MIDDEN HARBOUR HAS A NEW SENSATION.
“I saw one man, armed simply with God’s Word,
Enter the souls of many fellow men,
And pierce them sharply as a two-edged sword,
While conscience echoed back his words again;
Till, even as showers of fertilising rain
Sink through the bosom of the valley clod,
So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain,--
One good man’s prayers, the link ’twixt them and God.”
_Caroline E. Norton._
The two burglars who had made their escape from Waverdale Hall on the
eventful night before referred to, had managed to carry with them
considerable booty in the shape of plate and other valuables, but none
of these things, nor all of them put together, were so important as
their theft of a certain tin box from the library, which contained
several precious parchments concerning land about which the squire was
engaged at that moment in troublesome litigation with a rival
claimant. Squire Fuller was convinced that the abstraction of these
deeds was the first and principal errand of the housebreakers, and
that they had been induced to make their entry into Waverdale Hall by
the promptings of unprincipled opponents who had held out to the
burglars the hope of a liberal reward. Hence he caused a very close
and constant watch to be placed, in the post-office, and around the
doors of the opposing solicitors in London, and in every other way he
could think of, strove to re-capture the deeds which were of the first
importance to himself and son.
The removal of the last vestige of doubt, the last shadow of
suspicion, from Philip Fuller as the author of the dark deed in
Thurston Wood, materially hastened his recovery, and as Lucy Blyth now
felt that her mission was accomplished, she made arrangements for her
immediate return to the Forge. The squire was called away on county
business, and on the evening of his departure she suddenly appeared
before him, and announced that her father had come to see her home.
The squire was dumbfoundered at what seemed to him to be the
suddenness of her resolve, and before he knew exactly what to say or
do, she bade him “Good evening,” and departed. Under the peculiar
circumstances of the case, Lucy must again be complimented on the wit
and wisdom that marked the “order of her going.” For the present,
therefore, now that Lucy is safely housed in her own pleasant and
happy home; now that Philip is gaining strength every day; and now
that the squire is absent at the assizes; we may turn away from
Waverdale Hall awhile, and pay a little special attention to the
“short and simple annals of the poor.”
* * * * *
One evening, when the weather was unusually fine and open for the
winter season of the year, the Rev. Matthew Mitchell mounted the
circuit gig, and drove the staid and sober Jack to Nestleton. Putting
up his antique conveyance, and not much younger steed, at Farmer
Houston’s, he joined the family to an early tea, and then took his way
to Midden Harbour. Piggy Morris, true to his promise to Lucy Blyth,
had emptied the old malt-kiln, and had swept and garnished it into the
bargain. Jabez Hepton, the carpenter, had made a number of rough
benches for the prospective congregation; he and Nathan Blyth had
rigged up a sort of pulpit platform; and all things were ready for
opening a campaign among the heathen and semi-savage denizens of that
queer locality. As an introduction to his mission there, our young
evangelist made a house-to-house visitation, including every dwelling
within its borders, and announced that he was going to preach in the
open air, at the corner of the cottage of Dick Spink, the besom-maker.
At the appointed hour he took his stand on a heap of stones, with
half-a-dozen Nestletonian Methodists by his side to keep him in
countenance, and to help to sing. Mr. Mitchell gave out a hymn, and
during the singing, the small fry of the place, unwashen, unkempt, and
almost unclad, gathered round in wonder. By-and-bye, a few slatternly
women, with ragged print dresses, tattered stockings, shoes down at
the heel, and heads like mops, approached with curious gaze. As the
service advanced, two or three queer customers of the male gender came
lounging out, each with a short black pipe in his mouth and his hands
in his pockets; a motley group as ever you could find either in
Whitechapel or the Seven Dials. During the prayer, no hat was removed,
no pipe was extracted, no head was bent in prayer amongst all the
natives of the Harbour there assembled.
“This is a rum go!” said one unshaven fellow to his neighbour.
“What a precious feeal he is,” said another.
“Let’s heeave hoaf-a-brick at him!” said a third.
Sal Sykes, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a baby in her arms, called
out,--
“We’re all gannin’ te tonn Methody, noo!”
“Nut for the likes of ’im!” said an equally uncanny member of the
Midden Harbour sisterhood. “Ah’ve a good mind te duck the lahtle
beggar i’ t’ ’osspond.”
Mr. Mitchell calmly and quietly opened his commission. “Come unto me,
all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,” was
the text from which he preached a short and simple sermon. As one who
felt the rest which he offered to his hearers, his heart was on his
lips, and his tearful earnestness won them, at any rate, into quietude
of behaviour. He thanked them for listening, and invited them to the
malt-kiln, whither they were about to adjourn. The little
home-missionary band was now strengthened by the arrival of Nathan
Blyth, Farmer Houston, Adam Olliver, and some others, and the first
service in the odd conventicle was fairly well attended, but almost
solely by those who did not need the special efforts they were making.
The inhabitants of the locality held themselves almost entirely aloof,
and seemed to ignore the matter altogether, except by an occasional
stone flung into the place, or a loud shout at the door, by some young
Harbourite, “just for fun.” Nevertheless, the worshippers felt their
Master’s presence, and left the old malt-kiln confirmed in their
determination to keep their torch alight in the midst of a moral
darkness which might be felt.
Services were now held in quick succession, and first one and then
another of the people of the place found their way within the sound of
the Gospel message, and in cases not a few the preached Word became
the power of God unto salvation to them that believed. Mary Morris
found a congenial mission in beating up recruits for the malt-kiln
meetings. Her quiet and gentle manners won upon the rough and rude
inhabitants of the unattractive colony, and many, both men and women,
were persuaded to “come and see.” So matters went on for some time,
until at length Mr. Mitchell, hopeful and determined, arranged for a
series of special services. Mr. Clayton himself and a few local
preachers took turn about on the little platform pulpit, and on the
third night of the series the power of God came mightily down upon the
worshippers; many were constrained to utter the cry of the Philippian
jailor and the prayer of the publican, and a revival of religion took
place such as had not been seen or known in the Kesterton Circuit
since the olden days, when the “early Methodist preachers,” Boanerges
by name and nature, every man of them, first awoke the echoes of the
moral wilderness, crying, “Repent ye! for the kingdom of God is at
hand!” Nor was the cry of penitence and the shout of joy heard only
among the young and female portion of the population, neither were
they confined to those who dwelt in Midden Harbour. Big men, bearded
and burly, wept like children, and groaning aloud in distress of soul,
were led by the eager toilers to the Lifted Cross, and rejoiced in
conscious peace and pardon through the blood of Christ. The wife and
sons of Dick Spink, an entire household of the name of Myers,
itinerant pot-sellers, were all converted in most unmistakable
fashion, and many others, until at last there was not a house in
Midden Harbour in which there was not at least one happy witness of
the Gospel grace. The fire spread to Farmer Houston’s kitchen, to
Kesterton, to Chessleby and Bexton, and eventually the whole circuit
was thrilled and blest by the potent power of “the great revival,” as
it is called to this day, and which had its origin in the unlikely
locality of Midden Harbour.
Amongst other willing and tireless labourers in this unpromising, but
most productive field, was Old Kasper Crabtree, whose regeneration was
to the full as wonderful as that of Zaccheus, when he exchanged the
grasping rapacity of the publican for the ungrudging benevolence which
halved its possessions with the poor and needy. He could not help
seeing how much the wretched tenements, the open ditches, the
disgraceful condition of his property had to do with the squalor,
wretchedness, intemperance, and general bestiality which had long held
sway in Midden Harbour, and he mentally resolved to introduce at any
cost a new and better state of things. Two classes were formed, which
assembled weekly in the malt-kiln, the one conducted by Farmer Houston
and the other by Old Adam Olliver, whose deep and fervent piety, whose
plain and honest manner of speech and thought, won the sympathy and
love of his rude and ignorant flock in the most surprising manner.
“Bless the Lord,” Adam would say; “there’s nowt ower hard for the
Lord! He’s tee’an us up oot of a doonghill, an’ setten us amang t’
princes ov ’is people! Mrs. Spink! you’ve helped te mak’ monny a
beesom, bud t’ beesom o’ t’ Lord’s swept yer heart clean o’ sin an’
misery; hezn’t it? Keep on prayin’, mah deear sister--‘Porge mah wi’
hyssop an’ ah sall be clean, wesh mah, an’ ah sall be whiter then
snoa!’”
Passing on to another, he would say--“Tinker Joe! the Lord’s meead a
grand job o’ you. There’s neea tinkerin’ when He begins. He clean
mak’s ower ageean, seea that wer’ souls can hod t’ watter o’ life.”
Nor was the experience, crudely and rudely expressed, of the new
converts much less vigorous and quaint, and even those who looked
askance at this sort of sensational religion, and even those who
opposed religion altogether, were constrained to acknowledge that a
marvellous change for the better had come over the denizens of Midden
Harbour.
Amid all these startling experiences and developments, nothing was
more noteworthy than the conduct and characteristic energy which
distinguished Black Morris. He gathered together the poor little dirty
and ragged children, and formed them into a class, the nucleus
of a Sunday-school, and Sunday after Sunday taught them the
gracious lessons of Jesus and His love, with an aptitude and a
self-sacrificing zeal which were attended with results of the most
pleasing kind. In this work he was assisted by Hannah Olliver.
Dismissed from Waverdale Hall for her gross imprudence anent Aubrey
Bevan and the burglary, she had returned home, and under the wise
influences of her worthy old parents, her eyes were opened to a clear
conception of her foolishness and sin. She had commenced business for
herself as a milliner and dressmaker, for in the mysteries of these
arts she was a skilled adept. She had been brought to God in “the
great revival,” and found a congenial employment in teaching the
little children their letters, and in pointing them to Jesus. In this
fashion the good work continued, prospered, and extended, until the
need of a chapel was simply vital, and it was felt that the
all-essential sanctuary must be provided.
At a leaders’ meeting, held at Farmer Houston’s, that good man and
true said,--
“Well; it seems to me that we cannot possibly get on any further
without a chapel. We are so pressed with prosperity that we don’t know
which way to turn.”
“Yes,” said Nathan Blyth, “We are fairly driven into a corner. There’s
no mistake about it; the time is ripe for it, if we could only get a
piece of ground.”
“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Clayton, “that Mr. Crabtree would now give
us a ‘place to dwell in?’ It’s true his property is rather out of the
way, but I think he would listen to us.”
Adam Olliver, who had been listening with sparkling eyes to this
conversation, rubbing his hands together with delight, here broke
in,--
“You all seeam te be o’ yah mind, ’at t’ tahme’s ripe for a chapil,
an’ ’at we can’t deea withoot it nae langer. Ah’s just o’ that opinion
mysen; and seea we may expect te get it. The Lord nivver works till t’
tahme _is_ ripe; an’ He allus comes an’ mak’s bare His airm te meet a
heavy need. His ’and’s allus riddy for a deead lift. He didn’t splet
t’ Rid Sea till Pharaoh’s souldiers was treeading on t’ ’eels ov His
people. He didn’t cum te Abr’m till t’ knife was lifted te slay his
son. He didn’t cum tiv His disciples upo’ t’ sea when their lahtle
booat was toss’d aboot i’ t’ storm like a cockle-shell, till t’ fowert
watch i’ t’ mornin’. He didn’t cum te Peter till Herod was just
gannin’ te bring him oot te dee. But He comm i’ tahme te ivvery yan on
’em, an’ he nivver cums ower leeat. Let things be a bit. Stand still,
an’ see t’ salvaytion o’ God.”
As usual Old Adam Olliver’s philosophy was unanswerable. They gave
themselves to the Word of God and to prayer, and separated, to “wait
for the Lord, more than they that watch for the morning.”