He hadn't a sermon in his barrel--as it happened--of any lightsome character, so he had to preach a very grave one--a very serious one--and it made the matter worse.

The gravity of the sermon did not harmonize with the gayety of his head, and the people sat all through it with handkerchiefs stuffed in their mouths to try to keep down their joy.

And Harris told me that he was sure he never had seen his congregation--the whole body of his congregation--the _entire_ body of his congregation--absorbed in interest in his sermon, from beginning to end, before.

Always there had been an aspect of indifference, here and there, or wandering, somewhere; but this time there was nothing of the kind.

Those people sat there as if they thought, "Good for this day and train only: we must have all there is of this show, not waste any of it." And he said that when he came down out of the pulpit more people waited to shake him by the hand and tell him what a good sermon it was, than ever before.