The village
is very scattered: on the right of the beautiful streamlet which flows
silently down the valley, and runs across the road just in the centre of
the village, stands an old mill; which for many a long year has been wont
to throw out its murmuring sound, as the water falls over its broad and
capacious wheel. On the other side of the stream, and just opposite the
old mill, a few yards from the road, stands a neat, commodious, and
well-built Methodist chapel, which, from the prominence of its situation,
and good proportions, has often attracted the eye of the passing
stranger.
It was about the period when my narrative commences that the chapel was
built. For many years the Methodists had preached in the village, and
there had been a small society under the care of an aged patriarch, whose
gray hairs and tottering frame bespoke the near approach of the last
enemy: soon he came, and suddenly removed that good man to "the palace of
angels and God." In consequence of the preaching-place being far out of
the way, and the place itself--an old barn--anything but inviting, there
had been for many years but little success.
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