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THREE:FIVE-SHILLING PIECE OF GEORGE III.

THREE:“Because Jeff did—he walked under a ladder where a man was pruning a tree as he came to the gate of the estate next door.”“I think so,” agreed Sandy. “He gave me one gift for my birthday at breakfast. But just now he made me a present of my life.”

THREE:It was at this era of religious apathy that John Wesley (b. 1703; d. 1791), and Charles, his brother (b. 1708; d. 1788), and George Whitefield (b. 1714), came forward to preach a revival, and laid the foundation of Methodism. These young men, students at Oxford, all of them originally of clerical families but Whitefield—who was the son of an innkeeper—with Hervey, afterwards the author of the well-known "Meditations amongst the Tombs," and some others of their fellow-collegians, struck by the dearth of religious life of the time, met in their rooms for prayer and spiritual improvement. They were soon assailed with the nicknames of "Sacramentarians," "Bible Moths," and finally, "Methodists," a term current against the Puritans in those days, and suggested by the appellative Methodist?, given to a college of physicians in ancient Rome, in consequence of the strict regimen which they prescribed to their patients.

THREE:

THREE:And since that gray dawn when he had picked his way through the ashes and charred logs, and had bent over the bodies of his friend and the dead mother and the two children, he had been possessed by a loathing that was almost physical repulsion for all Indians. That was why he had left the stone cabin he had built for himself in the White Mountains, forsaking it and the Apaches who had been, in a way, his friends. But he had done it, too, with the feeling that now he had nowhere to lay his head; that he was driven from pillar to post, buffeted and chased; that he was cursed with the curse of the wanderer. If it had not been that he had an indefinite theory of his own concerning the Kirby massacre, as it was known throughout the country, and that he meant to, some day, in some way, avenge it upon the whites who had abandoned them to their fate, he would have killed himself. He had been very near it once, and had sat on the edge of his bunk in the cabin with a revolver in his hand, thinking it all out for an entire evening, before deciding dispassionately against it. He was not desperate, merely utterly careless of life, which is much worse. Desperation is at the most the keen agony of torture at the stake; but [Pg 163]indifference toward all that is held by this world, or the next, is dying in a gradual vacuum.