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.