His manner in society was cordial, unrestrained, and even boisterous.  “I live,” he said in an admirable figure, “with open doors and windows.”  His poor parishioners regarded him with “a curious mixture of reverence and grin."[147] His daughter says that, “on entering the pulpit, the calm dignity of his eye, mien, and voice, made one feel that he was indeed, and felt himself to be, ‘the pastor standing between our God and His people,’ to teach His laws, to declare His judgments, and proclaim His mercies.”

Enough has been quoted from his writings to give the reader a clear notion of his style.  In early life it was not scrupulously correct,[148] and to the end it was marked here and there by an archaism such as “I have strove,” and “they are rode over.”  It was singularly uninvolved and uncomplicated, and was animated, natural, and vigorous in the highest degree.  As years went on, it gained both in ease and in accuracy, but never lost either its force or its resonance.  It ran up and down the whole gamut of the English tongue, from sesquipedalian classicisms (which he generally used to heighten a comic effect) to one-syllabled words of the homeliest Anglo-Saxon.  His punctuation was careless, and the impression produced by his written composition is that of a man who wrote exactly as he spoke, without pause, premeditation, or amendment; who was possessed by the subject on which he was writing, and never laid down the pen till that subject lived and breathed in the written page.[149] Here and there, indeed, it is easy to note an unusual care and elaboration in the structure of the sentences and the cadence of the sound, and then the style rises to a very high level of rhetorical dignity.

Enough too has been quoted, both from his writings and from his conversation, to illustrate the quality and quantity of his humour.  It bubbled up in him by a spontaneous process, and flowed over into whatever he wrote or said.  Macaulay described his “rapid, loud, laughing utterance,” and adds—­“Sydney talks from the impulse of the moment, and his fun is quite inexhaustible.”  He was, I think, the greatest humourist whose jokes have come down to us in an authentic and unmutilated form.  Almost alone among professional jokers, he made his merriment—­rich, natural, fantastic, unbridled as it was—­subserve the serious purposes of his life and writing.  Each joke was a link in an argument; each sarcasm was a moral lesson. Peter Plymley, and the Letters to Archdeacon Singleton, the essays on America and on Persecuting Bishops, will probably be read as long as the Tale of a Tub or Macaulay’s review of “Satan” Montgomery; while of detached and isolated jokes—­pure freaks of fun clad in literary garb—­an incredible number, current in daily converse, deduce their birth from this incomparable clergyman.[150] “In ability,” wrote Macaulay in 1850, “I should say that Jeffrey was higher, but Sydney rarer.  I would rather have been Jeffrey; but there will be several Jeffreys before there is a Sydney.”