CHAPTER XXIX.

A Mission to the North.

1855.

HEN my family were all comfortably settled and surrounded by kind friends, I went off to the north of England, on a visit to a clergyman, who

had invited me. He had already suffered for doing this on a previous occasion, in the diocese of Oxford; where the bishop took away his licence, because he had me to preach for him. The real cause of offence was, that there was a revival in the parish; and complaint was made to the bishop, that people were kept up till "all hours of the night, howling and praying." His lordship sent forthwith for my friend's licence; I advised him to send it, saying, "He will be sure to return it to you; but perhaps with a reprimand." Instead of this, the bishop kept it, and said that he would countersign his testimonials to go to another diocese. My friend was at first disgusted and disposed to rebel; but instead of this, he bore the treatment patiently; and went to another position and charge at G, in the north of England.

Thither, nothing afraid, he invited me to come. In this part of the country I found a hearty lively people, some

AT EDWARD'S GRAVE.

thing like the Cornish.

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Here I soon regained my spirits,

and got to work in right earnest.

In this place a revival began at once; and every day we had people crying for mercy, very much in the way they did in Cornwall. Among others, there came to the church on Sunday afternoon, a tall Yorkshireman, in his working clothes. He stood under the gallery, in his shirt sleeves, with a clay pipe sticking out of his waistcoat pocket, and a little cap on his head. I fancy I can see him now, standing erect, looking earnestly at me while I was preaching, with his hand on one of the iron supports of the gallery. As the sermon proceeded he became deeply interested, and step by step drew nearer to the pulpit. He seemed to be altogether unconscious that he was not dressed for a Sunday congregation, or that he was the object of any special notice.

After the sermon, he knelt down in the aisle, and there he remained. I was called out of the vestry to go to him, but could not get him to say a word. I prayed by his side, and after some time he groaned out an "Amen," then he got up, and went towards the door. I followed him, and saw that instead of going along the path, he made across the graves in the churchyard, to a particular one; and then he threw himself on the ground, in vehement and convulsive emotion. He said something. about "Edward," but we could not distinguish what it was. The sexton said, that this was his son Edward's grave. Poor man! he was in great sorrow; but he kept it all to himself. He then went home, and shut himself up in his own room. His daughter could do nothing with him in his distress. We called several times to see him in the course of the evening, but in vain.

The next morning I called again, when his daughter told me that he had gone out early, and had not returned to breakfast. She appeared to be in a good deal of trouble,

and said she had been to his mine to inquire for him, but that he was not there. All day long we searched for him: Some looked in the woods, half-expecting they might find. his body on the ground, or hanging from a tree; while others inquired in every direction, with increasing anxiety, till the evening. Then, as we were returning home in despair and disappointment, whom should we see in the green lane between the vicarage and the church, but our friend. He was looking into the shrubs as if watching something; and when we came up to him, he turned to us with a radiant smile, and said, "The Lord is 'gude.'"

I said, “You are right, He is so."

"Yes, I am right, all right! thank God! Think of that! He saved me this day!"

"Are you coming to church to-night?"

"Oh yes, certainly I will be there."

66 But,” I said, “have you been home yet?"

"Oh yes, sir, thank you; my girl knows all about me." That man was so manifestly changed, and so filled with the Spirit, that his old worldly companions were afraid of him. The publican of the inn he used to frequent, was particularly so, and said he was frightened to be in the same room with him.

There was a great stir among the people in this place; for the fear of the Lord had fallen on them, so that they were solemnized exceedingly, and many were converted.

The vicar being somewhat timid, began to be afraid of what was going on; and wrote to ask counsel of a clerical neighbour at C, who answered his letter by inviting him to come over, and bring me with him. He said that he wanted me to preach in his church on the following Friday evening, adding, "I have already given notice, and also read parts of your letter in church. I am sure the people will come and hear this man; I expect a large congregation.

"EVER! NEVER!"

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Be sure and bring him over; do not disappoint me on any account!"

Accordingly, on the Friday we appeared there, and in the evening I preached to a large and attentive assembly. Many were awakened, and some remained behind to be spoken with; others, who were too shy to do so, went home; and we heard the next morning that several had had no sleep or rest all night. Three men, whom we saw in the morning, had found peace. After this, we drove slowly back to G- -, but a messenger had arrived before us, and said that I must come back again with him, for the bills were already out that I would preach on Sunday and following days at C. The vicar was most reluctant to let me go, but under these circumstances, he at last consented; so I went back in the carriage the messenger had brought for that purpose.

At the Sunday morning service, the manner and tone of the people, and their eager attention, implied that something was going to happen. There was a deeply solemn feeling in the church, both morning and evening, which made it very easy to preach. In the course of my sermon, I know not why, I was led to speak about the endless misery of hell; and some who were present said I asserted, "That there was a great clock in hell, with a large dial, but no hands to mark the progress of time: it had a pendulum which swung sullenly and slowly from side to side, continually saying, 'Ever! never!' 'Ever! never!'"*

This seemed to make a profound sensation among the people: many stayed to the after-meeting-they would not go away until they had been spoken with. Among others, the churchwarden came to me in a very excited state, and said,

Both Bridaine and Krummacher have expressed somewhat the

same idea.

"What ever made you say, 'Now or never!-now or never! '?" He was like one beside himself with emotion when he thought of the pendulum which I had described. "Now or never!-now or never!" he kept on repeating to himself, till at last he went away. He was far too excited to talk of anything else, or to listen either.

Later on in the evening, we were sent for to come in all haste to his house. There we found him in great trouble of mind, and afraid to go to bed. After talking to him for a short time, he went on to say that he had a strange thing to tell us- -"that that very morning he was lying in bed (he thought he was quite awake), and looking at a little picture of the crucifixion which was hanging over the fireplace. While doing so, he saw as plainly as possible some black figures of imps and devils walking along the mantelpiece with a ladder, which they placed against the wall, evidently for the purpose of removing this picture from its place. He watched them intently, and noticed that they seemed much troubled and perplexed as to how they were to accomplish their task. Some of the imps put their shoulders to the under side of the frame, while others went up the ladder; one, in particular, mounted to the top with great dexterity, to get the cord off the nail, but without success. Enraged at this, they made various other attempts, but all in vain, and at last gave up in despair, if not something worse; for by this time they appeared furious, and dashed the ladder down to the ground, as if it were the fault of it, and not of themselves. In rage and disappointment, they passed off the scene.

Presently the bedroom door opened, as he thought, and who should present himself but "Paul Pry” (that was the name he had given to a Dissenting preacher in the village, who was a portly man, and always went about with a thick umbrella under his arm)—the veritable Paul Pry, umbrella