The Bridge of the Evil
One, which is just below it, was quite invisible. I could see,
however, the pot or crochan distinctly enough, and a horrible sight
it presented. The waters were whirling round in a manner to
describe which any word but frenzied would be utterly powerless.
Half-an-hour's walking brought me to the little village through
which I had passed the day before. Going up to a house I knocked
at the door, and a middle-aged man opening it, I asked him the way
to the Bridge of the Minister. He pointed to the little chapel to
the west, and said that the way lay past it, adding that he would
go with me himself, as he wanted to go to the hills on the other
side to see his sheep.
We got presently into discourse. He at first talked broken
English, but soon began to speak his native language. I asked him
if the chapel belonged to the Methodists.
"It is not a chapel," said he, "it is a church."
"Do many come to it?" said I.
"Not many, sir, for the Methodists are very powerful here. Not
more than forty or fifty come."
"Do you belong to the Church?" said I.
"I do, sir - thank God!"
"You may well be thankful," said I, "for it is a great privilege to
belong to the Church of England."
"It is so, sir," said the man, 'though few, alas!
