“Why, sir, it’s all owing to the Methodist preaching in Midden Harbour. I met Potter Bill the other day, and I said, ‘Why, Bill, you’ve given us no trouble lately.’ He said, ‘No, I ha’nt, an’ what’s mair, ah nivver sall nae mair. God’s been givin’ me trubble i’steead. Methody preeachers ez been pooachin’ i’ Midden Harbour, an’ they’ve aboot bagged all t’ game i’ t’ spot. You can tell Squire Fuller ’at he may knock off hoaf-a-dozen watchers, for we shan’t worrit him nae mair.’” “Capital!” said the squire. “I’m sure I ought to be heartily obliged to them, and to the Methodist parsons, too. By the way, do you know anything about them yourself?” “Yes, sir. I go to their preachings sometimes on a Sunday night; indeed I may say every Sunday.” “Why, I thought you went to church, Hatfield, like the rest of my servants,” said the squire, with half a frown. “Yes, so I do, sir: but that’s in the morning, you know; and as I go to church because you wish it, I felt myself free to go to chapel as well.” “Because I wish it?” said the squire. “Wouldn’t you go if I had no wish on the subject? Surely the parish church is the proper place for the people of the parish to go to.” “Why, sir, I’m quite sure that nearly all the servants at the hall _do_ go because you wish it, and for nothing else. Parson Elliott would have very few else. Among the Methodists things is plainer and more hearty like. I own I like it best myself.” “But the Liturgy of the Church of England, Hatfield, is one of the most beautiful compositions in the English language, and nothing can be better for public worship.” “Yes, sir, I dare say it is; but it doesn’t seem to come from the heart like the Methodist preacher’s does. He prays without any book at all, and the things he asks for comes so pat that you can’t help joining in them. At the church it only seems to send us to sleep, and as for the sermons, Parson Elliott reads something for ten minutes, and it’s all over. But Mr. Clayton, and Mr. Mitchell, and Nathan Blyth, they preach right out of their heads and hearts, for half-an-hour or more, and one can’t help thinking about what they say.” It would be well if certain degenerate Methodist preachers of modern times, who read their sermons without a blush, would take to heart this witness of the honest gamekeeper, and mend their evil and utterly unacceptable ways. The strength of Methodism has been chiefly in the pulpit, and the introduction of manuscript sermons into that place of power sadly mars its effect, and leaves the congregation, like Gideon’s fleece, “unwatered still and dry.”