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scatters some tares, he scatters also, and much more plentifully, the good seed of the kingdom.' If he builds with wood, hay, stubble,' he yet builds upon the true foundation, which is Christ Jesus;' and 'gold, silver, and precious stones' adorn the superstructure. Was not the Saviour's immediate harbinger a rough man of the desert? 'Not many wise, noble, mighty are called.' Is it not now in this respect much as in the days of Paul? How many such instances are recorded in the annals of Methodism! God sends by whom he will, and often honours his truth with a blessing, though it be mixed with error. Amen; and let him be anathema who dares to call the Divine Wisdom to account for such disorderly proceedings! Away with your silly cant about pulpit propriety and refinement! Away with your bigoted formalism, which would hinder the free course of the gospel! I was speaking of Dr. McNeile in Italy, when an Englishman exclaimed, But he is a firebrand in the Church!' This is what the Church needs: would to God there were more such! The Church must be set on fire, no matter who bears the torch, or in what manner! Thank God, Mr. Spurgeon, with all his faults, has done a great work in London; and the indirect result, perhaps, is the greater part of the good. Who has not heard of the current series of discourses to the poor in Exeter Hall? I listened to one of them, by the Rev. Hugh Stowell. The immense room was crowded to its utmost capacity-not less than six thousand hearers:* while the rev. gentleman was delivering, without notes, one of the most eloquent and fervent appeals for God I ever heard, a city missionary of the Establishment was holding forth in the street to the crowd that could not effect an entrance. All this, and much more of the same sort, has the hearty concurrence and sanction of the Bishop of London. Who has waked up this feeling among the clergy? They have seen what crowds are following Mr. Spurgeon, and they cannot consent to be out done by the Dissenters; and, some from fear, and some from shame, and some from the love of souls, glad of the occasion and the opportunity, they are

* Great mistakes are made about the numbers present in such places. The Surrey Music Hall may hold 5000, Exeter Hall 3000.-ED.

putting forth their might in this holy work; and now, blessed be God! again may it be said in London, ‘The poor have the gospel preached to them.' And the flame which

these firebrands' have kindled is spreading over the kingdom, and hundreds of sermons are preached every Lord's day in the open air. I spent a Sabbath in Clifton, the beautiful suburb of Bristol. In the morning I heard a delightful extempore sermon from the Rev. Mr. Brock, of Christ Church. In the afternoon, passing across Durdham Down, I found the same gentleman preaching without his gown to an immense crowd of people, under a cluster of elms. Go on, Mr. Spurgeon, and don't be afraid of mingling too many Arminian appeals with your Calvinistic dogmas! You are doing a good work; and God prosper your ministry!

CHAPTER XXXV.

PLEASANT VARIETIES.

The Browns-Richmond Hill-Thomson-Bushy Park-Hampton Court-Cardinal Wolsey-Royal Residents-Varieties-Great Western Railway-Official Dignity-Clevedon-Myrtle Cottage -Promenade and Prospect-Clevedon Court-Wrington-Weston super Mare-Interesting Antiquities.

AMONG the many interesting people with whom I became acquainted through the kindness of Dr. and Mrs. Cross, were Mr. and Mrs. Brown, of Wimbledon Park, about eight miles from London. Having spent a delightful afternoon at their charming residence, we made an engagement for a second visit, with an excursion to Hampton Court. The next week we enjoyed that promised pleasure, and here is a skeleton-history of the day.

Never blessed the metropolis a more beautiful morning. No fog enveloped the towers and domes of the city; and as we rushed along the South-western Railway, the bright sunshine and the balmy wind, with the rich tints of the autumn foliage, brought back sweet visions of the fair Salernian shores.

At Putney, Mr. Brown met us, with two carriages, ready to devote the day to the gratification of his guests. We were soon en route for the royal seat, over Putney Heath and Wimbledon Common, past many a charming villa, and among the rest the stately mansion of the Duchess of Gloucester. Then we traversed the breadth of Richmond Park-eight miles from gate to gate, twenty-four in circuit; and whole herds of young deer bounded off to the right and the left as we approached, while their more experienced sires and dams stood and gazed at us without fear, or lay quietly upon the soft grass. Attaining the summit of Richmond Hill, we enjoyed a coup d'œil scarcely surpassed in Europe. To the south and east spread the vast down, with here and there a windmill swinging its huge arms in the air, and environed on all sides with the

splendid country seats of the London gentry. To the north-east, ten miles distant, Westminster Abbey, the Victoria Tower, the dome of Saint Paul's, and a whole forest of church steeples, rose through the purple mist, like a fleet at sea. Still more remote, Harrow on the Hill in the north, and Windsor Castle in the north-west, stood out in clear relief against the horizon. At our feet, through as fine a landscape as ever blessed the vision of man, flowed the Thames, encompassing many a green island, with a young steamer in the distance, and scores of white swans floating gracefully upon its bosom. On the brow of the hill, overlooking a sweet vale, in which a village reposed, we found the following lines upon a board, hung upon an elm :

LINES ON JAMES THOMSON,

The Poet of Nature.

Ye who from London's smoke and turmoil fly,
To seek a purer air and brighter sky,
Think of the bard who dwells in yonder dell,
Who sang so sweetly what he loved so well:
Think, as you gaze on these luxuriant bowers,
Here Thomson loved the sunshine and the flowers-
He who could paint in all their varied forms,
April's young bloom, December's dreary storms.
By yon fair stream, which calmly glides along,
Pure as his life, and lovely as his song,
There oft he roved: in yonder churchyard lies
All of the deathless bard that ever dies;
For here his gentle spirit lingers still,
In yon sweet vale, on this enchanted hill,
Flinging a holier interest o'er the grove,
Stirring the heart to poetry and love,
Bidding us prize the favourite scenes he trod,
And view in nature's beauties nature's God.

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This, then, is classic ground. Here the author of 'The Seasons' the laziest and best-natured of mortal men,' used to saunter about with his hands in his pockets, or sit and dream on the sunny side of the hill. Never before or since,' says the late Hugh Miller, was there a man of genius wrought out of such mild and sluggish elements as James Thomson.' Yet he was a kind-hearted, unselfish, and lovable man, devoted to his friends, and binding them to himself with the strongest ties of affection. Poor

Collins, a man of warm and genial heart, came and lived
at Richmond for the sake of his society; and when the poet
died, quitted the place for ever. Shenstone also loved him
well, and felt life grow darker at his departure: and Quin
wept for him no feigned tears on the boards of the theatre.
Thomson is well portrayed by Lord Lyttleton in the stanza,
'by another hand,' included in 'The Castle of Indolence :'
'A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's passing themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain.
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laughed he careless in his easy seat;

Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage: his ditty sweet,

He loathed much to write, he cared to repeat.'

And these were his favourite haunts, where he wandered so often, his imagination full of many-coloured conceptions, with a quiet eye noting every change which threw its tints of gloom or gladness over the diversified prospect, and the images of beauty sank into his quiescent mind, as the silent shower sinks into the crannies and fissures of the soil, to come gushing out at some future day, in those springs of poetry which so sparkle in The Seasons,' or that glide in such quiet yet lustrous beauty in that most finished of English poems, 'The Castle of Indolence.' It is a spot where one may learn the meaning of his own sweet lines

"The love of nature works,

And warms the bosom, till, at last sublimed

To rapture and enthusiastic heat,

We feel the present Deity, and taste

The joy of God to see a happy world.'

But I must not tarry here dreaming of Thomson. Down the hill, through the fair town of Richmond, over the Thames, past Twickenham and Hampton Wick, the villa of Pope, the palace of Walpole, and many a scene of rural beauty; and then by an iron gate we enter Bushy Park, and drive through an avenue of stately chestnuts, a mile in length, five rows on either hand, and innumerable deer grazing in quiet security beneath their ample shade. These chestnuts are said to present in the blooming