Nestleton Magna Part 8

"Help yo'," said Adam, "te be seear He will. But you mun help yersen.

If a fellow c.u.ms 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, 'c.u.m, 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 c.u.m 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 G.o.d. '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 G.o.d. Till that day c.u.ms, '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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d 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' wa.r.s.e 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 n.o.bbut pray mair, yo'll hev a good deal mair te thenk G.o.d 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 G.o.d," 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 G.o.d 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' n.o.bbut clim' it patiently, you'll finnd 'at t' top on't 'at G.o.d'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 c.u.ms 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 c.u.mfot 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 cla.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 G.o.d. Jake's a good lad, an' Hannah's a steady la.s.s, 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 G.o.d'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,--

"G.o.d bless tha', mah dear aud wife. A m.u.t.h.e.r's luv hugs her bairns varry near her heart; bud thoo knoas 'at G.o.d'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 la.s.s, all thi' bairns hae been gi'n te G.o.d, 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 m.u.t.h.e.r 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 const.i.tutional 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d.

For nearly a century and a half the Methodist cla.s.s-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 inst.i.tution. In the day when it allows the cla.s.s-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 cla.s.s-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 refres.h.i.+ng and encouraging thousands of humble pilgrims whose faces are set towards the Celestial City.

CHAPTER XIII.

SQUIRE FULLER PAYS A VISIT TO THE FORGE.

"I ask not for his lineage, I ask not for his name-- If manliness be in his heart, He n.o.ble birth may claim.

I care not though of world's wealth But slender be his part, If _yes_ you answer when I ask, Hath he a true man's heart?"

_R. Nicholl._

After that memorable interview which Philip Fuller had with his father when he revealed the dearest secret of his heart, the squire sat motionless and immersed in thought, long after his household had retired to rest.

The revelation made to him by his son had come upon him with all the force of a thunderbolt, and for a while bereft him of the power either to think or act. His clear perception had seen that Philip's attachment to Lucy was no child's play--no fleeting fancy to be chased away by the advent of some newer face of beauty. He knew that his son and heir was the subject of a master pa.s.sion--a love that no diplomacy could lessen, that no counter policy could uproot, and that direct opposition could only intensify and confirm. His deep and mighty love for Philip, largely hid under a cold exterior, led him to sympathise with and pity him to a degree altogether unwarranted by external evidence; at the same time he felt that such an alliance as the ardent youth contemplated was simply impossible and absurd, and must be put an end to at all hazards, for his son's sake, as well as from regard to the traditions of his family tree. He was convinced that the only method of preventing so glaring a mistake lay in an appeal to Philip's filial obedience and love, and he came to the conclusion to use that potent engine without delay.

The next morning, as he and Philip were seated at the breakfast table, the squire opened the conversation by saying,--

"My son! Does your evening declaration commend itself to your morning reflections? I have gone through a sleepless night, trying to hope that I should meet, this morning, your wiser self. Philip, my boy, I would do much to please you, for you little know how great is my love for you. But you ask me what I cannot grant, and what, if you do without my permission, will go far to shorten my life and break my heart. You are all I have in the world, and having you, I have all the world has in it that I care for. My son! my son! will you give up this impossible idea, and let me feel that you will not bring my grey head to the grave with grief?"

The squire's voice quivered, and the look of eager hope and dread upon his haggard face was something pitiful to see. He had employed the one arrow in his quiver that had, for this case, either feather or barb, and his suspense amounted to positive agony until Philip's answer came. But he had judged aright. His son's genuine love and loyalty were his sheet anchor, and the anchor held. The colour left Philip's face, the struggle was intense, but his response was firm.