“Would you make me very--very sad? Remain impenitent! Would you make me happy? Repent, and turn to God! Not to-morrow, or next day, but on your knees in your own cells the moment you go hence. You don't know, you can't dream what happiness you will confer on me if you do this!” Then, suddenly opening his arms with wonderful grace and warmth and energy, he cried, “My poor wandering sheep, come--come to the heavenly fold! Let me gather you as a hen gathers her chickens under her wing. You are my anxiety, my terror--be my joy, my consolation here, and hereafter the brightest jewels in my heavenly crown.” In this strain he soared higher than my poor earth-clogged wings can follow him. He had lashed sin severely, so he had earned a right to show his love for the sinner. Gracious words of entreaty and encouragement gushed from him in a crystal stream with looks and tones of more than mortal charity. Men might well doubt was this a man, or was it Christianity speaking? Christianity, born in a stable, was she there, illuminating a jail? For now for a moment or two the sacred orator was more than mortal; so high above earth was his theme, so great his swelling words. He rose, he dilated to heroic size, he flamed with sacred fire. His face shone like an angel's, and no silver trumpet or deep-toned organ could compare with his thundering, pealing, melting voice, that poured the soul of love and charity and heaven upon friend and foe. Then seemed it as though a sudden blaze of music and light broke into that dark abode. Each sinful form stretched wildly forth to meet them--each ear hung aching on them--each glistening eye lived on them, and every heart panted and quivered as this great Christian swept his immortal harp--among thieves and homicides and oppressors--in that sad house of God. “What did you think of the sermon, Fry?” Fry. Liked the first part, sir, where he walked into thieving. Don't like his telling 'em he loves 'em. 'Tisn't to be supposed a gentleman could really love such rubbish as that. Sounds like palaver. Hawes. Now I liked it all, though it spoiled my nap. Fry. Well, sir, it is very good of you to like it, for I don't think you like the man. Hawes. The man is all very well in his place. He ought to be bottled up in one of the dark cells all the week, and then brought up and uncorked in chapel o' Sundays. It is as good as a romance is a sermon of his. Fry. That it is, sir. Comes next after the Newgate Calendar, don't it now? But there's one thing about all his sermons I can't get over. Hawes. And what is that? Fry. Preaches at 'em so. Hawes. Why, ye fool, that is the beauty of him. How is he to hit 'em if he doesn't hit at 'em? Fry. Mr. Jones usen't.