Monday, June 1.--I began a little tour through the Dales. About nine, I preached at Kiphill; at one, at Wolsingham. Here we began to trace the revival of the work of God; and here began the horrid mountains we had to climb over. However, before six, we reached Barnard Castle. I preached at the end of the preaching-house to a large congregation of established Christians. At five in the morning, the house was nearly full of persons ripe for the height and depth of the gospel.
Tuesday, 2.--We rode to New Orygan in Teesdale. The people were deeply attentive; but, I think, not deeply affected. From the top of the next enormous mountain, we had a view of Weardale. It is a lovely prospect. The green gently rising meadows and fields on both sides of the little river, clear as crystal, were sprinkled over with innumerable little houses; three in four of which (if not nine. in ten) are sprung up since the Methodists came hither. Since that time, the beasts are turned into men, and the wilderness in a fruitful field.
Thursday, 4.--At five I took my leave of this blessed peopIe. I was a little surprised, in looking attentively upon them, to observe so beautiful faces as I never saw before in one congregation; many of the children in particular, twelve or fourteen of whom (chiefly boys) sat full in my view. But I allow, much more might be owing to grace than nature, to the heaven within, that shone outward.
Friday, August 21.--I preached again about eight, and then rode back to Harford. After dinner we hastened to the Passage; but the watermen were not in haste to fetch us over; so I sat down on a convenient stone, and finished the little tract I had in hand. However, I got to Pembroke in time and preached in the town hall, where we had a solemn and comfortable opportunity.
Sunday, September 6.--I preached on the quay, at Kingswood, and near King's Square. To this day field-preaching is a cross to me. But I know my commission and see no other way of "preaching the gospel to every creature."
Wednesday, October 14.--A book was given me to write on, The Works of Mr. Thomson, of whose poetical abilities I had always had a low opinion; but looking into one of his tragedies, "Edward and Eleonora," I was agreeably surprised. The sentiments are just and noble; the diction strong, smooth, and elegant; and the plot conducted with the utmost art and wrought off in a most surprising manner. It is quite his masterpiece, and I really think might vie with any modern performance of the kind.