that they had a now meaning to me.  The prayer was very short, and offered in homely language.  In it he paused a moment for silent prayer, and every one seemed to hold his breath in the deepest, real reverence.  It was so different from my expectations.  Then the collection.  It was not an asking for money at all.  The preacher put his notice of it the other way about He said, ’The people who wish to worship God by giving their offering into the trust of the church could place it in the baskets which would be passed to any who wanted to give.’  The basket that went down to the altar by me was full of money and envelopes.  Yet no one was asked to give anything.  It was all voluntary, and really an offering to the Lord.  I had never seen such a way of doing things in church collections.  I do not know as the minister or church require it so.  The church, was packed in every corner, and people stood in the aisles.  The pulpit platform was crowded so that the preacher had nothing more than standing room.  Some people sat on the floor, and a crowd of interested boys leaned against the pulpit platform.  When the preacher arose to speak, I expected something strange.  It did not seem possible that such a crowd could gather year after year to listen to mere plain preaching.  For these are degenerate days.  The minister began so familiarly and easily in introducing his text that he was half through his sermon before I began to realize that he was actually in his sermon.  It was the plainest thing possible.  I had often heard of his eloquence and poetic imagination.  But there was little of either, if we think of the old ideas.  There was close continuous attention.  He was surely in earnest, but not a sign of oratorical display.  There were exciting gestures at times, and lofty periods.  But it was all so natural.  At one point the whole audience burst into laughter at a comic turn in an illustration, but the preacher went on unconscious of it.  It detracted nothing from the solemn theme.  It was what the ‘Chautauqua Herald’ last year called a ‘Conwellian evening.’  It was unlike anything I ever saw or heard.  Yet it was good to be there.  The sermon was crowded with illustrations, and was evidently unstudied.  They say he never takes time from his many cares to write a sermon.  That one was surely spontaneous.  But it inspired the audience to better lives and a higher faith.  When he suddenly stopped and quickly seized a hymn-book, the audience drew a long sigh.  At once people moved about again and looked at each other and smiled.  The whole congregation were at one with the preacher.  There was a low hum of whispering voices.  But all was attention again when the hymn was read.  Then the glorious song.  One of the finest organists in the country, a blind gentleman by the name of Wood, was the power behind the throne.  The organ did praise God.  Every one was carried on in a flood of praise.  It was rich.  The benediction was a continuation of the sermon and a closing prayer, all in a single sentence.