"Gentlemen, my name is mutton; originally I belonged to and formed an integral part of that valuable quadruped called a sheep. My destiny, however, was to be separated, and to exist as a tit bit to satisfy the hunger of our common enemy, the biped man. You belong to the vegetable creation. While living in your native soil, and expanding your foliage to the view of mortals, you enjoyed yourselves as much as vegetables can be expected to do. But voracious man no sooner perceived you fit for his devouring propensities, than he dug you from your quiet beds, and after certain ablutions in some vulgar utensils, ordered you to be cut in pieces, and consigned with myself to the prison of a pie dish. Here, then, we are, in this enlightened county of Lancashire, under a dark impervious canopy of dough! Doomed, first to suffer the dreadful heat of an oven, and then to be devoured; but as bipeds sometimes talk of the horrors of martyrdom, I think I may say, without vanity, my honour must take precedence of yours. We must all soon lose our identity. In the meantime, I will do my utmost, if not to grace, at least to grease, your departure through the cruel teeth, and down the dark throats of the bipeds. Gentlemen, we shail never meet again in full assembly; but before we separate for ever, I fain would comfort you. I have, indeed, hinted that my honour is superior to yours, and so it is; for by diffusing my very essence among you, I render you more palatable to the bipeds than you possibly could be by your abstract qualities.

Nevertheless, gentlemen, as in this sad world, nominal distinctions are more thought of, admired and revered, than those which are simply virtual, it belongs to you, yes, to you, gentlemen, to bear away the entire honours of this comprehensive pie.

You recollect, gentlemen, that whatever savour or flavour I may impart, and whatever longings there may be among the bipeds to get me into possession, and with whatever gusto I may be masticated and swallowed, to you it will pertain to possess the enviable title, the one only name of our entire fabric and constitution, crust, meat and vegetables—a potato pie. And thus it is, gentlemen, among the rationals above us. Those who render services are often ignored, while men of moderate and inferior qualities, like potatoes in a pie, have, like Cardinal Wolsey, their 'blushing honours thick upon them.' Gentlemen, I must conclude; I hear the dreadful knife on the roof above. In a moment daylight will be let in upon us; but with daylight, alas! comes destruction. While it is possible that some of you may escape for the present, no mercy will be shewn to me; already I perceive, through a chink of the canopy, the longing eye of a hungry preacher, who loves mutton; but precious little will he get of me. If fairly distributed, I shall make about a mouthful a piece for the whole company. Farewell, gentlemen! I am going! No name; no honour survives me, I shall be for ever forgotten, and you will retain

in your congregated capacity the honours of Farmer Fillpurse's potato pie."

The second instance of singular hospitality, on the part of the rich, is the last I shall introduce, and I would rather have dispensed with this, as I should have liked to have omitted the former but from a sense of justice to myself and a duty I owe to our common Christianity. To some very considerable extent, hospitality to the regularly appointed ministers, is not so entirely a gift as may at first view appear. In the poorer circuits of Methodism, what is called the board money is kept low on the supposition, and with the understanding that the preacher gets many of his meals from home. And in taking his regular rounds these periodical hospitalities, though gratuitously bestowed, do not exactly place him under so many distinct and separate obligations, but help to make up for those deficiencies created by short allowances. A preacher goes to his places, not as a private visitor to spend a day in festivities and take a bed at night, but to do his work as an Evangelist. He must, at long distances from home, and without a conveyance, lodge somewhere. He is accommodated then by the kind hospitalities of his own people; those good people, who, as they freely receive the spiritual blessings of the gospel, do freely give the temporal blessings of the present life. Hospitality, then, in immediate and direct connection with present ministerial labour is both kindness and justice; and by the parties who know that the

labourer is worthy of his hire, it is so understood. Had I gone to the house of Mr. Leatherlegs, or to that of Mr. Fillpurse's, as a private, poor, gentleman, to beg a dinner, and do nothing for it, it would have been highly reprehensible in me to celebrate the fat bacon of the one, or the potato pie of the other; but, as in both cases, I had tramped many weary miles to get to them, and should have been censured had I staid at home, I hope that neither the world at large, nor a certain reviewer (who did not understand my "Rambles of an Evangelist") will blame me for ingratitude, either directly or indirectly. The duty I owe to Christianity in this case, is to give a gentle rub to old misers, not to prudent and honourable frugality.

Covetousness," which is idolatry," is so fearfully perilous to the soul, that every man who wishes to be saved, should do all in his power, in connection with earnest prayer, to keep himself and his neighbours from it. It is a vice which usually bids defiance to sermons and religious books; let us see what it will do after this exposure. In a northern circuit one of my numerous journies was a walk of fourteen miles from my residence to the circuit town every third Saturday afternoon, to be in readiness for my Sunday preaching, in a large chapel, where I usually had large congregations. On one of the Saturdays when I arrived, I was told I must go on a mile-and-a-half further, to lodge at a Mr. Such-an-one's, a rich gentleman, and very intelligent. "Ah," thought I,

"this is the very thing, I shall be well entertained. Hospitality and intelligence in combination, are a great acquisition to a man's comfort." I was very tired, the rain and mud adding to my fatigue, and my old umbrella having numerous sky-lights and a broken rib, affording me little protection. I arrived. The good lady of the house I found very conversable, she had been, in fact, well educated; and I soon found that she and her husband had well learned the Church catechism, and did both "renounce the pomp and vanities of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh." Passing along the passage I caught a glimpse of a well furnished parlour, but was politely conducted by my hostess to the underground kitchen. "We make no stranger of you, Sir, we are plain, homely people." "I perceive it, Ma'am," said I. "You are tired." "Yes, Ma'am, I have walked fifteen and-a-half miles since dinner." "Have you taken tea any where ?" "No, Ma'am; I thought I was to take tea in the town, but was instructed to come up here." well, as we have had our tea, perhaps you can do till supper, we take supper early." "As you please Ma'am." I was left to my meditations, wet, cold and hungry. After an hour or so the lady again appeared. "Well, Sir, will you take off your boots, and have slippers; perhaps your feet are damp." "They are very wet, Ma'am, my boots having been soaked through a long time." "What would you like for supper?" I knew well enough what I should

"Ah,