"Dr. Duncan, while not technically trained as a teacher, yet showed himself a great teacher. What an inspiration he imparted to the band that gathered around him! How he lit up every dreary field of text! Blessed, yea, thrice blessed, was that school of young prophets. While himself the finest of models, nothing was farther from his thought than to make little 'Duncans' of every student. Bring up a boy in the way he should go, according to his bent, this was his idea. He would never have been guilty of putting the toga of Cicero upon Charles Spurgeon. With him good 'pork and beans' was not to be made into bad 'quail on toast.' 'Sing your own song,' only let that song be the best possible to you. Broad, Catholic-hearted Duncan! "Making a great teacher did not spoil a great preacher in Duncan's case. On a 'star-map' of the pulpits of that day, the pulpit in the old ball-room chapel at Ashland would shine as a star of 'the first magnitude.' His sermons were not like Robertson's eruptions of internal volcanic fires lifting up new heights of thought; they were not Munsey's great, gorgeous cathedrals of polished words; neither were they Keener's cyclones filling the air with boulders of logic, cutting a pathway through forests of prejudice as old as our being. His eloquence was not the glacial magnificence of Wilson's great icebergs floating in polar seas with grassy shores; it was not Galloway's mountain torrent with 'optimism,' that music of heaven in its splash and the swiftness of redeeming love in its rush to the low places of earth. Very different was it from Sam Jones' wild tanglewood of tropic forest of mingled fruit and flowers and thorns. His sermons were the expression of what Carlyle would style a healthy nature. There was nothing wild or abnormal. They were like landscapes in a civilized land--great, like the movement of the seasons, like the coming of the tides--as the processes of nature are great; great as a summer day is great. The introduction was morning!--sunrise! not striking, not surprising. The thoughts not larks soaring heavenward, were rather sparrows on the sward. But we could see great stretches of thought before us. Now the morning changes into high noon. It is the sermon proper. We are now in the midst of vast grain-fields of ripe thought. Divisions barely visible above the heads of the choicest of the wheat waving now in the zephyrs of pathos. Shouts at times among the listeners, as like reapers they garner ripe sheaves into their bosoms; orchards now growing with ripe fruit. "The peroration comes naturally, as evening follows noon. We hardly know when it comes. A splendid sunset, often tears like the dewdrops in the flowers of new resolves, now springing in the soul; solemn impressions, like shadows, growing larger; a deep hush upon everything. The sermon closes. It is night. But stars of hope are shining in the sky of the soul.