It so happened that the coming Sabbath night Was to be eventful in the village.  The trustees of the church had been building a gasometer back of the church, and the night I speak of the building was for the first time to be lighted in the modern way.  The church was, of course, crowded—­not so much to hear the preacher as to see how the gas would burn.  Many were unbelieving, and said that there would be an explosion, or a big fire, or that in the midst of the service the lights would go out.  Several brethren disposed to hang on to old customs declared that candles and oil were the only fit material for lighting a church, and they denounced the innovation as indicative of vanity on the part of the new-comers.  They used oil in the ancient temple, and it was that which ran down on Aaron’s beard, and anything that was good enough for the whiskers of an old-time priest was good enough for a country meeting-house.  These sticklers for the oil were present that night, hoping—­and I think some of them secretly praying—­that the gas might go out.

With our ten-minute manuscript we went into the pulpit, all in a tremor.  Although the gas did not burn as brightly as its friends had hoped, still it was bright enough to show the people the perspiration that stood in beads on our forehead.  We began our discourse, and every sentence gave us the feeling that we were one step nearer the gallows.  We spoke very slowly, so as to make the ten-minute notes last fifteen minutes.  During the preachment of the brief manuscript we concluded that we had never been called to the ministry.  We were in a hot bath of excitement.  People noticed our trepidation, and supposed it was because we were afraid the gas would go out.  Alas! our fear was that it would not go out.  As we came toward the close of our brief we joined the anti-gas party, and prayed that before we came to the last written line something would burst, and leave us in the darkness.  Indeed, we discovered an encouraging flicker amid the burners, which gave us the hope that the brief which lay before us would be long enough for all practical purposes, and that the hour of execution might be postponed to some other night.  As we came to the sentence next to the last the lights fell down to half their size, and we could just manage to see the audience as they were floating away from our vision.  We said to ourselves, “Why can’t these lights be obliging, and go out entirely?” The wish was gratified.  As we finished the last line of our brief, and stood on the verge of rhetorical destruction, the last glimmer of light was extinguished.  “It is impossible to proceed,” we cried out; “receive the benediction!”

We crawled down the pulpit in a state of exhilaration; we never before saw such handsome darkness.  The odor of the escaping gas was to us like “gales from Araby.”  Did a frightened young man ever have such fortunate deliverance?  The providence was probably intended to humble the trustees, yet the scared preacher took advantage of it.