"To these Methodists;[1] before they came we were as peaceable as a flock of sheep in a fold; but now we are always wrangling; and, in spite of us, they have put down all the little merry-makings which we used to have among us." [1] The epithet Methodist is taken in its popular acceptation, as employed by the antievangelical part of society. "But how have they put down your merry-makings?" "Why, Sir, we used to have as good a pit of cocks as any in the country; but now the very men who used to breed the best sort are turned Methodists; and when I asked one the other day if he had any young ones hatched yet, he told me that he had seen his wickedness, and hoped never to be permitted to fall into the sin again; as though God Almighty would be offended at the innocent pastimes of a village." "But do you not suppose that the cocks which fight inflict pain on each other; and can a humane person derive any amusement from the agonies of a dumb animal?" "True, Sir; some, I know, are against such sports, but I must confess that I have a bit of a liking for them." "I believe, from what little I know of rural life, that the _innocent pastimes_ of the village usually terminate in scenes of drunkenness, rioting, and lewdness; and pray, farmer, have you never seen the bad effects of them on your friends, and on your servants?" "Ay, ay, Sir, you now strike home, but what are people to do; they must have a little 'laxation from hard work sometimes." "But you say 'these things are put down by the Methodists, in spite of you;' what do the people do now?" "O, nearly all of them are turned Methodists, and Squire Stevens, who lives up at Fairmount yonder, is at the head of them." "What sort of a gentleman is he?" "He is very well in his way, only he has too much religion." "What do you mean by too much religion?" "Why, he is always talking about it, and giving away little books, and visiting the poor, and praying with them in their houses, and preaching to them in his chapel which he built for them. And some people say he can preach a better sarmunt than parson Cole, who is a regular Oxford man. His wife is a cleverish sort of a woman; she looked in here one day, and talked away at a fine rate about Jesus Christ and salvation by grace; and I have had main hard work ever since to keep my wife from running after this new sort of religion." "Pray, farmer, have you ever seriously reflected on the worth of your soul?" "Why, Sir, I have something else to reflect on." "But have you any subject to reflect on of equal importance? Do you not know that your soul, when it leaves the body, will exist for ever in a state of happiness or misery?" "So the parsons tell us, but they may be out in their judgment as well as other people. I don't believe all they say. I strike off one-half, and then there's plenty left." "Do you ever think on the subject of death?" "No, I don't like to think on such a gloomy subject."