sermon he preached at Eton at this date--it was most simple and moving.
But at the same time the effect largely depended upon a grace of which
he was unconscious--quaint, naive, and beautiful phrasing, a fine
poetical imagination, tiny word-pictures, and a youthful and impetuous
charm. His gestures at that time were free and unconstrained, his voice
resonant, appealing, and clear.

He used to tell innumerable stories of his sermon adventures. There was
a story of a Harvest Festival sermon near Kemsing, in the days when he
used a manuscript; he found on arriving at the church that he had left
it behind him, and was allowed to remain in the vestry during the
service, writing out notes on the inside of envelopes torn open, with
the stump of a pencil which would only make marks at a certain angle.
The service proceeded with a shocking rapidity, and when he got to the
pulpit, spread out his envelopes, and addressed himself to the
consideration of the blessings of the Harvest, he found on drawing to an
end that he had only consumed about four minutes. He went through the
whole again, slightly varying the phraseology, and yet again repeated
the performance; only to find, on putting on his coat, that the
manuscript was in his pocket all the time.

He used to say that the most nervous experience in the world was to go
into a street or market-place of a town where he was to hold a Mission
with open-air sermons, and there, without accompaniment, and with such
scanty adherents as he could muster, strike up a hymn. By-standers would
shrug their shoulders and go away smiling. Windows would be opened,
figures would lean out, and presently withdraw again, slamming the
casement.

Hugh was always extremely nervous before a sermon. He told me that when