PHILIP FULLER MAKES A DISCOVERY.
“Thus far did I come laden with my sin,
Nor could aught ease the grief that I was in,
Till I came hither. What a place is this!
Must here be the beginning of my bliss?
Must here the burden fall from off my back?
Must here the strings that bound it to me crack?
Blest Cross! Blest Sepulchre! Blest rather be
The Man that there was put to shame for me.”
_John Bunyan._
“Good morning, Adam Olliver. What a man you are for cutting and
slashing! I never see you but you are wielding either axe or knife!
What a destructive character you must be!”
“Good mornin’, Maister Philip,” said the hedger, with a smile of
satisfaction, for he had a great regard for the frank young gentleman
who had so kindly received his words of pleading by the gate which led
to Marlpit Wood. “Ah’s nut nearly as destructive as ah leeaks te be.
Ah’ve been choppin’ an’ slashin’ Farmer Houston’s hedges for nearly
fifteen years; an’ ah warrant ’at they’ve neean on ’im ivver been sae
thrivin’ an’ sae shaply as they are te-day.”
“Well, that looks odd,” said Philip. “I should have thought that they
would grow bigger and stronger, thicker and higher, if they were left
alone.”
“Hey,” said Adam, with the usual twinkle in his eye, “sae meeast on us
think, sor. We wad like te be let alooane an’ just hev wer aun way;
grow as wa’ like an’ deea as wa’ like, an’ we fancy ’at we sud gan
higher an’ grow bigger, an’ increease i’ strength, bud it’s a grand
mistak’, you may depend on ’t. If theease hedges warn’t lopped and
trimmed, an’ ivvery noo an’ then chopp’d doon an’ leeaced in, they wad
gan sprawlin’ ower t’ rooad o’ yah side, an’ ower t’ clooase on t’
uther, an’ grow thick i’ yah spot an’ thin iv anuther, an’ grow up two
or three yards high inte t’ bargan. A rood o’ good land wad be
weeasted; t’ sheep wad gan throo t’ gaps, an’t’ sun wad be kept off t’
corn, or t’ tonnops, or t’ rape, or whativver else was growin’, an’
they wad deea a parlous lot o’ mischief. Beeath t’ axe an’ t’
slashin’-knife is good for _them_, an’ they’re varry good for _uz_.”
“How do you make that out?” said Philip, amused and interested. He had
a glimpse of the old man’s philosophy, and for reasons of his own, was
anxious to get him into a free and talking vein.
“Why, you see,” said Adam, “human natur’s a poor, prood, wild thing,
an’ when it’s left tiv itself, it nat’rally gans in for hevin’ its aun
way, an’ gets warse an’ warse. Munny an’ pleasure an’ honour an’
pooer; onything at’ll minister te wer pleasure an’ profit, is seeazed
an’ meead t’ meeast on, an’ sae we sud gan te ruin an’ the devil like
a beggar o’ horseback. But t’ knife o’ sickness, an’ disappointment,
losses an’ trubbles of all sooarts, is used biv a gracious God te
bring uz te wer senses, an’ mak’ us think’ aboot summut better. Job
tells us that the Lord sticks His knife intiv uz, an’ mak’s uz suffer
an’ cry upo’ wer bed i’ strang payne; an’ he says, ‘Theease things
worketh God of ’entahmes wi’ man, that he may bring his sowl up oot o’
t’ pit, an’ leeten him wi’ t’ leet o’ the livin’.’ T’ slashin’ ’at
Joseph gat i’ t’ pit an’ i’ t’ prison trimm’d him for t’ second
chariot i’ Egypt, an’ meead ’im t’ greeatest man i’ t’ cuntry. Maister
Philip, leeak at that hedge,” pointing to a long low quickset hedge
that divided one field from another. “That hedge is cut loa, an’
slash’d thin, an’ t’ tall tooerin’ branches was chopt hoaf through an’
bent doon inte t’ thorn, an’ if ivvery hoss i’ Farmer Houston’s
steeable was te run ageean it, it wad tonn ’em back; for it’s as teeaf
as leather, an’ as cloase as a sheet ov iron; an’ it’s all because
it’s been kept doon an’ meead te bleed under t’ slashin’-knife.”
“Yes, you’re right, Adam,” said the young squire, thoughtfully, as his
mind reverted to his own bitter disappointment in regard to his
misplaced and baffled love, “only it’s hard to understand and very
difficult to bear.”
Old Adam, who shrewdly guessed the current of his thoughts, and
greatly sympathised with the youth in whose _bona-fides_ he had
perfect faith, replied, “Nay, deean’t trubble te ontherstand it.
God’ll explayn it when it’s right for uz te knoa; but as for bidin’
it, He says ‘Mah grace is sufficient fo’ thah.’ Prayer an’ faith can
mak’ uz bide whativver cross we may hae te carry; an’, Maister
Philip,” said he, tenderly, “He’ll help yo’ te bide yours, if you’ll
nobbut tak’ it te t’ Cross an’ ax Him ’at said, ‘Cum te me an’ ah’ll
gie yo’ rist.’”
“Adam Olliver!” said the young man, “I want that rest with all my
heart and soul, but I cannot find it; the last time I saw you, you
quoted the words of St. John, ‘He that is born of God sinneth not.’
Tell me, Adam, as you would tell your son, what is it to be born of
God?”
Struck by the eager tones of the speaker, Adam dropped his knife,
looked into the eyes of Philip, which flashed with a very fever of
desire, and saw therein the honest, penitent seeker after God.
Afterwards, when Adam was relating the circumstances to his friend and
neighbour, Nathan Blyth, he said,--
“Ah tell yo’, Nathan, ah was sae tee’an aback, yo’ mud ha’ knocked ma’
doon wiv a feather! Ah felt just like Nehemiah, when he was standin’
afoore t’ king wiv ’is ’eart sad an’ ’is feeace white wi’ trubble for
t’ seeak o’ Jerusalem, an’ t’ king ax’d him what was amiss wiv him;
an’ like him, ah ‘lifted me’ heart te the God ov heaven.’”
“Born of God,” said Adam, in reply to his anxious questioner, “Why,
it’s te be a new creeatur i’ Christ Jesus. T’ Holy Sperrit o’ God cums
inte t’ heart streight doon frev heaven, tak’s all wer sins away, an’
tells us ’at for Christ’s seeak they’re all pardon’d, an’ fills us wi’
joy an’ peeace thro’ beleeavin’.”
“And do you feel that you are born again, Adam? Does the Holy Spirit
tell you so? Are you _sure_ that your sins are all forgiven?”
“Sure!” said Adam, with a smile which was simply beautiful in its
joyous complacency, “ah’s as sartan on it as ah’s a livin’ man. Ah’ve
knoan it ivvery day o’ my life for mair then fotty years. ‘The Sperrit
o’ God beears witness wi’ mah sperrit ’at ah’s born o’ God.’” His eyes
filled with tears of gladness, as he said, “Glory be te God. I ha’nt a
doot nor a ghost o’ yan, that me’ neeam is written i’ heaven, Christ
is mi’ Saviour, an’ ah knoa ’at when this ’athly hoose o’ me’
tabernacle is dissolved, an’ it’s gettin’ varry shakky, ah’ve a hoose
abuv, a buildin’ nut meead bi’ hands, etarnal i’ the heavens!”
Philip heaved a sigh which came from the deepest recesses of his
heart. “I would give my life,” said he, “to be able to say that. Adam
Olliver, show me the way!”
“God bless the lad,” said the old Christian with deep feeling, and
such a prayer from his lips was indeed a benediction. “You feel
yourself to be a poor helpless sinner afoore God?”
“My sense of ingratitude and rebellion is greater than I can bear,”
was the earnest response.
“An’ wi’ all your ’eart you’re willin’ te give up ivverything for
Christ?”
“I tell you, I would give my life to feel in my heart that He is my
Saviour.”
“Then lissen,” said Adam, pulling out from his breast-pocket a
well-worn New Testament, the precious companion of his solitary
labours. Turning to a particular verse, “This,” said he, “is the Wod
o’ God, the testiment ov Jesus Christ You beleeave it, deean’t yo’?”
“Yes,” said the eager youth, “every word of it.”
“Then remember, what ah’s gannin’ te read, is what God says te you.
You weean’t doot Him, will yo’?” His large horn-framed spectacles were
drawn from their wooden sheath; having adjusted them to assist his
failing vision, he held the little volume with a loving reverence, and
took off his hat as if God Himself was about to speak. “Lissen!” said
he, and then he read slowly and deliberately, “He bare our sins in his
own body on the tree.” Turning over the pages, he read, “‘Whosoever
believeth on him the same shall be saved.’ You don’t doot it, de yo’?”
“No,” said Philip, eagerly, “go on!”
“You’re boddened wi’ your sins? Lissen! ‘He bare ’em _Hisself_! Philip
Fuller, if He hez borne your sins, why sud you beear t’ bodden as
weel? Whosoiver beleeaveth sal be saved. There it is. Cast ’em on ’im!
Leeave ’em tiv Him, for it’s _true_!”
Even while the old man spoke, the scales began to fall. Philip Fuller
saw men as trees walking. Silent and with parted lips, he looked upon
his humble teacher; his soul was listening to the words of truth. Then
he felt a wish to be alone.
“Thank you, Adam Olliver. I’ll come and see you again.” Then, turning
his horse towards Waverdale Park, he began to turn over in his mind
the words he had just heard--“The word of the Lord by the mouth of his
servant,” Adam Olliver.
Meanwhile, that good man stood looking after the retreating youth,
with a smile of triumph and a tear of joy mingling on his cheek. “He’s
thahne, Lord, seeave him!” he said aloud, and then, retiring to a
little clump of trees, where Balaam was listlessly cropping the grass,
more for occupation than through hunger, Adam knelt in prayer; there
were few spots on Farmer Houston’s farm which had not been consecrated
by his secret devotions. He pleaded fervently, as one who had but to
ask and have, for the struggling penitent whom he had just pointed to
the Lamb of God. Praises soon mingled with his prayers, and he rose
from his knees, assured and happy.
“Balaam!” said he, as he went back to his employment, “an heir ov
glory hez been born te-day!”
* * * * *
Philip Fuller’s horse might just as well have had no rider for all the
control he felt. The bridle was hung loosely on his neck, his pace was
a slow and measured walk, and his rider, all the while, was thinking,
praying, and talking to himself.
“He bare our sins, _my sins_, in His own body on the tree. _Whosoever_
believeth--Lord, I believe! I come to the Cross! My sins, I cannot
bear them. Thou hast borne them--hast died for me! My Lord and my God!
Mine! What’s this?” he shouted. “I know it; I feel it. Jesus, Thou art
my Saviour, too!” He looked around--the very trees wore a brighter
robe, the sky a fairer blue, the very birds were singing of his
new-born peace! Seizing the bridle, he turned his startled steed and
galloped back to where the old hedger was at work.
“Adam Olliver!” he shouted, “Adam Olliver!”
“Halleluia!” shouted Adam. “Ah knoa all aboot it. Prayse the Lord!”
The young man leaped from his horse, seized the old man’s hands and
shook them, while the happy tears ran down his sunny face.
“Adam Olliver, my sins are gone!”
“Halleluia, ah saw ’em gannin’. Good-bye tiv ’em!”
“But Jesus is mine. My Saviour and my all.”
“Prayse the Lord. Ah saw He was comin’. Bless your heart; ah knoa’d it
were all right afoore yo’ went away. Ah saw it i’ your een, an’ the
Lord tell’d me you were His.”
Thus did Philip Fuller find rest to his soul. The mental doubts, the
troubled conscience, and the broken heart, which had so long
distressed him, had all died out beneath the lifted Cross; the new
life which was to be for ever was breathed into his soul on Nestleton
Wold, and the apostle who led the rich patrician youth to Jesus was
the humble hedger on a Yorkshire farm. Go thy way, happy youth!
Brighter sunshine than that which floods the autumn noon around thee
fills thy rejoicing soul. Go thy way, and be sure that in the thick
darkness which is soon to gather round thee, the Saviour in whom thy
trust is will be thy faithful strength and stay. Thou shalt walk
through the valley whose shadows are as dark as death; but upheld by
the strong arm of the loving Saviour, thou shalt pass on to greet the
dawn in God’s decisive hour when the sun shall chase the gloom, and
the hill-tops catch the glory of returning day!