t about religion cared least for it; and controversies about
doubtful things, and things of little moment, ate up all zeal for
things which were practicable and indisputable.

'In countenance,' wrote a friend, 'he appeared to be of a stern and
rough temper, but in his conversation mild and affable; not given to
loquacity or to much discourse in company unless some urgent occasion
required it; observing never to boast of himself or his parts, but
rather to seem low in his own eyes, and submit himself to the judgment
of others; abhorring lying and swearing, being just, in all that lay
in his power, to his word; not seeming to revenge injuries, loving to
reconcile differences and make friendships with all. He had a sharp
quick eye, with an excellent discerning of persons, being of good
judgment and quick wit.' 'He was tall of stature, strong boned, though
not corpulent, somewhat of a ruddy face, with sparkling eyes, wearing
his hair on his upper lip; his hair reddish, but in his later days
time had sprinkled it with grey; his nose well set, but not declining
or bending; his mouth moderate large, his forehead something high, and
his habit always plain and modest.'

He was himself indifferent to advancement, and he did not seek it for
his family. A London merchant offered to take his son into his house.
'God,' he said, 'did not send me to advance my family, but to preach
the Gospel.' He had no vanity--an exemption extremely rare in those
who are personally much before the public. The personal popularity was
in fact the part of his situation which he least liked. When he was to
preach in London, 'if there was but one day's notice the meeting house
was crowded to overflowing.' Twelve hundred people would be found
collected before seven o'clock on a dark winter's morning to hear a
lecture from him. In Zoar Street, Southwark, his church was sometimes
so crowded that he had to be lifted to the pulpit stairs over the
congregation's heads. It pleased him, but he was on the watch against
the pleasure of being himself admired. A friend complimented him once
after service, on 'the sweet sermon' which he had delivered. 'You need
not remind me of that,' he said. 'The Devil told me of it before I was
out of the pulpit.'

'Conviction of sin' has become a conventional phrase, shallow and
ineffective even in those who use it most sincerely. Yet moral evil is
still the cause of nine-tenths of the misery in the world, and it is
not easy to