Cheraw chronicle. (Cheraw, S.C.) 1896-2005, April 01, 1915, Image 6
The Gall of the
Cumberlands I
By Gharles Neville Buck
% With Illustrations
from Photographs of Scenes
in the Play
(Copyright, tpi). by W. J. ft Co)
<
SYNOP3IS.
On MiseAr creek Sally Miller finds
Seorge Lescott, a landscape painter, unconscious.
Spicer South, head of the family,
tells Samson South and Sally that
Jesse Purvy has been shot and that Samson
Is suspected of the crime. Samson
denies It. The shooting of Jesse Purvy
breaks the truce In the Hollman-South
feud. Samson reproves Tamarack Spicer
for telling Sally that Jim Hollman is
hunting with bloodhounds the man who
hot Purvy. The bloodhounds lose the
trail at Spicer South's door. Lescott discovers
artistic ability in Samson. While
ketchlng with Leecott on the mountain.
Tamarack discovers Samson to a Jeering
crowd of mountaineers. Samson thrashes
him and denounces him as the "trucebuster"
who shot Purvy. Lescott tries to
ersuade Samson to go to New York with
kirn and develop his talent. Sally, loyal
but heartbroken, furthers Lescott's efforts.
At Wile McCager's dance Samson
tells the South clan that he is going to
leave the mountains.
CHAPTER VII?Continued.
Lescott stayed on a week after that
Imply In deference to Samson's insistence.
To leave at once might savor of
flight under fire, but when the week
was out the painter turned his horse's
head toward town, and his train swept
him back to the Bluegraes and the
East.
A nuiat r\f iinKenlfon onH Hoodl V
XX (|U1CV VI UUUt VUVM MUU
routine settled down on Misery. The
conduct of the Souths In keeping hands
off, anci acknowledging the justice of
Tamarack Splcer's jail sentence, had
been their answer to the declaration
of the Hollmans in letting Samson ride
into and out of Hixon. The truce was
established. When, a short time later,
Tamarack left the country to become
a railroad brakeman, Jesse Purvy
passed the word that hie men must,
until further orders, desist from violence.
The word had crept about that
Samson, too, was going away, and, If
this were true, Jesse felt that his future
would be more secure than his
past. Purvy believed Samson guilty,
despite the exoneration of the hounds.
Lescott had sent a box of books, and
. _ Pemscc -hetf?ttkos * -issuer eve*-te
Hixon, and brought them back.
\ He devoured them all from title
rp&ge to finis line, and many of them
?be went back to, and digested again. |
He wrestled long and gently witn
^his uncle, struggling to win the old
man's consent to his departure. But
'JSpicer South's brain was no longer
vnlactl/* Tl'hnt had h?on trnnrl Annnch
tfor the past was good enough for the
Mature. Nevertheless, he arranged affairs
60 that his nephew should be
able to meet flnancal needs, and to go
where ho chose in a fashion befitting
a South.
November came in bleakly, with a
raw and devastating breath of fatality.
The smile died from horizon to horizon,
and for days cold rains beat and
lashed the forests. And, toward the
end of the month, came the day which
Samson had set for his departure.
At the threshold, with the saddlebags
over his left forearm and the rifle
In his hand, he paused. His uncle stood
x at his elbow and the boy put but his
hand.
"Good-by, Unc' Spicer," was all he
said. The old man, who had been his
second lather, shook hands. His face,
too, was expressionless, but he felt
that he was saying farewell to a soldier
of genius who was abandoning the
field. And he loved the boy with all
the centered power of an isolated
heart.
A half-mile along the road, Samson
halted and dismounted. There, in a
small cove, surrounded by,a tangle of
triers ana DiacKDerry Dusnes, siooa a
small and dilapidated "meeting house"
and churchyard, which he must visit.
He made his way through the rough
undergrowth to the unkempt half-acre,
and halted before the leaning headBtones
which marked two graves. With
a sudden emotion, he 6wept the back
of his-hand across his eyes. He did,
not remove his hat, but he stood in the
drizzle of cold rain for a moment of
silence, and then he said:
"Pap, I hain't fergot. I don't want
ye ter think thet I've fergot."
Before he arrived at the Widow Miller's,
the rain had stopped and the
clouds had broken.
Sally opened the door, and smiled.
She had spent the day nerving herself
for this farewell, and at least until
the moment of leave-taking she wou'd
be 6afe from tears. The Widow Miller
and her son soon left them alone,
and the boy and girl sat before the
blazing logs.
For a time, an awkward silence fell
between them. At last, the boy rose,
and went over to the corner where be
had placed his gun. He took it up and
laid It on the hearth between them.
"Sally," he said, "I wants ter tell ye
some things thet I hain't never said
ter nobody else. In the fust place, 1
vii tor Uoon thla hvnr pnn fop
V? d II CO J V ?vv|? ? ?- -rf"? Omm >v?
me."
The girl's eyes widened with surprise.
"Hain't ye a-goin' ter take hit with
ye, Samson?"
"He shook his head.
"I hain't a-goln' ter need hit down
below. Nobody don't use 'em down
? 4
F thai*. I've got my pistol, an' I reckon
thet will be enough." ,
"I'll take good keer of hit," she
promised. *
The boy took out of bis pockets a
box of cartridges and a small package
tied iu a greasy rag.
"Hit's loaded, Sally, an* hft's cleaned
an hit's greased. Hit'e ready fer use."
Again, she nodded In silent assent,
; and tbe boy began speaking in a slow,
! careful voice, which gradually mounted
into tense emotion.
"Sally, thet thar gun was my pap's.
When he lay a-dyln', he gave hit tpr
me, an' he gave me a Job ter do with
hit. When I was a little feller, I used
ter set up 'most all day, pollshin' thet
gun an' gittin' hit ready. I used ter
go out in the woods, an' practice shootin'
hit at things, tell I learned how ter
handle hit. I reckon thar hain't many
fellers round here thet kin beat me
uow." He paused, and the girl hastened
to corroborate.
"Thar hain't none, Samson."
"There hain't nothjn' in the world,
Sally, thet I prizes like 1 does thet gun.
Hit's,got a Job ter do. . . . Thar
hain't but one person in the world I'd
trust hit with. Thet's you. ... I
wants ye ter keep hither me, an' ter
Keep nit reaay. . . . mey miuno
round hyar I'm quittin', but I hain't.
I'm comin' back, an', when I comes,'I'll
need this hyar thing?an' I'll need hit
bad." He took up the rifle, and ran his
hand caressingly along its lock and
barrel.
"I don't know when I'm a-comin'," he
said, slowly, "but, when I calls fer this,
I'm shore a-goin' ter need hit quick. I
wants hit ter be ready fer me, day or
night. Maybe, nobody won't know I'm
hyar. . . . Maybe, I won't want
nobody ter know. . . . But, when
I whistles out thar like a whippoorwill,
I wants ye ter slip out?an' fotch me
thet gun!"
He stopped, and bent forward. His
face was tense, and hie eyes were glinting
with purpose. His lips were tight
set and fanatical.
"Samson," said the girl, reaching out
and taking the weapon from his hands,
"ef I'm alive when ye comes, I'll do
hit. I promise ye. An'," she added,
"ef I hain't alive, hlt'U be standin'
thar in thet corner. I'll grease hit,
an' keep hit loaded, an' when ye calls,
I'll fotch hit out thar to ye."
The youth nodded. "I miput come
any time, but likely as not 111 her ter
come a-flghtin' when I comes "
Next, he produced an envelope.
"This here is a letter I've done writ
ter myeelf," he explained. He drew
out the sheet, and read:
"Samson, come back." Then he
handed the missive to the gfrl. "Thet
there is addressed ter me, in care of
Mr. Le8Cott. .j . fit anything happens?ef
Unc' /SplcCT" needs me^I
???;
"When l Whistles Like a wnippoor
will, Fetch Me That Gjn."
wants yer ter mail thet ter me quick.
He says as how he won't never call
me back, but, Sally, I wants thet you
shall send fer me, ef they needs me. I
hain't a-goin' ter write no letters home.
Unc' Spicer can't read, an' you can't
read much either. But I'll plumb shore
be thinkin' about ye day an' night."
She gulped and nodded.
"Yes. Samson," was all she said.
The boy rose.
"1 reckon I'd better be gettin' along,"
he announced.
The girl suddenly reached out both
hands, and seized his coat. She held
him ,tight, and rose, facing him. Her
upturned face grew very pallid, and
her eyes widened. They were dry, and
her lips were tightly closed, but.
through the tearless pupils, in the firelight,
the boy could read her soul, and
her soul was sobbing.
He drew her toward him, and held
her very tight.
"Sally," he said, in a voice which
threatened to choke, "I wants ye ter
take keer of yeself. Ye hain't like
these other gals round here. Ye hain't
got big hands an' feet. Ye kain't stand
es much es they kin. Don't stay out
in the night air too much?an', Sally?
fer God's sake take keer of yeself!"
He broke off, and picked up his hat.
"An' that gun, Sally," he repeated at
the door, "thai there's the most pre
clous thing rve got. I lore* hit better
then anything?take keer of hit."
i Again, she caught at his shoulders.
"Does ye love hit better'n ye do me,
. Samson?" Bhe demanded,
i He hesitated.
"I reckon ye knows how much I
loves ye, Sally," he Bald, slowly, "but
I've done made a promise, an' thet
, gun's a-goln' ter keep hit fer me."
They went together out to the stile,
be still carrying his rifle, as though
loath to let it go, and she crossed
with him to the road. , ?
As he untied his reins, she threw
her arms about his neck, and for a
long while they stood there under the
clouds and stars, as h? held her close.
There was no eloauence of leave-tak
ing, no professions of undying love,
' for these two hearts wer^ inarticulate
and dizzy clinging to a wilderness
code of self-repression?and they had
reached a point where speech would
have swept them both away to a break*
down.
CHAPTER Vlll.
The boy from Misery rode slowly toward
Hixon. At times the moon struggled
out and made the shadows black
along the way. At other times It was
like riding in a huge caldron of pitchWhen
he passed into that stretch of
country at whose heart Jesse Purvy
dwelt he raised "his voice in song. His
singing was very bad, and the ballad
lacked tune, but it served its purpose
of saving him from the suspicion of
furtlveness. Though the front of the
house was black, behind Its heavy shutters
he knew that his coming might be
noted, and night-riding at this par
ticular spot might be misconstrued in
the absence of frank warning. A
The correctness of his inference
brought a brief smile to his lips when
he crossed the creek that skirted the
orchard and heard a stable door creak
softly behind him. He was to be followed
again?and watched, but he did
not look back or pause to listen.,for
the hoofbeats of his unsolicited escort
On the soft mud of the road hp would
hardly have heard them had pe bent
his ear and drawn rein. He rode at a
walk, for his train would not leave until
five o'clock in the morning. H^re
was time in plenty.
It was cold and depressing as; he
trudged the empty streets from ^he
livery stable to the railroad statipn,
carrying his saddlebags over his a*m.
At last he heard the whistle and saw the
... ffl l l .1 _ I...A _
Diazing neaaugni, ana a uimuw wer
be bad pushed his way intd the smoking
car and dropped bis saddl?|ags
on the seat beside him. Then, fpjlthe
first time, he saw and recognlsiMhis
watchers. Purvy meant to have asmson
shadowed as far ae Lexlnrtflfwfcl
nitely reported. Jim Asbeijy uflEaroa
Hollis were the chosen spies, me did
not speak to the two enemies who took
seats across the car, but Ins face
hardened, and his brows came jtogether
in a black scowl. ;
"When I gits back," he promised
himself, "you'll be one of the fust
folks I'll look fer, Jim Asberry. damn
| ye! All I hopes is thet nobody else
don't git ye fust. Ye b'longs fer me."
The sleeping car to which be was
assigned alter leaving Lexington was
almost empty, but he felt upon him'the
Interested gaze of those few eyes that
were turned toward ills entrance. He
engaged every pair with a pair very
clear and steady and undropping, until
somehow each lipJ\that had started
to twist in amusement Btraightened,
and the twinkle that rose at first
glance sobered at second, ret, lor
all his specious seeming of unconcern,
Samson was waking to the fact that
he was a scarecrow, and his sensitive
pride made him cut his meals short
In the dining car, where he was' kept
busy beating do wit inquisitive eyes
with his defiant gaze. He resolved
after some thought upon h definite policy.
It was a very old policy, br*t to
him new?and a discovery. He would
change nothing in himself that involved
a surrender of code or conviction.
Hut, wherever it could be done
with honor, he would concede to custom.
{
It was late in the second afternoon
when he stepped from the train at Jersey
City, to be engulfed in an unimagined
roar and congestion. Here
it was impossible to hold bis own
aguin&i iuc uutuuwttiou laugmer 01
the many, and he stood for an Instant
glaring about like a caged tiger, while
three Currents of humanity separated
and (lowed toward the three ferry
exits. Then he saw the smiling face of
Lescott, and Lescott's extended hand.
Even Lescott, immaculately garbed and
fur-coated, seemed almost a stranger,
and the boy's feeling of intimacy frozo
to inward constraint and diffidence.
But Lescott knew nothing of that.
The stoic in Samson held true, masking
his emotions.
"So you came," said the New Yorker,
heartily, grasping the boy's hand.
"Where's your luggage? We'll just
pick that up and make a dash for the
ferry."
"Hyar hit is." replied Samson, who
still carried his saddlebags. The
painter's eyes twinkled, but the mirth
1 was so frank and friendly that the
| boy, instead of glaring in defiance.
' grinned responsively.
j "Right, oh!" laughed Lescott. "I
thought maybe you'd bring a trunk,
I but it's the wise man who travels
light. ?
He followed Lescott out to the foot
of Twenty-third street, and stepped
with him Into the tonneau of the
painter's waiting car. Lescott lived
with his family uptown, for It happened
that, had his canvases possessed
no value whatever, he would
still have been in a position to drive
his motor and follow his impulses
: about the world. If he did not take
the boy to his home, it was because
*
The understood that a life wfiicn meat
be not only fill of early embarrassment,
but positively revolutionary,
should be. approached by easy stages.
Consequently the car turned down
Fifth avenue, passed under the arch
and drew up before a door just off
Washington square, where the landscape
painter had a studio suit. There
were sleeping rooms and such acces,
sorles as seemed to the boy unheard-of
i luxury, though Lescott regarded the
place as a makeshift annex to his
home establishment.
"Xou'd better take yqur time In se,
lecting permanent quarters," was his
* careless fashion of explaining to Samson.
"It's Just as well not to hurry.
You are to stay here with me, as long
as you will."
i "I'm /obleeged ter ye," replied the
boy, to whose training in open-doored
hospitality the invitation seemed only
natural. The evening meal was
brought in from a neighboring hotel,
and the two men dined before an open
fire, Samson eating in mountain alienee,
while' hi* host chatted and
asked questions.
"Samson," suggested the painter,
when the dinner things had been carried
out.and they were alone, "you are
i here for two purposes: First, to study
painting; second, to educate and equip
yourself for coming conditions. It's
going to take work, more work, and
then some niore work."
"I hain't skeered of work." ,
"I believe that Also, you must
keep out of trouble. You've got to ride
youfi- fighting Instinct with a strong
curb." '
\ "1 don't 'low to let nobody run over
me." The statement was not argumentative;
only an announcement of
a principle which was not subject to
modification.
^ "All right, but until you learn the
r^pes let me advise you."
The boy gazed into the fire for a few
moments of silence.
"I gives ye my hand on thet," be
promised.
At eleven o'clock the painter, having
shown his guest over the premises,
said good-night and went uptown to
his own house. Samson lay a \long
while awake, with many disquieting
reflections.
Meanwhile Lescott, letting himself
into a house overlooking the park,
was balled by a chorus of voices from
the dining room, tie turned and went
in to join a gay group just back from
the opera. As he thoughtfully mixed
himself a highball, they bombarded
him with, questions.'
"Why didn't you bring your 'barbarian
with you?" demanded a darkeyed
girl, who looked very much as
Descott himself might have lpoked had
he "been a girl?and very young and
t?nvpiy Nttg she flashed .an..him an affectionate
smile, and adde'd: "We
have been waiting to see him. Must
we go to bed' disappointed?"
George stood looking down on them,
and tinkled the ice in his glass.
"He wasn't brought on for purposes
of exhibition, Drennle," he smiled. "I
was afraid if he came in here in the
fashion of his arrival?carrying his
saddlebags?you . ultracivilized folk
might have laughed."
A roar of laughter at the picture
vindicated Lescott's assumption.
"No!' Now, actually with saddlebags?"
echoed a young fellow with a
likable face which was for the moment
incredulously amused. "That
goes Dick Whittington one better.
Ton do make some rare discoveries.
George. We celebrate you."
'Thanks, Horton," commented the
painter, dryly. "When you New Yorkers
have learned what these barbarians
already know, the control of your
oversensitized rlsibles and a courtesy
J ?IwAnfei mavho
ueeper uiun JUUI oun i-n umo?um; ut
I'll let you have a look. Meantime I'm
much too fond of all of you to risk
letting you laugh at my barbarian."
* * * * * *
Several months were spent laboring
with charcoal and paper over plaster
casts in Lescott's studio, and Lescott
himself played instructor. When the.
skylight darkened with the coming of
evening, the boy whose mountain pature
cried out for exercise went for
long tramps that carried him over
many miles of city pavements, and
after that, when the gas was lit, he
turned, still insatiably hungry, to
volumes of history, and algebra, and
facts.
* *
A sloop-rigged boat with a crew of
two was dancing before a brisk breeze
through blue Bermuda water. Off to
the right Hamilton rose sheer and
colorful from the bay. At the tiller
sat the white-clad figure of Adrienne
Lescott. Puffs of wind that whipped
the tautly bellying sheets lashed her
dark hair about her face. Her lips,
vividly red like poppy petals, were
just now curved fnto an amused smile,
which made them even more than ordinarily
kissable and tantalizing. Her
companion was neglecting his nominal
duty of tending the sheet to watch
her.
"Wilfred," she teased, "your contrast*^
quite startling?and. in a way, j
effective. From head to foot you are
spotless white?but your scowl is absolutely
'the blackest black that our (
eyes endure.' -And." she added, in an
injured voice, "I'm sure I've been very ! i
nice to you." ' i
"I have not yet begun to scowl," he
assured her, and proceeded to show j
what superlatives of saturnine expression
he held in reserve. "See here.
Drennie, I know perfectly well that i
I'm a sheer imbecile to reveal the fact
that you've made me mad. It pleases
you too perfectly. It makes you happier
than is good for you, but?" 1
"It's a terrible thing to make me i
happy, isn't it?" she inquired, sweetly. \
"Drennie, you have held me off since we
were children. I believe I first an- i
nounced my intention of marrying you
when fM?<o were twelve. That lncentka
remains unaltered. More: It is una
terable and Inevitable. My reason
for wanting to needn't be rehearsw
It would take too long. I regard yo
as possessed of an alert and remarl
able mind?one worthy of companioi
ship with my own." Derpito the frit
olous badinage of his words and th
humorous smile of his lips, his 'eye
hinted at an underlying intensitj
"With no desire to flatter or spoil yoi
I find your personal aspect pleasin
enough to satisfy me. And then, wfcil
a man should avoid emotionalism,
am in love with you." He moved ove
to a place in the sternsheets, and hi
face became intensely earnest. H
dropped his hand over hers as it la
on the tiller shaft. "God knows, dear,
he exclaimed, "how much I love yon!
Her eyes, after holding his for a m<
ment, feil to the hand1 which still in
prisoned her own. She shook be
head not in anenr hilt with a mat
ner of gentle denial, until be release
her fingers and stepped back.
"You are a dear, Wilfred," she con
forted, "and I couldn't manage to g<
on without you, but you aren't ma:
riageable?at least, not yet."
"Why not?" he asked.
"In the first place, you are one c
those men whose fortunes are liste
in the top schedule?the swollen foi
tunes. Socialists would put you in tb
predatory class."
"Drennie," he groaned, "it's not m
fault that I'm rich. It was wished o
me. If you are serious, I'm willin
to become poor as Job's turkey. Sho1
me the way to strip myself, and T
stand shortly before you beggln
aim."
"To what end?" she questions
"Poverty would be quite inconvenlen
I shouldn't care for it But hasn't I
ever occurred to you that the ma
who wears the strongest and brlghtai
mail, and who by his own confesslo
is possessed jof an alert brain, oust
occasionally to be seen in the lists?
"In short, your charge is that I ai
a shirker?and, since it's the sam
thing, a coward?" *
Adrienne did not at once anBwe
him, but she straightened out for a
uninterrupted run before the wint
and by the tiny moss-green Deck)
which moments of great seriousnea
"You Are a Dear, Wilfred?"
brought to the depths of her eyes, b
knew that she meant to speak the m
veiled truth.
"Besides your own holdings in a Ic
of i-allways and things, you hand!
your mother's and sisters' propei-tj
don't you?"
He nodded.
"In a fashion, I do. I sign theneoei
sary papers when the lawyers call o
up and ask me to come downtown. *
"You are a director in the Metro; ol
Trust company?"
"Guilty."
"In the Consolidated Seacoast?"
VI believe so."
"With your friends, who are ail
shareholders, you could assume coi
trol of the Morning Intelligence
couldn't you?"
"I guess I could assume control, bti
what would I do with it?"
"Do you know the reputation of thi
newspaper?"
"I guess it's all right. It's conservi
tive and newsy. I read it every mon
ing when I'm in town. It fits in ver
nicely between the grapefruit and th
bacon and eggs."
"It is, also, powerful," she adde<
"and is said to be absolutely servil
to corporate interests."
"Drennie, you talk liko an anarchlr
You are rich yourself, ycu know."
"\r>A aero In at Pnrh C.t those Oth
concerns various charges have bee
made." '
"Well, what do want me to do?"
"It's not what I want you to do,
she informed me; "It's what I'd Ilk
to see you want to do."
"Name it! I'll want to do It fortl
with."
"I think when you are one of a hant
ful of the richest men In New York
when, for instance, you could dictat
the policy of a great newspaper, ye
know it only as the course that follow
your grapefruit, you are a shirker am
a drone, and are not playing tb
game." Her hand tightened on th
tiller. "I think if I were a man ridln;
on to the polo field I'd either try lik
the devil to drive the ball down b?
tween the pos.'s, or I'd come insitre am
take off my boots and .colors,
wouldn't hover In a ladylike futillt;
around the edge of the scrimmage."
She knew that to Horton, wb<
played polo like a fiend Incarnate, th'
figure would be effMtiye, and sb
whipped out her words with somethlnj
very close to scorn.
"There's my hand on it, Drennie,'
he said. "We start back to New Yorl
tomorrow, don't we? Well, when I g?
there I put on overalls and go v.
work. When I propose next I'll hart
something to show."
(TO BE COKT1NI/ODJ
i Mebnational
:Swrsaiooi
: LESSON
r. (By E. O. SELLERS. Acting Director of
, Sunday School Course, Moody Bible In^
atltute, Chicago.)
* LESSON FOR APRIL 4
ir
8 8AUL REJECTED BY THE LORD.
j LESSON TEXT-I Samuel 15:10-21
GOLDEN TEXT?Behold, to obey la bet>.
ter than sacrifice.?I Samuel 15:21
>
j. Jonathan's victory (ch. 14) brought
ir with it a sinning on the part of the
hungry, harassed Israelites in that
,j they ate of the spoils "with the blood"
(14:31, 32; Lev. 3:17, 7:26). In the
i. emergency Saul erected "the first al5t
tyr that he built unto the Lord" (ch
r. 14:35), a rkther dilatory act on the
part of a God-anointed king. Saul had
resorted ?o the subterfuge of commanding
the people "to roll a great
d stone," I.e., cut the throats of the anir.
trials of which they had eaten that
e they might bleed, and thus be an erldence
that the animals had died bey
fore being eaten. This the people did,
? fearing Saul, but having no scruples
g in ' transgressing God's commands.
w These same people rescued Jonathan
H from the foolish vow of Saul, for it
g was his faith and valor that had chiefly
brought about the victory.
I. I. God's Sorrow, vv. 10-12. Samuel
t had first revealed God's purpose In '
;t making Saul king, and llktfclse first ^
n declared God's purpose to dispose of
it Saul (v. 10). Saul's actions (w. 1-9)
n had stamped him as being no longer
it worthy of God's confidence. The
~ word "repenteth," meaning "to sigh"
n (v. 11), denotes a change of feeling
e due to Saul's actions and not to any
change in the character, purpose or
ir desires of Good. God was sorry that
n Saul had proved himself unworthy.
1, A half-way obedience of God's comi,'
mand only heightened his guilt
is 'Whatever moral difficulties eeem to
lie, for a later age, in Saul's 'ccynmission
against Amalek, there were none
such for him" (Vaughn). Man's repentance
involves a change'of mind
and purpose. In Saul's case God rw
pented, changed the instrument of his
pverntfon hprause of the chanae of
circumstances and relation. God ii
ever the same; it is man alone who
changes. 8aul had given Samuel
cause for anger (v. 11 R. V.), but lie
did the wise thing In taking It to God < j
in prayer. Arising early the next
Saul v^th Je^ova^s" "JfcTs^ ""
remarkable of how many of the great
I men of the Bible it is said that they
rose early, Abraham, Gideon, Joshua,
Job, Jacob, Moses, etc., not to forget
our Lord Jesus.
II. 8amuel's Rebuke, vv. 13-19. It I
must have been a striking scene when
the aged Nazarite prophet faced the
proud but recreant king. A guilty
conscience is often covered by a great
show of piety (v. 13), but such acts ,
* cannot stifle the conviction of the v
H heart nor deceive the righteous Judge.
Sin proclaims itself even as Samuel's *
' sharp question brought conviction
* from the lips of Saul (v. 14; Prov.
r' 28:13). Saul thought to deceive Samuel
by using a falsehood (v. 16). The
only safe course is to confess our
* sins (Ps. 32:15; L John 1:9). There
9 is an Interesting suggestion in the
way Saul uses the impersonal "they"
9 and "we" in verse 15, as if to lay
the guilt of his acts upon others. It
is easy for the sinner to blame otheis
and seek to minimize his own guiit
(Rom. 14:12). Verse 9 clearly indicates
why Saul and the people had
* spared the best of the cattle. To use
a part only for God and the rest for
. self in direct disobedience to God's
' rights or the rights of others is to
. Incur his righteous wrath (vv. 22, 23). HI
S*lf.R?Ur4inn. w. 20-23.
God 6et Saul aside because be had
} rejected the right and chose the
. wrong. Face to face with his sin
Saul could not dodge the Issue. Samuel's
"wherefore" (v. 19) must have
I aroused Saul's guilty conscience, it
B is a question which should reach every \.
tempted soul. Samuel characterized
^ Saul's sin as being due to stubbornness,
rebellion, disobedience and a re|f
Jection of God (v. 19). Again Saul
B seeks to evade his responsibility (w.
20, 21). Then Samuel speaks plainly
(v. 22) comparing his sin of disobedi?
ence with witchcraft, stubbornness,
I iniquity and Idolatry. Plainly he tells
Saul, "Because thou hast rejected the
v word of the Lord, he hath also rejected
thee from being king" (v. 23).
I Driven thus to a corner Saul made
; a confession of his guilt (v. 24) but
i spoiled it all by acknowledging that
t he had greater fear of the people than
of God.
d This is Easter Sunday, our reproach
? has been removed, not at Gilgal but
e on Calvary. The unchanging uoa
I hates sin, which is unchangeable, has
? condemned It on the Cross that the
guilty sinner may live.
A The persistence of sin, the un1
changeableness of God and his un- /
? yielding hatred of sin are met by the
culmination of Easter for, "By the
I obedience of one shall many be made
I righteous" (Rom. 5:19).
i The whole root of Saul's trouble
I was his attitude towards the word of
God. Every man's destiny hinges
" upon what he does with the Living
I Incarnate Word.
t The resurrection of Jesus is tho
I seal of his authority, the evidence of
' his power and our eternal salvation
depends upon what we do with him,
John 3:16; 18:36.
* *
* 3