that anything is to
be gained by setting up an opposition establishment. I don’t
understand this newfangled religion you call Methodism, but I gather
that it is a kind of fanatical parody on the National Church; that its
adherents are remarkable for shouting and groaning, and for going to
great excesses of mere emotional excitement. I am not particularly in
love with the ideas that are taught in the parish church itself, but I
certainly prefer them to yours, and shall as certainly refuse to be
the means of introducing what is sure to be a source of sectarian
jealousy, into our quiet and peaceful little village. It has done
without such a thing from time immemorial, and shall not with my
permission be exposed to what I cannot but regard as the introduction
of a very pernicious element of mischief.”
“Bud,” said Adam Olliver, whose anxiety could not be restrained, “we
aren’t inthroducin’ owt ’at’s new. We’ve been hoddin’ meetin’s i’
Nestleton for five-an’-thotty year, an’ naebody’s na worse for it, an’
monny on us, sor, is a good deal better for ’t. Parson knoas ’at we
hae nae opposition tiv ’im, an’ some on us gans te t’ chotch i’ t’
mornin’s. Ah could tell yo’, sor, o’ monny a yan ’at’s been meeade
’appy there; o’ pooachers ’at’s sell’d their guns, an’ drunkards ’at’s
tonn’d sober, an’ monny a scooare o’ precious sowls ez dee’d rejoicin’
i’ Jesus Christ, through t’ meetin’s ’at’s been hodden i’ mah lathle
hoose an’ i’ t’ maister’s kitchin. As for t’ village bein’ peeaceful,
there’s plenty te deea at Midden Harbour, roond t’ publichoose an’
uther spots. We want all t’ village te fear God an’ seeave their
sowls. If yo’ pleease, sor, deean’t damp uz all at yance. Tak’ a bit
o’ tahme te consither on ’t. While you’re thinkin’, we sall be
prayin’, an’ ah wop you’ll excuse ma, sor, if ah say ’at if you’ll
pray aboot it yo’rself, it’ll help yo’ te cum tiv a right
detarmination.”
Here Farmer Houston slyly pulled the old man’s coat, afraid that he
should venture too far and do more harm than good. Mr. Clayton,
however, was delighted with the clear, concise way in which the old
man pleaded the cause of his Master. He knew that He who told His
disciples that when they were brought before rulers and magistrates He
would tell them what they ought to say, was speaking through the lips
of the godly hedger, who knew so well how to talk with God.
“Ah weean’t trubble yo’ no farther,” said the old man, in obedience to
the farmer’s hint; “bud if you’ll tonn te t’ fifth chapther ov Acts,
an’ t’ thotty-eight’ an’ thotty-nint’ vasses, you’ll me’bbe finnd a
bit o’ good advice.”
The squire smiled, partly in superior knowledge, and partly in
amusement at the unsophisticated Doric of the speaker, but he could
not ridicule such transparent honesty.
“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I can give you no encouragement to-night,
but I’ll take time to weigh the matter, and will let you know my
decision.”
“Prayse the Lord for that,” said Adam Olliver, “an’ may God guide uz
all!”
Little did they think of the awful storm and tempest which should
burst over Waverdale Hall and its aristocratic inmates before that
final decision should be announced. The portly butler was summoned to
conduct them to the door, and when the little party was fairly out
into the park, they began to compare notes on the aspect of affairs.
“I don’t think we shall succeed,” said Farmer Houston, who was never
of a very sanguine temperament.
“No,” said Mr. Clayton, “Adam’s pleading won upon his courtesy, but it
will not change his mind.”
“No,” said Nathan Blyth, with a sigh, “we may put it out of court.
Nestleton’ll have to go without a Methodist chapel for this
generation, depend on’t.”
“Seea you think ’at squire’s bigger then God, di yo’? Yan wad think,
te hear yo’ talk, that it was a matter for him an’ uz te sattle. Is
ther’ onnything ower hard for the Lord? an’ it’s His business noo, an’
nut oors, an’ ah for yan’s gannin’ te trust Him te t’ end. Though it
tarry, wayt for it. T’ oad gentleman dizn’t like it, ah can see, bud
he’ll hae te lump it, for ah’s as sartan as ah’s livin’ ’at Nestleton
chapel ’ll be built afoore twelve munths is ower. He says he’ll tak
tahme te think on’t; that’s summat, an’ mind mah wods, Squire
Fuller’ll be willin’ aneeaf befoore the Lord’s deean wiv ’im.”
Adam’s faith was great, as all God’s people’s ought to be. The
mountain may be great, but when such faith as Adam’s says “Be thou
removed,” it rocks from base to summit and is cast into the sea.