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had lived in. It was shut up. There was no sign of life-no token of welcome. We drew up before the door, and looked one at another. At length somebody pitied us, and brought the keeper of the keys, by whose aid we shifted our quarters from the street to a room within doors. Happily for us we had a travelling stock of provisions, and could manage to arrange our table and regale ourselves with a first meal in the cheerless abode; cheerful, however, within ourselves at the thought that, after all, we had what our fathers had sometimes lacked-a sheltering roof.

It was

Our first movement out of doors was in search of the chapel where should we go first but "to the house of the Lord?" We believed that He had sent us to this spot, and the seeming absence of all aid but His was not to shake our trust in Him. There might be an evening service. And we were sure that if our new bishop had reached the town he would be in the house of prayer. We found the chapel in Dean-street. approached from beneath a covered way under an old dwelling, which hung over the gates somewhat in the style of a warder's lodge, or guard-room, overlooking an old defensive gateway. The sanctuary had been built in times when there was no affectation of style. It was truly a Methodist meeting-house. The saintly man whom we hoped to meet was in the pulpit. It was Benjamin Carvosso, who for many years had been saying sharp things in a kind way to the refuse of the convicts in Van Diemen's Land. He had a different congregation before him now--a few quiet souls, mostly women, sitting here and there in the close, cold gloom. To these-from between two dim candles, which had been lighted seemingly in anticipation of nightfallhe was preaching earnestly from "Ye have need of patience." We met in the lobby at the close of the service; and when our names were given he seized our hands, one in each of his, and with a tone in which kindness, discouragement, grief, and humour strangely mingled, he said, "O my dear brethren, 'there is death in the pot!'" From the moment of that singular greeting in the old lobby began the intertwining of a "threefold cord never "to be broken;" and that my first meeting with the eldest itinerant of the three was one of those links in personal history by which happy experiences of early life are held in hallowed union with their kindred joys of a later period.

Benjamin was the son of William Carvosso, my father's friend and mine--the man whose

very name is gracious to devout readers of Methodist biography, those at least of the last generation; a man whose simplicity of faith, childlike Christian obedience, and labours of love had so holy an influence upon every circle of human life to which he had access. Ah, dear old man! I remember his placid face; how it seemed to reflect the light of an immortal Sabbath, as he sat by my side when I made my first attempt at a public homily, in the homely little village chapel at Mylor Bridge. Mylor Bridge! How many a prayerful cottage household I remember there. Saintly, poor folks, walking with God in their garden plots in a way which might illustrate a venerable rendering of Genesis xvii. 1: "Be well pleasing before Me, and be blameless." It seemed as if they all caught the spirit of their beloved neighbour, "Father Carvosso," as they called him. To be near him was to take a spiritual tone from his smile. This village of happy memory was at the head of Mylor Creek, which ran up from Falmouth harbour. And, by the way, one shore of that creek has hallowed associations in my memory, as well as the village amidst whose orchards and meadows its flowing tide seemed to lose itself in quiet joy.

My first notion of an old Methodist preacher was taken in my childhood, from the figure of an ancient man called Jenkins, who lived in a small picturesque cottage just above high water mark, about half way up the creek. He had retired from the toils of Methodist itinerancy with a cracked voice, and was solacing his last days with studies of nature, and communion with nature's God. He was a robust philosopher. His figure and bearing would have reminded Boswell of Dr. Johnson. His large, heavy, but thoughtful face lives before me still. It was rather a formidable thing to meet him in the narrow streets of Falmouth in his long, loose, black coat, his comfortable-sized breeches, met at the knees by black leather gambadoes or gaiters, which, with his large umbrella, seemed made to defy all the vicissitudes of a travelling preacher's way through life. I have called him a robust philosopher; a sturdy preacher he had been; but now, for several years, he had watched the flow and ebb of the tide outside his little garden hedge, keeping his eye, meantime, on the moon, till he had learnt to think himself equal to the proof that Sir Isaac Newton's doctrine of tides was wrong. Full of his fancied discovery, he crossed the harbour, and sought an interview with the highly scientific president of a philosophical

society, before which he hoped for permission to unfold his secret. The president was a Quaker-a Fox-one of that family line which seems never to have been broken in Cornwall since 1655, when George Fox and his travelling companion, "prisoners for truth's sake," were gallantly brought under military escort "to a town called Smethick then, but since, Falmouth," where, in spite of brutal treatment by a cowardly Captain Keat, he "discoursed concerning the things of God to the chief constable, and many sober people, some of whom were convinced and stood faithful ever after."

The old Methodist preacher's garb, so like in cut, if not in colour, to the ancient Fox style, might of itself secure a kind hearing from a descendant in the Fox line; but as a scientific student he had double claim, and was listened to by the cautious Quaker with philosophic quietness. The question was

"Can I be allowed to introduce to your society this case between Sir Isaac and myself?" The "Friend," true to the hereditary custom of "Friends," answered the one question by putting another.

"Hast thee any theory by which the facts in this case may be accounted for more satisfactorily than on Isaac Newton's principle?"

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No; I am not prepared to account for the facts, I merely show that Sir Isaac's mode of accounting for them is wrong."

"Well then," was the friendly question again, "is it wise in thee to get rid of the best theory we have till thee art ready with a better? Or would it be wise in us to cast away Isaac Newton till we have a better man to put in his place?"

Ah! The dear old negative philosopher proved no match for the practical, commonsense "Friend." What was the kind or amount of evidence which he had gathered

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against Newton I never could ascertain; but sure I am that it all vanished with his parting breath, as certainly as the claims of all mere negative philosophy will melt into final oblivion when human vanity breathes its last. In the old preacher's case, his negative philosophy had not as yet spoiled his childlike confidence in saving truth; and one may indulge the comfortable thought that when he met Sir Isaac Newton in Paradise his happiness was not a whit the less at finding himself in a lower philosophic rank.

He

But let me return to Benjamin Carvosso. We found him a true Christian bishop. cared for the souls of his co-pastors, as well as for the souls of the flock. He was indeed most tenderly alive to our spiritual interests. Transparent himself, he charmed us by his example into the cultivation of that simplicity and Christian openness which made us always ready to comfort one another and "edify one another." What a sanctuary was that little garret-like room in which it was our weekly joy to meet one another! It was called "the An study." uppermost room" it was, in an old-fashioned house; but it was a holy place" to us. How I have seen the good man's face shine as he caught light and life from the page of the sacred Volume, as he read to us, and gave expression to the happy thoughts which seemed to come into his soul direct from the mind of the Spirit! He was one of the best devotional expositors I ever heard perhaps the very best. His words were so full of fragrant life. They seemed sometimes like utterances from within the veil. And then his prayers! Heaven was very near then. And we often went forth from before the Lord happily ready for our work, and graciously assured that floods of blessing were coming on our scene of labour. They came

soon.

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Church. John returned in safety and peace; but Charles, who landed there about a fortnight after John left, came in for the fury of the populace, urged on by Popish priests. The reckless character of the assailants caused these struggles to be even more formidable than those in England. Many lives were lost. A policeman who tried to defend Charles Wesley was trampled to death, and his body hung up by the crowd, after they had dragged it in triumph through the

streets.

As the good work spread throughout Ireland, the same opposition arose in place after place, and more strange things occurred than we can find room to tell.

A publican, who was very fond of music, went to one of the meetings simply to hear the singing, and carefully put his fingers in his ears during the prayer and sermon. At last he removed one hand to brush away a fly that teazed his face, and at that moment the preacher uttered the warning, "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear." He felt compelled to do so, and was soon led to the foot of the Cross.

At Wexford some Papists discovered that there was a little company of Methodists meeting in secrecy and caution in a barn. One of the persecutors agreed to conceal himself before the service began, and then suddenly open the door for his accomplices. He found nothing to hide in but an old sack, in which he lay quiet and unnoticed. The hymn went so well that he waited to hear it all before disturbing them; and the prayer which followed sent the arrow of conviction into his heart, so that he groaned and wept. The terror of the simple worshippers when such sounds were heard from the sack may be easily imagined. They took courage, however, helped the man out, prayed with him, and soon welcomed him into the Society.

A strolling player, named Butler, finding that his gains were diminished by the preaching of the Methodists, dressed himself in gown and bands, and addressed crowds in the streets. Partly by mimicking and making fun of the preachers, partly by outrageous slanders, he inflamed the minds of the people, who were soon led to violent deeds. In Cork an effigy of Wesley was burnt in the streets, and his followers were attacked without respect to age, sex, or condition. The Mayor refused to protect them, and emboldened by his sanction, Butler and his crew indicted Charles Wesley as a person of ill-fame, a vagabond, and a common

disturber of His Majesty's peace; and we pray he may be transported." This was too much, and Wesley, with the friends named with him, appealed to a higher court, where things were soon placed in their proper levels.

"What is your calling?" asked the judge, as Butler appeared as the first witness in the

case.

"I sing ballads."

"Here are six gentlemen indicted as vagabonds," exclaimed the judge, in surprise and indignation, "and the first accuser is a vagabond by profession."

Wesley was acquitted; but it was impossible to carry every case before the King's judges, and the Mayor still allowed the mob to ravage the city; yet the walls of Sion are built in troublous times, and before the persecution had died out a large and earnest Society had been collected even in Cork.

Irish emigrants transplanted Methodism to America, and when Boardman and Pilmoor obeyed the call of Philip Embury and Barbara Heck, they little dreamt that the Society they found in the rigging-loft was to be the fountain-head of that mighty river which has swept over the States, numbering its adherents by millions, and enrolling officers of State among its local-preachers.

The Channel Islands were not forgotten, and here Robert Carr Brackenbury, a gentleman of fortune, gave much time, money, and help. He was a good preacher, and laboured lovingly and successfully.

The condition of the West Indian slaves attracted the sympathy of the Methodists, and missionaries were sent to them. For years the planters opposed any instruction that might be given to the slaves, as it was to their interest to keep them as ignorant as possible. The more like cattle the easier to make them work hard without rebelling, they thought. They imprisoned the missionaries, burnt down the chapels and preachers' houses, whipped all who attended the services, and made the early history of the West Indian Mission one of the darkest and most exciting pages that was ever written.*

The East Indies were also supplied; Dr. Coke in his old age was leading a band of brethren thither, when he died, as we before mentioned. But his comrades, though sorely distressed and perplexed at the loss of their leader, set to work bravely, and laid the foundations of that mission, which has been made famous by the learning, piety, zeal, and success of so many of its ministers.

See Bleby's "Romance without Fiction."

Among other ways in which the seed was carried to other lands and there sown, we may mention the labours of pious soldiers.

A favourite device of our enemies was to impress Methodists into the army and navy, knowing that fighting was what they least liked, and hoping that the ungodliness daily surrounding them would drag them back to sin.

Now the recruiting sergeants are not allowed to use force to fill up their ranks; but formerly there was so much difficulty in keeping up the supply that people were compelled to serve whether they would or not. Lawless bands, known as press-gangs, prowled

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Charles Wesley married Miss Sarah Gwynne, of Garth, in Wales, and took a house in Charlesstreet, Bristol. Although he still preached constantly, yet he did not travel quite so much as he did before his marriage; and as it was a great grief to him to separate from the Church, he did not heartily approve of John's ordaining ministers. This threw the responsibility more and more upon the elder, who was providentially fitted for management, while Charles was happier at home making hymns for which Christians will be indebted to him as long as the English language is used, and exercising his talents as a preacher in a quieter way.

about and kidnapped travellers or other defenceless men. Wesley himself narrowly escaped impressment. Of course he would have been bought off, as many of his followers were; but it was impossible to do this in every case. By the blessing of God, His spiritual sons were not only enabled to keep their religion, but to spread it, and little companies of God-fearing men gathered together in the camps, and encouraged each other on the field of battle. Some who were spared to return became acceptable localpreachers, and no doubt many came to hear a soldier preach who would never have listened to a minister.

To return to more peaceful scenes. In 1749,

He died, beloved and regretted, in 1788, three years before John was called to enter into rest. He had written thousands of hymns, a small selection of which are found in our treasured book. The others have been lately collected and printed. Charles Wesley had two sons and a daughter. The sons were extraordinary musicians. One of them could play the harpsichord, the old-fashioned piano, when he was so little that he had to be tied into his chair.

In 1751, John Wesley married Mrs. Vizelle, a lady to whom he was introduced by his friend Perronet. It proved a most unhappy marriage. There was a distinct understanding that Wesley was not to abate