preached from notes and to the people--not the air. Like every born
orator, he felt his way with his audience, whereas the preacher who is
not an orator throws out his fine things, hit or miss, and does not
know and feel and care whether he is hitting or missing. "Open your
hand, shut your eyes, and fling out the good seed so much per
foot--that is enough." No. This man preached to the faces and hearts
that happened to be round him. He established between himself and them
a pulse, every throb of which he felt and followed. If he could not
get hold of them one way, he tried another; he would have them--he was
not there to fail. His discourse was human; it was man speaking to man
on the most vital and interesting topic in the world or out of it; it
was more, it was brother speaking to brother. Hence some singular
phenomena. First, when he gave the blessing (which is a great piece of
eloquence commonly reduced to a very small one by monotonous or feeble
delivery), and uttered it, like his discourse, with solemnity, warmth,
tenderness and all his soul, the people lingered some moments in the
church and seemed unwilling to go at all. Second, nobody mistook their
pew for their four-poster during the sermon. This was the more
remarkable as many of the congregation had formed a steady habit of
coming to this place once a week with the single view of snatching an
hour's repose from earthly and heavenly cares.

The next morning Mr. Eden visited some of the poorest people in the
parish. Susan accompanied him, all eyes and ears. She observed that
his line was not to begin by dictating his own topic, but lie in wait
for them; let them first choose their favorite theme, and so meet them
on this ground, and bring religion to bear on it. "Oh, how wise he
is!" thought Susan, "and how he knows the heart!"

One Sunday evening three weeks after his first official visit he had