CHAPTER XII.

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.