ART. L-HENRY B. BASCOM
Ar about eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, in May, 1832, I stood in a huddled group of impatient men and women in front of the old St. George's Methodist Church, on Fourth-street, below New, in Philadelphia, waiting for the doors of the quaint edifice to be opened. By nine o'clock the crowd was numbered by hundreds, and thronged the street. and when at last the doors were opened the rush that followed was fearful. Within a few minutes every seat in the house was taken; the passages, and even windows, were filled by people of all sorts and conditions, who sat or stood two hours longer, awaiting the beginning of the service at eleven o'clock. The preacher had to enter the church through a window at