Haworth Church.
From the low Bedford level, what a flight to the wildest spot in wild Yorkshire, Haworth, and its venerable old parish church, celebrated now as a classic region, haunted by the memory of the author of Jane Eyre, and all the Brontë family; but in the times of which we are writing, the vicar, William Grimshaw, was quite as queer and quaint a creature as Berridge. A wild spot now—a stern, grand place; desolate moors still seeming to stretch all round it; though more easily reached in this day, it must indeed have been a rough solitude when William Grimshaw became its vicar, in 1742. He was born in 1708; he died in 1763. He was a man something of the nature of the wild moors around him. When he became the pastor of the parish, the people all round him were plunged in the most sottish heathenism. The pastor was a kind of son of the desert, and he became such an one as the Baptist, crying in the wilderness. The people were rough, they perhaps needed a rough shepherd; they had one. The character of Grimshaw is that of a rough, faithful, and not less beautiful shepherd’s dog. On the Sabbath morning he would commence his service, giving out the psalm, and having taken note of the absentees from the congregation, would start off, while the psalm was being sung, to drive in the loiterers, visiting the ale-houses, routing out the drinkers, and literally compelling them to come into the parish church. One Sabbath morning, a stranger riding through Haworth, seeing some men scrambling over a garden wall, and some others leaping through a low window, imagined the house was on fire. He inquired what was the matter. One of them cried out, “The parson’s a coming!” and that explained the riddle. Upon another occasion, as a man was passing through the village, on the Sabbath day, on his way to call a doctor, his horse lost a shoe. He found his way to the village smithy to have his loss repaired. The blacksmith told him that it was the Lord’s day, and the work could not be done unless the minister gave his permission. So they went to the parson, who, of course, as the case was urgent and necessary, gave his consent. But the story illustrates the mastery the vicar attained over the rough minds around him. He was a man of a hardy mould. He was intensely earnest. He not only effected a mighty moral change in his own parish, but Haworth was visited every Sabbath by pilgrims from miles round to listen to this singular, strong, mountain voice; so that the church became unequal to the great congregations, and he often had to preach in the churchyard, a desolate looking spot now, but alive with mighty concourses then. It is said that his strong, pithy words haunted men long after they were spoken, as the infidel nobleman, who, in an affected manner, told him he was unable to see the truth of Christianity. “The fault,” said the rough vicar, “is not so much in your lordship’s head as in your heart.”
GRIMSHAW’S HOUSE.
Grimshaw was the first who kindled in the wild heights of Yorkshire the flames of the Revival. His mind was stirred simultaneously with others, but he does not appear to have received either from Whitefield or Wesley the impulses which created his extraordinary character, though he, of course, entered heartily into all their work. They visited Haworth, and preached to immense concourses there. As to Grimshaw himself, in the most irregular manner, he preached in the Methodist conventicles and dissenting chapels in all the country round. He effected an entire change in his own neighbourhood. He put down the races; he reformed the village feasts, wakes, and fairs. He was often expecting suspension, and at last he was cited before the Archbishop, who inquired of him as to the number of his communicants. “How many,” said his grace, “had you when you first went to Haworth?” “Twelve.” “And how many now?” “In the summer, about twelve hundred.” The astonished Archbishop turned to his assistants in the examination, and said, “I really cannot find fault with Mr. Grimshaw when he brings so many people to the Lord’s Table.” Southey is also complimentary, in his own way, to this singular clergyman, and says, “He was certainly mad!”
William Grimshaw.
It was what Festus said to Paul; but the madness of the pastor of Haworth was a blessing to the farms and cottages of those wild moorlands. He was a child of nature in her most beautiful moods, glorified by Divine grace. The freshness and buoyancy of the heath his foot so lightly pressed, and the torrents which sung around him, were but typical of his hardy naturalness and beauty of character. Truly it has been said, it was not more natural that the gentle lover of nature should lie at the foot of Helvellyn, than that this watchman of the mountains should sleep at the foot of the hills amongst which he had so faithfully laboured. He died comparatively young. His last words were very characteristic. Robert Shaw, an old Methodist preacher, called upon him; he said, “I will pray for you as long as I live, and if there is praying in heaven, I will pray for you there; I am as happy as I can be on earth, and as sure of glory as if I were in it.” His last words were, “Here goes an unprofitable servant!”
The wild Yorkshire of that day took up the Revival with a will; and Henry Venn, of Huddersfield, we suppose, has even transcended by his usefulness the fame of either Berridge or Grimshaw; he was born in 1724, and died in 1797. His life was genial and fruitful, and to his church in Huddersfield the people poured in droves to listen to him. It has been said his life was like a field of wheat, or a fine summer day. And how are these to be painted or put upon the canvas? He could scarcely be called eccentric, excepting in the sense in which earnestness, holiness, and usefulness are always eccentric. His influence may be said, in some directions, to continue still. He was one of the indefatigable coadjutors of the Countess in all her work, and towards the close of his life he came to London to throw his influence round young Rowland Hill, by preaching for some time in Surrey Chapel.
In another district of Yorkshire, a mighty movement was going on, commencing about 1734. Benjamin Ingham, whom we met some time since at Oxford, as a member of the Holy Club, was living at Ossett, near Dewsbury. He had married Lady Margaret Hastings, a younger sister of the Countess of Huntingdon. He had received ordination in the Church of England, but his irregularities had forced him out. Like the Wesleys, in the earlier part of his history, he became enchanted with the devotional life of the Moravians, and at this period he introduced with marvellous results a modified Moravianism into the West Riding of Yorkshire. He founded as many as eighty Societies; but he appears to have attempted to carry out an impossible scheme, the union of the Moravian discipline and doctrine with his idea of Congregationalism. His influence over the West Riding for a long time was immense; but, most naturally, divisions arose, and the purely Moravian element separated itself into its own order of Church life, while the Methodist element was absorbed in the great and growing Wesleyan Societies. He was a friend of Count Zinzendorf, who was his guest for a long time at Ledstone House. The shock which his Society sustained, and the death of Lady Margaret, his admirable and beloved wife, were blows from which the good man never recovered; but the effects of his usefulness continued, although he passed; and if the reader ever visits the little Moravian Colony and Institution of Fulneck, near Leeds, in Yorkshire, he may be pleased to remember that this is also one of the offshoots of the Great Revival.