I was quite eager for the time, and when Saturday arrived, I set off, intending to stay for several days.  On Sunday morning the church was filled from end to end, the people being on the tip-toe of expectation.  Many anxious ones remained after the sermon to be spoken with, about their souls.  The church was scarcely cleared, before the men came to ring the bells for the afternoon service.  This time, the passages, chancel, pulpit-stairs, and every available corner were crowded, and the congregation certainly did not look like a “mill-pond,” but more like “the waves of the sea.”

At the close of this service, the people begged for another in the evening.  The vicar said, “Oh, that is impossible, for I dine at six o’clock.”

“But,” I involuntarily added, “do not mind the dinner; I can come, if you like.”

He gave me such a look!  I continued, “I have had dinner enough for to-day.  I can take the service alone, if you are agreeable.”

“But we have no lamps for the church.  It cannot be.”

I was silenced now, and gave up the point; when the churchwarden came forward and said he would be responsible for lighting the church.

The vicar at last consented, on condition that he was allowed to have his dinner in peace.  As the time approached, however, he put off that important meal, and joined me in a cup of tea, after which we went together to the third service.

This time it was as much as we could do to get it, and when we did succeed a most striking sight presented itself.  The whole church was lighted from the pews.  Some of the wealthier people had lamps, but the others had candles, one, two, or more in their respective compartments.  From the pulpit it looked more like a market scene than a church congregation.  I had liberty in preaching, and the people were greatly moved, some of them greatly agitated-indeed, so much so, that the vicar thought he would not have another service in the church, and accordingly announced that the Monday evening meeting would be held in a building which he named, in a village about two miles off.  This was a large barn-like structure, where they cured fish in the season, but at other times it was unoccupied.

The next day happened to be very wet, and, added to this, in the evening it began to blow as well.  Notwithstanding this inclemency, when we arrived at the “fish-cellar,” as it was called, we found it crammed with people, the women and children occupying the ground, and sitting there on straw, which had been provided for the occasion, the men and boys were sitting on the cross-beams of the roof.  The heat in the place was stifling beyond all description, for besides being densely crowded below and above, the wooden shutters were shut, on account of the wind and rain, the people’s wet clothes were steaming, and there was a strong smell of stale fish.  At first we felt as if it would be impossible to bear it, but after a little time we became used to the disagreeables, and had other things to think about.