That reminds me that I must not forget to tell you, by far the greater number of the hymns we sing every Sunday in chapel were written by Mr. Charles Wesley. Yes, the little mischievous Westminster schoolboy became the sweet singer of Methodism. Not only among Methodists are his beautiful hymns sung to-day, but in almost every Christian hymn-book in the world some of his verses will be found.
You must not think all places were like Wednesbury. Mr. Wesley had often very attentive congregations, and the people listened to him gladly. Indeed, at an open-air service he once held, the people behaved better than I fear we should have done. Part of the congregation sat on a low wall built of loose stones; all at once, in the middle of the sermon, down came the wall and all the people with it. I think we should have burst out laughing, it must have looked so funny. Instead of which, there was no laughing and no screaming; the people just kept their places, only instead of sitting on the top of the wall they sat at the bottom. There was no interruption of the service at all; Mr. Wesley went on with his sermon, and the people continued reverent and attentive.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Magic Mirror again.—Sycamore Farm.—Annie's good news.—A chorister up in a tree.—A long, long journey.—Sixty miles a day on horseback.—A Chapel out of doors.—A hard bed and a funny pillow.—Thanksgiving Street.—Ripe Blackberries.
HY, I do believe that Magic Mirror has mended itself, for here it is, showing us such a lovely picture—nay, two, I declare. Look at that dear old farmhouse; it must surely be called Sycamore Farm, for there are great sycamore trees all round the front and the side. At the back, and only one field away from the house, are the green slopes of the mountain, with a little waterfall tumbling merrily down a crack in its side. In front of the farm, shimmering through the leaves of the trees, you can see the sunlit waters of a calm lake. The farm is a low whitewashed building, and we can see the cows in the distant meadows coming home to be milked. No one is with them; but there is a little group of people standing at the farmyard gate. The farmer and his wife and all the family and servants seem to be there.
Whatever is the matter?