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.”