Every Sunday morning the streets are filled with persons on their way to attend the services at Plymouth Church.  They come not only from Brooklyn, but from New York, and even from Jersey City and Hoboken.  The yard and street in front of the church are quickly filled with the throng, but the doors are guarded by policemen, and none but pew-holders are permitted to enter the church until ten minutes before the hour for service.  Without this precaution the regular congregation would be crowded out of their seats every Sunday by strangers.

At ten minutes before the hour for service the doors are thrown open, and very soon there is not even standing room in the vast interior, and generally the vestibules are full.

Near the pulpit is placed a basket of exquisite flowers, and sometimes the entire platform is decorated in the same way.  Most commonly some little child perches itself up among the flowers, and this pretty sight never fails to bring a smile of pleasure to the pastor’s face as he enters the church.  He comes in through a little door under the gallery, behind the pulpit.  He is dressed in a plain suit of black, with a Byron collar and a black stock.  His movements are quiet and graceful, although quick and energetic.  His manner in opening the services is quiet and earnest, and at once impresses his hearers with the solemnity of the occasion.  He reads the Bible in an easy, unconstrained manner, as if he enjoyed the task, and in his prayers, which are extempore, he carries the hearts of all his hearers with him to the Throne of Grace.  He joins heartily in the singing, which is congregational.  It was feared that the organ would prove a great temptation to do away with this style of singing, but this has not been the case.  The magnificent instrument is used only to accompany the congregation, and there swells up such a volume of harmony from this vast throng as is never listened to outside of Plymouth Church.  The singing is wonderful.

The gem of the whole service, however, is the sermon; and these sermons are characteristic of the man.  They come warm and fresh from his heart, and they go home to the hearer, giving him food for thought for days afterward.  To attempt to describe his manner would be to paint the sunbeam.  Eloquence can be felt, but it can not be described.  He enchains the attention of his auditors from the first, and they hang upon his utterances with rapt eagerness until the close of the sermon.

He knows human nature thoroughly, and he talks to his people of what they have been thinking of during the week, of trials that have perplexed them, and of joys which have blessed them.  He takes the clerk and the merchant to task for their conduct in the walks of business, and warns them of the snares and pitfalls which lie along their paths.  He strips the thin guise of honesty from the questionable transactions of Wall Street, and holds them up to public scorn.  He startles many a one by his sudden