THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT

The itinerant Methodist’s first visit to any Yorkshire village usually ended in a visit to the nearest justice of the peace, or in an undignified retreat before rotten eggs and showers of stones; he was fortunate if he escaped with a sound skin and unbroken bones; it was rarely that he left with dry garments, for in that age of coarseness and brutality the ducking of an interloper in the squire’s fishpond or the village pool was considered a high form of innocent diversion.  Nevertheless (so impossible is it to kill the fervour of convinced men) the Methodists endured and prevailed, and folk who had scoffed and reviled began to learn that they had a message.  A new spirit came over the land – the same spirit that had stolen into the hearts of men when, in the far-of mediaeval days, some brown-frocked friar, standing up in market-place or on village green, had lifted his crucifix, and asked those who gathered round to pause for one moment and reflect on what it meant.

Fletcher/Yorkshire