He describes a shipwreck, and at the climax, as the ship is slowly settling in the water, and every face in the audience is livid with fear, he roars, “Man the life boat!” and every sailor in the house springs to his feet. Now sailors, under the influence of drink, have killed their captain. He describes the deed. They start up before the audience, creeping down the stairs and into the cabin; he raises the imaginary knife, and half the men in the house jump forward to arrest the blow, while women shriek in horror. Once, however, a matter-of-fact, though possessed sailor, confused Father Taylor. He had depicted the impenitent sinner, under the figure of a storm-tossed ship, with her sails split, and driven by the gale toward the rock-bound coast of Cape Ann. “Oh, how,” he exclaimed, in tones of despair, “shall this poor sin-tossed sinner be saved?” “Put his helm hard down, and _bear away for Squam_!” bellowed the old salt, springing excitedly to his feet.
So he painted the Mosaic miracles, “till the brethren saw the snakes squirm, heard the frogs croak, felt the lice bite, brushed the flies out of their faces and saw the Israelites march out of Egypt.”
One of his last sermons, when he was old and feeble, ended thus: “My work is almost done. Where are all my old shipmates—they who lay in hammocks beside me and who have fought at the same guns? Gone, gone—all gone! No, blessed be God! not _all_; there’s one left. [Here he made the picture realistic by pointing to an old salt, gray, bent, and knotty-faced.] Yes, there’s old Timberhead. He and I have weathered many a storm together. It is only a little farther we have to sail. Look, look ahead there! It is only to beat just around that point yonder. Now—now! there is the peaceful, blessful haven and home full in view.” By this time the audience was weeping, radiant with hope.
Even his isolated sentences are full of this imaginary realism. “Sailors ignorant!” he cried indignantly when one depreciated them; “sailors know everything; they grasp the world in their hand like an orange!” The boldness of this language is wonderful. Of superannuated ministers he said: “They are like camels bearing precious spices and browsing on bitter herbs. They were moral giants. When God made them he rolled his sleeves up to the arm-pits.”