BLACK MORRIS “WANTS THAT BRICKBAT AGAIN.”
“O I have often seen the tear
From Pity’s eye flow bright and clear,
When Sympathy hath bid it stay,
And tremble on its timid way;
But there’s a tear more pure and bright,
And moulded with as soft a light,--
The tear that gushes from the eye,
Fresh from the founts of memory.”
_Anon._
The Rev. Theophilus Clayton and the earnest Methodist band of which he
was the head, did not let the grass grow under their feet anent the
scheme for the erection of the new chapel in Nestleton. After the
securing of the land, a public meeting had been called, plans were
presented, additional subscriptions promised, and finally a day was
fixed upon for the all-important ceremony of laying the foundation
stone. Philip Fuller, who was an active member of the Building
Committee, being quite aware that his father would help to any amount
that a free expenditure might require, succeeded in getting such a
scheme adopted as would secure an elegant and attractive sanctuary,
sufficiently spacious for aggression, and so effective in its
architecture as to be an ornament to the lovely village in which it
was to be erected. Again the famous minister from York was secured.
Squire Fuller himself had promised to lay the stone, and every
preparation was made for the grand occasion when the corner-stone
should be laid, and the long-hoped-for undertaking should be
inaugurated with enthusiasm and success.
A large and capacious tent was improvised by the aid of farmers’
stack-cloths, builders’ scaffold-poles, and other materials, on
Nestleton Green. Jabez Hepton and his apprentices were very busy in
rigging up temporary tables and rude forms, a platform for the
speakers, and other essentials for the great tea-meeting, and for the
public gathering which was to follow. An enormous boiler had been
borrowed from the Hall, urns and tea-pots, whose name was legion, were
requisitioned from all and sundry, and all things were ready for the
grand emprise. A glorious spring day, beautifully soft and balmy, was
providentially accorded them. Banners and bunting, evergreens and
flowers, adorned the scaffold-poles around the brick foundations which
had been already laid, waved from the summit of the tent, and were
lavishly scattered in its bright interior; while just before the
canvass doorway, John Morris and his brothers, with the help of Jake
Olliver, had erected a triumphal arch, which was quite a marvellous
triumph of village art.
The “trays” for the public tea had all been given and provided in that
bounteous and luxurious fashion for which the Yorkshire farm
mistresses are proverbial. Hams, tongues and fowls, tarts and pies,
cheese-cakes, tea-cakes, plum-cakes, rice-cakes, and other toothsome
triumphs of confectionery, mingled with a profusion of plainer fare,
and exhibited such a sum total of appetising edibilities, that Jabez
Hepton’s tables curved and creaked beneath their weight. As for the
people who gathered there on that auspicious day, it really seemed as
though the whole Kesterton Circuit had immigrated to Nestleton Green.
Kesterton was represented by scores of sympathisers, and every village
in Messrs. Clayton and Mitchell’s pastorate sent a detachment to swell
the crowd. As for Nestleton itself, why it was there bodily. On that
day, at any rate, the plough might stand in the furrow, and the horses
experienced two Sundays in the week. The central ceremony passed
smoothly off: Squire Fuller did his unfamiliar duty in a deft and
skilful way, and finished his short address of warm congratulation, by
placing a hundred pounds upon the stone he had just “well and truly
laid.” Two or three speeches were delivered, the indispensable
collection was made, the “Doxology” and “God save the King” were sung
with a perfect furore of enthusiasm, and then a general adjournment
was made to the “tented field.” A battle royal succeeded; such an
overwhelming charge was made upon urn and teapot, loaf and pastry,
flesh and fowl, that in a very little while the boards were swept of
their supplies, and the trampled ground was strewed with shattered
fragments, the only surviving token of the fierceness of the fray. At
the evening meeting the squire of Waverdale again took the place of
honour, and delighted all his hearers with the simple relation of his
religious experience, and his grateful references to the Methodist
influences which had been brought to bear on himself and son. “As for
good old Adam Olliver,” quoth the squire, “he is one of Nature’s
noblemen. No, that won’t do either, for our grand old friend is in the
highest sense a patriarch in holiness and grace. My debt to him is
greater than he knows; greater than he will ever know until the light
of eternity flashes on the doings of time. I desire in his name to
contribute a further sum of fifty pounds, and I heartily pray that
the chapel about to be built may be the means of perpetuating and
multiplying such genuine specimens of piety, integrity, and goodness
among the villagers of Nestleton.”
Mr. Houston read a statement of a financial kind, which set forth a
very hopeful state of things, and then the squire called on Philip
Fuller to address the meeting. The young and handsome heir of the
Waverdale estates received an unmistakable ovation which said much for
his hold upon the general esteem, and promised much for his future
influence over those among whom he would one day occupy so powerful a
position for evil or for good. When Philip rose to his feet there was
a certain young lady who felt a sudden flutter at her heart as to how
he would acquit himself. He was quite as effective, however, in his
work as she had been in hers, and that is saying much, for in the
dreadful fight among the crockery and its contents, Lucy Blyth had
handled her weapons like a heroine, as many a sated tea-bibber and
muffin-eater could testify.
“My dear father and Mr. Chairman,” quoth Philip--and here the
unconscionable tipplers of the not inebriating stimulus cheered
again--“among the many causes of gratitude and joy that fill my heart
to-day, one of the very greatest is the joy of seeing you in that
position. How good God has been to me you know full well. I stand here
happy in the consciousness of a Saviour’s love, as one raised by a
miracle from the bed of death, rich in the possession of your sympathy
and love, both intensified by the power of a common faith in Jesus,
and as the prospective possessor of the fairest prize in Waverdale.”
Here the applause was almost deafening; hats and handkerchiefs were
waved in frantic excitement, and if any purblind idiot was ignorant of
Lucy’s hold upon the people’s hearts, he was there and then
enlightened fully and for evermore. “I, too, sir, must render my
acknowledgments to Adam Olliver, my spiritual father, my trusted
friend, my counsellor and guide. My heart is far too full for fitting
speech. To honest, humble, hearty Methodist people, under God, I owe
all that is worth having in this world; and I propose by God’s help to
live among them and to labour with them as long as He shall please to
spare my life. I, too, sir, with your permission, would give £100 in
token of my gratitude to the Great Giver of all my good.”
In the same high strain of gratitude, speaker followed speaker, and
the interest of the meeting was not only sustained but heightened. The
minister from York gave a full, clear exposition of the distinctive
doctrines of Methodism and the chief peculiarities of its discipline,
to which, it was noted, the squire gave earnest, studious, and
approving heed; Mr. Clayton talked wisely and well of Methodism’s
special mission to Nestleton, and sketched in glowing colours a
prophetic history of the new chapel, and the good work that should
there be done for God. Mr. Mitchell found a thrilling and congenial
theme in the Midden Harbour mission, and the triumphs of grace among
its vicious and degraded inhabitants. Then the meeting was thrown open
for the reception of gifts and promises, and it soon appeared as if,
like Moses with the Israelites, Mr. Clayton would have to ask them to
“stay their hand.” Jabez Hepton would make and give the pulpit; Kasper
Crabtree would build the wall around the chapel grounds and surmount
it with iron palisades; George Cliffe the carrier, and other owners of
horses would “lead” the bricks, lime, sand, stone, slates, and timber
free of cost. Widow Appleton promised the proceeds of her jargonelle
pear-tree, and Piggy Morris would give a litter of porkers to increase
the swelling funds. At length, up rose Black Morris, but so widely
different was his aspect as compared with the sad, bad times of
old--clean shaven, and with shortened locks, the old scowl conspicuous
by its absence, and the entire countenance so illuminated with the
gleam of grace, that all present felt that Black Morris was as dead
as Queen Anne, that the _soubriquet_ was a libel, and that the “John
Morris” of his innocent youth-hood had risen from the dead. Latterly
the ex-poacher had sought with much success to gather employment as a
farrier, and there seemed to be a reasonable prospect of prosperity in
that particular line. John Morris asked permission to address the
meeting; in feeling strains that held his hearers spell-bound, he
recounted his strange and startling experience. He told the story of
the brickbat, and pointed, with tears in his eyes, to the scar on Mr.
Clayton’s face; ofttimes half-choked with sobs, he struggled through
the narrative of his never-to-be-forgotten ride in the circuit gig. He
told how he watched Mr. Clayton at Kesterton town-end with the
brickbat in his hand. “I said as I put it in my pocket,” said he, “and
turned down the Nestleton-road, ‘Hey, I shall want it again.’ And now
I _do_ want it again. Here it is! (and he held the missile up before
them), I want to give it to the new chapel. I’ve saved five pounds,
and will save, by God’s help fifteen more, which I rejoice to give in
gratitude to God; but I want to ask you to build the brickbat into the
building, for it has been bathed many a time in tears of penitence,
and I thank God, it has also been bathed in tears of joy.” The scene
which followed baffles description. Mr. Clayton hid his face in his
hands and wept like a child, the sobs of Piggy Morris and his gentle
Mary were heard above the deep but suppressed murmurs of sympathy
which ran through the tearful crowd. By-and-bye, “Aud Adam Olliver”
arose and said,--
“Mr. Chairman! If ivver there was a man upo’ t’ ’arth ’at was a’most
ower ’appy te live, it’s me. Halleluia! Halleluia! Prayse the Lord!
an’ let all the people say, Amen.” And they _did_ say it, as if they
meant it. Adam proceeded, “Neet an’ day for mair then fotty year,
ah’ve bin prayin’ an’ waitin’ te see this day. An’ noo its cum, an’
cum iv a shap’ ’at fair tonns me’ heead wi’ joy. When me an’ mah dear
aud Judy com’ here te-day, and ah saw this greeat big tent afoore uz,
an’ t’ flags flappin’ on t’ top on it, ah could’nt help sayin’, ‘Judy,
mi’ lass! There’s t’ tabernacle there alriddy, an’ t’ temple ’ll be up
and oppened afoare Can’lemas-day. Prayse the Lord!’ We’ve had monny a
blessed tahme i’ mah lahtle hoose, an’ Maister Houston’s kitchen’s
been filled wi’ t’ glory o’ the Lord. Beeath on ’em’s been a Bochim
wi’ t’ tears o’ penitent sowls, an’ thenk the Lord beeath on em’s been
a Bethel, wheer poor wanderin’ sinners like Jacob hez fun’ the Lord.
Ah’ve been thinkin’ o’ t’ good aud sowls ’at’s gone te heaven oot o’
mah lahtle class, since fost it wer’ started, playmaytes an’
cumpanions o’ mahne an’ Judy’s. Why scoores on ’em hez crossed ower
Jordan, dry-shod, an’ gone te be for ivver wi’ the Lord. Me an’ Judy’s
aboot all there’s left o’ t’ real aud standers. We are like a coople
o’ poor, dry trimmlin’ leeaves, still shackin’ upo’ t’ tree i’ winter;
when wa’ fall we sall fall as leet as they deea, an’ t’ wind ’at bloas
us doon ’ll bloa us up ageean an’ carry us inte Paradise,--
‘Te flourish in endurin’ bloom
Seeaf frae diseeases an’ decline.’
Then there’s that grand victh’ry ’at the Lord’s gi’en us i’ Midden
Harbour. Scoores o’ poor sowls ’at’s been liggin’ amang t’ pots hez
gotten ‘wings o’ silver an’ feathers o’ yallow gold.’ Prayse the Lord!
An’ noo, Mr. Chairman, let’s remember what the Lord said te t’
Israelites when they camped bi’ t’ side o’ Jordan, ’at owerfload its
banks i’ harvest-tahme. It seeamed as though they could nivver cross
it, it was sae rough an’ sae deep. He said, be’ t’ mooth ov ’is
sarvan, Joshua, ‘Sanctify ye’rsens, an’ i’ t’ mornin’ the Lord ’ll
work wunders fo’ yo’ l’ an’ sae He will for uz. Noo, Mr. Chairman,
ah’ll say nae mair, bud nobbut propooase ’at John Morris’s hoaf-brick
be built i’ t’ frunt o’ t’ chapil, i’ sitch a spot ’at ’is bairns an’
their bairns efter ’em may nivver forget hoo the Lord mak’s t’ wrath
ov man te prayse Him, an’ hoo He browt John Morris te t’ Sayviour’s
feet.”
The meeting was at length brought to a conclusion, and the people trod
their homeward way, filled with precious experiences of a day which
still lives in the memories of some who are yet spared by the sweeping
scythe of Time, to tell the story of the glorious meeting on Nestleton
Green, and the episode of Black Morris’s singular contribution. In due
time the front gable reared its graceful head, and midway in the wall
was placed a slab of stone, with a square orifice cut in the middle,
in which the brickbat was inserted, and round about it an inscription
to the following effect:--
[Illustration: WESLEYAN METHODIST CHAPEL, BUILT 1835.]
One day, when Mr. Clayton was sauntering round the new erection,
noticing with much satisfaction how nearly it approached completion,
he was joined by John Morris, who paid a daily visit of inspection to
the building in which he had so deep and strong an interest. They
stood together, reading the inscription on the tablet and looking at
the suggestive square within.
“Morris,” said Mr. Clayton with a smile, “that cut in the stone will
outlast the scar on my cheek! I count that seam one of the most
precious things that I possess.”
“And I,” said Morris, “count it one of the most shameful things that
even I ever did in my reckless wickedness. But, see, there is a B
directly below it and an M immediately above it, and so it will
perpetuate Black Morris’s repentance so long as the walls endure; or,
if you read it downwards, Morris’s Brickbat is intimated quite as
clearly.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” said Mr. Clayton, laughing,
“but I have already read it downwards, and in my own mind have
translated it into Methodist Booty; and I declare to you that I would
willingly bear the brunt of another attack if I could capture another
brickbat and another warm-hearted Christian like John Morris;” so
saying he shook his companion warmly by the hand. That worthy fellow’s
answer was a grateful look, through glistening eyes, as he silently
turned away.