and of Dom Basilio, who (it seemed) had at one time been an agent of
the British legation at Florence, and in particular had carried my
father's reports and instructions to and fro between Corsica and that
city, avoiding the vigilance of the Genoese.

"A subtle fellow," was my father's judgment, "and, as I gave him
credit, in the matter of conscience as null as Cellini himself: the
last man in the world to turn religious. But the longer you live the
more cause will you find to wonder at the divine spirit which bloweth
where it listeth. Take these Methodists, who are to preach in
Falmouth to-day. I have seen Wesley, and stood once for an hour
listening to him. For aught I could discover he had no great
eloquence. He said little that his audience might not have heard any
Sunday in their own churches. His voice was hoarse from overwork,
and his manner by no means winning. Yet I saw many notorious
ruffians sobbing about him like children: some even throwing
themselves on the ground and writhing, like the demoniacs of
Scripture. The secret was, he spoke with authority: and the secret
again was a certain kingly neglect of trifles--he appeared not to see
those signs by which other men judge their neighbours or themselves
to be past help. Or take these Trappists: Dom Basilio tells me that
more than half of them are ex-soldiers and rough at that. To be sure
I can understand why, having once turned religious, an old soldier
runs to the Trappist rule. He has been bred under discipline, and
has to rely on discipline. 'Tis what he understands, and the harder
he gets it the more good he feels himself getting--"

We were nearing the town by the way of Arwennack, and just here a
turn of the road brought us in sight of a whitewashed cottage and put
a period to my father's discourse, as a garden gate flew open and out