THE condition of the Church in the diocese of Exeter at the time when John Wesley appeared was piteous in the extreme. Non-residence was the rule: the services of the sanctuary were performed in the most slovenly manner, the sacraments were administered rarely and without due reverence in too many places, and pastoral visitation was neglected. The same state of things continued, only slightly improved, to the time when Mr. Hawker began his ministrations at Morwenstow. There was a story told of a fox-hunting parson, Mr. Radford, in the north of Devon, when I was a boy. He was fond of having convivial evenings in his parsonage, which often ended uproariously. Bishop Phillpotts sent for him, and said: “Mr. Radford, I hear, but I can hardly believe it, that men fight in your house.” “Lor’, my dear,” answered Parson Radford, in broad Devonshire, “doant’y believe it. When they begin fighting, I take and turn them out into the churchyard.” The Bishop of Exeter came one day to visit him without notice. Parson Radford, in scarlet, was just about to mount his horse and gallop off to the meet, when he heard that the bishop was in the village. He had barely time to send away his hunter, run upstairs, and jump, red coat and boots, into bed, when the bishop’s carriage drew up at the door. “Tell his lordship I’m ill, will ye?” was his injunction to his housekeeper, as he flew to bed. “Is Mr. Radford in?” asked Dr. Phillpotts. “He’s ill in bed,” said the housekeeper. “Dear me! I am so sorry! Pray ask if I may come up and sit with him,” said the bishop. The housekeeper ran upstairs in sore dismay, and entered Parson Radford’s room. The parson stealthily put his head out of the bedclothes, but was reassured when he saw his room was invaded by his housekeeper, and not by the bishop. “Please, your honour, his lordship wants to come upstairs, and sit with you a little.” “With me, good heavens!” gasped Parson Radford. “No. Go down and tell his lordship I’m took cruel bad with _scarlet fever_: it is an aggravated case, and very catching.” In the neighbourhood of Morwenstow, a little before Mr. Hawker’s time, was a certain Parson Winterton.[*] He was rector of Eastcote, rector of Eigncombe, rector of Marwood, rector of Westcote, and vicar of Barton. Mr. Hawker used to tell the following story:— When Parson Winterton lay on his death-bed, he was visited and prepared for dying by a neighbouring clergyman. “What account can you render for the talents committed to your charge? What use have you made of them?” asked the visitor.