the other side the stream?"

"Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. Charles. How
he's talking and gesticulating! What can he be at?"

Without more ado John leaped the low hedge, and ran down the slope of
the Bloody Meadow. I followed less quickly.

There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the simple-
fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a low framework
on wheels, with a pole stuck at either of the four corners. He was
bare-headed, and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered. I
only hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all then
exclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity.
Despite the powder, the blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches,
Mr. Charles was a very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonder
the poor hay-makers had collected from all parts to hear him
harangue.

What was he haranguing upon? Could it be, that like his friend,
"John Philip," whoever that personage might be, his vocation was that
of a field preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from the
sanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompanied
him; and who sat in the front of the cart, and folded his hands and
groaned, after the most approved fashion of a methodistical
"revival."

We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked: but
no! I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no way did he trespass
the bounds of reverence and decorum. His harangue, though given as a