Here the Chancellor pointed out the late home of Senator
Clayton's father, and, after the horses had been fed, they continued
still northward, passing another small town on a creek near the marshes,
and, a little beyond it, came to a venerable brick church, a little from
the road, in a grove of oaks and forest trees.
"Here is Barrett's chapel," said the Chancellor; "celebrated for the
plotting of the campaign between Wesley's native and English preachers
for the conquest of America as soon as the crown had lost it."
They looked up over the broad-gabled, Quakerly edifice, with its broad,
low door, high roof, double stories of windows, and a higher window in
the gable, trim rows of arch-bricks over door and windows, and belt
masonry; and heard the tall trees hush it to sleep like a baby left to
them. Nearly fifty feet square, and probably fifty years old, it looked
to be good for another hundred years.
"My family in Accomac was harsh with the Methodists through a mistaken
conservatism," Judge Custis said. "They are a good people; they seem to
suit this peninsula like the peachtree."
A small funeral procession was turning into Barrett's chapel, and the
Chancellor interrogated one of the more indifferent followers as to the
dead person. Having mentioned the name, the citizen said:
"His death was mysterious. He was a Methodist and a good man, but it
seems that avarice was gnawing his principles away.
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