SQUIRE FULLER INTRODUCES AN INNOVATION.
“List to the Saviour’s words: ‘Where two or three
Meet in My name, there in the midst am I.’
Believe, and welcome to thy family
The gracious Guest; and by His blessing try
How much domestic bliss and amity
Hang on domestic worship’s hallowing tie.”
_Bishop Mant._
After Squire Fuller had returned home from the county business which
demanded his presence in the ancient town of York, he found himself
much exercised in mind, as to certain important matters which pressed
upon his notice. Lucy Blyth’s sudden departure was a surprise, and he
was bound to acknowledge to himself that it was an unwelcome one. The
fair girl had cast around him the magic spell which had taken captive
all who came within its influence. Her presence in his lonely mansion,
long unbrightened by the sweet subtleties of woman, had thrown more
than a gleam of sunshine through its stiff and stately grandeur; her
wondrous magic had given back to him the son of his right hand; her
cheerful and attractive piety had excited something more in him than
admiration; and her sweet songs of Zion and her clear witness for her
Saviour had touched his heart. These things, together with his own
son’s beautiful and consistent religious profession, and his
convincing testimony of the power of Christianity, had left his harsh
and narrow scepticism without a leg to stand on. Besides all this,
Lucy had undoubtedly saved his own life by her well-aimed blow on the
extended arm of the villain, Buckley. He felt that he must make some
return to her, commensurate with the weighty and unspeakable service
she had rendered, but how to set about it, under the peculiar
circumstances of the case, he did not know. Then, again, he felt in
his conscience that both she and Philip had possession of some secret
inborn talisman which brought them peace, happiness, and hope, to
which he was an utter and a miserable stranger. Intelligence of “the
great revival” had reached him through the medium of his son, who was
as yet unable to endure excitement and exposure, but who was kept well
posted up as to the course of Methodist events, by his much-loved
class-leader and minister, the Rev. Matthew Mitchell. The marvellous
change which had come over Midden Harbour, and the other delightful
results of that great movement, were all told to the wondering squire
by his son, whose pale face was lit up the while, with a heaven-born
joy, as he related the triumphs of the Gospel; and the poor old
squire, drawn more and more by the unseen hand of Him who was “lifted
up” for this very purpose, had a chronic heartache for the possession
of the heaven-sent secret which was such a treasure to his son. Other
witness, too, was now forthcoming, which still more clearly evidenced
the mighty power of Methodism, hitherto despised, to work the highest
moral wonders, and to produce in the hardest hearts and most unlikely
cases, the sterling results of that Gospel which its ministers and
people so vigorously proclaimed.
Immediately after that notable Sunday, on which Piggy Morris found
peace with God, Squire Fuller received the following letter:--
“HONOURED SIR,--Years ago you turned me off the farm on which I
was born, and which was rented by my father before me. You did
justly, and only what I deserved. From that day until now I have
hated you and yours, and would have gone far and done much to
work you harm. There was a triumphant vengeance in my heart when
circumstances led me to believe that I could strike at you
through your son. I deeply repent, and would hereby express my
bitter sorrow for the trouble my wicked hate has caused. God has
shown me the greatness of my sin; He has shown me the greatness
of His mercy; He has forgiven my sin. I pray you, forgive me
also. I desire to subscribe myself, with great respect,
“Yours humbly and repentingly,
“GEORGE MORRIS.”
“Well! that’s a miracle, at any rate,” said the squire, as he handed
the letter to his son; “that’s casting out a devil of no ordinary
strength and size. I am bound to say it is a most satisfactory letter,
and I shall write and express my pleasure at the receipt of it.”
“And your hearty compliance with his request?” said Philip.
“Certainly, my boy; George Morris’s conduct shall be forgotten and
forgiven.”
“Father!” said Philip, softly and half timidly; “Is not that a
miracle, too?”
The old gentleman, once stiff, stately, proud and unyielding to a
degree, was compelled to feel that he himself had marvellously
changed. He knew that that change had been largely wrought by the son
he had received from the dead, and by the fair girl who had gotten so
strong a hold upon his heart.
“Yes, Philip,” and the father’s eyes reddened with suffusing tears,
“I’m bound to own that I too am something other, and I think, better
than I was.”
Philip wisely and prudently said no more, but his soul was full of a
yearning love to his mollified and chastened parent and of gratitude
to God, who was so evidently leading him by a way he knew not, to a
hitherto undiscovered resting-place for intellect and heart.
In the course of the day the squire met his head gamekeeper.
“Well, Hatfield,” said he, “how are you getting on?”
“Why, sir,” said Hatfield, touching his hat, “we don’t seem to have
very much to do now. A fortnight or two since, me and my mates were in
peril of our lives, and Waverdale Woods were as flush of poachers as
they were of game; but they seem to be pretty nearly all gone.”
“Gone? What’s gone? The game?”
“No, sir; the poachers. I haven’t seen a snare set, or heard a gun for
three weeks, and the hares that were snared at the beginning of that
time we had the pleasure of taking ourselves.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, Hatfield. But how do you account for it?”
“Why, sir, it’s all owing to the Methodist preaching in Midden
Harbour. I met Potter Bill the other day, and I said, ‘Why, Bill,
you’ve given us no trouble lately.’ He said, ‘No, I ha’nt, an’ what’s
mair, ah nivver sall nae mair. God’s been givin’ me trubble i’steead.
Methody preeachers ez been pooachin’ i’ Midden Harbour, an’ they’ve
aboot bagged all t’ game i’ t’ spot. You can tell Squire Fuller ’at he
may knock off hoaf-a-dozen watchers, for we shan’t worrit him nae
mair.’”
“Capital!” said the squire. “I’m sure I ought to be heartily obliged
to them, and to the Methodist parsons, too. By the way, do you know
anything about them yourself?”
“Yes, sir. I go to their preachings sometimes on a Sunday night;
indeed I may say every Sunday.”
“Why, I thought you went to church, Hatfield, like the rest of my
servants,” said the squire, with half a frown.
“Yes, so I do, sir: but that’s in the morning, you know; and as I go
to church because you wish it, I felt myself free to go to chapel as
well.”
“Because I wish it?” said the squire. “Wouldn’t you go if I had no
wish on the subject? Surely the parish church is the proper place for
the people of the parish to go to.”
“Why, sir, I’m quite sure that nearly all the servants at the hall
_do_ go because you wish it, and for nothing else. Parson Elliott
would have very few else. Among the Methodists things is plainer and
more hearty like. I own I like it best myself.”
“But the Liturgy of the Church of England, Hatfield, is one of the
most beautiful compositions in the English language, and nothing can
be better for public worship.”
“Yes, sir, I dare say it is; but it doesn’t seem to come from the
heart like the Methodist preacher’s does. He prays without any book at
all, and the things he asks for comes so pat that you can’t help
joining in them. At the church it only seems to send us to sleep, and
as for the sermons, Parson Elliott reads something for ten minutes,
and it’s all over. But Mr. Clayton, and Mr. Mitchell, and Nathan
Blyth, they preach right out of their heads and hearts, for
half-an-hour or more, and one can’t help thinking about what they
say.”
It would be well if certain degenerate Methodist preachers of modern
times, who read their sermons without a blush, would take to heart
this witness of the honest gamekeeper, and mend their evil and utterly
unacceptable ways. The strength of Methodism has been chiefly in the
pulpit, and the introduction of manuscript sermons into that place of
power sadly mars its effect, and leaves the congregation, like
Gideon’s fleece, “unwatered still and dry.”
The squire turned away from the loquacious gamekeeper to ponder on the
results of Methodist “poaching” and Methodist preaching, and he felt
half inclined to go himself and hear what the thing was like. Nor did
his day’s experiences end here, for as he retraced his steps, walking
as his wont was with his head bent down and his hands behind him, he
suddenly came upon Adam Olliver, who was returning homewards from his
daily labour, on the back of Balaam. The squire was walking on the
grassy path by the roadside, and the short winter’s day was fast
deepening into night, so that neither form nor foot betrayed his
presence to the happy old hedger, who was, as usual, opening his mind
to his dumb companion, without any reserve. Conversation with bipedal
donkeys needs a strong infusion of the latter article; with Balaam,
however, the case was different.
“Balaam, aud boy,” the old man was saying, “a warse crew then them i’
Midden Harbour couldn’t be fun’ atween York and Lunnun, an’ ivvery yan
on ’em ’ll be browt te God. His seeaving grace is cum te Potter Bill
an’ Nanny Spink, just as it com te t’ yung squire, for the Lord mak’s
nae difference. May the Lord seeave t’ aud squire. He nobbut wants t’
luv o’ Jesus iv ’is ’eart te be a blessin’ te all Waverdale, an’ then
t’ new chapil wad be built iv a twinklin’.”
“Hem!” coughed the squire loudly, still keeping in the shade, deepened
now by overhanging trees.
“Massy on uz! Ah did’nt knoa there was onnybody there!”
“Good evening!” said the squire. “You are just coming from work, I
suppose.”
“Hey! Ah’ve been deeain’ a lahtle bit, but ah isn’t up te mitch
noo-a-days. Ah can nobbut faddle aboot a bit wi’ me slashin’-knife,
an’ if t’ maister nobbut payd me what ah addled, there wad be a good
monny mair pennies then shillin’s te draw o’ Setterda’ neets. Are yo’
gannin’ te Nestleton?”
“Yes, I’m going in that direction for a little way.”
“That’s right. Ah’s fond ov a bit o’ cumpany, tho’ ah mak’s a shift te
get on withoot. Ah was talkin’ te Balaam, when ah heeard yo’ cough.”
“That’s the name of your donkey, I suppose?” said the squire, with a
smile.
“Yes. He hezn’t mitch te say te ma’ i’ answer, tho’ noo an’ then he’s
noisy aneeaf, bud he’s a varry good lissener, at onny rate he’s better
then nowt. Ah reckon you’ve heeard what’s bin gannin’ o’ in Midden
Harbour latly. The Lord’s been gettin’ tiv Hissen a glorious victh’ry,
an’ scoores o’ poor sowls hez been tonned frae darkness te leet, an’
frae t’ poo’er o’ Satan te God. De yo’ knoa owt aboot that, ah
wunder?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said the squire, who was getting more than he
bargained for.
“Why then, bless yo’, why nut? Jesus dee’d fo’ yo’, bare your sins iv
His aun body upo’ t’ tree. Try Him! Beleeave iv Him, an’ ah’ll lay me
life He’ll mak’ yo’ as ’appy as yo’ can live.”
“Then you are happy, are you?”
“’Appy! Prayse the Lord. Ah sud think I is, an’ hae been for mair then
fifty year; an’ this minnit ah knoa nowt sae sartain as that Jesus is
my Saviour, an’ ’at me’ neeame’s written i’ t’ Lamb’s Book ov Life.”
“What were you saying about a new chapel, when I overtook you? Is
there likely to be one in Nestleton?”
“Hey, mair then likely, it’s sartain. Meeast o’ t’ monney’s riddy, and
noo the Lord’s gi’en us a congregation an’ a society riddy, we’re
nobbut waitin’ for t’ squire te be riddy, an’ then we sall ’rise an’
build.’”
“But have you any hope that the squire is likely to be ready? I
thought he had refused you a piece of ground long since.”
“Why, seea he did--nay, nut exactly refused oot an’ oot; bud he said
he wad tak’ tahme te think aboot it, an’ we’ve been prayin’ and
beleeavin’ an’ waitin’ ivver since; an’ bless yo’, ah’ve neea mair
doot aboot it, then I hev ’at t’ squire hisself ’ll cum te Jesus, an’
be meead as ’appy as Maister Philip is, God bless ’im. Ah tell yo’,
that yung man’s a glorious and noble fello’ ’at ’ll sum day be yan o’
t’ greeatest blessin’s Waverdale’s ivver knoan.”
“And you really hope that the squire himself will become a Methodist,
do you?”
“Why, ah didn’t say that. A man ’at’s a Methodist an’ nowt else is
like a nut withoot a kennil, or a tree withoot sap, bud ah said ’at t’
squire ’ll becum a Christian. Why, his sun’s prayin’ for it, an’ ah
nivver lets a day pass withoot prayin’ for it mysen--an’ mah lahtle
class ’at meets i’ my hoose ivvery Thosday, prays for ’im as reg’lar
as t’ neet cums. He’s bun’ te be seeaved, God bless ’im! an’ he’s bun’
te give us a bit o’ land for a chapil!”
“Well, good evening. I hope you will succeed,” said the squire, for
here his road diverged.
“Good neet te yo’, an’ ah wop ’at you’ll finnd yer way te t’ Cross.
That’s the spot for all on uz! Good neet.”
Old Adam Olliver went on his way, utterly unconscious as to the
identity of his companion, and when seated by his humble fireside, he
told Judy that he had just had the chance of “sayin’ a wod for Jesus.”
Meanwhile Squire Fuller bent his steps to the gate of Waverdale Park,
saying to himself, “Praying for me, are they? Thank God for it.” As he
passed through the park gate, he saw the household of Gaffer Green,
the lodge-keeper, kneeling round their little room at family prayer.
The lighted candle on the round table shone through the diamond panes
of the cottage window, and Squire Fuller saw the open Bible, the
spectacles laid upon them, the kneeling forms of wife, and son, and
daughter, and the uplifted face of the white-haired old man, as he
commended his household to God. “God forgive me!” sighed he to
himself, and then, with a firm step, as though some new resolve was
born in him, he hastened home. That earnest prayer was heard in
heaven, and its answer was recorded in his own submissive and
believing heart!
For a little while neither Philip nor his father spoke. The former
thought he saw a change in his father’s countenance, a new light in
his eye; the latter was lost in solemn but not unpleasant thought.
“Philip!” said he, at last, “ask the butler to call all the servants
in for family prayer.”
Philip threw one quick and joyful glance, which fell with an ineffable
benediction on the father’s heart, and hastened to give the welcome
message. Without one prefatory word, the squire read the fifty-third
chapter of Isaiah to the amazed and wondering household. Then as they
knelt around, he opened the unfamiliar prayer-book, and began to read.
The printed form was too strait for him; he broke away on the
flood-tide of the new life which had come to him. He pleaded, praised,
and prayed, until the most indifferent was melted into tears. After
commending them all to the watchful care of Heaven, they rose from
their knees, and the two were left alone. Philip could contain himself
no longer; he flung himself upon the old man’s neck, and wept with
joy. The stars that night looked down upon no holier spot than that
stately home in which the Ark of God had found an honoured place.