eard him twice. In the
afternoon he gave an address on the subject of prayer. There he stood in
the pulpit, without gown or surplice, dressed in plain black cloth,
mouthing and ranting apparently in the wildest manner, just as on the
boards of the theatre they love to represent a Chadband or a Stiggins.
His dark short hair was brushed right down to his eyes. The principal
feature was his enormous mouth, over which an unripe moustache seemed
struggling into life. One moment his face was brought down to a level
with the pulpit, the next it was shot forward almost into the faces of
the occupants of the nearest seats, and the next he seemed to spring on
his toes, with each arm extended over his head, and as far apart as
possible. In the same manner the tones of his address were
proportionately varied. One moment he spoke in a whisper, the next in a
quiet, conversational manner, the next there came a thundering blast as
if he sought to arouse the dead. Was this art, or was this passion? The
former, says the sceptic. The tragedian can mouth it just as grandly, on
the stage. But as the greatest tragedians are the men who, like Kean,
felt--ay, even to their inmost core--all the agony they endeavoured to
realize and express, so I would say of Mr. Body that the intenseness with
which he realized what he said elevated him, and enabled him to embody,
as it were, the sublime of human passion. For instance, at All Saints
over the altar is a crucifix. In his evening sermon he was pleading that
as much now as ever was it our duty to confess Christ before man. It was
grand for the Crusaders to save the Holy Land from the Infidels. It was
grand the way in which St. Agnes and St. Polycarp died, in which the
early Christian martyrs lived and died. Nowadays the Church and the
world were far too friendly, and what was the result? That we tried not
how much we could do for Christ, but how most easily we could save our
souls. We sang the song of martyrs, we acted the part of cravens.
"Look," said the preacher, turning round to the crucifix, "look at the
Saviour on the Cross. Who placed him there? who made those wounds
there?--the world. And you try to be friendly with the world." So
intense was the power of the speaker that all seemed awestruck, as if
before their very eyes stood the Saviour with His wounded and bleeding
limbs. Another wonderful thing about the preacher is his common sense.
"Look here, now," said he, "here a