A favourite performance in a Bryanite meeting, according to popular report, is to “hunt the Devil out.” The preacher having worked the people up into a great state of excitement, they are provided with sticks, and the lights are extinguished. A general _mêlée_ ensues. Every one who hits thinks he is dealing the Devil his death-blow; and every one who receives a blow believes it is a butt from the Devil’s horns. Mr. Hawker had a capital story of one of these meetings. The preacher had excited the people to a wild condition by assuring them he saw the Devil in person—there! there! there! “Where, where is he?” screamed some of the people. “Shall I hit ’un down with my umbrella?” asked a farmer. “He’ll burn a great hole in it if ye do,” said his wife; “and I reck’n he won’t find you another.” Sticks were flourished, and all rushed yelling from their pews. “Where is he? Let us catch a glimpse of the end of his tail, and we’ll pin him.” The shouting and the uproar became great. “I see ’un, I see ’un!” shouted the preacher; and, pointing to the door, he yelled, “He is there!” At that very moment the door of the Bryanite meeting-house was thrown open and there stood R——, the dreaded steward of Lord ——, with his grey mare. He had been riding by, and astonished at the noise, had dismounted and opened the door to learn what had occasioned it. I give the account of a private Bible Christian meeting from the narrative of an old Cornish woman of Kilkhampton. “Some thirty or more years agone, Long Bill Martin was converted and became a very serious character in Kilkhampton; and a great change that was for Bill. Prayer-meetings were now his delight, especially if young women were present—then he did warm up, I tell’y. He could preach, he could, just a word or two at a time; and then, when he couldn’t find words, he’d roar. He was a mighty comfortin’ preacher, too, especially to the maidens. Many was the prayer-meeting which he kept alive; and if things was going flat—for gospel ministers du go flat sometimes, tell’y, just like ginger-beer bottles if the cork’s out tu often. And, let me tell’y, talkin’ of that, there comed a Harchdeacon here one day: I seed ’un, and he had strings tied about his hat, just as they du corks of lemonade, to keep the spirit in him down; he was nat’rally very uppish, I reck’n. But to go back to Bill. When he couldn’t speak, why, then he’d howl, like no sucking dove: ‘Ugh! the devil! drive the devil!’ Yu could hear him hunting the devil of nights a hundred yards or more off from the cottage where he was leading prayer. One day he settled to have a meeting down near the end of the village and sent in next door to borrow a form (not a form of prayer, yu know, for he didn’t hold to that), and invited the neighbours to join. ‘You’d better come. We’m goin’ to have a smart meetin’ t’night, can tell’y.’