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.