They were almost disposed to carry the preacher in their arms. They assumed to be his body-guard; they entered the gate of the castle; they passed the church, and in front of the canons' houses; they descended to the narrow streets, inhabited by the citizens, and reached the market-cross. There Farel mounted a platform and addressed the crowd which gathered from all the neighbourhood-weavers, vine-dressers, farmers, a worthy race, possessing more feeling than imagination.' Grave was the preacher's countenance; weighty truths hung on his lips; his speech was energetic; his voice like the thunder; his eyes, his features, his gestures,-all showed that he was a man of intrepidity. The citizens, accustomed to run about the streets after mountebanks, were touched by his powerful language.

The very first sermon won over many of the people. If they could have had their way, scarcely a finger would have been lifted against the messenger of glad tidings. If the people in the sixteenth century had been left to their own choice, the Reformation would have gained all Europe. The same would be true now. But never and

nowhere would the priests let them alone. At this first sermon of Farel, certain sly and crown-shaven monks glided among the hearers, and began to excite them to do what they would never have thought of doing. Some of the ruder class were thus aroused to obey their masters, and attempt violence. Let us beat out his brains,' cried some. 'Throw him into the fountain,' cried others. The fountain was near at hand (and is still shown); but the undaunted preacher was neither to be beaten nor drowned. None of these things moved him.

In vain had there been a decree that this 'heretic, William Farel,' should preach in no church in the canton.

He needed none. Every place was a church; every stone, or bench, or platform was a pulpit. He preached in the streets, at the gates, in the public squares, and the dwellings of the monks echoed his powerful voice. No matter if the snows and winds of December were forbidding the people to hear him, or if the cheerful firesides were tempting them to remain within doors; they would crowd about the man who cared for their souls. The canons made a vigorous defence, and the 'shorn crowns' rushed out into the cold weather, shouting, crying down, rousing up, begging, threatening, and making a furious ado; but it was all useless. No sooner did this Frenchman rise up in any place, and in trumpet tones declare his message, than the monks found all their labour lost. All eyes were fixed on him; with open mouth and attentive ear the people hung upon his words, and forgot the winter's cold and the rage of the priests. And scarcely did he begin to speak, when, as he exclaims, Oh! wonderful work of God, this multitude believed as if it had but one soul.'

Thus at the first assault the gospel carried the town. For several days the multitudes increased. They came from the neighbouring districts; they invited him to their homes and villages; they scarcely knew how to leave. him. It seemed to him that Jesus Christ was walking almost visibly through the streets, opening blinded eyes, and softening hardened hearts. Wearied, and yet stronger than ever, he bowed down in his humble lodging, and thanked God for His marvellous power, and then he sent a message to his colleagues at Aigle. Unite with me in thanking the Father of Mercies for so graciously enlightening those who were oppressed by the greatest tyranny. God is my witness that I did not leave you,

with whom I would gladly live and die, from a wish to escape bearing the cross. The glory of Christ, and the love shown to His word by the disciples of this place, enable me to bear the greatest sufferings.'

But during all these days, what were the strong forces of the Pope, here gathered, attempting to do? Was the winter shutting them up in their comfortable quarters?

We must not follow the worst of them into their resorts of revelry, lust, and shame; nor ask for the fathers of those children which crept out of dens of infamy, to be taken up and supported at the public expense. A plain, blunt age made and preserved the record which now cannot bear the light. We have opened it far enough, unless we may turn from their baser crimes to their cruelties. In a house near the city were placed some poor lepers, who were barely able to keep soul and body together by the funds arising from the sale of certain offerings. The rich canons made their feasts more sumptuous by taking these proceeds; and thus they robbed these helpless sufferers of the bread of charity.

These canons had been at open war with the monks of the abbey of Fontaine-André. Encamped on their two hills, they claimed each other's property, wrested away each other's privileges, launched at one another the coarsest insults and criminal charges, and even came to blows. Captor of silly women,' cried the canons to the Abbot of Fontaine; and he returned the compliment in the same coin.' These quarrels disturbed the whole country. Such was the boasted purity and unity in the Romish Church at that day in the canton of Neufchatel. On a sudden these quarrels ceased; the fighters shook hands. A strange event was taking placed in the city. The word of God was there preached. The canons,

from their lofty hill, could not look down on the crowds in the streets with contempt. They were startled, affrighted, and aroused to league together all their forces. The monks of Fontaine should be mustered into service. The report had reached the abbey. All there were astir. They would now be brothers to the canons. Hatred to the gospel united these parties. They joined their strength against the reformer.

'We must save religion,' said they, who had so long been destroying it. They meant that they must save their livings, their tithes, their banquets, their scandals, and their privileges. It would be folly for them to oppose a single doctrine preached in their streets. They must resort to insult. At Corcelles these opposers went further. A voice was one day heard proclaiming the gospel under the windows of the priory, where the deposed Abbot of Fontaine had taken refuge.. The monks looked down upon a listening crowd. Farel was there. What an interruption of their peace !—a public disturbance indeed! They rushed forth, not to call a magistrate in the legal way, but to fall upon the heretic. Among them was the Prior Rodolph, increasing the tempest, and creating a real public disturbance. One writer affirms that he had a dagger in his hand. Farel escaped with difficulty. This was not enough. The civil power must be brought against the reform. Popery has always taken this course. The state must assist her in persecuting the teachers of truth, in keeping back the Bible from the people, and in maintaining her power in the land. The canons, the abbot, and the prior, now the best of brothers, appealed to the governor, George de Rive. He was prompt in marshalling all the forces of church and state to put down the new movement. On every side Farel saw himself

surrounded. He was called 'to endure sufferings greater than tongue can describe.' Before long he was compelled to yield for a time. He again crossed the Lake of Neufchatel; but, on looking back, he could see the gospel fires, kindled at so many points, burning in a flame of glory.

He went to Morat. The people urged him to stay and pass the Christmas with them; but the Senate of Berne wished him to visit Aigle, and thither he pressed. He was not now the strange Master Ursinus. He was the good missionary, the first shepherd the people ever had, the lovely man who had led them to the Bishop of their souls. It was a Christmas when Christ was honoured in that village as never before. But soon a messenger came to bid him away.

On the 7th of there, and the But the Romish

Great events were passing at Morat. January 1530, a second vote was taken majority were in favour of the reform. minority, long urging that the majority should rule, were disposed to revolt. They began a course of insult and violence. One man was needed; and the voters for the gospel cried for Farel. Berne heard the voice and sent for him.

A few days after this, Farel and the Bernese messenger were scaling the magnificent mountains above Vevay, and catching indescribable views of Lake Leman, with its waters of marvellous blue. They entered upon the estates of John, the knight of Gruyere, who was in the habit of saying, 'We must burn this French Luther.' Darkness came on them at St. Martin, where they took lodgings. The curate and two priests prepared to insult them in the morning. They said the messenger's badge was an infernal mark; and, pointing to Farel,