In the same high strain of gratitude, speaker followed speaker, and the interest of the meeting was not only sustained but heightened. The minister from York gave a full, clear exposition of the distinctive doctrines of Methodism and the chief peculiarities of its discipline, to which, it was noted, the squire gave earnest, studious, and approving heed; Mr. Clayton talked wisely and well of Methodism’s special mission to Nestleton, and sketched in glowing colours a prophetic history of the new chapel, and the good work that should there be done for God. Mr. Mitchell found a thrilling and congenial theme in the Midden Harbour mission, and the triumphs of grace among its vicious and degraded inhabitants. Then the meeting was thrown open for the reception of gifts and promises, and it soon appeared as if, like Moses with the Israelites, Mr. Clayton would have to ask them to “stay their hand.” Jabez Hepton would make and give the pulpit; Kasper Crabtree would build the wall around the chapel grounds and surmount it with iron palisades; George Cliffe the carrier, and other owners of horses would “lead” the bricks, lime, sand, stone, slates, and timber free of cost. Widow Appleton promised the proceeds of her jargonelle pear-tree, and Piggy Morris would give a litter of porkers to increase the swelling funds. At length, up rose Black Morris, but so widely different was his aspect as compared with the sad, bad times of old—clean shaven, and with shortened locks, the old scowl conspicuous by its absence, and the entire countenance so illuminated with the gleam of grace, that all present felt that Black Morris was as dead as Queen Anne, that the soubriquet was a libel, and that the “John Morris” of his innocent youth-hood had risen from the dead. Latterly the ex-poacher had sought with much success to gather employment as a farrier, and there seemed to be a reasonable prospect of prosperity in that particular line. John Morris asked permission to address the meeting; in feeling strains that held his hearers spell-bound, he recounted his strange and startling experience. He told the story of the brickbat, and pointed, with tears in his eyes, to the scar on Mr. Clayton’s face; ofttimes half-choked with sobs, he struggled through the narrative of his never-to-be-forgotten ride in the circuit gig. He told how he watched Mr. Clayton at Kesterton town-end with the brickbat in his hand. “I said as I put it in my pocket,” said he, “and turned down the Nestleton-road, ‘Hey, I shall want it again.’ And now I do want it again. Here it is! (and he held the missile up before them), I want to give it to the new chapel. I’ve saved five pounds, and will save, by God’s help fifteen more, which I rejoice to give in gratitude to God; but I want to ask you to build the brickbat into the building, for it has been bathed many a time in tears of penitence, and I thank God, it has also been bathed in tears of joy.” The scene which followed baffles description. Mr. Clayton hid his face in his hands and wept like a child, the sobs of Piggy Morris and his gentle Mary were heard above the deep but suppressed murmurs of sympathy which ran through the tearful crowd. By-and-bye, “Aud Adam Olliver” arose and said,—
“Mr. Chairman! If ivver there was a man upo’ t’ ’arth ’at was a’most ower ’appy te live, it’s me. Halleluia! Halleluia! Prayse the Lord! an’ let all the people say, Amen.” And they did say it, as if they meant it. Adam proceeded, “Neet an’ day for mair then fotty year, ah’ve bin prayin’ an’ waitin’ te see this day. An’ noo its cum, an’ cum iv a shap’ ’at fair tonns me’ heead wi’ joy. When me an’ mah dear aud Judy com’ here te-day, and ah saw this greeat big tent afoore uz, an’ t’ flags flappin’ on t’ top on it, ah could’nt help sayin’, ‘Judy, mi’ lass! There’s t’ tabernacle there alriddy, an’ t’ temple ’ll be up and oppened afoare Can’lemas-day. Prayse the Lord!’ We’ve had monny a blessed tahme i’ mah lahtle hoose, an’ Maister Houston’s kitchen’s been filled wi’ t’ glory o’ the Lord. Beeath on ’em’s been a Bochim wi’ t’ tears o’ penitent sowls, an’ thenk the Lord beeath on em’s been a Bethel, wheer poor wanderin’ sinners like Jacob hez fun’ the Lord. Ah’ve been thinkin’ o’ t’ good aud sowls ’at’s gone te heaven oot o’ mah lahtle class, since fost it wer’ started, playmaytes an’ cumpanions o’ mahne an’ Judy’s. Why scoores on ’em hez crossed ower Jordan, dry-shod, an’ gone te be for ivver wi’ the Lord. Me an’ Judy’s aboot all there’s left o’ t’ real aud standers. We are like a coople o’ poor, dry trimmlin’ leeaves, still shackin’ upo’ t’ tree i’ winter; when wa’ fall we sall fall as leet as they deea, an’ t’ wind ’at bloas us doon ’ll bloa us up ageean an’ carry us inte Paradise,—
‘Te flourish in endurin’ bloom
Seeaf frae diseeases an’ decline.’
Then there’s that grand victh’ry ’at the Lord’s gi’en us i’ Midden Harbour. Scoores o’ poor sowls ’at’s been liggin’ amang t’ pots hez gotten ‘wings o’ silver an’ feathers o’ yallow gold.’ Prayse the Lord! An’ noo, Mr. Chairman, let’s remember what the Lord said te t’ Israelites when they camped bi’ t’ side o’ Jordan, ’at owerfload its banks i’ harvest-tahme. It seeamed as though they could nivver cross it, it was sae rough an’ sae deep. He said, be’ t’ mooth ov ’is sarvan, Joshua, ‘Sanctify ye’rsens, an’ i’ t’ mornin’ the Lord ’ll work wunders fo’ yo’ l’ an’ sae He will for uz. Noo, Mr. Chairman, ah’ll say nae mair, bud nobbut propooase ’at John Morris’s hoaf-brick be built i’ t’ frunt o’ t’ chapil, i’ sitch a spot ’at ’is bairns an’ their bairns efter ’em may nivver forget hoo the Lord mak’s t’ wrath ov man te prayse Him, an’ hoo He browt John Morris te t’ Sayviour’s feet.”
The meeting was at length brought to a conclusion, and the people trod their homeward way, filled with precious experiences of a day which still lives in the memories of some who are yet spared by the sweeping scythe of Time, to tell the story of the glorious meeting on Nestleton Green, and the episode of Black Morris’s singular contribution. In due time the front gable reared its graceful head, and midway in the wall was placed a slab of stone, with a square orifice cut in the middle, in which the brickbat was inserted, and round about it an inscription to the following effect:—
Wesleyan Methodist Chapel,
Built 1835.
One day, when Mr. Clayton was sauntering round the new erection, noticing with much satisfaction how nearly it approached completion, he was joined by John Morris, who paid a daily visit of inspection to the building in which he had so deep and strong an interest. They stood together, reading the inscription on the tablet and looking at the suggestive square within.
“Morris,” said Mr. Clayton with a smile, “that cut in the stone will outlast the scar on my cheek! I count that seam one of the most precious things that I possess.”