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.”