Balance was thus preserved, and principle relentlessly indicated.
Dr Drummond loved, as I have said, all that asked for notable comment; the poet and the tragedian in him caught at the opportunity, and revelled in it.

Public events carried him far, especially if they were disastrous, but what he most profited by was the dealing of Providence with members of his own congregation.

Of all the occasions that inspired him, the funeral sermon was his happiest opportunity, nor was it, in his hands, by any means unstinted eulogy.

Candid was his summing-up, behind the decent veil, the accepted apology of death; he was not afraid to refer to the follies of youth or the weaknesses of age in terms as unmistakable as they were kindly.
"Grace," he said once, of an estimable plain spinster who had passed away, "did more for her than ever nature had done." He repeated it, too.
"She was far more indebted, I say, to grace, than to nature," and before his sharp earnestness none were seen to smile.

Nor could you forget the note in his voice when the loss he deplored was that of a youth of virtue and promise, or that of a personal friend.