It began calm⁠—and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted the nervous language. This grew to force⁠—compressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines⁠—election, predestination, reprobation⁠—were frequent; and each reference to these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me⁠—I know not whether equally so to others⁠—that the eloquence to which I had been listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of disappointment⁠—where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St.