He began in the same calm, simple way.  A natural, manly candor certified the truth of every word he spoke.  The voice—­at first high in tone, and swinging, as it were, in long, wave-like inflections—­grew gradually deeper, and more equally sustained.  There was very little movement of the hands or arms; only now and then the finger was raised, or the hand gently spread and waved.  As he warmed in his discourse a kind of celestial grace glimmered about his person, and his pale, thoughtful face kindled and beamed with holy light.  His sentences were entirely simple.  There was no rhetoric, no declamation or display.  Yet the soul of the hearer seemed to be fused in a spiritual eloquence which, like a white flame, burned all the personality of the speaker away.  The people sat as if they were listening to a disembodied soul.

But the appeal and the argument were never to passion, or prejudice, or mere sensibility.  Fear and horror, and every kind of physical emotion, so to say, were impossible in the calmness and sweetness of the assurance of the Divine presence.  It was a Father whose message the preacher brought.  Like as a father so the Lord pitieth His children, said he, in tones that trickled like tears over the hearts of his hearers, although his voice was equable and unbroken.  He went on to show what the children of such a Father must needs be—­to show that, however sinful, and erring, and lost, yet the Father had sent to tell them that the doctrine of wrath was of old time; that the eye for the eye, and the tooth for the tooth, was the teaching of an imperfect knowledge; that a faith which was truly childlike knew the Creator only as a parent; and that out of such faith alone arose the life that was worthy of him.

Wandering princes are we! cried the preacher, with a profound ecstasy and exultation in his tone, while the very light of heaven shone in his aspect—­wandering princes are we, sons of the Great King.  In foreign lands outcast and forlorn, groveling with the very swine in the mire, and pining for the husks that the swine do eat; envying, defying, hating, forgetting—­but never hated nor forgot; in the depths of our rage, and impotence, and sin—­in the darkest moment of our moral death, when we would crucify the very image of that Parent who pities us—­there is one voice deeper and sweeter than all music, the voice of our elder brother pleading with that common Father—­“Forgive them, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

He sat down, but the congregation did not move.  Leaning forward, with upraised eyes glistening with tears and beaming with sympathy, with hope, with quickened affection, they sat motionless, seemingly unwilling to destroy the holy calm in which, with him, they had communed with their Father.  There were those in the further part of the church who did not hear; but their mouths were open with earnest attention; their eyes glittered with moisture; for they saw afar off that slight, rapt figure; and so strong was the common sympathy of the audience that they seemed to feel what they could not hear.