He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and winning
voice--a voice that could melt into irresistible tenderness, or
swell into sonorous appeal and condemnation, or ring like a
trumpet calling to battle.
His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into vulgarity,
counted for nothing against its charm, and the most commonplace
words in the world would have borrowed much of the power of real
oratory from its magic. He knew its value and used it
effectively--perhaps even ostentatiously.
Geoffrey Mountain's religion and methods, like the man himself,
were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and, though the good he
accomplished might not be unmixed, it was a quantity to be
reckoned with.
So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea, conquering and to
conquer. Night after night the church was crowded with eager
listeners, who hung breathlessly on his words and wept and
thrilled and exulted as he willed. Into many young souls his
appeals and warnings burned their way, and each night they rose
for prayer in response to his invitation. Older Christians, too,
took on a new lease of intensity, and even the unregenerate and
the scoffers found a certain fascination in the meetings.
Threading through it all, for old and young, converted and
unconverted, was an unacknowledged feeling for religious
dissipation. Avonlea was a quiet place,--and the revival
meetings were lively.
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