“You think it is wicked to want the answers?”
“It is rebellion, Cary. The King is the best judge of what concerns His subjects’ welfare.”
I felt in a corner, so I ate my pie and was silent.
We slept at Reading, and the next day we dined at Wallingford, and slept at the Angel at Oxford. Next morning, which was Saturday, we were up before the sun, to see as much as we could of the city before the machine should set forth. I cannot say that I got a very clear idea of the place, for when I try to remember it, my head seems a confused jumble of towers and gateways, colleges and churches, stained windows and comical gargoyles—at least that is what Ephraim called the funny faces which stuck out from some of the walls. I don’t know where he got the word.
This day’s stage was the longest. We dined at Lechlade; and it had long been dark when we rattled into the courtyard of the Bell Inn at Gloucester, where we were to pass the Sunday. Oh, how tired I was! almost too tired to sleep.
On Sunday, we went to church at the Cathedral, where we had a very dull sermon from a Minor Canon. In the afternoon, as we sat in the host’s parlour, Ephraim said to me,—
“Cary, did you ever hear of George Whitefield?”
“Oh yes, Ephraim!” I cried, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and my eyes light up. “I heard him preach in Scotland, when I was there with Flora. Have you heard him?”
“Yes, many times, and Mr Wesley also.”
I was pleased to hear that. “And what were you going to say about him?”