It was at the principal of the Presbyterian churches that I was twice witness to scenes that made me shudder; in describing one, I describe both and every one; the same thing is constantly repeated.

It was in the middle of summer, but the service we were recommended to attend did not begin till it was dark.  The church was well lighted, and crowded almost to suffocation.  On entering, we found three priests standing side by side, in a sort of tribune, placed where the altar usually is, handsomely fitted up with crimson curtains, and elevated about as high as our pulpits.  We took our places in a pew close to the rail which surrounded it.

The priest who stood in the middle was praying; the prayer was extravagantly vehement, and offensively familiar in expression; when this ended, a hymn was sung, and then another priest took the centre place, and preached.  The sermon had considerable eloquence, but of a frightful kind.  The preacher described, with ghastly minuteness, the last feeble fainting moments of human life, and then the gradual progress of decay after death, which he followed through every process up to the last loathsome stage of decomposition.  Suddenly changing his tone, which had been that of sober accurate description, into the shrill voice of horror, he bent forward his head, as if to gaze on some object beneath the pulpit.  And as Rebecca made known to Ivanhoe what she saw through the window, so the preacher made known to us what he saw in the pit that seemed to open before him.  The device was certainly a happy one for giving effect to his description of hell.  No image that fire, flame, brimestone, molten lead, or red-hot pincers could supply; with flesh, nerves, and sinews quivering under them, was omitted.  The perspiration ran in streams from the face of the preacher; his eyes rolled, his lips were covered with foam, and every feature had the deep expression of horror it would have borne, had he, in truth, been gazing at the scene he described.  The acting was excellent.  At length he gave a languishing look to his supporters on each side, as if to express his feeble state, and then sat down, and wiped the drops of agony from his brow.

The other two priests arose, and began to sing a hymn.  It was some seconds before the congregation could join as usual; every upturned face looked pale and horror struck.  When the singing ended, another took the centre place, and began in a sort of coaxing affectionate tone, to ask the congregation if what their dear brother had spoken had reached their hearts?  Whether they would avoid the hell he had made them see?  “Come, then!” he continued, stretching out his arms towards them, “come to us, and tell us so, and we will make you see Jesus, the dear gentle Jesus, who shall save you from it.  But you must come to him!  You must not be ashamed to come to him!  This night you shall tell him that you are not ashamed of him; we will make way for