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been formed between us. And not only (recurring to our talk about him:) was his face so beautifully pure, but his voice was the rarest to which I ever listened. A blind man, being a stranger to our language, would inevitably have loved him, hearing him speak; and there was no passion that he could not lull, no sorrow that he could not soothe, no devil that he could not allay, nor any child whom he could not charm, with the unutterable benignancy of his voice. How the people of Brighton flocked to him. Peers and Princesses, the artist and the poet with their fine spiritual craving, Gunnybags the Millionaire, with his heart of a metallic hue, the fisherman from his boat, the seamstress from her needle, the ploughman from his fields and the prisoner from his cell - all, of whatever caste, class, clique or condition, - in the light of his sublime manhood stood equal unto themselves as unto him and God. I have within the walls of his Church witnessed the finest courtesies that I ever saw, the infection of his glorious graciousness being upon all his listeners. I am sure it will not lessen your interest in the matter to tell you that the writer of the memoir - Mr. Sawyer - is an old friend and literary collaberateur of mine; and that in all probability I shall return to Brighton after the war, if I do not lose my life in the meantime. I am not so sure that you are my senior in years, as you think. I am no longer a boy, now; and Mr. Robertson died in 1853, eleven years ago.