his vocation all-absorbing, and seeing that mothers in Israel
were sufficiently provided by those who had not been set apart for a more
special work. His church and congregation were proud of him: he was put forward
on platforms, was made a deputation, and was requested to preach anniversary
sermons in far-off towns. Wherever noteworthy preachers were discussed, Rufus
Lyon was almost sure to be mentioned as one who did honour to the Independent
body; his sermons were said to be full of study yet full of fire; and while he
had more of human knowledge than many of his brethren, he showed in an eminent
degree the marks of a true ministerial vocation. But on a sudden this burning
and shining light seemed to be quenched: Mr Lyon voluntarily resigned his charge
and withdrew from the town.
    A terrible crisis had come upon him; a moment in which religious doubt and
newly-awakened passion had rushed together in a common flood, and had paralysed
his ministerial gifts. His life of thirty-six years had been a story of purely
religious and studious fervour; his passion had been for doctrines, for
argumentative conquest on the side of right; the sins he had had chiefly to pray
against had been those of personal ambition (under such forms as ambition takes
in the mind of a man who has chosen the career of an Independent preacher), and
those of a too restless intellect, ceaselessly urging questions concerning the
mystery of that which was assuredly revealed, and thus hindering the due
nourishment of the soul on the substance of the truth delivered. Even at that
time of comparative youth, his unworldliness and simplicity in small matters
(for he was keenly awake to the larger affairs of this world) gave a certain
oddity to his manners and appearance; and though his sensitive face had much
beauty, his person altogether seemed so irrelevant to a fashionable view of
things, that well-dressed ladies and gentlemen usually laughed at him, as they
probably did at Mr John Milton after the Restoration and ribbons had come in,
and still more at that apostle, of weak bodily presence, who preached in the
back streets of Ephesus and elsewhere, a new view of a new religion that hardly
anybody believed in. Rufus Lyon was the singular-looking apostle of the meeting
in Skipper's Lane. Was it likely that any romance should befall such a man?
Perhaps not; but romance did befall him.
    One winter's evening in 1812, Mr Lyon was returning from a village
preaching. He walked at his usual rapid rate, with busy thoughts undistracted by
any sight more distinct than the