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."