I gave out a hymn, and after a short prayer commenced the address, speaking as loud as I could, that all the congregation might hear me.  During the sermon, the responses were most vociferous and hearty, and the attention very encouraging.  After speaking for about thirty minutes, I observed a tall, fine-looking fisherman, in large high boots, who had come in late.  He was standing in the little vacant space before the table, on which were placed two candles and a glass of water.  I saw, as the address went on, that though he was very quiet, his breast was heaving with emotion, as if something was passing in his mind.  All at once, without a moment’s notice, he fell on the ground, and bellowed out a loud prayer for “God’s mercy—­I want God’s mercy!” Besides upsetting the table—­candles, water, and all—­which went down with a great crash, he fell on one or two women, who screamed, in their fright and consternation, as only women can.

If this had been a preconcerted signal, it could not have been more effectual, for there was instantly a simultaneous as well as an universal outcry.  The whole place was filled with a confused din of voices; some were praying, some singing, some shouting, and others exhorting, and that at the top of their voices, in order to be heard.  In the midst of this I began to sing a hymn, hoping to restore order, and many joined me; but it only added more sound to the uproar.

The good vicar was overwhelmed with fear and dismay, as well he might be, at this tumultuous scene.  It was bad enough to stand and look at the waves of the sea; but when they rose and broke, as it were, on the shore where he was standing, and surrounded him, it was altogether too much.  He made for the door, and, waiting there, beckoned me to him.  When I came he suddenly opened it, and drew me out, saying, “There will be no peace till you are out of this place.”  The extreme change from the hot cellar into the cold and pitiless wind and rain was so great, that we fled precipitately to the cottage which stood opposite.  Happily, the door was on the latch, and we went in.  I felt about in the dark for a chair, but not finding one, sat on the table, listening to the noise and din of the meeting.

The vicar vainly thought that the tumult would subside as soon as I was gone, for he said that I “made as much noise, if not more, than any of them!” He went back into the storm to get my hat and coat, and also the inevitable umbrella, without which no one can get on in Cornwall.  He was a long time absent, during which a man with heavy boots came into the dark cottage where I was sitting, and tumbling down on a seat somewhere, heaved a heavy sigh.  He evidently did not suspect that any one was there.  After sighing and groaning several times, he said to himself, “What shall I do?—­what shall I do?  The man is right, sure enough; he is right, I’m sure on it—­that he is.”

I disguised my voice, and asked, “What man?”