In 1743 came Whitefield, and soon after the Wesleys. Mr. Thomson greeted them with characteristic warmth and energy, going with them from place to place through the county. Whitefield was the first to preach at St. Gennys. There, on a bleak November Sunday, whilst the winter winds swept and howled about the little church, the great Preacher held the congregation under the spell of his power, and closed the service with the people in tears, whilst the Vicar was going from pew to pew to comfort the wounded souls.

Then comes Charles Wesley. His own account is full of interest:

Friday, July 13th [1744].-I set out with our guide, John Slocum, a poor baker's boy, whom God has raised up to help these sincere souls, and not only to labour, but also to suffer for them. When the press-warrants came out, the world would not lose the opportunity of oppressing the Christians: he was taken, and by his own uncle dragged away to prison. They kept him a week,......and then could find no cause to punish or detain him, being of Zacchæus's stature and nothing terrified by his adversaries.*......I met an aged Clergyman [Mr. Bennet, of Laneast], whom Mr. Thomson had sent to meet us, and found in conversing that he had been

an acquaintance and contemporary with my father. Upon Mr. Thomson's preaching salvation by faith, he had received the kingdom as a little child, and has ever since owned the truth and its followers. He conducted us to his house, near Trewint.

'Sunday, July 15th.-He carried us to St. Gennys, where our loving host and brother Thomson received us with open arms. I made proof of my ministry in his church.'

During this visit of Mr. Charles Wesley a singular incident occurred in one of Mr. Bennet's churches, probably Laneast. It lets us look in upon the ardent and emotional character of the four Clergymen, and the freedom at times of even Charles

Wesley in his church services. As

he denounced the drunken revels of the time, some one of the congregation, a rude and half-drunken fellow, 'contradicted and blasphemed.' The Preacher turns upon him sternly: Who is he that pleads for the devil?' But the disturber, no-ways abashed, lifts up a brazen face, and answers roundly: 'I am he that pleads for the devil.' Whereupon the Preacher, roused to a holy fierceness, takes occasion to show the revellers their champion,' and drives him confused and frightened out of the place. Then the Preacher goes on to cry out against so-called 'harmless diversions': 'I was by them kept dead to God, asleep in the devil's arms, secure in a state of damnation for eighteen years,' he cried, fervently. At once from the midst of the Clergymen comes a sudden and irregular response: And I for twenty-five,' cries Mr. Meriton, a travelling companion of Mr. Wesley's. Then out

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rolls the earnest voice of Parson Thomson: And I for thirty-five.' The interruption ends with the tremulous voice of the aged Curate, moving every heart, as with lowliness and grief he adds: 'And I for above seventy.

Some seventeen days afterwards, Parson Thomson joins Mr. Charles Wesley at St. Ives. His presence as one of the county Clergy, perhaps his appearance too, and the part he took in the good work, helped it forward. Our enemies were alarmed at his coming, and the brethren strengthened,' is the record in the Journal. The good Vicar himself is delighted with what he sees and hears, especially with the 'innumerable multitude' that gathered at Gwennap, to whom Mr. Wesley spoke for two hours; and yet knew not how to let them go. 'My brother Thomson was astonished, and confessed that he had never seen the like among Germans, Predestinarians or any others.'

'Among Germans, Predestinarians or any others'—is this a quiet blow at my brother Thomson's' leanings, even thus early? It looks like it.

During the next year Mr. John Wesley arrives at St. Gennys, getting over the ground at a very rapid rate. 'We left Bristol early on Friday, 14th [June, 1745], and on Sunday morning reached St. Gennys.' The entry in the Journal is rather a cold one: The church was moderately filled with serious hearers, but few of them appeared to feel what they heard. I preached both morning and afternoon and on Monday evening, and many assented to and approved of the truth.'

Parson Thomson, as the bits of history piece themselves before us, begins to appear to us somewhat definitely. A man above the average height, and fresh-coloured; with the well-bred, easy manners inherited from the good old Devonshire family,

not in any wise spoiled by a pleasant trace of the Devonshire dialect; a vehement manner; and the seafaring life has left that genial honesty and outspokenness which let any eye look into the soul. John Wesley's delicate sense would quickly perceive the leaning toward Germans, Predestinarians or any others, and naturally enough the friendship at the first would not be so warmly reciprocated by him. Mr. Thomson's influence afforded Mr. Wesley an opportunity, perhaps a treat, that he did not often enjoy.

There were at least four other churches thrown open to him within a few miles of St. Gennys. In the church at Week St. Mary he preaches to a large congregation. Tresmere Church is filled within and without,' and Laneast and North Tamerton are at his service.

Mr. Thomson goes with Mr. Wesley further West. It was one of his most eventful visits to the county, and the Vicar would have an opportunity of seeing the earnestness and courage of the great Evangelist and his prodigious power of work. As they come to Redruth, they hear that Mr. Maxfield, the first of the Lay Preachers, has been taken by the Magistrates' orders and led away in custody. They at once go in search of him-to Crowan and two miles beyond, where they find the prisoner in the keeping of one Henry Tomkins.

'Here we found him,' writes Mr. Wesley, 'nothing terrified by his adversaries. I desired Henry Tomkins to show me the warrant. It was directed by Dr. Borlase and his father and Mr. Eustick, to the constables and overseers of several parishes, requiring them to "apprehend all such able-bodied men as had no lawful calling or sufficient maintenance"; and to bring them before the aforesaid gentlemen at Marazion on Friday 21st, to be examined whether they were proper persons to serve His Majesty in the land service.

'It was endorsed (by the Steward of Sir John St. Aubyn) with the names of seven or eight persons, most of whom were well known to bave lawful callings and a suf

But that

ficient maintenance thereby. was all one. They were called Methodists; therefore soldiers they must be. Underneath was added: "A person, his name unknown, who disturbs the peace of the parish."

'A word to the wise! The good men easily understood this could be none but the Methodist Preacher; for who "disturbs the peace of a parish" like one who tells all drunkards and common swearers : "You are in the high-road to hell" ? '

As they rode from the house some fifty rough fellows began throwing stones at them, but only Mr. Thomson's servant was struck. They went on to Marazion to appeal for their friend Maxfield, but were craftily put off until the case was over. He had been ordered to be put on board a boat and 'carried for Penzance.' There he was offered to the Captain of a man-of-war who had just come into the harbour. But the Captain declined: I have no authority to take such men as these, unless you would have me give him so much a week to preach and pray to my people.' Then the Mayor reluctantly put him into the dungeon. So they could do no more for their poor friend. Next comes this entry:

'Saturday 22nd.—We reached St. Ives about two in the morning. At five I preached on “Love your enemies;” and at Gwennap in the evening, on "All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution."

camp of the enemy.] At five I began at Crowan, the headquarters of the people that delight in war. While I was expounding part of the Second Morning Lesson, Captain R -ds came with a party of men, ready for battle. But their master riding away in two or three minutes, their countenance quickly fell. One and another stole off his hat, till they were all uncovered; nor did they either move or speak till I had finished my discourse. [Then the long day is finished with a pleasant ride by the sea on that June evening.] We rode hence to St. Ives.'

One more incident during that memorable visit in the West would not be forgotten by the good Vicar of St. Gennys:

Tuesday 25th.-We rode to St. Just. I preached at seven to the largest congregation I have seen since my coming.

When the preaching was ended, the constable apprehended Edward Greenfield (by a warrant from Dr. Borlase), a tinner, in the forty-sixth year of his age, having a wife and seven children. Three years ago he was eminent for cursing, swearing, drunkenness and all manner of wickedness; but those old things had been for some time passed away; and he was then remarkable for a quite contrary behaviour. I asked a little gentleman at St. Just, what objection there was to Edward Greenfield. He said, "Why, the man is well enough in other things; but his impudence the gentlemen cannot bear. Why, Sir, he says he knows his sins are forgiven!"

Then comes the entry, 'Friday 28th: Mr. Thomson and Bennet returned home." Had they remained a week later, they would have witnessed an event at Falmouth that made this visit of Mr. Wesley even yet more remarkable. His deliverance from the riotous mob at Falmouth

June:

'I preached in Gwennap at five [then as rough a ride as could be found in the County], and about eight at Stithians, to a large and quiet congregation. Thence we went to Wendron Church. [Dinner was found somewhere, let us hope.] At two I preached a mile and a half from the church, under a large shady tree, on part of the Epistle for the day, "Marvel not if the world hate you." [Then out into the glare of the sunshine again, and right into the

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similar escape of his life. 'I never saw before, no, not at Walsall itself, the hand of God so plainly shown as here.'

As Mr. Wesley returns from the West, the good Vicar and Curate meet him, and they rejoice together in showers of blessing. 'I never remember so great an awakening in Cornwall, wrought in so short a time, among young and old, rich and poor,

from Trewint quite to the sea-side.' Mr. Wesley delights in the quiet services of these churches after the turmoil and disturbances of the mob. 'I preached between four and five [at his friend Digory Isbel's, at Trewint], and then went on to Laneast Church, where I read prayers, and preached

on

BY THE REV.

I HOLD a mystery in my heart,

The sadness of a nature changed; Through every joy my soul hath ranged, And yet it bears a ceaseless smart, A pain which words cannot impart.

I did not ask this gift of birth,

I did not crave this load of strife; A Power unasked has lent me life, Pain, thought and sadness, tears and mirth, And cast me forth into this earth. Within my brain a question burns :

Why have I then this vital breath? These years that surely end in death, This pain with which my spirit yearns, This vain desire which heavenward turns?

Onward the weary thought must press,
The baffled reason question still
The mystery of good and ill,
The soul feel her own barrenness,
And guess, and still but vainly guess.
A leaf that flutters to and fro,

The victim of the mad-cap breeze,
Which knows no resting and no ease,
Between two sad eternities :
Such do I wander; child of woe!
What peace can human creatures know?

It may be life the soonest done

Is best; more sweet the frost-nipped bud

Than faded flowers trod in the mud,
To rot beneath the mocking sun;
Blest is the silence early won.

O! say they not, Whom kind gods love
Die young, and perish in their prime'?
Is this the fairest gift of Time,
That I to death shall swiftly move?
Alas! too much the speech shall prove :

For what beyond that earthly sleep

May lark unseen, what soul shall tell? What heaven of rapture, or what hell Of broken hopes? And in the deep, Long bush, such tears as angels weep. Thus o'er my thought there broods eclipse And weeping; yet the true sublime Is seen but in the saddest time, Through falling tears: with faltering lips

We read our life's apocalypse.

None mourn the loss of Paradise

Save those who once have called it
theirs.

Out of my gloom my spirit dares
To fashion kingdoms, which these eyes
Once saw in past eternities.

For how shall I know what hath been?
This soul must surely be Divine ;
Some faded lustre still doth shine,
Like light in dying eyes, I ween;
Nor can its origin be mean.

And, in far Eastern streets, I see,

While yet the dawn lies on the air,
One move Whose face is stilled with

Ox the whole, we may confidently affirm that the world improves, and yet in certain moods we are apt to regard its condition as increasingly desperate. Thus we are persuaded is it sometimes with our religious life-we mistake the signs of progress for those of retrogression, and through our mistake do injustice to ourselves. There is always, of course, the danger of regarding ourselves with too indulgent eye, but with really sincere men the chief peril, we must insist, lies the other way: they much more frequently write unjustifiably bitter things against them selves than lay flattering unction to their soul.

'The mind,

An artist at creating self-alarms,' is not more ingenious or fertile in creating needless fears about our natural life than it is in creating such fears about our inner life. And we must not regard this unjust selfaccusation, this grieving of the soul when God has not grieved it, this voluntary humiliation of the spirit, as a comparatively innocent error, and one which is altogether on the side of safety. The sense of progress is a mighty spring of progress, and to destroy a legitimate sense of progress is to cut one of the main sinews of the soul, and arrest that growth in power and holiness which we so greatly desire. If there is a 'needs be' that we 'are in heaviness,' and God is pleased to permit shadows to gather on our mind and path, blessing will come out of the discipline; but to plunge our soul into gratuitous disquietudes can only impair and impede our spiritual life. We must guard our heart with

jealousy, and take care also that we do not enfeeble ourselves by unwisely marring a genuine confidence and joy. The misinterpreting signs of spiritual progress into signs of decadence-to the loss of much power and gladness-we believe to be a common error, and propose a few guiding thoughts on the subject.

'I am not so happy as I once was,' is a lament from Christian lips with which we are almost distressingly familiar. We look back to our conversion, to our original dedication to God, to the deeply-coloured dawn of our spiritual history, to the glittering joy which welled up in our soul in those days, to the bright beams which were then shed upon us from the opened heaven, and the memory moves us to tears. Then 'all things were apparelled in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream.' It is the crowning pleasure of memory to recall the marvellous light,' the rapturous joy, the triumphal song, the hearty fellowship of the first years of our spiritual life. Then we turn to consider the present phases of our experience, and conclude sadly that we are not so happy now as then-all the gold has changed to gray. Now, is this really so? are we less truly happy than in days of yore? We fully allow that it may be so. Through unfaithfulness we may have lost the joy and power of the days when first we knew the Lord, and the dryness and sadness of our spirit may be only the natural consequence of our sloth and sin.

But may not our mournful inference be mistaken, and what we regard as a diminished happiness be really a profounder blessedness?