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 Visual Studio® Code
for Python® Programmers
April Speight
Copyright © 2021 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

ISBN: 978-­1-­119-­77336-­8

ISBN: 978-­1-­119-­77338-­2 (ebk)

ISBN: 978-­1-­119-­77337-­5 (ebk)

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
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 For Python developers in need of a home for their code.

And Eric—­you were right. But with that aside, you’re the most supportive partner
an author could ever ask for in this thing we call life. We’re two halves of a whole.
My success is your success, and your success is my success.
 About the Author

April Speight is a developer who specializes in Python and conversational

design for chatbots and AI assistants. Her passion for learning and teaching
Python led to her first published title, Bite-­Size Python: An Introduction to Python
Programming. She currently works on content creation and developer community
engagement for Spatial Computing and Mixed Reality at Microsoft.

v
 About the Technical Editor

Kraig Brockschmidt has worked on technical developer content for more than
30 years, publishing books, articles, sample code, and documentation for mul-
tiple programming languages and development platforms. He currently works
on developer documentation at Microsoft, specializing in using Python on
Microsoft’s cloud computing platform, Azure. He also authored the original set
of documentation for the Python extension for Visual Studio Code.

vii
 Acknowledgments

Many thanks to those who have spent time creating, contributing, and improving
what I consider to be the optimal solution for a code editor. I would be com-
pletely remiss if I didn’t personally thank Kraig Brockschmidt, my technical
editor on this book; thanks again for your time and commitment.
Also, thanks goes to Rob for being an open ear throughout this entire process.
Although I didn’t understand what coding was in undergrad, the fact that you
did it so often intrigued me. Because of you, I’ve discovered a new skillset that
has evolved into where I am professionally in my career.

ix
 Contents at a Glance

Introductionxix
Part I Welcome to Visual Studio Code 1
Chapter 1 Getting Started 3
Chapter 2 Hello World for Python 21
Chapter 3 Editing Code 33
Part II Additional Visual Studio Code Features 51
Chapter 4 Managing Projects and Collaboration 53
Chapter 5 Debugging 83
Chapter 6 Unit Testing 105
Chapter 7 Jupyter Notebook 117
Chapter 8 Using Git and GitHub with Visual Studio Code 135
Chapter 9 Deploy a Django App to Azure App Service with
the Azure App Service Extension 157
Chapter 10 Create and Debug a Flask App 177
Chapter 11 Create and Deploy a Container with Azure
Container Registry and Azure App Service 189
Chapter 12 Deploy an Azure Function Trigger by a Timer 209
Appendix Getting Started with Azure 221

Index  225

xi

Speight773368_ftoc01.indd 11 22-05-2021 15:27:07

Speight773368_ftoc01.indd 12 22-05-2021 15:27:07
 Contents

Introductionxix
Part I Welcome to Visual Studio Code 1
Chapter 1 Getting Started 3
Installing Visual Studio Code 4
The Visual Studio Code User Interface 4
Activity Bar 5
Side Bar 6
Editor7
Panels11
Status Bar 12
Command Palette 12
Extensions14
Customizations15
Settings16
Color Themes and Icons 18
Keybindings18
Display Langage 18
Summary 19
Chapter 2 Hello World for Python 21
Installing a Python Interpreter 21
macOS22
Linux22
Windows22
Installing the Python Extension for Visual Studio Code 22
Creating a Python File 23
Selecting an Interpreter 24
Setting a Default Interpreter 26

xiii
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 CHAPTER XI

W
esley could not, of course, know that Pritchard was at that
time in the Mill awaiting his arrival. But it was the case that
the water-finder, learning that the coming of Mr. Wesley
was looked for during the afternoon, had gone to the Mill early and
had rejected the suggestion made by the blacksmith and Jake
Pullsford, that he should not appear in the presence of Mr. Wesley
until he was sent for. He was almost indignant at the hint conveyed
to him in an ambiguous way by Hal Holmes, that it would show
better taste if he were to remain away for the time being.
“Take my word for 't, Dick, you'll be brought face to face with him
soon enow,” said Hal. “You'll be wishful that you had ne'er been born
or thought of. Mr. Wesley is meek, but he isn't weak, and 'tis the
meek ones that's the hardest to answer when the time comes, and it
always comes too soon. Before your Monday comes you'll be wishful
to hide away and calling on the mountains to cover ye.”
“List to me, Hal; there's naught that will say nay to me when my
mind is made up, and go to face Mr. Wesley I shall,” Dick had
replied.
The blacksmith folded his big bare arms and looked at him with
curiosity from head to foot.
“A change has come o'er a good many of us since Mr. Wesley
began to preach, but what's all our changes alongside yours, Dick
Pritchard?” he said, shaking his head as though he relinquished this
task of solving the problem which had been suggested to him. “Why,
you was used to fear and tremble at the thin noise of your own
voice, Dick Pritchard. With these ears I have heard you make an
apology for saying 'Thank ye,' on the score that you were too bold.
But now you are for rushing headlong to meet the man that you
scarce dare lift your hat to a month or two agone.”
 “I hadn't learned then all that there's in me now, Hal,” replied the
water-finder. “I always did despise myself, being unmindful that to
despise myself was to do despite to Heaven. Doesn't it stand to
reason, Hal, that the greater a man thinks himself, the greater is the
honour he does to his Maker? I think twice as much of God since I
came to see what a man He made in me.”
“That's a square apology for conceit, Dick, and I don't think aught
the better of you for putting it forward at this time and in such a
case as this. What, good fellow, would you be at the pains to
magnify a man's righteousness pace for pace with his conceit? At
that rate, the greater the coxcomb the more righteous the man.”
Dick was apparently lost in thought for some time. At last he
shook his head gravely, saying:
“Not for all cases, Hal, not for all cases. You be a narrow-souled
caviller, I doubt; you cannot comprehend an argyment that's like a
crystal diamond, with as many sides to it as a middling ignorant man
would fail to compute.”
“That may be, but I've handled many a lump of sea-coal that has
shown as many sides as any diamond that was ever dug out of the
earth, and it seems to me that your talk is more like the sea-coal
than the crystal, Dick, my friend,” said the blacksmith. “Ay, your
many-sided argyments are only fit to be thrust into the furnace, for
all, their sides.”
“Mr. Wesley will comprehend,” said Pritchard doggedly; “though
even Mr. Wesley might learn something from me. Ay, and in after
years you will all be glad to remember that you once dwelt nigh a
simple man by name Richard Pritchard.”
“In after years?” cried Hal Holmes. “Why, where are your after
years to come from, if the end of all things is to be on us on
Monday?”
“Don't you doubt but that 'twill come to an end on Monday,” said
the water-finder, “however you may twist and turn. Be sure that you
be prepared, Hal Holmes. You have been a vain-living blacksmith, I
am feared, and now you side with them that would persecute the
prophets. Prepare yourself, Hal, prepare yourself.”
This was the style in which the man had been talking for some
time, astonishing everyone who had known his extreme modesty in
the past; and this was the strain in which he talked when he had
entered the Mill, and found the miller, Jake Pulls-ford and Mr.
Hartwell seated together awaiting the arrival of Wesley.
The man's entrance at this time surprised them. They knew he
was aware that Mr. Wesley was returning in haste, owing solely to
his, Pritchard's, having put himself forward in a way that his
brethren could not sanction, and it never occurred to them that he
would wish to meet Mr. Wesley at this time. They were, as was Hal
Holmes, under the impression that when Wesley arrived Pritchard's
former character might show itself once more, causing him to avoid
even the possibility of meeting the preacher face to face.
They were soon undeceived. The water-finder was in no way
nervous when he came among them.
When he had in some measure recovered from his surprise, the
miller said: “We looked not for thy coming so soon, Dick, but maybe
'tis as well that thou 'rt here.”
“How could I be away from here unless I had hastened to meet
Mr. Wesley on his way hither?” said Pritchard. “I have been
trembling with desire to have his ear for the past week. It is laid on
me to exhort him on some matters that he neglected. These matters
can be neglected no longer.”
The miller looked at Jake Pullsford, and the latter sat aghast. He
was so astounded that he could only stare at Pritchard, with his
hands on his knees and his head in its usual poise, craning forward.
Some moments had passed before he succeeded in gasping out,
after one or two false starts:
“You—you—you—Dick Pritchard—you talk of exhorting Mr. Wesley?
Oh, poor fellow! poor fellow! Now, indeed, we know that you are
mad!”
 “Mr. Wesley should ha' found out the gift that is mine,” said
Pritchard, quite ignoring the somewhat frank utterance of the carrier.
“I suspected myself during several months of having that great gift
of prophecy.'Twas no more than a suspicion for some time, and I
dare not speak before I was sure.”
“And what made thee sure, Dick?” asked the miller.
“'Twas reading how the great prophet, Moses, made water flow
from the rock,” replied Pritchard. “'What,' said I to my own self.
'What, Richard Pritchard, hath not all thy life been spent in
performing that great miracle of Moses, and hast not known the
greatness of thy gift?' And then I made search and found that water-
finding has been the employment of most of the great prophets,
Elijah being the foremost. Like to a flash from a far-off cannon gun,
that reaches the eyes before ever the sound of the boom comes
upon the ear, the truth was revealed to me. I knew then that the gift
of the Tishbite was mine.”
It was Jake Pullsford who now looked at the miller. The miller
shook his head.
“'Twould not matter much what you thought of yourself, Dick,”
said the miller, “if only you had not been admitted to our fellowship;
but things being as they be—-”
He shook his head again.
“What overcomes me is the thought of thy former habit of life,
Dick,” said the carrier. “Why, up to a month agone, a man more
modest, shy and tame speaking, wasn't to be found in all the West
Country. Why, man, I've seen thee sweat at the sound of thine own
voice, like as if thou hadst been a thief a-hearing o' the step of an
officer! Meek! Meek is no name for it! I give thee my word that it oft
made me think shame of all manhood in the world to hear thee
make apology for a plain truth that, after all, thou wast too bashful
to utter!”
“You could not see my heart, Miller,” said Pritchard. “'Twas only
that I was humble in voice; I know now that in spirit I was puffed up
with pride, so that I could hardly contain myself. But even after the
truth came upon me in that flash, I was ready to treat the likes of
you, Miller—ay, even the likes of thee, Jake Pullsford, as mine equal,
so affable a heart had I by birth.”
“You promoted yourself a bit, Dick,” remarked the miller. “But I've
always observed that when a man tells another in that affable way
that he regards the other as his equal, he fancies in the inwardness
of his heart, that he is far above the one he gives such an assurance
to.”
“I feel a sort of light of knowledge within me ready to break forth
and tell me a wonderful reply to that remark of yours, Miller,” said
Pritchard. “Tarry a while, and give me time for the light to-break
forth with fulness, and you'll be rewarded; friends, you will hear a
reply that will make you all stand back in amaze, and marvel, as I
have done, how noble a thing is the gift of speech—saying a phrase
or two that makes the flesh of man tingle. All I ask is time. It may
not come to me within the hour, but——”
“Here's one that hath come to thee, my man, and he will listen to
all you have to say: I hear the sound of his horse on the lane,” cried
the miller.
Jake Pullsford sprang from the settle, and strained himself to look
out of the window.
“Right; 'tis Mr. Wesley, in very deed,” he said.
“That's as should be,” cried Pritchard, with an air of satisfaction
that made the others feel the more astonished.
And when Wesley had entered and greeted his-friends, including
the water-finder, they were a good deal more astonished at the
attitude taken by Pritchard. Without wasting time over preliminaries,
he assumed that Wesley had come to the Mill in order not to
admonish him, but to be admonished by him. Before Mr. Wesley had
time to say more than a word, Pritchard had become fluent on the
subject of the preacher's responsibilities. It was not for Mr. Wesley to
go wandering in the uttermost parts of Cornwall, he said; he should
have remained at Porthawn to consolidate the work that he had
begun; had he done so until he had gathered in every soul, the Lord
might have been as merciful to the world as He had been to Nineveh
in the days of Jonah. But Mr. Wesley had, like Jonah, fled from his
duty, and the next Monday was to be the Day of Judgment.
Wesley listened gravely until the man got upon his feet and with
an outstretched finger toward him, cried:
“I have been mocked by some, and held in silent despite by others
—all of them professing to be of the Household of Faith, because the
Spirit of prophecy came upon me, and I announced the truth. Nor,
Mr. Wesley, will you dare to join with the disbelievers and say
straight out that the first Monday will not be the Last Day that will
dawn on this world?”
“No,” said Wesley, “I would not be so presumptuous as to lay
claim to any knowledge that would entitle me to speak on a subject
of such awful import. 'Ye know not the day nor the hour'—those
were the words of our Lord, and anyone who makes profession of
knowing either, commits a grievous sin.”
“Ay, anyone but me,” said Pritchard. “But the revelation was made
to me—I take no glory to myself. The great and terrible Day of the
Lord cometh next Monday, and they shall cry unto the rocks to fall
on them and the mountains to cover them. What other place could
that refer to if not Ruthallion and Porthawn; is't not that Buthallion is
in the heart of the hills and Porthawn the place of rocks?”
With all gentleness Wesley spoke to the man of the great need
there was for caution on the part of anyone venturing to assign
times and seasons to such prophecies as had been uttered
respecting the mystery of the Last Judgment. He tried to show him
that however strong his own conviction was on the subject of the
Revelation, he should hold his peace, for fear of a mistake being
made and enemies being afforded a reason for railing against the
cause which they all had at heart. The interpretation of prophecy, he
said, was at all times difficult and should certainly not be lightly
attempted even by those men who had spent all their lives dealing
with the subject, with the light of history to guide them. Nothing
could exceed the tact, patience and gentleness with which the
pastor pleaded with this erring one of his flock—the miller and Jake
Pullsford were amazed at his forbearance; they learned a lesson
from him which they never forgot. He was patient and said no word
of offence all the time that they were waxing irritable at the
foolishness of the man who sat shaking his head now and again, and
pursing out his lips after the manner of pig-headed ignorance when
objecting to the wisdom of experience.
It was all to no purpose that Wesley spoke. The man listened, but
criticised with the smile of incredulous superiority on his face almost
all the time that Wesley was speaking—it varied only when he was
shaking his head, and then throwing it back defiantly. It was all to
no purpose.
“You are right, Mr. Wesley, in some ways,” he cried. “But you talk
of the interpretation of prophecy. Well, that is within your sphere,
and I durstn't stop you so far. Ay, but I am not an interpreter of
prophecy—I am the very prophet himself. Friends, said not I the
truth to you this hour past—how I felt as it were a burst of flame
within me, whereby I knew that I had been possessed of the spirit
of prophecy? The gift of water-finding, which has been mine since
my youth, was only bestowed upon the major prophets, Moses being
the chief; and when I read of Elijah, who in the days of the grievous
water famine was enabled by the exercise of his gift, and guided by
the hand of the Lord, to find water—even the running brook Chereth
—in the midst of a land that was dusty dry, all unworthy doubt was
set at rest. Is it not written that Elijah, the prophet, was to come
back to earth to warn the people of the Great Day being at hand?”
“Dear friend, stay thy tongue for a moment—say not words that
might not be forgiven thee even by the Most Merciful,” cried Wesley.
“You are a great preacher and a faithful servant—up to a certain
point, Mr. Wesley; but you are not as I am,” replied Pritchard firmly,
but not without a tone of tenderness. “You are a preacher; I am the
prophet. I have spoken as Jonah spoke to the men of Nineveh: 'Yet
forty days and Nineveh shall be overthrown.' 'In eleven days the
world shall be overthrown,' said I, feeling the flame within me.”
 “The people of Nineveh repented and the destruction was
averted,” said Wesley. “Have there been signs of a great repentance
among the people who got tidings of your prediction?”
“My prophecy has everywhere been received with ridicule,” replied
the man proudly.
“I can testify to that,” said Jake Pullsford. “I travel about, as you
know, and I hear much of what is talked over from here to Devon,
and only for a few light-headed women—ready to believe that the
moon was the sun if they were told so from the pulpit—only for
these, it might be said that Dick's foolishness would ha' fallen on
ears as deaf as an adders.”
“I, myself, can bear witness to the evil effect that has been
produced among a people who were, I hoped, ready for the sowing
of the good seed,” said Wesley. “It was a great sorrow to me to hear
the lightness of talk—the offer of wagers—the excuse of
drunkenness—all the result of Richard Pritchard's indiscretion.”
“And everywhither it has been received as coming from us—from
us whom you have instructed in the Truth, sir,” said Jake. “'Tis not
Dick Pritchard that has been ridiculed, but we whom they call
Methodists. That is the worst of it.”
“And now that I have paved the way for you, the preacher, Mr.
Wesley, you will be able for three days to exhort the people to
repentance,” said Pritchard, with the air of a man accustomed to
give advice on grave matters, with confidence that his advice would
be followed.
“My duty is clear,” said Wesley. “I shall have to disclaim all
sympathy with the statements made by Richard Pritchard. Souls are
not to be terrorised to seek salvation. I am not one of those
ministers who think that the painting of lurid pictures of the
destruction of the earth and all that is therein the best way of
helping poor sinners. Nay, there have come under mine own eyes
many instances of the very temporary nature of conversions brought
about by that paradox of the gospel of terror. But need we look for
guidance any further away than the history of Jonah and the
Ninevites? The prophet preached destruction, and the people
repented. But how long did the change last? The fire and brimstone
had to be rained down upon them before the sackcloth that they
assumed was worn out.”
“On Monday the fire and brimstone will overwhelm the whole
world, and woe be to him that preacheth not from that text till
then!” cried Pritchard. He was standing at one end of the table
facing the window that had a western aspect, and as he spoke, the
flaming beams of the sinking sun streamed through the glass and
along the table until they seemed to envelop him. In spite of the
smallness of his stature he seemed, with the sunbeams striking him,
to possess some heroic elements. The hand that he uplifted was thin
and white, and it trembled in the light. His face was illuminated, not
from without only; his eyes were large and deep, and they seemed
staring at some object just outside the window.
Watching him thus, everyone in the room turned toward the
window—Wesley was the only exception; he kept his eyes fixed upon
the man at the foot of the table. He saw his eyes move as if they
were following the movements of someone outside, and their
expression varied strangely. But they were the eyes of a man who is
the slave of his nerves—of a visionary who is carried away by his
own ill-balanced imagination—of the mystic who can see what he
wishes to see.
Wesley was perplexed watching this man whose nature seemed to
have completely changed within the month. He had had a good deal
of strange experience of nervous phases, both in men and women
who had been overcome by his preaching, but he had never before
met with a case that was so strange as this. The man was no
impostor; an impostor would have been easy to deal with. He was a
firm believer in his own mission and in his own powers, and therein
lay the difficulty of suppressing him.
And while Wesley watched him, and everyone else seemed striving
to catch a glimpse of the object on which the man's eyes were fixed,
the light suddenly passed out of his eyes and they became like those
of a newly dead man, staring blankly at that vision which comes
before the sight of a soul that is in the act of passing from the earth
into the great unknown Space. There he stood with his hand still
upraised, and that look of nothingness in his staring eyes..
Wesley sprang up from the table to support him when he fell, and
he appeared to be tottering after the manner of a man who has
been shot through the heart while on his feet; and Wesley's
movement caused the others to turn toward the man.
In a second the miller was behind him with outstretched arms
ready to support him. Pritchard did not fall just then, however.
Breathlessly and in a strained silence, the others watched him while
he swayed to the extent of a hand's breadth from side to side, still
with his hand upraised and rigid. For some minutes—it might have
been five—he stood thus, and in the end he did not collapse. He
went slowly and rigidly backward into Wesley's arms, and then down
into his own chair, his eyes still open—still blankly staring, devoid of
all expression.
“Dead—can he be dead?” whispered Jake, slipping a hand under
his waistcoat.
Wesley shook his head.
“He is not dead, but in a trance,” he replied.
 CHAPTER XII

F
or half an hour the four men in that room sat watching with
painful interest the one who sat motionless in the chair at the
end of the table. There was not one of them that had not a
feeling of being a watcher by the side of a bed on which a dead
body was lying. Not a word was exchanged between them. In the
room there was a complete silence—the silence of a death chamber.
The sound of the machinery of the mill—the creaking of the wooden
wheels, and the rumbling of the grindstones—went on in dull
monotony in the mill, and from the kitchen, beyond the oaken door,
there came the occasional clink of a pan or kettle; and outside the
building there was the clank of the horses of a waggon, and the loud
voices of the waggoners talking to the men in one of the lofts, and
now and again directing the teams. A cock was crowing drowsily at
intervals in the poultry run, and once there was a quacking squabble
amongst the ducks on the Mill race. And then, with the lowing of the
cows that were being driven to the milking shed, came the laughter
of a girl, passing the waggoners.
But in the room there was silence, and soon the dimness of
twilight.
And then John Wesley prayed in a low voice.

Enough light remained in the room to allow those watchers to see

when consciousness returned to the man's eyes: he was facing the
window. But before the expression of death changed to that of life,
his arm, that was still stiffly outstretched, and seeming all the more
awkward since he had ceased to be on his feet, fell with a startling
thud upon the edge of the table. It was as if a dead man had made
a movement. Then his eyes turned upon each in the room in turn.
He drew a long breath.
“You are among friends, Dick; how feel you, my man?” said Jake
Pullsford, laying his hand upon Pritchard's that had fallen upon the
table.
“I saw it again—clear—quite clear, Jake,” said Pritchard.
“What saw ye, friend Dick?” asked Jake.
“The vision—the Vision of Patmos. The heavens rolled together
like a scroll—blackness at first—no mind o' man ever conceived of
such blackness—the plague of Egypt was snow-white to compare.
And then 'twas all flame—flame—flame. The smith's furnace hath
but a single red eye of fire, but its sharp brightness stings like a
wasp. But this—oh, millions upon millions of furnace eyes, and every
eye accusing the world beneath. Who can live with everlasting
burning?—that was what the Voice cried—I know not if it was the
strong angel, or him that rode upon the White Horse, but I heard it,
and all the world heard it, and the most dreadful and most
unusuallest thing of all was the sight of that White Horse, plunging
and pawing with all the fiery flames around it and above and below!
And the Voice said, 'There shall be no more sea,' and forthwith all
the tide that had been flowing in hillocks into Porthawn and teasing
the pebbles where the shallows be, and lapping the Dog's Teeth
reef, wimpling around the spikes—all that tide of water, I say, began
to move out so that every eye could see it move, and the spikes o'
the reef began to grow as the water fell, till the bases of the rocks
appeared with monstrous weeds, thick as coiled snakes, and
crawling shells, monstrous mighty that a man might live in; and then
I saw the slime of the deep, thick as pitch and boiling and bubbling
with the heat below, even as pitch boils over the brazier when the
boats lie bottom up on the beach. And then I saw a mighty ship
lying in the ooze—a ship that had become a wreck, maybe a
hundred years agone, half the timbers rotted from the bends so that
she was like some monster o' the deep with its long ridges of ribs
showing fleshless as a skeleton. And then the Voice cried, 'The Sea
gave up its Dead.'... You shall see it for yourselves on Monday—ay,
all that came before mine eyes.'Twas Mr. Wesley preached on the
great moving among the dry bones—they were dry in that valley, but
in the dread secret depths where the sea had been these were damp
with the slime of ages, and they crawled together, bone unto bone,
throwing off the bright green seaweeds that overlaid them like
shrouds of thin silk. They stood up together all in the flesh, and I
noted that their skin was the yellow pale skin of the drowned, like
the cheeks of a female who holds a candle in her hands and shades
the flame with one of her palms. Flame—I saw them all by the light
of the flaming sky, and some of them put up their saffron hands
between their faces and the flame, but the light shone through their
flesh as you have seen the sun shine through a sere leaf of chestnut
in the autumn.”
He stopped suddenly and drew a long breath. For some moments
he breathed heavily. No one in the room spoke. A boy went past the
door outside whistling.
When the man spoke again it was in a whisper. He turned to
Wesley.
“Mr. Wesley, I knew not that I had the gift until I heard you
preach,” he said. “I only suspected now and again when I felt the
twitchings of the twig between my hands when I was finding the
water, that I was not as other men; but when I heard you preach
and saw how you carried all who listened away upon your words as
though they were not words, but a wave of the sea, and the natural
people the flotsam of the waste, I felt my heart swell within me by
reason of the knowledge that I had been chosen to proclaim
something great beyond even all that you could teach. And now 'tis
left for you to stand by my side and tell all that have ears to hear to
prepare for the Great Day. It is coming—Monday. I would that we
had a longer space, Sir, for, were it so, my name would go forth
through all the world as yours has done—nay, with more honour, for
a prophet is ahead of the mere preacher. But you will do your best
for the world in the time allowed to us, will you not, Mr. Wesley?”
 He laid his hand on one of Wesley's, firmly and kindly.
“My poor brother!” said Wesley gently. “God forgive me if I have
been the means of causing hurt to even the weakest of my brethren.
Let us live, dear brother, as if our days in the world were not to be
longer than this week, giving our thoughts not to ourselves, but to
God; seeking for no glory to attach to our poor names, but only to
the Name at which every knee must bow. Humility—let us strive
after humility. What are we but dust?”
The man looked at him—there was still some light in the room—
and after the lapse of a few moments he said:
“You have spoke a great truth, Mr. Wesley. Humility is for all of us.
Pray that I may attain it, brother. It should come easy enough to
some that we know, but for such as you and me, especially me, dear
brother, 'tis not so easy. The gift of prophecy surely raises a humble
man into circumstances so lofty that he is above the need for any
abject demeanour. Ay, now that I reflect on't, I am not sure that I
have any right to be humble. 'Twould be like flouting a gift in the
face of the giver. 'Twould be like a servant wearing a ragged coat
when his master hath provided him with a fine suit of livery.”
He had risen from his place, and now he remarked that the
evening had come and he had far to travel. He gave Wesley his
hand, nodded to the others and went through the door without
another word.
The men whom he left in the room drew long breaths. One of
them—the farmer—made a sound with his tongue against his teeth
as one might do when a child too young to know better breaks a
saucer. The miller gave an exclamation that went still further,
showing more of contempt and less of pity. Mr. Hartwell, the mine-
owner, who was a quiet, well-read man, said:
“I have heard of cases like to his; I have been reading of revivals,
as some call such an awakening as has taken place through Mr.
Wesley's preaching, and every one of them has been followed by the
appearance of men not unlike Dick Pritchard in temper—men who
lose themselves in their zeal—get out of their depth—become seized
by an ambition to teach others before they themselves have got
through the primer.”
“For me, I call to mind naught but the magic men of Egypt,” said
Jake Pullsford. “They were able to do by their traffic with the Evil
One all that Moses did by miracle. I always had my doubts about the
power that Dick Pritchard professed—finding water by the help of his
wand of hazel—as 'twere a wizard's wand—maybe the staves of the
Egyptian sorcerers were of hazel—I shouldn't wonder. And now he
falls into a trance and says he sees a vision, equalling himself to St.
John at Patmos! For myself I say that I never knew of a truly godly
man falling into a trance. My grandfather—you are old enough to
remember him, farmer?”
“I mind him well—pretty stiff at a bargain up to the end,” said the
farmer with a side nod of acquiescence.
“We be talking of the same man,” resumed the miller. “Well, I say
that he told me of one such mystical vision seer that came from
Dorset in his young days, and he saw so many things that he was at
last tried for sorcery and burnt in the marketplace. Ah, those were
the days when men wasn't allowed by law to go so far as they do
now-a-days. Why, 'tis only rarely that we hear of a witch burning in
these times.”
Wesley held up his hand.
“I had my misgivings in regard to Pritchard from the first,” he said.
“And when I got news that he had been causing you trouble I felt
that he had indeed been an agent of the Evil One. But now—God
forbid that I should judge him in haste. I scarce know what to think
about him. I have heard of holy men falling into trances and
afterwards saying things that were profitable to hear. I am in doubt.
I must pray for guidance.”
“The man is to be pitied,” said Mr. Hartwell.
“You heard the uplifted way he talked at the last—like a fool full of
his own conceit? Have you heard yet, Mr. Wesley, what an effect his
prediction has had upon the country?”
 “I heard naught of it until I had entered the parlour at the inn
where I dined to-day, but I think I heard enough to allow of my
forming some notion of the way his prediction was received. Some
were jocular over it, a few grave, and a large number ribald.”
“You have described what I myself have noticed, sir,” said Mr.
Hartwell. “Only so far as I can see there are a large number who are
well-nigh mad through fear. Now what we may be sure of is that
these people, when Monday passes, will turn out open scoffers at
the truth. And you may be certain that your opponents will only be
too glad of the opportunity thereby afforded them of discrediting
your labours; they will do their best to make Methodism responsible
for the foolishness and vanity of that man?”
“I perceived that that would be so the moment I got your letter,”
said Wesley. “And yet—I tell you, brethren, that I should be slow to
attribute any imposture to this man, especially since I have heard
him speak in this room. He believes that he has been endowed by
Heaven with the gift of prophecy.”
“And he only acknowledges it to boast,” said Mr. Hartwell. “It is his
foolish boasting that I abhor most, knowing, as I do full well, that
every word that comes from him will be used against us, and tend to
cast discredit upon the cause which we have at heart.”
Wesley perceived how true was this view of the matter, but still he
remained uncertain what course to adopt in the circumstances. He
knew that it was the fervour of his preaching that had affected
Pritchard, as it had others; he had heard reports of the spread of a
religious mania at Bristol after he had preached there for some time;
but he had always succeeded in tracing such reports to those
persons who had ridiculed his services. This wras the first time that
he was brought face to face with one who had been carried away by
his zeal to a point of what most people would be disposed to term
madness.
He had known that there would be considerable difficulty dealing
with the case of Pritchard, but he had also believed that the man
would become submissive if remonstrated with. It had happened,
however, that, so far from becoming submissive, Pritchard had
reasserted himself, and with so much effect that Wesley found
himself sympathising with him—pitying him, and taking his part in
the face of the others who were apparently but little affected by the
impassioned account the man had given of his vision when in the
trance.
It was not until the night had fallen that they agreed with Wesley
that it might be well to wait for a day or two in order that he should
become acquainted with some of the effects of the prediction, and
thus be in a position to judge whether or not he should take steps to
dissociate himself and his mission from the preaching of the man
Pritchard.
He had not, however, gone further than Port-hawn the next day
before he found out that the impression produced by the definite
announcement that the Day of Judgment was but forty-eight hours
off was very much deeper than he had fancied. He found the whole
neighbourhood seething with excitement over the prophecy. It had
been made by Pritchard, he learned, in the course of a service which
had been held in a field on the first Sunday after Wesley's departure,
and it had been heard by more than a thousand of the people whom
Wesley's preaching had aroused from lethargy to a living sense of
responsibility. Religious fervour had taken hold upon the inhabitants
of valley and coast, and under its influence extravagance and
exuberance were rife. Only at such a time would Pritchard's new-
found fervour have produced any lasting impression, but in the
circumstances his assumption of the mantle of the prophet and his
delivery of the solemn warning had had among the people the effect
of a firebrand flung among straw. He had shouted his words of fire
to an inflammable audience, and his picture of the imminent terror
had overwhelmed them. The shrieks of a few hysterical women
completed what his prediction had begun, and before the evening
the valley of the Lana was seething with the news that the world
was coming to an end within the month.
All this Wesley heard before he left the Mill, and before he had
ridden as far as the coast village he had ample confirmation of the
accuracy of the judgment of his friends, who had assured him that
the cause which they had at heart was likely to suffer through the
vanity of Pritchard. He also perceived that the man had good reason
for being puffed up on observing the effect of his deliverance. In a
moment he had leaped into notoriety from being a nonentity. It
seemed as if he had been ashamed of hearing his own voice a short
time before, and this fact only made him appear a greater marvel to
himself as well as to the people who had heard him assume the
character of a prophet of fire and brimstone. It was no wonder,
Wesley acknowledged, that the man's head had been turned.
The worst of the matter was that he was referred, to by nearly all
the countryside as Wesley's deputy. Even the most devoted of
Wesley's hearers seemed to have accepted Pritchard as the
exponent of the methods adopted by Wesley to get the ears of the
multitude. In their condition of blind fervour they were unable to
differentiate between the zeal of the one to convey to them the
living Truth and the excess of the other. They were in the condition
of the French mob, who, fifty years later, after being stirred by an
orator, might have gone to think over their wrongs for another
century had not a madman lighted a torch and pointed to the
Bastille.
It was only to be expected that the opponents of the great
awakening begun by Wesley should point to the extravagance of
Pritchard and call it the natural development of Methodism. Wesley's
crusade had been against the supineness of the Church of England,
they said; but how much more preferable was this supineness to the
blasphemy of Methodism as interpreted by the charlatan who
arrogated to himself the power of a prophet!
He was pained as he had rarely been since his American accusers
had forced him to leave Georgia, when he found what a hold the
prediction had got on the people. He had evidence of the extent of
Pritchard's following even during his ride to Port-hawn. At the cross
roads, not two miles from the Mill, he came upon a large crowd
being preached to by a man whom he had never seen before, and
the text was the Judgment Day. The preacher was fervid and
illiterate. He became frantic, touching upon the terror that was to
come on Monday; and his hearers were shrieking—men as, well as
women. Some lay along the ground sobbing wildly, others sang a
verse of a hymn in frenzy.
Further along the road a woman was preaching repentance—in
another two days it would be too late; and in the next ditch a young
woman was making a mock of her, putting a ribald construction
upon what she was saying. Further on still he came to a tavern,
outside which there was a large placard announcing that the world
would only last till Monday, and having unfortunately a large stock of
beer and rum in fine condition, the innkeeper was selling off the
stock at a huge reduction in the price of every glass of liquor.
Wesley had no difficulty in perceiving the man's generosity was
being appreciated. The bar was crowded with uproarious men and
women, and some were lying helpless on the stones of the yard.
On the wall of a disused smithy a mile or two nearer the coast
there was chalked up the inscription:
“The Methodys have bro' about the Ende of the World. Who will
bring about the Ende of the Methodys? Downe with them all, I saye.”
He rode sadly onward, with bowed head. He felt humiliated,
feeling that the object for which he lived was humiliated.
And the worst of the matter was, he saw, that these people who
were making a mock of the Truth, some consciously, others
unconsciously, were not in a condition to lend an ear to any
remonstrance that might come from him. The attitude assumed by
Pritchard was, Wesley knew, typical of that which would be taken up
by his followers, and the mockers would only be afforded a new
subject for ridicule.
“Is it I—is it I who am an unprofitable servant?” he cried out of
the depth of his despondency. “Is it I that have been the cause of
the enemy's blasphemy? What have I done that I should be made a
witness of this wreckage of all that I hoped to see accomplished
through my work?”
 For some time he felt as did the man who cried “It is enough! I
am not better than my fellows.”
He let his rein drop on his horse's neck when approaching the
house where he was to be a guest. The day was one of grey mists
rolling from the sea through the valley, spreading wisps of gauze
over the higher slopes, which soon whirled into muslin scarfs with an
occasional ostrich plume shot through with sunshine. At times a
cataract of this grey sea vapour would plunge over the slopes of a
gorge and spread abroad into a billowy lake that swirled round the
basin of the valley and then suddenly lifted, allowing a cataract of
sunshine to pour down into the hollows which were dewy damp from
the mist.
It was a strange atmosphere with innumerable changes from
minute to minute.
“For me the shadows of the mist—the shadows touched by no ray
of sunshine,” he cried when he felt the cold salt breath of the vapour
upon his face.
And then he bowed his head and prayed that the shadows might
flee away and the Daystar arise once more to lighten the souls of
the people as he had hoped that they would be enlightened.
When he unclosed his eyes, after that solemn space in which a
man stretches out weak hands, “groping blindly in the darkness,”
hoping that they will touch God's right hand in that darkness and be
guided into a right path, he saw the tall figure of a man standing on
a crag watching him.
The man had the aspect of a statue of stone looking out of a whirl
of sea-mist.
Wesley saw that it was Bennet, the man by whom he had been
met when he was walking through this Talley for the first time with
Nelly Polwhele. He had heard a great deal about the man during the
few weeks that he had sojourned in the neighbourhood. He found
that he was a man of some education—certainly with a far more
intimate knowledge of the classics than was possessed by most of
the parsons west of Exeter. He had been a schoolmaster in
Somerset, but his erratic habits had prevented him from making any
position for himself. He had become acquainted with Nelly Polwhele
at Bristol, and his devotion to her amounted almost to a madness. It
was all to no purpose that she refused to listen to him; he renewed
his suit in season and out of season until his persistence amounted
to persecution. Of course Nelly found many self-constituted
champions, and Bennet was attacked and beaten more than once
when off his guard. When, however, he was prepared for their
assault he had shown himself to be more than a match for the best
of them. The fact that he had disabled for some weeks two of his
assailants did not make him any more popular than he had been in
the neighbourhood.
There he stood looking at Wesley, and there he remained for
several minutes, looking more than ever like a grey stone figure on a
rough granite pedestal.
It was not until Wesley had put his horse in motion that the man
held up one hand, saying:
“Give me one minute, Mr. Wesley. I know that you are not afraid
of me. Why should you be?”
“Why, indeed?” said Wesley. “I know not why I should fear you,
seeing that I fear no man who lives on this earth?”
“You came hither with a great blowing of trumpets, Mr. Wesley,”
said the man. “You were the one that was to overthrow all the old
ways of the Church—you were to make such a noise as would cause
the good old dame to awake from her slumber of a century. Well,
you did cause her to awake; but the noise that you made awoke
more than that good mother, the Church of England—it aroused a
demon or two that had been slumbering in these valleys, and they
began to show what they could do. They did not forget their ancient
trick—an angel of light—isn't that the wiliest sorcery of our ancient
friend, the Devil, Mr. Wesley?”
“You should know, if you are his servant sent to mock me,” said
Wesley.
 “You have taught the people a religion of emotion, and can you
wonder that the Enemy has taken up your challenge and gone far
beyond you in the same direction? He found a ready tool and a
ready fool in your ardent disciple with the comical Welsh name—
Richard Pritchard, to wit. He has shown the people that you were
too tame, and the water-finder hath found fire to be more attractive
as a subject than insipid water. You are beaten out of the field, Mr.
Wesley. As usual, the pupil hath surpassed the master, and you find
yourself in the second place.”
Wesley sat with his head bent down to his horse's neck. He made
no reply to the man's scoff; what to him was the scoffing of this
man? When one is sitting in the midst of the ruins of his house what
matters it if the wind blows over one a handful of dust off the
roadside?
“John Wesley, the preacher, hath been deposed, and Pritchard, the
prophet, reigns in his stead,” the man went on. “Ay, and all the day
you have been saying to yourself, 'What have I done to deserve this?
What have I done to deserve this?' Dare you deny it, O preacher of
the Gospel of Truth?”
Wesley bowed his head once more.
“Mayhap you found no answer ready,” Bennet cried. “Then I'll let
you into the secret, John Wesley. You are being rightly punished
because you have been thinking more of the love of woman than of
the Love of God.”
Wesley's head remained bent no longer.
“What mean you by that gibe, man?” he cried.
“Ask your own heart what I mean,” said the man fiercely. “Your
own heart knows full well that you sought to win the love of the
woman who walked with you on this road little more than a month
ago, and who ministered to you on the day of your great preaching
—you took her love from those to whom she owed it, and you have
cherished, albeit you know that she can never be a wife to you.”
“The Lord rebuke thee,” said Wesley, when the man made a
pause.
 “Nay, 'tis on you that the rebuke has fallen, and you know it, John
Wesley,” cried Bennet, more fiercely than ever. “Nelly Polwhele would
have come to love me in time had not you come between us—that I
know—I know it, I tell you, I know it—my love for her is so
overwhelming that she would not have been able to hold out against
it. But you came, and—answer me, man: when it was written to you
that you were to return hither in hot haste to combat the folly of
Pritchard, did not your heart exult with the thought singing through
it, 'I shall see her again—I shall be beside her once more'?”
Wesley started so that his horse sprang forward and the man
before him barely escaped being knocked down. But Bennet did not
even pretend that he fancied Wesley intended riding him down. He
only laughed savagely, saying:
“That start of yours tells me that I know what is in your heart
better than you do yourself. Well, it hath made a revelation to you
now, Mr. Wesley, and if you are wise you will profit by it. I tell you
that if you think of her again you are lost—you are lost. The first
rebuke has fallen upon you from above.'Tis a light one. But what will
the second be? Ponder upon that question, sir. Know that even now
she is softening toward me. Come not between us again. Man, the
love of woman is not for such as you, least of all the love of a child
whose heart is as the heart of the Spring season quivering with the
joy of life. Now ride on, sir, and ask your reason if I have not
counselled you aright.”
He had spoken almost frantically at first; but his voice had fallen:
he had become almost calm while uttering his last sentences.
He took off his hat, stepped to one side, and pointed down the
road. He kept his arm stretched out and his fingers as an index,
while Wesley looked at him, as if about to make a reply.
But if Wesley meant to speak he relinquished his intention. He
looked at the man without a word, and without breaking the silence,
urged his horse forward and rode slowly away.
 CHAPTER XIII

J
ohn Wesley had ample food for thought for the remainder of his
journey. He knew that the man who had appeared to him so
suddenly out of the mist had for some time been on the brink of
madness through his wild passion for Nelly Pol-whele, which brought
about a frenzy of jealousy in respect of any man whom he saw near
the girl. The fierceness of his gibes was due to this madness of his.
But had the wretch stumbled in his blindness over a true thing? Was
it the truth that he, Wesley, had all. unknown to himself drawn that
girl close to him by a tenderer cord than that which had caused her
to minister to his needs after he had preached his first great
sermon?
The very idea of such a thing happening was startling to him. It
would have seemed shocking to him if it had not seemed incredible.
How was it possible, he asked himself, that that girl could have been
drawn to love him? What was he to attract the love of such a young
woman? He was in all matters save only one, cold and austere. He
knew that his austereness had been made the subject of ridicule—of
caricature—at Oxford and Bath and elsewhere. He had been called
lugubrious by reason of his dwelling so intently on the severer side
of life, and he had never thought it necessary to defend himself from
such charges. He was sure that they were not true.
That was the manner of man that he was, and this being so, how
was it possible that he should ever draw to himself the love of such
a bright creature as Nelly Polwhele? What was she? Why, the very
opposite to him in every respect. She was vivacious—almost
frivolous; she had taken a delight in all the gaieties of life—why, the
first time he saw her she had been in the act of imitating a notorious
play-actress, and, what made it worse, she was playing the part
extremely well. To be sure she had taken his reproof with an
acknowledgment that it was deserved, and she had of her own free
will and under no pressure from him promised that she would never
again enter a playhouse; but still he knew that the desire for such
gaieties was not eradicated from her nature. It would be unnatural
to suppose' that it was. In short, she had nothing in common with
him, and to fancy that she had seen anything in him to attract her
love would be to fancy the butterfly in rapture around a thistle.
Oh, it was incredible that such a thing should happen. The notion
was the outcome of the jealousy of that wretch. Why, the first time
that the man had seen them together had he not burst out on them,
accusing him of stealing away the child's affection, although he had
not been ten minutes by her side?
Of course the notion was preposterous. He felt that it was so, and
at the same moment that this conviction came to him, he was
conscious of a little feeling of sadness to think that it was so. The
more certain he became on the matter the greater was the regret
that he felt.
Was it curious that he should dwell upon what the man had said
last rather than upon what he had said first? But some time had
passed before he recalled the charge that Bennet had brought
against him almost immediately after they had met—the charge of
having Nelly Polwhele in his thoughts rather than the work with
which he had been entrusted by his Maker. The man had accused
him of loving the girl, and declared that his present trouble was the
rebuke that he had earned.
He had been startled by this accusation. Was that because he did
not know all that was in his own heart? Could it be possible that he
loved Nelly Polwhele? Once before he had asked himself this
question, and he had not been able to assure himself as to how it
should be answered, before he received that letter calling him back
to this neighbourhood; and all thoughts that did not bear upon the
subject of that' letter were swept from his mind. He knew that he
heard in his ear a quick whisper that said:
“You will be beside her again within four days;” but only for a
single second had that thought taken possession of him. It had
come to him with the leap up of a candle flame before it is
extinguished. That thought had been quenched at the moment of its
exuberance, and now he knew that this accusation brought against
him was false; not once—not for a single moment, even when riding
far into the evening through the lonely places of the valley where he
might have looked to feel cheered by such a thought, had his heart
whispered to him:
“You will be beside her again within four days.”
She had not come between him and the work which he had to do.
But now the man had said to him all that brought back his
thoughts to Nelly Polwhele; and having, as he fancied, answered the
question which he put to him respecting her loving him, he found
himself face to face with the Question of the possibility of his loving
her.
It came upon him with the force of a blow; the logical outcome of
his first reflections:
“If I found it incredible that she could have any affection for me
because we have nothing in common, is not the same reason
sufficient to convince me that it is impossible I could love her?”
He was exceedingly anxious to assure himself that the feeling
which he had for her was not the love which a man has for a
woman; but he did not feel any great exultation on coming to this
logical conclusion of his consideration of the question which had
been suggested to him by the accusations of Bennet; on the
contrary, he was conscious of a certain plaintive note in the midst of
all his logic—a plaintive human note—the desire of a good man for
the love of a good woman. He felt very lonely riding down that valley
of sea-mist permeated not with the cold of the sea, but with the
warmth of the sunlight that struck some of the highest green ridges
of the slopes above him. His logic had led him only into his barren
loneliness, until his sound mental training, which compelled him to
examine an argument from every standpoint, asserted itself and he
found that his logic was carrying him on still further, for now it was
saying to him: