NESTLETON MAGNA. A STORY OF YORKSHIRE METHODISM.

BY J. JACKSON WRAY.

Thirtieth Thousand.

LONDON: JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co At the Ballantyne Press

TO THE METHODIST CHURCHES THROUGHOUT THE WORLD, NUMBERING SOME FIFTEEN MILLIONS OF ADHERENTS, This Book is respectfully Dedicated, IN HEARTY ADMIRATION OF THEIR NOBLE LABOURS IN THE HIGHEST INTERESTS OF HUMANITY, AND IN THE EXTENSION OF THE REDEEMER’S KINGDOM; WITH THE EARNEST HOPE THAT, UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF DIVINE PROVIDENCE, THEY WILL SPEEDILY BE ABLE TO ADOPT SOME PRINCIPLE OF CONFEDERACY, BY MEANS OF WHICH THEY MAY PRESENT A UNITED AND RESISTLESS FRONT AGAINST EVERY FORM OF ANTI-CHRIST, AND IN LOVING CO-OPERATION WITH OTHER CHRISTIAN CHURCHES, MAY SOON “WIN THE WORLD FOR CHRIST.”

PREFACE.

In this book I have sought to present a faithful picture of village Methodism—a picture which I do not hesitate to say is being reproduced to-day, as far as Church work and beneficent piety is concerned, in many a village in this country. I have had, for more years than I care to count, an intimate knowledge of Methodist rural life. Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver and his wife Judith, and some other characters in the book, not excepting Balaam, have, unconsciously, stood for their portraits; and I dare to say that those parts of the story which have to do with Methodist operations and influences, will not be considered as overdrawn by those who are most conversant with the inner life of the Methodist people. If it be asked why I have presented my pictures in fictitious frames, my answer is, that I was bound to follow my natural bent, and to allow my pen to pursue the lines most congenial to the hand that wielded it; that, of all kinds of literature, fiction is the most attractive, and as it is utterly useless to try to prevent its perusal, wisdom and religion,

too, suggest that it should be provided of so pure a quality, and with so definitely a moral and religious bias, that it may not only do no harm but some good to the reader, who would otherwise go further and fare worse. I have honestly endeavoured so to write as to be able to quote dear Old Bunyan, and say,—

The rapid sale of the former editions of “Nestleton Magna,” and the numerous criticisms to which it has been subjected, have given me a welcome and unexpectedly early opportunity of giving it a careful revision, especially in the rendering of the East Yorkshire dialect. It is now presented to the public in a new and much improved form, and at a price which will bring it within the reach of all classes. The liberal and spontaneous patronage, and the highly-favourable reviews which this my first venture has received, merit my hearty thanks, and encourage me to a new trial of skill in the same direction. According to the unanimous and emphatic testimony of a large jury of reviewers, “Aud Adam Olliver” is fully worthy of the esteem I have sought to win for him; I cannot, therefore, do better than quote the words of the godly old patriarch, in acknowledgment of their verdict and the popular approval, “Ah’s varry mitch obliged te yo’.”

J. JACKSON WRAY.

CONTENTS.

[Pg 1]

NESTLETON MAGNA.

CHAPTER I. Nestleton Magna.

NESTLETON MAGNA is as “canny” a little village as can be found in any portion of the Three Kingdoms; and that is saying a good deal, for there are rural gems within British borders which are quite unequalled for cosiness and beauty by anything you can find within the four quarters of the globe, even if you take “all the isles of the ocean” into the bargain. Situated in the East Riding of Yorkshire, and nestling like a brooding bird in the[Pg 2] fertile valley of Waverdale, at the foot of the Yorkshire Wolds, it possesses rare and quiet charms, which elicit the spontaneous admiration of those not numerous tourists, who prefer to explore the rich resources of English inland scenery, rather than fag through the hurry-skurry and unsatisfactory whirl of Continental travel. There is many a jaded man of business, many a brain-worn student, who foolishly squanders the precious hours of his brief holiday in rushing insanely over weary miles, through hot and dusty cities, among tiresome hills and rugged mountains—returning

home again weary and worn—who would have found real rest and health, and equally varied and charming landscapes, within the borders of his motherland.

Nestleton Magna is surrounded by emerald hills, which slope gently down to the valley in which the hamlet lies, displaying a varied surface of wood and glade, of cornland and pasture-ground, and surmounted by a stretch of moorland, whereon the sheep crop the scantier herbage, and the morning mists hang like silver curtains until the “rosy fingers of the sun” draw them aside, and then purple heath and golden gorse gleam and glitter on them like a royal crown. Most of the cottages are thatched and white-washed, and not a few are embowered in honeysuckle and jasmine. Here and there a more pretentious dwelling lifts its head, and these with their red bricks and tiles give piquant variety to the picture. Through the village there flows a babbling brook, in whose clear, transparent waters the speckled trout may be seen poising themselves with waving fin, or darting like an arrow above the gravelly bed, while sticklebacks and minnows disport themselves in their crystal paradise. Along its borders are two rows of unshorn willows, and here and there a poplar

lifts its stately head. On either side, in and out among the cosy cottages, are little patches of garden ground, small tree-shaded paddocks, and orchards which in sunny spring-time are flush with the manifold blossoms of[Pg 3] apple, plum, pear, and cherry-trees, which add a peculiar charm to the attractive scene.

The quaint old church stands on rising ground in the centre of the village, and its short, square Norman tower, ivy-clad and pinnacled, is almost overtopped by the gables of the ancient rectory which stands close by. The church, the rectory grounds, and the pretty little churchyard are enclosed and shadowed by a circle of fine old elms, in which a colony of rooks have been established from time immemorial, and their monotonous and familiar cawing gives a sylvan finish to the scene. Near the little wych gate of the churchyard a spacious and open green affords a pleasant playground for the chubby children, of whom Nestleton Magna provides quite a notable supply, a gossipping place for the village rustics in the evening hours, and pasturage for two or three cows, a donkey or two, and, last not least, a flock of geese, whose solemn-looking gander oft disputes possession of the field with the aforesaid chubby children, who flee motherward before it in undisguised alarm.

Neither is Nestleton Magna without its lions, and of these the Nestletonians are justly proud. In Gregory Houston’s “Home-close,” on the Abbey Farm, there are the veritable ruins of the ancient cloisters wherein, in darker times, the Waverdale nuns led ignoble and wasted lives. The crumbling walls and tottering archways, and grass-grown heaps of stone, are all covered with ivy bush, bramble, and briar; but if tradition is to be believed, there are underground passages to the parish church on the one hand, and reaching even to Cowley Priory on the other, where, in “the good old times,” a fraternity of Franciscan friars ruled the roast and played[Pg 4] queer pranks in Waverdale, according to the manner of their tribe. Nestleton Abbey, for by that name are the ruins known, is reputed to be haunted. It is said that long, long ago, a certain nun called Agatha, having been placed under penance, did in wicked revenge stab her offending Lady Superior to the heart, and then, in bitter remorse, did plunge the fatal knife into

her own. From that day to this she has never rested quiet in her unhallowed grave, but ever and anon “revisits the glimpses of the moon,” attired in a white robe with a crimson stain upon the breast, and flits among the ruins with uplifted hands, wailing out the unavailing plaints of her unshriven soul. Surely it is given to few villages to possess so veritable and renowned a wonder as “Sister Agatha’s ghost.” Then there is St. Madge’s Well, in Widow Appleton’s croft—once a far-famed shrine, to which devout pilgrimages were made from far and near, and which is credited to this day with certain healing virtues second only to those of Bethesda’s sacred pool. Pure, bright, cold and crystalline, its waters strongly impregnated with iron, it bubbles up unceasingly in the cool grot, overshadowed by flowering hawthorn, fragrant elder, and purple beech, and no visitor to Waverdale could ever think of neglecting to visit this charming nook, or drinking from the iron cup chained to its stone brink, a refreshing draught from its crystal spring. At least, if he did, Widow

Appleton’s money-box would be defrauded, and that brisk and cheery old dame in neat black gown and frilled white cap, would wish to know the reason why.

Time would fail to tell all the beauties of Nestleton Magna, and of that lovely valley of Waverdale, of which it is the loveliest gem. For the present, Waverdale Park, Thurston Wood, Cowley Priory, and a host of minor marvels must be content with passing mention—content to wait their several occasions in the development of this simple and veracious story of Yorkshire village life.

[Pg 5]

CHAPTER II. “Blithe Natty,” the Harmonious Blacksmith.

NEARLY at the eastern end of Nestleton stood the village forge, a spacious low-roofed building, in which Nathan Blyth, the blacksmith, and his father before him, had wielded the hammer by the ringing anvil, fashioning horse-shoes, forging plough-shares, and otherwise following the arts and mysteries of their grimy craft. Close to the smithy stood Nathan’s cottage, though that is almost too humble a name to give to the neat and roomy dwelling which owned the stalwart blacksmith for its lord and master.[Pg 6] True it was thatched and white-washed like its humbler neighbours, but it boasted of two good stories, and had a latticed porch, which, as well as the walls, was covered with roses, jasmine, and other floral adornments. At the gable end was a tall and fruitful jargonelle pear-tree, which not only reached to the very peak of the gable, but like Joseph’s vine, its branches ran over the wall, and were neatly tacked with loops of cloth behind the house, and almost as far as the lowlier porch which screened the kitchen entrance thereto. Both “fore and aft,” as the

sailors say, was a spacious and well-managed garden, whose fruits, flowers, and vegetables, trim walks and tasteful beds, testified to the fact that their owner was as skilful with the spade and the rake as he was with the hammer, the chisel, and the file.

And that is saying much, for Nathan Blyth had a wonderful repute as the deftest master of his handicraft within twenty miles of Waverdale. You could not find his equal in the matter of coulters and plough-shares. Farmer Houston used to say that his horses went faster and showed better mettle for his magic fit in the way of shoes; and as for millers’ chisels, with which the millstones are roughened to make them “bite,” they were sent to him from thirty miles the other side of Kesterton market town to be tempered and sharpened as only Nathan Blyth could. Then, too, he was handy in all things belonging to the whitesmith’s trade. He could doctor the smallest locks, and understood the secrets of every kind of catch and latch; the farm-lads of the village would even bring their big turnip watches to him, and the way in which he could fix a mainspring or put to rights a balance-wheel was wonderful to see.

Natty Blyth was a fine specimen of humanity from a physical point of view. He stood five feet eleven in his stockings, and at five-and-forty years of age had thews and sinews of Samsonian calibre and power. A bright, honest, open face, had Nathan; a pair of thick eye-brows, well[Pg 7] arched, surmounted by a bold, high forehead, and quite a wealth of dark brown hair. His happy temper, his merry face, and his constant habit of singing at his toil, had got him the name of “Blithe Natty,” and justly so, for a blither soul than he you could not find from John-o’-Groats to Land’s End, with the Orkneys and the Scilly Isles to increase your chances. Whenever he stood by his smithy hearth, his clear tenor voice would roll out its mirthful minstrelsy, while the hot iron flung out its sparks beneath his hammer, defying the ring of the anvil either to drown his voice or spoil his tune.

One fine spring morning, Blithe Natty was busy at his work, and, as usual, his voice and his anvil were keeping time, when old Kasper Crabtree, a miserly old bachelor, who farmed Kesterton Grange, stole on him unobserved. Natty was singing away—

“Aye, that’s right,” said Kasper Crabtree. “Honest duty, as you say, is the right sort of thing. I only wish my lazy fellows did a little more on ’t.”

“A little more” was Kasper Crabtree’s creed in a word.

[Pg 8]

“Why, you see,” said Blithe Natty, “its often ‘like master like man’; pipe i’t parlour, dance i’t kitchen; an’ maybe if you were to do your duty to them a little better they would do better by you. ‘Give a pint an’ gain a peck; give a noggin’ an’ get nowt.’”

Kasper Crabtree did not relish this salutary home-thrust, and made haste to change the subject.

“What a glorious morning it is!” said he, “it’s grand weather for t’ young corn.”

“Aye,” said Natty, “I passed by your forty-acre field yesterday, and your wheat looked splendid. The rows of bright fresh green looked very bonny, and the soil was as clean as a new pin.”

“Hey, hey,” said old Crabtree, for he was proud of his farming, and boasted that his management was without equal in the Riding, “I’ll warrant there isn’t much in the way of weeds, though it’s a parlous job to keep ’em under. It beats me to know why weeds should grow so much faster than corn, and so much more plentiful.”

“Why, you see, Farmer Crabtree, weeds are nat’ral. The soil is their mother, an’ you know it’s only stepmother to the corn, or you wouldn’t have to sow it; and stepmothers’ bairns don’t often thrive well. However, I’m pretty sure that you are a match for all the weeds that grow—in the fields, at any rate.”

“Hey, or anywhere else,” said the boastful farmer.

“Why, I don’t know so much about that,” said Natty. “There’s a pesky lot o’ rubbish i’ the heart, Maister Crabtree, an’ like wicks an’ couch grass there’s no getting to the bottom on em. The love of money, now, is the root of”——

But Kasper Crabtree was off like a shot, for Blithe Natty’s metaphor was coming uncomfortably close to a personal application, and his hearer knew of old that Nathan was in the habit of striking as hard with his tongue as he did with his hammer, so he rapidly beat a retreat. Natty’s face[Pg 9] broadened into a smile as he pulled amain at the handle of his bellows, and then drawing from the fire the red-hot coulter he was shaping, he began thumping away amid a shower of fiery spray, singing, as his wont was—

The coulter was again thrust into the fire, and once again the long lever of the blacksmith’s bellows, with a cow’s horn by way of handle, was gripped to raise another “heat,” when a second visitor crossed the smithy threshold, as different from the grim, gaunt, wrinkled and forbidding form and features of old Kasper Crabtree as a briar-rose differs from a hedgestake, an icicle from a sunbeam, or a polar bear from a summer fawn.

Gathering her skirts of neat-patterned printed calico around her to keep them from the surrounding grime, the new-comer stole noiselessly behind the unconscious smith, laid her dainty hands on his brawny shoulders, and springing high enough to catch a kiss from his swarthy cheek, landed again on terra firma, and, with a ripple of laughter which sounded like a strain of music, stood with merry, upturned face to greet Blithe Natty’s startled gaze.

“Give me that back again, you unconscionable thief!” said Nathan, laying his big hand on her dainty little wrist. “It’s flat felony, and I’ll prosecute you with the utmost rigour of the law.”

[Pg 10]

“Can’t do it, sir. You’ve no witnesses, and the offence isn’t actionable;” and the doughty little damsel took another from the same place with impunity.

There was a wondrous light in the eyes of Nathan Blyth, as he looked in the fair face of the beautiful girl, the light of a love surpassing the love of women, for was she not his only child, and the very image of the wife and mother, now a saint in heaven, and still loved by him with a tender fidelity that seemed to deepen and strengthen with the lapse of time? No deeper, truer, more concentrated affection ever glowed in the breast of man, than that which filled the heart of Nathan Blyth for his peerless Lucy, and sure I am that none was ever more richly merited.

[Pg 11]

CHAPTER III. “Master Philip.”

THE brief spring day had faded into night. Nathan Blyth raked out his smithy fire, laid aside his leather apron, locked up the forge, and after an extensive and enjoyable ablution, was seated by the little round table in the cosy kitchen, discussing the tea and muffins which Lucy had prepared for their joint repast. That young lady presented a very piquant and attractive picture. In what her winsomeness consisted it would be difficult to say: certainly, she was possessed of unusual charms of face and form, but it is equally certain that these constituted only a minor element in the glamour of a beauty which commanded unstinted admiration. With much wisdom and at much[Pg 12] self-sacrifice, Nathan Blyth had sent his daughter to a distant and noted school for several years, and thanks to this and her own clear intellect and singular diligence, she had obtained an education altogether in advance of most girls of her age in a much higher rank of social life. Her pleasant manners and maidenly behaviour made her justly popular among the villagers, and many a farmer’s son in and

around Nestleton would have gone far and given much for a preferential glance from her lustrous hazel eyes, and for the reward of a smile and a word from lips which had no parallels amid the budding beauties of Waverdale.

Lucy’s mother, a quiet, unpretentious woman, whose solid qualities and amiable disposition her daughter had inherited, had died some five years before the opening of my story; but the well-kept grave, the perpetual succession of flowers planted there, and the fresh-cut grave-stone at its head, gave proof enough that the widower and orphan kept her memory green.

For a long time after his wife’s death Nathan Blyth had lived a lonely and a shadowed life. His anvil rang as loudly, because his hammer was wielded as lustily as before, but his grand, clear, tenor voice was seldom lifted in cheerful song. Time, however, that merciful healer of sore hearts, had gradually extracted the sting of his bereavement, and loving memories, sweet and tender, took the place of the aching vacuum which had been so hard to bear. In his blooming daughter, lately returned from school in all the fair promise of beautiful womanhood, Nathan saw the express image of his sainted wife. So now again his home was lighted up with gladness, and from the hearthstone, long gloomy in its solitude, the shadows flitted: for as Lucy tripped around, performing her domestic duties with pleasant smile and cheery song, Nathan waxed content and happy, and no words can describe the joy the sweet girl felt as she heard the old anvil-music ringing at the forge and saw the olden[Pg 13] brightness beaming on his face. And so it should ever be:—