‘A Neologist; and if you want to know what that is, read the _British Beacon_. Lor’ bless you! the editor makes fine work of the Neologists.’ ‘Well, of course we don’t want a Neologist down here.’ ‘I never heard such a sermon. Nothing about being born in sin and shapen in iniquity. Not a word about hell; not a word of the saints being preordained for glory. He had the impudence to tell me, to my own face, that “a God of love would never consign sinners to an everlasting torment.” I’d quite an argument with him. I called him all the names I could think of. I really don’t think I can bring myself to go and hear him again. If you have him, I’m off to the Baptists.’ ‘Well, look ’ee, you must not leave us, at any rate. How the people would talk if you were to give up Bethesda and join the Baptists!’ ‘We want the elect to be preached to,’ said the chemist, ‘not the world. Now, this young man has no idea of that. It’s all labour in vain preaching to the world. The Lord knows them that are His. They are the flock, and we want a shepherd for them. What are the men of the world but a generation of vipers?’ ‘Well,’ said the other deacon, ‘it seems to me that he has no idea of saying a word in season. For instance, as you know, last week old Brown, the milkman, died very suddenly. I said to him, “Mr. Wentworth, you might improve the occasion. You might preach about the shortness of life.” “How old was old Brown?” says he. “Eighty-five,” says I, and then he laughed.’ ‘Laughed?’ repeated all the party. ‘Yes; and said he had “better wait for some better opportunity to talk of the shortness of life.” He said old Brown had had “rather a long innings.”’ A shudder ran round the room. ‘Just what I expected myself. Last week old Mrs. Grey broke her leg. She would not go to our new surgeon, because he ain’t a professor. “Quite right,” said I to her. “How can you expect the blessing?” Our new minister replied that “the woman was silly”; that “she should have gone to a clever, rather than to a godly, doctor”; that “it was merely a question of professional skill,” and that “religion had nothing to do with it.” Says I, “We think too much of mere human talent.” Said he, “he did not think we did. It was so rare that when we found it we ought to encourage it,” said he. I said to him, “Our old minister never preached in that way;” and he said he was “sorry to hear it.”’ Again all groaned. ‘Just what I expected,’ observed the chemist and druggist. ‘The other morning, as I called, he was reading Shakespeare. “Not much there for the immortal soul,” says I. “Upon my word,” says he, “I don’t agree with you there at all. I hold Shakespeare to be next to the Bible.” I said as how I had never read a line of Shakespeare, or any other play-acting, fellow. Said he, he was “sorry to hear it.” I had “missed a great treat. There was no one like Shakespeare to display the workings of the human heart.”’ ‘And what did you say to that?’