In
the main, I should say, of any of these discourses, that the old
Demosthenean rule and requirement of "action, action, action," first
in its inward and then (very moderate and restrain'd) its outward
sense, was the quality that had leading fulfilment.
I remember I felt the deepest impression from the old man's prayers,
which invariably affected me to tears. Never, on similar or any
other occasions, have I heard such impassion'd pleading--such
human-harassing reproach (like Hamlet to his mother, in the
closet)--such probing to the very depths of that latent conscience and
remorse which probably lie somewhere in the background of every life,
every soul. For when Father Taylor preach'd or pray'd, the rhetoric
and art, the mere words, (which usually play such a big part) seem'd
altogether to disappear, and the _live feeling_ advanced upon you and
seiz'd you with a power before unknown. Everybody felt this marvellous
and awful influence. One young sailor, a Rhode Islander, (who came
every Sunday, and I got acquainted with, and talk'd to once or twice
as we went away,) told me, "that must be the Holy Ghost we read of in
the Testament."
I should be at a loss to make any comparison with other preachers or
public speakers. When a child I had heard Elias Hicks--and Father
Taylor (though so different in personal appearance, for Elias was of
tall and most shapely form, with black eyes that blazed at times
like meteors,) always reminded me of him. Both had the same inner,
apparently inexhaustible, fund of latent volcanic passion--the same
tenderness, blended with a curious remorseless firmness, as of some
surgeon operating on a belov'd patient.
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