At midnight a horn sounded through the camp, which, we were told,
was to call the people from private to public worship; and we
presently saw them flocking from all sides to the front of the
preachers' stand. Mrs. B. and I contrived to place ourselves
with our backs supported against the lower part of this
structure, and we were thus enabled to witness the scene which
followed without personal danger. There were about two thousand
persons assembled.
One of the preachers began in a low nasal tone, and, like all
other Methodist preachers, assured us of the enormous depravity
of man as he comes from the hands of his Maker, and of his
perfect sanctification after he had wrestled sufficiently with
the Lord to get hold of him, _et cetera_. The admiration of the
crowd was evinced by almost constant cries of "Amen! Amen!"
"Jesus! Jesus!" "Glory! Glory!" and the like. But this
comparative tranquility did not last long: the preacher told
them that "this night was the time fixed upon for anxious
sinners to wrestle with the Lord;" that he and his brethren
"were at hand to help them," and that such as needed their
help were to come forward into "the pen." The phrase forcibly
recalled Milton's lines--
"Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else, the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!
--But when they list their lean and flashy songs,
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;--
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed!
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly--and foul contagion spread.
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