Nestleton Magna
Rev. Jackson Wray

NESTLETON MAGNA.

NATHAN AT WORK.—[Page 294.]

NESTLETON MAGNA.
A STORY OF
YORKSHIRE METHODISM.

BY
J. JACKSON WRAY.

Thirtieth Thousand.

LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co
At the Ballantyne Press

TO THE
METHODIST CHURCHES
THROUGHOUT
THE WORLD,
NUMBERING SOME FIFTEEN MILLIONS OF ADHERENTS,
This Book is respectfully Dedicated,
IN HEARTY ADMIRATION OF THEIR NOBLE LABOURS IN
THE HIGHEST INTERESTS OF HUMANITY,
AND IN THE EXTENSION OF THE REDEEMER’S KINGDOM;
WITH THE EARNEST HOPE THAT,
UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF DIVINE PROVIDENCE, THEY WILL
SPEEDILY BE ABLE TO
ADOPT SOME PRINCIPLE OF CONFEDERACY,
BY MEANS OF WHICH THEY MAY PRESENT
A UNITED AND RESISTLESS FRONT AGAINST EVERY FORM OF
ANTI-CHRIST, AND
IN LOVING CO-OPERATION WITH OTHER CHRISTIAN CHURCHES,
MAY SOON
“WIN THE WORLD FOR CHRIST.”

[PREFACE.]

In this book I have sought to present a faithful picture of village Methodism—a picture which I do not hesitate to say is being reproduced to-day, as far as Church work and beneficent piety is concerned, in many a village in this country. I have had, for more years than I care to count, an intimate knowledge of Methodist rural life. Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver and his wife Judith, and some other characters in the book, not excepting Balaam, have, unconsciously, stood for their portraits; and I dare to say that those parts of the story which have to do with Methodist operations and influences, will not be considered as overdrawn by those who are most conversant with the inner life of the Methodist people. If it be asked why I have presented my pictures in fictitious frames, my answer is, that I was bound to follow my natural bent, and to allow my pen to pursue the lines most congenial to the hand that wielded it; that, of all kinds of literature, fiction is the most attractive, and as it is utterly useless to try to prevent its perusal, wisdom and religion, too, suggest that it should be provided of so pure a quality, and with so definitely a moral and religious bias, that it may not only do no harm but some good to the reader, who would otherwise go further and fare worse. I have honestly endeavoured so to write as to be able to quote dear Old Bunyan, and say,—

“This book is writ in such a dialect

As may the minds of listless men affect;

It seems a novelty, and yet contains

Nothing but sound and honest Gospel strains.”

The rapid sale of the former editions of “Nestleton Magna,” and the numerous criticisms to which it has been subjected, have given me a welcome and unexpectedly early opportunity of giving it a careful revision, especially in the rendering of the East Yorkshire dialect. It is now presented to the public in a new and much improved form, and at a price which will bring it within the reach of all classes. The liberal and spontaneous patronage, and the highly-favourable reviews which this my first venture has received, merit my hearty thanks, and encourage me to a new trial of skill in the same direction. According to the unanimous and emphatic testimony of a large jury of reviewers, “Aud Adam Olliver” is fully worthy of the esteem I have sought to win for him; I cannot, therefore, do better than quote the words of the godly old patriarch, in acknowledgment of their verdict and the popular approval, “Ah’s varry mitch obliged te yo’.”

J. JACKSON WRAY.

[CONTENTS.]

[NESTLETON MAGNA.]

[CHAPTER I.]
Nestleton Magna.

“The cottage homes of England

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.”

Mrs. Hemans.

NESTLETON MAGNA is as “canny” a little village as can be found in any portion of the Three Kingdoms; and that is saying a good deal, for there are rural gems within British borders which are quite unequalled for cosiness and beauty by anything you can find within the four quarters of the globe, even if you take “all the isles of the ocean” into the bargain. Situated in the East Riding of Yorkshire, and nestling like a brooding bird in the fertile valley of Waverdale, at the foot of the Yorkshire Wolds, it possesses rare and quiet charms, which elicit the spontaneous admiration of those not numerous tourists, who prefer to explore the rich resources of English inland scenery, rather than fag through the hurry-skurry and unsatisfactory whirl of Continental travel. There is many a jaded man of business, many a brain-worn student, who foolishly squanders the precious hours of his brief holiday in rushing insanely over weary miles, through hot and dusty cities, among tiresome hills and rugged mountains—returning home again weary and worn—who would have found real rest and health, and equally varied and charming landscapes, within the borders of his motherland.

Nestleton Magna is surrounded by emerald hills, which slope gently down to the valley in which the hamlet lies, displaying a varied surface of wood and glade, of cornland and pasture-ground, and surmounted by a stretch of moorland, whereon the sheep crop the scantier herbage, and the morning mists hang like silver curtains until the “rosy fingers of the sun” draw them aside, and then purple heath and golden gorse gleam and glitter on them like a royal crown. Most of the cottages are thatched and white-washed, and not a few are embowered in honeysuckle and jasmine. Here and there a more pretentious dwelling lifts its head, and these with their red bricks and tiles give piquant variety to the picture. Through the village there flows a babbling brook, in whose clear, transparent waters the speckled trout may be seen poising themselves with waving fin, or darting like an arrow above the gravelly bed, while sticklebacks and minnows disport themselves in their crystal paradise. Along its borders are two rows of unshorn willows, and here and there a poplar lifts its stately head. On either side, in and out among the cosy cottages, are little patches of garden ground, small tree-shaded paddocks, and orchards which in sunny spring-time are flush with the manifold blossoms of apple, plum, pear, and cherry-trees, which add a peculiar charm to the attractive scene.

“Far diffused around

One boundless blush, one white impurpled shower

Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye

Hurries from joy to joy.”

The quaint old church stands on rising ground in the centre of the village, and its short, square Norman tower, ivy-clad and pinnacled, is almost overtopped by the gables of the ancient rectory which stands close by. The church, the rectory grounds, and the pretty little churchyard are enclosed and shadowed by a circle of fine old elms, in which a colony of rooks have been established from time immemorial, and their monotonous and familiar cawing gives a sylvan finish to the scene. Near the little wych gate of the churchyard a spacious and open green affords a pleasant playground for the chubby children, of whom Nestleton Magna provides quite a notable supply, a gossipping place for the village rustics in the evening hours, and pasturage for two or three cows, a donkey or two, and, last not least, a flock of geese, whose solemn-looking gander oft disputes possession of the field with the aforesaid chubby children, who flee motherward before it in undisguised alarm.

Neither is Nestleton Magna without its lions, and of these the Nestletonians are justly proud. In Gregory Houston’s “Home-close,” on the Abbey Farm, there are the veritable ruins of the ancient cloisters wherein, in darker times, the Waverdale nuns led ignoble and wasted lives. The crumbling walls and tottering archways, and grass-grown heaps of stone, are all covered with ivy bush, bramble, and briar; but if tradition is to be believed, there are underground passages to the parish church on the one hand, and reaching even to Cowley Priory on the other, where, in “the good old times,” a fraternity of Franciscan friars ruled the roast and played queer pranks in Waverdale, according to the manner of their tribe. Nestleton Abbey, for by that name are the ruins known, is reputed to be haunted. It is said that long, long ago, a certain nun called Agatha, having been placed under penance, did in wicked revenge stab her offending Lady Superior to the heart, and then, in bitter remorse, did plunge the fatal knife into her own. From that day to this she has never rested quiet in her unhallowed grave, but ever and anon “revisits the glimpses of the moon,” attired in a white robe with a crimson stain upon the breast, and flits among the ruins with uplifted hands, wailing out the unavailing plaints of her unshriven soul. Surely it is given to few villages to possess so veritable and renowned a wonder as “Sister Agatha’s ghost.” Then there is St. Madge’s Well, in Widow Appleton’s croft—once a far-famed shrine, to which devout pilgrimages were made from far and near, and which is credited to this day with certain healing virtues second only to those of Bethesda’s sacred pool. Pure, bright, cold and crystalline, its waters strongly impregnated with iron, it bubbles up unceasingly in the cool grot, overshadowed by flowering hawthorn, fragrant elder, and purple beech, and no visitor to Waverdale could ever think of neglecting to visit this charming nook, or drinking from the iron cup chained to its stone brink, a refreshing draught from its crystal spring. At least, if he did, Widow Appleton’s money-box would be defrauded, and that brisk and cheery old dame in neat black gown and frilled white cap, would wish to know the reason why.

Time would fail to tell all the beauties of Nestleton Magna, and of that lovely valley of Waverdale, of which it is the loveliest gem. For the present, Waverdale Park, Thurston Wood, Cowley Priory, and a host of minor marvels must be content with passing mention—content to wait their several occasions in the development of this simple and veracious story of Yorkshire village life.

[CHAPTER II.]
“Blithe Natty,” the Harmonious Blacksmith.

“Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate’er he can;

And looks the whole world in the face.

For he owes not any man.”

Longfellow.

NEARLY at the eastern end of Nestleton stood the village forge, a spacious low-roofed building, in which Nathan Blyth, the blacksmith, and his father before him, had wielded the hammer by the ringing anvil, fashioning horse-shoes, forging plough-shares, and otherwise following the arts and mysteries of their grimy craft. Close to the smithy stood Nathan’s cottage, though that is almost too humble a name to give to the neat and roomy dwelling which owned the stalwart blacksmith for its lord and master. True it was thatched and white-washed like its humbler neighbours, but it boasted of two good stories, and had a latticed porch, which, as well as the walls, was covered with roses, jasmine, and other floral adornments. At the gable end was a tall and fruitful jargonelle pear-tree, which not only reached to the very peak of the gable, but like Joseph’s vine, its branches ran over the wall, and were neatly tacked with loops of cloth behind the house, and almost as far as the lowlier porch which screened the kitchen entrance thereto. Both “fore and aft,” as the sailors say, was a spacious and well-managed garden, whose fruits, flowers, and vegetables, trim walks and tasteful beds, testified to the fact that their owner was as skilful with the spade and the rake as he was with the hammer, the chisel, and the file.

And that is saying much, for Nathan Blyth had a wonderful repute as the deftest master of his handicraft within twenty miles of Waverdale. You could not find his equal in the matter of coulters and plough-shares. Farmer Houston used to say that his horses went faster and showed better mettle for his magic fit in the way of shoes; and as for millers’ chisels, with which the millstones are roughened to make them “bite,” they were sent to him from thirty miles the other side of Kesterton market town to be tempered and sharpened as only Nathan Blyth could. Then, too, he was handy in all things belonging to the whitesmith’s trade. He could doctor the smallest locks, and understood the secrets of every kind of catch and latch; the farm-lads of the village would even bring their big turnip watches to him, and the way in which he could fix a mainspring or put to rights a balance-wheel was wonderful to see.

Natty Blyth was a fine specimen of humanity from a physical point of view. He stood five feet eleven in his stockings, and at five-and-forty years of age had thews and sinews of Samsonian calibre and power. A bright, honest, open face, had Nathan; a pair of thick eye-brows, well arched, surmounted by a bold, high forehead, and quite a wealth of dark brown hair. His happy temper, his merry face, and his constant habit of singing at his toil, had got him the name of “Blithe Natty,” and justly so, for a blither soul than he you could not find from John-o’-Groats to Land’s End, with the Orkneys and the Scilly Isles to increase your chances. Whenever he stood by his smithy hearth, his clear tenor voice would roll out its mirthful minstrelsy, while the hot iron flung out its sparks beneath his hammer, defying the ring of the anvil either to drown his voice or spoil his tune.

One fine spring morning, Blithe Natty was busy at his work, and, as usual, his voice and his anvil were keeping time, when old Kasper Crabtree, a miserly old bachelor, who farmed Kesterton Grange, stole on him unobserved. Natty was singing away—

There never was a man.

Since first the world began,

If he only did his duty, and kept his conscience clear,

But God was on his side;

It cannot be denied,

So, whatever may betide,

We’ll do our honest duty, boys, and never, never fear.

Then as you go along,

Ring out a merry song;

A good heart and a true is better far than gear.

In every time and place,

He wears a smiling face,

Who goes to God for grace.

Who does his honest duty, boys, need never, never fear.

“Aye, that’s right,” said Kasper Crabtree. “Honest duty, as you say, is the right sort of thing. I only wish my lazy fellows did a little more on ’t.”

“A little more” was Kasper Crabtree’s creed in a word.

“Why, you see,” said Blithe Natty, “its often ‘like master like man’; pipe i’t parlour, dance i’t kitchen; an’ maybe if you were to do your duty to them a little better they would do better by you. ‘Give a pint an’ gain a peck; give a noggin’ an’ get nowt.’”

Kasper Crabtree did not relish this salutary home-thrust, and made haste to change the subject.

“What a glorious morning it is!” said he, “it’s grand weather for t’ young corn.”

“Aye,” said Natty, “I passed by your forty-acre field yesterday, and your wheat looked splendid. The rows of bright fresh green looked very bonny, and the soil was as clean as a new pin.”

“Hey, hey,” said old Crabtree, for he was proud of his farming, and boasted that his management was without equal in the Riding, “I’ll warrant there isn’t much in the way of weeds, though it’s a parlous job to keep ’em under. It beats me to know why weeds should grow so much faster than corn, and so much more plentiful.”

“Why, you see, Farmer Crabtree, weeds are nat’ral. The soil is their mother, an’ you know it’s only stepmother to the corn, or you wouldn’t have to sow it; and stepmothers’ bairns don’t often thrive well. However, I’m pretty sure that you are a match for all the weeds that grow—in the fields, at any rate.”

“Hey, or anywhere else,” said the boastful farmer.

“Why, I don’t know so much about that,” said Natty. “There’s a pesky lot o’ rubbish i’ the heart, Maister Crabtree, an’ like wicks an’ couch grass there’s no getting to the bottom on em. The love of money, now, is the root of”——

But Kasper Crabtree was off like a shot, for Blithe Natty’s metaphor was coming uncomfortably close to a personal application, and his hearer knew of old that Nathan was in the habit of striking as hard with his tongue as he did with his hammer, so he rapidly beat a retreat. Natty’s face broadened into a smile as he pulled amain at the handle of his bellows, and then drawing from the fire the red-hot coulter he was shaping, he began thumping away amid a shower of fiery spray, singing, as his wont was—

Put in the ploughshare and turn up the soil;

Harrow the seed in and sing at the toil,

Hoe up the ketlocks and pull up the weeds;

Toiling and hoping till harvest succeeds.

Hearts are like fallow, and need to be tilled;

Nothing but evil things else will they yield.

Plough them well, sow them well; crops of good deeds

Follow, if only we keep down the weeds.

Keep down the weeds, brothers, keep down the weeds!

God sends His sunshine, and harvest succeeds.

The coulter was again thrust into the fire, and once again the long lever of the blacksmith’s bellows, with a cow’s horn by way of handle, was gripped to raise another “heat,” when a second visitor crossed the smithy threshold, as different from the grim, gaunt, wrinkled and forbidding form and features of old Kasper Crabtree as a briar-rose differs from a hedgestake, an icicle from a sunbeam, or a polar bear from a summer fawn.

Gathering her skirts of neat-patterned printed calico around her to keep them from the surrounding grime, the new-comer stole noiselessly behind the unconscious smith, laid her dainty hands on his brawny shoulders, and springing high enough to catch a kiss from his swarthy cheek, landed again on terra firma, and, with a ripple of laughter which sounded like a strain of music, stood with merry, upturned face to greet Blithe Natty’s startled gaze.

“Give me that back again, you unconscionable thief!” said Nathan, laying his big hand on her dainty little wrist. “It’s flat felony, and I’ll prosecute you with the utmost rigour of the law.”

“Can’t do it, sir. You’ve no witnesses, and the offence isn’t actionable;” and the doughty little damsel took another from the same place with impunity.

There was a wondrous light in the eyes of Nathan Blyth, as he looked in the fair face of the beautiful girl, the light of a love surpassing the love of women, for was she not his only child, and the very image of the wife and mother, now a saint in heaven, and still loved by him with a tender fidelity that seemed to deepen and strengthen with the lapse of time? No deeper, truer, more concentrated affection ever glowed in the breast of man, than that which filled the heart of Nathan Blyth for his peerless Lucy, and sure I am that none was ever more richly merited.

[CHAPTER III.]
“Master Philip.”

“A Knight there was, and that a worthy man,

That from the tyme that he first bigan

To ryden out, he loved chyvalrie,

Truth and honour, freedom and curtesie.

······

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer,

A lovyer and a lusty bachelor,

With lockkes crulle, as they were laid in press.

Of twenty year he was of age, I guess.”

Chaucer.

THE brief spring day had faded into night. Nathan Blyth raked out his smithy fire, laid aside his leather apron, locked up the forge, and after an extensive and enjoyable ablution, was seated by the little round table in the cosy kitchen, discussing the tea and muffins which Lucy had prepared for their joint repast. That young lady presented a very piquant and attractive picture. In what her winsomeness consisted it would be difficult to say: certainly, she was possessed of unusual charms of face and form, but it is equally certain that these constituted only a minor element in the glamour of a beauty which commanded unstinted admiration. With much wisdom and at much self-sacrifice, Nathan Blyth had sent his daughter to a distant and noted school for several years, and thanks to this and her own clear intellect and singular diligence, she had obtained an education altogether in advance of most girls of her age in a much higher rank of social life. Her pleasant manners and maidenly behaviour made her justly popular among the villagers, and many a farmer’s son in and around Nestleton would have gone far and given much for a preferential glance from her lustrous hazel eyes, and for the reward of a smile and a word from lips which had no parallels amid the budding beauties of Waverdale.

Lucy’s mother, a quiet, unpretentious woman, whose solid qualities and amiable disposition her daughter had inherited, had died some five years before the opening of my story; but the well-kept grave, the perpetual succession of flowers planted there, and the fresh-cut grave-stone at its head, gave proof enough that the widower and orphan kept her memory green.

For a long time after his wife’s death Nathan Blyth had lived a lonely and a shadowed life. His anvil rang as loudly, because his hammer was wielded as lustily as before, but his grand, clear, tenor voice was seldom lifted in cheerful song. Time, however, that merciful healer of sore hearts, had gradually extracted the sting of his bereavement, and loving memories, sweet and tender, took the place of the aching vacuum which had been so hard to bear. In his blooming daughter, lately returned from school in all the fair promise of beautiful womanhood, Nathan saw the express image of his sainted wife. So now again his home was lighted up with gladness, and from the hearthstone, long gloomy in its solitude, the shadows flitted: for as Lucy tripped around, performing her domestic duties with pleasant smile and cheery song, Nathan waxed content and happy, and no words can describe the joy the sweet girl felt as she heard the old anvil-music ringing at the forge and saw the olden brightness beaming on his face. And so it should ever be:—

Be sure that those we mourn, whom God has taken,

Have added joys, the more our sorrows die;

They would not have us live of peace forsaken,

While they are joysome in their home on high.

Could we but hear again their loving voices,

Comfort and cheer upon our hearts would fall;

Be sure each sainted friend the more rejoices,

The more we can the olden joy recall.

Down look they on us from their regal glory,

Or, by Divine permit, come hov’ring near;

Fain would they tell us all the golden story

Of their high bliss our mournful hearts to cheer.

Nor are they voiceless—spiritual whispers

In sweetly silent music thrill the breast;

Then soul communes with soul, exchanges Mizpahs,

And their soft saint-song bids us, “Be at rest!”

“Father,” said Lucy, as the pleasant meal proceeded, “What has become of Master Philip? Before I went to school he used to come riding up to the forge on his little white pony nearly every day. You and he were great friends, I remember, and I have never seen him since I came back.”

“Why, little lassie,” said Nathan, “you and he were quite as good friends as we were. Indeed, I’m pretty sure that his visits were quite as much for your sake as mine. At any rate, Master Philip would never turn his pony’s head towards Waverdale Park until he had seen ‘his little sweetheart,’ as he called you, and I’m bound to say, Miss Lucy, that you were quite as well pleased to see his handsome face and to hear the ring of his merry voice as ever I was—though I did not mean to make you blush by saying so.”

The concluding words only served to deepen and prolong the ingenuous blush which now dyed the face of Lucy with a rosy red.

“Well, father,” said Lucy, laughing, “I own I liked the bright open-hearted boy, who brought me flowers from his papa’s conservatory, and gave me many a ride on his long-maned pony, but I was only a little girl then”——

“And now you are a big woman, and as old as Methusaleh, you withered little witch,” said Blithe Natty, as he drew his heart’s idol to his side, and planted a kiss upon her brow. “Well, Master Philip went to college soon after you went to school, and his visits to Nestleton have been few and far between. He has grown into a fine young man now, and they tell me that he has borne off all the honours of the university. The old squire is as proud of his son as a hen with one chick, and small blame to him for that. He has just returned home for good; but,” said he, in a tone so serious as to surprise the unconscious maiden, “my little lassie must not expect any more pony rides or accept hothouse flowers from his hands again.”

“Of course not,” said my lady, arching her neck and fixing her dark eyes on her father in innocent amaze, “I don’t think Lucy Blyth is likely to forget herself or bring a cloud on ‘daddy’s’ face.”

“Neither do I, my darling,” said Nathan, as another and still another osculatory process proclaimed a perfect understanding between the doting father and his motherless girl.

Master Philip, the subject of the foregoing conversation, was the only son and heir of Ainsley Fuller, Esq., of Waverdale Park, who owned nearly all the village of Nestleton, many a farm round, and half the town of Kesterton into the bargain. The squire, as he was called, was rich in worldly wealth, but poor in human sympathies and the more enduring treasures of the heart. In early life he had essayed to run a political career; but his first constituency turned their backs upon him, and on the second he turned his back, disgusted at the pressure brought to bear upon him by a predominant radicalism. Unfortunate in his wooing, his first and only true love was taken from him by death, and a lady to whom he was subsequently betrothed was stolen from him by a successful rival on the eve of the bridal day. After living to middle age, and developing a disposition half cynical and accepting a creed half sceptical, he had suddenly and unwisely married a youthful wife, whose tastes and habits of life were altogether foreign to his own. A brief span of unhappy married life was closed by the death of that lady, leaving the new-born babe to the sole guardianship of the seemingly cold and irascible father, whose whole affection, small in store apparently, was fixed on the infant squire—the Master Philip of this story.

Those, however, who depreciated the measure of Squire Fuller’s love for his only son were much mistaken. His immobile features and piercing eyes, peering from beneath the bushy brows of silver grey, told nothing of the mighty love that lurked within. Nor did Philip himself, for a long time, at all discern, beneath his father’s cold exterior, how the old man really doted on his boy. That remained to a great extent a secret, until a strangely potent key was inserted among the hidden wards of the parental heart, and a rude wrench flung wide the flood-gates, and set free the imprisoned stream.

[CHAPTER IV.]
“Aud Adam Olliver.”

“Though old, he still retain’d

His manly sense and energy of mind,

Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;

He still remembered that he once was young;

His easy presence checked no decent joy,

Him even the dissolute admired; for he

A graceful looseness, when he pleased, put on,

And, laughing, could instruct.”

Armstrong.

THE nearest neighbour to Nathan Blyth was an old farm labourer called Adam Olliver, who for forty years and more, as man and boy, had toiled and moiled on Gregory Houston’s farm. He had now reached an age at which he was unequal to prolonged and heavy labour, and so he spent his time in cutting and trimming the farmer’s hedges—his thoughtful master giving him to understand that though his wages were to be continued as usual, he was at full liberty to work when it pleased him, and to rest when he chose. The old man used to ride to and from his labour on a meek and mild old donkey, which rejoiced in the name of Balaam, and which was never known to travel at any other pace than a slow jog-trot, or to carry any other rider than his master. No sooner did old Balaam become conscious that he was bestridden by any unfamiliar biped, than he curved his neck downwards, placed his head between his knees, elevated his hinder quarters suddenly into mid-air, and ejected the unwelcome tenant of the saddle, and with so brief a notice to quit, that he had generally completed an involuntary somersault, and was landed on Mother Earth, before he knew the nature of the indignity to which he had been subjected.

Adam was somewhat short in stature, thick-set in form and frame; his hair was short and grizzly, and his thick iron-grey eyebrows overarched a pair of twinkling blue eyes, full of keen insight and kindly humour. His fustian coat and battered “Jim Crow,” like his wrinkled and sun-browned features, were “weather-tanned, a duffil grey,” and, like his own bending frame, were a good deal worse for wear. A pair of old corduroy nether garments, buttoned at the knees, with gaiters of the same material, affording a peep at the warm, coarse-ribbed, blue worsted stockings underneath, with hobnailed boots armed with heel and toe-plates, all helped to make up a very quaint and favourable picture of his class—a class common enough upon the Yorkshire farms.

Adam Olliver’s talk was the very broadest Doric of the broadest dialect to be found amid all the phonetic fantasies of England, and his responses to the inquiries of tourists and others, not “to the manner born,” who asked the old hedge-cutter the way, say to Kesterton or Hazelby, were given in what was, to all intents and purposes, high Dutch to the bewildered listeners. They would have been left in glorious uncertainty as to his meaning, but that Old Adam’s energetic and oratorical action generally sufficed to speed the querist in the right direction. He was an honest, upright, intelligent Christian, was Adam, and an old-standing member of the little Methodist society, which had managed to hold its own in the village of Nestleton, and which, for want of a chapel, held its meetings in Farmer Houston’s kitchen. All the villagers held the old man in respect, and few there were who did not enjoy “a crack o’ talk” with the old hedger. His odd humour, sound piety, and practical common sense, were expressed in short, sharp, nuggety sentences, which hit the nail on the head with a thump that drove it home without the need of a second blow. But I hope to give Adam Olliver abundant opportunity to speak for himself, and will say no more than that his “Aud Woman,” as he called his good wife Judith, or Judy in Yorkshire parlance, had been the partner of his joys and sorrows for nearly forty years, and was still a buxom body for her age; that of his three children, Jake the eldest, was Farmer Houston’s foreman; Pete, the second, was seeking his fortune in America; and Hannah, a strapping good-looking lass of nineteen, was under-housemaid at Waverdale Hall, and that all of them will ever and anon appear in the true and impartial village annals I am here recording.

On the evening of a fine spring day, Old Adam, having made Balaam snug and comfortable in a little thatched, half-tumble-down outhouse which did duty for a stable, and having despatched his frugal evening meal, was seated on a small wooden bench outside his cottage door, enjoying the fragrance of some tobacco which Pete had sent him, using for that purpose a short black pipe of small dimensions, strong flavour, and indefinite age.

“Hallo! Adam; then you are burning your idol again,” said Blithe Natty, who had sauntered round for a little gossip.

“Hey,” said Adam, “you see he’s like a good monny idols ov another sooat. He tak’s a plaguey deal o’ manishin’. He’s a reg’lar salimander. Ah’ve been at him off an’ on for weel nigh fotty year, an’ he’s a teeaf ’un; bud,” said he, with a twinkle in his eye, “Ah’ll tak’ good care ’at he ends i’ smook.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Natty, as he leaned his arms on the little garden gate, and swung it to and fro. “I can’t tell how it is you enjoy it so. It would soon do my business for me.”

“Why, ‘there’s neea accoontin’ for teeast,’ as t’ aud woman said when she kissed ’er coo, bud ah reckon you’ve tried it, if t’ truth wer’ knoan; an’ y’ see, it isn’t ivverybody,” with another twinkle, “’at ez eeather talents or passevearance te mak’ a smooker. Like monny other clever things, its nobbut sum ’at ez t’ gift te deea ’em. There’s Jim Raspin, noo; he’s been scrapin’ away on a fiddle for a twelvemonth, an’ when he’s deean ’is best, he can nobbut mak’ a grumplin’ noise like a pig iv a fit. Ah can’t deea mitch, but ah can clip a hedge an’ smook a pipe, an’ that’s better then being a Jack ov all trayds an’ maister o’ neean.”

Here the old man blew out a long cloud of curling smoke, and laying down his short pipe by the side of him, he gave a low chuckle of satisfaction at having come out triumphant from an attack on the only weakness of which he could be convicted.

“Ah see,” said he, “’at you’ve getten Lucy yam ageean, an’ a feyn smart wench she is. They say ‘feyn feathers mak’s feyn bods,’ but she’s a bonny bod i’ grey roosset, an’ depends for her prattiness mair on ’er feeace an’ manners then on ’er cleease.”

“Yes,” said Natty, well pleased with this genuine compliment on his darling; “Lucy is a fine lass and a good ’un, and makes the old house, which has been gloomy enough, as bright as sunshine.”

“God bless ’er,” said the old man, warmly; “an’ if she gets t’ grace o’ God she’ll be prattier still. There’s neea beauty like religion, Natty, an’ t’ robe o’ righteousness sets off a cotton goon as mitch as silk an’ velvet.”

“Hey, that’s true enough,” said Nathan Blyth; “an’ Lucy’s all right on that point. She isn’t a stranger to religion. She loves her Bible and her Saviour, and her conduct is all that heart can wish.”

“Ah’s waint an’ glad to hear it,” said Adam. “Meeast o’ d’ young lasses noo-a-days seeam to me te mind nowt but falderals an’ ribbins. They cover their backs wi’ tinsel an’ fill their brains wi’ caff till they leeak like moontebanks, an’ their heeads is as soft as a feather bed.

‘Mary i’ the dairy

Wad fain be a fairy,

Wi’ wings an’ a kirtle o’ green;

Mary spoils ’er butter,

Puts t’ good wife in a flutter,

A lazy good-for-nothing quean.

Silly, silly Mary!

Bid good-bye te the fairy,

Leeak te the butter an’ the cheese;

Be quick an’ ’arn the siller.

Marry Matt the Miller,

Then live as happy as you pleease.’”

“Who’s going to marry Matt, the miller, I wonder, Adam Olliver?” said Lucy Blyth, suddenly peeping over her father’s shoulder by the garden gate.

“Odd’s bobs,” said the startled hedger; “‘you come all at yance,’ as t’ man said when t’ sack o’ floor dropt on his nob. Why, Lucy, me’ lass, is it you? Ah’s waint an’ glad to see yer’ bonny feeace ageean. Come in a minnit. Judy! Judy! Here’s somebody come ’at it’ll deea your and een good te leeak at.”

Out came Judith Olliver, in her brown stuff gown and checked apron, a small three-cornered plaid shawl across her shoulders, and with her white hair neatly gathered beneath a cap of white muslin, double frilled and tied beneath the dimpled chin—as comely and motherly an old cottager as you could wish to see.

“Dear heart,” said Mrs. Olliver, as Lucy kissed her cheek, looking on the bright girl in unconstrained admiration, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”

At that moment a fine, tall, gentlemanly youth of some two-and-twenty summers, paused as he passed the garden gate. Turning his open handsome face toward the speaker, his eyes fell on the radiant beauty of the blacksmith’s daughter; he recognised the features of his childish “sweetheart” with a thrill of something more than wonder, and, resuming his walk, “Master Philip” repeated again and again Judith Olliver’s inquiry, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?”

[CHAPTER V.]
“Black Morris.”

“What dreadful havoc in the human breast

The passions make, when, unconfined and mad,

They burst, unguided by the mental eye,

The light of reason, which, in various ways,

Points them to good, or turns them back from ill.”

Thompson.

AT the opposite end of the village to that where Nathan Blyth resided, there was a cluster of small tumble-down cottages, whose ragged thatch, patched windows, and generally forlorn appearance denoted the unthrifty and “unchancy” character of their occupants. This disreputable addendum to the charming village of Nestleton was known as Midden Harbour, a very apt description in itself of the unsavoury character of its surroundings, and the unpleasant manners and customs of most of the denizens of that locality. Squire Fuller had often tried to purchase this unpleasant blotch, which lay in the centre of his own trim and well-managed estate. Its owner, however, old Kasper Crabtree, a waspish dog-in-the-manger kind of fellow, could not be induced to sell it. Indeed, there is every reason to believe that “Crabby,” as the villagers fitly called him, found sincere gratification in the fact that the property and its possessors were a universal nuisance, for Crabby was one of that numerous family of social Ishmaelites whose hand was against every man, and so every man’s hand and tongue were against him.

Of the colony of Midden Harbour, one family was engaged in the sale of crockery-ware, which was hawked around the country in a cart, accompanied by both man and woman kind. The former were clad in velveteen coat and waistcoat and corduroy breeches, all notable for extent of pocket and an outbreak of white buttons, with which they were almost as thickly studded as a May pasture is with daisies. The latter were clad in cotton prints notable for brevity of skirt, revealing substantial ankles, graced with high laced-up boots which would have well served a ploughboy. A second family were besom-makers, whose trade materials were surreptitiously gathered on Kesterton Moor and from the woods of Waverdale; the “ling” of the one and the “saplings” of the other sufficing to supply both heads and handles. A third family was of the tinker persuasion, travelling about the country with utensils of tin. They were great in the repair of such pots and pans as required the use of solder, which was melted by the aid of an itinerant fire carried in an iron grate. Midden Harbour also boasted a rag-and-bone merchant on a small scale, a scissors-grinder, who united umbrella-mending with his primal trade, and a pedlar also had pitched his tent within its boundaries; altogether, its limited population was about as queer a medley as could well be found. Most of the Harbourites had the character of being more or less, chiefly more, given to making nocturnal excursions in quest of game, and Squire Fuller, Sir Harry Everett, and other large land-owners in the neighbourhood were being perpetually “requisitioned” by clever and successful poachers, who either defied or bribed all the gamekeeperdom of the country side.

Just behind Midden Harbour was a much larger and somewhat more respectable house, though discredited by being in such an unrespectable locality. It stood in what might by courtesy be called a garden, but, like that which dear old Isaac Watts stood to look at, and which belonged to a neighbour of his who was late o’ mornings, you might see “the wild briar, the thorn and the thistle grow higher and higher.” The garden-gate was hung by one hinge, and was generally so much aslant that one might imagine, that, like its owner, it was given to beer. The garden wall, the house, the outbuildings were all first cousins to Tennyson’s Moated Grange.

“With blackest moss the flower-pots

Were thickly crusted, one and all;

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall.

The broken sheds looked sad and strange,

Unlifted was the clinking latch;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.”

In this house lived a man, well known for many a mile round as “Piggy” Morris, so called by reason of his pig-jobbing proclivities, though he varied his calling in that direction by dealing in calves, sheep, dogs, old horses—in fact, he was quite ready to buy or sell anything by which he could gain a profit, or, as he put it, “finger the rhino.”

Piggy Morris was once a respectable farmer, a tenant of Squire Fuller’s, but his drinking habits had been his ruin. His farm deteriorated so much that his landlord gave him notice to quit, and had threatened to prosecute him for damages into the bargain. From the day he was expelled from Eastthorpe to the time of which I am writing Piggy Morris had nursed and cherished a deadly hatred to Squire Fuller, and though some years had now elapsed, he still thirsted for vengeance on the man who had “been his ruin.”

The victims of intemperance are marvellously skilful in laying the blame of their downfall on men and circumstances, and Piggy Morris attributed all his melancholy change of fortune to a hard landlord and bad times.

After the loss of his farm, Morris had taken his present house because of a malt-kiln which was on the premises, and he hoped to gain a trade and position as maltster, which would equal if not surpass the opportunity he had lost. But alas! the ball was rolling down the hill, and neither malt-kiln nor brewery could stop it; indeed, as was most probable, they gave it an additional impetus, and poor Morris was fast descending to the low level of Midden Harbour. He was a keen, clever, long-headed fellow, and could always make money in his huckstering fashion, but he was sullen, sour, ill-tempered; at war with his better self, he seemed to be at war with everybody else, which is perhaps one of the most miserable and worriting states of mind into which sane men can fall. His wife, poor soul, an amiable and thoroughly respectable woman, was cowed and broken-spirited, and lived an ailing and depressed life, sighing in chronic sorrow over the happiness and comfort of other days.

This misfitting pair had four children. The eldest, a fine stalwart fellow of twenty-four, had made some proficiency in the art and science of farriery. He had received no special training to equip him as a veterinary surgeon, but in practical farriery he was accounted very clever, and might have done well in that particular line. But the sins of the fathers are often visited upon their children. Young Morris was sadly too frequent a guest at the Red Lion, and in spite of his education and native talents, was only a sort of ne’er-do-weel, very popular in the taproom and similar centres of sociality; “nobody’s enemy but his own,” but, withal, slowly and surely gravitating towards ruin, “going to the dogs.” He had an intimate acquaintance with dogs and guns, snares and springs, and was oft suspected of carrying on a contraband trade in fish, flesh, and fowl, captured in flood and field. His coal-black hair and beard, and his swarthy though handsome features, had gained for him the soubriquet of Black Morris; and though he did not much relish the cognomen, it speedily became fixed, and there is no doubt that his wild and reckless conduct made the name, in some degree at least, appropriate. His two brothers, Bob and Dick, were in the employ of Kasper Crabtree, and his sister Mary, a quick and amiable girl of eighteen, was the loving helper, nurse, and companion of her ailing mother.

Since Lucy Blyth’s return home, Black Morris, who had seen her oft, on his visits to her father’s forge and in other parts of the village, had ventured at length to accost her, receiving, as her wont was, a pleasant smile and a courteous reply. Black Morris was made of very inflammable material, and speedily fell over head and ears in love with the blacksmith’s daughter. With his usual impetuosity of character, he swore that he and no other would capture the charming village belle, and took his steps accordingly. To carry out his purpose, his visits to the forge increased in number, his conduct was thoroughly proper and obliging, and his manners at their best, which is saying much, for when Black Morris chose he could be a gentleman. He often wielded the big hammer for Blithe Natty with muscle and skill, and that shrewd knight of the anvil was more than half inclined to change his opinion of his voluntary helper, and come to the conclusion that he was a “better fellow than he took him for.”

One evening, after Black Morris had been rendering useful and unbought aid in this way, Nathan Blyth felt constrained to thank him with unusual heartiness, and with his usual plainness of speech, he blurted out,—

“Morris, there’s the makings of a good fellow i’ you. What a pity it is that you don’t settle steadily down to some honest work, and give up loafing about after other folks’ property! ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ and ‘a scone o’ your own baking is better than a loaf begged, borrowed, or taken.’”

Black Morris’s swarthy features flushed up to the roots of his hair, his old temper leaped at once to the tip of his tongue, and his hand was involuntarily closed, for “a word and a blow” was his mode of argument. The remembrance that the speaker was Lucy’s father restrained him, and he replied,—

“Look here, Nathan Blyth, when you say I loaf about other folk’s property, you say more than you know; an’ as for settling down, give me your daughter Lucy for a wife, and I’ll be the steadiest fellow in Nestleton, aye, and in all Waverdale besides!”

“Marry Lucy!” exclaimed Natty, shocked at the idea of entrusting his darling to the keeping of such a reckless ne’er-do-weel, “I’d rather see her dead and in her grave! and so, good-night!”

Turning on his heel, Nathan Blyth went indoors, and Black Morris stood with lowering brow and flashing eyes. Shaking his fist at the closed door, he thundered out an oath, and said,—

“Mine or nobody’s, you ——, if I swing for it;” and strode homeward in a towering rage.

O Nathan Blyth! Nathan Blyth! Your hasty and ill-considered words have sown dragon’s teeth to-night! The time is coming, coming on wings as black as Erebus, when you will wish your tongue had cleaved to the roof of your mouth before you uttered them. You have beaten a ploughshare to-night which shall score as deep a furrow through your soul as ever did coulter from the ringing anvil by your smithy hearth.

[CHAPTER VI.]
Philip’s Visit to the Forge, or Love’s Young Dream.

“Love is a plant of holier birth

Than any that takes root on earth;

A flower from heaven, which ’tis a crime

To number with the things of time.

Hope in the bud is often blasted,

And beauty on the desert wasted!

And joy, a primrose, early gay,

Care’s lightest footfall treads away.

But love shall live, and live for ever,

And chance and change shall reach it never.”

Henry Neele.

“CAN this be little Lucy Blyth?” said Philip Fuller to himself, as he wended his way to Waverdale Park. His memories were very pleasant, of the bright and piquant child, whom as a boy he had known and romped with in that freedom from restraint, which his youth, the lack of a mother’s care, and the pre-occupied and studious habits of his father rendered possible. The attractive little girl and the merry geniality of Blithe Natty had induced him when he was barely in his teens to take his rides almost constantly in the direction of the Forge, and fruits and flowers and pony rides, as far as Lucy was concerned, were the order of the day. Who can say that love’s subtle magic did not weave its unseen but potent spell around those two young hearts in those early days of mirthful childhood? At any rate, Philip’s heart responded at once to the sound of Lucy’s name, and now her superadded charms of face and feature fairly took him captive. Whether there be any truth or not in the poet’s idea of

“A first, full, sudden Pentecost of love,”

it cannot be denied that Philip there and then knew that he loved Lucy Blyth, knew, moreover, that it was a love that would be all-absorbing, a love that time would not lessen, that trial would not weaken, that death would not destroy. No other idea could get in edgewise during that memorable walk. The radiant vision floated before his eyes, and thrilled him to the heart: the very trees seemed to whisper “Lucy” as they trembled in the breeze, and Philip Fuller knew from that hour that he had “found his fate.”

Difference of rank, social barriers, his father’s exaggerated family pride, Nathan Blyth’s sturdy independence, Lucy’s possible denial, and kindred prosy considerations, did not occur to the smitten youth; or if they did they were wondrously minified by love’s inverted telescope into microscopic proportions, and through them all he held the juvenilian creed that “love can find out the way.” In his dreams that night, he re-enacted all the scene at Adam Olliver’s garden gate; saw again the sweetest face in the world or out of it to his glamour-flooded eyes; heard again the question, “Can this be little Lucy Blyth?” Men live rapidly in dreams, time flies like a flash. Difficulties do not count in dreams, they are ignored, and so it was that Philip answered the question in a veni-vidi-vici kind of spirit, and shouted in dreamland over the garden gate, “Yes it can, and will be Lucy Fuller, by-and-bye!” Then, as John Bunyan says, he “awoke, and behold it was a dream.” Ah! Master Philip, Jason did not win the golden fleece without sore travail and fight; Hercules did not win the golden apple of Hesperides without dire conflict with its dragon guard, and if you imagine that this dainty prize is going to fall into your lap for wishing for, you will find it is indeed a dream from which a veritable thunderclap shall wake you. Will the lightning scathe you? Who may lift the curtain of the future? I would not if I could—better far, as honest Natty sings, to

Do your honest duty, boys, and never, never fear.

The next morning Master Philip left the breakfast-table to go out on a voyage of discovery. Bestriding a handsome bay horse, his father’s latest gift, he rode down to Nestleton Forge, and arrived just in time to hear the final strophes of Blithe Natty’s latest anvil song. That vivacious son of Vulcan was engaged in sharpening and tempering millers’ chisels, and as the labour was not hard, and the blows required were light and rapid, Natty’s song dovetailed with the accompaniment:—

Every cloud has a lining of light,

Morning is certain to follow the night;

Eve may be sombre, the shadows shall flee,

Sunny and smiling the morrow shall be.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

Hearts may be heavy and hope may be low,

Pluck up your spirits and sing as you go.

Hope now, hope ever, though dark be the sky,

Night brings the stars out to glitter on high.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

Larks fold their wings when daylight is done,

Spread them to-morrow again to the sun.

Gloomiest shadows shall lift by-and-bye,

Smiles of contentment shall follow the sigh.

Cheerily, merrily, sing the refrain,

Setting suns ever are rising again.

“Good morning, Mr. Blyth,” said Philip; “I’m glad to have the chance of hearing your merry voice again. I’ve been intending to ride round ever since my return from college, but my father has managed to keep me pretty much by his side.”

“I’m heartily glad to see you, sir,” said Nathan, “and mighty pleased to see that college honours and gay company have not led you to forget your poorer neighbours. You know the old proverb, ‘When the sun’s in the eyes people don’t see midges.’”

“Why, as for that,” said Philip, with a laugh, “I am not aware that the sun is in my eyes. At any rate I can see you, and you are no midge by any means. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot?’ As for gay company, that is not at all in my line. By-the-bye, what’s become of your little daughter? I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing her, too. I suppose she has grown altogether too womanly to accept a ride on Harlequin, the pony, even if I brought him. Is she at home?”

Now, I am quite sure that Nathan Blyth would much rather have preferred that Master Philip should not resume his acquaintance with Lucy. On the other hand, he had the most unbounded confidence in her, while he had no shadow of reason for suspecting Philip of any ulterior motive; hence he could scarcely avoid calling his daughter to speak with the young squire. That young lady soon appeared in graceful morning garb, and the impressible heart of the youthful lover was bound in chains for evermore. There was neither guile nor reserve in his greeting. The light that beamed in his eye and the tone that rung in his voice, could scarcely fail to betray to far less observant eyes and ears the unmeasured satisfaction with which he renewed his acquaintance with the charming girl. Lucy, however, seemed to have retired into herself; her words were few, constrained, and inconsequent, but the tell-tale blush was on her cheek, and there was a singular flutter at her heart, as she saw the ardent admiration which shone in the eyes of her quondam friend. It was with a profound sense of relief that she was able to plead the pressure of domestic duties as a reason for shortening the interview and retiring from the scene. After a brief conversation with Nathan on trivial matters, Philip mounted his horse and rode homewards, in that frame of mind so admirably depicted by Otway:—

“Where am I? Sure Paradise is round me;

Sweets planted by the hand of heaven grow here,

And every sense is full of thy perfection!

To hear thee speak might calm a madman’s frenzy,

Till by attention he forgot his sorrows;

But to behold thy eyes, th’ amazing beauties

Would make him rage again with love, as I do;

Thou Nature’s whole perfection in one piece!

Sure, framing thee, Heaven took unusual care;

As its own beauty, it designed thee fair,

And formed thee by the best loved angel there.”

Such were the emotions Philip Fuller felt as he turned away from the Forge of Nathan Blyth. Rounding the corner in the direction of Waverdale Hall, he was suddenly confronted by the scowling face and suspicious eyes of Black Morris.

[CHAPTER VII.]
Kesterton Circuit and the “Rounders.”

“A good man there was of religioun,

And he was a poor parsoun of a toune;

But rich he was of holy thought and werk.

He was, also, a learned man, a clerk

That Christe’s gospel gladly wolde preche;

His parischens devoutly wolde he teche.

Benign he was and wondrous diligent,

And in adversite full patient.”

Chaucer.

METHODISM was introduced into Kesterton in the days of John Wesley himself, and in the plain, square, old-fashioned chapel, with its arched windows, brick walls, and hip roof, red tiled and high peaked, you might see the very pulpit in which the grand old apostle of the eighteenth century preached more than a hundred years ago. The chapel stood back from the main street, and to get at it you had to go through a narrow passage, for the fathers of the Methodist Church, unlike their more self-assertive successors, seem to have courted a very modest retirement for the Bethels which they built for God. Behind the chapel there is a small burial-ground, in which are the honoured graves of those to whom Kesterton Methodism owes its origin, and who did its work and bore its fortunes in its earlier struggles for existence. On the other side of an intervening wall, in the midst of a little garden, capable of much improvement in the matter of tidiness and cultivation, stands the “preacher’s house.” It is not by any means an imposing structure, and taxes to the utmost the contrivance of its itinerant tenants to find sleeping accommodation for the “quiver full” of youngsters with which they are commonly favoured in an unusual degree. In the matter of furniture the less said the better; suffice it to say that it could not be regarded as extravagant in quality or burdensome in quantity. Indeed, it was open to serious imputations in both those directions; at least so thought the Rev. Theophilus Clayton, who had latterly become located there, and seemed likely to go through the maximum term of three years, to the high satisfaction of the people, and with a moderate measure of contentment to himself.

Kesterton rejoiced in the dignity of being a circuit town, and at the time to which these annals refer, the circuit extended from Meriton in the east to Amworth Marsh in the west; and from Chessleby on the north to Bexton on the south, an area of nineteen miles by twenty-one. There was a circuit horse and gig provided for the longer journeys, but as the “better days” which both of them had seen smacked of the mediæval age, the gig was as little remarkable for polish or paint as the horse was either for beauty or speed.

The Rev. Theophilus Clayton was an admirable specimen of an old-fashioned Methodist preacher. He was of middle-height and somewhat portly figure; had an intelligent and pleasant face, a broad forehead, a pair of piercing black eyes surmounted by dark thick eyebrows and hair fast whitening, but more with toil than age. His whole appearance was calculated to win attention and respect, and his piety and force of character were almost certain to retain them after they had been won. He was “in labours more abundant,” and in addition to being an effective preacher, he was a capital business man, one under whose management a circuit is pretty sure to thrive.

His colleague, the Rev. Matthew Mitchell, was young in years, and not yet out of his probation. Though he was not equal to his superintendent in pulpit ability, he largely made up for it by his diligent pastoral visitation, and the earnest and vigorous way in which he went about his high and holy calling. It is not given to all men to possess high intellectual abilities and oratoric strength, but it is given to every man to be able, as the Americans say, “to do his level best,” and that by the blessing of God may be mighty in pulling down the strongholds of Satan and the lifting up of the Church to a higher altitude of spirituality and a broader gauge of moral force. Of an enthusiastic temperament and with strong revivalistic proclivities, the Rev. Matthew Mitchell was remarkably successful, especially among the village populations, in winning souls for Christ. He was a young fellow, of somewhat prepossessing appearance, lithe, agile, and strong as an athlete. As both these worthy men will have to play an important part in this history, nothing further need to be said at present; I am much mistaken, however, if the reader does not find that they were both of them made of sterling stuff.

The small society of Methodists in Nestleton, numbering some five-and-twenty members, owed its origin to the love and labours of Old Adam Olliver. Many long years before, when the quaint old hedger was foreman on old George Houston’s farm, Adam, with two or three fellow-servants, used to walk to Kesterton to the Sunday preaching. Through the ministry of a grand old Boanerges of the early age they had found peace through believing, and for some time used to attend a class-meeting held after the afternoon service for such outlying members as could not attend during the busy week days. One Sunday, after the quarterly tickets had been renewed by the superintendent minister, Adam plucked up courage to address him,—

“Ah wop you’ll excuse ma, sor,” said he, “bud we’re desp’rate fain te get ya’ te cum te Nestleton. Meeast o’ t’ fooaks is nowt bud a parcel o’ heeathens. There’s neea spot for ’em te gan teea bud t’ chotch, an’ t’ parson drauns it oot like a bummle bee; summut at neeabody can mak’ neeather heead nor tayl on, an’ t’ Gospel nivver gets preeach’d frae yah yeear end te d’ t’ other.

“Well, but have you a place to preach in, Adam?” quoth the minister; “is there anybody who will take us in?”

“Why, there’s d’ green,” said Adam, “neeabody’ll molest uz there, unless it be t’ oad gander, an’ ah wop yo’ weeant tohn tayl at him. An’ i’ mucky weather yoo can hae mah hoose. Ah’ve axed Judy, an’ sha’ sez ’at you can hev it an’ welcome. It isn’t mitch ov a spot, but it’s az good az a lahtle fishin’ booat, an’ oor Sayviour preeached upo’ that monny a tahme; ah reckon ’at best sarmon ’at ivver was preeached was up ov a hill-sahd, an’ the Lord gay another te nobbut yah woman fre’ t’ steean wall ov a well. It isn’t wheear yo’ stand, bud what yo’ say ’at ’ll wakken Nestleton up, and gi’d folks a teeaste o’ t’ Gospel trumpet. When will yo’ cum?”

Adam Olliver gained the day, and services were held on Nestleton Green and in Adam’s cottage. Eventually the village was placed upon the plan, the local preachers were appointed on the Sunday evenings, Adam Olliver was made a leader of the class, and from that day Methodism had kept a foothold in Nestleton. Nay, more than that, for Adam’s cottage grew too small for the congregation, and the large kitchen of Gregory Houston was placed at their disposal. At the time of which we write, that good farmer and his family were all in church communion, and he, Adam Olliver, and Nathan Blyth, who was a popular and successful local preacher, were the props and pillars of the Nestleton Society.

It was a very inviting nest of rural piety. In their lowly services there was felt full often the presence and the power of God, and their mean and homely sanctuary was the palace of the King of Kings! Such little patches of evangelic life are happily common in Methodism. Her village triumphs have been amongst her greatest glories, and it is to be hoped that this Church, so remarkably owned of God in the rural districts, will never forget or neglect the rustic few, among whom its brightest trophies have been won, and from whom its noblest agents have been obtained.

One Sunday, Philip Fuller was walking from the Rectory, whither he had been to dinner after the morning and only service at the parish church. The evening was calm and fine, so he prolonged his walk by making a detour round the highest part of the village, and was passing Farmer Houston’s gate just at the time that the little Methodist congregation had assembled for worship. Philip, who was not aware of this arrangement, heard the hearty singing of a hundred voices, and in pure curiosity drew near the open door, for the weather was of the warmest, and listened to the strain,—

“Behold Him, all ye that pass by,

The bleeding Prince of Life and Peace!

Come see, ye worms, your Maker die,

And say, was ever grief like His?

Come feel with me His blood applied;

My Lord, my Love, is crucified.

Is crucified for me and you,

To bring us rebels back to God;

Believe, believe the record true,

Ye all are bought with Jesus’ blood,

Pardon for all flows from His side;

My Lord, my Love, is crucified.”

Philip was greatly struck, alike with the warmth and energy of the singers and the directly evangelical character of the hymn. During his residence at Oxford he had, at first, been half inclined to accept the almost infidel views which at that time were tacitly held by not a few of the tutors and even the clerics of that famous university. A candid perusal of the Scriptures, however, for he was a genuine seeker after truth, and an attendance on the ministry of a godly and effective clergyman, who had rallied round him the evangelical element of the various colleges, rendered Philip utterly dissatisfied with the loose tenets he had been accustomed to hear. When he left college he was the subject of unavowed but strong conviction as to the importance and necessity of experimental religion, but as yet was very much at sea as to the Gospel plan of salvation. Philip noiselessly entered the kitchen, and took an unnoticed place among the rural worshippers.

Much to his surprise, he saw Nathan Blyth standing in the moveable pulpit, and, in obedience to his solemn invitation, “Let us pray!” Philip knelt with the rest, while Natty, who knew from happy and long experience how to talk with God, led their devotions in an extempore prayer, the like of which he had never heard before. Nathan’s sermon that night was founded on the text that stirred the heart and baffled the mind of the Ethiopian eunuch: “He was led as a sheep to the slaughter: and like a lamb dumb before his shearer, so opened he not his mouth:” and included the sable nobleman’s inquiry, “Of whom speaketh the prophet this? of himself, or of some other man?”

Of that “Other Man” Natty spoke as one who knew Him. He placed the atonement in a light so clear, and the love of the Atoner in a manner so impressive, that Philip found himself listening with a beating heart and a swimming eye. In plain, but powerful language, the speaker urged his hearers to accept the proffered gift of God. The congregation joined in singing that stirring hymn,—

“All ye that pass by,

To Jesus draw nigh;

To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?

Your ransom and peace,

Your surety He is;

Come see if there ever was sorrow like His.”

Nathan Blyth called on “Brother Olliver” to engage in prayer. At the first Philip was inclined to be amused at the rude and rugged language in which the old man poured out his soul to God, but as he proceeded, bearing with him the subtle power and sympathy of a praying people, the listener was moved to wonder and to awe, and felt with Jacob, “Surely God is in this place and I knew it not.” “Thoo knoas, Lord,” said Adam Olliver, “’at we’re all poor helpless sinners; but Thoo’s a great Saviour, an’ sum on uz ez felt Thi’ pooer te seeave.

‘Oor Jesus te knoa, an’ te feel His blood floa

It’s life ivverlastin’, it’s heaven beloa!’

Lord! There’s them here to-neet’ at’s strangers te d’ blood ’at bowt ther pardon up o’ d’ tree. Thoo loves ’em. Thoo pities ’em. Thoo dee’d for ’em. Oppen ther hearts, Lord. Melt their consciences an’ mak’ ’em pray, ‘God be massiful te me a sinner.’ Seeave ’em, Lord! Rich or poor, young or aud. Put d’ poor wand’ring sheep o’ Thi’ shoother an’ lead ’em inte d’ foad o’ Thi’ infannit luv.” No sooner was the benediction pronounced than Philip stole silently away. As he trod the shady lanes and crossed the park his mind was full of serious thought. During the entire evening, he was silent and abstracted, and as he laid his head upon his pillow the plaintive appeal still rung in his ears,—

“To you is it nothing that Jesus should die.”

[CHAPTER VIII.]
Adam Olliver begins to Prophesy.

“If bliss had lien in art and strength,

None but the wise and strong had gained it;

Where now, by faith, all arms are of a length;

One size doth all conditions fit.

A peasant may believe as much

As a great clerk, and reach the highest stature;

Thus dost thou make proud knowledge crouch,

While grace fills up uneven nature.

Faith makes me anything, or all

That I believe is in the sacred story;

And when sin placeth me in Adam’s fall,

Faith sets me higher in his glory.”

George Herbert.

GREGORY HOUSTON, Adam Olliver’s master, and, as far as means and position were concerned, principal member of the little Methodist society in Nestleton, was crossing his farmyard one summer’s day, when his aged serving-man was engaged in getting together a few “toppers.” These are long screeds of thinly-sawn larch fir, to be nailed on the top of stakes driven into weak places in the hedgerows to strengthen them, and to secure the continuity of the fence.

“Well, Adam,” said the genial farmer, “how are you getting on?”

“Why, ah’s getting en all reet. It’s rayther ower yat for wark; but while it’s ower yat for me, it’s grand for t’ wheeat, an’ seea ah moan’t grummle. It’s varry weel there isn’t mitch te deea at t’ hedges, or ah’s flaid ’at ah sud be deead beeat.”

“Oh, they’re all right, I’ve no doubt,” said Mr. Houston; “I didn’t mean that. I was thinking of better matters.”

“Oh, as te that, bless the Lord, ah’ve niwer nowt te grummle at i’ that respect, but me aun want o’ faith an’ luv. T’ Maister’s allus good, an’ ah’s meeastlin’s ’appy. Neeabody sarves the Lord for nowt, an’ mah wayges is altegither oot of all measure wi’ me’ addlings, beeath frae you an’ Him.”

“How did you like Nathan’s sermon last night, Adam?”

Adam picked up one of the larch strips, and handing it to his master, he said, “It was just like that.”

“Like that?” said the farmer—“In what way?”

“Why,” quoth Adam, “Nathan Blyth’s sarmon was a reg’lar ‘topper.’ He’d a good tahme, an’ seea ’ad ah. T’ way he browt oot hoo Jesus was t’ Lamb o’ God, ‘armless an’ innocent, an’ willin’ te dee, was feyn, an’ ah felt i’ my sowl ’at if it was wanted ah wer’ willin’ te dee for Him. Bud wasn’t t’ kitchen crammed! Ah deean’t knoa what we’r gannin te deea wi’ t’ fooaks if they keep cummin’ i’ this oathers. Ah’ve aboot meead up me’ mind ’at we mun hev a chapel i’ Nestleton.”

“A chapel!” said Mr. Houston; “no such luck. I should like to see it, Adam; but there’s no chance of that, you may depend on’t.”

“Why, noo, maister, ah’s surprahsed at yo.’ What i’ the wolld are yo’ talkin’ aboot? ‘Luck’ and ‘chance’ hae neea mair te deea wiv it then t’ ’osspond hez te deea wi’ t’ kitchen fire. ‘Them ’at trusts te luck may tummle i’ t’ muck;’ an’ ‘him ’at waits upo’ chances gets less then he fancies.’ For mah payt, ah’d rayther put mi’ trust i’ God, put mi’ shoother te d’ wheel, an’ wopp for t’ best.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Mr. Houston, somewhat rebuked. “Still, you know, it isn’t likely.”

“Noa, ah deean’t say ’at it is; bud what o’ that? It wahn’t varry likely ’at watter sud brust oot ov a rock at t’ slap of a stick, or ’at t’ axe heead sud swim like a duck, or ’at a viper sud loss its vemmun; bud they were all deean for all that, an’ fifty thoosand wundherful things besahde. It altegither depends wheea undertak’s em.”

“But where is the money to come from? And if we had the money how are we to get the land?”

“That’s nowt te deea wiv it,” said Adam. “T’ queshun is, de wa’ need it? An’ is it right to ax God for it? T’ silver an’ gold’s all His, an’ He can tonn it intiv oor hands as eeasy as Miller Moss can oppen t’ sluice of his mill-dam. As for t’ land, it were God’s afoore it were Squire Fuller’s, an’ it’ll be His when Squire Fuller’s deead, an’ He can deea as He likes wiv it while Squire Fuller’s livin’. Ah reckon nowt aboot that. Next Sunday, t’ congregation ’ll hae te tonn oot inte d’ foadgarth, an’ ah want te knoa whither that isn’t a sign that the Lord speeaks tiv us te gan forrad.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt that a chapel is wanted, and if it was four times as big as the kitchen it would soon be full. I would give anything if we could manage it.”

“There you gooa, y’ see,” said Adam, laughing. “There’s payt o’ t’ silver an’ gowld riddy at yance. Ah sall set te wark an’ pray for ’t, an’ seea mun wa’ all. It’ll be gran’ day for Nestleton,” said Adam, rubbing his hands in fond anticipation, for he never dreamed of questioning the “mighty power of faithful prayer.”

Farmer Houston shook his head as he turned away saying, “It’s too good to be true, Adam. It’s too good to be true.”

“What’s too good to be true?” said Mrs. Houston, who now appeared on the scene. A large and shady bonnet for “home service,” of printed calico, protected her from the sun. In her hand was a milk-can, containing the mid-day meal of certain calves she was rearing, for Mrs. Houston was a thrifty, bustling body, who not only saw that all the woman folk of the establishment did their duty, but was herself the first to show the way. Crossing the farmyard just at that moment she overheard the words, and hence her inquiry, “What’s too good to be true?”

“Why,” said Adam Olliver, “t’ maister’s gotten it intiv ’is heead that if the divvil an’ Squire Fuller says we aren’t te hev a Methodist chapel i’ Nestleton, t’ Almighty’s gotten te knock under an’ leave His bairns withoot a spot te put their heeads in.”

“Nay, nay,” said Farmer Houston, deprecatingly, “I was only saying that there was small hope of our getting a chapel at all.”

“An’ ah was sayin’,” persisted Adam, “’at we mun pray for it, an’ ah weean’t beleeave ’at prayer’s onny waiker then it was when Peter was i’ prison, or when t’ heavens was brass for t’ speeace o’ three years an’ six months. It oppen’d t’ iron yatt for Peter an’ t’ brass yatt for t’ rain, an’ it’ll oppen d’ gold an’ silver yatt for uz. Missis, we’re gannin’ te hev a Methodist chapel!”

“Well done, Adam! I think you’re in the right. I don’t see how it’s going to be done, but if the way is open, you may depend on it I’ll do my best.”

A fourth party here appeared upon the scene. This was none other than Mrs. Houston’s eldest daughter, Grace, a genteel and pleasant-looking girl of twenty—one who could play the piano and milk a cow with equal willingness and skill, could knit a wool cushion or darn a stocking, and did both with deft fingers that knew their business. She, too, sided with Adam Olliver, and, with the sanguine impulsiveness of youth, began to discuss the ways and means, and even hinted at so unheard-of a marvel as a Nestleton Methodist bazaar.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Adam Olliver, as he shouldered his “toppers,” and strolled away with them. “As seeaf as theease toppers is gannin’ to Beeachwood Pasther, there’ll be a Methodist chapel i’ Nestleton cum Can’lemas twel’month. Seea we’d better leeak sharp an’ get things riddy.”

The divvil says, “You sahn’t,”

An’ man says, “You can’t,

It’s ower big a job for lahtle fooaks like you.

But t’ Maister says, “You sall,”

An’ seea say we all,

For what t’ Maister says, you knoa, is sartain te be true!”

Old Adam went about his work full of the new idea, and we may depend upon it that Balaam’s back was, as truly as the borders of Brook Jabbok or the house-top at Joppa, the place of prayer, and that Beechwood Pasture witnessed that day the pleadings of one whose name was not only Adam Olliver, but “Israel, for as a prince had he power with God to prevail.”

The sun was sinking in the West, flooding the evening landscape with a mellow glory, reddening the foliage of the hoary beech-trees until they seemed to be a-glow with mystic fire, concentrating its beams upon, here and there, a window in distant Nestleton, which flashed back like a mimic luminary, while Nestleton Mere, just above the white-washed, odd-built water-mill, shone like burnished silver flushed with crimson, beneath the cloudless sky. The feathered choristers had not yet gone to their repose, and tree, copse, and hedgerow were vocal with their vesper hymns, as Adam Olliver, having disposed of his toppers and repaired the gaps, was jogging homeward on his imperturbable donkey, after the labours of the day.

Jabez Hepton, the village carpenter, and two of his apprentices, returning from their labours at a distant farmhouse, overtook him as he was communing, according to his wont, with his four-footed retainer.

“Balaam,” said he, “we sall hev a chapel at Nestleton”—though how that fact should concern his uncomprehending companion it is difficult to see. In all probability the promise of a few carrots or a quartern of oats would have been far more acceptable information, for, like many other donkeys we wot of, Balaam’s preferences were all in favour of carnal pleasures.

“When?” said Jabez Hepton, suddenly.

“Consarn it!” said the startled hedger, “you gooa off like a popgun, neighbour Hepton. You oppen yer mooth an’ bark, just like a shippard dog. Then you’re toddlin’ yam.”

“Hey,” said the carpenter, “but what were you sayin’ about a Methodist chapel at Nestleton?”

“Why, nobbut ’at we’re gannin’ te hae yan. Ah reckon you’ll be glad te see it!”

“Hey, but ah shan’t see it, till two Sundays come i’ yah week, or till crows begin to whistle ‘Bonnets o’ blue.’”

“Jabez Hepton,” said Adam, seriously, “deean’t joke aboot it; ah beleeave it’s God’s will ’at we sud hev a chapel, an’ be t’ help o’ God ah meean te try. T’ wod o’ God’s God’s Wod, an’ He says ’ax an’ you sall hev.’ Ah meean te ’ax, an’ there’ll be a chapel i’ Nestleton a twel’month cum Can’lemas-day. Ah’s an aud fowt, neea doot, an’ monny a yan beside you’ll laugh at ma’. At deean’t care t’ snuff ov a can’le for that. Wi’ God o’ me side, ah isn’t freetened hoo things ’ll turn out. ‘Let God be true, an’ ivvery man a liar.’”

There was that in Adam’s tone and manner which conveyed a dignified rebuke to the flippancy of Jabez Hepton, who not only lapsed into silence, but was bound to confess to himself that he was a pigmy in presence of a faith so beautiful and great.

“Good-neet, Adam,” said the carpenter, eventually, “Ah only wop your wods ’ll cum true.”

“Good-neet, Jabez,” said the old man, “an’ deean’t fo’get te pray for ’t, an’ when yo’ begin, deean’t tire. T’ unjust judge had te give in ’cause t’ poor widow wadn’t let him be, an’ you may depend on’t,” said Adam, reverently, “’at t’ Just Judge weean’t be sae hard te move. We’re His bairns, His aun elect, an’ if we cry day an’ neet tiv Him, He’ll help us speedily. Prayse the Lord! ah’s seear on’t.”

Adam Olliver’s beautiful simplicity of trust inoculated Hepton with the same hopeful spirit shown by Mrs. Houston and her daughter, and that worthy man went home to calculate, as he sat in his “ingle nook,” the cost of the chapel, the idea of which he had just met with sarcasm and scorn. Such is the commanding influence of a good example.

“Example is a living law, whose sway

Men more than all the written laws obey.”

[CHAPTER IX.]
The Progress of Master Philip’s Wooing.

“Although thou may never be mine,

Although even hope is denied;

’Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside.”

Burns.

LUCY BLYTH retired from her brief interview with Philip Fuller, glad, as I have already said, to be relieved from an ordeal which taxed all her powers of self-command. Philip’s love for her was clear to a demonstration, and as she bravely and boldly took her own heart to task upon the subject, she had to confess to herself that she felt a sense of delight and satisfaction in his tacit declaration. “I love him!” was the language of her own soul, written there in characters so clear that she made no foolish attempt to cast the thought aside. Like a clear-conscienced, high-principled girl, as she was, she looked the whole matter fairly in the face, and soon came to the conclusion that duty and propriety demanded a firm resistance to the dangerous fascination. She resolved that never, by any word or deed of hers, would she give encouragement to what she knew would be an impossible affection, an unpardonable offence to the proud and stately squire, and a grievous sorrow to her beloved and doting father.

When Natty came in to dinner she had regained full command over herself, for Lucy had that secret supply of strength which is given to all those who walk with God, and Blithe Natty’s suspicions, if he had any, were, at any rate, temporarily laid to rest. Neither of them mentioned the events of the morning, and wisely so, for stout resistance in such a case is more easily accomplished under the silent system. Opposition, interference, condemnation, are sadly apt to fan such sparks into a more fervent flame, and to supply fuel to a fire which might haply die away for want of it. Nathan Blyth was quite right in placing implicit confidence in the religious principles and firm character of his right-minded girl.

Philip Fuller, however, was subject to no such restraining influences; at any rate, they remained as yet undeveloped. His all-engrossing love led him to seek an opportunity to declare it, and to nurse the hope that he should hear from her own lips the response he so much desired. On two or three occasions he sought an interview with her, but Lucy’s woman’s wit had seen his design and foiled it. Twice, when Adam Olliver was returning from his daily toil, he had descried the youthful squire following Lucy, and had seen that young lady start off at a rapid run to avoid the meeting.

One evening, as Lucy was returning from a solitary cottage at some distance from the village, whither she had been on a good Samaritan kind of errand, Philip Fuller suddenly met her face to face. It was impossible to elude him, or to evade the announcement which she knew was trembling on his lips. With a lover’s impetuosity he entered at once on the subject nearest to his heart.

“Miss Blyth,” he said, “for I suppose I must not call you ‘Lucy’ now;”—Here the cunning young gentleman paused, hoping to “score one” by hearing the coveted permission. In vain, however, for though I don’t pretend to deny that “Lucy” from his lips had a music of its own, she remained tremblingly silent, waiting for what should follow, in that odd mingling of hope and fear which baffles psychologists to analyse or metaphysicians to explain.

“Do you remember,” continued he, “those pleasant hours of ‘auld lang syne?’ I wish they could have lasted for ever.”

“Nothing does last for ever in this world,” said Lucy, with a constrained smile, “and it would not do to be always children, you know. When childhood’s over we have to put away childish things.”

“Lucy,—forgive me for calling you by the old familiar name—I cannot get any other from my lips. I believe my love for you was a childish thing, for it was born in childhood’s days. But it has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, and the one dearest wish of my soul is that the ‘little sweetheart’ of old times would be my sweetheart now! Lucy, my darling”——

“Mr. Fuller!” interposed Lucy, “I must not, will not hear you any further. I will not appear to misunderstand you. I will not for a moment wrong you with the thought that you mean anything but what is true and honourable; but I must ask you, nay, command you, never again to speak to me like this. What you hint at can never, never be. The one thing for you to do is to leave me alone, now and ever, and let me go my way while you go yours. All the old times are over now—and you must forget that they have ever been.”

Poor Lucy found it hard work to get that last expression out, but she was not given to half measures where duty was involved, and she meant all she said.

“Don’t be cruel,” he pleaded. “I can never forget, and I will never, never give up the hope”——

But Lucy had sprung from him, for, seeing Old Adam Olliver jogging along on his lowly steed, she instantly resolved to instal him as her escort to the village. The old man had seen the sudden departure, had recognised the young squire, and, reading Lucy’s flushed cheek and excited tone, came to his own conclusions, the nature of which we shall understand by-and-bye. Very little was said on their homeward way, and on arriving at the forge Lucy wished the old man “good evening.”

“Good-neet, mah bairn,” said Adam. “Ah’s waint an’ glad ah met wi’ yo’. Ah wadn’t be oot varry leeat if ah were you. There’s them aboot ’at’s up te neea good.” With this enigmatical utterance he rode off, leaving Lucy to wonder what he meant, and how much he knew.

No sooner had the old hedger stabled his steed and sat down to his supper than he opened his mind to his dear “aud woman,” who was in truth as well as name a helpmeet for him, his loving and trusted wife for forty years.

“Judy, my lass, I isn’t ower an’ aboon satisfied aboot that young slip ov a squire.”

“What, Master Philip, d’ye meean? What’s matter wiv ’im, Adam?”

“Why, ah’s freetened ’at he’s settin’ sheep’s e’en at Lucy Blyth. Thoo knoas she’s parlous pratty. Ah’ve seen him efther ’er ’eels three or fower tahmes latly. Te-neet my lord was talkin’ tiv her doon t’ park looan, an’ as seean as sha’ saw me sha’ shot awa’ frev him like a ‘are, an’ comm wi’ ma’ all t’ way yam. He steead an’ leeak’d hard, a goodish bit dumfoonder’d, an’ then wheel’d roond an’ went tow’rd t’ park.”

“Hey, but that’s a bad ’earin’, Adam,” said Judith. “Lucy Blyth’s a gell ’at would tonn ony yung fellow’s head. But ah don’t believe that she’ll do owt wrong, won’t Lucy.”

“She deea owt wrang? Nut she,” said Adam; “bud ah’s vastly misteea’n if he weean’t; an’ ah deean’t think it’s right nut te let Nathan knoa.”

“Nay, ah hoap there’s nowt in it, efther all, Adam. Lucy’s a lass ’at ’ll allus tak’ care of hersen, an’ ah’s sure t’ young squire’s as nice and fine a young fellow as you can finnd atween here an’ York.”

Judy was a true woman, it will be seen, and the possible loves of two young people found a certain favour in her eyes.

As for Lucy Blyth, she went home the subject of feelings very difficult to describe, and for many days the struggle between love and duty was very severe. She found herself utterly unable to “cast his image from her heart,” and, like the fair maiden described by Dryden, she might have said—

“I am not what I was; since yesterday

My strength forsakes me, and my needful rest;

I pine, I languish, love to be alone:

Think much, speak little, and in speaking sigh.

······

I went to bed, and to myself I thought

That I would think on Torrismond no more;

Then shut my eyes, but could not shut out him.”

Lucy, however, had “strength to worldly minds unknown,” and set herself to “conquer in this strife.”

Matters continued thus for several days. Then Adam Olliver again chanced to meet Master Philip, who was walking along with bended head, and with his mind so pre-occupied that he did not hear the old man’s courteous salutation, “It’s a feyn neet, sur,” and passed on without response. Further on he came upon Lucy Blyth, who had just undergone an ordeal similar to the last. Maintaining her usual firmness of denial, she had sent her lover away in such evident sorrow and distress that she was indulging in a quiet little cry of sympathy. Adam surprised her with her ‘kerchief to her eyes, and waxed wroth against the rude offender who had thus distressed his favourite.

“Why, Lucy, mi’ lass, what’s matter wi’ yo’? Ah can’t abide to see yo’ like that. Hez onnybody been upsettin’ yo’? ’Cause if they hev, it mun be putten a stop tae, an’ it sall, if ah hev te deea it mysen.”

Poor Lucy, dreadfully afraid that Philip’s persistent wooing should be known, hastened to assure him that there was no need to trouble.

“I’ve been a little low-spirited,” she said, with a smile, “but it’s all over now. A good cry, you know, does one good sometimes.”

So, making a vigorous effort, the charming maiden chatted merrily on until Adam’s garden gate was reached, and so it was impossible for him to refer to the matter any more.

“Judy,” said Adam to his aged spouse, “it weean’t deea. That young Fuller’s worritin’ that poor lass te deead, an’ ah’s gannin’ te see aboot it.”

Adam Olliver did “see about it,” in a very peculiar fashion indeed, but how he set about it, how he fared, and how he proved his right to be called “the old man eloquent,” must have a chapter to itself.

[CHAPTER X.]
Black Morris is more Free than Welcome.

“Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear of tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Shakspeare.

THE stern and ungenial way in which Blithe Natty had repulsed the advances of Black Morris in the matter of his suit for Lucy had only served to make that young “wastrel” more than ever eager and determined in his pursuit of the fairest prize in Waverdale. He had never known what it was to be fairly thwarted in anything upon which he had set his heart, and in addition to an uncontrolled self-will which threatened to be his ruin, he was possessed of a certain bull-dog tenacity of purpose, which was only strengthened and intensified by opposition. He was, undoubtedly, a tall and good-looking fellow, well endowed by nature, both as regards physique and brains; hence the village maidens of Nestleton were quite inclined to show him favour, and in some cases to make a tacit bid for his preference. All this tended to convince him that he was a sufficient match for the blacksmith’s daughter, and I must do him the justice to say that he was thoroughly fascinated with her beauty, and quite honest in his wooing.

Black Morris watched his opportunities, and on several occasions managed to hap on Lucy Blyth, both by night and day, pressing on her his unwelcome suit in such a hot and inconsiderate fashion, that the scared girl scarcely dared to cross the threshold of her home, for fear of being subjected to his wild and passionate mode of wooing. She was positively alarmed, for there was something so lawless and desperate about his method of proceeding, and his headstrong character was so well known, that she did not think he would scruple at any excesses to gain his ends.

One evening, as Lucy was returning from Farmer Houston’s kitchen, where the fortnightly preaching had been held, Black Morris met her in a shady nook by the churchyard wall, and as usual pressed upon her his undesired attention. She did her best to make her escape, but being emboldened by certain copious libations at the “Red Lion,” he seized her hand, put his arm around her, and strove to steal a kiss from the indignant maiden.

“Never!” screamed the startled girl, and bursting from him with the strength of a wild terror, she flew homeward like a hunted deer. Her persecutor uttered an oath and started off in hot pursuit. On she flew through the silent lane, but there was no possibility of escaping the stalwart runner, who followed fast behind. Once more his hand was laid upon her shoulder, once more Lucy gave a scream of fear, and at that instant, Philip Fuller ran to the rescue, and confronting the excited bully, bade him “Stand off!”

“Who to please?” said Black Morris, turning his attention to the unwelcome intruder, and aiming a decisive blow.

“Oh! don’t!” said Lucy. “O Philip!” and her terror vanishing in presence of her lover’s danger she threw herself between the hostile two, affording to the quick-witted young squire a welcome insight into her regard for him.

“Lucy, dear!” said Philip, “who is this fellow?” and his attitude betokened such vengeance as his indignant soul and well-knit frame made possible. Other voices were heard and other feet approaching.

“Ho, ho, Master Fuller! ‘Philip,’ and ‘Lucy, dear!’ eh? Sits the wind in that quarter? Then look out for squalls!” said Black Morris, and so saying he sped rapidly away.

“Who’s that?” said Philip, as he walked by the side of the panting girl on the way to her father’s door.

“His name’s Morris, Black Morris,” said Lucy, “and for months past he has followed me about in spite of all that I could say, but he never behaved so rudely as he did to-night. The man terrifies me almost to death.”

Philip bade her not to fear, and expressed his intention of having an early interview with Black Morris, to put an end to his unwelcome and distasteful advances.

“There will be war,” said he, “between him and me. The bully must be taught to know his place.”

“Philip,” said Lucy, “do not quarrel with that man. I always feel when I see him as though he is doomed to bring me misery and sorrow. Don’t go near him! Promise me you won’t.”

What would he not promise her? He did his best to reassure the anxious girl, and promised her he would not seek a quarrel; “but,” said he, “you must be protected at all hazards. Lucy, give me the right to protect you! Only say that you love me, and I’ll soon make it impossible for Black Morris or anybody else to fling a shadow on your path! Lucy, can’t you see that I cannot live without your love?”

Philip’s earnest tones, instinct with a yearning that could not be mistaken, found an answering chord in Lucy’s heart; but, summoning her self-command, she replied, “No! no! no! It is you that distress me now. It cannot, cannot ever be. For your own sake as well as mine, I beseech you, say no more; such a thing would rob you of your father’s love for ever. I thank you with all my heart for coming to my help—Good-night,” and straightway opening the garden gate she swiftly ran along the path and entered the house without one backward look.

Philip’s ponderings were of a varied character as he entered the narrow lane which led to Waverdale Hall, and slowly trod the light and springy turf in silence. He felt half inclined to forgive Black Morris for unwittingly securing him the delicious interview. “She loves me,” thought he, “she loves me, I am sure; and if I can get my father’s consent, my darling Lucy will yet be mine.”

Castles in the air began to rear their gleaming but deceptive turrets, and in the delusive glamour of a lover’s Paradise, Philip approached the lodge by the gate which led through Waverdale Park. The night was dark and still, and his path was made more gloomy by the overarching trees, which almost converted the lane into an avenue, and shut out the glimmer of the watchful stars. He thought of Lucy and his all-engrossing love; he thought of his father and of the interview he must summon courage to seek, that he might reveal his tender secret as in duty bound; he thought of Black Morris and his final threat; and then his mind reverted to the interview he had had, that evening, with the rector of the parish, the Rev. Bertram Elliott.

Philip’s visit to the Rectory had been connected with those mental troubles which had more and more disturbed him since the Sunday evening when he had heard Nathan Blyth discourse on “the Lamb of God,” and joined with the rural worshippers in singing of the love of a crucified Christ. From then till now no day had passed without bringing to his mind the sweet and touching lines—

“All ye that pass by,

To Jesus draw nigh,

To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?”

To the clergyman Philip had confided his spiritual anxieties, and from him had sought the ghostly counsel which his troubled heart and conscience did so greatly need. The worthy rector was a gentleman and a scholar, and for the space of five-and-twenty years had christened, married, and buried the villagers of Nestleton; had read the grand old liturgy with some earnestness and irreproachable accent; had given a fifteen minutes’ homily every Sunday morning of the most harmless character; and, altogether, was a genial and worthy member of his class. But to Philip, in his moody anxiety and distress of soul, he was of no use whatever. He simply urged him to live a moral life, attend the church and take the sacraments, to go into company and engage in field sports as a sure way of dissipating the “vapours” and getting rid of “the blues.” That sort of teaching, let us be thankful to say, is by no means common in this year of grace, but there was more than a sufficiency of it fifty years ago.

Philip reached the lodge and let himself gently through the gate, so as not to disturb Giles Green, the lodge-keeper, who with his little household had retired to rest. On his way through the park he heard the sound of human voices from a coppice to the right, and, pausing a moment, caught the mention of his own name. Almost immediately afterwards, another voice said,—

“Nivver mind ’im, owd chum. Lucy Blyth’s ower poor a dish for ’im to sit down tae. Why, Squire Fuller would shutt ’im if ’e was to tak’ up wi’ a blacksmith’s dowter.”

Here another voice rapped out an ugly oath, “If’e dizzn’t I will, as soon as look at ’im. Ah mean to hev that little wench myself, an’ I’ll give an ounce of lead to anybody that gets into my road.”

Here the voices became more distant, and Philip lost the remainder of the conversation. He had heard enough, however, to convince him that mischief was brewing, and that Lucy Blyth was right in warning him against the reckless revenge of Black Morris. Resuming his walk, and burdened by this new complication, he entered the portals of Waverdale Hall. His favourite Newfoundland dog, Oscar, rose from his mat, shook his shaggy sides, and received a kindly pat and friendly word from Philip, who straightway entered into his stately father’s presence.

[CHAPTER XI.]
Both Philip and Lucy make a Clean Breast of it.

“The voice of parents is the voice of gods,

For to their children they are Heaven’s lieutenants;

To steer the freight of youth through storms and dangers,

Which with full sails they bear upon, and straighten

The mortal line of life they bend so often.

For these are we made fathers, and for these

May challenge duty on our children’s part.

Obedience is the sacrifice of angels,

Whose form you carry.”

Shakespeare.

THE squire was seated in his well-furnished and luxurious library, by the side of a handsome reflector lamp, with a book written by a popular free-thinker on his knees, for in works of a kindred sceptical character the thoughtful but cynical student had latterly taken great delight.

“Well, Master Philip,” said he, “you keep late hours, and return as stealthily as if you had been keeping an assignation.” Here he lifted his shaggy eyebrows, and peered into his son’s ingenuous face, into which this chance home-thrust brought a rush of blood, and that “index of the mind” grew as red as the crimson curtains which hung in heavy folds behind him.

The squire’s suspicious nature was instantly aroused. Laying down his book he rose from his seat, and stretching out his hand in solemn earnest, he said,—

“Son Philip, you will not be other than a gentleman? You will not sully your father’s name? You will not dim the honour of an ancestry which has held its own with the noblest through a hundred generations? You will not grieve your father by a base and unworthy deed? In the day you do, you’ll”—here the firm lip quivered—“you’ll break his heart!”

“Father, dear father,” said Philip, taking his father’s hand, “that will I never, by the help of God.”

“Forgive my momentary doubt, my son. You have never given me cause to fear. But what meant that tell-tale blush at the mere mention of the word assignation? Phil, my boy, there are few things that I hate more than the loose notions about morality and virtue which disgrace too many of the wealthiest youth of modern times. I have small faith in priests and in the cant of religion, but unsullied honour and true manhood, sans peur et sans reproche, that should be the motto and the creed of all. Phil, are you worthy of that character to-night?”

There was no mistaking the honest “Yes, father!” which this question elicited, and the old man returned to his book with a sigh of infinite relief.

That sensation of relief, however, was by no means shared by poor Philip, who, though perfectly innocent of anything in the direction suspected by his father, felt his own peculiar secret weighing on his honest heart all the more heavily, because of what had passed between them. He longed to cast himself at his father’s feet and tell him all, but he was restrained by the consciousness that the revelation would be like gall and wormwood to one whose escutcheon was his fetish, and whose blue blood was sure to boil in aristocratic wrath at the bare idea of its commixture with the plebeian corpuscles of a village blacksmith.

Had the moment been opportune, Philip would then and there have eased his soul by a full confession; but the old man had lapsed into pre-occupied silence, and, as if repentant of his unusual burst of emotion, his face resumed its aspect of reserve to a more than usual degree; so, after glancing through the pages of a book, but whether of poetry or prose, of fiction or philosophy, he knew no more than the man in the moon, Philip silently withdrew and retired to his bedroom, torn with anxiety and fear.

I hope my readers are prepared to award their sympathy to my youthful hero. His mind was harassed by religious convictions and distressed by spiritual yearnings for a rest he could not find. His heart was filled with the force of an impossible love, a love which had laid an abiding hold upon his life, and these, with the dread, not so much of his father’s anger as his father’s grief, all tended to distract and sadden him. Seated in his bedroom he reviewed all the events of the evening, and put the question to himself, “What shall I do?” That was followed instantly with, “What ought I to do?”—always one of the wisest questions in the world. The answer came clear and full, like a revelation: “Go and tell your father.”

Yielding to the impulse of the moment, and resolved to rid himself of the secrecy, which was so foreign to his nature, Philip straightway retraced his steps, and once more stood before his father, and said,—

“I should like to speak with you a few minutes, father, if you please.”

The old gentleman laid aside his book, slowly and deliberately placed the ivory paper-knife in it to mark the page; taking off his spectacles, he carefully folded them and put them in the case, then lifting his keen eyes upon his son, as if he would look him through, he said,—

“Hadn’t you better take a seat while you make your communication?”

Philip found that he was getting frozen up, and that if he did not make a spurt, he should soon be unable to tell his story.

“Father,” said he, “I entreat you not to be angry with me. Hear me through, and—and—help me if you can.”

Beginning at the beginning, Philip told him of his visits to the forge; how he was captivated by his childish playmate; how since his return from college she had returned from school, and how, having seen her again and again, he felt that he loved her with all his soul, as he could never love anybody else on earth. At this point, inspired by the afflatus of a deep and true affection, Philip waxed eloquent.

“Father,” said he, “Lucy Blyth is, in worldly wealth and status, far beneath me; but in wealth of mind and the riches of goodness and piety, she is infinitely my superior. Of her beauty I say nothing, one sight of her will show you that it is peerless. Father, dear father, I love her with as deep and true a love as ever mastered man. You I feel bound to obey, not in filial duty only, but because I love and reverence my father; but I beseech you to pause before you forbid this thing, for, in the day when this hope dies out into the dark, my life will alter, and the Philip Fuller of to-day will be a different man. How the difference will be felt or borne, God only knows!”

The depth of intensity, the mournful voice in which that last sentence was uttered sent the blood back from the father’s heart. It told him that this was no passing fancy, but the master-love of a life.

The squire sat silent for several moments. His features were fixed and firm and immovable as usual, but there was a pallor on his face which showed that he had received a blow—a blow from which he would not soon recover.

“Have you anything more to say?” asked the squire, in a voice quiet and low.

“No, father,” said Philip, “only this—that you must not doubt either my love or my duty. But, oh remember, the happiness of my life is in your hands,” and bidding him “good-night,” Philip once more retired to his room. That night his sleep was troubled. He dreamed that he was spurned by his father, pursued by Black Morris, while Lucy, bright as an angel, stood before him with outstretched arms, and then, struggling vainly with some invisible power, was borne for ever from his view.

Nor were matters much more promising in the house of Nathan Blyth. After Lucy’s unpleasant experiences with Black Morris, and her exciting interview with Philip Fuller, she was a good deal flustered and disturbed, and when she entered the house, Nathan was constrained to notice her flushed face and disarranged attire.

“Why Lucy, lass, you look as though you had been at work in a hayfield, and as warm as a dairymaid at a butter churn. If it had been any other girl I should have said that she’d been ‘gallivanting;’ but that’s not in my Lucy’s line, is it?”

Lucy was not quite prepared for this sort of thing, but she never stooped to an evasion, and her maidenly intuitions led her at once to tell her father the events of the night.

“Black Morris seized hold of me,” said she, “as I passed the churchyard. I think he was tipsy, and he ran after me. Philip heard me scream, and he brought me safely home.”

Wrath against Black Morris rose high in the blacksmith’s heart, but the unconscious familiarity with which she mentioned “Philip,” as if there could be but one in the whole wide world, struck him so forcibly that he said,—

“Philip? Philip who? Do you mean Master Philip, at the Hall?”

Poor Lucy saw in a moment all the force of her thoughtless slip of the tongue, and she could not for the life of her prevent her fluttering heart from imprinting its secret cipher on her cheek. The bashful, “Yes, father,” tore away the flimsy veil that hid her heart’s idol from her father’s view.

“And how comes Philip Fuller’s name to flow so glibly from my lassie’s lips?” said Nathan, seriously. “My Lucy hasn’t learnt to listen to words of love from one who can never be aught to her, and whose life and hers must always be wide apart—has she?”

The tears were in Lucy’s eyes, and her sweet lips quivered as she knelt by her father’s knee.

“Father,” said she, “I can have no secrets from you. I have never seen, never met him, of my own accord; and since he told me of his love to me, and he couldn’t help it—[That’s right, Lucy, defend him to the last!]—I’ve done my best to avoid him. I have told him that it can never be, and I would sooner die than grieve you, my dear, kind father. But I do love him with all my heart, and he loves me—I know he does—and I’m very miserable! Oh, tell me, tell me, what am I to do?”—And the girl flung herself into his arms in a paroxysm of tears.

“My poor lass!” said Nathan Blyth, stroking her hair and kissing her fair forehead. “It is as I feared. I am thankful that you have told me all about it. I can help you to bear your trouble, and we must both take it to God. Those who seek to do right and keep an honest conscience are sure to find comfort from Him. But, Lucy, my dear, you must not see him any more. It must be put a stop to, and if Master Philip will not keep away, I must go and see Squire Fuller myself. Cheer up, my darling! Let us do right, and God’s good Providence will pull us through. Now it’s getting late, so bring the Bible and let us hear what God the Lord doth say concerning us. I always find that He has a word in season for a heart in trouble.”

The book was brought Nathan turned to the thirty-fourth Psalm, and read, “The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are open to their cry.... The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth and delivereth them out of all their troubles. The Lord is nigh unto all them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.” Then, kneeling down, he made his God their confidant, and “talked with Him face to face as a man talketh with his friend.” Lucy’s trouble, and her need of strength and guidance—her lack of a mother’s loving counsel and care—were all laid before the Throne of Grace. They rose to their feet in the sweet hush of a great calm. Lucy was comforted; her filial confidence had quickly brought its reward.

Happy parents they, whose children count them their truest friends and hold from them no secret reserves! Happy children, whose parents win their confidence and make common cause with them in their joys and sorrows! Happy both parents and children who are accustomed to take their needs to a loving and gracious God!

So Lucy dried her tears, resolved to govern her heart like a heroine—to do the duty that lay next her, and leave the rest to heaven. True, she went to bed to dream of Philip, but communion with her love had no embargo there. Thanks to her father’s love and her Redeemer’s care, no shadow of Black Morris or of overhanging trouble disturbed her repose.

Here for the present we leave the youthful lovers, assured that high principle, the love of Right and Truth, will hold them scathless; and, should the course of events widen the gap and intensify the obstacles between these two, we may rest content that both will bear their burdens with a loyal spirit and in submissive strength, and will come through the fire refined and purified, as it is the nature of sterling gold to do.

[CHAPTER XII.]
Adam Olliver in the “Methodist Confessional.”

“When one who holds communion with the skies,

Has filled his urn where the pure waters rise,

And once more mingles with us meaner things,

’Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;

Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,

And tells us where his treasure is supplied.”

Cowper.

IN addition to the Sunday services conducted by local preachers, and a fortnightly Thursday meeting, when the Nestletonian Methodists were favoured with a sermon from one of the “itinerants,” two weekly class-meetings were held, the one in Adam Olliver’s cottage, the other in the kitchen of Nathan Blyth. In each case the owner of the place of rendezvous was the “leader” of the little band which gathered from week to week to give and obtain mutual cheer and encouragement in the Christian life. Old Adam’s class consisted chiefly of the older members of society, and numbered a dozen or fourteen men and women who were “asking their way to Zion with their faces thitherward.”

The lowly and tidy little room was always made as neat as a new pin by the diligent Judith for the class-meetings, though that state of things was by no means exceptional; for Judith, like most of the East Yorkshire peasantry, prided herself on the cleanliness of her cosy cottage. A strip or two of carpet was laid here and there upon the well-washed brick floor. A hearthrug made of short strips of cloth, knitted in many colours and neat of pattern, lay upon the white hearthstone, on the borders of which, uncovered by the rug, a little red sand was strewn, to facilitate future sweeping operations, and to give a looser tenancy to dirt. The grate, hob, and oven were brightly polished with black-lead, and the iron bar, and “reckon” over the fire-place, used for suspending culinary pot and kettle, were as bright as burnished steel. Half a dozen wooden chairs made of birch or ashwood, a small old-fashioned “dresser” and platerack, a clock of contemporary age, whose long case stood bolt upright against the wall, and had had to suffer partial decapitation to make room for it underneath the joists of the boarded chamber floor, an odd-looking corner cupboard perched more than half-way up an angle of the room, and a little round table covered with glazed American cloth, completed the furniture. Not quite, though, for there were two old-fashioned arm-chairs, with spindled backs, from which the green paint was largely worn away by constant use, and two or three odd little Scripture prints and an antique “sampler” adorned the whitewashed walls. On class-meeting nights, the sitting accommodation was increased by the introduction of two little wooden forms of Adam’s own construction, which at other seasons were set up on end in the little back kitchen to be out of the way. A well-worn Bible and the ubiquitous Wesleyan hymn-book were laid upon the table, and Adam’s spectacles, in a wooden case, were placed by their side, as regularly as Wednesday night came round.

I have a great desire that my readers should peep into Adam’s cottage on one of these occasions, and witness the proceedings at a genuine Methodist class-meeting.

As the clock strikes seven, eight or nine members have arrived, and each, having bent the knee in silent prayer, sits silent until the patriarchal leader dons his glasses, opens at a favourite hymn, and says,—

“Let us commence t’ worship ov God be’ singin’ t’ hym on t’ fottid payge, common measure.”

“Jesus the neeame ’igh ower all,

I’ hell or ’arth or sky;

Aingels an’ men befoore it fall,

An’ divvils fear an’ fly.”

The first two lines are then given out again, and Jabez Hepton starts the tune. A few verses are thus disposed of, two lines at a time, and then the old man leads them at the Throne of Grace, in a quaintly earnest prayer. Adam always had “a good time” on these occasions, and two or three of the more enthusiastic members interpolate their “amens” and “halleluias,” varying in number and vehemence according to the current character of their own feelings and experiences. Adam pulls off his glasses as the members resume their seats, and folding his hands on the open book, says,—

“Ah’s still gannin’ on i’ t’ aud rooad, an’ ah bless the Lord ’at ah’s nearer salvation noo then when fost ah beleeaved. Ah finnd ’at t’ way dizn’t get ’arder bud eeasier as ah gan’ on. Ah used te hev monny a tussle wi’ me’ neeamsake, t’ ‘Aud Adam,’ an’ he’s offens throan ma’, but t’ Strangger then he’s aboot tonnd him oot, an’ ah feel ’at the Lord’s will’s mah will mair then ivver it was afoore. Ah’s cummin’ fast te d’ end o’ my jonna, an’ ah’s just waitin’ at t’ Beautiful Gayt o’ t’ temple, till the Lord cums an’ lifts ma’ up, then ah sall gan in as t’ leeam man did, loupin’ an’ singin’ an’ praisin’ God.—Noo, Brother Hepton, hoo is it wi’ your sowl te-neet?”

Jabez Hepton, as we have seen, is the village carpenter. He is rather a reticent and thoughtful man, troubled now and then with mental doubts—a kind of Nicodemus, who is given to asking “How can these things be?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m not quite up to the mark, somehow. I have no trust but in Jesus, an’ I don’t want to have. But I’ve a good many doubts an’ fears,—why, not fears exactly, but questionings an’ uncertainties, an’ they disturb me at times a good bit. I pray for grace to overcome ’em. May the Lord help me!”

“Help yo’,” said Adam, “te be seear He will. But you mun help yersen. If a fellow cums inte my hoose o’ purpose te mak’ ma’ miserable, an’ begins te pull t’ winder cottain doon, an’ rake t’ fire oot, tellin’ ma’ ’at darkness an’ gloom ’s best fo’ ma’; ah sudn’t begin to arguy wiv him. Ah sud say, ‘Cum, hod thee noise an’ bundle oot. Ah knoa better then that, an’ ah’ll hev as mitch dayleet as ah can get.’ Noo, theease doots o’ yours, they cum for neea good, and they shutt t’ sunleet o’ faith oot o’ yer heart. Noo, deean’t ax ’em te sit doon an’ hev a crack o’ talk aboot it, an’ lissen tiv ’em till you’re hoaf oot o’ yer wits. Say ‘Get oot, ah deean’t want yo,’ an’ ah weean’t hae yo’!’ an’ oppen t’ deear an’ expect ’em te gan. Meeastly you’ll finnd ’at they’ll tak t’ hint an’ vanish like a dreeam. Brother Hepton, doots is neea trubble, if yo’ weean’t giv ’em hooseroom. Questionin’s weean’t bother yo’ if yo’ deeant give ’em a answer. An’ whativver yo’ deea, fill your heead wi’ t’ Wod ov God. ‘It’s written!’ ‘It’s written!’ that’s the way te settle ’em.—Sister Petch, hoo are you gettin’ on?”

Sister Petch is an aged widow, poor amongst the poorest, an infirm and weakly woman, living a solitary life, but ever upborne by a cheerful Christian content which is beautiful to see.

“Why, I’ve nothing but what’s good to say of my gracious Lord and Saviour. Sometimes ah gets a bit low-spirited an’ dowly, especially when my rheumatism keeps me from sleeping. But I go straight to the cross, and when I cry, ‘Lord, help me!’ I get abundant strength. The Lord won’t lay on me more than ah’m able to bear, an’ sometimes He makes my peace to flow like a river. My Saviour’s love makes up for all my sorrows.”

“Hey, mah deear sister, ah’ll warrant it diz. You an’ me’s gettin’ aud an’ creaky, an’ the Lord’s lowsin’ t’ pins o’ wer tabernacle riddy for t’ flittin.’ Bud if t’ hoose o’ this tabernacle be dissolved, we knoa ’at we’ve a buildin’ ov God. Till that day cums, ‘Lord, help me!’ is a stoot crutch te walk wi’, an’ a sharp swoord te fight wi’, an’ a soft pillo’ te lig wer heeads on, an’ a capital glass te get a leeak at heaven through. The Lord knoas all aboot it, Peggy, an’ He says te yo’, ‘ah knoa thi patience an’ thi povvaty,’ but thoo’s rich, an’ bless His neeame you’ll be a good deal richer yit.

‘On all the kings of ’arth,

Wi’ pity we leeak doon;

An’ clayme i’ vartue o’ wer berth,

A nivver fadin’ croon.’

Halleluia! Peggy. You’re seear ov all yo’ want for tahme an’ for etarnity.—Brother Laybourn, tell us o’ the Lord’s deealin’s wi’ you.”

Brother Laybourn is the village barber, and like many others of his fraternity is much given to politics, an irrepressible talker, great at gossip, and being of a mercurial temperament befitting his lithe little frame, he is a little deficient in that stedfastness of character which is requisite for spiritual health and progress. In answer to Adam’s invitation, he runs down like a clock when the pendulum’s off——

“Why, I hev to confess that I isn’t what I owt to be, an’ I isn’t altegither what I might be, but I is what I is, an’ seein’ things is no better, I’m thenkful that they’re no worse. I’ve a good monny ups and doons, and inns and oots, but by the grace of God I continny to this day, an’”——

“Ah’ll tell you what it is, Brother Laybourn,” said Adam, cutting him short in his career, “Fooaks ’at ez sae monny ups and doons is varry apt to gan doon altegither; an’ them ’at ez so monny ins an’ oots mun take care they deean’t get clean oot, till they can’t get in na mair. ‘Unsteeable as watter thoo sall nut excel.’ It’s varry weel to be thenkful, bud when wa’ hae te confine wer thenks te nut bein’ warse than we are, it dizn’t seeam as though we were takkin’ mitch pains te be better. ’T’ kingdom o’ heaven suffers violence, an’ t’ violent tak’ it be foorce,’ Leonard. Ah pre’ yo’ te give all diligence te mak’ your callin’ an’ election sure: an’ if yo’ll nobbut pray mair, yo’ll hev a good deal mair te thenk God for then ye seem te hev te-neet.—Lucy, mah deear, hoo’s the Lord leadin’ you te-neet?”

Lucy Blyth’s experience is generally fresh and healthy, and her utterances are always listened to with gladness and profit, for Lucy is a favourite here as everywhere else.

“I thank God,” says Lucy, “that the Lord is leading me, though it is often by a way that I know not. I often find that the path of duty is very hard to climb, and the other path of inclination looks both easy and pleasant. If it were not for the real and precious help I get by prayer, I fear that I should choose it. I am trying to do right, and desire above all things to keep the comfort of a good conscience, and to walk in the light. I find that one of the best means of resisting temptation and mastering self and sin is to work for God and to try to benefit others. I pray every day of my life that I may be a lowly, loving disciple of my Saviour, and His conscious love and favour are the joy of my heart.

‘Blindfold I walk this life’s bewildering maze,

Strong in His faith I tread the uneven ways,

And so I stand unshrinking in the blast,

Because my Father’s arm is round me cast;

And if the way seems rough, I only clasp

The Hand that leads me with a firmer grasp.’”

“Hey, mah bairn,” Adam makes reply, and there is a wealth of tenderness in his tones, “t’ way o’ duty is t’ way o’ seeafty. It may be rough sometahmes, an’ thorns an’ briars may pierce yer feet, but if yo’ nobbut clim’ it patiently, you’ll finnd ’at t’ top on’t ’at God’s gotten a blessin’ riddy fo’ yo’ ’at pays for all t’ trubble an’ pain. Besahdes that, He’s wi’ yo’ all t’ way up, an’ He’s sayin’ te yo’ all t’ while, ‘Leean hard upo’ Me!’ ‘Sorrow may endure for a neet,’ Lucy, ‘bud joy cums i’ t’ mornin’.’ A trubble-clood brings a cargo o’ blessin’, an’ t’ bigger the blessin’ the blacker it leeaks. Nestleton Brig settles doon strannger for all t’ looads ’at gans ower it, an’ you’ll be better an’ purer for t’ boddens yo’ hae te carry. Ah’s glad yo’ finnd a cumfot an’ a blessin’ i’ trying te deea good; for there’s nowt oot ov heaven ’at’s sae like Jesus as wipin’ tears and soffenin’ trubbles, an’ takkin balm to bruis’d hearts. Besahdes, you can’t mak’ music for other fooaks withoot hearin’ it y’ursen. Them ’at gives gets, an’ as seean as ivver we begin te watter other fooaks’ gardens, ivvery leeaf i’ wer aun is drippin’ wi’ heavenly dew. May the Lord bless yo’, mah bairn, ivvery hoor i’ t’ day!”——To this every member of the class responds with a genuine and warm “Amen.”

“Judy, mah dear aud wife,” continues Adam, “tell us hoo yer gettin’ on i’ t’ rooad te t’ New Jerusalem.”

Judith’s words were always few, but they were always fit. She sits by the side of her grand old man, in her clean white cap, and smoothing down the folds of her apron, answers,—

“Why, thoo knoas, Adam, ’at ah’s growin’ old, an’ feelin’ more an’ more the infirmities of age, but it doesn’t trubble ma.’ The Lord fills me wi’ joy an’ peace through believin’. Ah’ve only one unsatisfied desire, an’ that is te know that me three bairns hev giv’n their hearts te God. Jake’s a good lad, an’ Hannah’s a steady lass, but ah feels te fret a bit now and then aboot Pete. He’s in a forren country away ower t’ sea, an’ I do long to see his face agen. But ah could deny myself o’ that, if I knew that he loved his Saviour, and was sure to meet me i’ heaven. This is my prayer ivvery day, ’at we may meet an unbroken family at God’s right hand.”

There is a very perceptible tremor in Old Adam Olliver’s voice, and a couple of tear-drops on his cheeks, as he takes Judith by the hand, and says,—

“God bless tha’, mah dear aud wife. A muther’s luv hugs her bairns varry near her heart; bud thoo knoas ’at God’s luv’s eaven bigger still; an’ He’s promised thoo an’ me lang since ’at He’ll give us all wa’ ax Him. Deean’t be frighten’d, Judy, my lass, all thi’ bairns hae been gi’n te God, and nut a hoof on us’ll be left behint. The Lord’s in America as weel as here, an’ t’ prayers o’ Pete’s muther mak’s t’ sea nae bigger then a fishpond, an’ ah’s expectin’ sum day te see wer lad, sittin’ by wer hearthstun’. Bud whither or no, be seear o’ this, ’at thoo an’ me’ll stand i’ t’ prizence o’ wer Saviour we’ wer bairns wiv ‘us, sayin’, ‘Here we are an’ t’ children Thoo ez given us.’ Here Adam’s voice fails him, and Jabez Hepton strikes up,—

“O what a joyful meeting there,

In robes of white arrayed;

Palms in our hands we all shall bear,

And crowns upon our head!”

Then follows a universal chorus,—

“And then we shall with Jesus reign

And never, never part again.”

“Noo, Sister Houston,” says Adam, resuming his leader’s office, “hoo is it wi’ you te-day?”

Mrs. Houston is, as I have previously noted, an energetic and bustling woman, of strong will, naturally quick temper, and given to a good deal of needless anxiety as to the management of her dairy and other domestic affairs. A good woman is Sister Houston, candid as the day, and often a good deal troubled over certain constitutional tendencies in which nature is apt to triumph over grace.

“Well,” says she, “I find that the Christian life is a warfare, and I often have hard work to stand my ground. Family anxieties and household cares often put a heavy strain on me, and I get so busy and so taken up with things, that religion seems to fall into the second place; and then I get into trouble over faults and failings that I ought to cure. I do mean to try, and I pray for grace to be more faithful to the Saviour who has done so much for me.”

“Hey,” says Adam, with a sigh, “this wolld’s sadly apt to get inte d’ rooad o’ t’other, isn’t it? Like yer neeamseeak, Martha, yo’ get trubbled aboot monny things. ‘Be careful for nowt,’ said Jesus; that is, deean’t be anxious an’ worrit aboot ’em. Seek fost the kingdom ov heaven, and keep it fost. Iverything else’ll prosper an’ nowt’ll suffer if yo’ deea that. As for t’ trials o’ temper an’ other faults an’ failin’s, an’ lahtle frettin’s an’ bothers o’ life, tak’ ’em bodily te t’ Cross, an’ ax on t’ spot for grace te maister ’em. Deean’t be dispirited wi’ yer failur’s; leeak back at t’ way God’s offens helped yo’ through. When David killed Goliath, he said, ‘The Lord ’at delivered ma’ frae t’ lion an’ t’ beear ’ll deliver thoo inte me’ hands te-day.’ That’s it, arguy frae t’ lion te t’ giant an’ he’s bun te fall. When ah was a lad an’ wanted to jump a beck, ah went backwa’d a bit te get a good spring; an’ seea when yo’ want te loup ower a difficulty, step back a bit te t’ last victory God gav yo’, an’ then i’ faith ’at He’ll deea it ageean, jump, an’ you’ll clear it, as seear as mah neeam’s Adam Olliver.”

Then follows another hymn, a brief concluding prayer, and the secrets of the “Methodist Confessional” are over. The names are called, each one contributes weekly pence according to their means for the support of the Kesterton Circuit funds, and the little company retires, all the better for an hour’s intercourse with each other, and of communion with God.

For nearly a century and a half the Methodist class-meeting has been one of the most potent means of conserving and intensifying the spiritual life of the Methodist people. It is earnestly to be hoped that they will never be guilty of the suicidal policy of slighting this admirable institution. In the day when it allows the class-meeting to occupy any other than a foremost and vital place in its Church organisation, Methodism will be largely shorn of its strength, and “Ichabod” will be traced in fatal characters on its crumbling walls. Adam Olliver’s class-meeting has been drawn in strict consistency with facts, and many a thousand similar green oases amid the arid sands of weekly toil and trial, are to-day refreshing and encouraging thousands of humble pilgrims whose faces are set towards the Celestial City.

[CHAPTER XIII.]
Squire Fuller pays a Visit to the Forge.

“I ask not for his lineage,

I ask not for his name—

If manliness be in his heart,

He noble birth may claim.

I care not though of world’s wealth

But slender be his part,

If yes you answer when I ask,

Hath he a true man’s heart?”

R. Nicholl.

AFTER that memorable interview which Philip Fuller had with his father when he revealed the dearest secret of his heart, the squire sat motionless and immersed in thought, long after his household had retired to rest.

The revelation made to him by his son had come upon him with all the force of a thunderbolt, and for a while bereft him of the power either to think or act. His clear perception had seen that Philip’s attachment to Lucy was no child’s play—no fleeting fancy to be chased away by the advent of some newer face of beauty. He knew that his son and heir was the subject of a master passion—a love that no diplomacy could lessen, that no counter policy could uproot, and that direct opposition could only intensify and confirm. His deep and mighty love for Philip, largely hid under a cold exterior, led him to sympathise with and pity him to a degree altogether unwarranted by external evidence; at the same time he felt that such an alliance as the ardent youth contemplated was simply impossible and absurd, and must be put an end to at all hazards, for his son’s sake, as well as from regard to the traditions of his family tree. He was convinced that the only method of preventing so glaring a mistake lay in an appeal to Philip’s filial obedience and love, and he came to the conclusion to use that potent engine without delay.

The next morning, as he and Philip were seated at the breakfast table, the squire opened the conversation by saying,—

“My son! Does your evening declaration commend itself to your morning reflections? I have gone through a sleepless night, trying to hope that I should meet, this morning, your wiser self. Philip, my boy, I would do much to please you, for you little know how great is my love for you. But you ask me what I cannot grant, and what, if you do without my permission, will go far to shorten my life and break my heart. You are all I have in the world, and having you, I have all the world has in it that I care for. My son! my son! will you give up this impossible idea, and let me feel that you will not bring my grey head to the grave with grief?”

The squire’s voice quivered, and the look of eager hope and dread upon his haggard face was something pitiful to see. He had employed the one arrow in his quiver that had, for this case, either feather or barb, and his suspense amounted to positive agony until Philip’s answer came. But he had judged aright. His son’s genuine love and loyalty were his sheet anchor, and the anchor held. The colour left Philip’s face, the struggle was intense, but his response was firm.

“My dear father! Your love is precious to me, and your will is law. I cannot promise not to love Lucy. I have not the power to keep it if I did. I cannot promise to give up the hope that one day you may look upon my heart’s desire with favour. But, so long as you forbear to urge any other alliance on me, I promise to your love, that I will not grieve you by any further steps in this direction.”

“And you will not seek an interview with this young woman without my full permission?”

Philip paused a moment while love and duty, or rather while two loves, fought a hard battle in his soul, and then the love that was allied with duty won the day, and he said, “Father, I will not.”

The father rose from his seat, bent forward, and kissed him on the brow. “Philip,” said he, “I bless you. God will bless you for that word.”

Squire Fuller’s next step was to despatch a note to Nathan Blyth, for he felt that no stone must be left unturned to assure the victory he had gained. A short time afterwards, therefore, the blacksmith received the following epistle:—

“Sir,—It has come to my knowledge that my son has been foolish enough to commit himself, by a stupid profession of love, to your daughter. Though this is doubtless a young man’s whim, and a mere passing fancy, I greatly object to it, and he has promised me that he will desist from what I am sure you will agree with me in describing as unseemly and improper. I write this private communication in order to suggest to your daughter that she should not encourage such a wild dream, and that you will use your authority in keeping her out of his way. I trust I have said nothing herein to give you offence, and am, &c.,

Ainsley Fuller.”

When Nathan Blyth had read the letter twice through, he bade the messenger to wait, and speedily sent the following missive in return:—

“Sir,—You cannot be more glad than I am that Master Philip has made the promise to which you refer. Nothing is more contrary to my desire than that he should ever speak to her again. And permit me respectfully to assure you that my daughter has given him no encouragement; and, without the exertion of any authority of mine, will not only not seek, but will repel any advances on his part. Both she and I are agreed that nothing could be more lamentable than to suffer any such forgetfulness of the difference between his position and ours. You may rest assured that no encouragement, but the direct opposite, will always be given to such an act of folly.

“I am, Sir, yours respectfully,

“Nathan Blyth.”

Squire Fuller could hardly believe his own eyes as he read the letter, couched in such fitting language, so eminently respectful, and especially so gratifying in its contents. He had imagined that Nathan and his daughter would have regarded Philip as a prize to be hooked, if possible, and had written his note with a view to crush out the faintest hope of success in their plot for Lucy’s aggrandisement. He felt such a sense of satisfaction and relief that he resolved to ride over to the forge and express his thanks and pleasure to the writer.

The next morning, therefore, the stately squire bestrode his favourite grey mare, and took his morning ride in the direction of Blithe Natty’s house. That cheerful knight of the hammer was busy at his post, and the ringing anvil, as usual, was accompanied by his musical and sonorous song.

Wherever my fortune may lead me,

Whate’er sort of hap it may bring,

The blessing of God will still speed me,

And this is the song I will sing—

Away with all fear and repining,

Away with all doubting and grief:

On the bosom of Jesus reclining,

He’ll never withhold me relief.

Affliction will come, if He sends it,

Or sorrow my portion may be;

I’ll cheerfully bear till He ends it,

Till I His salvation shall see.

With loving and honest endeavour,

Still striving my duty to do,

I’ll love Him and trust Him for ever,

For ever be honest and true.

The sun in the heavens is shining,

Though clouds may oft gather below,

Each one has a silvery lining,

And rains down a gift as I go.

The streamlet runs clear o’er the gravel,

The breezes blow pure o’er the lea;

Just so in my course would I travel,

With Jesus to journey with me.

I want neither honour nor riches,

I care not for rank or for gold;

For this kind of fortune bewitches

The soul—at least so I’ve been told.

Contented and happy and healthy,

Pray why should I covet or sigh,

To be titled or famous or wealthy?

Can any man answer me why?

But one thing through life will I covet—

To hate the whole compass of wrong;

To do aye the right and to love it,

To sing as I travel along.

Wherever my fortune may lead me,

Whate’er sort of hap it may bring,

The blessing of God will aye speed me,

And so as I travel I sing.

Such was the blithe and cheery ditty which Nathan Blyth was chanting when Squire Fuller rode up to the smithy door.

“Good morning, Blyth,” said he; “it’s a good sign when people sing at their work. One would conclude that it’s neither too hard nor ill paid.”

“And yet, sir,” said Nathan, “I have known people who worked too hard for low wages, and yet could sing all the same.”

“Indeed! I imagine they must have been endowed by nature with a marvellous flow of spirits,” said the squire.

“No, sir, not specially, but they were endowed by God with a marvellous flow of grace. You know the old proverb sir,—

‘Godly grace makes greatly glad,

It makes him sing who once was sad.’”

“And you believe that this ‘grace of God,’ as you call it, helps you to sing, do you, Blyth?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nathan, warmly; “I have a good conscience, a sense and assurance of my Saviour’s love, and a bright hope of heaven. God’s providence has filled my cup brimfull with blessings, and if I did not sing His praises the very stones might well cry out.”

All this was beyond the belief or comprehension of Squire Fuller, and Natty might have answered his dubious look by the words of the Samaritan woman, “Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep.”

“Well, well,” said he, “I am heartily glad, at any rate, that you can take life so brightly. It certainly would be a thousand pities if that grand voice of yours was to rust for want of practice.”

“Yes, there’s something in that, too,” said Nathan, with a smile.

‘To help the voice full clear to ring.

Go out into the woods and sing.’

“I don’t go out into the woods to do it, but the pitch of my anvil-ring keeps me up to tone, and the practice is quite as good.”

“Allow me to thank you, Blyth, for that very courteous and satisfactory note you sent me yesterday. I own that it was not altogether what I expected. I suspected—I imagined—I thought—that—that”——and the squire felt that he was dealing stupidly with a very delicate subject.

“Yes, I know,” said Nathan Blyth; “you imagined that the blacksmith and his daughter were fishing for the heir of Waverdale Park, and you hoped quietly to convince them that it was a losing game. I’m not offended at that; I suppose it was natural that you should do so. But be sure, sir, that I dread the idea, and hate it, too, quite as much as you do. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in my conscience that my Lucy is in all respects a prize that any man might wish to win, and I know none for whom I do not hold her to be too good. But I’d rather she mated with somebody in her own rank of life. I should say ‘No’ to Master Philip if he asked for her himself, and I should say ‘No’ to you if you were to ask for him; and if he is a sensible young man, he’ll turn his attention other where, for he may depend upon it he’ll come on a useless errand, if he comes at all.”

Human nature is a queer article, and the squire’s feelings as he heard this would have been difficult to analyse. His satisfaction was great at the thought that there was no fear of counter-plotting, but, strange to say, he felt more than half inclined to feel insulted. Here was a grimy smith, with naked arms and leather apron, standing, hammer in hand, by his smithy fire, coldly intimating that his daughter was too dainty a prize for his own son, and scorning the bare idea of such an alliance with as much independence as if he were a “belted earl.” The blue blood surged a little in the veins of the stately squire, but, restraining himself, he was fain to be content with facts, and, mounting his horse, he bade the sturdy Vulcan a cold and distant “Good-morrow,” and betook him to his ancestral park.

[CHAPTER XIV.]
Aud Adam Olliver “Sees about it.”

“Age, by long experience well informed,

Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed,

That fire abated which impels rash youth,

Proud of his speed to overshoot the truth,

As time improves the grapes’ authentic juice,

Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,

And claims a reverence in his shortening day,

That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay.”

Cowper.

“CUM, Balaam! Stor yer pins, aud chap, or we sahn’t get te d’ Marlpit Wood afoore dinner tahme.” Adam Olliver, astride his faithful but laggard donkey, sought with small success to put that philosophic quadruped to a quicker pace. Balaam was not to be flurried out of the jog-trot which had become a part of his nature, and walking or galloping was equally out of the question. This Adam well knew, but he had got into the habit of talking to his four-footed retainer in his lonely labours in valley and hill-side, and, doubtless, if all his confidential talk with his long-eared but not particularly retentive listener could be reported, a volume, considerable alike in size and sense, might easily be forthcoming.

“Balaam, aud chap, ah think there’s mair donkeys wi’ two legs then there is wi’ fower. Blithe Natty’s as good a fello’ as ivver put a pair o’ shoes on, but he’s as blinnd as a bat, and as dull as a donkey aboot that blessid lahtle lass ov his. She’s cryin’ her e’es oot, an’ spoilin’ her pratty feeace ower that yung sprig ov a squire; an’ her dodderin’ fayther wunthers what’s matter wiv ’er, an’s freeten’d te deead ’at he’s gannin’ te loss ’er like ’er mother. He dizn’t seeam te see wheear t’ mischief ligs. Thoo mun tell ’im, Balaam. Thoo mun tell ’im”—for Old Adam had got into a way of identifying the old donkey with himself, and in his monologues with his dumb companion, used to give it the advice on which he himself intended to act—“it weean’t deea for t’ sweetest lass i’ Waverdale to be meead a feeal on biv a young whippersnapper like that. Ah’ve neea doot he thinks it’s good fun te trifle wiv a pratty lass, an’ get ’er te wosship t’ grund he walks on, an’ then leeave ’er te dee ov a brokken heart. Bud,” said the old hedger, in a gush of indignation, “Ah’ll be hanged if he sall! Balaam, thoo sall gan te-neet, an’ tell Natty Blyth a bit o’ thi’ mind.”

Here, in his excitement, Old Adam rose up in his stirrups and unconsciously brought his stick down on the flanks of his Rosinante, with a thwack that would have startled any other steed into at least a momentary spurt. Balaam, however, only cocked his ears in mild astonishment, as who should say, “What in the world is the matter with the old man now?” or, rather, for it isn’t possible to think of him cogitating in any other language than his master’s, “What i’ t’ wolld’s up wi’ t’ aud chap noo?”

Just at this point Adam had reached a narrow gate which opened into a grassy lane, leading to Marlpit Wood, the scene of his labours for the day. There, bestriding a handsome bay, and in the act of attempting to open the gate with the handle of his riding whip, was a fine, handsome young gentleman, whose dark eyes gleamed with good temper, and whose general appearance was indicative of rank, high spirits, and kindliness of heart. This was none other than Philip Fuller, and no sooner did Adam Olliver set his eyes upon him than he resolved there and then to fulfil his promise to Judith to “see about it,” and to “have it out” with the delinquent himself.

“Ah’ll oppen t’ yat fo’ yo’ if y’ll wayte a minnit;” and, dismounting, he fulfilled his promise, and stood with his limp and battered “Jim Crow” hat in his hand, before the young gentleman had an opportunity to reply.

“Thank you,” said Philip, with a bright, open smile, and, putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a coin with the view of paying for the favour he had received.

“Nay,” said Adam, “Ah deean’t want payin’ for it. Ah sud hae ’ad te oppen it for mysen; an’ if ah hedn’t it wad hae been varry meean te see yo’ bother’d, an’ gan on indifferent. Bud if yo’ll excuse ma’, sor, ah sud like te say a wod or two te yo’, an’ ah wop yo’ weean’t be offended. Mah neeam’s Adam Olliver, an’ ah lives next deear te Nathan Blyth, an’ ah thinks as mitch aboot his lahtle Lucy as ah deea aboot me’ aun bairns. Oh, sor!” and Adam lifted his honest sun-brown face in strong appeal, “deean’t draw Natty’s yow’ lam’ away frev ’im, poor fellow! He hez bud’ hor, an’ if onny ’arm sud ’appen tiv her, it’ll breck his ’art an’ hor’s an’ all. She’s as good as she’s pratty, bless ’er! an’ it wad be twenty thoosand pities, as weel as an awful sin, te bring disgrace on ’er heead, an’ sorrow tiv’ ’er ’art. Deean’t, ah pre’ you, rob Natty of his darlin’. Yisterday, ah was clippin’ a hedge yonder by Marlpit Wood, an’ ah saw a muther-bod teeachin’ ’er yung ’un te flee. T’ aud bod flutter’d and chirrup’t up an’ doon, an’ roond aboot, the varry picther o’ happiness, an’ t’ poor lahtle gollin’ cheep’d an’ hopp’d, an’ flew as happy as it’s mother. A sparro’-hawk com’ doon, like a flash o’ leetnin’, an’ teeak’d lahtle thing away iv his claws. Ah tell you, Maister Philip, t’ way that poor muther-bod pleean’d an’ twitter’d, an’ hopp’d, frae bush te tree, an’ frae tree te bush, wild wi’ grief, was aneeaf te melt a flint. Maister Philip! deean’t be a hawk; bud let Natty’s pratty lahtle singin’-bod be, an’ God’ll bless yo’.”

Philip Fuller listened in amaze. A bright ingenuous blush tinged his cheek at the mention of Lucy’s name, and as the old man proceeded, in rude, homely eloquence, to plead, as he thought, the cause of injured innocence, the colour deepened until it might easily have been misread as an evidence of conscious guilt. Not the slightest shadow of anger, however, rested on his features, as he looked into the gleaming eyes of the “old man eloquent.” On the contrary, his clear perception showed him in Old Adam the true and knightly sympathiser with innocence and beauty; the chivalrous knight in corderoy and hodden grey, who, if needs be, would peril life and limb to champion his darling against all comers suspected of unrighteous intent.

“Deean’t be vexed, Maister Philip,” he proceeded. “Ah meean neea harm, you knoa ah deean’t, but ah can’t abide te see lahtle Lucy pinin’ away i’ sorro’, an’ ’er fayther gannin’ aboot like a man iv a dreeam. She’s nut the lass for you, yo’ knoa. A lennet an’ a eeagle’s ill matched, an’ ah want yo’ te promise mah ’at yo’ll let her alooan, weean’t yo’?”

“Vexed! No,” said Philip; “on the contrary, I esteem you for your love to Lucy, and I respect you for your candour; but you are under a great mistake. God is my witness, Adam Olliver; I mean no harm to Lucy Blyth, and would rather suffer the loss of my right arm than bring a tear to her eye, or sorrow to her father’s hearth.”

“God i’ heaven bless yo’ for that wod,” said Adam, with deep feeling; “you lahtle knoa hoo it releeaves mi’ mind, an’ ah’s sorry ’at ah’ve judg’d yo’ hardly, but ah’ve seen yo’ mair than yance or twice, when ah thowt ’at there was room te fear.”

“Well, well,” said Philip, with a smile, “you need be under no concern of that kind, for, on the honour of a gentleman, and the faith of a Christian, I mean all that I have said.”

“Prayse the Lord!” said Adam. “As for t’ honour ov a gentleman, sum gentlemen hae queer nooations aboot that, an’ ah wadn’t trust ’em as far as ah could fling ’em on t’ strength on’t. Bud t’ faith ov a Christian’s anuther thing, an’ if yo’ hae that it’ll keep beeath you an’ hor an’ ivveryboddy else oot o’ harm’s way. The blood ov Jesus Christ cleansis frae all sin, an’ ah pray ’at yo’ may knoa it an’ feel it all t’ days o’ yer life. Excuse mah for makkin’ sae free wi’ yo’, sor,” said Adam, again touching his time-worn hat, “bud you’ve teean a looad off my heart as big as Kesterton Hill.”

With mutual “Good-mornings” they separated; the one to ply his slashing-knife on Farmer Houston’s quick-wood, the other to pursue his homeward way to Waverdale Hall, with a new subject for study and new material for thought.

Leaving Adam Olliver to jog along the grassy lane on the back of patient and unwitting Balaam, let us accompany the handsome scion of the house of Fuller, and listen to his communings, stirred as he was by his interview with Lucy’s rustic friend and champion.

“She loves me,” was his first thought; “to me she would never own it. But Adam Olliver knows it, and misreads my heart as much as one man can misread another’s. Lucy, my darling, for love of you I would barter Waverdale Hall without a sigh; I would harden my hands at the anvil, and hammer and sing as merrily as Blithe Natty, if you might brighten my cottage home! What shall I do? My proud and stately father will never permit such an unequal match but, with all his pride, he loves me dearly, and I cannot, will not, be disloyal to so great a love, and disobey his will.”

He heaved a sigh from the depths of his perplexed and anxious spirit; then his mind reverted to Adam Olliver’s words, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin.” And again the refrain heard in the cottage service rung in his ears,—

“To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?”

“What does it mean? I would give the world to know and feel that cleansing power, to know and feel that Jesus died for me.”

Slowly, but definitely and surely, the young patrician was being led by Providence and Grace to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world.

Nor were the cogitations of the grand old hedger less interesting. His shrewd, observant mind had noted the clear, transparent character of the youthful squire, had been struck with the honest ring of his manly disclaimer, and lapsing into his old habit of making Balaam his confidant, he said,—

“Balaam, thoo an’ me’s a cupple ov aud feeals. What business hae we te jump te conclusions aboot uther fooaks’ faults? We mun try te leeak at yam a bit mair. Here ah’ve been at it fotty year an’ mair, talkin’ aboot an’ praisin’ t’ charity ’at thinks nae evil, an’ here ah’ve been bleeamin’ that yung fello’ withoot judge or joory. Oh, Adam, Adam! Thoo mun gan te skeeal ageean an’ larn t’ a-b ab’s o’ Christian charaty! Them ’at’s fost te fling a steean had better keep their aun winder-shutters in, or they’ll hae plenty o’ brokken glass, an’ ah feel as meean as though I hadn’t a woll payne left i’ mahn. Ah’s waintly misteean if that’s nut as feyn a young chap as ivver rayd a hoss, an’ ah’ll pray ’at the Lord may mak’ him a bonnin’ an’ a shinin’ leet.”

Adam Olliver’s prayers were not wont to be in vain.

[CHAPTER XV.]
Nathan Blyth is the Victim of a Gunpowder Plot.

“As woods, when shaken by the breeze,

Take deeper, firmer root,

As winter’s frosts but make the trees

Abound in summer fruit;

So every bitter pang and throe

That Christian firmness tries,

But nerves us for our work below,

And forms us for the skies.”

Henry Francis Lyte.

A FEW days after the evening when Lucy Blyth was rescued from the unpleasant attentions of Black Morris by her own true knight, the scapegrace in question once again met Lucy in the twilight; and, though sufficiently sober now, he was inclined to force his imaginary and unappreciated claims upon her notice. This time, however, Lucy, whose patience had been fully tried, held her ground, and summoned all her courage for resolute resistance and a final dismissal of her persistent wooer.

“John Morris,” said she, “why will you not let me alone? Surely you can see clearly enough that I don’t want you, that I won’t have you, and that your conduct is downright persecution. I shall be compelled to seek means to protect myself, if you have not manliness enough to desist and leave me alone.”

In vain the hot-headed victim of a fruitless passion pleaded for “a trial.” In vain he promised instant and absolute reformation in conduct and character. In vain he told her that he should be ruined, body and soul, if she turned him totally adrift.

Lucy felt that an uncompromising firmness was her only chance of escape from him, and that she must not even seem to yield one jot.

“Once for all,” said she, “I will not—I never will! and, if you follow me till I die, you’ll get no answer but that. I shall soon hate you if you harass and annoy me any more.”

Then Black Morris lost command of his temper, if, indeed, he could be said ever to have control of it, and said, with an oath,—

“I see how it is: that cursed young squire has played his cards too well for me. He’s a sly beggar; but I’ll be even with him. I hate him, as I hate his father. One robbed us of our farm, and the other has robbed me of you! Let him look out, for I’ll be revenged on him either with bullet or knife!”

Turning on his heel, and leaving Lucy as white as a sheet, he set off at a rapid pace towards Midden Harbour. By and bye he turned back, and overtaking her, glared in her face with a passion simply diabolical, and said,—

“That proud fool of a father of yours thinks a precious deal about you. I asked him, like a man, to let me court you, and he said he’d rather see you dead and in your grave. Tell him he may live to do it. Let him look out,” said he, stamping with rage. “Curse him! I’ll have my revenge;” and again he dashed away, this time in the direction of the Red Lion.

Lucy, more dead than alive, sped homeward on the wings of fear, and on reaching her threshold fell into a dead swoon in her father’s arms.

When she had recovered she told Nathan Blyth all the events of the night. He vainly wished he could recall his needlessly angry words to Black Morris, for he saw to what danger and trouble he had exposed his darling, from the hands of one who threatened to be such a reckless and implacable enemy.

That self-willed and headstrong young fellow found at the village alehouse a number of suspicious characters, with whom he had already had too great an intimacy. Just now he was ripe and ready for any extreme of lawlessness to which they could tempt him; so, after plying him with strong liquors, they promised to aid him in his revenge. The last remnant of his self-control was gone. He became the repository of criminal confidences from which in many a sober moment afterwards he found no way of escape. His descent was now rapid; his harsh and ungenial father often quarrelled with him; even his mother—the only being who had any moral control over him—was unable to exert any restraining influence, and Black Morris was fairly launched on that sea of depravity which, except for God’s miracles of mercy, will engulf all who embark on its treacherous flood.

By and bye his name began to figure often and definitely as one of a lawless gang. It was soon rumoured abroad that certain local deeds of outrage and wrong had Black Morris for an aider and abettor, and it is to be feared that there was, in some cases at least, sufficient ground for the report.

Soon afterwards Nathan Blyth began to find that he was being made the victim of a series of annoying and harmful persecutions. His flower-beds were crushed and trampled on; his fruit-trees were hacked and hewed; his limited store of live stock were stolen or poisoned. Roused to the utmost pitch of indignation, the stalwart blacksmith sat up o’ nights to watch his premises and guard his property; but in vain, as far as the discovery of the perpetrators was concerned, though it broadened the intervals between the visits of his unknown and malicious foes. Then he found that the most cruel rumours were afloat affecting the character of his darling, coupling her name with that of the young squire in a way that was utterly unwarrantable and untrue; rumours which were innocuous as far as her friends were concerned, but which were greedily seized on by a godless and unprincipled few, who were glad to seize any occasion to bespatter the “Methodies.”

Poor Lucy had to drink of the bitterest cup that can be lifted to the lips of virtuous and sensitive modesty. The roses left her cheek and the light forsook her eye, and Nathan sorrowed because he knew not how to shield his girl from the poisoned arrows shot by an unseen hand.

At length, however, “the wicked that rose up against them” overshot the mark, and an event transpired that opened the eyes of the villagers to the fierce and vindictive plot which had gathered round Nathan and his darling child, and turned the full flood-tide of their sympathies toward those who had been so cruelly aspersed.

One morning, when Nathan went into his shop, he began to make the smithy fire, but had scarcely applied the match when a loud explosion followed, his face was scorched by the blinding flame, and his eyes were filled with fine, sharp particles of dust from the smithy hearth. Groping in darkness and pain, he found his way to the slake-trough and plunged his head into the water. The sense of relief was brief, and Natty, still unable to see, was compelled to feel his way indoors, and present his scorched locks, blackened face, and fiery eyes, to his distressed and startled daughter.

In a case like this, however, Lucy showed her remarkable tact and skill—characteristics which made her presence and assistance invaluable by every sick-bed in Nestleton. Calm, firm, and skilful, she applied oil and flour and cotton wool to the burns, and then dispatched her little maid to Farmer Houston’s. In a few moments a messenger had ridden off post-haste to Kesterton to fetch Dr. Jephson, the most noted medico in all the country-side. Lucy’s resources, meanwhile, were tested to the utmost, for her father was suffering the severest pain, especially in the eyes. At length the doctor arrived, made careful examination of his injuries, and cheered them and Mrs. Houston and Judith Olliver, who had come to render what help they could, with the gratifying announcement that his eyesight was uninjured, and that no permanent harm was done. A few days of bandaging and darkness, of embrocation and patience, would put him to rights, the doctor said, especially with such a nurse as Lucy by his side. It was a narrow escape, however, and the wonder was that he had not been blinded for life.

“Thank God,” said Blithe Natty, who was blind Natty too for a season, “thank God for sparing us that sorrow. Things are never so bad but they might be worse!” and even in his pain Blithe Natty could joke about Guy Fawkes and the gunpowder plot, for we may depend upon it he was not called Blithe Natty for nought.

Tenderly, lovingly, patiently, Lucy nursed her father night and day. Tenderly, lovingly, patiently, Nathan bore his pain and enforced blindness for her sake, and went so far as to say, though it must be taken cum grano salis, that it would be worth while for Guy Fawkes to come again, that he might have another course of nursing and syllabubs from the same gentle hands.

When Nathan appeared again in public, with his scars not yet healed, and a large green shade over both eyes, he was met with universal congratulations on his escape, and universal anathemas on the dastardly villains who had done the shameful deed.

Now, Nathan Blyth and his daughter were quite persuaded that the rough and cruel treatment which they had received was the result of the malice and jealousy of Black Morris. So far they were right; at the same time it is fair to him to say that he was innocent of this crowning outrage. The fact is, that in his first fierce and unrestrained paroxysm of vexation he had enlisted his alehouse chums in his wicked crusade of vengeance; and in the hope of more fully winning him over to their bad confederacy, and partly out of sheer love of mischief, they had espoused his cause with an energy that surpassed all that in his cooler moments he desired to inflict. His disreputable cronies enjoyed the surreptitious “fun” of “taking a rise” out of “Parson Blyth,” as they called him; their horse-play grew on what it fed on, and hence the shameful extremes I have had to chronicle. The gunpowder was secreted by Bill Buckley, a beetle-browed rascal, with whom we shall have to make a closer acquaintance by and bye. He inserted it in the nozzle of the smithy bellows not only without Black Morris’s permission, but utterly without his knowledge, and so far, although it grew out of his conduct, he must be acquitted of so vile and cowardly a deed. It is far easier to set the ball rolling down hill than to stop it on its course; and spirits like those which he had called from the vasty deep to serve his purpose, were not to be laid again, without doing a little extra devilry on their own account.

When Black Morris heard of Nathan Blyth’s misfortune he was not only genuinely sorry, but, suspecting it was some of his set who had done it, he went off straightway into a frenzy of rage against them, altogether as hot as that which had been directed against Nathan Blyth himself. This man was an oddity, and it took all the power and subtlety of the devil to spoil him—whether he succeeded remains to be seen.

After Nathan’s recovery he had returned to his old post at the anvil, and had tuned up again as merrily as ever, for the gunpowder wasn’t manufactured which could blow his “sing” out of him, without dislodging either his tongue or his life. In fact he was one of the Mark Tapley genius with a higher inspiration, and his spirits always seemed to rise towards boiling point as his surroundings sank towards zero. Nathan was fashioning harrow teeth, and the quick rap-tap of his hammer on the heated iron bar kept capital time to his song:

Oh, Love is a clever magician;

His rod is a conjuror’s wand;

And this is his heavenly mission—

To bind in his magical band

The hearts of all men to each other

In amity, friendship, and peace,

That each may to each be a brother,

And hatred and envy may cease.

This, this was the way of the Saviour,

His enemies eager to bless:

Repaying their evil behaviour

With pardon and gift and caress.

Like Him on all hate will I trample,

And every foe I’ll forgive;

And copy His holy example

As long as on earth I may live.

If my enemy hunger I’ll feed him,

If he thirst I will give him to drink;

With a smile and a blessing I’ll speed him,

Nor leave him in trouble to sink.

Here’s my hand and my heart for each comer,

Be he stranger or foeman or friend;

For love brings a genial summer,

A summer that never shall end.

Oh, Love is a clever magician,

His rod is a conjuror’s wand;

Good speed to his heavenly mission,

Alike on the sea and the land.

He binds human hearts to each other,

That hatred and envy may cease,

That each may to each be a brother,

And the earth be an Eden of peace.

In this strain of high philanthropy, Blithe Natty was merrily singing away, when who should darken the smithy door but Black Morris, whom the honest blacksmith had rarely seen since the night when his hasty and wrathful speech anent his daughter, sowed dragons’ teeth, whose painful harvest he had already partly reaped.

“Good mornin’, Nathan Blyth; I reckon you are blamin’ me for that gunpowder business?”

“Yes, I am,” said Nathan, candidly. “Can you look at my scarred face and say you didn’t do it?”

“I did not” said Black Morris, with much emphasis; “I never knew of it till my sister Mary told me. Nathan Blyth, believe me, I not only could not do so beastly a thing, but I could and would fell to the ground the man who did.”

Nathan had kept his eyes on him, “looking him through and through.”

“Morris!” said he, “give me your hand. I believe you didn’t. I am sorry I spoke to you that day as I did. Let bygones be bygones”——

“Nay,” said Black Morris, as his head dropped to his bosom, “I don’t say I haven’t brought you mischief, an’ if you knew all I’d said and done against you, I don’t suppose you would be so free with your hand; but I never was brute enough for that last business, an’ now that you believe it, I’ll bid you good-morning.”

“Stop,” said Nathan, “stop a minute. I’ve been singing this morning about love and forgiveness, and I mean to do as I sing. Whatever you’ve done against me or mine, I forgive freely and fully, and now or then, here or yonder, you’ll never hear any more of it from me—give us your hand.”

Black Morris stood awhile looking hard at the man he had injured, then holding out his hand, permitted Natty to shake it, and then suddenly and without a word shot through the doorway and disappeared.

That’s right, Nathan Blyth! Sing your song over again as the anvil rings, and the bright sparks fly, for though there is still a cloud on the horizon whose sombre shadows shall gloom your hearthstone, your kindly deed and Christly spirit done and evinced to-day, will largely help to lift the shadow, and bring back the sunshine of abiding peace!

[CHAPTER XVI.]
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.

[CHAPTER XVII.]
Doctor Jephson Gives an Unprofessional Opinion.

“Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou decked in silken stole,

Grave these counsels on thy soul;

Say man’s true genuine estimate,

The grand criterion of his fate,

Is not, art thou high or low?

Did thy fortune ebb or flow?

Tell them, and press it on thy mind,

As thou thyself must shortly find,

The smile or frown of righteous heaven,

To virtue or to vice is given.”

Burns.

AT the turn of the road where Nathan Blyth’s forge and homestead stood were three cottages, tenanted by farm labourers and their families. In one of these lay sick unto death the mother of a household of small children; and Lucy Blyth, whose heart was full of tenderness and all kindly charities, used to go every day to succour the poor invalid, and to tend and nurse the hapless babes who were soon to be left motherless and alone. Not only as an angel of mercy did the fair girl go on this loving errand, but as a Gospel messenger, and in winsome ways she led the ailing woman to the Cross. Through her instrumentality the sinner’s Friend had been revealed to her anxious heart, and now, blest with the hope of a heavenly inheritance, and enabled to confide her infants to the sure care of the orphan’s God, she was waiting with a calm content and a peaceful joy the moment of her crowning.

Doctor Jephson, who had ridden daily into Nestleton to attend the dying woman, had been a wondering witness of Lucy’s gentle care and her godly influence over her dying charge. He had come to entertain a very high reverence and deep respect for such a combination of youth and beauty with the clear intelligence, the elevated character, and the nameless charm which won all hearts who came in contact with the blacksmith’s daughter.

“She must be a changeling,” he would say, as he left the lowly roof. “She is as perfect a gentlewoman as was ever born in ducal mansion, and as handsome a woman as ever wore a coronet of pearls.” Nor was this by any means the only place in which that excellent physician met the object of his admiration. There was not a home in the village, into which unwelcome sickness came, but Lucy’s welcome and willing visits brought help and sympathy, balm and comfort of the rarest and most useful kind.

Now, it so happened, that just at this time, Squire Fuller was suffering severely from an attack of gout, and the patrician invalid was daily visited professionally by Doctor Jephson. Being one of the very few visitors to Waverdale Hall, whose breadth of intellect and high attainments made his conversation interesting to the imprisoned squire, the doctor spent as much time with him as his engagements would permit, and many and hot were the discussions between the two, as they sat in the cosy library. The doctor was an intelligent believer in revelation, a Christian in faith and character, and so it was never long before he came athwart the half-scoffing scepticism of his patient. He fully knew the value of the patronage he received from the Hall, but his manly independence of opinion was in no wise restrained or compromised by selfish considerations—a feature in his character for which in his heart the stately squire held him, despite his seeming anger, in high and genuine esteem.

Latterly, the exploits of the poaching fraternity, and certain glaring cases of immorality and rural crime had come before him, as a county magistrate. Referring to these, in the course of a hot argument, the squire expressed a doubt as to whether virtue, honour, and uprightness were to be found amongst the poorer classes in rural districts.

“Aye, as often as they are to be found in the higher walks of life,” said Dr. Jephson. “There are people in your own village, both men and women, whose lives are as noble and whose characters are as pure and excellent as any that you can find amid the homes of rank and wealth.”

“You can’t name them,” said Squire Fuller, with a sneer. “It’s merely a sentimental notion of Arcadian innocence, the dream of an optimist, the delusion of a poet, which vanish like mist when you come into actual contact with them. You can’t produce a specimen of the peasant class who is superior to the charms of skittles and beer.”

“Yes, I can,” said the doctor, emphatically. “A finer or more manly character than Old Adam Olliver cannot be found. If you can picture to yourself a Sir Philip Sydney in corduroy, or a Bayard on a donkey, you can sketch Adam Olliver for yourself.”

“Why, that’s the old man who came the other day on some wild-goose errand about a Methodist meeting-house. I confess I was greatly taken with him, and when Gregory Houston told me that he had been a faithful servant of his and of his father before him, for over fifty years, I certainly felt as though I owed him some reverence and respect.”

“Aye, and well you might; for rough and uncouth as he is, he is one of Nature’s nobles, and if the new Methodist chapel will give us a village peasantry of that kind, it is a pity that there should not be one in every village in the land.”

“But,” persisted the squire, “Adam Olliver is evidently a ‘character,’ and must therefore be regarded as an exception to the rule.”

“No, he isn’t,” said the doctor, “his good wife Judith is a fitting match for him, and Nathan Blyth, the blacksmith, is as high principled and as good a hater of meanness as anybody in the land. As for that glorious girl of his, there is not her equal in Yorkshire. She is the Lady Bountiful of the village, for though her resources may be small, as far as money is concerned, that is more than compensated for by the energy of her character, her untiring self-sacrifice, and the magic of her sympathy is felt in every house in Nestleton where sickness or sorrow has found a place. I tell you she is the good genius of the village, which could far better spare Squire Fuller than Lucy Blyth.”

“I tell you what, Doctor Jephson,” said the squire, with a sardonic smile, “I’ll make it worth your while to marry her. You are evidently over head and ears in love with this village Venus, and if she is all that you say, could you do better than take her for your own wife? I should be much relieved if you did.”

“Take her I would with all my heart,” said the doctor, warmly, “with the certainty that I had got a prize without a parallel; but I am growing grizzly and old, and she would no more mate with me than the fawn of a summer’s growth would accept the caresses of a polar bear. I should propose with the certainty of being rejected; but were I twenty years younger, I would make the venture, Squire Fuller. But, pray, how would it relieve you?”

“Why, that foolish boy of mine has taken it into his head to entertain a passion for this paragon of virtue and beauty, which has not only turned his brain, but is undermining his health. He knows, of course, that any such ill-omened union is out of the question, and I can see,” quoth the squire, warmly, “how bravely he tries to resign himself to the inevitable; but the struggle is stealing the light from his eye, the colour from his cheek, and the nerve from his limbs. If some kind fellow, fairy or fetch, would spirit her away, it would be an unspeakable relief.” Here the squire heaved a sigh which told of the perturbation of his soul.

Dr. Jephson received the information in silence, but with a considerable amount of surprise.

“I imagine,” continued the squire, “that this peerless young lady is spreading her net with a good deal of skill and perseverance, in the hope of landing such a very desirable prize.”

“Nay, that she is not, I’ll warrant me,” said the doctor. “I have never heard a word of it, but I dare swear that she has never lifted a finger to win him, and that she will never marry him, at any rate until she has received full permission from your own lips. She is made of far finer material than that.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” replied Squire Fuller. “I wish I could believe it, for that permission she will never get between now and the day of judgment; but I confess that I am very sceptical as to her adoption of any such policy. If my Phil were to be such a double-dyed fool as to ask her, I’ve no doubt she would jump at him like a hen at a gooseberry, and rejoice that she had played her cards so well. A squire’s son is not to be hooked by a blacksmith’s daughter every day.”

The plain-spoken doctor was inclined to get angry, as he listened to these reflections on the high-toned character of his young friend and favourite, but commanding his temper, he simply responded,—

“Well, I’m no advocate for young people marrying out of their rank and station, and I’m not sure, even if Lucy returned his affection, that the alliance would end happily, all things considered. At the same time, I say again, and I never spoke more soberly in my life, the youth that marries Lucy Blyth will get a wife that may compete in every way with the noblest lady in the land.”

So saying he took his departure, and the hoofs of his high-bred horse were soon heard ringing over the Kesterton road.

[CHAPTER XVIII.]
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!

[CHAPTER XIX.]
Black Morris is Taken by Surprise.

“How hardly man this lesson learns,

To smile, and bless the hand that spurns;

To see the blow and feel the pain,