"But, my dear friends, though Christ is outside, He dearly wants to come in. And what for, think you? Because He loves you! His love for you brought Him from heaven to earth, led Him to Calvary, and brings Him to your heart's door, where He stands to-night! He wants to come in! He knows how bad and sad, how poor and helpless you are, and so He 'knocks' and says, 'Let Me in! Thy soul is perishing; I can save it!

Thy enemies are legion; I can conquer them! Thy needs are great; I can supply them! Thy sorrows are many; I can lift them! Thy tears fall fast; I can dry them! Thy sins are red like crimson; I can make thee white as snow! Poor, lost, helpless, dying sinner, I can save thee! I am thy Friend. I love thee! I died for thee! Now I plead with thee.

Sinner, poor sinner, let Me in!'

"But there's somebody in already that keeps Him out. Satan is in the heart. He has no right to it; but he has got it, and has become king of it. His commands are wicked, but they are obeyed. His counsels are deadly, but they are followed. That strong man armed holds his ill-gotten goods, and the world and the flesh help him to keep the house which he has stolen from the Lord Jesus. The devil fills it with bad company, with selfishness, with wicked thoughts and l.u.s.ts, with worldliness and pleasure. It is like a great warehouse, or an overcrowded inn, and _there's no room_ for Jesus. He stands knocking and asking, that loving Saviour! and He gets no answer except the laughter or the scorn of the unrighteous guests inside. The door is shut! the bars and bolts are all shot into their sockets; Prejudice and Pride double-lock the door; a big dead-weight of stone called 'don't care' is rolled against it, and the porter cries gruffly through the keyhole, 'Go Thy way; when it's convenient I'll let Thee know!' Oh, what a wonder that Jesus does not come with the hammer of judgment, and nail the door to, and leave him to perish, with his own heart for his coffin, and his sins for his grave! But no, no! Although there's a deaf ear and a closed door, Jesus stands, with bowed head and folded hands, waiting, praying for thee, and crying, 'The time is short, poor sinner; let Me in!'

"Sinner, don't you hear how He knocks? He knocks at your common sense, and says, 'Come, and let us reason together!' He knocks at your feelings, tells you of His sufferings, agony, and death, and says, 'I suffered this for you!' He knocks at your hopes; He tells you of peace and victory, of immortality and life. 'There's a heaven for you, only let Me in!' He knocks at your fears, and tells you, weeping as He speaks, of the undying worm and the unquenchable fire. And all the while He pleads, and calls, and prays, and entreats, 'Poor sinner, let Me in!'

"Sinner, don't you hear His voice? Listen to your own _conscience_.

That's His voice; what does it say? Listen! It says, 'Open the door!'

Hark to His ministers; they're His voice. They give knock after knock, message after message, with a 'thus saith the Lord' Can anybody knock louder or call more tenderly than the good men who come here to say, as they do say with tears, for their Master's sake, 'Poor sinner, let Him in?' Listen to your mercies; they're His voice. If you count them they are more in number than the hairs of your head. Listen to your troubles; they're His voice, and bid you ask Jesus in to cure them. I tell you the knockings and the voices are always at it; and Jesus is speaking through them all, as He sees your sad and desperate condition--'Poor sinner, open the door and let Me in!'

"The wonder of it is that He waits so patient and so long. He won't break in. It's your house, and you can do as you like. You have liked for years to keep the devil and the world in, and you've had your way.

If you want them turned out, it can soon be done, only give Him liberty. No, He won't break in, but He will wait. Why, He has been waiting for some of you for twenty, thirty, or forty years, and more.

It seems as though His love can't be tired. Sometimes you nearly gave way, and put your hand on the latch; but the good impression pa.s.sed away. You turned from the door, took your seat again to warm yourself by your besetting sin; and Jesus, what did He do? He listened, sighed, and wept, and waited still. Oh, how long He stands! You would not wait long if you had come to offer anybody a favour. No; you would say, 'If they don't want it, let them go without it.' Oh, thank G.o.d, that Jesus doesn't! Sinner, He has been waiting through your merry youth, waiting all along your mis-spent manhood, and now, when your back is bending, and your hair is turning grey, and you are going graveward into the shadow of death, the loving Saviour is waiting still. Hark to Him: 'O, Ephraim, how shall I give thee up! Open to me, my beloved, for my head is filled with dew, and my locks are wet with the drops of the night!

The time is very short. Sinner! poor sinner, let Me in!'

"If you'll only admit Him, He will be a glorious and welcome guest. He says, 'I will come into him, and sup with him, and he with me.' It is true the heaven of heavens cannot contain Him, yet He will dwell in a humble and contrite heart, aye, and bring heaven with Him, too. Is there a poor sinner here who says, 'No, that cannot be; I wish He were in my heart, but there's no room; my heart is full of guests, and, alas! they have become my masters, and I'm their slave?' Still Christ says, 'Never mind their numbers or their power. Open the door; I will first bind the strong man, and then expel him to make joyful room for thee and Me.'

"But maybe the poor sinner is saying, 'It can't be, Lord, for even if Thy enemies were gone, the chamber is so dirty, and the place so filthy and unclean, that there is no place for Thy pure presence.'

'Never mind,' says Jesus; 'open the door! I will not only thrust out the tyrants, but I will wash thy heart in the fountain of My precious blood. I will purge thee with hyssop, and thou shalt be clean. I will wash thee, and thou shalt be whiter than snow.'

"Here again the poor sorrowing sinner says, 'Yes, Lord; come in, but not to sup with me, not to sit at my table. I have nothing to set before Thee. I myself am hungry, but I have no bread.' Still the Saviour says, 'Never mind; open the door! I will bring the bread; I will spread the feast; I will do everything for thee; only open the door and let Me in!' O, my brothers, my sisters, all He wants is a willing heart; an open door; an honest invitation! Give it Him now, just now. Say, 'Come in, my Lord, come in!' Hark! 'I will come in, never more to leave thee, alike when skies are shining and clouds are frowning. I'll fill thee for ever with peace and joy. Thou shalt go to the grave rejoicing, through the river of death with a song, into the home of glory, the mansions of the blest.' Then He will say, 'Thou didst open thy heart to Me; I will open My house to thee. Thou didst take Me for thy guest, now thou shalt sit at My table.' The Guest of earth becomes the Host in heaven, and all who give the Saviour welcome here are sure of a glorious welcome yonder.

"But if you persist in your refusal to open the door, He will one day go away. 'I stand,' He says; He does not sit. Maybe from some of you He is already turning away. If He goes, you are lost. Oh, stop Him; open the door! Remember, Death is waiting as well as Jesus. Waiting, not for your hand to open, but for the bidding of the Saviour to _break in_. Then, Jesus has gone; then you will knock, but all in vain. You will pa.s.s through another door. It shall be shut upon you by the hand of Him who so long tried the latch of yours, and when He shuts no man can open. But, thank G.o.d, sinner,--

'He _now_ stands knocking at the door Of every sinner's heart; The worst need keep Him out no more'"----

"That's me!" shouted Piggy Morris, in a surging agony of deep conviction. He sprang out from his seat just within the door, and rushing forward to a form placed in front of the pulpit, the usual praying-place for penitents, and falling upon his knees, cried aloud for mercy like the publican of old. Nathan Blyth instantly gave out the verse,--

"Jesus, the name that charms our fears, And bids our sorrows cease, 'Tis music in the sinner's ears, 'Tis life, and health, and peace."

Kneeling by the side of Morris, who was soon joined by many others who had been pierced by the two-edged sword, Nathan simply and wisely directed the seeking sinner to the Cross. The meeting was held far on into the night, and of course the denouncers of religious excitement, then, as now, had much to say in condemnation of such fanatical and unreasonable doings. Piggy Morris struggled hard and long. When such a nature as his is grappled with by the spirit of conviction, there is sure to be a sore fight. At length Lucy Blyth came forward, and kneeling by his side, took his hand in hers, and whispered in his ear,--

"The door's open, Mr. Morris. Isn't it?"

"It is! it is!" was the energetic answer.

"Jesus is on the threshold. Isn't He? Hark! 'I _will_ come in!' Isn't it true?"

"Yes, Lord! come in!"

Leaping to his feet, and almost throwing Lucy down in his excitement, he exclaimed,--

"He _is_ in! Glory be to G.o.d! Jesus is my Saviour! Mine!" and so, like the lame man, he, too, went in through the Beautiful gate of the temple "walking and leaping and praising G.o.d!"

"Let me go and tell Sally!" he shouted, and running out of the malt-kiln, he went to tell his wife the sweetest news she had heard from him, poor woman, since, more than thirty years ago, she had stood by his side at the marriage altar in Nestleton Church. The good woman could but weep and sob in voiceless grat.i.tude, as he cast himself at her feet and said,--

"Sally, my la.s.s, the Lord has forgiven me, and so must you!"

Can we doubt that all the weary trials of the years were blotted out in that delightful moment, and that Sarah Morris knew she held again to her heart the loving husband of her youth!

No grander and more triumphant issue ever attended the preached Word than that which, that day, crowned the labours of Nathan Blyth, the local preacher. No prelatic hands had ever been laid upon his head; no solemn ordination vows had ever set him apart for the high and holy calling; no clerical training or episcopal degree had ever given him conventional status as a minister of Christ; but G.o.d had sent him, his Church had called him, the love of Christ sustained him, and neither Paul nor Peter had a higher warrant for the message they proclaimed.

There is a lamentable tendency in these days among the Methodist people to look askance at the local preachers. In many places they are unacceptable in town and city pulpits; they are relegated to small and unimportant spheres of labour. The natural consequence is a marked indisposition on the part of young and capable men to enter the local ranks, and an outcry on the part of superintendent ministers that appointments are difficult to supply. Let Methodism beware! Let her be careful how she trifles with this agency, so rife with power and blessing. The enrolment of this glorious army was one of Wesley's grandest inspirations, and in the day when her local preachers fail her, Methodism will be as weak as Samson was when his locks were shorn.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

SQUIRE FULLER INTRODUCES AN INNOVATION.

"List to the Saviour's words: 'Where two or three Meet in My name, there in the midst am I.'

Believe, and welcome to thy family The gracious Guest; and by His blessing try How much domestic bliss and amity Hang on domestic worship's hallowing tie."

_Bishop Mant._

After Squire Fuller had returned home from the county business which demanded his presence in the ancient town of York, he found himself much exercised in mind, as to certain important matters which pressed upon his notice. Lucy Blyth's sudden departure was a surprise, and he was bound to acknowledge to himself that it was an unwelcome one. The fair girl had cast around him the magic spell which had taken captive all who came within its influence. Her presence in his lonely mansion, long unbrightened by the sweet subtleties of woman, had thrown more than a gleam of sunshine through its stiff and stately grandeur; her wondrous magic had given back to him the son of his right hand; her cheerful and attractive piety had excited something more in him than admiration; and her sweet songs of Zion and her clear witness for her Saviour had touched his heart. These things, together with his own son's beautiful and consistent religious profession, and his convincing testimony of the power of Christianity, had left his harsh and narrow scepticism without a leg to stand on. Besides all this, Lucy had undoubtedly saved his own life by her well-aimed blow on the extended arm of the villain, Buckley. He felt that he must make some return to her, commensurate with the weighty and unspeakable service she had rendered, but how to set about it, under the peculiar circ.u.mstances of the case, he did not know. Then, again, he felt in his conscience that both she and Philip had possession of some secret inborn talisman which brought them peace, happiness, and hope, to which he was an utter and a miserable stranger. Intelligence of "the great revival" had reached him through the medium of his son, who was as yet unable to endure excitement and exposure, but who was kept well posted up as to the course of Methodist events, by his much-loved cla.s.s-leader and minister, the Rev. Matthew Mitch.e.l.l. The marvellous change which had come over Midden Harbour, and the other delightful results of that great movement, were all told to the wondering squire by his son, whose pale face was lit up the while, with a heaven-born joy, as he related the triumphs of the Gospel; and the poor old squire, drawn more and more by the unseen hand of Him who was "lifted up" for this very purpose, had a chronic heartache for the possession of the heaven-sent secret which was such a treasure to his son. Other witness, too, was now forthcoming, which still more clearly evidenced the mighty power of Methodism, hitherto despised, to work the highest moral wonders, and to produce in the hardest hearts and most unlikely cases, the sterling results of that Gospel which its ministers and people so vigorously proclaimed.

Immediately after that notable Sunday, on which Piggy Morris found peace with G.o.d, Squire Fuller received the following letter:--

"HONOURED SIR,--Years ago you turned me off the farm on which I was born, and which was rented by my father before me. You did justly, and only what I deserved. From that day until now I have hated you and yours, and would have gone far and done much to work you harm. There was a triumphant vengeance in my heart when circ.u.mstances led me to believe that I could strike at you through your son. I deeply repent, and would hereby express my bitter sorrow for the trouble my wicked hate has caused. G.o.d has shown me the greatness of my sin; He has shown me the greatness of His mercy; He has forgiven my sin. I pray you, forgive me also. I desire to subscribe myself, with great respect,

"Yours humbly and repentingly,

"GEORGE MORRIS."

"Well! that's a miracle, at any rate," said the squire, as he handed the letter to his son; "that's casting out a devil of no ordinary strength and size. I am bound to say it is a most satisfactory letter, and I shall write and express my pleasure at the receipt of it."

"And your hearty compliance with his request?" said Philip.

"Certainly, my boy; George Morris's conduct shall be forgotten and forgiven."

"Father!" said Philip, softly and half timidly; "Is not that a miracle, too?"

The old gentleman, once stiff, stately, proud and unyielding to a degree, was compelled to feel that he himself had marvellously changed. He knew that that change had been largely wrought by the son he had received from the dead, and by the fair girl who had gotten so strong a hold upon his heart.

"Yes, Philip," and the father's eyes reddened with suffusing tears, "I'm bound to own that I too am something other, and I think, better than I was."

Philip wisely and prudently said no more, but his soul was full of a yearning love to his mollified and chastened parent and of grat.i.tude to G.o.d, who was so evidently leading him by a way he knew not, to a hitherto undiscovered resting-place for intellect and heart.

In the course of the day the squire met his head gamekeeper.

"Well, Hatfield," said he, "how are you getting on?"

"Why, sir," said Hatfield, touching his hat, "we don't seem to have very much to do now. A fortnight or two since, me and my mates were in peril of our lives, and Waverdale Woods were as flush of poachers as they were of game; but they seem to be pretty nearly all gone."

"Gone? What's gone? The game?"