Attracted by the originality of the converted fisherman, a few young people belonging to the better families in the locality gathered together to witness what they imagined would be mere burlesque.  There was only standing room behind the kitchen bed for them, and there was anything but an air of sanctity amongst that portion of his congregation.  Jimmy’s pulpit style was peculiar.  He was flashing out eloquent phrases that were not commonly used in the orthodox pulpit.  As he warmed to his work he broke out in rhyme—­“Yes, brothers and sisters, there was little brother Paal, the very best of aal, laid down his life,” etc.  His use of biblical names was quite eccentric, which caused the undevotional members of his audience to snigger audibly.  Without seeming to heed the irreverence, Jimmy pursued his impassioned diatribe and smote unbelievers hip and thigh, in language that was not conventional, or even relevant to the subject of his discourse.  The sniggering had developed into suppressed laughter, and James suddenly stopped the even flow of his oratory, brought his giant fist down on the deal table and sent everything flying.  Ladies’ dresses were more or less damaged by candle grease; but the cooler heads prevented an outbreak of panic by getting the candles relighted and put on to the table.  Then in reverent tones they asked the preacher, who stood apparently unmoved, to proceed with the service; so Jimmie gave out the verse of a hymn which he thought would be suitable to the occasion. (Methodists always did that when the lights went out or the preacher stuck.)

In the good old days, when village Methodism was quivering with spiritual life, and pouring its converts into the cities and towns of England to teach the simple gospel of the Founder of our Faith, without any artificial fringes being attached to it, they were too poor, and perhaps too conscious of the superiority of the real God-given vocal capacity, to have anything to do with what many of them believed to be artificial aids to religion.  It was a fine sight to see the leader of the songsters shut his eyes, clap his hands, and with strong nasal blasts—­which resembled the drone of the immortal instrument that is the terror of the English and the glory of the Scottish people—­“raise the hymn,” while, as the others joined in the singing, the volume of sound swelled louder and louder, until the whole congregation were entranced by the power of their own performance.

I give the words of the verse which Jimmy asked to be sung.  Here they are—­

    “Come on, my partners in distress,
     My comrades through the wilderness,
       Who still your bodies feel;
     Awhile forget your griefs and fears,
     And look beyond this vale of tears
       To that celestial hill.”