transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. blank pages have been eliminated. variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. a few typographical errors have been corrected. the art of illustration by c. h. spurgeon new-york wilbur b. ketcham 2 cooper union copyright, 1894, by wilbur b. ketcham. publisher's note. the lectures in this volume were originally delivered to the students of the pastors' college, metropolitan tabernacle, london, england. it is the first of his unfinished books to be published, and one to which he had himself given the title, "the art of illustration." of the five lectures included in this volume, the first two were revised during mr. spurgeon's lifetime. two were partially revised by him before being redelivered to a later company of students than those who had heard them for the first time. the remaining lecture was printed substantially as it was taken by the reporter; only such verbal corrections having been made as were absolutely necessary to insure accuracy of statement. mr. spurgeon has said of his lectures to his students: "i am as much at home with my young brethren as in the bosom of my family, and therefore speak without restraint. i do not offer that which has cost me nothing, for i have done my best, and taken abundant pains. therefore, with clear conscience, i place my work at the service of my brethren, especially hoping to have a careful reading from young preachers, whose profiting has been my principal aim." w. b. k. contents. lecture i. page illustrations in preaching 7 lecture ii. anecdotes from the pulpit 32 lecture iii. the uses of anecdotes and illustrations 57 lecture iv. where can we find anecdotes and illustrations? 103 lecture v. the sciences as sources of illustration--astronomy 137 lecture i. illustrations in preaching. the topic now before us is the use of illustrations in our sermons. perhaps we shall best subserve our purpose by working out an illustration in the present address; for there is no better way of teaching the art of pottery than by making a pot. quaint thomas fuller says, "reasons are the pillars of the fabric of a sermon; but similitudes are the windows which give the best lights." the comparison is happy and suggestive, and we will build up our discourse under its direction. the chief reason for the construction of windows in a house is, as fuller says, _to let in light_. parables, similes, and metaphors have that effect; and hence we use them to _illustrate_ our subject, or, in other words, to "_brighten it with light_," for that is dr. johnson's literal rendering of the word _illustrate_. often when didactic speech fails to enlighten our hearers we may make them see our meaning by opening a window and letting in the pleasant light of analogy. our saviour, who is the light of the world, took care to fill his speech with similitudes, so that the common people heard him gladly; his example stamps with high authority the practice of illuminating heavenly instruction with comparisons and similes. to every preacher of righteousness as well as to noah, wisdom gives the command, "a window shalt thou make in the ark." you may build up laborious definitions and explanations and yet leave your hearers in the dark as to your meaning; but a thoroughly suitable metaphor will wonderfully clear the sense. the pictures in an illustrated paper give us a far better idea of the scenery which they represent than could be conveyed to us by the best descriptive letterpress; and it is much the same with scriptural teaching: abstract truth comes before us so much more vividly when a concrete example is given, or the doctrine itself is clothed in figurative language. there should, if possible, be at least one good metaphor in the shortest address; as ezekiel, in his vision of the temple, saw that even to the little chambers there were windows suitable to their size. if we are faithful to the spirit of the gospel we labor to make things plain: it is our study to be simple and to be understood by the most illiterate of our hearers; let us, then, set forth many a metaphor and parable before the people. he wrote wisely who said, "the world below me is a glass in which i may see the world above. the works of god are the shepherd's calendar and the plowman's alphabet." having nothing to conceal, we have no ambition to be obscure. lycophron declared that he would hang himself upon a tree if he found a person who could understand his poem entitled "the prophecy of cassandra." happily no one arose to drive him to such a misuse of timber. we think we could find brethren in the ministry who might safely run the same risk in connection with their sermons. still have we among us those who are like heraclitus, who was called "the dark doctor" because his language was beyond all comprehension. certain mystical discourses are so dense that if light were admitted into them it would be extinguished like a torch in the grotta del cane: they are made up of the palpably obscure and the inexplicably involved, and all hope of understanding them may be abandoned. this style of oratory we do not cultivate. we are of the same mind as joshua shute, who said: "that sermon has most learning in it that has most plainness. hence it is that a great scholar was wont to say, 'lord, give me learning enough, that i may preach plain enough.'" windows greatly add to the pleasure and agreeableness of a habitation, and so do _illustrations make a sermon pleasurable and interesting_. a building without windows would be a prison rather than a house, for it would be quite dark, and no one would care to take it upon lease; and, in the same way, a discourse without a parable is prosy and dull, and involves a grievous weariness of the flesh. the preacher in solomon's ecclesiastes "sought to find out acceptable words," or, as the hebrew has it, "words of delight": surely, figures and comparisons are delectable to our hearers. let us not deny them the salt of parable with the meat of doctrine. our congregations hear us with pleasure when we give them a fair measure of imagery: when an anecdote is being told they rest, take breath, and give play to their imaginations, and thus prepare themselves for the sterner work which lies before them in listening to our profounder expositions. riding in a third-class carriage some years ago in the eastern counties, we had been for a long time without a lamp; and when a traveler lighted a candle, it was pleasant to see how all eyes turned that way, and rejoiced in the light: such is frequently the effect of an apt simile in the midst of a sermon; it lights up the whole matter, and gladdens every heart. even the little children open their eyes and ears, and a smile brightens up their faces as we tell a story; for they, too, rejoice in the light which streams in through our windows. we dare say they often wish that the sermon were all illustrations, even as the boy desired to have a cake made all of plums; but that must not be: there is a happy medium, and we must keep to it by making our discourse pleasant hearing, but not a mere pastime. no reason exists why the preaching of the gospel should be a miserable operation either to the speaker or to the hearer. pleasantly profitable let all our sermons be. a house must not have thick walls without openings, neither must a discourse be all made up of solid slabs of doctrine without a window of comparison or a lattice of poetry; if so, our hearers will gradually forsake us, and prefer to stay at home and read their favorite authors, whose lively tropes and vivid images afford more pleasure to their minds. every architect will tell you that he looks upon his windows as _an opportunity for introducing ornament into his design_. a pile may be massive, but it cannot be pleasing if it is not broken up with windows and other details. the palace of the popes at avignon is an immense structure; but the external windows are so few that it has all the aspect of a colossal prison, and suggests nothing of what a palace should be. sermons need to be broken up, varied, decorated, and enlivened; and nothing can do this so well as the introduction of types, emblems, and instances. of course, ornament is not the main point to be considered; but still many little excellences go to make up perfection, and this is one of the many, and therefore it should not be overlooked. when wisdom built her house she hewed out her seven pillars, for glory and for beauty, as well as for the support of the structure; and shall we think that any rough hovel is good enough for the beauty of holiness to dwell in? certainly a gracious discourse is none the better for being bereft of every grace of language. meretricious ornament we deprecate, but an appropriate beauty of speech we cultivate. truth is a king's daughter, and her raiment should be of wrought gold; her house is a palace, and it should be adorned with "windows of agate and gates of carbuncle." _illustrations tend to enliven an audience and quicken attention._ windows, when they will open--which, alas! is not often the case in our places of worship--are a great blessing by refreshing and reviving the audience with a little pure air, and arousing the poor mortals who are rendered sleepy by the stagnant atmosphere. a window should, according to its name, be a wind-door, through which a breath of air may visit the audience; even so, an original figure, a noble image, a quaint comparison, a rich allegory, should open upon our hearers a breeze of happy thought, which will pass over them like life-giving breath, arousing them from their apathy, and quickening their faculties to receive the truth. those who are accustomed to the soporific sermonizings of certain dignified divines would marvel greatly if they could see the enthusiasm and lively delight with which congregations listen to speech through which there flows a quiet current of happy, natural illustration. arid as a desert are many volumes of discourses which are to be met with upon the booksellers' dust-covered shelves; but if in the course of a thousand paragraphs they contain a single simile, it is as an oasis in the sahara, and serves to keep the reader's soul alive. in fashioning a discourse think little of the bookworm, which will be sure of its portion of meat however dry your doctrine, but have pity upon those hungering ones immediately around you who must find life through your sermon or they will never find it at all. if some of your hearers sleep on they will of necessity wake up in eternal perdition, for they hear no other helpful voice. while we thus commend illustrations for necessary uses, it must be remembered that they are not the strength of a sermon any more than a window is the strength of a house; and for this reason, among others, _they should not be too numerous_. too many openings for light may seriously detract from the stability of a building. we have known sermons so full of metaphors that they became weak, and we had almost said _crazy_, structures. sermons must not be nosegays of flowers, but sheaves of wheat. very beautiful sermons are generally very useless ones. to aim at elegance is to court failure. it is possible to have too much of a good thing: a glass house is not the most comfortable of abodes, and besides other objectionable qualities it has the great fault of being sadly tempting to stone-throwers. when a critical adversary attacks our metaphors he generally makes short work of them. to friendly minds images are arguments, but to opponents they are opportunities for attack; the enemy climbs up by the window. comparisons are swords with two edges which cut both ways; and frequently what seems a sharp and telling illustration may be wittily turned against you, so as to cause a laugh at your expense: therefore do not rely upon your metaphors and parables. even a second-rate man may defend himself from a superior mind if he can dexterously turn his assailant's gun upon himself. here is an instance which concerns myself, and i give it for that reason, since these lectures have all along been autobiographical. i give a cutting from one of our religious papers: "mr. beecher was neatly tripped up in 'the sword and the trowel.' in his 'lectures on preaching' he asserts that mr. spurgeon has succeeded 'in spite of his calvinism'; adding the remark that 'the camel does not travel any better, nor is it any more useful, because of the hump on its back.' the illustration is not a felicitous one, for mr. spurgeon thus retorts: 'naturalists assure us the camel's hump is of great importance in the eyes of the arabs, who judge of the condition of their beasts by the size, shape, and firmness of their humps. the camel feeds upon his hump when he traverses the wilderness, so that in proportion as the animal travels over the sandy wastes, and suffers from privation and fatigue, the mass diminishes; and he is not fit for a long journey till the hump has regained its proportions. calvinism, then, is the spiritual meat which enables a man to labor on in the ways of christian service; and, though ridiculed as a hump by those who are only lookers-on, those who traverse the weary paths of a wilderness experience know too well its value to be willing to part with it, even if a beecher's splendid talents could be given in exchange.'" illustrate, by all means, but do not let the sermon be all illustrations, or it will be only suitable for an assembly of simpletons. a volume is all the better for engravings, but a scrap-book which is all woodcuts is usually intended for the use of little children. our house should be built up with the substantial masonry of doctrine, upon the deep foundation of inspiration; its pillars should be of solid scriptural argument, and every stone of truth should be carefully laid in its place; and then the windows should be ranged in due order, "three rows" if we will: "light against light," like the house of the forest of lebanon. but a house is not erected for the sake of the windows, nor may a sermon be arranged with the view of fitting in a favorite apologue. a window is merely a convenience subordinate to the entire design, and so is the best illustration. we shall be foolish indeed if we compose a discourse to display a metaphor; as foolish as if an architect should build a cathedral with the view of exhibiting a stained-glass window. we are not sent into the world to build a crystal palace in which to set out works of art and elegancies of fashion; but as wise master-builders we are to edify a spiritual house for the divine inhabiting. our building is intended to last, and is meant for every-day use, and hence it must not be all crystal and color. we miss our way altogether, as gospel ministers, if we aim at flash and finery. it is impossible to lay down a rule as to how much adornment shall be found in each discourse: every man must judge for himself in that matter. true taste in dress could not be readily defined, yet every one knows what it is; and there is a literary and spiritual taste which should be displayed in the measuring out of tropes and figures in every public speech. "_ne quid nimis_" is a good caution: do not be too eager to garnish and adorn. some men seem never to have enough of metaphors: each one of their sentences must be a flower. they compass sea and land to find a fresh piece of colored glass for their windows, and they break down the walls of their discourses to let in superfluous ornaments, till their productions rather resemble a fantastic grotto than a house to dwell in. they are grievously in error if they think that thus they manifest their own wisdom, or benefit their hearers. i could almost wish for a return of the window-tax if it would check these poetical brethren. the law, i believe, allowed eight windows free from duty, and we might also exempt "a few, that is eight" metaphors from criticism; but more than that ought to pay heavily. flowers upon the table at a banquet are well enough; but as nobody can live upon bouquets, they will become objects of contempt if they are set before us in lieu of substantial viands. the difference between a little salt with your meat and being compelled to empty the salt-cellar is clear to all; and we could wish that those who pour out so many symbols, emblems, figures, and devices would remember that nausea in oratory is not more agreeable than in food. enough is as good as a feast; and too many pretty things may be a greater evil than none at all. it is a suggestive fact that the tendency to abound in metaphor and illustration becomes weaker as men grow older and wiser. perhaps this may, in a measure, be ascribed to the decay of their imagination; but it also occurs at the same time as the ripening of their understanding. some may have to use fewer figures of necessity, because they do not come to them as aforetime; but this is not always the case. i know that men who still possess great facility in imagery find it less needful to employ that faculty now than in their earlier days, for they have the ear of the people, and they are solemnly resolved to fill that ear with instruction as condensed as they can make it. when you begin with a people who have not heard the gospel, and whose attention you have to win, you can hardly go too far in the use of figure and metaphor. our lord jesus christ used very much of it; indeed, "without a parable spake he not unto them"; because they were not educated up to the point at which they could profitably hear pure didactic truth. it is noticeable that after the holy ghost had been given, fewer parables were used, and the saints were more plainly taught of god. when paul spoke or wrote to the churches in his epistles he employed few parables, because he addressed those who were advanced in grace and willing to learn. as christian minds made progress the style of their teachers became less figurative, and more plainly doctrinal. we seldom see engravings in the classics of the college; these are reserved for the spelling-books of the dame-school. this should teach us wisdom, and suggest that we are to be bound by no hard and fast rules, but should use more or less of any mode of teaching according to our own condition and that of our people. _illustrations should really cast light upon the subject in hand_, otherwise they are sham windows, and all shams are an abomination. when the window-tax was still in force many people in country houses closed half their lights by plastering them up, and then they had the plaster painted to look like panes; so that there was still the appearance of a window, though no sunlight could enter. well do i remember the dark rooms in my grandfather's parsonage, and my wonder that men should have to pay for the light of the sun. blind windows are fit emblems of illustrations which illustrate nothing, and need themselves to be explained. grandiloquence is never more characteristic than in its figures; there it disports itself in a very carnival of bombast. we could quote several fine specimens of sublime spread-eagleism and magnificent nonsense. a piece of high-flown oratory sheds light upon nothing, and does not in the faintest degree enable us to understand the reasons. the object of language of this kind is not to instruct the hearer, but to dazzle him, and, if possible, to impress him with the idea that his minister is a wonderful orator. he who condescends to use clap-trap of any kind deserves to be debarred the pulpit for the term of his natural life. let your figures of speech really represent and explain your meaning, or else they are dumb idols, which ought not to be set up in the house of the lord. * * * * * it may be well to note that _illustrations should not be too prominent_, or, to pursue our figure, they should not be painted windows, attracting attention to themselves rather than letting in the clear light of day. i am not pronouncing any judgment upon windows adorned with "glass of various colors which shine like meadows decked in the flowers of spring"; i am looking only to my illustration. our figures are meant not so much to be seen as to be seen through. if you take the hearer's mind away from the subject by exciting his admiration of your own skill in imagery, you are doing evil rather than good. i saw in one of our exhibitions a portrait of a king; but the artist had surrounded his majesty with a bower of flowers so exquisitely painted that every one's eye was taken away from the royal figure. all the resources of the painter's art had been lavished upon the accessories, and the result was that the portrait, which should have been all in all, had fallen into a secondary place. this was surely an error in portrait-painting, even though it might be a success in art. we have to set forth christ before the people, "evidently crucified among them," and the loveliest emblem or the most charming image which calls the mind away from our divine subject is to be conscientiously forsworn. jesus must be all in all: his gospel must be the beginning and end of all our discoursing; parable and poesy must be under his feet, and eloquence must wait upon him as his servant. never by any possibility must the minister's speech become a rival to his subject; that were to dishonor christ, and not to glorify him. hence the caution that the illustrations be not too conspicuous. out of this last observation comes the further remark that _illustrations are best when they are natural and grow out of the subject_. they should be like those well-arranged windows which are evidently part of the plan of a structure, and not inserted as an afterthought, or for mere adornment. the cathedral of milan inspires my mind with extreme admiration; it always appears to me as if it must have grown out of the earth like a colossal tree, or rather like a forest of marble. from its base to its loftiest pinnacle every detail is a natural outgrowth, a portion of a well-developed whole, essential to the main idea; indeed, part and parcel of it. such should a sermon be; its exordium, divisions, arguments, appeals, and metaphors should all spring out of itself; nothing should be out of living relation to the rest; it should seem as if nothing could be added without being an excrescence, and nothing taken away without inflicting damage. there should be flowers in a sermon, but the bulk of them should be the flowers of the soil; not dainty exotics, evidently imported with much care from a distant land, but the natural upspringing of a life natural to the holy ground on which the preacher stands. figures of speech should be congruous with the matter of the discourse; a rose upon an oak would be out of place, and a lily springing from a poplar would be unnatural: everything should be of a piece and have a manifest relationship to the rest. occasionally a little barbaric splendor may be allowed, after the manner of thomas adams and jeremy taylor and other masters in israel, who adorn truth with rare gems and gold of ophir, fetched from far. yet i would have you note what dr. hamilton says of taylor, for it is a warning to those who aim at winning the ear of the multitude: "thoughts, epithets, incidents, images came trooping round with irrepressible profusion, and they were all so apt and beautiful that it was hard to send any of them away. and so he tried to find a place and use for all--for 'flowers and wings of butterflies,' as well as 'wheat'; and if he could not fabricate links of his logical chain out of 'the little rings of the vine' and 'the locks of a new-weaned boy,' he could at least decorate his subject with exquisite adornments. the passages from his loved austin and chrysostom, and not less beloved seneca and plutarch, the scholar knows how to pardon. the squirrel is not more tempted to carry nuts to his hoard than the bookish author is tempted to transfer to his own pages fine passages from his favorite authors. alas! he little knows how flat and meaningless they are to those who have not traversed the same walks, and shared the delight with which he found great spoil. to him each polished shell recalls its autumnal tale of woods, and groves, and sunshine showering through the yellow leaves; but to the quaint collection 'the general public' very much prefer a pint of filberts from a huckster's barrow." no illustrations are half so telling as those which are taken from familiar objects. many fair flowers grow in foreign lands, but those are dearest to the heart which bloom at our own cottage door. _elaboration into minute points is not commendable_ when we are using figures. the best light comes in through the clearest glass: too much paint keeps out the sun. god's altar of old was to be made of earth, or of unhewn stone, "for," said the word, "if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it" (ex. xx. 25). a labored, artificial style, upon which the graver's tool has left abundant marks, is more consistent with human pleadings in courts of law, or in the forum, or in the senate, than with prophetic utterances delivered in the name of god and for the promotion of his glory. our lord's parables were as simple as tales for children, and as naturally beautiful as the lilies which sprang up in the valleys where he taught the people. he borrowed no legend from the talmud, nor fairy tale from persia, neither fetched he his emblems from beyond the sea; but he dwelt among his own people, and talked of common things in homely style, as never man spake before, and yet as any observant man should speak. his parables were like himself and his surroundings, and were never strained, fantastic, pedantic, or artificial. let us imitate him, for we shall never find a model more complete, or more suitable for the present age. opening our eyes, we shall discover abundant imagery all around. as it is written, "the word is nigh thee," so also is the analogy of that word near at hand: "all things around me, whate'er they be, that i meet as the chance may come. have a voice and a speech in them all- birds that hover and bees that hum; the beast of the field or the stall; the trees, leaves, rushes, and grasses; the rivulet running away; the bird of the air as it passes, or the mountains that motionless stay; and yet those immovable masses keep changing, as dreams do, all day." [1] [1] slightly altered from "fables in song," by robert lord lytton. there will be little need to borrow from the recondite mysteries of human art, nor to go deep into the theories of science; for in nature golden illustrations lie upon the surface, and the purest is that which is uppermost and most readily discerned. of natural history in all its branches we may well say, "the gold of that land is good": the illustrations furnished by every-day phenomena seen by the plowman and the wagoner are the very best which earth can yield. an illustration is not like a prophet, for it has most honor in its own country; and those who have oftenest seen the object are those who are most gratified by the figure drawn from it. i trust that it is scarcely necessary to add that _illustrations must never be low or mean_. they may not be high-flown, but they should always be in good taste. they may be homely, and yet chastely beautiful; but rough and coarse they should never be. a house is dishonored by having dirty windows, cobwebbed and begrimed, patched with brown paper, or stuffed up with rags: such windows are the insignia of a hovel rather than a house. about our illustrations there must never be even the slightest trace of anything that would shock the most delicate modesty. we like not that window out of which jezebel is looking. like the bells upon the horses, our lightest expressions must be holiness unto the lord. of that which suggests the groveling and the base we may say with the apostle, "let it not be once named among you, as becometh saints." all our windows should open toward jerusalem, and none toward sodom. we will gather our flowers always and only from emmanuel's land, and jesus himself shall be their savor and sweetness, so that when he lingers at the lattice to hear us speak of himself he may say, "thy lips, o my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue." that which grows beyond the border of purity and good repute must never be bound up in our garlands, nor placed among the decorations of our discourses. that which would be exceedingly clever and telling in a stump orator's speech, or in a cheap-jack's harangue, would be disgusting from a minister of the gospel. time was when we could have found far too many specimens of censurable coarseness, but it would be ungenerous to mention them now that such things are on all hands condemned. gentlemen, take care that your windows are not broken, or even cracked: in other words, _guard against confused metaphors and limping illustrations_. sir boyle roche is generally credited with some of the finest specimens of metaphorical conglomerate. we should imagine that the passage is mythical in which he is represented as saying, "i smell a rat; i see it floating in the air; i'll nip it in the bud." minor blunderings are frequent enough in the speech of our own countrymen. an excellent temperance advocate exclaimed, "comrades, let us be up and doing! let us take our axes on our shoulders, and plow the waste places till the good ship temperance sails gaily over the land." we well remember, years ago, hearing a fervent irish clergyman exclaim, "garibaldi, sir, he is far too great a man to play second fiddle to such a wretched luminary as victor emmanuel." it was at a public meeting, and therefore we were bound to be proper; but it would have been a great relief to our soul if we might have indulged in a hearty laugh at the spectacle of garibaldi with a fiddle, playing to a luminary; for a certain nursery rhyme jingled in our ears, and sorely tried our gravity. a poetic friend thus encouragingly addresses us: "march on, however rough the road, though foes obstruct thy way, deaf to _the barking curs that would_ _ensnare thy feet astray_." the other evening a brother expressed his desire that we might "all be winners of souls, and bring the lord's blood-bought jewels to cast their crowns at his feet." the words had such a pious ring about them that the audience did not observe the fractured state of the expression. one of your own number hoped "that every student might be enabled to sound the gospel trumpet with such a clear and certain sound _that the blind might see_." perhaps he meant that they should open their eyes with astonishment at the terrific blast; but the figure would have been more congruous if he had said "that the deaf should hear." a scotch writer, in referring to a proposal to use an organ in divine service, says: "nothing will _stem this avalanche_ of will-worship and gross sin but the _falling back on the word of god_." the _daily news_, in reviewing a book written by an eminent minister, complained that his metaphors were apt to be a little unmanageable, as when he spoke of something which had remained a secret until a strangely potent key was inserted among the hidden wards of the parental heart, and a rude wrench flung wide the floodgates and set free the imprisoned stream. however, there is no wonder that ordinary mortals commit blunders in figurative speech, when even his late infallible holiness pius ix. said of mr. gladstone that he "had suddenly come forward like a viper assailing the bark of st. peter." a viper assailing a bark is rather too much for the most accommodating imagination, although some minds are ready for any marvels. one of those reviews which reckon themselves to be the cream of the cream took pains to inform us that the dean of chichester, being the select preacher at st. mary's, oxford, "seized the opportunity to smite the ritualists hip and thigh, _with great volubility and vivacity_." samson smote his foes with a great slaughter; but language is flexible. these blunders are to be quoted by the page: i have given enough to let you see how readily the pitchers of metaphor may be cracked, and rendered unfit to carry our meaning. the ablest speaker may occasionally err in this direction; it is not a very serious matter, and yet, like a dead fly, it may spoil sweet ointment. a few brethren of my acquaintance are always off the lines; they muddle up every figure they touch, and as soon as they approach a metaphor we look for an accident. it might be wisdom on their part to shun all figures of speech till they know how to use them; for it is a great pity when illustrations are so confused as both to darken the sense and create diversion. muddled metaphors are muddles indeed; let us give the people good illustrations or none at all. lecture ii. anecdotes from the pulpit. it is pretty generally admitted that sermons may wisely be adorned with a fair share of illustrations; but anecdotes used to that end are still regarded by the prudes of the pulpit with a measure of suspicion. they will come down low enough to quote an emblem, they will deign to use poetic imagery; but they cannot stoop to tell a simple, homely story. they would probably say in confidence to their younger brethren, "beware how you lower yourselves and your sacred office by repeating anecdotes, which are best appreciated by the vulgar and uneducated." we would not retort by exhorting all men to abound in stories, for there ought to be discrimination. it is freely admitted that there are useful and admirable styles of oratory which would be disfigured by a rustic tale; and there are honored brethren whose genius would never allow them to relate a story, for it would not appear suitable to their mode of thought. upon these we would not even by implication hint at a censure; but when we are dealing with others who seem to be somewhat, and are not what they seem, we feel no tenderness; nay, we are even moved to assail their stilted greatness. if they sneer at anecdotes, we smile at _them_ and their sneers, and wish them more sense and less starch. affectation of intellectual superiority and love of rhetorical splendor have prevented many from setting forth gospel truth in the easiest imaginable manner, namely, by analogies drawn from common events. because they could not condescend to men of low estate, they have refrained from repeating incidents which would have accurately explained their meaning. fearing to be thought vulgar, they have lost golden opportunities. as well might david have refused to sling one of the smooth stones at goliath's brow because he found it in a common brook. from individuals so lofty in their ideas nothing is likely to flow down to the masses of the people but a glacial eloquence--a river of ice. dignity is a most poor and despicable consideration unless it be the dignity of turning many to righteousness; and yet divines who have had scarcely enough of real dignity to save themselves from contempt have swollen "huge as high olympus" through the affectation of it. a young gentleman, after delivering an elaborate discourse, was told that not more than five or six in the congregation had been able to understand him. this he accepted as a tribute to his genius; but i take leave to place him in the same class with another person who was accustomed to shake his head in the most profound manner, that he might make his prelections the more impressive; and this had some effect with the groundlings, until a shrewd christian woman made the remark that he did shake his head certainly, but that _there was nothing in it_. those who are too refined to be simple need to be refined again. luther has well put it in his "table talk": "cursed are all preachers that in the church aim at high and hard things; and neglecting the saving health of the poor unlearned people, seek their own honor and praise, and therefore try to please one or two great persons. _when i preach i sink myself deep down._" it may be superfluous to remind you of the oft-quoted passage from george herbert's "country parson," and yet i cannot omit it, because it is so much to my mind: "the parson also serves himself of the judgments of god, as of those of ancient times, so especially of the late ones; and those most which are nearest to his parish; for people are very attentive at such discourses, and think it behooves them to be so when god is so near them, and even over their heads. sometimes he tells them stories and sayings of others, according as his text invites him; for them also men heed, and remember better than exhortations; which, though earnest, yet often die with the sermon, especially with country people, which are thick and heavy, and hard to raise to a point of zeal and fervency, and need a mountain of fire to kindle them, but stories and sayings they will well remember." it ought never to be forgotten that the great god himself, when he would instruct men, employs histories and biographies. our bible contains doctrines, promises, and precepts; but these are not left alone--the whole book is vivified and illustrated by marvelous records of things said and done by god and by men. he who is taught of god values the sacred histories, and knows that in them there is a special fulness and forcibleness of instruction. teachers of scripture cannot do better than instruct their fellows after the manner of the scriptures. our lord jesus christ, the great teacher of teachers, did not disdain the use of anecdotes. to my mind it seems clear that certain of his parables were facts and, consequently, anecdotes. may not the story of the prodigal son have been a literal truth? were there not actual instances of an enemy sowing tares among the wheat? may not the rich fool who said, "take thine ease," have been a photograph taken from life? did not dives and lazarus actually figure on the stage of history? certainly the story of those who were crushed by the fall of the tower of siloam, and the sad tragedy of the galileans, "whose blood pilate had mingled with their sacrifices," were matters of current jewish gossip, and our lord turned both of them to good account. what he did we need not be ashamed to do. that we may do it with all wisdom and prudence let us seek the guidance of the divine spirit which rested upon him so continually. i shall make up this present address by quoting the examples of great preachers, beginning with the era of the reformation, and following on without any very rigid chronological order down to our own day. examples are more powerful than precepts; hence i quote them. first, let me mention that grand old preacher, _hugh latimer_, the most english of all our divines, and one whose influence over our land was undoubtedly most powerful. southey says, "latimer more than any other man promoted the reformation by his preaching;" and in this he echoes the more important utterance of ridley, who wrote from his prison, "i do think that the lord hath placed old father latimer to be his standard-bearer in our age and country against his mortal foe, antichrist." if you have read any of his sermons, you must have been struck with the number of his quaint stories, seasoned with a homely humor which smacks of that leicestershire farmhouse wherein he was brought up by a father who did yeoman's service, and a mother who milked thirty kine. no doubt we may attribute to these stories the breaking down of pews by the overwhelming rush of the people to hear him, and the general interest which his sermons excited. more of such, preaching, and we should have less fear of the return of popery. the common people heard him gladly, and his lively anecdotes accounted for much of their eager attention. a few of these narratives one could hardly repeat, for the taste of our age has happily improved in delicacy; but others are most admirable and instructive. here are two of them: the friar's man and the ten commandments.--i will tell you now a pretty story of a friar, to refresh you withal. a limiter of the gray friars in the time of his limitation preached many times, and had but one sermon at all times; which sermon was of the ten commandments. and because this friar had preached this sermon so often, one that heard it before told the friar's servant that his master was called "friar john ten commandments"; wherefore the servant showed the friar his master thereof, and advised him to preach of some other matters; for it grieved the servant to hear his master derided. now, the friar made answer saying, "belike, then, thou canst say the ten commandments well, seeing thou hast heard them so many a time." "yea," said the servant, "i warrant you." "let me hear them," saith the master. then he began: "pride, covetousness, lechery," and so numbered the deadly sins for the ten commandments. and so there be many at this time which be weary of the old gospel. they would fain hear some new things, they think themselves so perfect in the old, when they be no more skilful than this servant was in his ten commandments. saint anthony and the cobbler.--we read a pretty story of saint anthony, which, being in the wilderness, led there a very hard and straight life, insomuch as none at that time did the like, to whom came a voice from heaven saying, "anthony, thou art not so perfect as is a cobbler that dwelleth at alexandria." anthony hearing this rose up forthwith and took his staff and went till he came to alexandria, where he found the cobbler. the cobbler was astonished to see so reverend a father to come into his house. then anthony said unto him, "come and tell me thy whole conversation and how thou spendest thy time." "sir," said the cobbler, "as for me, good works i have none, for my life is but simple and slender. i am but a poor cobbler. in the morning when i arise i pray for the whole city wherein i dwell, especially for all such neighbors and poor friends as i have. after, i set me at my labor, where i spend the whole day in getting of my living, and keep me from all falsehood, for i hate nothing so much as i do deceitfulness. wherefore, when i make to any man a promise i keep it and do it truly, and so spend my time poorly with my wife and children, whom i teach and instruct, as far as my wit will serve me, to fear and dread god. this is the sum of my simple life." in this story you see how god loveth those that follow their vocation and live uprightly without any falsehood in their dealing. this anthony was a great and holy man, yet this cobbler was as much esteemed before god as he. let us take a long leap of about a century, and we come to _jeremy taylor_, another bishop, whom i mention immediately after _latimer_ because he is apparently such a contrast to that homely divine, while yet in very truth he has a measure of likeness to him as to the point now in hand. they both rejoiced in figure and metaphor, and equally delighted in incident and narrative. true, the one would talk of john and william, and the other of anexagoras and scipio; but actual scenes were the delight of each. in this respect jeremy taylor may be said to be latimer turned into latin. jeremy taylor is as full of classical allusions as a king's palace is full of rare treasures, and his language is of the lofty order which more becomes a patrician audience than a popular assembly; but when you come to the essence of things, you see that if latimer is homely, so also taylor narrates incidents which are _homely to him_; but his home is among philosophers of greece and senators of rome. this being understood, we venture to say that no one used more anecdotes than this splendid poet-preacher. his biographer truly says: "it would be hard to point out a branch of learning or of scientific pursuit to which he does not occasionally allude; or any author of eminence, either ancient or modern, with whom he does not evince himself acquainted. he more than once refers to obscure stories in ancient writers, as if they were of necessity as familiar to all his readers as to himself; as, for instance, he talks of 'poor attillius aviola,' and again of 'the libyan lion that brake loose into his wilderness and killed two roman boys.'" in all this he is eminently select and classical, and therefore i the more freely introduce him here; for there can be no reason why our anecdotes should all be rustic; we, too, may rifle the treasures of antiquity, and make the heathen contribute to the gospel, even as hiram of tyre served under solomon's direction for the building of the temple of the lord. i am no admirer of taylor's style in other respects, and his teaching seems to be at times semi-popish; but in this place i have only to deal with him upon one particular, and of that matter he is an admirable example. he lavishes classic stories even as an asiatic queen bedecks herself with countless pearls. out of a sermon i extract the following, which may suffice for our purpose: students progressing backward.--menedemus was wont to say "that the young boys that went to athens the first year were wise men, the second year philosophers, the third orators, and the fourth were but plebeians, and understood nothing but their own ignorance." and just so it happens to some in the progresses of religion. at first they are violent and active, and then they satiate all the appetites of religion; and that which is left is that they were soon weary and sat down in displeasure, and return to the world and dwell in the business of pride or money; and by this time they understand that their religion is declined, and passed from the heats and follies of youth to the coldness and infirmities of old age. diogenes and the young man.--diogenes once spied a young man coming out of a tavern or place of entertainment, who, perceiving himself observed by the philosopher, with some confusion stepped back again, that he might, if possible, preserve his fame with that severe person. but diogenes told him, "_quanto magis intraveris, tanto magis eris in caupona_" ("the more you go back the longer you are in the place where you are ashamed to be seen"). he that conceals his sin still retains that which he counts his shame and burden. no examples will have greater weight with you than those taken from among the puritans, in whose steps it is our desire to walk, though, alas! we follow with feeble feet. certain of them abounded in anecdotes and stories. _thomas brooks_ is a signal instance of the wise and wealthy use of holy fancy. i put him first, because i reckon him to be the first in the special art which is now under consideration. he hath dust of gold; for even in the margins of his books there are sentences of exceeding preciousness, and hints at classic stories. his style is clear and full; he never so exceeds in illustration as to lose sight of his doctrine. his floods of metaphor never drown his meaning, but float it upon their surface. if you have never read his works i almost envy you the joy of entering for the first time upon his "unsearchable riches," trying his "precious remedies," tasting his "apples of gold," communing with his "mute christian," and enjoying his other masterly writings. let me give you a taste of his quality in the way of anecdotes. here are two brief ones; but he so abounds with them that you may readily cull scores of better ones for yourselves. mr. welch weeping.--a soul under special manifestations of love weeps that it can love christ no more. mr. welch, a suffolk minister, weeping at table, and being asked the reason of it, answered it was because he could love christ no more. the true lovers of christ can never rise high enough in their love to christ. they count a little love to be no love, great love to be but little, strong love to be but weak, and the highest love to be infinitely below the worth of christ, the beauty and glory of christ, the fulness, sweetness, and goodness of christ. the top of their misery in this life is that they love so little though they are so much beloved. submissive silence.--such was the silence of philip the second, king of spain, that when his invincible armada, that had been three years a-fitting, was lost, he gave command that all over spain they should give thanks to god and the saints that it was no more grievous. _thomas adams_, the conforming puritan, whose sermons are full of rugged force and profound meaning, never hesitated to insert a story when he felt that it would enforce his teaching. his starting-point is ever some biblical sentence, or scriptural history; and this he works out with much elaboration, bringing to it all the treasures of his mind. as stowell says, "fables, anecdotes, classical poetry, gems from the fathers and other old writers, are scattered over almost every page." his anecdotes are usually rough-and-ready ones, and might be compared to those of latimer, only they are not so genial; their humor is generally grim and caustic. the following may serve as fair specimens: the husband and his witty wife.--the husband told his wife that he had one ill quality--he was given to be angry without cause. she wittily replied that she would keep him from that fault, for she would give him cause enough. it is the folly of some that they will be offended without cause, to whom the world promises that they shall have causes enough--"in the world ye shall have tribulation." the servant at the sermon.--it is ordinary with many to commend the lecture to others' ears, but few commend it to their own hearts. it is morally true what the _christian tell-truth_ relates: a servant coming from church praiseth the sermon to his master. he asks him what was the text. "nay," quoth the servant, "it was begun before i came in." "what, then, was his conclusion?" he answered, "i came out before it was done." "but what said he in the midst?" "indeed i was asleep in the midst." many crowd to get into the church, but make no room for the sermon to get into them. _william gurnall_, the author of "the christian in complete armor," must surely have been a relater of pertinent stories in his sermons, since even in his set and solid writings they occur. perhaps i need not have made the distinction between his writings and his preaching, for it appears from the preface that his "christian in complete armor" was preached before it was printed. in vivid imagery every page of his famous book abounds, and whenever this is the case we are sure to light upon short narratives and striking incidents. he is as profuse in illustration as either brooks, watson, or swinnock. happy lavenham, to have been served by such a pastor! by the way, this "complete armor" is beyond all others a preacher's book: i should think that more discourses have been suggested by it than by any other uninspired volume. i have often resorted to it when my own fire has been burning low, and i have seldom failed to find a glowing coal upon gurnall's hearth. john newton said that if he might read only one book beside the bible, he would choose "the christian in complete armor," and cecil was of much the same opinion. j. c. ryle has said of it, "you will often find in a line and a half some great truth, put so concisely, and yet so fully, that you really marvel how so much thought could be got into so few words." one or two stories from the early part of his great work must suffice for our purpose. bird safe in a man's bosom.--a heathen could say when a bird (feared by a hawk) flew into his bosom, "i will not betray thee unto thine enemy, seeing thou comest for sanctuary unto me." how much less will god yield up a soul unto its enemy when it takes sanctuary in his name, saying, "lord, i am hunted with such a temptation, dogged with such a lust; either thou must pardon it, or i am damned; mortify it, or i shall be a slave to it; take me into the bosom of thy love for christ's sake; castle me in the arms of thy everlasting strength. it is in thy power to save me from or give me up into the hands of my enemy. i have no confidence in myself or any other. into thy hands i commit my cause, my life, and rely on thee." this dependence of a soul undoubtedly will awaken the almighty power of god for such a one's defense. he hath sworn the greatest oath that can come out of his blessed lips, even by himself, that such as "flee for refuge" to hope in him shall have "strong consolation" (heb. vi. 17, 18). the prince with his family in danger.--suppose a king's son should get out of a besieged city where he hath left his wife and children, whom he loves as his own soul, and these all ready to die by sword or famine, if supply come not the sooner. could this prince, when arrived at his father's house, please himself with the delights of the court and forget the distress of his family? or rather would he not come post to his father, having their cries and groans always in his ears, and before he ate or drank do his errand to his father, and entreat him if he ever loved him that he would send all the force of his kingdom to raise the siege rather than any of his dear relations should perish? surely, sirs, though christ be in the top of his preferment and out of the storm in regard of his own person, yet his children, left behind in the midst of sin's, satan's, and the world's batteries, are in his heart, and shall not be forgotten a moment by him. the care he takes in our business appeared in the speedy despatch he made of his spirit to his apostles' supply, which, as soon almost as he was warm in his seat at his father's right hand, he sent, to the incomparable comfort of his apostles and us that to this day--yea, to the end of the world--do or shall believe on him. _john flavel_ was greatest in metaphor and allegory; but in the matter of anecdote his preaching is a fine example. it was said of his ministry that he who was unaffected by it must either have had a very soft head or a very hard heart. he had a fund of striking incidents, and a faculty of happy illustration, and as he was a man in whose manner cheerfulness was blended with solemnity, he was popular in the highest degree both at home and abroad. he sought out words which might suit the sailors of dartmouth and farmers of devon, and therefore he has left behind him his "navigation spiritualized," and his "husbandry spiritualized," a legacy for each of the two orders of men who plow the sea and the land. he was a man worth making a pilgrimage to hear. what a crime it was to silence his heaven-touched lips by the abominable act of uniformity! instead of quoting several passages from his sermons, each one containing an anecdote, i have thought it as well to give a mass of stories as we find them in his prelections upon providence in conversion.--a scrap of paper accidentally coming to view hath been used as an occasion of conversion. this was the case of a minister of wales who had two livings but took little care of either. he, being at a fair, bought something at a peddler's standing, and rent off a leaf of mr. perkins' catechism to wrap it in, and reading a line or two of it, god sent it home so as it did the work. the marriage of a godly man into a carnal family hath been ordered by providence for the conversion and salvation of many therein. thus we read in the life of that renowned english worthy, mr. john bruen, that in his second match it was agreed that he should have one year's diet in his mother-in-law's house. during his abode there that year, saith mr. clark, the lord was pleased by his means graciously to work upon her soul, as also upon his wife's sister and half-sister, their brothers, mr. william and mr. thomas fox, with one or two of the servants in that family. not only the reading of a book or hearing of a minister, but--which is most remarkable--the very mistake or forgetfulness of a minister hath been improved by providence for this end and purpose. augustine, once preaching to his congregation, forgot the argument which he first proposed, and fell upon the errors of the manichees beside his first intention, by which discourse he converted one firmus, his auditor, who fell down at his feet weeping and confessing he had lived a manichee many years. another i knew who, going to preach, took up another bible than that he had designed, in which, not only missing his notes but the chapter also in which his text lay, was put to some loss thereby. but after a short pause he resolved to speak about any other scripture that might be presented to him, and accordingly read the text, "the lord is not slack concerning his promise" (2 pet. iii. 9); and though he had nothing prepared, yet the lord helped him to speak both methodically and pertinently from it, by which discourse a gracious change was wrought upon one in the congregation, who hath since given good evidence of a sound conversion, and acknowledged this sermon to be the first and only means thereof. _george swinnock_, for some years chaplain to hampden, had the gift of illustration largely developed, as his works prove. some of his similes are far-fetched, and the growth of knowledge has rendered certain of them obsolete; but they served his purpose, and made his teaching attractive. after deducting all his fancies, which in the present age would be judged to be strained, there remains "a rare amount of sanctified wit and wisdom"; and sparkling here and there we spy out a few telling stories, mostly of classic origin. the prayer of paulinus.--it was the speech of paulinus when his city was taken by the barbarians, "_domine, ne excrucier ob aurum et argentum_" ("lord, let me not be troubled for my silver and gold which i have lost, for thou art all things"). as noah, when the whole world was overwhelmed with water, had a fair epitome of it in the ark, having all sorts of beasts and fowls there, so he that in a deluge hath god to be his god hath the original of all mercies. he who enjoyeth the ocean may rejoice, though some drops are taken from him. queen elizabeth and the milkmaid.--queen elizabeth envied the milkmaid when she was in prison, but had she known the glorious reign which she was to have for forty-four years she would not have repined at the poor happiness of so mean a person. christians are too prone to envy the husks which wandering sinners fill themselves with here below; but would they set before them their glorious hopes of a heaven, how they must reign with christ forever and ever, they would see little reason for their repining. the believing child.--i have read a story of a little child about eight or nine years old, that, being extremely pinched with hunger, looked one day pitifully necessitous on her mother, and said, "mother, do you think that god will starve us?" the mother answered, "no, child; he will not." the child replied, "but if he do, yet we must love him and serve him." here was language that spake a well-grown christian. for, indeed, god brings us to want and misery to try us whether we love him for his own sake or for our own sakes, for those excellencies that are in him or for those mercies we have from him, to see whether we will say with the cynic to antisthenes, "_nullus tam durus erit baculus_," etc. ("there should be no cudgel so crabbed as to beat me from thee"). _thomas watson_ was one of the many puritan preachers who won the popular ear by their frequent illustrations. in the clear flowing stream of his teaching we find pearls of anecdote very frequently. no one ever grew weary under such pleasant yet weighty discourse as that which we find in his "beatitudes." let two quotations serve to show his skill: the vestal and the bracelets.--most men think because god hath blessed them with an estate therefore they are blessed. alas! god often gives these things in anger. he loads his enemies with gold and silver: as plutarch reports of tarpeia, a vestal nun, who bargained with the enemy to betray the capitol of rome to them in case she might have the golden bracelets on their left hands, which they promised; and being entered into the capitol, they threw not only their bracelets but their bucklers, too, upon her, through the weight whereof she was pressed to death. god often lets men have the golden bracelets of worldly substance, the weight whereof sinks them into hell. oh, let us, _superna anhelare_, get our eyes "fixed" and our hearts "united" to god the supreme good. this is to pursue blessedness as in a chase. hedgehog and conies.--the fabulist tells a story of the hedgehog that came to the cony-burrows in stormy weather and desired harbor, promising that he would be a quiet guest; but when once he had gotten entertainment he did set up his prickles, and did never leave till he had thrust the poor conies out of their burrows. so covetousness, though it hath many fair pleas to insinuate and wind itself into the heart, yet as soon as you have let it in, this thorn will never cease pricking till it hath choked all good beginnings and thrust all religion out of your hearts. i think this must suffice to represent the men of the puritanic period, who added to their profound theology and varied learning a zeal to be understood, and a skill in setting forth truth by the help of every-day occurrences. the age which followed them was barren of spiritual life, and was afflicted by a race of rhetorical divines, whose words had little connection with _the word_ of life. the scanty thought of the queen anne dignitaries needed no aid of metaphor or parable: there was nothing to explain to the people; the utmost endeavor of these divines was to hide the nakedness of their discourses with the fig-leaves of latinized verbiage. living preaching was gone, spiritual life was gone, and consequently a pulpit was set up which had no voice for the common people; no voice, indeed, for anybody except the mere formalist, who is content if decorum be observed and respectability maintained. of course, our notion of making truth clear by stories did not suit the dignified death of the period, and it was only when the dry bones began to be stirred that the popular method was again brought to the front. the illustrious _george whitefield_ stands, with wesley, at the head of that noble army who led the revival of the last century. it is not at this present any part of my plan to speak of his matchless eloquence, unquenchable earnestness, and incessant labor; but it is quite according to the run of my lecture to remind you of his own saying, "i use market language." he employed pure, good, flowing english; but he was as simple as if he spoke to children. although by no means abounding in illustration, yet he always employed it when needed, and he narrated incidents with great power of action and emphasis. his stories were so told that they thrilled the people: they saw as well as heard, for each word had its proper gesture. one reason why he could be understood at so great a distance was the fact that the eye helped the ear. as specimens of his anecdotes i have selected two, which follow: the two chaplains.--you cannot do without the grace of god when you come to die. there was a nobleman that kept a deistical chaplain and his lady a christian one. when he was dying he says to his chaplain, "i liked you very well when i was in health, but it is my lady's chaplain i must have when i am sick." never satisfied.--my dear hearers, there is not a single soul of you all that is satisfied in your station. is not the language of your hearts when apprentices. we think we shall do very well when journeymen; when journeymen, that we shall do very well when masters; when single, that we shall do well when married? and, to be sure, you think you shall do well when you keep a carriage. i have heard of one who began low. he first wanted a house; then, says he, "i want two, then four, then six." and when he had them he said, "i think i want nothing else." "yes," says his friend, "you will soon want another thing; that is a hearse-and-six to carry you to your grave." and that made him tremble. fearing that the quotation of any more examples might prove tedious, i would only remind you that such men as berridge, rowland hill, matthew wilks, christmas evans, william jay, and others who have but lately departed from us, owed much of their attractiveness to the way in which they aroused their audiences, and flashed truth into their faces by well-chosen anecdotes. time calls upon me to have done, and how can i come to a better close than by mentioning one living man, who, above all others, has in two continents stirred the masses of the people? i refer to d. l. moody. this admirable brother has a great aversion to the printing of his sermons; and well he may have, for he is incessantly preaching, and has no time allowed him for the preparation of fresh discourses; and therefore it would be great unwisdom on his part to print at once those addresses with which he is working through a campaign. we hope, however, that when he has done with a sermon he will never suffer it to die out, but give it to the church and to the world through the press. our esteemed brother has a lively, telling style, and he thinks it wise frequently to fasten a nail with the hammer of anecdote. here are three extracts from the little book entitled "arrows and anecdotes by d. l. moody." the idiot's mother.--i know a mother who has an idiot child. for it she gave up all society--almost everything--and devoted her whole life to it. "and now," said she, "for fourteen years i have tended it and loved it, and it does not even know me. oh, it is breaking my heart!" oh, how the lord must say this of hundreds here! jesus comes here, and goes from seat to seat asking if there is a place for him. oh, will not some of you take him into your hearts? surgeon and patient.--when i was in belfast i knew a doctor who had a friend, a leading surgeon there, and he told me that the surgeon's custom was, before performing any operation, to say to the patient, "take a good look at the wound and then fix your eyes on me, and don't take them off till i get through the operation." i thought at the time that was a good illustration. sinner, take a good look at the wound to-night, and then fix your eyes on christ and don't take them off. it is better to look at the remedy than at the wound. the roll-call.--a soldier lay on his dying couch during our last war, and they heard him say, "here!" they asked him what he wanted, and he put up his hand and said, "hush! they are calling the roll of heaven, and i am answering to my name." and presently he whispered, "here!" and he was gone. i will weary you no longer. you may safely do what the most useful of men have done before you. copy them not only in their use of illustration, but in their wisely keeping it in subservience to their design. they were not story-tellers, but preachers of the gospel; they did not aim at the entertainment of the people, but at their conversion. never did they go out of their way to drag in a telling bit which they had been saving up for display, and never could any one say of their illustrations that they were windows that exclude the light, and passages that lead to nothing. keep you the due proportion of things lest i do worse than lose my labor, by becoming the cause of your presenting to the people strings of anecdotes instead of sound doctrines, for that would be as evil a thing as if you offered to hungry men flowers instead of bread, and gave to the naked gauze of gossamer instead of woolen cloth. lecture iii. the uses of anecdotes and illustrations. the uses of anecdotes and illustrations are manifold; but we may reduce them to seven, so far as our present purposes are concerned, not for a moment imagining that this will be a complete list. we use them, first, _to interest the mind and secure the attention of our hearers_. we cannot endure a sleepy audience. to us, a slumbering man is no man. sydney smith observed that, although eve was taken out of the side of adam while he was asleep, it was not possible to remove sin from men's hearts in that manner. we do not agree with hodge, the hedger and ditcher, who remarked to a christian man with whom he was talking, "i loikes sunday, i does; i loikes sunday." "and what makes you like sunday?" "cause, you see, it's a day of rest: i goes down to the old church, i gets into a pew, and puts my legs up, and i thinks o' nothin'." it is to be feared that in town as well as in country this thinking of nothing is a very usual thing. but your regard for the sacred day, and the ministry to which you are called, and the worshiping assembly, will not allow you to give your people the chance of thinking of nothing. you want to arouse every faculty in them to receive the word of god, that it may be a blessing to them. we want to win attention at the commencement of the service, and to hold it till the close. with this aim, many methods may be tried; but possibly none will succeed better than the introduction of an interesting story. this sets hodge listening, and although he will miss the fresh air of the fields, and begin to feel drowsy in your stuffy chapel, another tale will stir him to renewed attention. if he hears some narrative in connection with his village or county, you will have him "all there," and you may then hope to do him good. the anecdote in the sermon answers the purpose of an engraving in a book. everybody knows that people are attracted by volumes with pictures in them; and that, when a child gets a book, although it may pass over the letterpress without observation, it is quite sure to pause over the woodcuts. let us not be too great to use a method which many have found successful. we must have attention. in some audiences we cannot get it if we begin with solid instruction; they are not desirous of being taught, and consequently they are not in a condition to receive the truth if we set it before them nakedly. now for a bunch of flowers to attract these people to our table, for afterward we can feed them with the food they so much need. just as the salvation army goes trumpeting and drumming through the streets to draw the people into the barracks, so may an earnest man spend the first few minutes with an unprepared congregation in waking the folks up, and enticing them to enter the inner chamber of the truth. even this awakening prelude must have in it that which is worthy of the occasion; but if it is not up to your usual average in weight of doctrine, it may not only be excused, but commended, if it prepares the audience to receive that which is to follow. ground-bait may catch no fish; but it answers its purpose if it brings them near the bait and the hook. a congregation which has been well instructed, and is mainly made up of established believers, will not need to be addressed in the same style as an audience gathered fresh from the world, or a meeting of dull, formal church-goers. your common sense will teach you to suit your manner to your audience. it is possible to maintain profound and long-continued attention without the use of an illustration; i have frequently done so in the tabernacle when it has been mainly filled with church-members; but when my own people are away, and strangers fill their places, i bring out all my store of stories, similes, and parables. i have sometimes told anecdotes in the pulpit, and very delicate and particular people have expressed their regret and horror that i should say such things; but when i have found that god has blessed some of the illustrations i have used, i have often thought of the story of the man with a halberd, who was attacked by a nobleman's dog, and, of course, in defending himself, he killed the animal. the nobleman was very angry, and asked the man how he dared to kill the dog; and the man replied that if he had not killed it the dog would have bitten him and torn him in pieces. "well," said the nobleman, "but you should not have struck it on the head with the halberd; why did you not hit it with the handle?" "my lord," answered the man, "so i would if it had tried to bite me with its tail." so, when i have to deal with sin, some people say, "why don't you address it delicately? why don't you speak to it in courtly language?" and i answer, "so i would if it would bite me with its tail; but as long as ever i find that it deals roughly with me, i will deal roughly with it; and any kind of weapon that will help to slay the monster, i shall not find unfitted to my hand." we cannot afford in these days to lose any opportunity of getting hold of the public ear. we must use every occasion that comes in our way, and every tool that is likely to help us in our work; and we must rouse up all our faculties, and put forth all our energies, if that by any means we may get the people to heed that which they are so slow to regard, the great story of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come. we shall need to read much, and to study hard, or else we shall not be able to influence our day and generation for good. i believe that the greatest industry is necessary to make a thoroughly efficient preacher, and the best natural ability, too; and it is my firm conviction that, when you have the best natural ability, you must supplement it with the greatest imaginable industry, if you are really to do much service for god among this crooked and perverse generation. the fool in scotland who got into the pulpit before the preacher arrived was requested by the minister to come down. "nay, nay," answered the man, "you come up, too, for it will take both of us to move this stiff-necked generation." it will certainly take all the wisdom that we can obtain to move the people among whom our lot is cast; and if we do not use every lawful means of interesting the minds of our hearers, we shall find that they will be like a certain other congregation, in which the people were all asleep except one poor idiot. the minister woke them up, and tried to reprove them by saying, "there, you were all asleep except poor jock the idiot;" but his rebuke was cut short by jock, who exclaimed, "and if i had not been an idiot, i should have been asleep too." i will leave the moral of that well-known story to speak for itself, and will pass on to my second point, which is, that the use of anecdotes and illustrations _renders our preaching lifelike and vivid_. this is a most important matter. of all things that we have to avoid, one of the most essential is that of giving our people the idea, when we are preaching, that we are acting a part. everything theatrical in the pulpit, either in tone, manner, or anything else, i loathe from my very soul. just go into the pulpit and talk to the people as you would in the kitchen, or the drawing-room, and say what you have to tell them in your ordinary tone of voice. let me conjure you, by everything that is good, to throw away all stilted styles of speech, and anything approaching affectation. nothing can succeed with the masses except naturalness and simplicity. why, some ministers cannot even give out a hymn in a natural manner! "let us sing to the praise and glory of god" (spoken in the tone that is sometimes heard in churches or chapels)--who would ever think of speaking like that at the tea-table? "i shall be greatly obliged if you will kindly give me another cup of tea" (spoken in the same unnatural way)--you would never think of giving any tea to a man who talked like that; and if we preach in that stupid style, the people will not believe what we say; they will think it is our business, our occupation, and that we are doing the whole thing in a professional manner. we must shake off professionalism of every kind, as paul shook off the viper into the fire; and we must speak as god has ordained that we should speak, and not by any strange, out-of-the-way, new-fangled method of pulpit oratory. our lord's teaching was amazingly lifelike and vivid; it was the setting out of truth before the eye, not as a flat picture, but as in a stereoscope, making it stand up, with all its lines and angles of beauty in lifelike reality. that was a fine living sermon when he took a little child, and set him in the midst of the disciples; and that was another powerful discourse when he preached about abstaining from carking cares, and stooped down and plucked a lily (as i suppose he did) and said, "consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin." i can readily suppose that some ravens were flying just over his head, and that he pointed to them, and said, "consider the ravens; for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and god feedeth them." there was a lifelikeness; you see, a vividness, about the whole thing. we cannot always literally imitate our lord, as we have mostly to preach in places of worship. it is a blessing that we have so many houses of prayer, and i thank god that there are so many of them springing up all around us; yet i should praise the lord still more if half the ministers who preach in our various buildings were made to turn out of them, and to speak for their master in the highways and byways, and anywhere that the people would go to listen to them. we are to go out into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature--not to stop in our chapels waiting for every creature to come in to hear what we have to say. a sportsman who should sit at his parlor window, with his gun loaded all ready for shooting partridges, would probably not make up a very heavy bag of game. no; he must put on his buskins, and tramp off over the fields, and then he will get a shot at the birds he is seeking. so must we do, brethren; we must always have our buskins ready for field work, and be ever on the watch for opportunities of going out among the souls of men, that we may bring them back as trophies of the power of the gospel we have to proclaim. it might not be wise for us to try to make our sermons lifelike and vivid in the style in which quaint old matthew wilks sometimes did; as when, one sabbath morning, he took into the pulpit a little box, and after a while, opened it, and displayed to the congregation a small pair of scales, and then, turning over the leaves of the bible with great deliberation, held up the balances, and announced as his text, "thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting." i think, however, that was puerile rather than powerful. i like matthew wilks better when, on another occasion, his text being, "see that ye walk circumspectly," he commenced by saying, "did you ever see a tom-cat walking on the top of a high wall that was covered with bits of broken glass bottles? if so, you had just then an accurate illustration of what is meant by the injunction, 'see that ye walk circumspectly.'" there is the case, too, of good "father taylor," who, preaching in the streets in one of the towns of california, stood on the top of a whisky-barrel. by way of illustration, he stamped his foot on the cask and said, "this barrel is like man's heart, full of evil stuff; and there are some people who say that if sin is within you, it may just as well come out." "no," said the speaker, "it is not so; now here is this whisky that is in the barrel under my foot: it is a bad thing; it is a damnable thing; it is a devilish thing; but as long as it is kept tightly bunged up in the barrel, it certainly will not do the hurt that it will if it is taken over to the liquor-bar, and sold out to the drunkards of the neighborhood, sending them home to beat their wives or kill their children. so, if you keep your sins in your own heart, they will be evil and devilish, and god will damn you for them; but they will not do so much hurt to other people, at any rate, as if they are seen in public." stamping his foot again on the barrel, the preacher said, "suppose you try to pass this cask over the boundaries of the country, and the custom-house officer comes and demands the duty upon its contents. you say that you will not let any of the whisky get out; but the officer tells you that he cannot allow it to pass. so, if it were possible for us to abstain from outward sin, yet, since the heart is full of all manner of evil, it would be impossible for us to pass the frontiers of heaven, and to be found in that holy and happy place." that i thought to be somewhat of a lifelike illustration, and a capital way of teaching truth, although i should not like always to have a whisky-barrel for a pulpit, for fear the head might fall in, and i might fall in, too. i should not recommend any of you to be so lifelike in your ministry as that notable french priest, who, addressing his congregation, said, "as to the magdalenes and those who commit the sins of the flesh, such persons are very common; they abound even in this church; and i am going to throw this mass-book at a woman who is a magdalene," whereupon all the women in the place bent down their heads. so the priest said, "no, surely you are not all magdalenes; i hardly thought that was the case; but you see how your sin finds you out!" nor should i even recommend you to follow the example of the clergyman, who, when a collection was to be made for lighting and warming the church, after he had preached some time, blew out the candles on both sides of the pulpit, saying that the collection was for the lights and the fires, and he did not require any light, for he did not read his sermon, "but," he added, "when roger gives out the psalm presently, you will want a light to see your books; so the candles are for yourselves. and as for the stove, i do not need its heat, for my exercise in preaching is sufficient to keep me warm; therefore you see that the collection is wholly for yourselves on this occasion. nobody can say that the clergy are collecting for themselves this time, for on this sunday it is wholly for your own selves." i thought the man was a fool for making such remarks, though i find that his conduct has been referred to as being a very excellent instance of boldness in preaching. there is a story told about myself, which, like very many of the tales told about me, is a _story_ in two senses. it is said that in order to show the way in which men backslide, i once slid down the banisters of the pulpit. i only mention this, in passing, because it is a remarkable fact that, at the time the story was told, my pulpit was fixed in the wall, and there was no banister, so that the reverend fool (which he would have been if he had done what people said) could not have performed the antic if he had been inclined to attempt it. but the anecdote, although it is not true, serves all the purposes of the lifelikeness i have tried to describe. you probably recollect the instance of whitefield depicting the blind man, with his dog, walking on the brink of a precipice, and his foot almost slipping over the edge. the preacher's description was so graphic, and the illustration so vivid and lifelike, that lord chesterfield sprang up and exclaimed, "good god, he's gone!" but whitefield answered, "no, my lord, he is not quite gone; let us hope that he may yet be saved." then he went on to speak of the blind man as being led by his reason, which is only like a dog, showing that a man led only by reason is ready to fall into hell. how vividly one would see the love of money set forth in the story told by our venerable friend, mr. rogers, of a man who, when he lay a-dying, would put his money in his mouth because he loved it so and wanted to take some of it with him! how strikingly is the non-utility of worldly wealth, as a comfort to us in our last days, brought before us by the narrative in which good jeremiah burroughes speaks of a miser who had his money-bags laid near his hand on his dying-bed! he kept taking them up, and saying, "must i leave you? must i leave you? have i lived all these years for you, and now must i leave you?" and so he died. there is a tale told of another, who had many pains in his death, and especially the great pain of a disturbed conscience. he also had his money-bags brought, one by one, with his mortgages, and bonds, and deeds, and putting them near his heart, he sighed, and said, "these won't do; these won't do; these won't do; take them away! what poor things they all are when i most need comfort in my dying moments!" how distinctly love to christ is brought out in the story of john lambert, fastened to the stake, and burning to death, yet clapping his hands as he was burning, and crying out, "none but christ! none but christ!" until his nether extremities were burned, and he fell from the chains into the fire, still exclaiming in the midst of the flames, "none but christ! none but christ!" how clearly the truth stands out before you when you hear such stories as these! you can realize it almost as well as if the incident happened before your eyes. how well you can see the folly of misunderstanding between christians in mr. jay's story of two men who were walking from opposite directions on a foggy night! each saw what he thought was a terrible monster moving toward him, and making his heart beat with terror; as they came nearer to each other, they found that the dreadful monsters were brothers. so, men of different denominations are often afraid of one another; but when they get close to each other, and know each other's hearts, they find out that they are brethren after all. the story of the negro and his master well illustrates the need of beginning at the beginning in heavenly things, and not meddling with the deeper points of our holy religion till we have learned its elements thoroughly. a poor negro was laboring hard to bring his master to a knowledge of the truth, and was urging him to exercise faith in christ, when he excused himself because he could not understand the doctrine of election. "ah! massa," said the negro, "don't you know what comes before de epistle to de romans? you must read de book de right way; de doctrine ob election is in romans, and dere is matthew, mark, luke, and john, first. you are only in matthew yet; dat is about repentance; and when you get to john, you will read where de lord jesus christ said dat god so loved de world, dat he gave his only begotten son, dat whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but hab everlasting life." so, brethren, you can say to your hearers, "you will do better by reading the four gospels first than by beginning to read in romans; first study matthew, mark, luke, and john, and then you can go on to the epistles." but i must not keep on giving you illustrations, because so many will suggest themselves. i have given you sufficient to show that they do make our preaching vivid and lifelike; therefore, the more you have of them, the better. at the same time, gentlemen, i must warn you against the danger of having too many anecdotes in any one sermon. you ought, perhaps, to have a dish of salad on the table; but if you ask your friends to dinner, and give them nothing but salad, they will not fare very well, and will not care to come to your house again. * * * * * thirdly, anecdotes and illustrations may be used _to explain either doctrines or duties to dull understandings_. they may, in fact, be the very best form of exposition. a preacher should instance, and illustrate, and exemplify his subject, so that his hearers may have real acquaintance with the matter he is bringing before them. if a man attempted to give me a description of a piece of machinery, he would possibly fail to make me comprehend what it was like; but if he will have the goodness to let me see a drawing of the various sections, and then of the whole machine, i will, somehow or other, by hook or by crook, make out how it works. the pictorial representation of a thing is always a much more powerful means of instruction than any mere verbal description ever could be. it is just in this way that anecdotes and illustrations are so helpful to our hearers. for instance, take this anecdote as illustrating the text, "thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy father which is in secret." a little boy used to go up into a hay-loft to pray; but he found that, sometimes, persons came up and disturbed him; therefore, the next time he climbed into the loft, he pulled the ladder up after him. telling this story, you might explain how the boy thus entered into his closet and shut the door. the meaning is not so much the literal entrance into a closet, or the shutting of the door, as the getting away from earthly sources of distraction, pulling up the ladder after us, and keeping out anything that might come in to hinder our secret devotions. i wish we could always pull the ladder up after us when we retire for private prayer; but many things try to climb that ladder. the devil himself will come up to disturb us if he can; and he can get into the hay-loft without any ladder. what a capital exposition of the fifth commandment was that which was given by corporal trim, when he was asked, "what dost thou mean by honoring thy father and thy mother?" and he answered, "please, your honor, it is allowing them a shilling a week out of my pay when they grow old." that was an admirable explanation of the meaning of the text. then, if you are trying to show how we are to be doers of the word, and not hearers only, there is a story of a woman who, when asked by the minister what he had said on sunday, replied that she did not remember the sermon; but it had touched her conscience, for when she got home she burned her bushel, which was short measure. there is another story which also goes to show that the gospel may be useful even to hearers who forget what they have heard. a woman is called upon by her minister on the monday, and he finds her washing wool in a sieve, holding it under the pump. he asks her, "how did you enjoy last sabbath's discourses?" and she says that they did her much good. "well, what was the text?" she does not recollect. "what was the subject?" "ah, sir, it is quite gone from me!" says the poor woman. does she remember any of the remarks that were made? no, they are all gone. "well, then, mary," says the minister, "it could not have done you much good." oh! but it had done her a great deal of good; and she explained it to him by saying, "i will tell you, sir, how it is; i put this wool in the sieve under the pump, i pump on it, and all the water runs through the sieve, but then it washes the wool. so it is with your sermon; it comes into my heart, and then it runs right through my poor memory, which is like a sieve, but it washes em clean, sir." you might talk for a long while about the cleansing and sanctifying power of the word, and it would not make such an impression upon your hearers as that simple story would. what finer exposition of the text, "weep with them that weep," can you have than this pretty anecdote? "mother," said little annie, "i cannot make out why poor widow brown likes me to go in to see her; she says i do comfort her so; but, mother, i cannot say anything to comfort her, and as soon as she begins crying, i put my arms round her neck, and i cry too, and she says that that comforts her." and so it does; that is the very essence of the comfort, the sympathy, the fellow-feeling that moved the little girl to weep with the weeping widow. mr. hervey thus illustrates the great truth of the different appearance of sin to the eye of god and the eye of man. he says that you may take a small insect, and with the tiniest needle make a puncture in it so minute that you can scarcely see it with the naked eye; but when you look at it through a microscope, you see an enormous rent, out of which there flows a purple stream, making the creature seem to you as though it had been smitten with the ax that killeth an ox. it is but a defect of our vision that we cannot see things correctly; but the microscope reveals them as they really are. thus you may explain to your hearers how god's microscopic eye sees sin in its true aspects. suppose that you wanted to set forth the character of caleb, who followed the lord fully; it would greatly help many of your people if you said that the name caleb signifies a dog, and then showed how a dog follows his master. there is his owner on horseback, riding along the miry roads; but the dog keeps as close to him as he can, no matter how much mud and dirt are splashed upon him, and not heeding the kicks he might get from the horse's heels. even so should we follow the lord. if you wish to exemplify the shortness of time, you might bring in the poor seamstress, with her little piece of candle, stitching away to get her work done before the light went out. many preachers find the greatest difficulty in getting suitable metaphors to set forth simple faith in the lord jesus christ. there is a capital anecdote of an idiot who was asked by the minister, who was trying to instruct him, whether he had a soul. to the utter consternation of his kind teacher, he replied, "no, i have no soul." the preacher said he was greatly surprised, after he had been taught for years, that he did not know better than that; but the poor fellow thus explained himself, "i had a soul once, but i lost it; and jesus christ came and found it, and now i let him keep it, for it is his, it does not belong to me any longer." that is a fine picture of the way of salvation by simple faith in the substitution of the lord jesus christ; and the smallest child in the congregation might be able to understand it through the story of the poor idiot. * * * * * fourthly, _there is a kind of reasoning in anecdotes and illustrations_, which is very clear to illogical minds; and many of our hearers, unfortunately, have such minds, yet they can understand illustrative instances and stubborn facts. truthful anecdotes are facts, and facts are stubborn things. instances, when sufficiently multiplied, as we know by the inductive philosophy, prove a point. two instances may not prove it; but twenty may prove it to a demonstration. take the very important matter of answers to prayer. you can prove that god answers prayer by quoting anecdote after anecdote, that you know to be authentic, of instances in which god has really heard and answered prayer. take that capital little book by mr. prime on the "power of prayer"; there i believe you have the truth upon this subject demonstrated as clearly as you could have it in any proposition in euclid. i think that, if such a number of facts could be instanced in connection with any question relating to geology or astronomy, the point would be regarded as settled. the writer brings such abundant proofs of god's having heard prayer, that even men who reject inspiration ought, at least, to acknowledge that this is a marvelous phenomenon for which they cannot account by any other explanation than the one which proclaims that there is a god who sitteth in heaven, and who hath respect unto the cry of his people upon the earth. i have heard of some persons who have had objections to labor for the conversion of their children, on the ground that god would save his own without any effort on our part. i remember making one man wince who held this view, by telling him of a father who would never teach his child to pray, or have him instructed even as to the meaning of prayer. he thought it was wrong, and that such work ought to be left to god's holy spirit. the boy fell down and broke his leg, and had to have it taken off; and all the while the surgeon was amputating it the boy was cursing and swearing in the most frightful manner. the good surgeon said to the father, "you see, you would not teach your boy to pray, but the devil evidently had no objection to teach him to swear." that is the mischief of it; if we do not try our best to bring our children to christ, there is another who will do his worst to drag them down to hell. a mother once said to her sick son, who was about to die, and was in a dreadful state of mind, "my boy, i am sorry you are in such trouble; i am sure i never taught you any hurt." "no, mother," he answered, "but you never taught me any good; and therefore there was room for all sorts of evil to get into me." all these stories will be to many people the very best kind of argument that you could possibly use with them. you bring to them facts, and these facts reach their conscience, even though it is embedded in several inches of callousness. i do not know of any reasoning that would explain the need of submission to the will of god better than the telling of the story, which mr. gilpin gives us in his life, of his being called in to pray with a woman whose boy was very ill. the good man asked that god would, if it were his will, restore the dear child to life and health, when the mother interrupted him, and said, "no, i cannot agree to such a prayer as that; i cannot put it in that shape; it must be god's will to restore him. i cannot bear that my child should die; pray that he may live whether it is god's will or not." he answered, "woman, i cannot pray that prayer, but it is answered; your child will recover, but you will live to rue the day that you made such a request." twenty years after, there was a woman carried away in a fainting fit from under a drop at tyburn, for her son had lived long enough to bring himself to the gallows by his crimes. the mother's wicked prayer had been heard, and god had answered it. so, if you want to prove the power of the gospel, do not go on expending words to no purpose, but tell the stories of cases you have met with that illustrate the truth you are enforcing, for such anecdotes will convince your hearers as no other kind of reasoning can. i think that is clear enough to every one of you. anecdotes are useful, also, because they often appeal very forcibly to human nature. in order to rebuke those who profane the sabbath, tell the story of the gentleman who had seven sovereigns, and who met with a poor fellow, to whom he gave six out of the seven, and then the wicked wretch turned round and robbed him of the seventh. how clearly that sets forth the ingratitude of our sinful race in depriving god of that one day out of the seven which he has set apart for his own service! this story appeals to nature, too. two or three boys come round one of their companions, and they say to him, "let us go and get some cherries out of your father's garden." "no," he replies, "i cannot steal, and my father does not wish those cherries to be picked." "oh, but then your father is so kind, and he never beats you!" "ah, i know that is true!" answers the boy, "and that is the very reason why i would not steal his cherries." this would show that the grace and goodness of god do not lead his children to licentiousness; but, on the contrary, they restrain them from sin. this story, also, appeals to human nature, and shows that the fathers of the church are not always to be depended upon as fountains of authority. a nobleman had heard of a certain very old man, who lived in a village, and he sought out and found him, and ascertained that he was seventy years of age. he was talking with him, supposing him to be the oldest inhabitant, when the man said, "oh, no, sir, i am not the oldest; i am not the father of the village; there is an older one--my father--who is still alive." so, i have heard of some who have said that they turned away from "the fathers" of the church to the very old fathers, that is, away from what are commonly called "the patristic fathers," back to the apostles, who are the true fathers and grandfathers of the christian church. sometimes anecdotes have force in them on account of their appealing to the sense of the ludicrous. of course, i must be very careful here, for it is a sort of tradition of the fathers that it is wrong to laugh on sundays. the eleventh commandment is, that we are to love one another, and then, according to some people, the twelfth is, "thou shalt pull a long face on sunday." i must confess that i would rather hear people laugh than i would see them asleep in the house of god; and i would rather get the truth into them through the medium of ridicule than i would have the truth neglected, or leave the people to perish through lack of reception of the truth. i do believe in my heart that there may be as much holiness in a laugh as in a cry; and that, sometimes, to laugh is the better thing of the two, for i may weep, and be murmuring, and repining, and thinking all sorts of bitter thoughts against god; while, at another time, i may laugh the laugh of sarcasm against sin, and so evince a holy earnestness in the defense of the truth. i do not know why ridicule is to be given up to satan as a weapon to be used against us, and not to be employed by us as a weapon against him. i will venture to affirm that the reformation owed almost as much to the sense of the ridiculous in human nature as to anything else, and that those humorous squibs and caricatures that were issued by the friends of luther, did more to open the eyes of germany to the abominations of the priesthood than the more solid and ponderous arguments against romanism. i know no reason why we should not, on suitable occasions, try the same style of reasoning. "it is a dangerous weapon," it will be said, "and many men will cut their fingers with it." well, that is their own lookout; but i do not know why we should be so particular about their cutting their fingers, if they can, at the same time, cut the throat of sin, and do serious damage to the great adversary of souls. here is a story that i should not mind telling on a sunday for the benefit of certain people who are good at hearing sermons and attending prayer-meetings, but who are very bad hands at business. they never work on sundays because they never work on any day of the week; they forget that part of the commandment which says, "six days shalt thou labor," which is just as binding as the other part, "the seventh day is the sabbath of the lord thy god: in it thou shalt not do any work." to these people who never labor because they are so heavenly-minded, i would tell the story of a certain monk, who entered a monastery, but who would not work in the fields, or the garden, or at making clothes, or anything else, because, as he told the superior, he was a spiritually-minded monk. he wondered, when the dinner-hour approached, that there came to him no summons from the refectory. so he went down to the prior, and said, "don't the brethren eat here? are you not going to have any dinner?" the prior said, "we do, because we are carnal; but you are so spiritual that you do not work, and therefore you do not require to eat; that is why we did not call you. the law of this monastery is, that if any man will not work, neither shall he eat." that is a good story of the boy in italy who had his testament seized, and who said to the _gendarme_, "why do you seize this book? is it a bad book?" "yes," was the answer. "are you sure the book is bad?" he inquired; and again the reply was, "yes." "then why do you not seize the author of it if it is a bad book?" that was a fine piece of sarcasm at those who had a hatred of the scriptures, and yet professed to have love to christ. that is another good story of our friend the irishman, who, when he was asked by the priest what warrant an ignorant man such as he was had for reading the bible, said, "truth, but i have a search-warrant; for it says, 'search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'" this story would not be amiss, i think, as a sort of ridiculous argument showing what power the gospel ought to have over the human mind. dr. moffat tells us of a certain kaffir, who came to him one day, saying that the new testament, which the missionary had given him a week before, had spoiled his dog. the man said that his dog had been a very good hunting-dog, but that he had torn the testament to pieces, and eaten it up, and now he was quite spoiled. "never mind," said dr. moffat, "i will give you another testament." "oh!" said the man, "it is not that that troubles me, i do not mind the dog spoiling the book, for i could buy another; but the book has spoiled the dog." "how is that?" inquired the missionary; and the kaffir replied, "the dog will be of no use to me now, because he has eaten the word of god, and that will make him love his enemies, so that he will be of no good for hunting." the man supposed that not even a dog could receive the new testament without being sweetened in temper thereby; that is, in truth, what ought to be the case with all who feed upon the gospel of christ. i should not hesitate to tell that story after dr. moffat, and i should, of course, use it to show that, when a man has received the truth as it is in jesus, there ought to be a great change in him, and he ought never to be of any use to his old master again. when the priests were trying to pervert the natives of tahiti to romanism, they had a fine picture which they hoped would convince the people of the excellence of the church of rome. there were certain dead logs of wood: whom were they to represent? they were the heretics, who were to go into the fire. and who were these small branches of the tree? they were the faithful. who were the larger ones? they were the priests. and who were the next? they were the cardinals. and who was the trunk of the tree? oh, that was the pope! and the root, whom did that set forth? oh, the root was jesus christ! so the poor natives said, "well, we do not know anything about the trunk or the branches; but we have got the root, and we mean to stick to that, and not give it up." if we have the root, if we have christ, we may laugh to scorn all the pretensions and delusions of men. these stories may make us laugh, but they may also smite error right through the heart, and lay it dead; and they may, therefore, lawfully be used as weapons with which we may go forth to fight the lord's battles. * * * * * fifthly, another use of anecdotes and illustrations lies in the fact that _they help the memory to grasp the truth_. there is a story told--though i will not vouch for the truth of it--of a certain countryman, who had been persuaded by some one that all londoners were thieves; and, therefore, on coming to london for the first time, he tried to secure his watch by putting it into his waistcoat pocket, and then covering it all over with fish-hooks. "now," he thought, "if any gentleman tries to get my watch, he will remember it." the story says that, as he was walking along, he desired to know the time himself, and put his own hand into his pocket, forgetting all about the fish-hooks. the effect produced upon him can better be imagined than described. now, it seems to me that a sermon should always be like that countryman's pocket, full of fish-hooks, so that, if anybody comes in to listen to it, he will get some forget-me-not, some remembrancer, fastened in his ear, and, it may be, in his heart and conscience. let him drop in just at the end of the discourse, there should be something at the close that will strike and stick. as when we walk in our farmer friends' fields there are certain burrs that are sure to cling to our clothes; and, rush as we may, some of the relics of the fields remain upon our garments; so there ought to be some burr in every sermon that will stick to those who hear it. what do you remember best in the discourses you heard years ago? i will venture to say that it is some anecdote that the preacher related. it may possibly be some pithy sentence; but it is more probable that it is some striking story which was told in the course of the sermon. rowland hill, a little while before he died, was visiting an old friend, who said to him, "mr. hill, it is now sixty-five years since i first heard you preach; but i remember your text, and a part of your sermon." "well," asked the preacher, "what part of the sermon do you recollect?" his friend answered, "you said that some people, when they went to hear a sermon, were very squeamish about the delivery of the preacher. then you said, 'supposing you went to hear the will of one of your relatives read, and you were expecting a legacy from him; you would hardly think of criticizing the manner in which the lawyer read the will; but you would be all attention to hear whether anything was left to you, and if so, how much; and that is the way to hear the gospel.'" now, the man would not have recollected that for sixty-five years if mr. hill had not put the matter in that illustrative form. if he had said, "dear friends, you must listen to the gospel for its own sake, and not merely for the charms of the preacher's oratory, or those delightful soaring periods which gratify your ears," if he had put it in the very pretty manner in which some people can do the thing, i will be bound to say that the man would have remembered it as long as a duck recollects the last time it went into the water, and no longer; for it would have been so common to have spoken in that way; but putting the truth in the striking manner that he did, it was remembered for sixty-five years. a gentleman related the following anecdote, which just answers the purpose i have in view, so i will pass it on to you. he said: "when i was a boy, i used to hear the story of a tailor who lived to a great age, and became very wealthy, so that he was an object of envy to all who knew him. his life, as all lives will, drew to a close; but before he passed away, feeling some desire to benefit the members of his craft, he gave out word that, on a certain day, he would be happy to communicate to all the tailors of the neighborhood the secret by which they might become wealthy. a great number of knights of the thimble came, and while they waited in anxious silence to hear the important revelation, he was raised up in his bed, and with his expiring breath uttered this short sentence, _'always put a knot in your thread_.'" that is why i recommend you, brethren, to use anecdotes and illustrations, because they put knots in the thread of your discourse. what is the use of pulling the end of your thread through the material on which you are working? yet, has it not been the case with very many of the sermons to which we have listened, or the discourses we have ourselves delivered? the bulk of what we have heard has just gone through our minds without leaving any lasting impression, and all we recollect is some anecdote that was told by the preacher. there is an authenticated case of a man being converted by a sermon eighty-five years after he had heard it preached. mr. flavel, at the close of a discourse, instead of pronouncing the usual benediction, stood up, and said, "how can i dismiss you with a blessing, for many of you are 'anathema maranatha,' because you love not the lord jesus christ?" a lad of fifteen heard that remarkable utterance; and eighty-five years afterward, sitting under a hedge, the whole scene came vividly before him as if it had been but the day before; and it pleased god to bless mr. flavel's words to his conversion, and he lived three years longer to bear good testimony that he had felt the power of the truth in his heart. * * * * * sixthly, anecdotes and illustrations are useful because _they frequently arouse the feelings_. they will not do this, however, if you tell the same stories over and over again ever so many times. i recollect, when i first heard that wonderful story about "there is another man," i cried a good deal over it. poor soul, just rescued, half-dead, with only a few rags on him, and yet he said, "there is another man," needing to be saved. the second time i heard the story, i liked it, but i did not think it was quite so new as at first; and the third time i heard it, i thought that i never wanted to hear it again. i do not know how many times i have heard it since; but i can always tell when it is coming out. the brother draws himself up, and looks wonderfully solemn, and in a sepulchral tone says, "there is another man," and i think to myself, "yes, and i wish there had not been," for i have heard that story till i am sick and tired of it. even a good anecdote may get so hackneyed that there is no force in it, and no use in retailing it any longer. still, a live illustration is better for appealing to the feelings of an audience than any amount of description could possibly be. what we want in these times is not to listen to long prelections upon some dry subject, but to hear something practical, something matter-of-fact, that comes home to our every-day reasoning; and when we get this then our hearts are soon stirred. i have no doubt that the sight of a death-bed would move men much more than that admirable work called "drelincourt on death," a book which, i should think, nobody has ever been able to read through. there may have been instances of persons who have attempted it; but i believe that, long before they have reached the latter end, they have been in a state of asphyxia or coma, and have been obliged to be rubbed with hot flannels; and the book has had to be removed to a distance before they could recover. if you have not read "drelincourt on death," i believe i know what you have read--that is, the ghost story that is stitched in at the end of the book. the work would not sell, the whole impression was upon the shelves of the bookseller, when defoe wrote the fiction entitled, "a true relation of the apparition of mrs. veal, after her death, to mrs. bargrave," in which "drelincourt on death" is recommended by the apparition as the best book on the subject. this story had not a vestige or shadow of truth in it, it was all a piece of imagination; but it was put in at the end of the book, and then the whole edition was speedily cleared out, and more were wanted. it may be something like that very often with your sermons; only you must tell the people of what has actually occurred, and so you will retain their attention and reach their hearts. many have been moved to self-sacrifice by the story of the moravians in south africa who saw a large inclosed space of ground, in which there were persons rotting away with leprosy, some without arms and some without legs; and these moravians could not preach to the poor lepers without going in there themselves for life to rot with them, and they did so. two more of the same noble band of brethren sold themselves into slavery in the west indies, in order that they might be allowed to preach to the slaves. when you can give such instances as these of missionary disinterestedness and devotedness, it will do more to arouse a spirit of enthusiasm for foreign missions than all your closely reasoned arguments could possibly do. who has not heard and felt the force of the story of the two miners, when the fuse was burning, and only one could escape, and the christian man cried out to his unconverted companion, "escape for your life, because, if you die, you are lost; but if i die, it is all right with me; so you go." the fool's plan, too, i have sometimes used as a striking illustration. there was a little boat which got wrecked, and the man in it was trying to swim to shore, but the current was too strong for him. after he had been drowned an hour, a man said, "i could have saved him;" and when they asked him how he could have saved him, he described a plan that seemed to be most excellent and feasible, by which the man might, no doubt, have been saved; but then, unfortunately, by that time he was drowned! so, there are some who are always wise just too late, some who may have to say to themselves, when such and such a one is gone the way of all living, "what might i not have done for him if i had but taken him in time?" brethren, let that anecdote be a reminder to us all that we should seek to be wise in winning souls before it is too late to rescue them from everlasting destruction. * * * * * seventhly, and lastly, anecdotes and illustrations are exceedingly useful because _they catch the ear of the utterly careless_. something is wanted in every sermon for this class of people; and an anecdote is well calculated to catch the ear of the thoughtless and the ungodly. we really desire their salvation, and we would bait our trap in any way possible by which we might catch them for christ. we cannot expect our young people to come and listen to learned doctrinal disquisitions that are not at all embellished with anything that interests their immature minds. nay, even grown-up people, after the toils of the week, some of them busy till early on the sunday morning, cannot be expected to attend to long prosaic discourses which are not broken by a single anecdote. oh, dear, dear, dear! how i do pity those unpractical brethren who do not seem to know to whom they are preaching! "ah," said a brother once, "whenever i preach, i do not know where to look, and so i look up at the ventilator!" now, there is not anybody up in the ventilator; there cannot be supposed to be anybody there, unless the angels of heaven are listening there to hear the words of truth. a minister should not preach _before_ the people, but he should preach right _at_ them; let him look straight at them; if he can, let him search them through and through, and take stock of them, as it were, and see what they are like, and then suit his message to them. i have often seen some poor fellow standing in the aisle at the tabernacle. why, he looks just like a sparrow that has got into a church and cannot get out again! he cannot make out what sort of service it is; he begins to count how many people sit in the front row in the gallery, and all kinds of ideas pass through his mind. now i want to attract his attention; how shall i do it? if i quote a text of scripture, he may not know what it means, and may not be interested in it. shall i put a bit of latin into the sermon, or quote the original hebrew or greek of my text? that will not do for such a man. what shall i do? ah, i know a story that will, i believe, just fit him! out it comes, and the man does not look up at the gallery any more; but he is wondering whatever the preacher is at. something is said that so exactly suits his case that he begins to ask himself who has been telling the minister about him, and he thinks, "why, i know; my wife comes to hear this man sometimes, so she has been telling him all about me!" then he feels curious to hear more, and while he is looking up at the preacher, and listening to the truth that is being proclaimed, the first gleam of light on divine things dawns upon him; but if we had kept on with our regular discourse, and had not gone out of our way, what might have become of that man i cannot tell. "they say i ramble," said rowland hill, in a sermon i have been reading this afternoon; "they say i ramble, but it is because you ramble, and i am obliged to ramble after you. they say i do not stick to my subject; but, thank god, i always stick to my object, which is, the winning of your souls, and bringing you to the cross of jesus christ!" mr. bertram aptly illustrates the way in which men are engrossed in worldly cares by telling the story of the captain of a whaling ship, whom he tried to interest in the things of god, and who said, "it is no use, sir; your conversation will not have any effect upon me. i cannot hear what you are saying, or understand the subject you are talking about. i left my home to try to catch whales; i have been a year and nine months looking for whales, sir, and i have not caught a whale yet. i have been plowing the deep in search of whales; when i go to bed i dream of whales; and when i get up in the morning, i wonder if there will be any whales caught that day; there is a whale in my heart, sir, a whale in my brain, and it is of no use for you to talk to me about anything else but whales." so, your people have their business in their heads and in their hearts; they want to make a fortune and retire; or else they have a family of children to bring up, and susan must be married, and john must be got into a situation, and it is no use for you to talk to them about the things of god unless you can drive away the whales that keep floundering and splashing about. there is a merchant, perhaps, who has just thought of some bad bill; or another has looked across the building and noticed a piece of ribbon of a particular color, and he thinks, "yes, i ought to have had a larger stock of that kind of thing, i see that it is getting fashionable!" or it may be that one of the hearers has caught sight of his neighbor, and he thinks he must pay him a visit on the morrow; and so people's thoughts are occupied with all sorts of subjects besides that of which the preacher is speaking. you ask me how i know that this is the case. well, i know because i have been guilty of the same offense myself; i find this occur when i am listening to another brother preaching. i do not think, when i am preaching, that i get on very well; but sometimes, when i go into the country, and take the morning and evening services, and then hear some one else in the afternoon, i think, "well, really, when i was up there, i thought i was a stick: but _now_! i only wish i had my turn again!" now, this is very wrong, to let such thoughts come into our minds; but, as we are all very apt to wander, the preacher should carry anecdotes and illustrations into the pulpit, and use them as nails to fasten the people's attention to the subject of his sermon. mr. paxton hood once said in a lecture that i heard him deliver, "some preachers expect too much of their hearers; they take a number of truths into the pulpit as a man might carry up a box of nails; and then, supposing the congregation to be posts, they take out a nail, and expect it to get into the post by itself. now, that is not the way to do it. you must take your nail, hold it up against the post, hammer it in, and then clinch it on the other side; and then it is that you may expect the great master of assemblies to fasten the nails so that they will not fall out." we must try thus to get the truth into the people, for it will never get in of itself; and we must remember that the hearts of our hearers are not open, like a church door, so that the truth may go in, and take its place, and sit upon its throne to be worshiped there. no, we have often to break open the doors with great effort, and to thrust the truth into places where it will not at first be a welcome guest, but where, afterward, the better it is known, the more it will be loved. illustrations and anecdotes will greatly help to make a way for the truth to enter; and they will do it by catching the ear of the careless and the inattentive. we must try to be like mr. whitefield, of whom a shipbuilder said, "when i have been to hear anybody else preach, i have always been able to lay down a ship from stem to stern; but when i listen to mr. whitefield, i cannot even lay the keel." and another, a weaver, said, "i have often, when i have been in church, calculated how many looms the place would hold; but when i listen to that man, i forget my weaving altogether." you must endeavor, brethren, to make your people forget matters relating to this world by interweaving the whole of divine truth with the passing things of every day, and this you will do by a judicious use of anecdotes and illustrations. * * * * * now, gentlemen, these seven reasons--that they interest the mind and secure the attention of our hearers, that they render the teaching vivid and lifelike, that they explain some difficult passages to dull understandings, that they help the reasoning faculties of certain minds, that they aid the memory, that they arouse the feelings, and that they catch the ear of the careless--have reconciled me for many a day to the use of anecdotes and illustrations, and i think it is very likely that they will reconcile you to the use of them, too. at the same time, i must repeat what i before said: we must take care that we do not let our anecdotes and illustrations be like empty casks that carry nothing. we must not have it truthfully said of our sermons, as was said by a certain lady who, after having heard a clergyman preach, was asked what she thought of the sermon, and whether there was not much spirit in it. "oh, yes!" she replied, "it was all spirit; there was no body to it at all." there must be some "body" in every discourse, some really sound doctrine, some suitable instruction for our hearers to carry home; not merely stories to amuse them, but solid truth to be received in the heart, and wrought out in the life. if this be so with your sermons, my dear brethren, i shall not have spoken to you in vain upon the uses of anecdotes and illustrations. lecture iv. where can we find anecdotes and illustrations? dear brethren: after my last lecture to you, upon the uses of anecdotes and illustrations, you are probably quite ready to employ them in your discourses; but some of you may ask, "where can we get them?" at the very beginning of this afternoon's talk, let me say that _nobody need make anecdotes_ in order to interest a congregation. i have heard of one who called to see a minister on a friday, and he was told by the servant that her master could not be seen, for he was up in his study "making anecdotes." that kind of work will not do for a christian minister. i would also bid you beware of the many common anecdotes, which are often repeated, but which i half suspect could not be proved to be matters of fact. whenever i have the slightest suspicion about the truth of a story, i drop it at once; and i think that every one else should do the same. so long as the anecdotes are current, and are generally believed, and provided they can be used for a profitable purpose, i believe they may be told, without any affirmation as to their truthfulness being made in a court of justice; but the moment any doubt comes across the mind of the preacher as to whether the tale is at least founded on fact, i think he had better look for something else, for he has the whole world to go to as a storehouse of illustration. * * * * * if you want to interest your congregation, and keep up their attention, you can find anecdotes and illustrations in many channels, like golden grains glistening among the mountain streams. for instance, there is _current history_. you may take up the daily newspaper, and find illustrations there. in my little book, "the bible and the newspaper," i have given specimens of how this may be done; and when i was preparing the present lecture, i took up a newspaper to see if i could find an illustration in it, and i soon found one. there was an account of a man at wandsworth, who was discovered, with a gun and a dog, trespassing on some gentleman's preserves, and he said that he was only looking for mushrooms! can you imagine what the gun and the dog had to do with mushrooms? however, the keeper felt in the man's pocket, and laying hold of something soft, asked, "what is this!" "oh," said the poacher, "it is only a rabbit!" when it was suggested to him that the creature's ears were too long for a rabbit, he said that it was only a leveret, whereas it proved to be a very fine and plump hare. the man then said that he had found the hare lying near some mushrooms, but his intention was to get the mushrooms only! now, that is a capital illustration. as soon as ever you lay hold of a man, and begin to accuse him of sin, he says, "sin, sir! oh, dear, no! i was only doing a very proper thing, just what i have a perfect right to do; i was looking for mushrooms; i was not poaching!" you press him a little more closely, and try to bring him to conviction of sin; and then he says, "well, perhaps it was hardly the thing, it may have been a little amiss; but it was only a rabbit!" when the man cannot any longer deny that he is guilty of sin, he says that it was only a very little one; and it is long before you can get him to admit that sin is exceeding sinful; indeed, no human power can ever produce genuine conviction in the heart of a single sinner; it must be the work of the holy spirit. i also read in the same newspaper of a calamitous shipwreck caused through the lack of lights. you could easily turn that incident to account by using it to illustrate the destruction of souls through the want of a knowledge of christ. i have no doubt, if you were to take up any of this morning's daily papers, you would very readily find an abundance of illustrations. mr. newman hall, in addressing us once, said that every christian minister ought to read regularly his bible and _the times_ newspaper. i should imagine from the usual mode of his address that he does so himself. whether you read that particular paper or any other, you should somehow keep yourselves well stored with illustrations taken from the ordinary transactions going on round about you. i pity even a sunday-school teacher, much more a minister of the gospel, who could not make use of such incidents as the terrible burning of the church at santiago, the great fire at london bridge, the entrance into london of the princess alexandra, the taking of the census; and, indeed, anything that attracts public attention. there is in all these events an illustration, a simile, an allegory, which may point a moral and adorn a tale. * * * * * you may sometimes adapt _local history_ to the illustration of your subject. when a minister is preaching in any particular district he will often find it best to catch the ears of the people, and engross their attention, by relating some anecdote that relates to the place where they live. whenever i can, i get the histories of various counties; for, having to go into all sorts of country towns and villages to preach, i find that there is a great deal of useful material to be dug out of even dull, dry, topographical books. they begin, perhaps, with the name of john smith, laborer, the man who keeps the parish register, and winds up the parish clock, and makes mouse-traps, and catches rats, and does fifty other useful things; but if you have the patience to read on, you will find much information that you could get nowhere else, and you will probably meet with many incidents and anecdotes that you can use as illustrations of the truth you are seeking to set forth. preaching at winslow, in buckinghamshire, it would not be at all amiss to introduce the incident of good benjamin keach, the pastor of the baptist church in that town, standing in the pillory in the market-place in the year 1664, "for writing, printing, and publishing a schismatical book entitled, 'the child's instructor; or, a new and easy primmer.'" i do not think, however, that if i were preaching at wapping i should call the people "_wapping_ sinners," as rowland hill is said to have done, when he told them that "christ could save old sinners, great sinners, yea, even wapping sinners!" at craven chapel it would be most appropriate to tell the story of lord craven, who was packing up his goods to go into the country at the time of the great plague of london, when his servant said to him, "my lord, does your god live only in the country?" "no," replied lord craven, "he is here as well as there." "well, then," said the servant, "if i were your lordship, i think i would stop here; you will be as safe in the city as in the country;" and lord craven did stop there, relying upon the good providence of god. * * * * * besides this, brethren, you have the marvelous storehouse of _ancient and modern history_--roman, greek, and english--with which, of course, you are seeking to become well acquainted. who can possibly read the old classic tales without feeling his soul on fire? as you rise from their perusal, you will not merely be familiar with the events which happened in "the brave days of old," but you will have learned many lessons that may be of service in your preaching to-day. for instance, there is the story of phidias and the statue of the god which he had carved. after he had finished it, he had chiseled in the corner, in small letters, the word "phidias," and it was objected that the statue could not be worshiped as a god, nor considered sacred, while it bore the sculptor's name. it was even seriously questioned whether phidias should not be stoned to death because he had so desecrated the statue. how could he dare, they asked, to put his own name on the image of a god? so, some of us are very apt to want to put our little names down at the bottom of any work which we have done for god, that we may be remembered, whereas we ought rather to upbraid ourselves for wishing to have any of the credit of that which god the holy ghost enables us to do. then there is that other story of an ancient sculptor, who was about to put the image of a god into a heathen temple, although he had not finished that portion of the statue which was to be embedded in the wall. the priest demurred, and declared that the statue was not completed. the sculptor said, "that part of the god will never be seen, for it will be built into the wall." "the gods can see in the wall," answered the priest. in like manner, the most private parts of our life--those secret matters that can never reach the human eye--are still under the ken of the almighty, and ought to be attended to with the greatest care. it is not sufficient for us to maintain our public reputation among our fellow-creatures, for our god can see in the wall; he notices our coldness in the closet of communion, and he perceives our faults and failures in the family. trying once to set forth how the lord jesus christ delights in his people because they are his own handiwork, i found a classic story of cyrus extremely useful. when showing a foreign ambassador round his garden, cyrus said to him, "you cannot possibly take such an interest in these flowers and trees as i do, for i laid out the whole garden myself, and every plant here i planted with my own hand. i have watered them, and i have seen them grow, i have been a husbandman to them, and therefore i love them far better than you can." so, the lord jesus christ loves the fair garden of his church, because he laid it all out, and planted it with his own gracious hand, and he has watched over every plant, and nourished and cherished it. the days of the crusaders are a peculiarly rich period for noble stories that will make good illustrations. we read that the soldiers of godfrey de bouillon, when they came within sight of the city of jerusalem, were so charmed with the view that they fell on their faces, and then rose to their feet, and clapped their hands, and made the mountains ring with their shouts of joy. thus, when we get within sight of the new jerusalem, our happy home on high, whose name is ever dear to us, we will make our dying-chamber ring with hallelujahs, and even the angels shall hear our songs of praise and thanksgiving. it is also recorded, concerning this same godfrey, that, when he had entered jerusalem at the head of his victorious army, he refused to wear the crown with which his soldiers wanted to deck his brow. "for," said he, "why should i wear a crown of gold in the city where my lord wore a crown of thorns!" this is a good lesson for us to learn for ourselves, and to teach to our people. in the world where christ was despised and rejected of men, it would be unseemly for a christian to be seeking to win earthly honors, or ambitiously hunting after fame. the disciple must not think of being above his master, nor the servant above his lord. then you might easily make an illustration out of that romantic story, which may or may not be true, of queen eleanor sucking the poison out of her husband's wounded arm. many of us, i trust, would be willing, as it were, to suck out all the slander and venom from the arm of christ's church, and to bear any amount of suffering ourselves, so long as the church itself might escape and live. would not any one of you, my brethren, gladly put his lips to the envenomed wounds of the church to-day, and suffer even unto death, sooner than let the doctrines of christ be impugned, and the cause of god be dishonored? * * * * * what a fine field of illustration lies open to you in _religious history_! it is difficult to tell where to begin digging in this mine of precious treasure. the story of luther and the jew might be used to set forth the evil of sin, and how to avoid it. a jew was seeking an opportunity of stabbing the reformer; but luther received a portrait of the would-be murderer, so that, wherever he went, he was on his guard against the assassin. using this fact himself as an illustration, luther said: "god knows that there are sins that would destroy us, and he has therefore given us portraits of them in his word, so that, wherever we see them, we may say, 'that is a sin that would stab me; i must beware of that evil thing, and keep out of its way.'" stout hugh latimer, in that famous story of an incident in his trial before several bishops, brings out very clearly the omnipresence and omniscience of god, and the care that we ought to exercise in the presence of one who can read our most secret thoughts and imaginations. he says: "i was once in examination before five or six bishops, where i had much trouble; thrice every week i came to examinations, and many traps and snares were laid to get something.... at last i was brought forth to be examined in a chamber hung with arras, where i was wont to be examined; but now at this time the chamber was somewhat altered. for whereas, before, there was wont always to be a fire in the chimney, now the fire was taken away, and arras hung over the chimney, and the table stood near the fireplace. there was, among the bishops who examined me, one with whom i had been very familiar, and took him for my great friend, an aged man, and he sat next to the table's end. then, among all other questions, he put forth a very subtle and crafty one, and such a one, indeed, as i could not think so great danger in. and when i should make answer, 'i pray you, mr. latimer,' said one, 'speak out; i am very thick of hearing, and there may be many that sit far off.' i marveled at this, that i was bid to speak out, and began to suspect, and give an ear to the chimney; and there i heard a pen writing in the chimney behind the cloth. they had appointed one there to write all mine answers, for they made sure that i should not start from them; and there was no starting from them. god was my good lord, and gave me answer, else i could never have escaped." preaching, some years afterward, latimer himself told the story, and applied the illustration. "my hearer," said he, "there is a recording pen always at work behind the arras, taking down all thou sayest, and noting all thou doest: therefore be thou careful that thy words and acts are worthy of record in god's book of remembrance." you might aptly illustrate the doctrine of god's special providential care of his servants by relating the story of john knox, who, one evening, refused to sit in his usual seat, though he did not know any particular reason for so acting. no one was allowed to occupy that chair, and during the evening a shot came in through the window, and struck a candlestick that stood immediately opposite where john knox would have been sitting if he had taken his accustomed place. there is also the case of the godly minister, who, in escaping from his persecutors, went into a hay-loft, and hid himself in the hay. the soldiers went into the place, pricking and thrusting with their swords and bayonets, and the good man even felt the cold steel touch the sole of his foot, and the scratch which was made remained for years: yet his enemies did not discover him. afterward a hen came and laid an egg every day hard by the place where he was hidden, and so he was sustained as well as preserved until it was safe for him to leave his hiding-place. it was either the same minister, or one of his persecuted brethren, who was providentially protected by such a humble agent as a spider. this is the story as i have read it: "receiving friendly warning of an intended attempt to apprehend him, and finding men were on his track, he took refuge in a malt-house, and crept into the empty kiln, where he lay down. immediately after, he saw a spider lower itself across the narrow entrance by which he had got in, thus fixing the first line of what was soon wrought into a large and beautiful web. the weaver and the web, placed directly between him and the light, were very conspicuous. he was so much struck with the skill and diligence of the spider, and so much absorbed in watching her work, that he forgot his own danger. by the time the network was completed, crossing and re-crossing the mouth of the kiln in every direction, his pursuers came into the malt-house to search for him. he noted their steps, and listened to their cruel words while they looked about. then they came close to the kiln, and he overheard one say to another, 'it's no use to look in _there_; the old villain can never be there: _look at that spider's web; he could never have got in there without breaking it_.' without further search they went to seek elsewhere, and he escaped safely out of their hands." there is another story i have somewhere met with, of a prisoner, during the american war, who was put into a cell in which there was a little slit, through which a soldier's eye always watched him day and night. whatever the prisoner did, whether he ate, or drank, or slept, the sentinel's eye was perpetually gazing at him; and the thought of it, he said, was perfectly dreadful to him, it almost drove him mad; he could not bear the idea of having that man's eye always scrutinizing him. he could scarcely sleep; his very breathing became a misery, because, turn which way he would, he could never escape from the gaze of that soldier's eye. that story might be used as an illustration of the fact that god's omniscient eye is always looking at every one of us. i remember making two or three of my congregation speak out pretty loudly by telling them this story, which i read in a tract. i suppose it may be true; i receive it as reliable, and i wish i could tell it as it is printed. a christian minister, residing near the backwoods, took a walk one evening for silent meditation. he went much farther than he intended, and, missing the track, wandered away into the woods. he kept on, endeavoring to find the road to his home; but failed to do so. he was afraid that he would have to spend the night in some tree; but suddenly, as he was going forward, he saw the glimmer of lights in the distance, and therefore pressed on, hoping to find shelter in a friendly cottage. a strange sight met his gaze; a meeting was being held in a clearing in the middle of the woods, the place being lit up with blazing pine-torches. he thought, "well, here are some christian people met to worship god; i am glad that what i thought was an awkward mistake in losing my way has brought me here; i may, perhaps, both do good and get good." to his horror, however, he found that it was an atheistical gathering, and that the speakers were venting their blasphemous thoughts against god with very great boldness and determination. the minister sat down full of grief. a young man declared that he did not believe in the existence of god, and dared jehovah to destroy him then and there if there was such a god. the good man's heart was meditating how he ought to reply, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; and the infidel orator sat down amid loud acclamations of admiration and approval. our friend did not wish to be a craven, or to hold back in the day of battle, and therefore he was almost inclined to rise and speak, when a hale, burly man, who had passed the meridian of life, but who was still exceedingly vigorous, and seemed a strong, muscular clearer of the backwoods, rose and said, "i should like to speak if you will give me a hearing. i am not going to say anything about the topic which has been discussed by the orator who has just sat down; i am only going to tell you a fact: will you hear me?" "yes, yes," they shouted; it was a free discussion, so they would hear him, especially as he was not going to controvert. "a week ago," he began, "i was working up yonder, on the river's bank, felling trees. you know the rapids down below. well, while i was at my employment, at some little distance from them, i heard cries and shrieks, mingled with prayers to god for help. i ran down to the water's edge, for i guessed what was the matter. there i saw a young man, who could not manage his boat; the current was getting the mastery of him, and he was drifting down the stream, and ere long, unless some one had interposed, he would most certainly have been swept over the falls, and carried down to a dreadful death. i saw that young man kneel down in the boat, and pray to the most high god, by the love of christ, and by his precious blood, to save him. he confessed that he had been an infidel; but said that, if he might but be delivered this once, he would declare his belief in god. i at once sprang into the river. my arms are not very weak, i think, though they are not so strong as they used to be. i managed to get into the boat, turned her round, brought her to the shore, and so i saved that young man's life; and that young man is the one who has just sat down, and who has been denying the existence of god, and daring the most high to destroy him!" of course i used that story to show that it was an easy thing to brag and boast about holding infidel sentiments in a place of safety; but that, when men come into peril of their lives, then they talk in a very different fashion. there is a capital story, which exemplifies the need of going up to the house of god, not merely to listen to the preacher, but to seek the lord. a certain lady had gone to the communion in a scotch church, and had greatly enjoyed the service. when she reached her home, she inquired who the preacher was, and she was informed that it was mr. ebenezer erskine. the lady said that she would go again, the next sabbath, to hear him. she went, but she was not profited in the least; the sermon did not seem to have any unction or power about it. she went to mr. erskine, and told him of her experience at the two services. "ah, madam," said he, "the first sabbath you came to meet the lord jesus christ, and you had a blessing; but the second sabbath you came to hear ebenezer erskine, and you had no blessing, and you had no right to expect any." you see, brethren, a preacher might talk to the people, in general terms, about coming to worship god, and not merely to hear the minister, yet no effect might be produced by his words, for there might not be anything sufficiently striking to remain in the memory; but after such an anecdote as this one about mr. erskine and the lady, who could forget the lesson that was intended to be taught? * * * * * well, now, supposing that you have exhausted all the illustrations to be found in current history, in local history, in ancient and modern history, and in religious history--which i do not think you will do unless you are yourselves exhausted--you may then turn to _natural history_, where you will find illustrations and anecdotes in great abundance; and you need never feel any qualms of conscience about using the facts of nature to illustrate the truths of scripture, because there is a sound philosophy to support the use of such illustrations. it is a fact that can easily be accounted for, that people will more readily receive the truth of revelation if you link it with some kindred truth in natural history, or anything that is visible to the eye, than if you give them a bare statement of the doctrine itself. besides, there is this important fact that must not be forgotten: the god who is the author of revelation is also the author of creation, and providence, and history, and everything else from which you ought to draw your illustrations. when you use natural history to illustrate the scriptures, you are only explaining one of god's books by another volume that he has written. it is just as if you had before you two works by one author, who had, in the first place, written a book for children; and then, in the second place, had prepared a volume of more profound instruction for persons of riper years and higher culture. at times, when you found obscure and difficult passages in the work meant for the more advanced scholars, you would refer to the little book which was intended for the younger folk, and you would say, "we know that this means so-and-so, because that is how the matter is explained in the book for beginners." so creation, providence, and history are all books which god has written for those to read who have eyes, written for those who have ears to hear his voice in them, written even for carnal men to read, that they may see something of god therein. but the other glorious book is written for you who are taught of god, and made spiritual and holy. oftentimes, by turning to the primer, you will get something out of that simple narrative which will elucidate and illustrate the more difficult classic, for that is what the word of god is to you. there is a certain type of thought which god has followed in all things. what he made with his word has a similarity to the word itself by which he made it; and the visible is the symbol of the invisible, because the same thought of god runs through it all. there is a touch of the divine finger in all that god has made; so that the things which are apparent to our senses have certain resemblances to the things which do not appear. that which can be seen, and tasted, and touched, and handled is meant to be to us the outward and visible sign of a something which we find in the word of god, and in our spiritual experience, which is the inward and the spiritual grace; so that there is nothing forced and unnatural in bringing nature to illustrate grace; it was ordained of god for that very purpose. range over the whole of creation for your similes; do not confine yourself to any particular branch of natural history. the congregation of one very learned doctor complained that he gave them spiders continuously by way of illustration. it would be better to give the people a spider or two occasionally, and then to vary the instruction by stories, and anecdotes, and similes, and metaphors drawn from geology, astronomy, botany, or any of the other sciences which will help to shed a side-light upon the scriptures. if you keep your eyes open, you will not see even a dog following his master, nor a mouse peeping up from his hole, nor will you hear even a gentle scratching behind the wainscot without getting something to weave into your sermons if your faculties are all on the alert. when you go home to-night, and sit by your fireside, you ought not to be able to take up your domestic cat without finding that which will furnish you with an illustration. how soft are pussy's pads, and yet, in a moment, if she is angered, how sharp will be her claws! how like to temptation, soft and gentle when first it cometh to us, but how deadly, how damnable the wounds it causeth ere long! i recollect using, with very considerable effect in a sermon, an incident that occurred in my own garden. there was a dog which was in the habit of coming through the fence and scratching in my flower beds, to the manifest spoiling of the gardener's toil and temper. walking in the garden one saturday afternoon, and preparing my sermon for the following day, i saw the four-footed creature--rather a scurvy specimen, by the by--and having a walking-stick in my hand, i threw it at him with all my might, at the same time giving him some good advice about going home. now, what should my canine friend do but turn round, pick up the stick in his mouth, and bring it, and lay it down at my feet, wagging his tail all the while in expectation of my thanks and kind words? of course, you do not suppose that i kicked him, or threw the stick at him any more. i felt quite ashamed of myself, and i told him that he was welcome to stay as long as he liked, and to come as often as he pleased. there was an instance of the power of non-resistance, submission, patience, and trust, in overcoming even righteous anger. i used that illustration in preaching the next day, and i did not feel that i had at all degraded myself by telling the story. most of us have read alphonse karr's book, "a tour round my garden." why does not somebody write "a tour round my dining-table," or, "a tour round my kitchen"? i believe a most interesting volume of the kind might be written by any man who had his eyes open to see the analogies of nature. i remember that, one day, when i lived in cambridge, i wanted a sermon very badly; and i could not fix upon a subject, when, all at once, i noticed a number of birds on the slates of the opposite house. as i looked closely at them, i saw that there was a canary, which had escaped from somebody's house, and a lot of sparrows had surrounded it, and kept pecking at it. there was my text at once: "mine heritage is unto me as a speckled bird, the birds round about are against her." * * * * * once more, brethren, if you cannot find illustrations in natural history, or any of the other histories i have mentioned, _find them anywhere_. anything that occurs around you, if you have but brains in your head, will be of service to you; but if you are really to interest and profit your congregations, you will need to keep your eyes open, and to use all the powers with which the lord has endowed you. if you do so, you will find that, in simply walking through the streets, something or other will suggest a passage of scripture, or will help you, when you have chosen your text, to open it up to the people so as really to arrest their attention, and convey the truth to their minds and hearts. for instance, the snow to-day covered all the ground, and the black soil looked fair and white. it is thus with some men under transient reformations; they look as holy, and as heavenly, and as pure as though they were saints; but when the sun of trial arises, and a little heat of temptation cometh upon them, how soon do they reveal their true blackness, and all their surface goodliness melteth away! the whole world is hung round by god with pictures; and the preacher has only to take them down, one by one, and hold them up before his congregation, and he will be sure to enlist their interest in the subject he is seeking to illustrate. but he must have his own eyes open, or he will not see these pictures. solomon said, "the wise man's eyes are in his head," and addressing such a man, he wrote, "let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before thee." why does he speak of seeing with the eyelids? i think he means that the eyelids are to shut in what the eyes have perceived. you know that there is all the difference in the world between a man with eyes and one with no eyes. one sits down by a stream, and sees much to interest and instruct him; but another, at the same place, is like the gentleman of whom wordsworth wrote: a primrose by a river's brim a yellow primrose was to him, and it was nothing more. if you find any difficulty in illustrating your subject, i should strongly recommend you to _try to teach children_ whenever you can get an opportunity of doing so. i do not know a better way of schooling your own mind to the use of illustrations than frequently to take a class in the sunday-school, or to give addresses to the scholars as often as you can; because, if you do not illustrate _there_, you will have your lesson or your address illustrated for you very strikingly. you will find that the children will do it by their general worry and inattention, or by their talk and play. i used to have a class of boys when i was a sunday-school teacher, and if i was ever a little dull, they began to make wheels of themselves, twisting round on the forms on which they sat. that was a very plain intimation to me that i must give them an illustration or an anecdote; and i learned to tell stories partly by being obliged to tell them. one boy whom i had in the class used to say to me, "this is very dull, teacher; can't you pitch us a yarn?" of course he was a naughty boy, and you may suppose that he went to the bad when he grew up, though i am not at all sure that he did; but i used to try and pitch him the yarn that he wanted in order to get his attention again. and i dare say that some of our hearers, if they were allowed to speak out during the sermon, would ask us to pitch them a yarn--that is, to give them something to interest them. i believe that one of the best things you can do to teach either the old or the young is to give them plenty of anecdotes and illustrations. * * * * * i think it would be very useful to some of you who are not yet adepts at the art of illustration if you were to _read hooks in which there is an abundance of metaphor, simile, and emblem_. i am not going fully into that subject on this occasion, because this lecture is only preliminary to the next two that i hope to deliver, in which i will try to give you a list of cyclopedias of anecdotes and illustrations, and books of fables, emblems, and parables; but i advise you to study such works as gurnall's "christian in complete armor," or matthew henry's "commentary," with the distinct view of noticing all the illustrations, emblems, metaphors, and similes that you can find. i should even select _non_-comparisons; i like keach's "metaphors," where he points out the disparity between the type and the antitype. sometimes, the contrasts between different persons or objects will be as instructive as their resemblances. when you have read the book once, and tried to mark all the figures, go through it again, and note all the illustrations you missed in your first reading. you will probably have missed many; and you will be surprised to find that there are _illustrations even in the words themselves_. how frequently a word is itself a picture! some of the most expressive words that are found in human language are like rich gems, which have passed before your eye very often, but you have not had time to handle or to value them. in your second examination of the book, you will notice, perhaps, what eluded you the first time, and you will find many illustrations which are merely hinted at, instead of being given at length. do as i have recommended with a great many books. get copies that you can afford to mark with a colored pencil, so that you will be sure to see the illustrations readily; or put them down in one of your note-books. i am sure that those brethren who begin early to keep a record of such things act wisely. the commonplace-books of the old puritans were invaluable to them. they would never have been able to have compiled such marvelous works as they did if they had not been careful in collecting and arranging their matter under different heads; and thus, all that they had ever read upon any subject was embalmed and preserved, and they could readily refer to any point that they might require, and refresh their memories and verify their quotations. some of us, who are very busy, may be excused from that task; we must do the best we can; but some of you, who go to smaller charges, in the country especially, ought to keep a commonplace-book, or else i am afraid you will get to be very commonplace yourselves. your selection of similes, metaphors, parables, and emblems will not be complete unless you also _search the scriptures to find the illustrations that are recorded there_. biblical allusions are the most effective methods of illustrating and enforcing the truths of the gospel; and the preacher who is familiar with his bible will never be at a loss for an instance of that which "is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness." the lord must have meant us thus to use his word, otherwise he would not have given us, in the old testament, such a number of types and symbols of truths, to be afterward more fully revealed under the gospel dispensation. such a collection of illustrations as i have suggested will come very handy to you in future days, and you will be reminded, by the comparisons and figures used by others, to make comparisons and figures for yourself. familiarity with anything makes us _au fait_ at it; we can learn to do almost anything by practice. i suppose that i could, by degrees, learn to make a tub if i spent my time with a man engaged in that business. i should know how to put the staves and the hoops if i stayed long enough in the cooper's yard; and i have no doubt that any of you could learn anything you desired provided you had sufficient time and opportunity. so, if you search for illustrations, you will learn to make them for yourselves. * * * * * that brings me to my last point. i began this lecture by warning you against the practice of making anecdotes; i close it by advising you often to _set yourself the task of making illustrations_. try to make comparisons from the things round about you. i think it would be well, sometimes, to shut the door of your study, and say to yourself, "i will not go out of this room until i have made at least half a dozen good illustrations." the chinese say that the intellect lies in the stomach, and that the affections are there too. i think they are right on the latter point, because, you know, if you are ever very fond of anybody--your wife, for instance--you say that you could eat her; and you also say that such and such a person is very sweet. so, too, the intellect may lie in the stomach; and consequently, when you have been shut in for two or three hours, and begin to want your dinner or tea, you may be quickened into the making of the six illustrations i have mentioned as a minimum. your study would be a veritable prison if you could not make as many useful comparisons as that from the different objects in the room. i should say that a prison itself would furnish suggestions for making many metaphors. i do not wish you to go to prison for that purpose; but if you ever do get there, you ought to be able to learn how to preach in an interesting manner upon such a passage as this--"bring my soul out of prison;" or this, "he was there in the prison. but the lord was with joseph." if you cannot get your brains to work in the house, you might take a walk, and say to yourself, "i will wander over the fields, or i will get into the garden, or i will stroll in the wood, and see if i cannot find some illustration or other." you might even go and look in at a shop-window, and see if there are not some illustrations to be discovered there. or you might stand still a little while, and hear what people say as they go by; or stop where there is a little knot of idlers, and try to hear what they are talking about, and see what symbol you can make out of it. you should also spend as much time as you can visiting the sick; that will be a most profitable thing to do, for in that sacred service you will have many opportunities of getting illustrations from the tried children of god as you hear their varied experiences. it is wonderful what pages of a new cyclopedia of illustrative teaching you might find written out with indelible ink if you went visiting the sick, or even in talking with children. many of them will say things that you will be able to quote with good effect in your sermons. at any rate, do make up your mind that you will attract and interest the people by the way in which you set the gospel before them. half the battle lies in making the attempt, in coming to this determined resolution, "god helping me, i will teach the people by parables, by similes, by illustrations, by anything that will be helpful to them; and i will seek to be a thoroughly interesting preacher of the word." i earnestly hope you will practise the art of making illustrations. i will try to prepare a little set of exercises for you to do week by week. i shall give you some subject and some object, between which there is a likeness; and i shall get you to try to see the resemblance, and to find out what comparisons can be instituted between them. i shall also, if i can, give you some subject without an object, and then say to you, "illustrate that; tell us, for instance, what virtue is like." or, sometimes, i may give you the object without the subject, thus--"a diamond; how will you use that as an illustration?" then, sometimes, i may give you neither the subject nor the object, but just say, "bring me an illustration." i think we might, in this way, make a set of exercises which would be very useful to you all. the way to get a mind worth having is to get one well stored with things worth keeping. of course, the man who has the most illustrations in his head will be the one who will use the most illustrations in his discourses. there are some preachers who have the bump of illustration fully developed; they are sure to illustrate their subject, they cannot help it. there are some men who always see "likes"; they catch a comparison long before others see it. if any of you say that you are not good at illustrating, i reply, "my brother, you must try to grow horns if you have not any on your head." you may never be able to develop any vast amount of imagination or fancy if you do not possess it at the first--just as it is hard to make a cheese out of a millstone--but by diligent attention to this matter you may improve upon what you now are. i do believe that some fellows have a depression in their craniums where there ought to be a bump. i knew a young man, who tried hard to get into this college; but he never saw how to join things together unless he tied them by their tails. he brought out a book; and when i read it, i found at once that it was full of my stories and illustrations; that is to say, every illustration or story in the book was one that i had used, but there was not one of them that was related as it ought to have been. this man had so told the story that it was not there at all; the very point which i had brought out he had carefully omitted, and every bit of it was told correctly except the one thing that was the essence of the whole. of course, i was glad that i did not have that brother in the college; he might have been an ornament to us by his deficiencies, but we can do without such ornaments, indeed, we have had enough of them already. finally, dear brethren, do try with all your might to get the power to see a parable, a simile, an illustration, wherever it is to be seen; for to a great extent this is one of the most important qualifications of the man who is to be a public speaker, and especially of the man who is to be an efficient preacher of the gospel of christ. if the lord jesus made such frequent use of parables, it must be right for us to do the same. lecture v. the sciences as sources of illustration. _astronomy._ i propose, brethren, if i am able to do it--and i am somewhat dubious upon that point--to give you a set of lectures at intervals upon the various sciences as sources of illustration. it seems to me that every student for the christian ministry ought to know at least something of every science; he should intermeddle with every form of knowledge that may be useful in his life's work. god has made all things that are in the world to be our teachers, and there is something to be learned from every one of them; and as he would never be a thorough student who did not attend all classes at which he was expected to be present, so he who does not learn from all things that god has made will never gather all the food that his soul needs, nor will he be likely to attain to that perfection of mental manhood which will enable him to be a fully equipped teacher of others. * * * * * i shall commence with the science of astronomy; and you will, at the beginning, understand that i am not going to deliver an astronomical lecture, nor to mention all the grand facts and details of that fascinating science; but i intend simply to use _astronomy as one of the many fields of illustration that the lord has provided for us_. let me say, however, that the science itself is one which ought to receive much attention from all of us. it relates to many of the greatest wonders in nature, and its effect upon the mind is truly marvelous. the themes on which astronomy discourses are so grand, the wonders disclosed by the telescope are so sublime, that, very often, minds that have been unable to receive knowledge through other channels have become remarkably receptive while they have been studying this science. there is an instance of a brother who was one of the students in this college, and who seemed to be a dreadful dolt; we really thought he never would learn anything, and that we should have to give him up in despair. but i introduced to him a little book called "the young astronomer"; and he afterward said that, as he read it, he felt just as if something had cracked inside his head, or as if some string had been snapped. he had laid hold of such enlarged thoughts that i believe his cranium did actually experience an expansion which it ought to have undergone in his childhood, and which it did undergo by the marvelous force of the thoughts suggested by the study of even the elements of astronomical science. this science ought to be the special delight of ministers of the gospel, for surely it brings us into closer connection with god than almost any other science does. it has been said that an undevout astronomer is mad. i should say that an undevout man of any sort is mad--with the worst form of madness; but, certainly, he who has become acquainted with the stars in the heavens, and who yet has not found out the great father of lights, the lord who made them all, must be stricken with a dire madness. notwithstanding all his learning, he must be afflicted with a mental incapacity which places him almost below the level of the beasts that perish. kepler, the great mathematical astronomer, who has so well explained many of the laws which govern the universe, closes one of his books--his "harmonics"--with this reverent and devout expression of his feelings: "i give thee thanks, lord and creator, that thou hast given me joy through thy creation; for i have been ravished with the work of thy hands. i have revealed unto mankind the glory of thy works, as far as my limited spirit could conceive their infinitude. should i have brought forward anything that is unworthy of thee, or should i have sought my own fame, be graciously pleased to forgive me." and you know how the mighty newton, a very prince among the sons of men, was continually driven to his knees as he looked upward to the skies, and discovered fresh wonders in the starry heavens. therefore, the science which tends to bring men to bow in humility before the lord should always be a favorite study with us whose business it is to inculcate reverence for god in all who come under our influence. * * * * * the science of astronomy would never have become available to us in many of its remarkable details if it had not been for the discovery or invention of the _telescope_. truth is great, but it does not savingly affect us till we become personally acquainted with it. the knowledge of the gospel, as it is revealed to us in the word of god, makes it true to us; and oftentimes the bible is to us what the telescope is to the astronomer. the scriptures do not make the truth; but they reveal it in a way in which our poor, feeble intellect, when enlightened by the holy spirit, is able to behold and comprehend it. from a book[2] to which i am indebted for many quotations in this lecture, i learn that the telescope was discovered in this singular manner: "a maker of spectacles at middleburg stumbled upon the discovery owing to his children directing his attention to the enlarged appearance of the weathercock of a church, as accidentally seen through two spectacle-glasses, held between the fingers some distance apart. this was one of childhood's inadvertent acts; and seldom has there been a parallel example of mighty results springing out of such a trivial circumstance. it is strange to reflect upon the playful pranks of boyhood being connected in their issue, and at no distant date, with enlarging the known bounds of the planetary system, resolving the nebula of orion, and revealing the richness of the firmament." in a similar way, a simple incident has often been the means of revealing to men the wonders of divine grace. what a certain individual only meant to be trifling with divine things, god has overruled for his soul's salvation. he stepped in to hear a sermon as he might have gone to the theater to see a play; but god's spirit carried the truth to his heart, and revealed to him the deep things of the kingdom, and his own personal interest in them. [2] "the heavens and the earth," by thomas milner, m. a., f. r. g. s. i think that incident of the discovery of the telescope might be usefully employed as an illustration of the connection between little causes and great results, showing how the providence of god is continually making small things to be the means of bringing about wonderful and important revolutions. it may often happen that what seems to us to be a matter of pure accident, with nothing at all notable about it, may really have the effect of changing the entire current of our life, and it may be influential also in turning the lives of many others in quite a new direction. when once the telescope had been discovered, then the numbers and position and movements of the stars became increasingly visible, until at the present time we are able to study the wonders of the stellar sky, and continually to learn more and more of the marvels that are there displayed by the hand of god. the telescope has revealed to us much more of the sun, and the moon, and the stars than we could ever have discovered without its aid. dr. livingstone, on account of his frequently using the sextant when he was traveling in africa, was spoken of by the natives as the white man who could bring down the sun, and carry it under his arm. that is what the telescope has done for us, and that is what faith in the gospel has done for us in the spiritual heavens; it has brought down to us the father, the son, and the holy spirit, and given us the high eternal things to be our present possession and our perpetual joy. thus, you see, the telescope itself may be made to furnish us with many valuable illustrations. we may also turn to good account the lessons to be learned by the study of the stars for the purpose of navigation. the mariner, crossing the trackless sea, by taking astronomical observations, can steer himself with accuracy to his desired haven. captain basil hall tells us, in the book i have previously mentioned, that "he once sailed from san blas, on the west coast of mexico; and, after a voyage of eight thousand miles, occupying eighty-nine days, he arrived off rio de janeiro, having in this interval passed through the pacific ocean, rounded cape horn, and crossed the south atlantic, without making land, or seeing a single sail except an american whaler. when within a week's sail of rio, he set seriously about determining, by lunar observations, the position of his ship, and then steered his course by those common principles of navigation which may be safely employed for short distances between one known station and another. having arrived within what he considered, from his computations, fifteen or twenty miles of the coast, he hove to, at four o'clock in the morning, to await the break of day, and then bore up, proceeding cautiously on account of a thick fog. as this cleared away, the crew had the satisfaction of seeing the great sugar-loaf rock, which stands on one side of the harbor's mouth, so nearly right ahead that they had not to alter their course above a point in order to hit the entrance of the port. this was the first land they had seen for nearly three months, after crossing so many seas, and being set backward and forward by innumerable currents and foul winds. the effect upon all on board was electric; and, giving way to their admiration, the sailors greeted the commander with a hearty cheer." in a similar manner, we also sail by guidance from the heavenly bodies, and we have for a long season no sight of land, and sometimes do not even see a passing sail; and yet, if we take our observations correctly, and follow the track which they point out, we shall have the great blessing, when we are about to finish our voyage, of seeing, not the great sugar-loaf rock, but the fair haven of glory right straight before us. we shall not have to alter our course even a single point; and, as we sail into the heavenly harbor, what songs of joy will we raise, not in glorification of our own skill, but in praise of the wondrous captain and pilot who has guided us over life's stormy sea, and enabled us to sail in safety even where we could not see our way! kepler makes a wise remark, when speaking about the mathematical system by which the course of a star could be predicted. after describing the result of his observations, and declaring his firm belief that the will of the lord is the supreme power in the laws of nature, he says: "but if there be any man who is too dull to receive this science, i advise that, leaving the school of astronomy, he follow his own path, and desist from this wandering through the universe; and, lifting up his natural eyes, with which he alone can see, pour himself out in his own heart, in praise of god the creator; being certain that he gives no less worship to god than the astronomer, to whom god has given to see more clearly with his inward eye, and who, for what he has himself discovered, both can and will glorify god." that is, i think, a very beautiful illustration of what you may say to any poor illiterate man in your congregation: "well, my friend, if you cannot comprehend this system of theology which i have explained to you, if these doctrines seem to you to be utterly incomprehensible, if you cannot follow me in my criticism upon the greek text, if you cannot quite catch the poetical idea that i tried to give you just now, which is so charming to my own mind, nevertheless, if you know no more than that your bible is true, that you yourself are a sinner, and that jesus christ is your saviour, go on your way, and worship and adore, and think of god as you are able to do. never mind about the astronomers, and the telescopes, and the stars, and the sun, and the moon; worship the lord in your own fashion. altogether apart from my theological knowledge, and my explanation of the doctrines revealed in the scriptures, the bible itself, and the precious truth you have received into your own soul, through the teaching of the holy spirit, will be quite enough to make you an acceptable worshiper of the most high god." i suppose you are all aware that among the old systems of astronomy was one which placed the earth in the center, and made the sun, and the moon, and the stars revolve around it. "its three fundamental principles were the immobility of the earth, its central position, and the daily revolution of all the heavenly bodies around it in circular orbits." now, in a similar fashion, there is a way of making a system of theology of which man is the center, by which it is implied that christ and his atoning sacrifice are only made for man's sake, and that the holy spirit is merely a great worker on man's behalf, and that even the great and glorious father is to be viewed simply as existing for the sake of making man happy. well, that may be the system of theology adopted by some; but, brethren, we must not fall into that error, for, just as the earth is not the center of the universe, so man is not the grandest of all beings. god has been pleased highly to exalt man; but we must remember how the psalmist speaks of him: "when i consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou has ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him; and the son of man, that thou visitest him?" in another place, david says, "lord, what is man, that thou takest knowledge of him! or the son of man, that thou makest account of him! man is like to vanity: his days are as a shadow that passeth away." man cannot be the center of the theological universe; he is altogether too insignificant a being to occupy such a position, and the scheme of redemption must exist for some other end than that of merely making man happy, or even of making him holy. the salvation of man must surely be first of all for the glory of god; and you have discovered the right form of christian doctrine when you have found the system that has god in the center, ruling and controlling according to the good pleasure of his will. do not dwarf man so as to make it appear that god has no care for him; for if you do that, you slander god. give to man the position that god has assigned to him; by doing so, you will have a system of theology in which all the truths of revelation and experience will move in glorious order and harmony around the great central orb, the divine sovereign ruler of the universe, god over all, blessed forever. you may, however, any one of you, make another mistake by imagining yourself to be the center of a system. that foolish notion is a good illustration, i think. there are some men whose fundamental principles are, first of all, their own immobility: what they are, they always are to be, and they are right, and no one can stir them; secondly, their position is central, for them suns rise and set, and moons do wax and wane. for them their wives exist; for them their children are born; for them everything is placed where it appears in god's universe; and they judge all things according to this one rule, "how will it benefit _me_?" that is the beginning and the end of their grand system, and they expect the daily revolution, if not of all the heavenly bodies, certainly of all the earthly bodies around them. the sun, the moon, and the eleven stars are to make obeisance to them. well, brethren, that is an exploded theory so far as the earth is concerned, and there is no truth in such a notion with reference to ourselves. we may cherish the erroneous idea; but the general public will not, and the sooner the grace of god expels it from us, the better, so that we may take our proper position in a far higher system than any of which we can ever be the center. * * * * * the sun, then, not the earth, is the center of the solar system; which system, mark you, is probably only one little insignificant corner of the universe, although it includes such a vast space that if i could give you the actual figures you would not be able to form the slightest idea of what they really represented. yet that tremendous system, compared with the whole of god's universe, may be only like a single grain of dust on the sea-shore, and there may be myriads upon myriads of systems, some of which are made up of innumerable systems as large as ours, and the great sun himself may only be a planet revolving round a greater sun, and this world only a little satellite to the sun, never yet observed by the astronomers who, it may be, live in that remoter sun still farther off. it is a marvelous universe that god has made; and however much of it we may have seen, we must never imagine that we have discovered more than a very small portion of the worlds upon worlds that god has created. the earth, and all the planets, and all the solid matter of the universe, are controlled, as you know, by the force of attraction. we are kept in our place in the world, in going round the sun, by two forces, the one called centripetal, which draws us toward the sun, and the other called centrifugal, which is generally illustrated by the tendency of drops of water on a trundled mop to fly off at a tangent from the circle they are describing. now, i believe that, in like manner, there are two forces which are ever at work upon all of us, the one which draws us toward god, and the other which drives us away from him, and we are thus kept in the circle of life; but, for my part, i shall be very glad when i can pass out of that circle, and get away from the influence of the centrifugal force. i believe that, the moment i do so--as soon as ever the attraction which draws me away from god is gone--i shall be with him in heaven; that i do not doubt. directly one or other of the two forces which influence human life shall be exhausted, we shall have either to drift away into the far-off space, through the centrifugal force--which god forbid!--or else we shall fly at once into the central orb, by the centripetal force, and the sooner that glorious end of life comes, the better will it be for us. with augustine, i would say, "all things are drawn to their own center. be thou the center of my heart, o god, my light, my only love!" the sun himself is an enormous body; he has been measured, but i think i will not burden you with the figures, since they will convey to you no adequate idea of his actual size. suffice it to say that, if the earth and the moon were put inside the sun, there would be abundance of room for them to go on revolving in their orbits just as they are now doing; and there would be no fear of their knocking against that external crust of the sun which would represent to them the heavens. it takes about eight minutes for light to reach us from the sun. we may judge of the pace at which that light comes when we reflect that a cannon-ball, rushing with the swiftest possible velocity, would take seven years to get there, and that a train, traveling at the rate of thirty miles an hour, and never stopping for refreshments, would require more than three hundred and fifty years before it would reach the terminus. you may thus form some slight idea of the distance that we are from the sun; and this, i think, furnishes us with a good illustration of faith. there is no man who can know, except by faith, that the sun exists. that he did exist eight minutes ago, i know, for here is a ray of light that has just come from him, and told me that; but i cannot be sure that he is existing at this moment. there are some of the fixed stars, that are at such a vast distance from the earth, that a ray of light from them takes hundreds of years to reach us; and, for aught we know, they may have been extinct long ago. yet we still put them down in our chart of the heavens, and we can only keep them there by faith, for as, "through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of god," so it is only by faith that we can know that any of them now exist. when we come to examine the matter closely, we find that our eyesight, and all our faculties and senses, are not sufficient to give us positive conviction with regard to these heavenly bodies; and therefore we still have to exercise faith; so is it to a high degree in spiritual affairs, we walk by faith, not by sight. that the sun has spots upon his face, is a fact which everybody notices. just so; and if you are suns, and are never so bright, yet if you have any spots upon you, you will find that people will be very quick to notice them, and to call attention to them. there is often much more talk about the sun's spots than there is about his luminous surface; and, after the same fashion, more will be said about any spots and imperfections that men may discover in our character than about any excellences that they may see in us. it was for some time asserted that there were no spots or specks whatever on the sun. many astronomers, with the aid of the telescope, as well as without it, discovered these blemishes and patches on the face of the sun; but they were assured by men who ought to have known--namely, by the reverend fathers of the church, that it was impossible that there could be anything of the kind. the book i have previously quoted says: "upon scheiner, a german jesuit, reporting the evidence of his senses to his provincial superior, the latter positively refused to believe him. 'i have read,' said he, 'aristotle's writings from end to end many times, and i can assure you that i have nowhere found in them anything similar to what you mention. go, my son, and tranquilize yourself: be assured that what you take for spots in the sun are the faults of your glasses, or of your eyes.'" so, brethren, we know the force of bigotry, and how men will not see what is perfectly plain to us, and how, even when facts are brought before them, they cannot be made to believe in them, but will attribute them to anything but that which is the real truth. i am afraid that the word of god itself has often been treated just in that way. truths that are positively and plainly revealed there are stoutly denied, because they do not happen to fit in with the preconceived theories of unbelievers. there have been a great many attempts to explain what the spots upon the sun really are. one theory is, that the solar orb is surrounded by a luminous atmosphere, and that the spots are open spaces in that atmosphere through which we see the solid surface of the sun. i cannot see any reason why that theory should not be the truth; and, if it be so, it seems to me to explain the first chapter of genesis, where we are told that god created the light on the first day, though he did not make the sun until the fourth day. did he not make the light first, and then take the sun, which otherwise might have been a dark world, and put the light on it as a luminous atmosphere? the two things certainly might very well fit in with each other; and if these spots are really openings in the luminous atmosphere through which we see the dark surface of the sun, they are admirable illustrations of the spots that men see in us. we are clothed with holiness as with a garment of light; but every now and then there is a rift through which observers can see down into the dark body of natural depravity that still is in the very best of us. it is a dangerous thing to look at the sun with unprotected eyes. some have ventured to look at it with glasses that have no coloring in them, and they have been struck blind. there have been several instances of persons who have inadvertently neglected to use a proper kind of glass before turning the telescope to the sun, and so have been blinded. this is an illustration of our need of a mediator, and of how necessary it is to see god through the medium of christ jesus our lord; else might the excessive glory of the deity utterly destroy the faculty of seeing god at all. the effect of the sun upon the earth, i shall not dwell upon now, as that may rather concern another branch of science than astronomy. it will suffice to say that living plants will sometimes grow without the sun, as you may have seen them in a dark cellar; but how blanched they are when existing under such circumstances! what must have been the pleasure with which humboldt entered into the great subterranean cave called the cueva del guacharo, in the district of caraccas! it is a cavern inhabited by nocturnal, fruit-eating birds, and this was what the great naturalist saw: "seeds, carried in by the birds to their young, and dropped, had sprung up, producing tall, blanched, spectral stalks, covered with half-formed leaves; but it was impossible to recognize the species from the change in form, color, and aspect, which the absence of light had occasioned. the native indians gazed upon these traces of imperfect organization with mingled curiosity and fear, as if they were pale and disfigured phantoms banished from the face of the earth." so, brethren, think what you and i would be without the light of god's countenance. picture a church growing, as some churches do grow, without any light from heaven, a cavern full of strange birds and blanched vegetation. what a terrible place for any one to visit! there is a cave of that sort at rome, and there are others in various parts of the earth; but woe unto those who go to live in such dismal dens! what a wonderful effect the light of god's countenance has upon men who have the divine life in them, but who have been living in the dark! travelers tell us that, in the vast forests of the amazon and the orinoco, you may sometimes see, on a grand scale, the influence of light in the coloring of the plants when the leaf-buds are developing. one says: "clouds and rain sometimes obscure the atmosphere for several days together, and during this time the buds expand themselves into leaves. but these leaves have a pallid hue till the sun appears, when, in a few hours of clear sky and splendid sunshine, their color is changed to a vivid green. it has been related that, during twenty days of dark dull weather, the sun not once making his appearance, the leaves were expanded to their full size, but were almost white. one forenoon the sun began to shine in full brightness, when the color of the forest changed so rapidly that its progress might be marked. by the middle of the afternoon, the whole, for many miles, presented the usual summer dress." that is a beautiful illustration, it seems to me, that does not want any opening up; you can all make the application of it to the lord jesus for yourselves. as dr. watts sings- in the darkest shades if he appear, my dawning is begun; he is my soul's sweet morning star, and he my rising sun. then we begin to put on all sorts of beauty, as the leaves are painted by the rays of the sun. we owe every atom of color that there is in any of our virtues, and every trace of flavor that there is in any of our fruits, to those bright sunbeams that come streaming down to us from the sun of righteousness, who carries many other blessings besides healing beneath his wings. the effect of the sun upon vegetation can be observed among the flowers in your own garden. notice how they turn to him whenever they can; the sunflower, for instance, follows the sun's course as if he were himself the sun's son, and lovingly looked up to his father's face. he is very much like a sun in appearance, and i think that is because he is so fond of turning to the sun. the innumerable leaves of a clover field bend toward the sun; and all plants, more or less, pay deference to the sunlight to which they are so deeply indebted. even the plants in the hothouse, you can observe, do not grow in that direction you would expect them to do if they wanted warmth, that is, toward the stovepipe, whence the heat comes, nor even to the spot where most air is admitted; but they will always, if they possibly can, send out their branches and their flowers toward the sun. that is how we ought to grow toward the sun of righteousness; it is for our soul's health that we should turn our faces toward the sun, as daniel prayed with his windows open toward jerusalem. where jesus is, there is our sun; toward him let us constantly incline our whole being. not very long ago i met with the following remarkable instance of the power of rays of light transmitted from the sun: some divers were working at plymouth breakwater; they were down in the diving-bell, thirty feet below the surface of the water; but a convex glass, in the upper part of the bell, concentrated the sun's rays full upon them, and burned their caps. as i read this story, i thought it was a capital illustration of the power there is in the gospel of our lord jesus christ. some of our hearers are fully thirty feet under the waters of sin, if they are not even deeper down than that; but, by the grace of god, we will yet make them feel the blessed burning power of the truths we preach, even if we do not succeed in setting them all on fire with this powerful glass. perhaps, when you were a boy, you had a burning-glass, and when you were out with a friend who did not know what you had in your pocket, while he was sitting very quietly by your side, you took out your glass, and held it for a few seconds over the back of his hand until he felt something rather hot just there. i like the man who, in preaching, concentrates the rays of the gospel on a sinner till he burns him. do not scatter the beams of light; you can turn the glass so as to diffuse the rays instead of concentrating them; but the best way of preaching is to focus jesus christ, the sun of righteousness, right on a sinner's heart. it is the best way in the world to get at him; and if he is thirty feet under the water, this burning-glass will enable you to reach him; only mind that you do not use your own candle instead of the sun, for that will not answer the same purpose. sometimes the sun suffers eclipse, as you know. the moon intrudes between us and the sun, and then we cannot see the great orb of day. i suppose we have all seen one total eclipse, and we may see another. it is a very interesting sight; but it appears to me that people take a great deal more notice of the sun when he is eclipsed than they do when he is shining clearly. they do not stand looking at him, day after day, when he is pouring forth his bright beams in unclouded glory; but as soon as ever he is eclipsed, then they are out in their thousands, with their glasses, and every little boy in the street has a fragment of smoked glass through which he watches the eclipse of the sun. thus, brethren, i do not believe that our lord jesus christ ever receives so much attention from men as when he is set forth as the suffering saviour, evidently crucified among them. when the great eclipse passed over the sun of righteousness, then all eyes were fixed upon him, and well they might be. do not fail to tell your hearers continually about that awful eclipse on calvary; but mind that you also tell them all the effects of that eclipse, and that there will be no repetition of that stupendous event. lo! the sun's eclipse is o'er; lo! he sets in blood no more. speaking of eclipses reminds me that there is, in the book i have mentioned, a striking description of one given by a correspondent who wrote to the astronomer halley. he took his stand at haradow hill, close to the east end of the avenue of stonehenge, a very capital place for observation, and there he watched the eclipse. he says of it: "we were now enveloped in a total and palpable darkness, if i may be allowed the expression. it came on rapidly, but i watched so attentively that i could perceive its progress. it came upon us like a great black cloak thrown over us, or like a curtain drawn from that side. the horses we held by the bridle seemed deeply struck by it, and pressed closely to us with marks of extreme surprise. as well as i could perceive, the countenances of my friends wore a horrible aspect. it was not without an involuntary exclamation of wonder that i looked around me at this moment. it was the most awful sight i had ever beheld in my life." so, i suppose, it must be in the spiritual realm. when the sun of this great world suffered eclipse, then were all men in darkness; and when any dishonor comes upon the cross of christ, or upon christ himself, then is each christian himself in darkness of a horrible kind. he cannot be in the light if his lord and master is in the shade. one observer describes what he saw in austria, where, it appears, all the people made the eclipse a time for keeping holiday, and turned out together on the plain with various modes of observing the wonderful sight. this writer says: "the phenomenon, in its magnificence, had triumphed over the petulance of youth, over the levity which some persons assume as a sign of superiority, over the noisy indifference of which soldiers usually make profession. a profound stillness also reigned in the air; the birds had ceased to sing." the more curious thing is that, in london, after an eclipse, when the cocks found that the sun shone out again, they all began crowing as though they joyfully thought that the daylight had broken through the gloom of night. yet this wonderful phenomenon does not appear to have always attracted the attention of all persons who might have witnessed it. history says that, at one time, there was a battle being fought, i think, in greece, and, during its progress, there came on a total eclipse of the sun; but the warriors went on fighting all the same, indeed, they never noticed the extraordinary occurrence. that shows us how strong passions may make us forget surrounding circumstances, and it also teaches us how a man's engagements on earth may make him oblivious of all that is transpiring in the heavens. we read, just now, of how those horses, that were standing idly on salisbury plain, trembled during the eclipse; but another writer tells us that the horses in italy, that were busily occupied in drawing the carriages, do not appear to have taken the slightest notice of the phenomenon, but to have gone on their way the same as usual. thus, the engagements of a worldly man are often so engrossing in their character that they prevent him from feeling those emotions which are felt by other men whose minds are more at liberty to meditate upon them. i met with a very pretty story concerning an eclipse, which you will probably like to hear. a poor little girl, belonging to the commune of siã¨yes, in the lower alps, was tending her flock on the mountain-side at six o'clock on a bright summer morning. the sun had risen, and was dissipating the vapors of the night, and every one thought that there would be a glorious, unclouded day; but gradually the light darkened until the sun had wholly disappeared, and a black orb took the place of the glowing disk, while the air became chill, and a mysterious gloom pervaded the whole region. the little child was so terrified by the circumstance, which was certainly unusual, that she began to weep, and cried out loudly for help. her parents, and other friends, who came at her call, did not know anything about an eclipse, so they were also astounded and alarmed; but they tried to comfort her as best they could. after a short time, the darkness passed away from the face of the sun, and it shone out as before, and then the little girl cried aloud, in the _patois_ of the district, "o beautiful sun!" and well she might. when i read the story, i thought that, when my heart had suffered eclipse, and the presence of christ had gone for a while, and then had come back again, how beautiful the sun seemed to me, even more bright and fair than before the temporary darkness. jesus seemed to shine on me with a brighter light than ever before, and my soul cried out in an ecstasy of delight, "o beautiful sun of righteousness!" that story must, i think, close our illustrations derived from the sun; for we want also to learn all we can from his planets, and if we intend to pay a visit to them all, we shall have to travel far, and to travel fast, too. the nearest planet that revolves around the sun is mercury, which is about 37,000,000 miles from the great luminary. mercury, therefore, receives a far greater allowance of light and heat from the sun than comes to us upon the earth. it is believed that, even at the poles of mercury, water would always boil; that is to say, if the planet is constituted at all as this world is. none of us could possibly live there; but that is no reason why other people should not, for god could make some of his creatures to live in the fire just as well as he could make others to live out of it. i have no doubt that, if there are inhabitants there, they enjoy the heat. in a spiritual sense, at any rate, we know that men who live near to jesus dwell in the divine flame of love. mercury is a comparatively small planet; its diameter is about 2960 miles, while that of the earth is 7975. mercury rushes round the sun in eighty-eight days, traveling at the rate of nearly 110,000 miles in an hour, while the earth traverses only 65,000 miles in the same time. fancy crossing the atlantic in about two or three minutes! it is an instance of the wisdom of god that mercury appears to be the densest of the planets. you see, that part of a machine in which there is the most rapid whirl, and the greatest wear and tear, ought to be made of the strongest material; and mercury is made very strong in order to bear the enormous strain of its swift motion, and the great heat to which it is subjected. this is an illustration of how god fits every man for his place; if he means me to be mercury--the messenger of the gods, as the ancients called him--and to travel swiftly, he will give me a strength proportioned to my day. in the formation of every planet, adapting it to its peculiar position, there is a wonderful proof of the power and forethought of god; and in a similar manner does he fit human beings for the sphere they are each called to occupy. i like to see in mercury a picture of the child of god who is full of grace. mercury is always near the sun; indeed, so near that it is itself very seldom seen. i think copernicus said that he never did see it, although he had long watched for it with great care, and he deeply regretted that he had to die without having ever seen this planet. others have observed it, and it has been quite a treat for them to be able to watch its revolutions. mercury is usually lost in the rays of the sun; and that is where you and i ought to be, so close to christ, the sun of righteousness, in our life and in our preaching, that the people who are trying to observe our movements can scarcely see us at all. paul's motto must be ours--"not i, but christ." mercury, also, in consequence of being so near the sun, is apparently the least understood of any of the planets. it has, perhaps, given more trouble to the astronomers than any other member of the heavenly family; they have paid great attention to it, and tried to find out all about it; but they have had a very difficult task, for it is generally lost in the solar glory, and never seen in a dark portion of the heavens. so, i believe, brethren, that the nearer we live to christ, the greater mystery shall we be to all mankind. the more we are lost in his brightness, the less will they be able to understand us. if we were always what we should be, men would see in us an illustration of the text, "ye are dead, and your life is hid with christ in god." like mercury, we ought also to be so active in our appointed orbit that we should not give observers time to watch us in any one position; and next, we should be so absorbed in the glory of christ's presence, that they would not be able to perceive us. when mercury is seen from the earth, it is never visible in its brightness, for its face is always turned toward the sun. i am afraid that, whenever any of us are seen very much, we usually appear only as black spots; when the preacher is very prominent in a sermon, there is always a darkness. i like gospel preaching to be all christ, the sun of righteousness, and no black spot at all; nothing of ourselves, but all of the lord jesus. if there are any inhabitants of mercury, the sun must appear to them four or five times as large as he does to us; the brightness would be insufferable to our eyes. it would be a very splendid sight if one could gaze upon it; and thus, the nearer you get to christ, the more you see of him, and the more he grows in your esteem. * * * * * the next planet to mercury is venus; it is about 66,000,000 miles from the sun, and is a little smaller than the earth, its diameter being 7510 miles, compared with our 7975. venus goes round the sun in 225 days, traveling at the rate of 80,000 miles an hour. when the copernican system of astronomy was fairly launched upon the world, one of the objections to it was stated thus: "it is clear that venus does not go round the sun, because, if it does, it must present the same aspect as the moon--namely, it must sometimes be a crescent, at other times a half-moon, or it must assume the form known as _gibbous_, and sometimes it must appear as a complete circle. but," said the objector, pointing to venus, "she is always the same size; look at her, she is not at all like the moon." this was a difficulty that some of the earlier astronomers could not explain; but when galileo was able to turn his newly made telescope to the planet, what did he discover? why, that venus does pass through similar phases to those of the moon! we cannot always see the whole of it enlightened, yet i suppose it is true that the light of venus always appears about the same to us. you will perceive in a moment why that is; when the planet's face is turned toward us, it is at the greatest distance from the earth; consequently, the light that reaches us is no more than when it is closer, but has its face at least partly turned away from us. to my mind, the two facts are perfectly reconcilable; and so is it, i believe, with some of the doctrines of grace that perplex certain people. they say, "how do you make these two things agree?" i reply, "i do not know that i am bound to prove how they agree. if god had told me i would tell you; but as he has not done so, i must leave the matter where the bible leaves it." i may not have discovered the explanation of any apparent difference between the two truths, and yet, for all that, the two things may be perfectly consistent with each other. venus is both the morning star and "the star of the evening, beautiful star." it has been called lucifer, and phosphorus, the light-bringer, and also hesperus, the vesper star. you perhaps remember how milton, in "paradise lost," refers to this double character and office of venus: fairest of stars! last in the train of night, if better thou belong not to the dawn; sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn with thy bright circlet: praise him in thy sphere, while day arises, that sweet hour of prime. our lord jesus christ calls himself "the bright and morning star." whenever he comes into the soul, he is the sure harbinger of that everlasting light which shall go no more down forever. now that jesus, the sun of righteousness, has gone from the gaze of man, you and i must be like evening stars, keeping as close as we can to the great central sun, and letting the world know what jesus was like by our resemblance to him. did he not say to his disciples, "ye are the light of the world"? * * * * * the next little planet that goes round the sun is the earth. its distance from the sun varies from about ninety-two to ninety-five millions of miles. do not be discouraged, gentlemen, in your hopes of reaching the sun, because you are nothing like so far away as the inhabitants of saturn; if there are any residents there, they are about ten times as far from the sun as we are. still, i do not suppose you will ever take a seat in sol's fiery chariot; at least not in your present embodied state; it is far too warm a place for you to be at home there. the earth is somewhat larger than venus, and it takes much longer to go round the sun; it is twelve months on its journey, or, speaking exactly, 365 days, 6 hours, 9 minutes, and 10 seconds. this world is a slow-going concern; and i am afraid it is less to the glory of god than any other world that he has made. i have not seen it from a distance; but i should suspect that it never shines anything like so brightly as venus; for, through sin, a cloud of darkness has enveloped it. i suppose that, in the millennial days, the curtain will be drawn back, and a light will be thrown upon the earth, and that it will then shine to the glory of god like its sister stars that have never lost their pristine brightness. i think there have been some curtains drawn up already; every sermon, full of christ, that we preach, rolls away some of the mists and fogs from the surface of the planet; at any rate, morally and spiritually, if not naturally. still, brethren, though the earth travels slowly, when compared with mercury and venus, yet, as galileo said, it does move, and at a pretty good rate, too. i dare say, if you were to walk for twenty minutes, and you knew nothing about the speed at which the earth is traveling, you would be surprised if i assured you that you had in that short space of time gone more than 20,000 miles; but it would be a fact. this book, which has already given us much useful information, says: "it is a truly astonishing thought that, 'awake, asleep, at home, abroad,' we are constantly carried round with the terrestrial mass, at the rate of eleven miles a minute, and are, at the same time, traveling with it in space with a velocity of sixty-six thousand miles an hour. thus, during the twenty minutes consumed in walking a mile from our thresholds, we are silently conveyed more than twenty thousand miles from one portion of space to another; and, during a night of eight hours' rest, or tossing to and fro, we are unconsciously translated through an extent equal to twice the distance of the lunar world." we do not take any notice of this movement, and so it is that little things, which are near and tangible, often seem more notable than great things which are more remote. this world impresses many men with far greater force than the world to come has ever done, because they look only upon the things that are seen and temporal. "but," perhaps you say, "we do not feel ourselves moving." no, but you are moving, although you are not conscious of it. so, i think that, sometimes, when a believer in christ does not feel himself advancing in divine things, he need not fret on that account; i am not certain that those who imagine themselves to be growing spiritually are really doing so. perhaps they are only growing a cancer somewhere; and its deadly fibers make them fancy there is a growth within them. alas! so there is; but it is a growth unto destruction. when a man thinks that he is a full-grown christian, he reminds me of a poor boy whom i used to see. he had such a splendid head for his body that he had often to lay it on a pillow, for it was too weighty for his shoulders to carry, and his mother told me that, when he tried to stand up, he often tumbled down, over-balanced by his heavy head. there are some people who appear to grow very fast, but they have water on the brain, and are out of due proportion; but he who truly grows in grace does not say, "dear me! i can feel that i am growing; bless the lord! let's sing a hymn, 'i'm a-growing! i'm a-growing!'" i have sometimes felt that i was growing smaller, brethren; i think that is very possible, and a good thing, too. if we are very great in our own estimation, it is because we have a number of cancers, or foul gatherings, that need to be lanced, so as to let out the bad matter that causes us to boast of our bigness. it is a good thing that we do not feel ourselves moving, for, as i before reminded you, we walk by faith, not by sight. yet i know that we are moving, and i am persuaded that i shall return, as nearly as the earth's revolution permits, to this exact spot this day twelve-month. if they are looking down at me from saturn, they will spy me out somewhere near this same place, unless the lord should come in the meantime, or he should call me up to be with him. if we did feel the world move, it would probably be because there was some obstruction in the heavenly road; but we go on so softly, and gently, and quietly that we do not perceive it. i believe that growth in grace is very much after the same fashion. a babe grows, and yet does not know that he grows; the seed unconsciously grows in the earth, and so we are developing in the divine life until we come to the fulness of the stature of men in christ jesus. * * * * * waiting upon the earth is the moon. in addition to her duty as one of the planets revolving round the sun, she has the task of attending upon the earth, doing much useful service for it, and at night lighting it with her great reflector-lamp, according to the allowance of oil she has available for shedding her beams upon us. the moon also operates upon the earth by her powers of attraction; and as the water is the more mobile part of our planet, the moon draws it toward herself, so making the tides; and those tides help to keep the whole world in healthful motion; they are a sort of life-blood to it. the moon undergoes eclipse, sometimes very frequently, and a great deal more often than the sun; and this phenomenon has occasioned much terror. among some tribes, an eclipse of the moon is an occasion for the greatest possible grief. sir r. schomberg thus describes a total lunar eclipse in san domingo: "i stood alone upon the flat roof of the house which i inhabited, watching the progress of the eclipse. i pictured in imagination the lively and extraordinary scene which i once witnessed in the interior of guiana, among the untutored and superstitious indians, how they rushed out of their huts when the first news of the eclipse came, gibbered in their tongue, and, with violent gesticulations, threw up their clenched fists toward the moon. when, as on this occasion, the disk was perfectly eclipsed, they broke out in moanings, and sullenly squatted upon the ground, hiding their faces between their hands. the females remained, during this strange scene, within their huts. when, shining like a sparkling diamond, the first portion of the moon, that had disencumbered itself from the shadow, became visible, all eyes were turned toward it. they spoke to each other with subdued voices; but their observations became louder and louder, and they quitted their stooping position as the light increased. when the bright disk announced that the monster which wanted to stifle the queen of night had been overcome, the great joy of the indians was expressed in that peculiar whoop which, in the stillness of the night, may be heard for a great distance." want of faith causes the most extraordinary fear, and produces the most ridiculous action. a man who believes that the moon, though temporarily hidden, will shine forth again, looks upon an eclipse as a curious phenomenon worthy of his attention, and full of interest; but the man who really fears that god is blowing out the light of the moon, and that he shall never see its bright rays any more, feels in a state of terrible distress. perhaps he will act as the hindus and some of the africans do during an eclipse: they beat old drums, and blow bullocks' horns, and make all manner of frightful noises, to cause the dragon who is supposed to have swallowed the moon to vomit it up again. that is their theory of an eclipse, and they act accordingly; but once know the truth, and know especially the glorious truth that "all things work together for good to them that love god, to them that are the called according to his purpose," and we shall not be afraid of any dragon swallowing the moon, nor of anything else that the fears of men have made them imagine. if we are ignorant of the truth, every event that occurs, which may be readily enough accounted for from god's point of view, may cause the utmost terror, and drive us, perhaps, into the wildest follies. * * * * * the next planet to the earth is mars; fiery mars, generally shining with a ruddy light. it used to be thought that the color of mars's "blood-red shield" was caused by the absorption of the solar rays; but this idea has been refuted, and it is now believed to be due to the color of its soil. according to the former idea, an angry man, who is like mars, the god of war, must be one who has absorbed all other colors for his own use, and only shows the red rays to others; while the more modern notion, that the soil of the planet gives it its distinctive color, teaches us that, where there is a fiery nature, there will be a warlike exhibition of it unless it is restrained by grace. mars is about 140,000,000 miles from the sun; it is much smaller than our earth, its equatorial diameter being 4363 miles. traveling at the rate of 53,600 miles an hour, it takes 687 days to complete its revolution round the sun. * * * * * between the orbits of mars and jupiter there is a wide zone, in which, for many centuries, no planets were visible; but the astronomers said within themselves, "there must surely be something or other between mars and jupiter." they could not find any great planets; but as telescopes became larger and more powerful, they observed that there was a great number of asteroids or planetoids, as some term them. i do not know how many there are, for they are like some of our brethren's families, they are daily increasing. some hundreds of them have already been discovered; and by the aid of telescopic photography, we may expect to hear of the finding of many more. the first asteroid was identified on the first day of the present century, and was named ceres. many of them have been called by female mythological names, i suppose because they are the smaller planets, and it is considered gallant to give them ladies' names. they appear to vary from about 20 to 200 miles in diameter; and many have thought that they are the fragments of some planet that once revolved between mars and jupiter, but that has been blown up, and gone to pieces in a general wreck. those meteoric stones, which sometimes fall to the earth, but which much more frequently, at certain seasons of the year, are seen shooting across the midnight sky, may also be fragments of the aforesaid world which has perished. at all events, since the fathers fell asleep, all things have not continued as they were; there have been changes in the starry world to let men know that other changes will yet come. these blocks of meteoric matter are flying through space, and when they get within the range of our atmosphere, there is an opposing medium, they have to drive through it at an enormous rapidity, and so they become burning hot, and thus they become visible. and, in like manner, i believe that there are plenty of good men in the world who are invisible till they get to be opposed, and being opposed, and having the love of god driving them on with tremendous momentum, they become red-hot with holy fervor, they overcome all opposition, and then they become visible to the eye of mankind. for my part, i rather like to pass through an opposing medium. i think that we all want to travel in that kind of atmosphere just to give us the sacred friction that will fully develop the powers with which we have been intrusted. if god has given us force, it is not at all a bad thing for us to be put where there is opposition, because we shall not be stopped by it, but shall by that very process be made to shine all the brighter as lights in the world. * * * * * beyond the space which is occupied by the asteroids is the magnificent planet, jupiter, the brightest star which we see, except venus; and yet he is very, very far away. his mean distance from the sun is about 475,000,000 miles; that is, more than five times as far off as we are. even here, we are so far away that we do not often see the sun; but jupiter is five times as far from the sun, and it takes him 4333 days, or nearly twelve of our years, to go round the great luminary, traveling at a speed of 27,180 miles an hour. the reason why jupiter is so bright is, partly, because of his great size, for he is nearly 90,000 miles in diameter, while the earth is less than 8,000, and it may be partly because he is better constituted for reflecting, or else, at that distance, his magnitude would not avail him. and brethren, if you and i are put in difficult positions, where we seem to be unable to shine to the glory of god, we must ask the lord specially to constitute us so that we can better reflect his brightness, and so produce as good an effect as our brethren who are placed in more favorable positions. jupiter is attended by four moons.[3] these satellites were discovered soon after the invention of the telescope; yet there were several persons who would not believe in their existence, and one of our excellent friends, the jesuits, of course, was strongest in his determination that he never would, by any process, be convinced of that which others knew to be a fact. he was asked to look through a telescope in order to see that it was really so; but he declined because he said that, perhaps, if he did so, he would be obliged to believe it; and as he had no desire to do so, he refused to look. are there not some who act thus toward the truths of revelation? some time after, the jesuit fell under the anger of good kepler, and being convinced that he was in the wrong, he went to the astronomer and begged his pardon. kepler told him that he would forgive him, but he would have to inflict a penance upon him. "what will it be?" he inquired. "why," said kepler, "you must look through that telescope." that was the direst punishment the jesuit could possibly receive; for, when he looked through the instrument, he was obliged to say that he did see what he had formerly denied, and he was obliged to express his conviction of the truth of the astronomer's teaching. so, sometimes, to make a man see the truth is a very severe penalty to him. if he does not want to see it, it is a good thing to compel him to look at it. there are a great many brethren, who are not jesuits, and who yet are not anxious to know the whole truth; but i hope that you and i, brethren, will always desire to learn all that the lord has revealed in his word. [3] in 1892 a fifth satellite was discovered through the great telescope at the lick observatory in california. this was the argument of sizzi, an astronomer of some note, who tried to prove that jupiter's moons could not exist. i wonder whether you can see the flaw in it: "there are seven windows given to animals in the domicile of the head, through which the air is admitted to the tabernacle of the body, to enlighten, to warm, and to nourish it; which windows are the principal parts of the microcosm, or little world, two nostrils, two eyes, two ears, and one mouth. so, in the heavens, as in a microcosm, or great world, there are two favorable stars, jupiter and venus; two unpropitious, mars and saturn; two luminaries, the sun and the moon; and mercury alone undecided and indifferent, from which, and from many other phenomena of nature, such as the seven metals, etc., which it were tedious to enumerate, we gather that the number of planets is necessarily seven. moreover, the satellites are invisible to the naked eye, and therefore can exercise no influence over the earth, and therefore would be useless, and therefore do not exist. besides, as well the jews and other ancient nations, as modern europeans, have adopted the division of the week into seven days, and have named them from the seven planets. now, if we increase the number of the planets, this whole system falls to the ground." i think, brethren, that i have heard the same kind of argument advanced many times with reference to spiritual matters; that is, an argument from theory against fact; but facts will always overturn theories all the world over, only that, sometimes, it takes a good while before the facts can be absolutely proved. it is a singular thing, and another instance of the power and wisdom of god, that though the satellites of jupiter are constantly being eclipsed, as is natural enough from their rapid revolutions around him, yet they are never all eclipsed at one time. one moon may be eclipsed, and perhaps another, or even three out of the four; but there is always one left shining; and, in like manner, god never takes away all the comfort of his people at once, there is always some ray of light to cheer them. there is a great deal more to be learned from jupiter; but having introduced you to him, i will leave you to examine him for yourselves, and to get all you can out of him. * * * * * far, far beyond jupiter is saturn. that respectable planet has been very much slandered, but i am happy to inform you that he does not deserve such treatment. he is nearly 900,000,000 miles from the sun. i wonder whether any brother here, with a large mind, has any idea of what a million is; i do not suppose that he has, and i am sure that i have not. it takes a vast deal of thinking to comprehend what a million means; but to realize what is meant by a million miles is altogether beyond one's mental grasp. a million pins would be something enormous; but a million miles! and here we are talking of nine hundred millions of miles; well, i give up all thought of understanding what that is so long as i am in this finite state. why, when you speak of nine hundred millions, you might as well say nine hundred billions at once; for the one term is almost as incomprehensible as the other; and yet, please to recollect that this vast space is to our great god only a mere hand's-breadth compared with the immeasurable universe that he has created. i said that saturn had been greatly slandered, and so he has. you know that we have, in our english language, the word "saturnine," as a very uncomplimentary description of certain individuals. when a man is praised for being very hearty and genial, he is said to be jovial, in allusion to jove, or jupiter, the brightly shining planet; but a person of an opposite temperament is called saturnine, because it is supposed that saturn is a dull planet, dreadfully dreary, and that his influences are malignant and baneful. if you have read some of the astrological books which i have had the pleasure of studying, you have there been told that, if you had been born under the influence of saturn, you might almost as well have been born under the influence of satan, for it will come to about the same thing in the end. he is supposed to be a very slow sort of individual, his symbol is the hieroglyphic of lead; but he is really a very light and buoyant personage. his diameter is about nine times as great as that of the earth, and while in volume he is equal to 746 worlds as large as ours, his weight is equal to only 92 such globes. the densities of the planets appear to diminish according to their distance from the sun, not in regular proportion, but still very largely so; and there seems to be no reason why those which are most remote, and travel slowly, should be made so dense as those which are nearer the central orb, and revolve more quickly around him. this useful volume, from which i have already given you several extracts, says: "instead, therefore, of sinking like lead in the mighty waters, he would float upon the liquid, if an ocean could be found sufficiently capacious to receive him. john goad, the well-known astro-meteorologist, declared the planet not to be such a 'plumbeous, blue-nosed fellow' as all antiquity had believed and the world still supposed. but it was the work of others to prove it. for six thousand years or so saturn concealed his personal features, interesting family, and strange appurtenances--the magnificent out-buildings of his house--from the knowledge of mankind. but he was caught at last by a little tube, pointed at him from a slope of the apennines, the holder of which, in invading his privacy, cared not to ask leave, and deemed it no intrusion." when that "little tube" was turned upon him he was found to be a most beautiful planet, one of the most varied and most marvelous of all the planetary worlds. take that as an illustration of the falseness of slander, and of how some persons are very much bemired and bespattered because people do not know them. this planet, which was so despised, turned out to be a very beautiful object indeed; and, instead of being very dull, and what the word saturnine usually means, he is bright and glorious. saturn also has no less than eight satellites to attend him; and, in addition, he has three magnificent rings, of which tennyson has sung: still as, while saturn whirls, his steadfast shade sleeps on his luminous rings. saturn has only about a hundredth part of the light from the sun as compared with what we receive; and yet, i suppose, the atmosphere might be so arranged that he might have as much solar light as we have; but even if the atmosphere is of the same kind as ours, saturn would still have as much light as we have in an ordinary london fog. i am speaking, of course, of the light from the sun; but then we cannot tell what illuminating power the lord may have put in the planet himself; and beside that, he has his eight moons, and his three shining rings, which have a brilliance that we cannot either imagine or describe. what must it be to see a marvelous arch of light rising to a height of 37,570 miles above the planet, and having the enormous span of 170,000 miles! if you were at the equator of saturn, you would only see the rings as a narrow band of light; but if you could journey toward the poles, you would see above you a tremendous arch, blazing with light, like some of the vast reflectors that you see hung up in large buildings where they cannot get sufficient sunlight. the reflector helps to gather up the rays of light, and throw them where they are needed; and i have no doubt that these rings act like reflectors to saturn. it must be a wonderful world to live in if there are inhabitants there; they get compensations which fully make up for their disadvantages in being so far away from the sun. so is it in the spiritual world, what the lord withholds in one direction he makes up in another; and those who are far removed from the means of grace and christian privileges have an inward light and joy, which others, with greater apparent advantages, might almost envy. * * * * * journeying again in the heavens, far, far beyond saturn, we come to uranus, or herschel, as it is sometimes called, after the astronomer who discovered it in 1781. the mean distance of uranus from the sun is believed to be about 1,754,000,000 miles; i give you the figures, but neither you nor i can have the slightest conception of the distance they represent. to an observer standing on uranus, the sun would probably appear only as a faraway speck of light; yet the planet revolves around the sun at about 15,000 miles an hour, and occupies about eighty-four of our years in completing one journey. uranus is said to be equal in volume to seventy-three or seventy-four earths, and to be attended by four moons. i do not know much about uranus, therefore i do not intend to say much about him. that may serve as an illustration of the lesson that a man had better say as little as possible concerning anything of which he knows only a little; and that is a lesson which many people need to learn. for instance, there are probably more works on the book of revelation than upon any other part of the scriptures, and, with the exception of just a few, they are not worth the paper on which they are printed. then, next to the book of revelation, in this respect, is the book of daniel; and because it is so difficult to explain, many men have written upon it, but as a rule the result of their writing has been that they have only confuted and contradicted one another. let us, brethren, preach what we know, and say nothing of that of which we are ignorant. * * * * * we have gone a long way, in imagination, in traveling to the planet uranus; but we have not yet completed our afternoon's journey. it was observed by certain astronomers that the orbit of uranus sometimes deviated from the course they had marked in their chart of the heavens; and this convinced them that there was another planetary body, not then discovered, which was exerting an unseen but powerful influence upon uranus. this fact, that these huge worlds, with so many millions of miles of space between them, do retard or accelerate one another's movements, is to me a beautiful illustration of the influence that you and i have upon our fellowmen. whether consciously or unconsciously, we either impede a man's progress in the path that leads to god, or else we quicken his march along the heavenward way. "none of us liveth to himself." the astronomers came to the conclusion that there must be another planet, previously unknown to them, that was disturbing the motion of uranus. unknown to each other, an englishman, mr. adams, of cambridge, and a frenchman, m. leverrier, set to work to find out the position in which they expected the heavenly body to be discovered, and their calculations brought them to almost identical results. when the telescopes were pointed to that part of the heavens where the mathematical astronomers believed the planet would be found, it was at once discovered, shining with a pale and yellow light, and we now know it by the name of neptune. the volume before me thus speaks of the two methods of finding a planet, the one worker using the most powerful telescope, and the other making mathematical calculations: "to detect a planet by the eye, or to track it to its place by the mind, are acts as incommensurable as those of muscular and intellectual power. recumbent on his easy-chair, the practical astronomer has but to look through the cleft in his revolving cupola in order to trace the pilgrim star in its course; or, by the application of magnifying power, to expand its tiny disk, and thus transfer it from among its sidereal companions to the planetary domains. the physical astronomer, on the contrary, has no such auxiliaries: he calculates at noon, when the stars disappear under a meridian sun; he computes at midnight, when clouds and darkness shroud the heavens; and from within that cerebral dome which has no opening heavenward, and no instrument but the eye of reason, he sees in the disturbing agencies of an unseen planet, upon a planet by him equally unseen, the existence of the disturbing agent, and from the nature and amount of its action he computes its magnitude and indicates its place." what a grand thing is reason! far above the mere senses, and then faith is high above reason; only, in the case of the mathematical astronomer of whom we are thinking, reason was a kind of faith. he argued: "god's laws are so-and-so and so-and-so. this planet uranus is being disturbed, some other planet must have disturbed it, so i will search and find out where he is;" and when his intricate calculations were completed, he put his finger on neptune as readily as a detective lays his hand on a burglar, and a great deal sooner; indeed, it seems to me that it is often easier to find a star than to catch a thief. neptune had long been shining before he was discovered and named; and you and i, brethren, may remain unknown for years, and possibly the world may never discover us; but i trust that our influence, like that of neptune, will be felt and recognized, whether we are seen of men or only shine in solitary splendor to the glory of god. * * * * * well, we have traveled in thought as far as neptune, which is about 2,748,000,000 miles from the sun; and, standing there, we look over into space, and there are myriads, and myriads, and myriads of miles in which there appear to be no more planets belonging to the solar system. there may be others that have not been discovered yet; but, as far as we know, beyond neptune there is a great gulf fixed. there are, however, what i may call "leapers" in the system, which, without the use of a pole, are able to cross this gulf; they are the comets. these comets are, as a rule, so thin--a mere filmy mass of vapor--that when they come flashing into our system, and rushing out again, as they do, they never disturb the motion of a planet. and there are some terrestrial comets about, that i know, that go to various towns, and blaze away for a time; but they have no power to disturb the planets revolving there in their regular course. the power of a man does not consist in rushing to and fro, like a comet, but in steadily shining year after year, like a fixed star. the astronomer halley says: "if you were to condense a comet down to the thickness of the ordinary atmosphere, it would not fill a square inch of space." so thin is a comet that you might look through five thousand miles of it, and see just as easily as if it were not there. it is well to be transparent, brethren; but i hope you will be more substantial than most of the comets of which we have heard. comets come with great regularity, though they seem to be very irregular. halley prophesied that the comet of 1682, of which little had been previously known, would return at regular intervals of about seventy-five years. he knew that he would not live to see its reappearance; but he expressed the hope that when it did return his prophecy might be remembered. various astronomers were looking out for it, and they hoped it might arrive at the time foretold, because, otherwise, ignorant people would not believe in astronomy. but the comet came back all right; so their minds were set at rest, and halley's prediction was verified. among the stories concerning comet-watching, there is one that contains an illustration and a lesson also. "messier, who had acquired the name of 'the comet-hunter,' from the number he discovered, was particularly anxious upon the occasion. of great simplicity of character, his zeal after comets was often displayed in the oddest manner. while attending the death-bed of his wife, and necessarily absent from his observatory, the discovery of one was snatched from him by montaigne de limoges. this was a grievous blow. a visitor began to offer him consolation on account of his recent bereavement, when messier, thinking only of the comet, answered, 'i had discovered twelve; alas, to be robbed of the thirteenth by that montaigne!' but instantly recollecting himself, he exclaimed, 'ah! cette pauvre femme!' and went on deploring wife and comet together." he evidently lived so much in the heavens that he forgot his wife; and if science can sometimes carry a man away from all the trials of this mortal life, surely our heavenly life ought to lift us up above all the distractions and cares that afflict us. the return of a comet is frequently announced with great certainty. this paragraph appeared in a newspaper: "on the whole, it may be considered as tolerably certain that the comet will become visible in every part of europe about the latter end of august, or the beginning of september next. it will most probably be distinguishable by the naked eye, like a star of the first magnitude, but with a duller light than that of a planet, and surrounded with a pale nebulosity, which will slightly impair its splendor. on the night of the 7th of october the comet will approach the well-known constellation of the great bear; and between that and the 11th it will pass directly through the seven conspicuous stars of that constellation. toward the close of november the comet will plunge among the rays of the sun and disappear, and not issue from them, on the other side, until the end of december. this prospectus of the movements of a body, invisible at the time, millions of miles away, is nearly as definite as the early advertisements of coaching between london and edinburgh. let us now place the observations of the eye alongside the anticipations of science, and we shall find that science has proved almost absolutely correct." just think of the calculations, gentlemen, that were necessary; for, though a comet does not interfere with the course of a planet, a planet interferes very considerably with the course of a comet; so that, in their calculations, the astronomers had to recollect the track in which the comet would have to travel. thinking of him as a way-worn traveler, we remember that he will have to go by neptune's bright abode, and neptune will be sure to give him a cup of tea; then he will journey on as far as uranus, and put up for the night there; in the morning he will pay an early visit to saturn, and he will stay there for breakfast; he will dine with jupiter; by and by he will reach mars, and there will be sure to be a row there; and he will be glad when he gets to venus, and, of course, he will be detained by her charms. you will, therefore, very readily see, gentlemen, that the calculations as to the return of a comet are extremely difficult, and yet the astronomers do estimate the time to a nicety. this science is a very marvelous one, not only for what it reveals, but for the talent which it brings out, and the lessons it continually teaches us about the wonderful works of our great father. we have done with the solar system, and even with those interlopers which come to us every now and then from far remote systems, for a comet, i suppose, is only seen for a month, or a week, and then sometimes does not reappear for hundreds of years. where have they gone all that while? well, they have gone somewhere, and they are serving the purpose of the god who made them, i dare say; but, for my own part, i would not like to be a comet in god's system. i would like to have my fixed place, and keep on shining for the lord there. i have lived in london for a good many years, and i have seen many comets come and go during that time. oh, the great lights i have seen rush by! they have gone off into some unknown sphere, as comets usually do. i have generally noticed that, when men are going to do so much more than everybody else, and they are so amazingly pompous over it, their history is usually pretty accurately described by that simple simile of going up like a rocket and coming down like a stick. * * * * * i do not know whether you can, in imagination, lean over the battlements of this little solar system, and see what there is beyond it. do not narrow your minds, gentlemen, to a few hundred millions of miles! if you look out for a long way indeed, you will begin to see a star. i should only be uttering meaningless words if i told you its distance from us; yet there are others, of those that we are able to see, that are almost immeasurably farther away. they have taken a deal of trouble to send us a ray of light such a vast distance, to inform us that they are getting on very well, and that, though they are at such a distance from us, they still enjoy themselves as best they can in our absence. these stars, as the common people look at them, seem to be scattered about in the heavens, as we say, "anyhow." i always admire that charming variety; and i am thankful to god that he has not set the stars in straight lines, like rows of street-lamps. only think, brethren, how it would be if we looked up at night, and saw the stars all arranged in rows, like pins on a paper! bless the lord, it is not so! he just took a handful of bright worlds, and scattered them about the sky, and they dropped into most beautiful positions, so that people say, "there is the great bear;" and, "that is charles's wain," and every countryman knows the reaping-hook. have you not seen it, brethren? others say, "that is the virgin, and that is the ram, and that is the bull," and so on. i think that naming of the various constellations is very like a good deal of mystical preaching that there is nowadays. the preachers say, "that is so-and-so, and that is so-and-so." well, perhaps it is so; but i do not see it. you may imagine anything you like in the constellations of the heavens. i have pictured a fortress in the fire, and watched it being built up, and seen little soldiers come and pull it all down. you can see anything in the fire, and in the sky, and in the bible, if you like to look for it in that way; you do not see it in reality, it is only a freak of your imagination. there are no bulls and bears in the heavens. there may be a virgin, but she is not to be worshiped as the romanists teach. i hope you all know the pole-star; you ought also to know the pointers; they point to the pole-star, and that is just what we ought to do, to direct the poor slaves of sin and satan to the true star of liberty, our lord and saviour, jesus christ. then there are the pleiades; almost anybody can tell you where they are. they are a cluster of apparently little stars, but they are intensely bright. they teach me that, if i am a very little man, i must try to be very bright; if i cannot be like aldebaran, or some of the brightest gems of the sky, i must be as bright as i can in my own particular sphere, and be as useful there as if i were a star of the first magnitude. then, on the other side of the globe, they look up to the southern cross. i dare say one of our brethren from australia will give you a private lecture upon that constellation. it is very beautiful to think of the cross being the guide of the mariner; it is the best guide any one can have, either this side of the tropics or the other. * * * * * besides the stars, there are vast luminous bodies which are called nebulã�. in some parts of the heavens there are enormous masses of light-matter; they were supposed by some to be the material out of which worlds were made. these were the lumps of mortar, out of which, according to the old atheistic theory, worlds grew by some singular process of evolution; but when herschel turned his telescope upon them, he very soon put the nose of that theory out of joint, for he discovered that these nebulã¦ were simply enormous masses of stars, such myriads upon myriads of miles away that, to our sight, they looked just like a little dust of light. * * * * * there are many wonderful things to be learned about the stars, to which i hope you will give your earnest attention as you have the opportunity. among the rest is this fact, that some stars have ceased to be visible to us. tycho brahã© said that on one occasion he found a number of villagers looking up at the sky; and on asking them why they were gazing at the heavens, they told him that a new star had suddenly appeared. it shone brightly for a few months, and then vanished. many times a starry world has seemed to turn red, as if it were on fire; it has apparently burned, and blazed away, and then disappeared. kepler, writing concerning such a phenomenon, says: "what it may portend is hard to determine; and thus much only is certain, that it comes to tell mankind either nothing at all, or high and weighty news, quite beyond human sense and understanding." in allusion to the opinions of some, who explained the novel object by the epicurean doctrine of a fortuitous combination of atoms, he remarks, with characteristic oddity, yet good sense, "i will tell these disputants--my opponents--not my opinion, but my wife's. yesterday, when weary with writing, and my mind quite dusty with considering these atoms, i was called to supper, and a salad that i had asked for was set before me. 'it seems, then,' said i aloud, 'that if pewter dishes, leaves of lettuce, grains of salt, drops of water, vinegar, and oil, and slices of egg, had been flying about in the air from all eternity, it might at last happen, by chance, that there would come a salad.' 'yes,' says my wife, 'but not one so nice or well dressed as this which i have made for you.'" so i should think; and if the fortuitous combination of atoms could not make a salad, it is not very likely that they could make a world. i once asked a man who said that the world was a fortuitous concourse of atoms, "have you ever chanced to have no money, and to be away where you knew nobody who would give you a dinner?" he replied, "yes, i have." "well, then," said i, "did it ever happen to you that a fortuitous concourse of atoms made a leg of mutton for you, with some nice boiled turnips, and caper sauce, for your dinner?" "no," he said, "it has not." "well," i answered, "a leg of mutton, at any rate, even with turnips and caper sauce included, is an easier thing to make than one of these worlds, like jupiter or venus." we are told, in the word of god, that one star differeth from another star in glory; yet one that is small may give more light to us than a larger star which is farther away. some stars are what is called variable, they appear larger at one time than another. algol, in the head of medusa, is of this kind. we are told that "the star, at the brightest, appears of the second magnitude, and remains so for about two days, fourteen hours. its light then diminishes, and so rapidly that in three and a half hours it is reduced to the fourth magnitude. it wears this aspect rather more than fifteen minutes, then increases, and in three and a half hours more resumes its former appearance." i am afraid that many of us are variable stars; if we do sometimes wax dim, it will be well if we regain our brightness as quickly as algol does. then there are thousands of double stars. i hope that you will each get a wife who will always shine with you, and never eclipse you, for a double star may be very bright at one time, and sometimes be eclipsed altogether. there are also triple stars, or systems, and quadruple systems, and there are, in some cases, hundreds or thousands all spinning round one another, and around their central luminaries. wonderful combinations of glory and beauty may be seen in the stellar sky; and some of these stars are red, some blue, some yellow; all the colors of the rainbow are represented in them. it would be very wonderful to live in one of them, and to look across the sky, and see all the glories of the heavens that god has made. on the whole, however, for the present, i am quite content to abide upon this little planet, especially as i am not able to change it for another home, until god so wills it. sunday-school as an institution, what shall we do with the.--by george lansing taylor, d. d. fourth edition. square 16mo, cloth, 30 cents. paper, 20 cents. the central methodist says: "this is the clearest and most vigorous protestation of the whole sunday-school question in a nutshell we have seen. it is a work that ought to be in the hands of all preachers, since its practical treatment of the difficulties of our present system, and the proper remedy to be applied make it valuable to them." preacher's magazine, the.--edited by revs. mark guy pearse and arthur e. gregory. published monthly, $1.50 per year. single copy, 15 cents. no free samples. bound volumes, net $2.50. cloth covers, for binding net, 35 cents. rev. c. h. spurgeon says: "this unpretentious magazine is as good as the very best of its homiletical compeers. it goes straight to the point, making no big pretences of learning and eloquence, it goes in for practical suggestions, which will be really useful to men who are laboring to win souls. although we are by this time able to run alone, and make sermons without the aid of homiletics, yet we like such magazines as these, and feel helped by looking them through. each number is a capital return for the money." great thoughts of the bible.--by rev. john reid. 12mo. cloth, 318 pp. $1.50. the author has just gone far enough in the subject not to be tiresome, believing that compact thought is the want of the hour. the new york christian advocate says: "it is a book that has come to stay because there are elements of power in it." the christian at work says: "it is a book which will not only add to the intelligence of the christian, but invigorate and strengthen him in the performance of all christian duties." nature and the bible; a course of lectures on the morse foundation of the union theological seminary.--by j. w. dawson, ll. d. 12mo. cloth, 258 pp. illustrated. $1.75. the interior says: "professor dawson discusses his topic from the various standpoints of a student of nature, not from the single standpoint which has mostly been occupied by theologians. the book is not a _partisan_ publication. it will be found by those opposed to be perfectly candid and fair, admitting difficulties in their full force, and not seeking to evade, misinterpret, or exaggerate any fact or argument." concessions of "liberalists" to orthodoxy.--by daniel dorchester, d. d. 12mo. cloth, 344 pp. $1.50. the book is worthy all commendation for the extensive research shown by the author and the presentation of the three cardinal topics: the deity of christ, the atonement, and endless punishment. the western christian advocate says: "a book that should be in every minister's library. the doctor's style is singularly pure and candid, and the diction and dignity, scholarship and research is manifest in every page." gospel of common sense, the, as contained in the canonical epistle of james--by charles f. deems, d. d., ll. d. 12mo. cloth, 320 pp. $1.50. joseph cook says: "dr. deems eminent common sense never appeared more profitable than in his fresh, incisive and most timely discussion of st. james' epistle as the gospel of common sense. the book is at once popular and scholarly, broad and deep, radical and conservative." theodore l. cuyler, d. d. says: "the style of the book is racy and most readable. it ought to be read at every fireside in the land. may the holy spirit attend and bless the circulation of this capital volume." [illustration: cover] joel: a boy of galilee. works of annie fellows johnston the little colonel series (_trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of._) each one vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel stories $1.50 (containing in one volume the three stories, "the little colonel," "the giant scissors," and "two little knights of kentucky.") the little colonel's house party 1.50 the little colonel's holidays 1.50 the little colonel's hero 1.50 the little colonel at boarding-school 1.50 the little colonel in arizona 1.50 the little colonel's christmas vacation 1.50 the little colonel: maid of honor 1.50 the little colonel's knight comes riding 1.50 mary ware: the little colonel's chum 1.50 mary ware in texas 1.50 mary ware's promised land 1.50 the above 12 vols., _boxed_, as a set 18.00 * * * * * the little colonel good times book 1.50 the little colonel doll book--first series 1.50 the little colonel doll book--second series 1.50 illustrated holiday editions each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in color the little colonel $1.25 the giant scissors 1.25 two little knights of kentucky 1.25 big brother 1.25 cosy corner series each one vol., thin 12mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel $.50 the giant scissors .50 two little knights of kentucky .50 big brother .50 ole mammy's torment .50 the story of dago .50 cicely .50 aunt 'liza's hero .50 the quilt that jack built .50 flip's "islands of providence" .50 mildred's inheritance .50 other books joel: a boy of galilee $1.50 in the desert of waiting net .50 the three weavers net .50 keeping tryst net .50 the legend of the bleeding heart net .50 the rescue of the princess winsome net .50 the jester's sword net .50 asa holmes 1.00 travelers five along life's highway 1.25 the page company 53 beacon street boston, mass. [illustration: "'then take yourself out of my sight for ever'" (_see page 96_)] _new illustrated edition_ joel: a boy of galilee by annie fellows johnston author of "the little colonel series," "big brother," "ole mammy's torment," "asa holmes," etc. with pictures by l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston the page company publishers _copyright, 1895_ by roberts brothers _copyright, 1904_ by the page company _all rights reserved_ eleventh impression, october, 1910 twelfth impression, march, 1915 thirteenth impression, march, 1918 the colonial press c. h. simonds co., boston, u. s. a. publisher's preface in this volume, it has been the purpose of the author to present to children, through "joel," as accurate a picture of the times of the christ as has been given to older readers through "ben hur." with this in view, the customs of the private and public life of the jews, the temple service with its sacerdotal rites, and the minute observances of the numerous holidays have been studied so carefully that the descriptions have passed the test of the most critical inspection. an eminent rabbi pronounces them correct in every detail. while the story is that of an ordinary boy, living among shepherds and fishermen, it touches at every point the gospel narrative, making joel, in a natural and interesting way, a witness to the miracles, the death, and the resurrection of the nazarene. it was with the deepest reverence that the task was undertaken, and the fact that the little book is accomplishing its mission is evinced not only by the approval accorded its first editions by so many, from bible students to bishops, but by the boys and girls here and in distant lands. list of illustrations page "'then take yourself out of my sight for ever'" (_see page 96_) _frontispiece_ "he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully" 34 "'i peeped out 'tween 'e wose-vines'" 82 "not a word was said" 104 "'we talked late'" 139 "'you but mock me, boy'" 184 "a dark figure went skulking out into the night" 203 "'the stone is gone!'" 233 joel: a boy of galilee. chapter i. it was market day in capernaum. country people were coming in from the little villages among the hills of galilee, with fresh butter and eggs. fishermen held out great strings of shining perch and carp, just dipped up from the lake beside the town. vine-dressers piled their baskets with tempting grapes, and boys lazily brushed the flies from the dishes of wild honey, that they had gone into the country before day-break to find. a ten-year-old girl pushed her way through the crowded market-place, carrying her baby brother in her arms, and scolding another child, who clung to her skirts. "hurry, you little snail!" she said to him. "there's a camel caravan just stopped by the custom-house. make haste, if you want to see it!" their bare feet picked their way quickly over the stones, down to the hot sand of the lake shore. the children crept close to the shaggy camels, curious to see what they carried in their huge packs. but before they were made to kneel, so that the custom-house officials could examine the loads, the boy gave an exclamation of surprise. "look, jerusha! look!" he cried, tugging at her skirts. "what's that?" farther down the line, came several men carrying litters. on each one was a man badly wounded, judging by the many bandages that wrapped him. jerusha pushed ahead to hear what had happened. one of the drivers was telling a tax-gatherer. "in that last rocky gorge after leaving samaria," said the man, "we were set upon by robbers. they swarmed down the cliffs, and fought as fiercely as eagles. these men, who were going on ahead, had much gold with them. they lost it all, and might have been killed, if we had not come up behind in such numbers. that poor fellow there can hardly live, i think, he was beaten so badly." the children edged up closer to the motionless form on the litter. it was badly bruised and blood-stained, and looked already lifeless. "let's go, jerusha," whispered the boy, whimpering and pulling at her hand. "i don't like to look at him." with the heavy baby still in her arms, and the other child tagging after, she started slowly back towards the market-place. "i'll tell you what we'll do," she exclaimed. "let's go up and get the other children, and play robbers. we never did do that before. it will be lots of fun." there was a cry of welcome as jerusha appeared again in the market-place, where a crowd of children were playing tag, regardless of the men and beasts they bumped against. they were all younger than herself, and did not resent her important air when she called, "come here! i know a better game than that!" she told them what she had just seen and heard down at the beach, and drew such a vivid picture of the attack, that the children were ready for anything she might propose. "now we'll choose sides," she said. "i'll be a rich merchant coming up from jerusalem with my family and servants, and the rest of you can be robbers. we'll go along with our goods, and you pounce out on us as we go by. you may take the baby as a prisoner if you like," she added, with a mischievous grin. "i'm tired of carrying him." a boy sitting near by on a door-step, jumped up eagerly. "let me play, too, jerusha!" he cried. "i'll be one of the robbers. i know just the best places to hide!" the girl paused an instant in her choosing to say impatiently, although not meaning to be unkind, "oh, no, joel! we do not want you. you're too lame to run. you can't play with us!" the bright, eager look died out of the boy's face, and an angry light shone in his eyes. he pressed his lips together hard, and sat down again on the step. there was a patter of many bare feet as the children raced away. their voices sounded fainter and fainter, till they were lost entirely in the noise of the busy street. usually, joel found plenty to amuse and interest him here. he liked to watch the sleepy donkeys with their loads of fresh fruit and vegetables. he liked to listen to the men as they cried their wares, or chatted over the bargains with their customers. there was always something new to be seen in the stalls and booths. there was always something new to be heard in the scraps of conversation that came to him where he sat. down this street there sometimes came long caravans; for this was "the highway to the sea,"--the road that led from egypt to syria. strange, dusky faces sometimes passed this way; richly dressed merchant princes with their priceless stuffs from beyond the nile; heavy loads of babylonian carpets; pearls from ceylon, and rich silks for the court of the wicked herodias, in the town beyond. fisherman and sailor, rabbi and busy workman passed in an endless procession. sometimes a roman soldier from the garrison came by with ringing step and clanking sword. then joel would start up to look after the erect figure, with a longing gaze that told more plainly than words, his admiration of such strength and symmetry. but this morning the crowd gave him a strange, lonely feeling,--a hungry longing for companionship. two half-grown boys passed by on their way to the lake, with fish nets slung over their shoulders. he knew the larger one,--a rough, kind-hearted fellow who had once taken him in his boat across the lake. he gave joel a careless, good-natured nod as he passed. a moment after he felt a timid pull at the fish net he was carrying, and turned to see the little cripple's appealing face. "oh, dan!" he cried eagerly. "are you going out on the lake this morning? could you take me with you?" the boy hesitated. whatever kindly answer he may have given, was rudely interrupted by his companion, whom joel had never seen before. "oh, no!" he said roughly. "we don't want anybody limping along after us. you can't come, jonah; you would bring us bad luck." "my name isn't jonah!" screamed the boy, angrily clinching his fists. "it's joel!" "well, it is all the same," his tormentor called back, with a coarse laugh. "you're a jonah, any way." there were tears in the boy's eyes this time, as he dragged himself back again to the step. "i hate everybody in the world!" he said in a hissing sort of whisper. "i hate'm! i hate'm!" a stranger passing by turned for a second look at the little cripple's sensitive, refined face. a girlishly beautiful face it would have been, were it not for the heavy scowl that darkened it. joel pulled the ends of his head-dress round to hide his crooked back, and drew the loose robe he wore over his twisted leg. life seemed very bitter to him just then. he would gladly have changed places with the heavily laden donkey going by. "i wish i were dead," he thought moodily. "then i would not ache any more, and i could not hear when people call me names!" beside the door where he sat was a stand where tools and hardware were offered for sale. a man who had been standing there for some time, selecting nails from the boxes placed before him, and had heard all that passed, spoke to him. "joel, my lad, may i ask your help for a little while?" the friendly question seemed to change the whole atmosphere. joel drew his hands across his eyes to clear them of the blur of tears he was too proud to let fall, and then stood up respectfully. "yes, rabbi phineas, what would you have me to do?" the carpenter gathered up some strips of lumber in one hand, and his hammer and saws in the other. "i have my hands too full to carry these nails," he answered. "if you could bring them for me, it would be a great service." if the man had offered him pity, joel would have fiercely resented it. his sensitive nature appreciated the unspoken sympathy, the fine tact that soothed his pride by asking a service of him, instead of seeking to render one. he could not define the feeling, but he gratefully took up the bag of nails, and limped along beside his friend to the carpenter's house at the edge of the town. he had never been there before, although he met the man daily in the market-place, and long ago had learned to look forward to his pleasant greeting; it was so different from most people's. somehow the morning always seemed brighter after he had met him. the little whitewashed house stood in the shade of two great fig-trees near the beach. a cool breeze from the galilee lifted the leaves, and swayed the vines growing around the low door. joel, tired by the long walk, was glad to throw himself on the grass in the shade. it was so still and quiet here, after the noise of the street he had just left. an old hen clucked around the door-step with a brood of downy, yellow chickens. doves cooed softly, somewhere out of sight. the carpenter's bench stood under one of the trees, with shavings and chips all around it. two children were playing near it, building houses of the scattered blocks; one of them, a black-eyed, sturdy boy of five, kept on playing. the other, a little girl, not yet three, jumped up and followed her father into the house. her curls gleamed like gold as she ran through the sunshine. she glanced at the stranger with deep-blue eyes so like her father's that joel held out his hand. "come and tell me your name," he said coaxingly. but she only shook the curls all over her dimpled face, and hurried into the house. "it's ruth," said the boy, deigning to look up. "and mine is jesse, and my mother's is abigail, and my father's is phineas, and my grandfather's is--" how far back he would have gone in his genealogy, joel could not guess; for just then his father came out with a cool, juicy melon, and jesse hurried forward to get his share. "how good it is!" sighed joel, as the first refreshing mouthful slipped down his thirsty throat. "and how cool and pleasant it is out here. i did not know there was such a peaceful spot in all capernaum." "didn't you always live here?" asked the inquisitive jesse. "no, i was born in jerusalem. i was to have been a priest," he said sadly. "well, why didn't you be one then," persisted the child, with his mouth full of melon. joel glanced down at his twisted leg, and said nothing. "why?" repeated the boy. phineas, who had gone back to his work-bench, looked up kindly. "you ask too many questions, my son. no one can be a priest who is maimed or blemished in any way. some sad accident must have befallen our little friend, and it may be painful for him to talk about it." jesse asked no more questions with his tongue; but his sharp, black eyes were fixed on joel like two interrogation points. "i do not mind telling about it," said joel, sitting up straighter. "once when i was not much older than you, just after my mother died, my father brought me up to this country from jerusalem, to visit my aunt leah. "i used to play down here by the lake, with my cousins, in the fishermen's boats. there was a boy that came to the beach sometimes, a great deal larger than i,--a dog of a samaritan,--who pulled my hair and threw sand in my eyes. he was so much stronger than i, that i could not do anything to him but call him names. but early one morning he was swimming in the lake. i hid his clothes in the oleander bushes that fringe the water. oh, but he was angry! i wanted him to be. but i had to keep away from the lake after that. "one day some older children took me to the hills back of the town to gather almonds. this rehum followed us. i had strayed away from the others a little distance, and was stooping to put the nuts in my basket, when he slipped up behind me. how he beat me! i screamed so that the other children came running back to me. when he saw them coming, he gave me a great push that sent me rolling over a rocky bank. it was not very high, but there were sharp stones below. "they thought i was dead when they picked me up. it was months before i could walk at all; and i can never be any better than i am now. just as my father was about to take me back to jerusalem, he took a sudden fever, and died. so i was left, a poor helpless burden for my aunt to take care of. it has been six years since then." joel threw himself full length on the grass, and scowled up at the sky. "where is that boy that hurt you," asked jesse. "rehum?" questioned joel. "i wish i knew," he muttered fiercely. "oh, how i hate him! i can never be a priest as my father intended. i can never serve in the beautiful temple with the white pillars and golden gates. i can never be like other people, but must drag along, deformed and full of pain as long as i live. and it's all his fault!" a sudden gleam lit up the boy's eyes, as lightning darts through a storm-cloud. "but i shall have my revenge!" he added, clinching his fists. "i cannot die till i have made him feel at least a tithe of what i have suffered. 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!' that is the least that can satisfy me. oh, you cannot know how i long for that time! often i lie awake late into the night, planning my revenge. then i forget how my back hurts and my leg pains; then i forget all the names i have been called, and the taunts that make my life a burden. but they all come back with the daylight; and i store them up and add them to his account. for everything he has made me suffer, i swear he shall pay for it four-fold in his own sufferings!" ruth shrank away, frightened by the wild, impassioned boy who sat up, angrily staring in front of him with eyes that saw nothing of the sweet, green-clad world around him. the face of his enemy blotted out all the sunny landscape. one murderous purpose filled him, mind and soul. nothing was said for a little while. the doves as before cooed of peace, and phineas began a steady tap-tap with his hammer. a pleasant-faced woman came out of the door with a water-jar on her head, and passed down the path to the public well. she gave joel a friendly greeting in passing. "wait, mother!" lisped ruth, as she ran after her. the woman turned to smile at the little one, and held out her hand. her dress, of some soft, cotton material, hung in long flowing folds. it was a rich blue color, caught at the waist with a white girdle. the turban wound around her dark hair was white also, and so was the veil she pushed aside far enough to show a glimpse of brown eyes and red cheeks. she wore a broad silver bracelet on the bare arm which was raised to hold the water-jar, and the rings in her ears and talismans on her neck were of quaintly wrought silver. "i did not know it was so late," said joel, rising to his feet. "time passes so fast here." "nay, do not go," said phineas. "it is a long walk back to your home, and the sun is very hot. stay and eat dinner with us." joel hesitated; but the invitation was repeated so cordially, that he let jesse pull him down on the grass again. "now i'll tickle your lips with this blade of grass," said the child. "see how long you can keep from laughing." when abigail came back with the water, both the boys were laughing as heartily as if there had never been an ache or pain in the world. she smiled at them approvingly, as she led the way into the house. joel looked around with much curiosity. it was like most of the other houses of its kind in the town. there was only one large square room, in which the family cooked, ate, and slept; but on every side it showed that phineas had left traces of his skilful hands. there was a tiny window cut in one wall; most of the houses of this description had none, but depended on the doorway for light and air. several shelves around the walls held the lamp and the earthenware dishes. the chest made to hold the rugs and cushions which they spread down at night to sleep on, was unusually large and ornamental. a broom, a handmill, and a bushel stood in one corner. near the door, a table which phineas had made, stood spread for the mid-day meal. there was broiled fish on one of the platters, beans and barley bread, a dish of honey, and a pitcher of milk. the fare was just the same that joel was accustomed to in his uncle's house; but something made the simple meal seem like a banquet. it may have been that the long walk had made him hungrier than usual, or it may have been because he was treated as the honored guest, instead of a child tolerated through charity. he watched his host carefully, as he poured the water over his hands before eating, and asked a blessing on the food. "he does not keep the law as strictly as my uncle laban," was his inward comment. "he asked only one blessing, and uncle laban blesses every kind of food separately. but he must be a good man, even if he is not so strict a pharisee as my uncle, for he is kinder than any one i ever knew before." it was wonderful how much joel had learned, in his eleven short years, of the law. his aunt's husband had grown to manhood in jerusalem, and, unlike the simple galileans among whom he now lived, tried to observe its most detailed rules. the child heard them discussed continually, till he felt he could neither eat, drink, nor dress, except by these set rules. he could not play like other children, and being so much with older people had made him thoughtful and observant. he had learned to read very early; and hour after hour he spent in the house of rabbi amos, the most learned man of the town, poring over his rolls of scriptures. think of a childhood without a picture, or a story-book! all that there was to read were these old records of jewish history. the old man had taken a fancy to him, finding him an appreciative listener and an apt pupil. so joel was allowed to come whenever he pleased, and take out the yellow rolls of parchment from their velvet covers. he was never perfectly happy except at these times, when he was reading these old histories of his country's greatness. how he enjoyed chasing the armies of the philistines, and fighting over again the battles of israel's kings! many a tale he stored away in his busy brain to be repeated to the children gathered around the public fountain in the cool of the evening. it mattered not what character he told them of,--priest or prophet, judge or king,--the picture was painted in life-like colors by this patriotic little hero-worshipper. here and at home he heard so many discussions about what was lawful and what was not, that he was constantly in fear of breaking one of the many rules, even in as simple a duty as washing a cup. so he watched his host closely till the meal was over, finding that in the observance of many customs, he failed to measure up to his uncle's strict standard. phineas went back to his work after dinner. he was greatly interested in joel, and, while he sawed and hammered, kept a watchful eye on him. he was surprised at the boy's knowledge. more than once he caught himself standing with an idle tool in hand, as he listened to some story that joel was telling to jesse. after a while he laid down his work and leaned against the bench. "what do you find to do all day, my lad?" he asked, abruptly. "nothing," answered joel, "after i have recited my lessons to rabbi amos." "does your aunt never give you any tasks to do at home?" "no. i think she does not like to have me in her sight any more than she is obliged to. she is always kind to me, but she doesn't love me. she only pities me. i hate to be pitied. there is not a single one in the world who really loves me." his lips quivered, but he winked back the tears. phineas seemed lost in thought a few minutes; then he looked up. "you are a levite," he said slowly, "so of course you could always be supported without needing to learn a trade. still you would be a great deal happier, in my opinion, if you had something to keep you busy. if you like, i will teach you to be a carpenter. there are a great many things you might learn to make well, and, by and by, it would be a source of profit to you. there is no bread so bitter as the bread of dependence, as you may learn when you are older." "oh, rabbi phineas!" cried joel. "do you mean that i may come here every day? it is too good to be true!" "yes; if you will promise to stick to it until you have mastered the trade. if you are as quick to learn with your hands as you have been with your head, i shall have reason to be proud of such a pupil." joel's face flushed with pleasure, and he sprang up quickly, saying, "may i begin right now? oh, i'll try _so_ hard to please you!" phineas laid a soft pine board on the bench, and began to mark a line across it with a piece of red chalk. "well, you may see how straight a cut you can make through this plank." he picked up a saw, and ran his fingers lightly along its sharp teeth. but he paused in the act of handing it to joel, to ask, "you are sure, now, that your uncle and aunt will consent to such an arrangement?" "yes indeed!" was the emphatic answer. "they will be glad enough to have me out of the way, and learning something useful." the saw cut slowly through the wood; for the weak little hand was a careful one, and the boy was determined not to swerve once from the line. he smiled with satisfaction as the pieces fell apart, showing a clean, straight edge. "well done!" said phineas, kindly. "now let me see you drive a nail." made bold by his first success, joel pounded away vigorously, but the hammer slipped more than once, and his unpractised fingers ached with the blows that he had aimed at the nail's head. "you'll soon learn," said phineas, with an encouraging pat on the boy's shoulder. "gather up those odds and ends under the bench. when you've sawed them into equal lengths, i'll show you how to make a box." joel bent over his work with almost painful intensity. he fairly held his breath, as he made the measurements. he gripped the saw as if his life depended on the strength of his hold. phineas smiled at his earnestness. "be careful, my lad," he said. "you will soon wear out at that rate." it seemed to joel that there never had been such a short afternoon. he had stopped to rest several times, when phineas had insisted upon it; but this new work had all the fascination of an interesting game. the trees threw giant shadows across the grass, when he finally laid his tools aside. his back ached with so much unusual exercise, and he was very tired. "rabbi phineas," he asked gently, after a long pause, "what makes you so good to me? what makes you so different from other people? while i am with you, i feel like i want to be good. other people seem to rub me the wrong way, and make me cross and hateful; then i feel like i'd rather be wicked than not. why this afternoon, i've scarcely thought of rehum at all. i forgot at times that i am lame. when you talk to me, i feel like i did that day dan took me out on the lake. it seemed a different kind of a world,--all blue sky and smooth water. i felt if i could stay out there all the time, where it was so quiet and comforting, that i could not even hate rehum as much as i do." a surprised, pleased look passed over the man's face. "do i really make you feel that way, little one? then i am indeed glad. once when i was a young boy living in nazareth, i had a playmate who had that influence over me and all the boys he played with. i never could be selfish and impatient when he was with me. his very presence rebuked such thoughts,--when we were children playing together, like my own two little ones there, and when we were older grown, working at the same bench. it has been many a long year since i left nazareth, but i think of him daily. even now, after our long separation, the thought of his blameless life inspires me to a higher living. yes," he went on musingly, more to himself than the boy, "it was like music. surely no white-robed priest in the holy temple ever offered up more acceptable praise than the perfect harmony of his daily life." joel's lips trembled. "if i had ever had one real friend to care for me--not just pity me, you know--maybe i would have been different. but i have never had a single one since my father died." phineas smiled, and held out his hand. "you have one now, my lad, never forget that." the strong brown hand closed in a warm grasp, and joel drew it, with a grateful impulse, to his lips. ruth came up with wondering eyes. she could not understand what had passed; but joel's eyes were full of tears, and she vaguely felt that he needed comfort. she had a pet pigeon in her arms, that she carried everywhere with her. "here," she lisped, holding out the snowy winged bird. "boy, take it! boy, keep it!" joel looked up inquiringly at phineas. "take it," he said, in a low tone. "let it be the omen of a happier life commencing for you." "i never had a pet of any kind before," said joel, in delight, smoothing the white wings folded contentedly against his breast. "but she loves it so, i dislike to take it from her. how beautiful it is!" "my little ruth is a born comforter," said phineas, tossing her up in his arms. "shall joel take the pigeon home with him, little daughter?" "yes," she answered, nodding her head. "boy cried." "i'll name it 'little friend,'" said joel, rising with it in his arms. "i'll take it home with me, and keep it until after the sabbath, to make me feel sure that this day has not been just a dream; but i will bring it back next time i come. i can see it here every day, and it will be happier here. oh, rabbi phineas, i can never thank you enough for this day!" it was a pitiful little figure that limped away homeward in the fading light, with the white pigeon in his arms. looking anxiously up in the sky, joel saw one star come twinkling out. the sabbath would soon begin, and then he must not be found carrying even so much as this one poor little pigeon. the slightest burden would be unlawful. as he hurried on, the loud blast of a trumpet, blown from the roof of the synagogue, signalled the laborers in the fields to stop all work. he knew that very soon it would sound again, to call the town people from their tasks; and at the third blast, the sabbath lamp would be lighted in every home. fearful of his uncle's displeasure at his tardiness, he hurried painfully onward, to provide food and a resting-place for his "little friend" before the second sounding of the trumpet. chapter ii. early in the morning after the sabbath, joel was in his accustomed place in the market, waiting for his friend phineas. his uncle had given a gruff assent, when he timidly asked his approval of the plan. the good rabbi amos was much pleased when he heard of the arrangement. "thou hast been a faithful student," he said, kindly. "thou knowest already more of the law than many of thy elders. now it will do thee good to learn the handicraft of phineas. remember, my son, 'the balm was created by god before the wound.' work, that is as old as eden, has been given us that we might forget the afflictions of this life that fleeth like a shadow. may the god of thy fathers give thee peace!" with the old man's benediction repeating itself like a solemn refrain in all his thoughts, joel stood smoothing the pigeon in his arms, until phineas had made his daily purchases. then they walked on together in the cool of the morning, to the little white house under the fig-trees. phineas was surprised at his pupil's progress. to be sure, the weak arms could lift little, the slender hands could attempt no large tasks. but the painstaking care he bestowed on everything he attempted, resulted in beautifully finished work. if there was an extra smooth polish to be put on some wood, or a delicate piece of joining to do, joel's deft fingers seemed exactly suited to the task. before the winter was over, he had made many pretty little articles of furniture for abigail's use. "may i have these pieces of fine wood to use as i please?" he asked of phineas, one day. "all but that largest strip," he answered. "what are you going to make?" "something for ruth's birthday. she will be three years old in a few weeks, jesse says, and i want to make something for her to play with." "what are you going to make her?" inquired jesse, from under the work-bench. "let me see too." "oh, i didn't know you were anywhere near," answered joel, with a start of alarm. "tell me!" begged jesse. "well, if you will promise to keep her out of the way while i am finishing it, and never say a word about it--" "i'll promise," said the child, solemnly. he had to clap his hand over his mouth a great many times in the next few weeks, to keep his secret from telling itself, and he watched admiringly while joel carved and polished and cut. one of the neighbors had come in to talk with abigail the day he finished it, and as the children were down on the beach, playing in the sand, he took it in the house to show to the women. it was a little table set with toy dishes, that he had carved out of wood,--plates and cups and platters, all complete. the visitor held up her hands with an exclamation of delight. after taking up each little highly polished dish to admire it separately, she said, "i know where you might get a great deal of money for such work. there is a rich roman living near the garrison, who spends money like a lord. no price is too great for him to pay for anything that pleases his fancy. why don't you take some up there, and offer them for sale?" "i believe i will," said joel, after considering the matter. "i'll go just as soon as i can get them made." ruth spread many a little feast under the fig-trees; but after the first birthday banquet, jesse was her only guest. joel was too busy making more dishes and another little table, to partake of them. the whole family were interested in his success. the day he went up to the great house near the garrison to offer them for sale, they waited anxiously for his return. "he's sold them! he's sold them!" cried jesse, hopping from one foot to the other, as he saw joel coming down the street empty-handed. joel was hobbling along as fast as he could, his face beaming. "see how much money!" he cried, as he opened his hand to show a shining coin, stamped with the head of cã¦sar. "and i have an order for two more. i'll soon have a fortune! the children liked the dishes so much, although they had the most beautiful toys i ever saw. they had images they called dolls. some of them had white-kid faces, and were dressed as richly as queens. i wish ruth had one." "the law forbids!" exclaimed phineas. "have you forgotten that it is written, 'thou shalt not make any likeness of anything in the heavens above or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth'? she is happy with what she has, and needs no strange idols of the heathen to play with." joel made no answer; but he thought of the merry group of roman children seated around the little table he had made, and wished again that ruth had one of those gorgeously dressed dolls. skill and strength were not all he gained by his winter's work; for some of the broad charity that made continual summer in the heart of phineas crept into his own embittered nature. he grew less suspicious of those around him, and smiles came more easily now to his face than scowls. but the strong ambition of his life never left him for an instant. to all the rest of the world he might be a friend; to rehum he could only be the most unforgiving of enemies. the thought that had given him most pleasure when the wealthy roman had tossed him his first earnings, was not that his work could bring him money, but that the money could open the way for his revenge. that thought, like a dark undercurrent, gained depth and force as the days went by. as he saw how much he could do in spite of his lameness, he thought of how much more he might have accomplished, if he had been like other boys. it was a constant spur to his desire for revenge. one day phineas laid aside his tools much earlier than usual, and without any explanation to his wondering pupil, went up into the town. when he returned, he nodded to his wife, who sat in the doorway spinning, and who had looked up inquiringly as he approached. "yes, it's all arranged," he said to her. then he turned to joel to ask, "did you ever ride on a camel, my boy?" "no, rabbi," answered the boy, in surprise, wondering what was coming next. "well, i have a day's journey to make to the hills in upper galilee. a camel caravan passes near the place where my business calls me, as it goes to damascus. i seek to accompany it for protection. i go on foot, but i have made arrangements for you to ride one of the camels." "oh, am i really to go, too?" gasped joel, in delighted astonishment. "oh, rabbi phineas! how did you ever think of asking me?" "you have not seemed entirely well, of late," was the answer. "i thought the change would do you good. i said nothing about it before, for i had no opportunity to see your uncle until this afternoon; and i did not want to disappoint you, in case he refused his permission." "and he really says i may go?" demanded the boy, eagerly. "yes, the caravan moves in the morning, and we will go with it." there was little more work done that day. joel was so full of anticipations of his journey that he scarcely knew what he was doing. phineas was busy with preparations for the comfort of his little family during his absence, and went into town again. on his return he seemed strangely excited. abigail, seeing something was amiss, watched him carefully, but asked no questions. he took a piece of timber that had been laid away for some especial purpose, and began sawing it into small bits. "rabbi phineas," ventured joel, respectfully, "is that not the wood you charged me to save so carefully?" phineas gave a start as he saw what he had done, and threw down his saw. "truly," he said, smiling, "i am beside myself with the news i have heard. i just now walked ten cubits past my own house, unknowing where i was, so deeply was i thinking upon it. abigail," he asked, "do you remember my friend in nazareth whom i so often speak of,--the son of joseph the carpenter? last week he was bidden to a marriage in cana. it happened, before the feasting was over, the supply of wine was exhausted, and the mortified host knew not what to do. six great jars of stone had been placed in the room, to supply the guests with water for washing. _he changed that water into wine!_" "i cannot believe it!" answered abigail, simply. "but ezra ben jared told me so. he was there, and drank of the wine," insisted phineas. "he could not have done it," said abigail, "unless he were helped by the evil one, or unless he were a prophet. he is too good a man to ask help of the powers of darkness; and it is beyond belief that a son of joseph should be a prophet." to this phineas made no answer. his quiet thoughts were shaken out of their usual routine as violently as if by an earthquake. joel thought more of the journey than he did of the miracle. it seemed to the impatient boy that the next day never would dawn. many times in the night he wakened to hear the distant crowing of cocks. at last, by straining his eyes he could distinguish the green leaves of the vine on the lattice from the blue of the half-opened blossoms. by that token he knew it was near enough the morning for him to commence saying his first prayers. dressing noiselessly, so as not to disturb the sleeping family, he slipped out of the house and down to the well outside the city-gate. here he washed, and then ate the little lunch he had wrapped up the night before. a meagre little breakfast,--only a hard-boiled egg, a bit of fish, and some black bread. but the early hour and his excitement took away his appetite for even that little. soon all was confusion around the well, as the noisy drivers gathered to water their camels, and make their preparations for the start. joel shrunk away timidly to the edge of the crowd, fearful that his friend phineas had overslept himself. in a few minutes he saw him coming with a staff in one hand, and a small bundle swinging from the other. joel had one breathless moment of suspense as he was helped on to the back of the kneeling camel; one desperate clutch at the saddle as the huge animal plunged about and rose to its feet. then he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully. [illustration: "he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully"] oh, the delight of that slow easy motion! the joy of being carried along without pain or effort! who could realize how much it meant to the little fellow whose halting steps had so long been taken in weariness and suffering? swinging along in the cool air, so far above the foot-passengers, it seemed to him that he looked down upon a new earth. blackbirds flew along the roads, startled by their passing. high overhead, a lark had not yet finished her morning song. lambs bleated in the pastures, and the lowing of herds sounded on every hill-side. not a sight or sound escaped the boy; and all the morning he rode on without speaking, not a care in his heart, not a cloud on his horizon. at noon they stopped in a little grove of olive-trees where a cool spring gurgled out from the rocks. phineas spread out their lunch at a little distance from the others; and they ate it quickly, with appetites sharpened by the morning's travel. afterwards joel stretched himself out on the ground to rest, and was asleep almost as soon as his eyelids could shut out the noontide glare of the sun from his tired eyes. when he awoke, nearly an hour afterward, he heard voices near him in earnest conversation. raising himself on his elbow, he saw phineas at a little distance, talking to an old man who had ridden one of the foremost camels. they must have been talking of the miracle, for the old man, as he stroked his long white beard, was saying, "but men are more wont to be astonished at the sun's eclipse, than at his daily rising. look, my friend!" he pointed to a wild grape-vine clinging to a tree near by. "do you see those bunches of half-grown grapes? there is a constant miracle. day by day, the water of the dew and rain is being changed into the wine of the grape. soil and sunshine are turning into fragrant juices. yet you feel no astonishment." "no," assented phineas; "for it is by the hand of god it is done." "why may not this be also?" said the old man. "even this miracle at the marriage feast in cana?" phineas started violently. "what!" he cried. "do you think it possible that this friend of mine is the one to be sent of god?" "is not this the accepted time for the coming of israel's messiah?" answered the old man, solemnly. "is it not meet that he should herald his presence by miracles and signs and wonders?" joel lay down again to think over what he had just heard. like every other israelite in the whole world, he knew that a deliverer had been promised his people. time and again he had read the prophecies that foretold the coming of a king through the royal line of david; time and again he had pictured to himself the mighty battles to take place between his down-trodden race and the haughty hordes of cã¦sar. sometime, somewhere, a universal dominion awaited them. he firmly believed that the day was near at hand; but not even in his wildest dreams had he ever dared to hope that it might come in his own lifetime. he raised himself on his elbow again, for the old man was speaking. "about thirty years ago," he said slowly, "i went up to jerusalem to be registered for taxation, for the emperor's decree had gone forth and no one could escape enrolment. you are too young to remember the taking of that census, my friend; but you have doubtless heard of it." "yes," assented phineas, respectfully. "i was standing just outside the joppa gate, bargaining with a man for a cage of gold finches he had for sale, which i wished to take to my daughter, when we heard some one speaking to us. looking up we saw several strange men on camels, who were inquiring their way. they were richly dressed. the trappings and silver bells on their camels, as well as their own attire, spoke of wealth. their faces showed that they were wise and learned men from far countries. "we greeted them respectfully, but could not speak for astonishment when we heard their question: "'where is he that is born king of the jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and have come to worship him.' the bird-seller looked at me, and i looked at him in open-mouthed wonder. the men rode on before we could find words wherewith to answer them. "all sorts of rumors were afloat, and everywhere we went next day, throughout jerusalem, knots of people stood talking of the mysterious men, and their strange question. even the king was interested, and sought audience with them." "could any one answer them?" asked phineas. "nay! but it was then impressed on me so surely that the christ was born, that i have asked myself all these thirty years, 'where is he that is born king of the jews?' for i too would fain follow on to find and worship him. as soon as i return from damascus, i shall go at once to cana, and search for this miracle-worker." the old man's earnest words made a wonderful impression on joel. all the afternoon, as they rose higher among the hills, the thought took stronger possession of him. he might yet live, helpless little cripple as he was, to see the dawn of israel's deliverance, and a son of david once more on its throne. ride on, little pilgrim, happy in thy day-dreams! the time is coming; but weary ways and hopeless heart-aches lie between thee and that to-morrow. the king is on his way to his coronation, but it will be with thorns. ride on, little pilgrim, be happy whilst thou can! chapter iii. it was nearly the close of the day when the long caravan halted, and tents were pitched for the night near a little brook that came splashing down from a cold mountain-spring. joel, exhausted by the long day's travel, crowded so full of new experiences, was glad to stretch his cramped limbs on a blanket that phineas took from the camel's back. here, through half-shut eyes, he watched the building of the camp-fire, and the preparations for the evening meal. "i wonder what uncle laban would do if he were here!" he said to phineas, with an amused smile. "look at those dirty drivers with their unwashed hands and unblessed food. how little regard they have for the law. uncle laban would fast a lifetime rather than taste anything that had even been passed over a fire of their building. i can imagine i see him now, gathering up his skirts and walking on the tips of his sandals for fear of being touched by anything unclean." "your uncle laban is a good man," answered phineas, "one careful not to transgress the law." "yes," said the boy. "but i like your way better. you keep the fasts, and repeat the prayers, and love god and your neighbors. uncle laban is careful to do the first two things; i am not so sure about the others. life is too short to be always washing one's hands." phineas looked at the little fellow sharply. how shrewd and old he seemed for one of his years! such independence of thought was unusual in a child trained as he had been. he scarcely knew how to answer him, so he turned his attention to spreading out the fruits and bread he had brought for their supper. next morning, after the caravan had gone on without them, they started up a narrow bridle-path, that led through hillside-pastures where flocks of sheep and goats were feeding. the dew was still on the grass, and the air was so fresh and sweet in this higher altitude that joel walked on with a feeling of strength and vigor unknown to him before. "oh, look!" he cried, clasping his hands in delight, as a sudden turn brought them to the upper course of the brook whose waters, falling far below, had refreshed them the night before. the poetry of the psalms came as naturally to the lips of this beauty-loving little israelite as the breath he drew. now he repeated, in a low, reverent voice, "'the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want.' oh, rabbi phineas, did you ever know before that there could be such green pastures and still waters?" the man smiled at the boy's radiant, upturned face. "'yea, the earth is the lord's and the fulness thereof,'" he murmured. "we have indeed a goodly heritage." hushed into silence by the voice of the hills and the beauty on every side, they walked on till the road turned again. just ahead stood a house unusually large for a country district; everything about it bore an air of wealth and comfort. "our journey is at an end now," said phineas. "yonder lies the house of nathan ben obed. he owns all those flocks and herds we have seen in passing this last half hour. it is with him that i have business; and we will tarry with him until after the sabbath." they were evidently expected, for a servant came running out to meet them. he opened the gate and conducted them into a shaded court-yard. here another servant took off their dusty sandals, and gave them water to wash their feet. they had barely finished, when an old man appeared in the doorway; his long beard and hair were white as the abba he wore. phineas would have bowed himself to the ground before him, but the old man prevented it, by hurrying to take both hands in his, and kiss him on each cheek. "peace be to thee, thou son of my good friend jesse!" he said. "thou art indeed most welcome." joel lagged behind. he was always sensitive about meeting strangers; but the man's cordial welcome soon put him at his ease. he was left to himself a great deal during the few days following. the business on which the old man had summoned phineas required long consultations. one day they rode away together to some outlying pastures, and were gone until night-fall. joel did not miss them. he was spending long happy hours in the country sunshine. there was something to entertain him, every way he turned. for a while he amused himself by sitting in the door and poring over a roll of parchment that sarah, the wife of nathan ben obed, brought him to read. she was an old woman, but one would have found it hard to think so, had he seen how briskly she went about her duties of caring for such a large household. after joel had read for some little time, he became aware that some one was singing outside, in a whining, monotonous way, and he laid down his book to listen. the voice was not loud, but so penetrating he could not shut it out, and fix his mind on his story again. so he rolled up the parchment and laid it on the chest from which it had been taken; then winding his handkerchief around his head, turban fashion, he limped out in the direction of the voice. just around the corner of the house, under a great oak-tree, a woman sat churning. from three smooth poles joined at the top to form a tripod, a goat-skin bag hung by long leather straps. this was filled with cream; she was slapping it violently back and forth in time to her weird song. her feet were bare, and she wore only a coarse cotton dress. but a gay red handkerchief covered her black hair, and heavy copper rings hung from her nose and ears. the song stopped suddenly as she saw joel. then recognizing her master's guest, she smiled at him so broadly that he could see her pretty white teeth. joel hardly knew what to say at this unexpected encounter, but bethought himself to ask the way to the sheep-folds and the watch-tower. "it is a long way there," said the woman, doubtfully; joel flushed as he felt her black eyes scanning his misshapen form. just then sarah appeared in the door, and the maid repeated the question to her mistress. "to be sure," she said. "you must go out and see our shepherds with their flocks. we have a great many employed just now, on all the surrounding hills. rhoda, call your son, and bid him bring hither the donkey that he always drives to market." the woman left her churning, and presently came back with a boy about joel's age, leading a donkey with only one ear. joel knew what that meant. at some time in its life the poor beast had strayed into some neighbor's field, and the owner of the field had been at liberty to cut off an ear in punishment. the boy that led him wore a long shirt of rough hair-cloth. his feet and legs were brown and tanned. a shock of reddish sunburned hair was the only covering for his head. there was a squint in one eye, and his face was freckled. he made an awkward obeisance to his mistress. "buz," she said, "this young lad is your master's guest. take him out and show him the flocks and herds, and the sheep-folds. he has never seen anything of shepherd life, so be careful to do his pleasure. stay!" she added to joel. "you will not have time to visit them all before the mid-day meal, so i will give you a lunch, and you can enjoy an entire day in the fields." as the two boys started down the hill, joel stole a glance at his companion. "what a stupid-looking fellow!" he thought; "i doubt if he knows anything more than this sleepy beast i am riding. i wonder if he enjoys any of this beautiful world around him. how glad i am that i am not in his place." buz, trudging along in the dust, glanced at the little cripple on the donkey's back with an inward shiver. "what a dreadful lot his must be," he thought. "how glad i am that i am not like he is!" it was not very long till the shyness began to wear off, and joel found that the stupid shepherd lad had a very busy brain under his shock of tangled hair. his eyes might squint, but they knew just where to look in the bushes for the little hedge-sparrow's nest. they could take unerring aim, too, when he sent the smooth sling-stones whizzing from the sling he carried. "how far can you shoot with it?" asked joel. for answer buz looked all around for some object on which to try his skill; then he pointed to a hawk slowly circling overhead. joel watched him fit a smooth pebble into his sling; he had no thought that the boy could touch it at such a distance. the stone whizzed through the air like a bullet, and the bird dropped several yards ahead of them. "see!" said buz, as he ran to pick it up, and display it proudly. "i struck it in the head." joel looked at him with increasing respect. "that must have been the kind of sling that king david killed the giant with," he said, handing it back after a careful examination. "king david!" repeated buz, dully, "seems to me i have heard of him, sometime or other; but i don't know about the giant." "why where have you been all your life?" cried joel, in amazement. "i thought everybody knew about that. did you never go to a synagogue?" buz shook his bushy head. "they don't have synagogues in these parts. the master calls us in and reads to us on the sabbath; but i always get sleepy when i sit right still, and so i generally get behind somebody and go to sleep. the shepherds talk to each other a good deal about such things, i am never with them though. i spend all my time running errands." shocked at such ignorance, joel began to tell the shepherd king's life with such eloquence that buz stopped short in the road to listen. seeing this the donkey stood still also, wagged its one ear, and went to sleep. but buz listened, wider awake than he had ever been before in his life. the story was a favorite one with joel, and he put his whole soul into it. "who told you that?" asked buz, taking a long breath when the interesting tale was finished. "why i read it myself!" answered joel. "oh, can you read?" asked buz, looking at joel in much the same way that joel had looked at him after he killed the hawk. "i do not see how anybody can. it puzzles me how people can look at all those crooked black marks and call them rivers and flocks and things. i looked one time, just where master had been reading about a great battle. and i didn't see a single thing that looked like a warrior or a sword or a battle-axe, though he called them all by name. there were several little round marks that might have been meant for sling-stones; but it was more than i could make out, how he could get any sense out of it." joel leaned back and laughed till the hills rang, laughed till the tears stood in his eyes, and the donkey waked up and ambled on. buz did not seem to be in the least disturbed by his merriment, although he was puzzled as to its cause. he only stooped to pick up more stones for his sling as they went on. it was not long till they came to some of the men,--great brawny fellows dressed in skins, with coarse matted hair and tanned faces. how little they knew of what was going on in the busy world outside their fields! as joel talked to them he found that cã¦sar's conquests and hero's murders had only come to them as vague rumors. all the petty wars and political turmoils were unknown to them. they could talk to him only of their flocks and their faith, both as simple as their lives. joel, in his wisdom learned of the rabbis, felt himself infinitely their superior, child though he was. but he enjoyed his day spent with them. he and buz ate the ample lunch they had brought, dipped up water from the brook in cups they made of oak-leaves, and both finally fell asleep to the droning music of the shepherd's pipes, played softly on the uplands. a distant rumble of thunder aroused them, late in the afternoon; and they started up to find the shepherds calling in their flocks. the gaunt sheep dogs raced to and fro, bringing the straying goats together. the shepherds brought the sheep into line with well-aimed sling-shots, touching them first on one side, and then on the other, as oxen are guided by the touch of the goad. joel looked up at the darkening sky with alarm. "who would have thought of a storm on such a day!" he exclaimed. buz cocked his eyes at the horizon. "i thought it might come to this," he said; "for as we came along this morning there were no spider-webs on the grass; the ants had not uncovered the doors of their hills; and all the signs pointed to wet weather. i thought though, that the time of the latter rains had passed a week ago. i am always glad when the stormy season is over. this one is going to be a hard one." "what shall we do?" asked joel. buz scratched his head. then he looked at joel. "you never could get home on that trifling donkey before it overtakes us; and they'll be worried about you. i'd best take you up to the sheep-fold. you can stay all night there, very comfortably. i'll run home and tell them where you are, and come back for you in the morning." joel hesitated, appalled at spending the night among such dirty men; but the heavy boom of thunder, steadily rolling nearer, silenced his half-spoken objection. by the time the donkey had carried him up the hillside to the stone-walled enclosure round the watch-tower, the shepherds were at the gates with their flocks. joel watched them go through the narrow passage, one by one. each man kept count of his own sheep, and drove them under the rough sheds put up for their protection. a good-sized hut was built against the hillside, where the shepherds might find refuge. buz pointed it out to joel; then he turned the donkey into one of the sheds, and started homeward on the run. joel shuddered as a blinding flash of lightning was followed by a crash of thunder that shook the hut. the wind bore down through the trees like some savage spirit, shrieking and moaning as it flew. joel heard a shout, and looked out to the opposite hillside. buz was flying along in break-neck race with the storm. at that rate he would soon be home. how he seemed to enjoy the race, as his strong limbs carried him lightly as a bird soars! at the top he turned to look back and laugh and wave his arms,--a sinewy little figure standing out in bold relief against a brazen sky. joel watched till he was out of sight. then, as the wind swooped down from the mountains, great drops of rain began to splash through the leaves. the men crowded into the hut. one of them started forward to close the door, but stopped suddenly, with his brown hairy hand uplifted. "hark ye!" he exclaimed. joel heard only the shivering of the wind in the tree-tops; but the man's trained ear caught the bleating of a stray lamb, far off and very faint. "i was afraid i was mistaken in my count; they jostled through the gate so fast i could not be sure." going to a row of pegs along the wall, he took down a lantern hanging there and lit it; then wrapping his coat of skins more closely around him, and calling one of the dogs, he set out into the gathering darkness. joel watched the fitful gleam of the lantern, flickering on unsteadily as a will-o'-the-wisp. a moment later he heard the man's deep voice calling tenderly to the lost animal; then the storm struck with such fury that they had to stand with their backs against the door of the hut to keep it closed. flash after flash of lightning blinded them. the wind roared down the mountain and beat against the house till joel held his breath in terror. it was midnight before it stopped. joel thought of the poor shepherd out on the hills, and shuddered. even the men seemed uneasy about him, as hour after hour passed, and he did not come. finally he fell asleep in the corner, on a pile of woolly skins. in the gray dawn he was awakened by a great shout. he got up, and went to the door. there stood the shepherd. his bare limbs were cut by stones and torn by thorns. blood streamed from his forehead where he had been wounded by a falling branch. the mud on his rough garments showed how often he had slipped and fallen on the steep paths. joel noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, how painfully he limped. but there on the bowed shoulders was the lamb he had wandered so far to find; and as the welcoming shout arose again, joel's weak little cheer joined gladly in. "how brave and strong he is," thought the boy. "he risked his life for just one pitiful little lamb." the child's heart went strangely out to this rough fellow who stood holding the shivering animal, sublimely unconscious that he had done anything more than a simple duty. joel, who felt uncommonly hungry after his supperless night, thought he would mount the donkey and start back alone. but just as he was about to do so, a familiar bushy head showed itself in the door of the sheepfold. buz had brought him some wheat-cakes and cheese to eat on the way back. joel was so busy with this welcome meal that he did not talk much. buz kept eying him in silence, as if he longed to ask some question. at last, when the cheese had entirely disappeared, he found courage to ask it. "were you always like that?" he said abruptly, motioning to joel's back and leg. somehow the reference did not wound him as it generally did. he began to tell buz about the samaritan boy who had crippled him. he never was able to tell the story of his wrongs without growing passionately angry. he had worked himself into a white heat by the time he had finished. "i'd get even with him," said buz, excitedly, with a wicked squint of his eyes. "how would you do it?" demanded joel. "cripple him as he did me?" "worse than that!" exclaimed buz, stopping to take deliberate aim at a leaf overhead, and shooting a hole exactly through the centre with his sling. "i'd blind him as quick as that! it's a great deal worse to be blind than lame." joel closed his eyes, and rode on a few moments in darkness. then he opened them and gave a quick glad look around the landscape. "my! what if i never could have opened them again," he thought. "yes, buz, you're right," he said aloud. "it _is_ worse to be blind; so i shall take rehum's eyesight also, some time. oh, if that time were only here!" although the subject of the miracle at cana had been constantly in the mind of phineas, and often near his lips, he did not speak of it to his host until the evening before his departure. it was just at the close of the evening meal. nathan ben obed rose half-way from his seat in astonishment, then sank back. "how old a man is this friend of yours?" he asked. "about thirty, i think," answered phineas. "he is a little younger than i." "where was he born?" "in bethlehem, i have heard it said, though his home has always been in nazareth." "strange, strange!" muttered the man, stroking his long white beard thoughtfully. joel reached over and touched phineas on the arm. "will you not tell rabbi nathan about the wonderful star that was seen at that time?" he asked, in a low tone. "what was that?" asked the old man, arousing from his reverie. when phineas had repeated his conversation with the stranger on the day of his journey, nathan ben obed exchanged meaning glances with his wife. "send for the old shepherd heber," he said. "i would have speech with him." rhoda came in to light the lamps. he bade her roll a cushioned couch that was in one corner to the centre of the room. "this old shepherd heber was born in bethlehem," he said; "but since his sons and grandsons have been in my employ, he has come north to live. he used to help keep the flocks that belonged to the temple, and that were used for sacrifices. his has always been one of the purest of lives; and i have never known such faith as he has. he is over a hundred years old, so must have been quite aged at the time of the event of which he will tell us." presently an old, old man tottered into the room, leaning on the shoulders of his two stalwart grandsons. they placed him gently on the cushions of the couch, and then went into the court-yard to await his readiness to return. like the men joel had seen the day before, they were dressed in skins, and were wild-looking and rough. but this aged father, with dim eyes and trembling wrinkled hands, sat before them like some hoary patriarch, in a fine linen mantle. pleased as a child, he saluted his new audience, and began to tell them his only story. as the years had gone by, one by one the lights of memory had gone out in darkness. well-known scenes had grown dim; old faces were forgotten; names he knew as well as his own, could not be recalled: but this one story was as fresh and real to him, as on the night he learned it. the words he chose were simple, the voice was tremulous with weakness; but he spoke with a dramatic fervor that made joel creep nearer and nearer, until he knelt, unknowing, at the old man's knee, spell-bound by the wonderful tale. "we were keeping watch in the fields by night," began the old shepherd, "i and my sons and my brethren. it was still and cold, and we spoke but little to each other. suddenly over all the hills and plains shone a great light,--brighter than light of moon or stars or sunshine. it was so heavenly white we knew it must be the glory of the lord we looked upon and we were sore afraid, and hid our faces, falling to the ground. and, lo! an angel overhead spake to us from out of the midst of the glory, saying, 'fear not: for, behold, i bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. for unto you is born this day in the city of david a saviour, which is christ the lord. and this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' "and suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising god, and saying, 'glory to god in the highest, peace on earth, good-will toward men!' "oh, the sound of the rejoicing that filled that upper air! ever since in my heart have i carried that foretaste of heaven!" the old shepherd paused, with such a light on his upturned face that he seemed to his awestruck listeners to be hearing again that same angelic chorus,--the chorus that rang down from the watch-towers of heaven, across earth's lowly sheep-fold, on that first christmas night. there was a solemn hush. then he said, "and when they were gone away, and the light and the song were no more with us, we spake one to another, and rose in haste and went to bethlehem. and we found the babe lying in a manger with mary its mother; and we fell down and worshipped him. "thirty years has it been since the birth of israel's messiah; and i sit and wonder all the day,--wonder when he will appear once more to his people. surely the time must be well nigh here when he may claim his kingdom. o lord, let not thy servant depart until these eyes that beheld the child shall have seen the king in his beauty!" joel remained kneeling beside old heber, perfectly motionless. he was fitting together the links that he had lately found. a child, heralded by angels, proclaimed by a star worshipped by the magi! a man changing water into wine at only a word! "i shall yet see him!" exclaimed the voice of old heber, with such sublime assurance of faith that it found a response in every heart. there was another solemn stillness, so deep that the soft fluttering of a night-moth around the lamp startled them. then the child's voice rang out, eager and shrill, but triumphant as if inspired: "rabbi phineas, _he_ it was who changed the water into wine!--this friend of nazareth and the babe of bethlehem are the same!" the heart of the carpenter was strangely stirred, but it was full of doubt. not that the christ had been born,--the teachings of all his lifetime led him to expect that; but that the chosen one could be a friend of his,--the thought was too wonderful for him. the old shepherd sat on the couch, feebly twisting his fingers, and talking to himself. he was repeating bits of the story he had just told them: "and, lo, an angel overhead!" he muttered. then he looked up, whispering softly, "glory to god in the highest--and peace, yes, on earth peace!" "he seems to have forgotten everything else," said nathan, signalling to the men outside to lead him home. "his mind is wiped away entirely, that it may keep unspotted the record of that night's revelation. he tells it over and over, whether he has a listener or not." they led him gently out, the white-haired, white-souled old shepherd heber. it seemed to joel that the wrinkled face was illuminated by some inner light, not of this world, and that he lingered among men only to repeat to them, over and over, his one story. that strange sweet story of bethlehem's first christmas-tide. chapter iv. next morning a goodly train set out from the gates of nathan ben obed. it was near the time of the feast of the passover, and he, with many of his household, was going down to jerusalem. the family and guests went first on mules and asses. behind them followed a train of servants, driving the lambs, goats, and oxen to be offered as sacrifices in the temple, or sold in jerusalem to other pilgrims. all along the highway, workmen were busy repairing the bridges, and cleaning the springs and wells, soon to be used by the throngs of travellers. all the tombs near the great thoroughfares were being freshly white-washed; they gleamed with a dazzling purity through the green trees, only to warn passers-by of the defilement within. for had those on their way to the feast approached too near these homes of the dead, even unconsciously, they would have been accounted unclean, and unfit to partake of the passover. nothing escaped joel's quick sight, from the tulips and marigolds flaming in the fields, to the bright-eyed little viper crawling along the stone-wall. but while he looked, he never lost a word that passed between his friend phineas and their host. the pride of an ancient nation took possession of him as he listened to the prophecies they quoted. every one they met along the way coming from capernaum had something to say about this new prophet who had arisen in galilee. when they reached the gate of the city, a great disappointment awaited them. _he had been there, and gone again._ nathan ben obed and his train tarried only one night in the place, and then pressed on again towards jerusalem. phineas went with them. "you shall go with us next year," he said to joel; "then you will be over twelve. i shall take my own little ones too, and their mother." "only one more year," exclaimed joel, joyfully. "if that passes as quickly as the one just gone, it will soon be here." "look after my little family," said the carpenter, at parting. "come every day to the work, if you wish, just as when i am here; and remember, my lad, you are almost a man." almost a man! the words rang in the boy's thoughts all day as he pounded and cut, keeping time to the swinging motion of hammer and saw. almost a man! but what kind of one? crippled and maimed, shorn of the strength that should have been his pride, beggared of his priestly birthright. almost, it might be, but never in its fulness, could he hope to attain the proud stature of a perfect man. a fiercer hate sprang up for the enemy who had made him what he was; and the wild burning for revenge filled him so he could not work. he put away his tools, and went up the narrow outside stairway that led to the flat roof of the carpenter's house. it was called the "upper chamber." here a latticed pavilion, thickly overgrown with vines, made a cool green retreat where he might rest and think undisturbed. sitting there, he could see the flash of white sails on the blue lake, and slow-moving masses of fleecy clouds in the blue of the sky above. they brought before him the picture of the flocks feeding on the pastures of nathan ben obed. then, naturally enough, there flashed through his mind a thought of buz. he seemed to see him squinting his little eyes to take aim at a leaf overhead. he heard the stone whirr through it, as buz said: "i'd blind him!" some very impossible plans crept into joel's day-dreams just then. he imagined himself sitting in a high seat, wrapped in robes of state; soldiers stood around him to carry out his slightest wish. the door would open and rehum would be brought forth in fetters. "what is your will concerning the prisoner, o most gracious sovereign," the jailer would ask. joel closed his eyes, and waved his hand before an imaginary audience. "away with him,--to the torture! wrench his limbs on the rack! brand his eyelids with hot irons! let him suffer all that man can suffer and live! thus shall it be done unto the man on whom the king delighteth to take vengeance!" joel was childish enough to take a real satisfaction in this scene he conjured up. but as it faded away, he was man enough to realize it could never come to pass, save in his imagination; he could never be in such a position for revenge, unless,-that moment a possible way seemed to open for him. phineas would probably see his friend of nazareth at the passover. what could be more natural than that the old friendship should be renewed. he whose hand had changed the water into wine should finally cast out the alien king who usurped the throne of israel, for one in whose veins the blood of david ran royal red,--what was more to be expected than that? the messiah would come to his kingdom, and then--and then--the thought leaped to its last daring limit. phineas, who had been his earliest friend and playfellow, would he not be lifted to the right hand of power? through him, then, lay the royal road to revenge. the thought lifted him unconsciously to his feet. he stood with his arms out-stretched in the direction of the far-away temple, like some young prophet. david's cry of triumph rose to his lips: "thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle," he murmured. "thou hast also given me the necks of mine enemies, that i might destroy them that hate me!" a sweet baby voice at the foot of the steps brought him suddenly down from the height of his intense feeling. "joel! joel!" called little ruth, "where is you?" then jesse's voice added, "we're all a-coming up for you to tell us a story." up the stairs they swarmed to the roof, the carpenter's children and half-a-dozen of their little playmates. joel, with his head still in the clouds, told them of a mighty king who was coming to slay all other kings, and change all tears--the waters of affliction--into the red wine of joy. "h'm! i don't think much of that story," said jesse, with out-spoken candor. "i'd rather hear about goliath, or the bears that ate up the forty children." but joel was in no mood for such stories, just then. on some slight pretext he escaped from his exacting audience, and went down to the sea-shore. here, skipping stones across the water, or writing idly in the sand, he was free to go on with his fascinating day-dreams. for the next two weeks the boy gave up work entirely. he haunted the toll-gates and public streets, hoping to hear some startling news from jerusalem. he was so full of the thought that some great revolution was about to take place, that he could not understand how people could be so indifferent. all on fire with the belief that this man of nazareth was the one in whom lay the nation's hope, he looked and longed for the return of phineas, that he might learn more of him. but phineas had little to tell when he came back. he had met his friend twice in jerusalem,--the same gentle quiet man he had always known, making no claims, working no wonders. phineas had heard of his driving the moneychangers out of the temple one day, and those who sold doves in its sacred courts, although he had not witnessed the scene. the carpenter was rather surprised that he should have made such a public disturbance. "rabbi phineas," said joel, with a trembling voice, "don't you think your friend is the prophet we are expecting?" phineas shook his head. "no, my lad, i am sure of it now." "but the herald angels and the star," insisted the boy. "they must have proclaimed some one else. he is the best man i ever knew; but there is no more of the king in his nature, than there is in mine." the man's positive answer seemed to shatter joel's last hope. downcast and disappointed, he went back to his work. only with money could he accomplish his life's object, and only by incessant work could he earn the shining shekels that he needed. phineas wondered sometimes at the dogged persistence with which the child stuck to his task, in spite of his tired, aching body. he had learned to make sandal-wood jewel-boxes, and fancifully wrought cups to hold the various dyes and cosmetics used by the ladies of the court. several times, during the following months, he begged a sail in some of the fishing-boats that landed at the town of tiberias. having gained the favor of the keeper of the gates, by various little gifts of his own manufacture, he always found a ready admittance to the palace. to the ladies of the court, the sums they paid for his pretty wares seemed trifling; but to joel the small bag of coins hidden in the folds of his clothes was a little fortune, daily growing larger. chapter v. it was sabbath morning in the house of laban the pharisee. joel, sitting alone in the court-yard, could hear his aunt talking to the smaller children, as she made them ready to take with her to the synagogue. from the upper chamber on the roof, came also a sound of voices, for two guests had arrived the day before, and were talking earnestly with their host. joel already knew the object of their visit. they had been there before, when the preaching of john baptist had drawn such great crowds from all the cities to the banks of the jordan. they had been sent out then by the authorities in jerusalem to see what manner of man was this who, clothed in skins and living in the wilderness, could draw the people so wonderfully, and arouse such intense excitement. now they had come on a like errand, although on their own authority. another prophet had arisen whom this john baptist had declared to be greater than himself. they had seen him drive the moneychangers from the temple; they had heard many wild rumors concerning him. so they followed him to his home in the little village of nazareth, where they heard him talk in the synagogue. they had seen the listening crowd grow amazed at the eloquence of his teaching, and then indignant that one so humble as a carpenter's son should claim that isaiah's prophecies had been fulfilled in himself. they had seen him driven from the home of his boyhood, and now had come to capernaum that they might be witnesses in case this impostor tried to lead these people astray by repeating his claims. all this joel heard, and more, as the earnest voices came distinctly down to him through the deep hush of the sabbath stillness. it shook his faith somewhat, even in the goodness of this friend of his friend phineas, that these two learned doctors of the law should consider him an impostor. he stood aside respectfully for them to pass, as they came down the outside stairway, and crossed the court-yard on their way to the morning service. their long, flowing, white robes, their broad phylacteries, their dignified bearing, impressed him greatly. he knew they were wise, good men whose only aim in life was to keep the letter of the law, down to its smallest details. he followed them through the streets until they came to the synagogue. they gave no greeting to any one they passed, but walked with reverently bowed heads that their pious meditation might not be disturbed by the outside world. his aunt had already gone by the way of the back streets, as it was customary for women to go, her face closely veiled. the synagogue, of finely chiselled limestone, with its double rows of great marble pillars, stood in its white splendor, the pride of the town. it had been built by the commander of the garrison who, though a roman centurion, was a believer in the god of the hebrews, and greatly loved by the whole people. joel glanced up at the lintel over the door, where aaron's rod and a pot of manna carved in the stone were constant reminders to the daily worshippers of the hand that fed and guided them from generation to generation. joel limped slowly to his place in the congregation. in the seats of honor, facing it, sat his uncle and his guests, among the rulers of the synagogue. for a moment his eyes wandered curiously around, hoping for a glimpse of the man whose fame was beginning to spread all over galilee. it had been rumored that he would be there. but joel saw only familiar faces. the elders took their seats. during the reading of the usual psalm, the reciting of a benediction, and even the confession of the creed, joel's thoughts wandered. when the reader took up his scroll to read the passages from deuteronomy, the boy stole one more quick glance all around. but as the whole congregation arose, and turned facing the east, he resolutely fixed his mind on the duties of the hour. the eighteen benedictions, or prayers, were recited in silence by each devout worshipper. then the leader repeated them aloud, all the congregation responding with their deep amen! and amen! joel always liked that part of the service and the chanting that followed. another roll of parchment was brought out. the boy looked up with interest. probably one of his uncle's guests would be invited to read from it, and speak to the people. no, it was a stranger whom he had not noticed before, sitting behind one of the tall elders, who was thus honored. joel's heart beat so fast that the blood throbbed against his ear-drums, as he heard the name called. it was the friend of his friend phineas, _the rabbi jesus_. joel bent forward, all his soul in his eyes, as the stranger unrolled the book, and began to read from the prophets. the words were old familiar ones; he even knew them by heart. but never before had they carried with them such music, such meaning. when he laid aside the roll, and began to speak, every fibre in the boy's being thrilled in response to the wonderful eloquence of that voice and teaching. the whole congregation sat spell-bound, forgetful of everything except the earnestness of the speaker who moved and swayed them as the wind does the waving wheat. suddenly there arose a wild shriek, a sort of demon-like howl that transfixed them with its piercing horror. every one turned to see the cause of the startling sound. there, near the door, stood a man whom they all knew,--an unhappy creature said to be possessed of an unclean spirit. "ha!" he cried, in a blood-curdling tone. "what have we to do with thee, jesus of nazareth? art thou come to destroy us? i know thee, who thou art, the holy one of god!" there was a great stir, especially in the woman's gallery; and those standing nearest him backed away as far as possible. every face was curious and excited, at this sudden interruption,--every face but one; the rabbi jesus alone was calm. "hold thy peace and come out of him!" he commanded. there was one more shriek, worse than before, as the man fell at his feet in a convulsion; but in a moment he stood up again, quiet and perfectly sane. the wild look was gone from his eyes. whatever had been the strange spell that had bound him before, he was now absolutely free. there was another stir in the woman's gallery. contrary to all rule or custom, an aged woman pushed her way out. down the stairs she went, unveiled through the ranks of the men, to reach her son whom she had just seen restored to reason. with a glad cry she fell forward, fainting, in his arms, and was borne away to the little home, now no longer darkened by the shadow of a sore affliction. little else was talked about that day, until the rumor of another miracle began to spread through the town. phineas, stopping at laban's house on his way home from an afternoon service, confirmed the truth of it. one of his neighbors had been dangerously ill with a fever that was common in that part of the country; she was the mother-in-law of simon bar jonah. it was at his home that the rabbi jesus had been invited to dine. as soon as he entered the house, they besought him to heal her. standing beside her, he rebuked the fever; and immediately she arose, and began to help her daughter prepare for the entertainment of their guest. "abigail was there yesterday," said phineas, "to carry some broth she had made. she thought then it would be impossible for the poor creature to live through the night. i saw the woman a few hours ago, and she is perfectly well and strong." that night when the sun was setting, and the sabbath was at an end, a motley crowd streamed along the streets to the door of simon bar jonah. men carried on couches; children in their mother's arms; those wasted by burning fevers; those shaken by unceasing palsy; the lame; the blind; the death-stricken,--all pressing hopefully on. what a scene in that little court-yard as the sunset touched the wan faces and smiled into dying eyes. hope for the hopeless! balm for the broken in body and spirit! there was rejoicing in nearly every home in capernaum that night, for none were turned away. not one was refused. it is written, "he laid his hand on every one of them, and healed them." that he might not seem behind his guests in zeal and devotion to the law, the dignified laban would not follow the crowds. "let others be carried away by strange doctrines and false prophets, if they will," he declared; "as for me and my household, we will cling to the true faith of our fathers." so the three sat in the upper chamber on the roof, and discussed the new teacher with many shakes of their wise heads. "it is not lawful to heal on the sabbath day," they declared. "twice during the past day he has openly transgressed the law. he will lead all galilee astray!" but galilee cared little how far the path turned from the narrow faith of the pharisees, so long as it led to life and healing. down in the garden below, the children climbed up on the grape-arbor, and peered through the vines at the surging crowds which they would have joined, had it not been for laban's strict commands. one by one they watched people whom they knew go by, some carried on litters, some leaning on the shoulders of friends. one man crawled painfully along on his hands and knees. after awhile the same people began to come back. "look, quick, joel!" one of the children cried; "there goes simon ben levi. why, his palsy is all gone! he doesn't shake a bit now! and there's little martha that lives out near aunt rebecca's! don't you know how white and thin she looked when they carried her by a little while ago? see! she is running along by herself now as well as we are!" the children could hardly credit their own sense of sight, when neighbors they had known all their lives to be bed-ridden invalids came back cured, singing and praising god. it was a sight they never could forget. so they watched wonderingly till darkness fell, and the last happy-hearted healed one had gone home to a rejoicing household. while the fathers on the roof were deciding they would have naught of this man, the children in the grape-arbor were storing up in their simple little hearts these proofs of his power and kindness. then they gathered around joel on the doorstep, while he repeated the story that the old shepherd heber had told him, of the angels and the star, and the baby they had worshipped that night in bethlehem. "come, children," called his aunt leah, as she lit the lamp that was to burn all night. "come! it is bed-time!" his cousin hannah lingered a moment after the others had gone in, to say, "that was a pretty story, joel. why don't you go and ask the good man to straighten your back?" strange as it may seem, this was the first time the thought had occurred to him that he might be benefited himself. he had been so long accustomed to thinking of himself as hopelessly lame, that the wonderful cures he had witnessed had awakened no hope for himself. a new life seemed to open up before him at the little girl's question. he sat on the doorstep thinking about it until his uncle laban came down and crossly ordered him to go to bed. he went in, saying softly to himself, "i will go to him to-morrow; yes, early in the morning!" strange that an old proverb should cross his mind just then. "boast not thyself of to-morrow. thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." chapter vi. when joel went out on the streets next morning, although it was quite early, he saw a disappointed crowd coming up from the direction of simon's house on the lake shore. "where have all these people been?" he asked of the baker's boy, whom he ran against at the first corner. the boy stopped whistling, and rested his basket of freshly baked bread against his knee, as he answered:-"they were looking for the rabbi who healed so many people last night. say! do you know," he added quickly, as if the news were too good to keep, "he healed my mother last night. you cannot think how different it seems at home, to have her going about strong and well like she used to be." joel's eyes brightened. "do you think he'll do anything for me, if i go to him now?" he asked wistfully. "do you suppose he could straighten out such a crooked back as mine? look how much shorter this leg is than the other. oh, _do_ you think he could make them all right?" the boy gave him a critical survey, and then answered, emphatically, "yes! it really does not look like it would be as hard to straighten you as old jeremy, the tailor's father. he was twisted all out of shape, you know. well, i'll declare! there he goes now!" joel looked across the street. the wrinkled face of the old basket-weaver was a familiar sight in the market; but joel could hardly recognize the once crippled form, now restored to its original shapeliness. "i am going right now," he declared, starting to run in his excitement. "i can't wait another minute." "but he's gone!" the boy called after him. "that's why the people are all coming back." joel sat down suddenly on a ledge projecting from the stone-wall. "gone!" he echoed drearily. it was as if he had been starving, and the life-giving food held to his famished lips had been suddenly snatched away. both his heart and his feet felt like lead when he got up after awhile, and dragged himself slowly along to the carpenter's house. [illustration: "'i peeped out 'tween 'e wose--vines'"] it was such a bitter disappointment to be so near the touch of healing, and then to miss it altogether. no cheerful tap of the hammer greeted him. the idle tools lay on the deserted workbench. "disappointed again!" he thought. then the doves cooed, and he caught a glimpse of ruth's fair hair down among the garden lilies. "where is your father, little one?" he called. "gone away wiv 'e good man 'at makes everybody well," she answered. then she came skipping down the path to stand close beside him, and say confidentially: "i saw him--'e good man--going by to simon's house. i peeped out 'tween 'e wose-vines, and he looked wite into my eyes wiv his eyes, and i couldn't help loving him!" joel looked into the beautiful baby face, thinking what a picture it must have made, as framed in roses it smiled out on the tender-hearted one, going on his mission of help and healing. with her little hand in his, she led him back to hope, for she took him to her mother, who comforted him with the assurance that phineas expected to be home soon, and doubtless his friend would be with him. so there came another time to work by himself and dream of the hour surely dawning. and the dreams were doubly sweet now; for side by side with his hope of revenge, was the belief in his possible cure. they heard only once from the absent ones. word came back that a leper had been healed. joel heard it first, down at the custom-house. he had gotten into the way of strolling down in that direction after his work was done; for here the many trading-vessels from across the lake, or those that shipped from capernaum, had to stop and pay duty. here, too, the great road of eastern commerce passed which led from damascus to the harbors of the west. so here he would find a constant stream of travellers, bringing the latest news from the outside world. the boy did not know, as he limped up and down the water's edge, longing for some word from his absent friends, that near by was one who watched almost as eagerly as himself. it was levi-matthew, one of the officials, sitting in the seat of custom. sprung from the same priestly tribe as joel, he had sunk so low, in accepting the office of tax-gatherer, that the righteous laban would not have touched him so much as with the tip of his sandal. "bears and lions," said a proverb, "might be the fiercest wild beasts in the forests; but publicans and informers were the worst in cities." one could not bear witness in the courts, and the disgrace extended to the whole family. they were even classed with robbers and murderers. no doubt there was deep cause for such a feeling; as a class they were unscrupulous and unjust. there might have been good ones among their number, but the company they kept condemned them to the scorn of high and low. when a jew hates, or a jew scorns, be sure it is thoroughly done; there is no half-way course for his intense nature to take. so this son of levi, sitting in the seat of custom, and this son of levi strolling past him, were, socially, as far apart as the east is from the west,--as unlike as thorn and blossom on the same tribal stem. matthew knew all the fishermen and ship-owners that thronged the busy beach in front of him. the sons of jonah and of zebedee passed him daily; and he must have wondered when he saw them throw down their nets and leave everything to follow a stranger. he must have wondered also at the reports on every tongue, and the sights he had seen himself of miraculous healing. but while strangely drawn towards this new teacher from nazareth, it could have been with no thought that the hand and the voice were for him. he was a publican, and how could they reach to such depths? a caravan had just stopped. the pack-animals were being unloaded, bales and packages opened, private letters pried into. the insolent officials were tossing things right and left, as they made a list of the taxable goods. joel was watching them with as much interest as if he had not witnessed such scenes dozens of times before, till he noticed a group gathering around one of the drivers. he was telling what he had seen on his way to capernaum. several noisy companions kept interrupting him to bear witness to the truth of his statements. "and he who but a moment before had been the most miserable of lepers stood up before us all, cleansed of his leprosy. his skin was soft and fair as a child's, and his features were restored to him," said the driver. joel and levi-matthew stood side by side. at another time the boy might have drawn his clothes away to keep from brushing against the despised tax-gatherer. but he never noticed now that their elbows touched. when he had heard all there was to be told, he limped away to carry the news to abigail. to know that others were being cured daily made him all the more impatient for the return of this friend of phineas. the publican turned again to his pen and his account-book. he, too, looked forward with a burning heart to the return of the nazarene, unknowing why he did so. at last joel heard of the return, in a very unexpected way. there were guests in the house of laban again. one of the rabbis who had been there before, and a scribe from jerusalem. now there were longer conferences in the upper chamber, and graver shakings of the head, over this false prophet whose fame was spreading wider. the miracle of healing the paralytic at the pool of bethesda, when he had gone down to jerusalem to one of the many feasts, had stirred judea to its farthest borders. so these two men had been sent to investigate. on the very afternoon of their arrival, a report flew through the streets that the rabbi jesus was once more in the town. their host led them with all the haste their dignity would allow, to the house where he was said to be preaching. the common people fell back when they saw them, and allowed them to pass into the centre of the throng. the rabbi stood in the doorway, so that both those in the house and without could distinctly hear him. the scribe had never seen him before, and in spite of his deep-seated prejudice could not help admiring the man whom he had come prepared to despise. it was no wild fanatic who stood before him, no noisy debater whose fiery eloquence would be likely to excite and inflame his hearers. he saw a man of gentlest dignity; truth looked out from the depths of his calm eyes. every word, every gesture, carried with it the conviction that he who spoke taught with god-given authority. the scribe began to grow uneasy as he listened, carried along by the earnest tones of the speaker. there was a great commotion on the edge of the crowd, as some one tried to push through to the centre. "stand back! go away!" demanded angry voices. the scribe was a tall man, and by stretching a little, managed to see over the heads of the others. four men, bearing a helpless paralytic, were trying to carry him through the throngs; but they would not make room for this interruption. after vainly hunting for some opening through which they might press, the men mounted the steep, narrow staircase on the outside of the building, and drew the man up, hammock and all, to the flat roof on which they stood. there was a sound of scraping and scratching as they broke away the brush and mortar that formed the frail covering of the roof. then the people in the room below saw slowly coming down upon them between the rafters, this man whom no obstacle could keep back from the great physician. but the paralyzed hands could not lift themselves in supplication; the helpless tongue could frame no word of pleading,--only the eyes of the sick man could look up into the pitying face bent over him, and implore a blessing. the scribe leaned forward, confidently expecting to hear the man bidden to arise. to his surprise and horror, the words he heard were: "son, thy _sins_ be forgiven thee!" he looked at laban and his companion, and the three exchanged meaning glances. when they looked again at the speaker, his eyes seemed to read their inmost thoughts. "wherefore think ye evil in your hearts?" he asked, with startling distinctness. "whether is it easier to say to the sick of the palsy, thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, arise, and take up thy bed, and walk? but that ye may know that the son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins," here he turned to the helpless form lying at his feet, "i say unto thee, arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way unto thine house." the man bounded to his feet, and picking up the heavy rug on which he had been lying, went running and leaping out of their midst. without a word, laban and his two guests drew their clothes carefully around them, and picked their way through the crowd. phineas, who stood at the gate, gave them a respectful greeting. laban only turned his eyes away with a scowl, and passed coldly on. "the man is a liar and a blasphemer!" exclaimed the scribe, as they sat once more in the privacy of laban's garden. "only god can forgive sins!" added his companion. "this paralytic should have taken a sin-offering to the priest. for only by the blood of sacrifice can one hope to obtain pardon." "still he healed him," spoke up the scribe, musingly. "only through the power of satan!" interrupted laban. "when he says he can forgive sins, he blasphemes." the other pharisee leaned forward to say, in an impressive whisper: "then you know the law on that point. he should be stoned to death, his body hung on a tree, and then buried with shame!" it was not long after that joel, just back from a trip to tiberias in a little sailing-boat, came into the garden. he had been away since early morning, so had heard nothing of what had just occurred; he had had good luck in disposing of his wares, and was feeling unusually cheerful. hearing voices in the corner of the garden, he was about to pass out again, when his uncle called him sternly to come to him at once. surprised at the command, he obeyed, and was questioned and cross-questioned by all three. it was very little he could tell them about his friend's plans; but he acknowledged proudly that phineas had always known this famous man from nazareth, even in childhood, and was one of his most devoted followers. "this man phineas is a traitor to the faith!" roared laban. "he is a dangerous man, and in league with these fellows to do great evil to our nation." the scribe and the rabbi nodded approvingly. "hear me, now!" he cried, sternly. "never again are you to set foot over his threshold, or have any communication whatsoever with him or his associates. i make no idle threat; if you disobey me in this, you will have cause to wish you had never been born. you may leave us now!" too surprised and frightened to say a word, the child slipped away. to give up his daily visit to the carpenter's house, was to give up all that made his life tolerable; while to be denied even speaking to his associates, meant to abandon all hope of cure. but he dared not rebel; obedience to those in authority was too thoroughly taught in those days to be lightly disregarded. but his uncle seemed to fear that his harsh command would be eluded in some way, and kept such a strict watch over him, that he rarely got beyond the borders of the garden by himself. one day he was all alone in the grape-arbor, looking out into the streets that he longed to be in, since their freedom had been denied him. a little girl passed, carrying one child in her arms, and talking to another who clung to her skirts. it was jerusha. joel threw a green grape at her to attract her attention, and then beckoned her mysteriously to come nearer. she set the baby on the ground, and gave him her bracelet to play with, while she listened to a whispered account of his wrongs through the latticed arbor. "it's a shame!" she declared indignantly. "i'll go right down to the carpenter's house and tell them why you cannot go there any more. and i'll keep watch on all that happens, and let you know. i go past here every day, and if i have any news, i'll toss a pebble over the wall and cluck like a hen. then if nobody is watching, you can come to this hole in the arbor again." the next day, as joel was going in great haste to the baker's, whither his aunt had sent him, he heard some one behind him calling him to wait. in another moment jerusha was in speaking distance, nearly bent double with the weight of her little brother, whom she was carrying as usual. "there!" she said, with a puff of relief, as she put him on his own feet. "wait till i get my breath! it's no easy thing to carry such a load and run at the same time! how did you get out?" "there was an errand to be done, and no one else to do it," answered joel, "so aunt sent me." "oh, i've got such news for you!" she exclaimed. "guess what has happened! your rabbi jesus has asked levi-matthew to be one of his followers, and go around with him wherever he goes. think of it! one of those horrid tax-gatherers! he settled his accounts and gave up his position in the custom-house yesterday. and he is getting ready for a great feast. i heard the butcher and the wine-dealer both telling about the big orders he had given them. "all the publicans and low common people that are his friends are invited. yes, and so is your friend the carpenter. think of that, now! he is going to sit down and eat with such people! of course respectable folks will never have anything more to do with him after that! i guess your uncle was right about him, after all!" both the little girl's face and manner expressed intense disgust. joel was shocked. "oh, are you sure?" he cried. "you certainly must be mistaken! it cannot be so!" "i guess i know what i see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears!" she retorted, angrily. "my father says they are a bad lot. people that go with publicans are just as unclean themselves. if you know so much more than everybody else, i'll not trouble myself to run after you with any more news. mistaken, indeed!" with her head held high, and her nose scornfully turned up, she jerked her little brother past him, and went quickly around the corner of the street. the indignation of some of the rabbis knew no bounds. "it has turned out just as i predicted," said the scribe to laban, at supper. "they are nothing but a set of gluttons and wine-bibbers!" there was nothing else talked of during the entire meal. how joel's blood boiled as he listened to their conversation! the food seemed to choke him. as they applied one coarse epithet after another to his friend phineas, all the kindness and care this man had ever given him seemed to rise up before him. but when they turned on the nazarene, all the stories joel had heard in the carpenter's house of his gentle sinless childhood, all the tokens he had seen himself of his pure unselfish manhood, seemed to cry out against such gross injustice. it was no light thing for a child to contradict the doctors of the law, and, in a case of this kind, little less than a crime to take the stand joel did. but the memory of two faces gave him courage: that of phineas as it had looked on him through all those busy happy hours in the carpenter's home; the other face he had seen but once, that day of healing in the synagogue,--who, having once looked into the purity of those eyes, the infinite tenderness of that face, could sit calmly by and raise no voice against the calumny of his enemies? the little cripple was white to the lips, and he trembled from head to foot as he stood up to speak. the scribe lifted up both hands, and turned to laban with a meaning shrug of the shoulders. "to think of finding such heresy in your own household!" he exclaimed. "among your own children!" "he is no child of mine!" retorted laban. "nor shall he stay among them!" then he turned to joel. "boy, take back every word you have just uttered! swear you will renounce this man,--this son of perdition,--and never have aught to say well of him again!" joel looked around the table, at each face that shone out pale and excited in the yellow lamplight. his eyes were dilated with fear; his heart thumped so in the awful pause that followed, that he thought everybody else must hear it. "i cannot!" he said hoarsely. "oh, i cannot!" "then take yourself out of my sight forever. the doors of this house shall never open for you again!" there was a storm of abuse from the angry man at this open defiance of his authority. with these two cold, stern men to nod approval at his zealousness, he went to greater lengths than he might otherwise have done. with one more frightened glance around the table, the child hurried out of the room. the door into the street creaked after him, and joel limped out into the night, with his uncle's curse ringing in his ears. chapter vii. phineas, going along the beach that night, in the early moonlight, towards his home, saw a little figure crouched in the shadow of a low building beside the wharf. it was shaking with violent sobs. he went up to the child, and took its hands down from its wet face, with a comforting expression of pity. then he started back in surprise. it was joel! "why, my child! my poor child!" he exclaimed, putting his arm around the trembling, misshapen form. "what is the meaning of all this?" "uncle laban has driven me away from home!" sobbed the boy. "he was angry because you and rabbi jesus were invited to levi-matthew's feast. he says i have denied the faith, and am worse than an infidel. he says i am fit only to be cast out with the dogs and publicans!--and--and--" he ended with a wail. "oh, he sent me away with his curse!" phineas drew him closer, and stroked the head on his shoulder in pitying silence. "fatherless and motherless and lame!" the boy sobbed bitterly. "and now, a homeless outcast, blighted by a curse, i have been sitting here with my feet in the dark water, thinking how easy it would be to slip down into it and forget; but, rabbi phineas, that face will not let me,--that face of your friend,--i keep seeing it all the time!" phineas gathered the boy so close in his arms that joel could feel his strong, even heart-beats. "my child," he said solemnly, "call me no more, rabbi! henceforth, it is to be _father_ phineas. you shall be to me as my own son!" "but the curse!" sobbed joel. "the curse that is set upon me! it will blight you too!" "nay," was the quiet answer; "for it is written, 'as the bird by wandering, as the swallow by flying, _so the curse, causeless, shall not come_.'" but the boy still shook as with a chill. his face and hands were burning hot. "come!" said phineas. he picked him up in his strong arms, and carried him down the beach to abigail's motherly care and comforting. "he will be a long time getting over the shock of this," she said to her husband, when he was at last soothed to sleep. "ah, loyal little heart!" he answered, "he has suffered much for the sake of his friendship with us!" poor little storm-tossed bark! in the days that followed he had reason to bless the boisterous winds, that blew him to such a safe and happy harbor! * * * * * over on the horns of mount hattin, the spring morning began to shine. the light crept slowly down the side of the old mountain, till it fell on a little group of men talking earnestly together. it was the preacher of galilee, who had just chosen twelve men from among those who followed him to help him in his ministry. they gathered around him in the fresh mountain dawn, as he pictured the life in store for them. strange they did not quail before it, and turn back disheartened. nay, not strange! for in the weeks they had been with him, they had learned to love him so, that his "follow me," that drew them from the toll-gate and fishing-boat, was stronger than ties of home and kindred. just about this time, phineas and joel were starting out from capernaum to the mountain. hundreds of people were already on the way; people who had come from all parts of judea, and beyond the jordan. clouds of dust rose above the highway as the travellers trudged along. joel was obliged to walk slowly, so that by the time they reached the plain below, a great multitude had gathered. "let's get close," he whispered. he had heard that those who barely touched the garments of the strange rabbi were made whole, and it was with the hope that he might steal up and touch him unobserved that he had begged phineas to take him on such a long, painful walk. "there is too great a crowd, now," answered phineas. "let us rest here awhile, and listen. let me lift you up on this big rock, so that you can see. 'sh! he is speaking!" joel looked up, and, for the second time in his life, listened to words that thrilled him like a trumpet call,--words that through eighteen hundred years have not ceased to vibrate; with what mighty power they must have fallen when, for the first time, they broke the morning stillness of those mountain wilds! joel forgot the press of people about him, forgot even where he was, as sentence after sentence seemed to lift him out of himself, till he could catch glimpses of lofty living such as he had never even dreamed of before. round by round, he seemed to be carried up some high ladder of thought by that voice, away from all that was common and low and earthly, to a summit of infinite love and light. still the voice led on, "ye have heard that it hath been said, 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'" joel started so violently at hearing his own familiar motto, that he nearly lost his balance on the rock. "but i say unto you that you resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.... ye have heard that it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy. but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." poor little joel, it was a hard doctrine for him to accept! how could he give up his hope of revenge, when it had grown with his growth till it had come to be as dear as life itself? he heard little of the rest of the sermon, for through it all the words kept echoing, "bless them that curse you! do good to them that hate you! pray for them which despitefully use you!" "oh, i can't! i can't!" he groaned inwardly. "i have found a chance for you to ride home," said phineas, when the sermon was over, and the people began to file down the narrow mountain paths. "but there will be time for you to go to him first, for healing. you have only to ask, you know." joel took an eager step forward, and then shrank back guiltily. "not now," he murmured, "some other time." he could not look into those clear eyes and ask a blessing, when he knew his heart was black with hate. after all his weeks of waiting the opportunity had come; but he dared not let the sinless one look into his soul. phineas began an exclamation of surprise, but was interrupted by some one asking him a question. joel took advantage of this to climb up behind the man who had offered him a ride. all the way home he weighed the two desires in his mind,--the hope of healing, and the hope of revenge. by the time the two guardian fig-trees were in sight, he had decided. he would rather go helpless and halting through life than give up his cherished purpose. but there was no sleep for him that night, after he had gone up to his little chamber on the roof. he seemed to see that pleading face on the mountain-side; it came to him again and again, with the words, "bless them that curse you! pray for them that despitefully use you!" all night he fought against yielding to it. time and again he turned over on his bed, and closed his eyes; but it would not let him alone. he thought of jacob wrestling with the angel till day-break, and knew in his heart that the sweet spirit of forgiveness striving with his selfish nature was some heavenly impulse from another world. at last when the cock-crowing commenced at dawn, and the stars were beginning to fade, he drew up his crooked little body, and knelt with his face to the kindling east. "father in heaven," he prayed softly, "bless mine enemy rehum, and forgive all my sins,--fully and freely as i now forgive the wrong he has done to me." a feeling of light-heartedness and peace, such as he had never known before, stole over him. he could not settle himself to sleep, though worn out with his night's long vigil. [illustration: "not a word was said"] hastily slipping on his clothes, he tiptoed down the stairs, and limped, bare-headed, down to the beach. the lake shimmered and glowed under the faint rose and gray of the sky like a deep opal. the early breeze blew the hair back from his pale face with a refreshing coolness. it seemed to him the world had never looked one half so beautiful before, as he stood there. a firm tread on the gravel made him turn partly around. a man was coming up the beach; it was the friend of phineas. as if drawn by some uncontrollable impulse, joel started to meet him, an unspoken prayer in his pleading little face. not a word was said. for one little instant joel stood there by the shining sea, his hand held close in the loving hand of the world's redeemer. for one little instant he looked up into his face; then the man passed on. joel covered his face with his hands, seeming to hear the still small voice that spoke to the prophet out of the whirlwind. "he is the christ!" he whispered reverently,--"he is the christ!" in his exalted feeling all thought of a cure had left him; but as he walked on down the beach, he noticed that he no longer limped. he was moving along with strong, quick strides. he shook himself and threw back his shoulders; there was no pain in the movement. he passed his hands over his back and down his limbs. oh, he was straight and strong and sinewy! he seemed a stranger to himself, as running and leaping, then stopping to look down and feel his limbs again, he ran madly on. suddenly he cast his garments aside and dived into the lake. before his injury, he had been able to swim like a fish, now he reached out with long powerful strokes that sent him darting through the cold water with a wonderful sense of exhilaration. then he dressed again, and went on running and leaping and climbing till he was exhausted, and his first wild delirious joy began to subside into a deep quiet thankfulness. then he went home, radiant in the happiness of his new-found cure. but more than the mystery of the miracle, more than the joy of the healing, was the remembrance of that moment, that one little moment, when he felt the clasp of the master's hand, and seemed wrapped about with the boundless love of god. from that moment, he lived but to serve and to follow him. chapter viii. high up among the black lava crags of perea stood the dismal fortress of macherus. behind its close prison bars a restless captive groped his way back and forth in a dungeon cell. sometimes, at long intervals, he was given such liberty as a chained eagle might have, when he was led up into one of the towers of the gloomy keep, and allowed to look down, down into the bottomless gorges surrounding it. for months he had chafed in the darkness of his underground dungeon; escape was impossible. it was john baptist, brought from the wild, free life of the desert to the tortures of the "black castle." here he lay at the mercy of herod antipas, and death might strike at any moment. more than once, the whimsical monarch had sent for him, as he sat at his banquets, to be the sport of the passing hour. the lights, the color, the flash of gems may have dazzled his eyes for a brief space, accustomed as they were to the midnight darkness of his cell; but his keen vision saw, under the paint and purple of royal apparel, the corrupt life of king and court. pointing his stern, accusing finger at the uneasy king, he cried, "it is not lawful for thee to have thy brother's wife!" with words that stung like hurtling arrows, he laid bare the blackened, beastly life that sought to hide its foulness under royal ermine. antipas cowered before him; and while he would gladly have been freed from a man who had such power over him, he dared not lift a finger against the fearless, unflinching baptist. but the guilty herodias bided her time, with blood-thirsty impatience; his life should pay the penalty of his bold speech. meanwhile he waited in his cell, with nothing but memories to relieve the tediousness of the long hours. over and over again he lived those scenes of his strange life in the desert,--those days of his preparation,--the preaching to the multitudes, the baptizing at the ford of the jordan. he wondered if his words still lived; if any of his followers still believed on him. but more than all, he wondered what had become of that one on whom he had seen the spirit of god descending out of heaven in the form of a dove. "where art thou now?" he cried. "if thou art the messiah, why dost thou not set up thy kingdom, and speedily give thy servant his liberty?" the empty room rang often with that cry; but the hollow echo of his own words was the only answer. one day the door of his cell creaked back far enough to admit two men, and then shut again, leaving them in total darkness. in that momentary flash of light, he recognized two old followers of his, timeus bar joram and benjamin the potter. with a cry of joy he groped his way toward them, and clung to their friendly hands. "how did you manage to penetrate these roman-guarded walls?" he asked, in astonishment. "i knew the warden," answered benjamin. "a piece of silver conveniently closes his eyes to many things. but we must hasten! our time is limited." they had much to tell of the outside world. pilate had just given special offence, by appropriating part of the treasure of the temple, derived from the temple tax, to defray the cost of great conduits he had begun, with which to supply jerusalem with water. stirred up by the priests and rabbis, the people besieged the government house, crying loudly that the works be given up. armed with clubs, numbers of soldiers in plain clothes surrounded the great mob, and killed so many of the people that the wildest excitement prevailed throughout all judea and galilee. there was a cry for a national uprising to avenge the murder. "they only need a leader!" exclaimed john. "where is he for whom i was but a voice crying in the wilderness? why does he not show himself?" "we have just come from the village of nain," said timeus bar joram. "we saw him stop a funeral procession and raise a widow's son to life. he was followed by a motley throng whom he had healed of all sorts of diseases; and there were twelve men whom he had chosen as life-long companions. "we questioned some of them closely, and they gave us marvellous reports of the things he had done." "is it not strange," asked benjamin the potter, "that having such power he still delays to establish his kingdom?" the captive prophet made no answer for awhile. then he groped in the thick darkness till his hand rested heavily on benjamin's arm. "go back, and say that john baptist asks, 'art thou the coming one, or must we look for another?'" days passed before the devoted friends found themselves once more inside the prison walls. they had had a weary journey over rough hills and rocky by-paths. "what did he say?" demanded the prisoner, eagerly. "go and tell john what ye saw and heard: that the blind receive sight; the lame walk; the lepers are cleansed; the deaf hear; the dead are raised; and the poor have the gospel preached unto them." the man stood up, his long hair hanging to his shoulder, his hand uplifted, and his eyes dilated like a startled deer that has caught the sound of a coming step. "the fulfilment of the words of isaiah!" he cried. "for he hath said, 'your god will come and save you. then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing!' yea, he _hath_ bound up the broken-hearted; and he shall yet 'proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound, to proclaim the acceptable year of the lord!'" then with both hands clasped high above his head, he made the prison ring with the cry, "the kingdom is at hand! the kingdom is at hand! i shall soon be free!" not long after that, the castle blazed with the lights of another banquet. the faint aroma of wines, mingled with the heavy odor of countless flowers, could not penetrate the grim prison walls. nor could the gay snatches of song and the revelry of the feast. no sound of applause reached the prisoner's ear, when the daughter of herodias danced before the king. sitting in darkness while the birthday banqueters held high carnival, he heard the heavy tramp of soldiers' feet coming down the stairs to his dungeon. the great bolts shot back, the rusty hinges turned, and a lantern flickered its light in his face, as he stood up to receive his executioners. a little while later his severed head was taken on a charger to the smiling dancing girl. she stifled a shriek when she saw it; but the wicked herodias looked at it with a gleam of triumph in her treacherous black eyes. when the lights were out, and the feasters gone, two men came in at the warden's bidding,--two men with heavy hearts, and voices that shook a little when they spoke to each other. they were timeus and benjamin. silently they lifted the body of their beloved master, and carried it away for burial; and if a tear or two found an unaccustomed path down their bearded cheeks, no one knew it, under cover of the darkness. so, out of the black castle of macherus, out of the prison-house of a mortal body, the white-souled prophet of the wilderness went forth at last into liberty. for him, the kingdom was indeed at hand. * * * * * meanwhile in the upper country, phineas was following his friend from village to village. he had dropped his old familiar form of address, so much was he impressed by the mysterious power he saw constantly displayed. now when he spoke of the man who had been both friend and playfellow, it was almost reverently that he gave him the title of master. it was with a heavy heart that joel watched them go away. he, too, longed to follow; but he knew that unless he took the place at the bench, phineas could not be free to go. gratitude held him to his post. no, not gratitude alone; he was learning the master's own spirit of loving self-sacrifice. as he dropped the plumb-line over his work, he measured himself by that perfect life, and tried to straighten himself to its unbending standard. he had his reward in the look of pleasure that he saw on the carpenter's face when phineas came in, unexpectedly, one day, dusty and travel-stained. "how much you have accomplished!" he said in surprise. "you have filled my place like a grown man." joel stretched his strong arms with a slight laugh. "it is a pleasure to work now," he said. "it seems so queer never to have a pain, or that worn-out feeling of weakness that used to be always with me. at first i was often afraid it was all a happy dream, and could not last. i am getting used to it now. where is the master?" joel asked, as phineas turned towards the house. "he is the guest of simon. he will be here some days, my son. i know you wish to be with him as much as possible, so i shall not expect your help as long as he stays." "if i could only do something for him!" was joel's constant thought during the next few days. once he took a coin from the little money bag that held his hoarded savings--a coin that was to have helped buy his revenge--and bought the ripest, juiciest pear he could find in the market. often he brought him water, fresh and cold from the well when he looked tired and warm from his unceasing work. wherever the master turned, there, close beside him, was a beaming little face, so full of love and childish sympathy that it must have brought more refreshment to his thirsty soul than either the choice fruit or the cooling water. one evening after a busy day, when he had talked for hours to the people on the seashore who had gathered around the boat in which he sat, he sent away the multitude. "let us pass over unto the other side," he said. joel slipped up to andrew, who was busily arranging their sails. "let me go, too!" he whispered pleadingly. "well," assented the man, carelessly, "you can make yourself useful, i suppose. will you hand me that rope?" joel sprang to obey. presently the boat pushed away from the shore, and the town, with its tumult and its twinkling lights, was soon left far behind. the sea was like glass, so calm and unruffled that every star above could look down and see its unbroken reflection in the dark water below. joel, in the hinder part of the ship, lay back in his seat with a sigh of perfect enjoyment. the smooth gliding motion of the boat rested him; the soft splash of the water soothed his excited brain. he had seen his uncle laban that afternoon among other of the scribes and pharisees, and heard him declare that beelzebub alone was responsible for the wonders they witnessed. joel's indignation flared up again at the memory. he looked down at the master, who had fallen asleep on a pillow, and wondered how anybody could possibly believe such evil things about him. it was cooler out where they were now. he wondered if he ought not to lay some covering over the sleeping form. he took off the outer mantle that he wore, and bent forward to lay it over the master's feet. but he drew back timidly, afraid of wakening him. "i'll wait awhile," he said to himself, folding the garment across his knees in readiness. several times he reached forward to lay it over him, and each time drew back. then he fell asleep himself. from its situation in the basin of the hills, the galilee is subject to sudden and furious storms. the winds, rushing down the heights, meet and clash above the water, till the waves run up like walls, then sink again into seething whirlpools of danger. joel, falling asleep in a dead calm, awoke to find the ship rolling and tossing and half-full of water. the lightning's track was followed so closely by the crash of thunder, there was not even pause enough between to take one terrified gasp. still the master slept. joel, drenched to the skin, clung to the boat's side, expecting that every minute would be his last. it was so dark and wild and awful! how helpless they were, buffetted about in the fury of the storm! as wave after wave beat in, some of the men could no longer control their fear. "master!" they called to the sleeping man, as they bent over him in terror. "carest thou not that we perish?" he heard the cry for help. the storm could not waken him from his deep sleep of exhaustion, but at the first despairing human voice, he was up, ready to help. looking up at the midnight blackness of the sky, and down at the wild waste of waters, he stretched out his hand. "_peace!_" he commanded in a deep voice. "_be still!_" the storm sank to earth as suddenly as a death-stricken raven; a great calm spread over the face of the waters. the silent stars shone out in their places; the silent sea mirrored back their glory at his feet. the men huddled fearfully together. "what manner of man is this?" they asked, one of another. "even the wind and the sea obey him!" joel, looking up at the majestic form, standing so quietly by the railing, thought of the voice that once rang out over the night of creation with the command, "let there be light!" at its mere bidding light had flowed in across the darkness of primeval night. just so had this voice thrilled the storm with its "peace! be still!" into utter calm. the child crouched at his feet, burying his face in his mantle, and whispering, in awe and adoration, "he _is_ the christ! he is the son of god!" chapter ix. after that night of the voyage to the gadarenes, joel ceased to be surprised at the miracles he daily witnessed. even when the little daughter of jairus, the ruler of the synagogue, was called back to life, it did not seem so wonderful to him as the stilling of the tempest. many a night after phineas had gone away again with the master to other cities, joel used to go down to the beach, and stand looking across the water as he recalled that scene. the lake had always been an interesting place to him at night. he liked to watch the fishermen as they flashed their blazing torches this way and that. a sympathetic thrill ran through him as they sighted their prey, and raised their bare sinewy arms to fling the net or fly the spear. but after that morning of healing, and that night of tempest, it seemed to be a sacred place, to be visited only on still nights, when the town slept, and heaven bent nearer in the starlight to the quiet earth. the time of the passover was drawing near,--the time that joel had been looking forward to since phineas had promised him a year ago that he should go to jerusalem. the twelve disciples who had been sent out to all the little towns through galilee, to teach the things they had themselves been taught, and work miracles in the name of him who had sent them, began to come slowly back. they had an encouraging report to bring of their work; but it was shadowed by the news they had heard of the murder of john baptist. joel joined them as soon as they came into capernaum, and walked beside phineas as the footsore travellers pressed on a little farther towards simon's house. "when are we going to start for jerusalem?" was his first eager question. phineas looked searchingly into his face as he replied, "would you be greatly disappointed, my son, not to go this year?" joel looked perplexed; it was such an unheard of thing for phineas to miss going up to the feast of the passover. "these are evil times, my joel," he explained. "john baptist has just been beheaded. the master has many enemies among those in high places. it would be like walking into a lion's den for him to go up to jerusalem. "even here he is not safe from the hatred of antipas, and after a little rest will pass over into the borders of the tetrarch philip. we have no wish to leave him!" "oh, why should he be persecuted so?" asked joel, looking with tear-dimmed eyes at the man walking in advance of them, and talking in low earnest tones to john, who walked beside him. "you have been with him so much, father phineas. have _you_ ever known him to do anything to make these men his enemies?" "yes," said phineas. "he has drawn the people after him until they are jealous of his popularity. he upsets their old traditions, and teaches a religion that ignores some of the laws of moses. i can easily see why they hate him so. they see him at such a long distance from themselves, they can not understand him. healing on the sabbath, eating with publicans and sinners, disregarding the little customs and ceremonies that in all ages have set apart our people as a chosen race, are crimes in their eyes. "if they only could get close enough to understand him; to see that his pure life needs no ceremonies of multiplied hand-washings; that it is his broad love for his fellow-men that makes him stoop to the lowest classes,--i am sure they could not do otherwise than love him. "blind fanatics! they would put to death the best man that ever lived, because he is so much broader and higher than they that the little measuring line of their narrow creed cannot compass him!" "is he never going to set up his kingdom?" asked joel. "does he never talk about it?" "yes," said phineas; "though we are often puzzled by what he says, and ask ourselves his meaning." they had reached the house by this time, and as simon led the way to its hospitable door, phineas said, "enter with them, my lad, if you wish. i must go on to my little family, but will join you soon." to joel's great pleasure, he found they were to cross the lake at once, to the little fishing port of bethsaida. it was only six miles across. "we have hardly had time to eat," said andrew to joel, as they walked along towards the boat "i will be glad to get away to some desert place, where we may have rest from the people that are always pushing and clamoring about us." "how long before you start?" asked joel. "in a very few minutes," answered andrew; "for the boat is in readiness." joel glanced from the street above the beach to the water's edge, as if calculating the distance. "don't go without me," he said as, breaking into a run, he dashed up the beach at his utmost speed. he was back again in a surprisingly quick time, with a cheap little basket in his hand; he was out of breath with his rapid run. "didn't i go fast?" he panted. "i could not have done that a few weeks ago. oh, it feels so good to be able to run when i please! it is like flying." he lifted the cover of the basket. "see!" he said. "i thought the master might be hungry; but i had no time to get anything better. i had to stop at the first stall i came to." at the same time the boat went gliding out into the water with its restful motion, thousands of people were pouring out of the villages on foot, and hurrying on around the lake, ahead of them. the boat passed up a narrow winding creek, away from the sail-dotted lake; its green banks seemed to promise the longed-for quiet and rest. but there in front of them waited the crowds they had come so far to avoid. they had brought their sick for healing. they needed to be helped and taught; they were "as sheep without a shepherd!" he could not refuse them. joel found no chance to offer the food he had bought so hastily with another of his hoarded coins,--the coins that were to have purchased his revenge. as the day wore on, he heard the disciples ask that the multitudes might be sent away. "it would take two hundred pennyworth of bread to feed them," said philip, "and even that would not be enough." andrew glanced over the great crowds and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "there is a lad here which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes, but what are they among so many?" joel hurried forward and held out his basket with its little store,--five flat round loaves of bread, not much more than one hungry man could eat, and two dried fishes. he hardly knew what to expect as the people were made to sit down on the grass in orderly ranks of fifties. his eyes grew round with astonishment as the master took the bread, gave thanks, and then passed it to the disciples, who, in turn, distributed it among the people. then the two little fishes were handed around in the same way. joel turned to phineas, who had joined them some time ago. "do you see that?" he asked excitedly. "they have been multiplied a thousand fold!" phineas smiled. "we drop one tiny grain of wheat into the earth," he said, "and when it grows and spreads and bears dozens of other grains on its single stalk, we are not astonished. when the master but does in an instant, what nature takes months to do, we cry, 'a miracle!' 'men are more wont to be astonished at the sun's eclipse, than at its daily rising,'" he quoted, remembering his conversation with the old traveller, on his way to nathan ben obed's. a feeling of exaltation seized the people as they ate the mysterious bread; it seemed that the days of miraculous manna had come again. by the time they had all satisfied their hunger, and twelve basketfuls of the fragments had been gathered up, they were ready to make him their king. the restlessness of the times had taken possession of them; the burning excitement must find vent in some way, and with one accord they demanded him as their leader. joel wondered why he should refuse. surely no other man he had ever known could have resisted such an appeal. the perplexed fisherman, at jesus's command, turned their boat homeward without him. to their simple minds it seemed that he had made a mistake in resisting the homage forced upon him by the people; they longed for the time to come when they should be recognized as the honored officials in the new kingdom. many a dream of future power and magnificence must have come to them in the still watches of the night, as they drifted home in the white light of the passover moon. many a time in the weeks that followed, joel slipped away to his favorite spot on the beech, a flat rock half hidden by a clump of oleander bushes. here, with his feet idly dangling in the ripples, he looked out over the water, and recalled the scenes he had witnessed there. it seemed so marvellous to him that the master could have ever walked on those shining waves; and yet he had seen him that night after the feeding of the multitudes. he had seen, with his own frightened eyes, the master walk calmly towards the boat across the unsteady water, and catch up the sinking peter, who had jumped overboard to meet him. it grieved and fretted the boy that this man, of god-given power and such sweet unselfish spirit, could be so persistently misunderstood by the people. he could think of nothing else. he had not been with the crowds that pressed into the synagogue the sabbath after the thousands had been fed; but phineas came home with grim lips and knitted brows, and told him about it. "the master knew they followed him because of the loaves and fishes," he said. "he told them so. "when we came out of the door, i could not help looking up at the lintel on which is carved the pot of manna; for when they asked him for a sign that they might believe him, saying, 'our fathers ate manna in the wilderness!' he answered: 'i am the bread of life! ye have seen me, and yet believe not!' "while he talked there was a murmuring all over the house against him, because he said that he had come down from heaven. your uncle laban was there. i heard him say scornfully: 'is not this the son of joseph, whose father and mother we know? how doth he now say, "i am come down out of heaven"?' then he laughed a mocking little laugh, and nudged the man who stood next to him. there are many like him; i could feel a spirit of prejudice and persecution in the very air. many who have professed to be his friends have turned against him." while phineas was pouring out his anxious forebodings to his wife and joel, the master was going homeward with his chosen twelve. "would ye also go away?" he asked wistfully of his companions, as he noted the cold, disapproving looks of many who had only the day before been fed by him, and who now openly turned their backs on him. simon peter gave a questioning glance into the faces of his companions; then he pressed a step nearer. "lord, to whom shall we go?" he answered impulsively. "thou hast the words of eternal life. and we have believed, and know that thou art the holy one of god." the others nodded their assent, all but one. judas iscariot clutched the money bags he held, and looked off across the lake, to avoid the searching eyes that were fixed upon him. these honest galileans were too simple to suspect others of dark designs, yet they had never felt altogether free with this stranger from judea. he had never seemed entirely one of them. they did not see in his crafty quiet manners, the sheep's clothing that hid his wolfish nature; but they could feel his lack of sympathetic enthusiasm. he had been one of those who followed only for the loaves and fishes of a temporal kingdom, and now, in his secret soul, he was sorry he had joined a cause in whose final success he was beginning to lose faith. the sun went down suddenly that night behind a heavy cloud, as a gathering storm began to lash the galilee and rock the little boats anchored at the landings. the year of popularity was at an end. chapter x. abigail sat just inside the door, turning the noisy hand-mill that ground out the next day's supply of flour. the rough mill-stones grated so harshly on each other that she did not hear the steps coming up the path. a shadow falling across the door-way made her look up. "you are home early, my phineas," she said, with a smile. "well, i shall soon have your supper ready. joel has gone to the market for some honey and--" "nay! i have little wish to eat," he interrupted, "but i have much to say to you. come! the work can wait." abigail put the mill aside, and brushing the flour from her hands, sat down on the step beside him, wondering much at his troubled face. he plunged into his subject abruptly. "the master is soon going away," he said, "that those in the uttermost parts of galilee may be taught of him. and he would fain have others beside the twelve he has chosen to go with him on his journey." "and you wish to go too?" she questioned, as he paused. "yes! how can i do otherwise? and yet how can i leave you and the little ones alone in these troubled times? you cannot think how great the danger is. remember how many horrors we have lately heard. the whole country is a smouldering volcano, ready to burst into an eruption at any moment. a leader has only to arise, and all israel will take up arms against the powers that trample us under foot." "is not this prophet, jesus, he who is to save israel?" asked abigail. "is he not even now making ready to establish his kingdom?" "i do not understand him at all!" said phineas, sadly. "he does talk of a kingdom in which we are all to have a part; but he never seems to be working to establish it. he spends all his time in healing diseases and forgiving penitent sinners, and telling us to love our neighbors. "then, again, why should he go down to the beach, and choose for his confidential friends just simple fishermen. they have neither influence nor money. as for the choice of that publican levi-matthew, it has brought disgrace on the whole movement. he does not seem to know how to sway the popular feeling. i believe he might have had the support of the foremost men of the nation, if he had approached them differently. "he shocks them by setting aside laws they would lay down their lives rather than violate. he associates with those they consider unclean; and all his miracles cannot make them forget how boldly he has rebuked them for hypocrisy and unrighteousness. they never will come to his support now; and i do not see how a new government can be formed without their help." abigail laid her hand on his, her dark eyes glowing with intense earnestness, as she answered: "what need is there of armies and human hands to help? "where were the hosts of pharaoh when our fathers passed through the red sea? was there bloodshed and fighting there? "who battled for us when the walls of jericho fell down? whose hand smote the assyrians at sennacherib? is the lord's arm shortened that he cannot save? "why may not his prophet speak peace to jerusalem as easily as he did the other night to the stormy sea? why may not his power be multiplied even as the loaves and fishes? "why may not the sins and backslidings of the people be healed as well as joel's lameness; or the glory of the nation be quickened into a new life, as speedily as he raised the daughter of jairus? "isaiah called him the prince of peace. what are all these lessons, if not to teach us that the purposes of god do not depend on human hands to work out their fulfilment?" her low voice thrilled him with its inspiring questions, and he looked down into her rapt face with a feeling of awe. "abigail," he said softly, "'my source of joy,'--you are rightly named. you have led me out of the doubts that have been my daily torment. i see now, why he never incites us to rebel against the yoke of cã¦sar. in the fulness of time he will free us with a breath. "how strange it should have fallen to my lot to have been his playmate and companion. my wonder is not that he is the messiah; but that i should have called him friend, all these years, unknowing." "how long do you expect to be away?" she asked, after a pause, suddenly returning to the first subject. "several months, perhaps. there is no telling what insurrections and riots may arise, all through this part of the country. since the murder of john baptist, herod has come back to his court in tiberias. i dislike to leave you here alone." abigail, too, looked grave, and neither spoke for a little while. "i have it!" she exclaimed at length, with a pleased light in her eyes. "i have often wished i could make a long visit in the home of my girlhood. the few days i have spent in my father's house, those few times i have gone with you to the feasts, have been so short and unsatisfactory. can i not take joel and the children to bethany? neither father nor mother has ever seen little ruth, and we could be so safe and happy there till your return." "why did i not come to you before with my worries?" asked phineas. "how easily you make the crooked places straight!" just then the children came running back from the market. abigail went into the house with the provisions they had brought, leaving their father to tell them of the coming separation and the long journey they had planned. a week later, phineas stood at the city gate, watching a little company file southward down the highway. he had hired two strong, gayly-caparisoned mules from the owner of the caravan. abigail rode on one, holding little ruth in her arms; joel mounted the other, with jesse clinging close behind him. abigail, thinking of the joyful welcome awaiting her in her old home, and the children happy in the novelty of the journey, set out gayly. but phineas, thinking of the dangers by the way, and filled with many forebodings, watched their departure with a heavy heart. at the top of a little rise in the road, they turned to look back and wave their hands. in a moment more they were out of sight. then phineas, grasping his staff more firmly, turned away, and started on foot in the other direction, to follow to the world's end, if need be, the friend who had gone on before. it was in the midst of the barley harvest. jesse had never been in the country before. for the first time, nature spread for him her great picture-book of field and forest and vineyard, while abigail read to him the stories. first on one side of the road, then the other, she pointed out some spot and told its history. here was dothan, where joseph went out to see his brothers, dressed in his coat of many colors. there was mount gilboa, where the arrows of the philistines wounded saul, and he fell on his own sword and killed himself. shiloh, where hannah brought little samuel to give him to the lord; where the prophet eli, so old that his eyes were too dim to see, sat by the gate waiting for news from the army, and when word was brought back that his two sons were dead, and the ark of the covenant taken, here it was that he fell backward from his seat, and his neck was broken. all these she told, and many more. then she pointed to the gleaners in the fields, and told the children to notice how carefully israel still kept the commandment given so many centuries before: "when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of thy field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest. and thou shalt not glean thy vineyard, neither shalt thou gather every grape of thy vineyard, thou shalt leave them for the poor and the stranger." at jacob's well, where they stopped to rest, joel lifted jesse up, and let him look over the curb. the child almost lost his balance in astonishment, when his own wondering little face looked up at him from the deep well. he backed away from it quickly, and looked carefully into the cup of water joel handed him, for more than a minute, before he ventured to drink. the home to which abigail was going was a wealthy one. her father, reuben, was a goldsmith, and for years had been known in jerusalem not only for the beautifully wrought ornaments and precious stones that he sold in his shop near the temple, but for his rich gifts to the poor. "reuben the charitable," he was called, and few better deserved the name. his business took him every day to the city; but his home was in the little village of bethany, two miles away. it was one of the largest in bethany, and seemed like a palace to the children, when compared to the humble little home in capernaum. joel only looked around with admiring eyes; but jesse walked about, laying curious little fingers on everything he passed. the bright oriental curtains, the soft cushions and the costly hangings, he smoothed and patted. even the silver candlesticks and the jewelled cups on the side table were picked up and examined, when his mother happened to have her back turned. [illustration: "'we talked late'"] there were no pictures in the house; the law forbade. but there were several mirrors of bright polished metal, and jesse never tired of watching his own reflection in them. ruth stayed close beside her mother. "she is a ray of god's own sunshine," said her grandmother, as she took her in her arms for the first time. the child, usually afraid of strangers, saw in rebecca's face a look so like her mother's that she patted the wrinkled cheeks with her soft fingers. from that moment her grandmother was her devoted slave. jesse was not long in finding the place he held in his grandfather's heart. the old man, whose sons had all died years before, seemed to centre all his hopes on this son of his only daughter. he kept jesse with him as much as possible; his happiest hours were when he had the child on his knee, teaching him the prayers and precepts and proverbs that he knew would be a lamp to his feet in later years. "nay! do not punish the child!" he said, one morning when jesse had been guilty of some disobedience. abigail went on stripping the leaves from an almond switch she just had broken off. "why, father," she said, with a smile, "i have often seen you punish my brothers for such disobedience, and have as often heard you say that one of solomon's wisest sayings is, 'chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.' jesse misses his father's firm rule, and is getting sadly spoiled." "that is all true, my daughter," he acknowledged; "still i shall not stay here to witness his punishment." abigail used the switch as she had intended. the boy had overheard the conversation, and the cries that reached his grandfather as he rode off to the city were unusually loud and appealing. they may have had something to do with the package the good man carried home that night,--cakes and figs and a gay little turban more befitting a young prince than the son of a carpenter. "who lives across the street?" asked joel, the morning after their arrival. "two old friends of mine," answered abigail. "they came to see me last night as soon as they heard i had arrived. you children were all asleep. we talked late, for they wanted to hear all i could tell them of rabbi jesus. he was here last year, and martha said he and her brother lazarus became fast friends. ah, there is lazarus now!--that young man just coming out of the house. he is a scribe, and goes up to write in one of the rooms of the temple nearly every day. "mary says some of the copies of the scriptures he has made are the most beautifully written that she has ever seen." "see!" exclaimed joel, "he has dropped one of the rolls of parchment he was carrying, and does not know it. i'll run after him with it." he was hardly yet accustomed to the delight of being so fleet of foot; no halting step now to hinder him. he almost felt as if he were flying, and was by the young man's side nearly as soon as he had started. "ah, you are the guest of my good neighbor, reuben," lazarus said, after thanking him courteously. "are you not the lad whose lameness has just been healed by my best friend? my sisters were telling me of it. it must be a strange experience to suddenly find yourself changed from a helpless cripple to such a strong, straight lad as you are now. how did it make you feel?" "oh, i can never begin to tell you, rabbi lazarus," answered joel. "i did not even think of it that moment when he held my hand in his. i only thought how much i loved him. i had been starving before, but that moment he took the place of everything,--father, mother, the home love i had missed,--and more than that, the love of god seemed to come down and fold me so close and safe, that i knew he was the messiah. i did not even notice that i was no longer lame, until i was far down the beach. oh, you do not know how i wanted to follow him! if i could only have gone with him instead of coming here!" "yes, my boy, i know!" answered the young man, gently; "for i, too, love him." this strong bond of sympathy between the two made them feel as if they had known each other always. "come walk with me a little way," said lazarus. "i am going up to jerusalem to the temple. or rather, would you not like to come all the way? i have only to carry these rolls to one of the priests, then i will be at liberty to show you some of the strange sights in the city." joel ran back for permission. only stopping to wind his white linen turban around his head, he soon regained his new-found friend. his recollection of jerusalem was a very dim, confused one. time and time again he had heard pilgrims returning from the feasts trying to describe their feelings when they had come in sight of the holy city. now as they turned with the road, the view that rose before him made him feel how tame their descriptions had been. the morning sun shone down on the white marble walls of the temple and the gold that glittered on the courts, as they rose one above the other; tower and turret and pinnacle shot back a dazzling light. it did not seem possible to joel that human hands could have wrought such magnificence. he caught his breath, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. lazarus smiled at his pleasure. "come," he said, "it is still more beautiful inside." they went very slowly through solomon's porch, for every one seemed to know the young man, and many stopped to speak to him. then they crossed the court of the gentiles. it seemed like a market-place; for cages of doves were kept there for sale, and lambs, calves, and oxen bleated and lowed in their stalls till joel could scarcely hear what his friend was saying, as they pushed their way through the crowd, and stood before the gate beautiful that led into the court of the women. here lazarus left joel for a few moments, while he went to give the rolls to the priest for whom he had copied them. joel looked around. then for the first time since his healing, he wondered if it would be possible for him to ever take his place among the levites, or become a priest as he had been destined. while he wondered, lazarus came back and led him into the next court. here he could look up and see the holy place, over which was trained a golden vine, with clusters of grapes as large as a man's body, all of purest gold. beyond that he knew was a heavy veil of babylonian tapestry, hyacinth and scarlet and purple, that veiled in awful darkness the holy of holies. as he stood there thinking of the tinkling bells, the silver trumpets, the clouds of incense, and the mighty songs, a great longing came over him to be one of those white-robed priests, serving daily in the temple. but with the wish came the recollection of a quiet hillside, where only bird-calls and whirr of wings stirred the stillness; where a breeze from the sparkling lake blew softly through the grass, and one voice only was heard, proclaiming its glad new gospel under the open sky. "no," he thought to himself; "i'd rather be with him than wear the high priest's mitre." it was almost sundown when they found themselves on the road homeward. they had visited place after place of interest. lazarus found the boy an entertaining companion, and the friendship begun that day grew deep and lasting. chapter xi. "what are you looking for, grandfather?" called jesse, as he pattered up the outside stairs to the roof, where reuben stood, scanning the sky intently. "come here, my son," he called. "stand right here in front of me, and look just where i point. what do you see?" the child peered anxiously into the blue depths just now lit up by the sunset. "oh, the new moon!" he cried. "where did it come from?" "summer hath dropped her silver sickle there, that night may go forth to harvest in her star-fields," answered the old man. then seeing the look of inquiry on the boy's face, hastened to add, "nay, it is the censer that god's hand set swinging in the sky, to remind us to keep the incense of our praises ever rising heavenward. even now a messenger may be running towards the temple, to tell the sanhedrin that it has appeared. yea, other eyes have been sharper than mine, for see! already the beacon light has been kindled on the mount of olives!" jesse watched the great bonfire a few minutes, then ran to call his sister. by the time they were both on the roof, answering fires were blazing on the distant hilltops throughout all judea, till the whole land was alight with the announcement of the feast of the new moon. "i wish it could be this way every night, don't you, ruth?" said jesse. "are you not glad we are here?" the old man looked down at the children with a pleased smile. "i'll show you something prettier than this, before long," he said. "just wait till the feast of weeks, when the people all come to bring the first fruits of the harvests. i am glad your visit is in this time of the year, for you can see one festival after another." the day the celebration of the feast of weeks commenced, reuben left his shop in charge of the attendants, and gave up his entire time to joel and jesse. "we must not miss the processions," he said. "we will go outside the gates a little way, and watch the people come in." they did not have long to wait till the stream of people from the upper countries began to pour in; each company carried a banner bearing the name of the town from which it came. a white ox, intended for a peace-offering, was driven first; its horns were gilded, and its body twined with olive wreaths. flocks of sheep and oxen for the sacrifice, long strings of asses and camels bearing free-will gifts to the temple, or old and helpless pilgrims that could not walk, came next. there were wreaths of roses on the heads of the women and children; bands of lilies were tied around the sheaves of wheat. piled high in the silver vessels of the rich, or peeping from the willow baskets of the poor, were the choicest fruits of the harvest. great bunches of grapes from whose purple globes the bloom had not been brushed, velvety nectarines, tempting pomegranates, mellow pears, juicy melons,--these offerings of fruit and flowers gleamed all down the long line, for no one came empty-handed up this "hill of the lord." as they drew near the gates, a number of white-robed priests from the temple met them. reuben lifted jesse in his arms that he might have a better view. "listen," he said. joel climbed up on a large rock. a joyful sound of flutes commenced, and a mighty chorus went up: "i was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the lord. our feet shall stand within thy gates, o jerusalem!" voice after voice took up the old psalm, and reuben's deep tones joined with the others, as they chanted, "peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces!" following the singing pilgrims to the temple, they saw the priests take the doves that were to be for a burnt-offering, and the first fruits that were to be laid on the altars. jesse held fast to his grandfather's hand as they passed through the outer courts of the temple. he was half frightened by the din of voices, the stamping and bellowing and bleating of the animals as they were driven into the pens. he had seen one sacrificial service; the great stream of blood pouring over the marble steps of the altar, and the smoke of the burnt-offering were still in his mind. it made him look pityingly now at the gentle-eyed calves and the frightened lambs. he was glad to get away from them. soon after the time of this rejoicing was over, came ten solemn days that to joel were full of interest and mystery. they were the days of preparation for the fast of the atonement. disputes between neighbors were settled, and sins confessed. the last great day, the most solemn of all, was the only time in the whole year when the high priest might draw aside the veil, and enter into the holy of holies. with all his rich robes and jewels laid aside, clad only in simple white, with bare feet and covered head, he had to go four times into the awful presence. once to offer incense, once to pray, to sprinkle the blood of a goat towards the mercy-seat, and then to bring out the censer. that was the day when two goats were taken; by casting lots one was chosen for a sacrifice. on the other the high priest laid the sins of the people, and it was driven out into the wilderness, to be dashed to pieces from some high cliff. tears came into joel's eyes, as he watched the scape-goat driven away into the dreary desert. he pitied the poor beast doomed to such a death because of his nation's sins. then came the closing ceremonies, when the great congregation bowed themselves three times to the ground, with the high priest shouting solemnly, "ye are clean! ye are clean! ye are clean!" joel was glad when the last rite was over, and the people started to their homes, as gay now as they had been serious before. "when are we going back to our other home?" asked ruth, one day. "why, are you not happy here, little daughter?" said abigail. "i thought you had forgotten all about the old place." "i want my white pigeons," she said, with a quivering lip, as if she had suddenly remembered them. "i don't want my father not to be here!" she sobbed; "and i want my white pigeons!" abigail picked her up and comforted her. "wait just a little while. i think father will surely come soon. i will get my embroidery, and you may go with me across the street." ruth had been shy at first about going to see her mother's friends; but martha coaxed her in with honey cakes she baked for that express purpose, and mary told her stories and taught her little games. after a while she began to flit in and out of the house as fearlessly as a bright-winged butterfly. one day her mother was sitting with the sisters in a shady corner of their court-yard, where a climbing honeysuckle made a cool sweet arbor. ruth was going from one to the other, watching the bright embroidery threads take the shape of flowers under their skilful fingers. suddenly she heard the faint tinkle of a silver bell. while she stood with one finger on her lip to listen, lazarus came into the court-yard. "see what i have brought you, little one," he said. "it is to take the place of the pigeons you are always mourning for." it was a snow-white lamb, around which he had twined a garland of many colored flowers, and from whose neck hung the little silver bell she had heard. at first the child was so delighted she could only bury her dimpled fingers in the soft fleece, and look at it in speechless wonder. then she caught his hand, and left a shy little kiss on it, as she lisped, "oh, you're so good! you're so good!" after that day ruth followed lazarus as the white lamb followed ruth; and the sisters hardly knew which sounded sweeter in their quiet home, the tinkling of the silver bell, or the happy prattle of the baby voice. abigail spent many happy hours with her friends. one day as they sat in the honeysuckle arbor, busily sewing, ruth and jesse came running towards them. "i see my father coming, and another man," cried the boy. "i'm going to meet them." they all hastened to the door, just as the tired, dusty travellers reached it. "peace be to this house, and all who dwell therein," said the stranger, before phineas could give his wife and friends a warmer greeting. "we went first to your father's house, but, finding no one at home, came here," said phineas. "come in!" insisted martha. "you look sorely in need of rest and refreshment." but they had a message to deliver before they could be persuaded to eat or wash. "the master is coming," said phineas. "he has sent out seventy of his followers, to go by twos into every town, and herald his approach, and proclaim that the day of the lord is at hand. we have gone even into samaria to carry the tidings there." "at last, at last!" cried mary, clasping her hands. "oh, to think that i have lived to see this day of israel's glory!" "tell us what the master has been doing," urged abigail, after the men had been refreshed by food and water. first one and then the other told of miracles they had seen, and repeated what he had taught. even the children crept close to listen, leaning against their father's knees. "there has been much discussion about the kingdom that is to be formed. while we were in peter's house in capernaum, some of the disciples came quarrelling around him, to ask who should have the highest positions. i suppose those who have followed him longest think they have claim to the best offices." "what did he say?" asked abigail, eagerly. phineas laid his hand on ruth's soft curls. "he took a little child like this, and set it in our midst, and said that he who would be greatest in his kingdom, must become even like unto it!" "faith and love and purity on the throne of the herods," cried martha. "ah, only jehovah can bring such a thing as that to pass!" "are you going to stay at home now, father?" asked jesse, anxiously. "no, my son. i must go on the morrow to carry my report to the master, of the reception we have had in every town. but i will soon be back again to the feast of tabernacles." "carry with you our earnest prayer that the master will abide with us when he comes again to bethany," said martha, as her guests departed. "no one is so welcome in our home, as the friend of our brother lazarus." the preparation for the feast of the tabernacles had begun. "i am going to take the children to the city with me to-day!" said reuben, one morning, "to see the big booth i am having built. it will hold all our family, and as many friends as may care to share it with us." jesse was charmed with the great tent of green boughs. "i wish i could have been one of the children that moses led up out of egypt," he said, with a sigh. "why, my son?" asked reuben. "so's i could have wandered around for forty years, living in a tent like this. how good it smells, and how pretty it is! i wish you and grandmother would live here all the time!" the next day phineas joined them. it was a happy family that gathered in the leafy booth for a week of out-door rejoicing in the cool autumn time. "where is the master?" asked abigail. "i know not," answered her husband. "he sent us on before." "will he be here, i wonder?" she asked, and that question was on nearly every lip in jerusalem. "will he be here?" asked the throngs of pilgrims who had heard of his miracles, and longed to see the man who could do such marvellous things. "will he be here?" whispered the scribes to the pharisees. "let him beware!" "will he be here?" muttered caiaphas the high priest. "then better one man should die, than that the whole community perish." the sight that dazzled the eyes of the children that first evening of the week, was like fairyland; a blaze of lanterns and torches lit up the whole city. in the court of the women, in the temple, all the golden lamps were lit, twinkling and burning like countless stars. on the steps that separated this court from the next one, stood three thousand singers, the sons and daughters of the tribe of levi. two priests stood at the top of the steps, and as each gave the signal on a great silver trumpet, the burst of song that went up from the vast choir seemed to shake the very heavens. harps and psalters and flutes swelled with the rolling waves of the organ's melody. to the sound of this music, men marched with flaming torches in their hands, and the marching and a weird torch-dance were kept up until the gates of the temple closed. in the midst of all the feasting and the gayeties that followed, the long-expected voice was heard in the arcades of the temple. the child of nazareth was once more in his father's house about his father's business. on the last great day of the feast, joel was up at day-break, ready to follow the older members of the family as soon as the first trumpet-blast should sound. in his right hand he carried a citron, as did all the others; in his left was a palm-branch, the emblem of joy. an immense multitude gathered at the spring of siloam. water was drawn in a golden pitcher, and carried back to be poured on the great altar, while the choir sang with its thousands of voices, and all the people shouted, amen and amen! when the days had gone by in which the seventy bullocks had been sacrificed, and when the ceremonies were all over, then the leaves were stripped from the green booths, and the people scattered to their homes. long afterward, jesse remembered only the torch-light dances, the silver trumpets and the crowds, and the faint ringing of the fringe of bells on the priest's robes as he carried the fire on the golden shovel to burn the sweet-smelling incense. joel's memory rang often with two cries that had startled the people. one when the water was poured from the golden pitcher. it was the master's voice: "_if any man thirst, let him come unto me_." the other was when all eyes were turned on the blazing lamps. "_i am the light of the world!_" reuben thought oftenest of the blind man to whom he had seen sight restored. but lazarus was filled with anxiety and foreboding; through his office of scribe, he had come in close contact with the men who were plotting against his friend. dark rumors were afloat. the air was hot with whisperings of hate. he had overheard a conversation between the temple police, and some of the chief priests and pharisees. "why did ye not take him, as ye were ordered?" they demanded angrily. "we could not," was the response; "for never man spake like this man." he had seen the mob searching for stones to throw at him. though he had disappeared out of their midst unhurt, still lazarus felt that some terrible disaster was hanging threateningly over the head of his beloved friend. chapter xii. it was with a deep feeling of relief that the two families watched the master go away into perea. phineas still kept with him. as the little band disappeared down the street, ruth hid her face in her mother's dress and began to cry. "i don't want my father to go away again!" she sobbed. abigail took her in her lap and tried to comfort her, although there were tears in her own eyes. "we will go home soon, little daughter, and then father will be with us all the time. but we must wait first, till after the cold, rainy season, and the feast of dedication." "what! another feast?" asked jesse, to whom the summer had seemed one long confusion of festivals. "don't they have lots of them down in this country! what's this one for?" "grandfather will tell you," answered his mother. "run out and ask him for the story. i know you will like it." seated on his grandfather's knee, jesse doubled up his little fists, as he heard how a heathen altar had once been set up on the great altar of burnt-offering, and a heathen general had driven a herd of swine through the holy temple, making it unclean. but his breath came quick, and his eyes shone, as the proud old israelite told him of judas the maccabee, judas the lion-hearted, who had whipped the syrian soldiers, purified the temple, and dedicated it anew to the worship of jehovah. "our people never forget their heroes," ended the old man. "every year, in every home, no matter how humble, one candle is lighted at the beginning of the feast; the next night, two, and the next night, three, and so on, till eight candles shine out into the winter darkness. "for so the brave deeds of the maccabees burn in the memory of every child of abraham!" the feast came and went. while the candles burned in every home, and the golden lamps in the great temple blazed a welcome, the nazarene came back to his father's house, to be once more about his father's business. joel caught a glimpse of him walking up and down the covered porches in front of the gate beautiful. the next moment he was pushing and elbowing his way through the jostling crowds, till he stood close beside him. after that, the services that followed were a blank. he saw only one face,--the face that had looked into his beside the galilee, and drawn from his heart its intensest love. he heard only one voice,--the voice he had longed for all these weeks and days. just to be near him! to be able to reach out reverent fingers and only touch the clothes he wore; to look up in his face, and look and look with a love that never wearied,--that was such happiness that joel was lost to everything else! but after a while he began to realize that it was for no friendly purpose that the chief priests came pressing around with questions. "if thou be the christ, tell us plainly," they demanded. then up and down through the long porch of solomon, among all its white marble pillars, they repeated his answer:-"the works that i do in my father's name, they bear witness of me. i and my father are one!" "blasphemy!" shouted a mocking voice behind him. "blasphemy!" echoed pharisee and sadducee for once agreed. the crowds pushed and shoved between the pillars; some ran out for stones. in the confusion of the uproar, as they turned to lay violent hands on him, he slipped out of their midst, and went quietly away. joel hunted around awhile for the party he had come with, but seeing neither phineas nor lazarus, started back to bethany on the run. a cold winter rain had begun to fall. none of reuben's family had gone into jerusalem that day on account of the weather, but were keeping the feast at home. they were startled when the usually quiet boy burst excitedly into the house, and told them what he had just seen. "o mother abigail!" he cried, throwing himself on his knees beside her. "if he goes away again may i not go with him? i cannot go back to galilee and leave him, unknowing what is to happen. if he is to be persecuted and driven out, and maybe killed, let me at least share his suffering, and be with him at the last!" "you forget that he has all power, and that his enemies can do him no harm," said abigail, gently. "has he not twice walked out unharmed, before their very eyes, when they would have taken him? and besides what good could you do, my boy? you forget you are only a child, and might not be able to stand the hardships of such a journey." "i am almost fourteen," said joel, stretching himself up proudly. "and i am as strong now as some of the men who go with him. _he_ gave me back my strength, you know. oh, you do not know how i love him!" he cried. "when i am away from him, i feel as you would were you separated from jesse and ruth and father phineas. my heart is always going out after him!" "child, have you no care for us?" she responded reproachfully. "oh, do not speak so!" he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it. "i _do_ love you; i can never be grateful enough for all you have done for me. but, o mother abigail, you could never understand! you were never lame and felt the power of his healing. you were never burning with a wicked hatred, and felt the balm of his forgiveness! you cannot understand how he draws me to him!" "let the boy have his way," spoke up reuben. "i, too, have felt that wonderful power that draws all men to him. gladly would i part with every shekel i possess, if i thereby might win him the favor of the authorities." when once more a little band of fugitives followed their master across the jordan, joel was with them. the winter wore away, and they still tarried. day by day, they were listening to the simple words that dropped like seeds into their memories, to spring up in after months and bear great truths. now they heard them as half understood parables,--the good samaritan, the barren fig-tree, the prodigal son, the unjust steward. there was one story that thrilled joel deeply,--the story of the lost sheep. for he recalled that stormy night in the sheepfold of nathan ben obed, and the shepherd who searched till dawn for the straying lamb. it was only long afterwards that he realized it was the good shepherd himself who told the story, when he was about to lay down his own life for the lost sheep of israel. * * * * * meanwhile in bethany, rabbi reuben and his wife rejoiced that their daughter's visit stretched out indefinitely. jesse openly declared that he intended to stay there always, and learn to be a goldsmith like his grandfather. ruth, too, was happy and contented, and seemed to have forgotten that she ever had any other home. as the early spring days came on, she lived almost entirely out in the sunshine. she had fallen into the habit of standing at the gate to watch for lazarus every evening when he came back from the temple. as soon as she saw him turn the corner into their street, she ran to meet him, her fair curls and white dress fluttering in the wind. no matter how tired he was, or what cares rested heavily on his mind, the pale face always lighted up, and his dark eyes smiled at her coming. "lazarus does not seem well, lately," she heard martha say to her mother one day. "i have been trying to persuade him to rest a few days; but he insists he cannot until he has finished the scroll he is illuminating." a few days after that he did not go to the city as usual. ruth peeped into the darkened room where he was resting on a couch; his eyes were closed, and he was so pale it almost frightened her. he did not hear her when she tiptoed into the room and out again; but the fragrance of the little stemless rose she laid on his pillow aroused him. he opened his eyes and smiled languidly, as he caught sight of her slipping noiselessly through the door. her mother, sewing by the window, looked out and saw her running across the street. jesse was out in front of the house, playing with a ball. "who is that boy talking to jesse?" asked abigail of rebecca, who stood in the doorway, holding out her arms as ruth came up. "why, that is little joseph, the only son of simon the leper. poor child!" "simon the leper," repeated abigail. "a stranger to me." "surely not. have you forgotten the wealthy young oil-seller who lived next the synagogue? he has the richest olive groves in this part of the country." "not the husband of my little playmate esther!" cried abigail. "surely he has not been stricken with leprosy!" "yes; it is one of the saddest cases i ever heard of. it seems so terrible for a man honored as he has been, and accustomed to every luxury, to be such a despised outcast." "poor esther!" sighed abigail. "does she ever see him?" "not now. the disease is fast destroying him; and he is such a hideous sight that he has forbidden her to ever try to see him again. even his voice is changed. of course he would be stoned if he were to come back. he never seeks the company of other lepers. she has had a room built for him away from the sight of men. every day a servant carries him food and tidings. it is well that they have money, or he would be obliged to live among the tombs with others as repulsive-looking as himself, and such company must certainly be worse than none. sometimes little joseph is taken near enough to speak to him, that he may have the poor comfort of seeing his only child at a distance." "what if it were my phineas!" exclaimed abigail, her tears dropping fast on the needlework she held. "oh, it is a thousand times worse than death!" out in the street the boys were making each other's acquaintance in the off-hand way boys of that age have. "my name is jesse. what's yours?" "joseph." "where do you live?" "around the corner, next to the synagogue." "my father is a carpenter. what's yours?" joseph hesitated. "he used to be an oil-seller," he said finally. "he doesn't do anything now." "why?" persisted jesse. "he is a leper now," was the reluctant answer. a look of distress came over jesse's face. he had seen some lepers once, and the sight was still fresh in his mind. as they were riding down from galilee, joel had pointed them out to him. a group of beggars with horrible scaly sores that had eaten away their flesh, till some were left without lips or eyelids; one held out a deathly white hand from which nearly all the fingers had dropped. their hair looked like white wire, and they called out, in shrill, cracked voices, "unclean! unclean! come not near us!" "how terrible to have one's father like that," thought jesse. a lump seemed to come up in his throat; his eyes filled with tears at the bare idea. then, boy-like, he tossed up his ball, and forgot all about it in the game that followed. several days after he met joseph and a servant who was carrying a large, covered basket and a water-bottle made of skin. "i'm going to see my father, now," said joseph. "ask your mother if you can come with me." jesse started towards his home, then turned suddenly. "no, i'm not going to ask her, for she'll be sure to say no. i am just going anyhow." "you'll catch it when you get home!" exclaimed joseph. "well, it cannot last long," reasoned jesse, whose curiosity had gotten the better of him. "i believe i'd rather take a whipping than not to go." joseph looked at him in utter astonishment. "yes, i would," he insisted; "so come on!" a short walk down an unfrequented road, in the direction of jericho, took them to a lonely place among the bare cliffs. a little cabin stood close against the rocks, with a great sycamore-tree bending over it. near by was the entrance to a deep cave, always as cool as a cellar, even in the hottest summer days. at the mouth of the cave sat simon the leper. he stood up when he saw them coming, and wrapped himself closely in a white linen mantle that covered him from head to foot. it was a ghostly sight to jesse; but to joseph, so long accustomed to it, there seemed nothing strange. at a safe distance the servant emptied his basket on a large flat rock, and poured the water into a stone jar standing near. last of all, he laid a piece of parchment on the stone. it was esther's daily letter to her exiled husband. no matter what storms swept the valley, or what duties pressed at home, that little missive was always sent. she had learned to write for his sake. by all his friends he was accounted dead; but her love, stronger than death, bridged the gulf that separated them. she lived only to minister to his comfort as best she could. simon did not send as long a message in return as this trusted messenger usually carried. he had much to say to his boy, and the sun was already high. jesse, lagging behind in the shelter of the rock, heard the tender words of counsel and blessing that came from the white-sheeted figure with a feeling of awe. as the father urged his boy to be faithful to every little duty, careful in learning the prayers, and above all obedient to his mother, jesse's conscience began to prick him sorely. "i believe i know somebody that could cure him," he said, as they picked their way over the rocks, going home. "'cause he made joel well." "who's joel?" asked joseph. "a boy that lives with us. he was just as lame, and limped way over when he walked. now he is as straight as i am. all the sick people where i lived went to him, and they got well." joseph shook his head. "lepers can't be cured. can they, seth?" he asked, appealing to the servant. "no, lepers are just the same as dead," answered seth. "there's no help for them." jesse was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind, as, hot and dusty, he left his companion and dragged home at a snail's pace. next morning joseph was waiting for him out in front. "well, did she whip you?" he asked, with embarrassing frankness. "no," said jesse, a little sheepishly. "she put me to bed just as soon as i had eaten my dinner, and made me stay there till this morning." chapter xiii. ruth went every day to ask for her sick friend, sometimes with a bunch of grapes, sometimes with only a flower in her warm little hand. but there came a time when martha met her, with eyes all swollen and red from crying, and told her they had sent to the city for a skilful physician. in the night there came a loud knocking at the door, and a call for rabbi reuben to come quickly, that lazarus was worse. at day-break a messenger was sent clattering away to hurry over the jordan in hot haste, and bring back from perea the only one who could help them. the noise awakened ruth; she sat up in surprise to see her mother dressed so early. the outer door was ajar, and she heard the message that the anxious martha bade the man deliver: "lord, he whom thou lovest is sick." "he will come right away and make him well, won't he, mother?" she asked anxiously. "surely, my child," answered abigail. "he loves him too well to let him suffer so." but the day wore on, and the next; still another, and he did not come. ruth stole around like a frightened shadow, because of the anxious looks on every face. "why doesn't he come?" she wondered; and on many another lip was the same question. she was so quiet, no one noticed when she stole into the room where her friend lay dying. mary knelt on one side of the bed, martha on the other, watching the breath come slower and slower, and clinging to the unresponsive hands as if their love could draw him back to life. neither shed a tear, but seemed to watch with their souls in their eyes, for one more word, one more look of recognition. abigail sat by the window, weeping softly. ruth had never seen her mother cry before, and it frightened her. she glanced at her grandfather, standing by the foot of the bed; two great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and dropped on his long beard. a sudden cry from mary, as she fell fainting to the floor, called her attention to the bed again. martha was silently rocking herself to and fro, in an agony of grief. still the child did not understand. those in the room were so busy trying to bring mary back to consciousness, that no one noticed ruth. drawn by some impulse she could not understand, the child drew nearer and nearer. then she laid her soft little hand on his, thinking the touch would surely make him open his eyes and smile at her again; it had often done so before. but what was it that made her start back terrified, and shrink away trembling? it was not lazarus she had touched, but the awful mystery of death. "i did not know that a little child could feel so deeply," said abigail to her mother, when she found that ruth neither ate nor played, but wandered aimlessly around. "i shall keep her away from the funeral." but all her care could not keep from the little one's ears the mournful music of the funeral dirge, or the wailing of the mourners, who gathered to do honor to the young man whom all bethany knew and loved. many friends came out from jerusalem to follow the long procession to the tomb. there was a long eulogy at the grave; but the most impressive ceremony was over at last, and the great stone had to be rolled into the opening that formed the doorway. then the two desolate sisters went back to their lonely home and empty life, wondering how they could go on without the presence that had been such a daily benediction. the fourth day after his death, as martha sat listlessly looking out of the green arbor with unseeing eyes, ruth ran in with a radiant face. "he's come!" she cried. "he's come, and so has my father. hurry! he is waiting for you!" martha drew her veil about her, and mechanically followed the eager child to the gate, where phineas met her with the same message. "oh, why did he not come sooner?" she thought bitterly, as she pressed on after her guide. once outside of the village, she drew aside her veil. there stood the master, with such a look of untold sympathy on his worn face, that martha cried out, "lord, if thou hadst been here my brother had not died!" "thy brother shall rise again," he said gently. "yes, i know he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day," she said brokenly. "that brings hope for the future; but what comfort is there for the lonely years we must live without him?" the tears streamed down her face again. then for the first time came those words that have brought balm into thousands of broken hearts, and hope into countless tear-blind eyes. "i am the resurrection and the life. he that believeth in me shall never die. believest thou this?" martha looked up reverently. "yea, lord, i believe that thou art the christ, the son of god which should come into the world." a great peace came over her troubled spirit as she hurried to her home, where the many friends still sat who had come to comfort them. a number of them were from jerusalem, and she knew that among them were some who were unfriendly to her brother's friend. so she quietly called her sister from the room, whispering, "the master is come, and calleth for thee!" those who sat there thought they were going to the grave to weep, as was the custom. so they rose also, and followed at a little distance. mary met him with the same exclamation that her sister had uttered, and fell at his feet. he, seeing in her white face the marks of the deep grief she had suffered, was thrilled to the depths of his humanity by the keenest sympathy. his tears fell too, at the sight of hers. "behold how he loved lazarus!" said a man to the one who stood beside him. "why did he not save him then?" was the mocking answer. "they say he has the power to open the eyes of the blind, and even to raise the dead. let him show it in this case!" it was a curious crowd that followed him to the door of the tomb: men who hated him for the scorching fire-brands of rebuke he had thrown into their corrupt lives; men who feared him as a dangerous teacher of false doctrines; men who knew his good works, but hesitated either to accept or refuse; and men who loved him better than life,--all waiting, wondering what he would do. "roll the stone away!" he commanded; a dozen strong shoulders bent to do his bidding. then he looked up and spoke in a low tone, but so distinctly that no one lost a word. "father," he said,--he seemed to be speaking to some one just beside him,--"i thank thee that thou hast heard me, and i knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by i said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me." a cold shiver of expectancy ran over those who heard. then he cried, in a loud voice, "_lazarus, come forth!_" there was a dreadful pause. some of the women clutched each other with frightened shrieks; even strong men fell back, as out of the dark grave walked a tall figure wrapped in white grave-clothes. his face was hidden in a napkin. "loose him, and let him go," said the master, calmly. phineas stepped forward and loosened the outer bands. when the napkin fell from his face, they saw he was deathly white; but in an instant a warm, healthful glow took the place of the corpse-like pallor. not till he spoke, however, could the frightened people believe that it was lazarus, and not a ghost they saw. never had there been such a sight since the world began: the man who had lain four days in the tomb, walking side by side with the man who had called him back to life. the streets were full of people, laughing, shouting, crying, fairly beside themselves with astonishment. smiths left their irons to cool on the anvils; bakers left their bread to burn in the ovens; the girl at the fountain dropped her half-filled pitcher; and a woman making cakes ran into the street with the dough in her hands. every house in the village stood empty, save one where a sick man moaned for water all unheeded, and another where a baby wakened in its cradle and began to cry. long after the reunited family had gone into their home with their nearest friends, and shut the door on their overwhelming joy, the crowds still stood outside, talking among themselves. many who had taken part against the master before, now believed on account of what they had seen. but some still said, more openly than before, "he is in league with the evil one, or he could not do such things." these hurried back to jerusalem, to spread the report that this dangerous man had again appeared, almost at the very gates of the great capital. that night there was a secret council of the chief priests and the pharisees. "what shall we do," was the anxious question. "if we let him alone, all men will believe on him; and the romans shall come and take away both our place and our nation." every heart beat with the same thought, but only caiaphas put it in words. at last he dared repeat what he had only muttered to himself before: "it is expedient for us that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not." while the streets were still full of people, jesse crept up to joel, as they sat together in the court-yard. "don't you think it would be just as easy to cure a leper as to raise rabbi lazarus from the dead?" "yes, indeed!" answered joel, positively, "i've seen it done." "oh, have you?" cried the boy, in delight. "then joseph can have his father back again." he told him the story of simon the leper, and of his visit to the lonely cave. joel's sympathies were aroused at once. ever since his own cure, he had felt that he must bring every afflicted one in the wide world to the great source of healing. just then a man stopped at the gate to ask for phineas. joel had learned to know him well in the weeks they had been travelling together; it was thomas. the boy sprang up eagerly. "do you know when the master is going to leave bethany?" he asked. "in the morning," answered thomas, "and right glad i am that it is to be so soon. for when we came down here, i thought it was but to die with him. he is beset on all sides by secret enemies." "and will he go out by the same road that we came?" "it is most probable." joel waited for no more information from him, but went back to jesse to learn the way to the cave. jesse was a little fellow, but a keen-eyed one, and was able to give joel the few simple directions that would lead him the right way. "oh, i'm so glad you are going!" he exclaimed. "shall i run and tell joseph what you are going to do?" "no, do not say a word to any one," answered joel. "i shall be back in a very short time." chapter xiv. simon the leper sat at the door of his cave. he held a roll of vellum in his unsightly fingers; it was a copy of the psalms that lazarus had once made for him in happier days. many a time he had found comfort in these hope-inspiring songs of david; but to-day he was reading a wail that seemed to come from the depths of his own soul: "thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. thou hast put mine acquaintance far from me. thou hast made me an abomination unto them. i am shut up and i cannot come forth. lord, i have called daily upon thee. i have stretched out my hands unto thee. wilt thou show wonders to the dead? shall the dead arise again and praise thee? lord, why casteth thou off my soul? why hidest thou thy face from me?" the roll dropped to the ground, and he hid his face in his hands, crying, "how long must i endure this? oh, why was i not taken instead of lazarus?" the sound of some one scrambling over the rocks made him look up quickly. seth never made his visits at this time of the day, and strangers had never before found the path to this out-of-the-way place. joel came on, and stopped by the rock where the water-jar stood. simon stood up, covering himself with his mantle, and crying out, warningly, "beware! unclean! come no further!" "i bring you news from the village," said joel. the man threw out his hand with a gesture of alarm. "oh, not of my wife esther," he cried, imploringly, "or of my little joseph! i could not bear to hear aught of ill from them. my heart is still sore for the death of my friend lazarus. i went as near the village as i dared, and heard the dirge of the flutes and the wailing of the women, when they laid him in the tomb. i have sat here ever since in sackcloth and ashes." "but lazarus lives again!" exclaimed joel, simply. he had seen so many miracles lately, that he forgot the startling effect such an announcement would have on one not accustomed to them. [illustration: "'you but mock me, boy'"] the man stood petrified with astonishment. at last he said bitterly, "you but mock me, boy; at least leave me to my sorrow in peace." "no!" cried joel. "as the lord liveth, i swear it is the truth. have you not heard that messiah has come? i have followed him up and down the country, and know whereof i speak. at a word from him the dumb sing, the blind see, and the lame walk. i was lame myself, and he made me as you see me now." joel drew himself up to his fullest height. simon looked at him, completely puzzled. "why did you take the trouble to come and tell me that,--a poor despised leper?" he finally asked. "because i want everybody else to be as happy as i am. he cured me. he gave me back my strength. then why should not my feet be always swift to bring others to him for the same happy healing? he himself goes about all the time doing good. i know there is hope for you, for i have seen him cleanse lepers." simon trembled, as the full meaning of the hope held out to him began to make itself clear to his confused mind: health, home, esther, child,--all restored to him. it was joy too great to be possible. "oh, if i could only believe it!" he cried. "lazarus was raised when he had been four days dead. all bethany can bear witness to that," persisted joel. the words poured out with such force and earnestness, as he described the scene, that simon felt impelled to believe him. "where can i find this man?" he asked. joel pointed down the rocky slope. "take that road that leads into bethany. come early in the morning, and as we all pass that way, call to him. he never refuses any who have faith to believe that he can grant what they ask." when joel was half-way down the hill, he turned back. "if he should not pass on the morrow," he said, "do not fail to be there on the second day. we will surely leave here soon." simon stood in bewilderment till the boy had passed down the hill; he began to fear that this messenger had been only the creation of a dream. he climbed upon the cliff and peered down into the valley. no, he had not been deceived; the boy was no mirage of his thirsty soul, for there, he came out into full sight again, and now, he was climbing the opposite hillside. "how beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of him who bringeth good tidings!" he murmured. "oh, what a heaven opens out before me, if this lad's words are only true!" next morning, after they left bethany, joel looked anxiously behind every rock and tree that they passed; but simon was not to be seen. presently joel saw him waiting farther down the road; he was kneeling in the dust. the white mantle, that in his sensitiveness was always used to hide himself from view, was cast aside, that the great healer might see his great need. he scanned the approaching figures with imploring eyes. he was looking for the messiah,--some one in kingly garments, whose jewelled sceptre's lightest touch would lay upon him the royal accolade of health. these were evidently not the ones he was waiting for. these were only simple wayfarers; most of them looked like galileans. he was about to rise up with his old warning cry of unclean, when he caught sight of joel. but where was the princely redeemer of prophecy? nearer and nearer they came, till he could look full in their faces. no need now to ask on which one he should call for help; indeed, he seemed to see but one face, it was so full of loving pity. "o thou messiah of israel!" he prayed. "thou didst call my friend lazarus from the dead, o pass me not by! call me from this living death! make me clean!" the eyes that looked down into his seemed to search his soul. "believest thou that i can do this?" the pleading faith in simon's eyes could not be refused. "yea, lord," he cried, "thou hast but to speak the word!" he waited, trembling, for the answer that meant life or death to him. "i will. be thou clean!" he put out his hand to raise the kneeling man to his feet. "go and show thyself to the priests," he added. the party passed on, and simon stood looking after them. _was_ it the christ who had passed by? where were his dyed garments from bozrah? the prophet foretold him as glorious in apparel, travelling in the greatness of his strength. no sceptre of divine power had touched him; it was only the clasp of a warm human hand he had felt. he looked down at himself. still a leper! his faith wavered; but he remembered he had not obeyed the command to show himself to the priests. immediately he started across the fields on a run, towards the road leading into jerusalem. far down the highway joel heard a mighty shout; he turned and looked back. there on the brow of a hill, sharply outlined against the sky, stood simon. his arms were lifted high up towards heaven; for as he ran, in obedience to the command, the leprosy had gone from him. he was pouring out a flood of praise and thanksgiving, in the first ecstasy of his recovery, at the top of his voice. joel thought of the tiresome ceremonies to be observed before the man could go home, and wished that the eight days of purification were over, that the little family might be immediately reunited. meanwhile, seth, with his basket and water-bottle, was climbing the hill toward the cave. for the first time in seven years since he had commenced these daily visits, no expectant voice greeted him. he went quite close up to the little room under the cliff; he could see through the half-open door that it was empty. then he cautiously approached the mouth of the cave, and called his master. a hundred echoes answered him, but no human voice responded. call after call was sent ringing into the hollow darkness. the deep stillness weighed heavily upon him; he began to be afraid that somewhere in its mysterious depths lay a dead body. the fear mastered him. only stopping to put down the food and pour out the water, he started home at the top of his speed. as he reached the road, a traveller going to bethany hailed him. "what think you that i saw just now?" asked the stranger. "a man running with all his might towards jerusalem. tears of joy were streaming down his cheeks, and he was shouting as he ran, 'cleansed! cleansed! cleansed!' he stopped me, and bade me say, if i met a man carrying a basket and water-skin, that simon the leper has just been healed of the leprosy. he will be home as soon as the days of purification are over." seth gazed at him stupidly, feeling that he must be in a dream. esther, too, heard the message unbelievingly. yet she walked the floor in a fever of excitement, at the bare possibility of such a thing being true. the next morning, she sent seth, as usual, with the provisions. but he brought them back, saying the place was still deserted. then she began to dare to hope; although she tried to steel herself against disappointment, by whispering over and over that she could never see him again, she waited impatiently for the days to pass. at last they had all dragged by. the new day would begin at sunset, the very earliest time that she might expect him. the house was swept and garnished as if a king were coming. the table was set with the choicest delicacies seth could find in the jerusalem markets. the earliest roses, his favorite red ones, were put in every room. in her restless excitement nothing in her wardrobe seemed rich enough to wear. she tried on one ornament after another before she was suited. then, all in white, with jewels blazing in her ears, on her throat, on her little white hands, and her eyes shining like two glad stars, she sat down to wait for him. but she could not keep still. this rug was turned up at the corner; that rose had dropped its petals on the floor. she would have another kind of wine on the table. at last she stepped out of the door in her little silken-bound sandals, and climbed the outside stairs to the roof, to watch for him. the sun was entirely out of sight, but the west was glorious with the red gold of its afterglow. looking up the mount of olives, she could see the smoke of the evening sacrifice rising as the clouds of incense filled the temple. surely he must be far on the way by this time. her heart almost stopped beating as she saw a figure coming up the road, between the rows of palm-trees. she strained her eyes for a nearer view, then drew a long tremulous breath. it was lazarus; there went the two children and the lamb to meet him. all along the street, people were standing in the doors to see him go past; he was still a wonder to them. she shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked again. but while her gaze searched the distant road, some one was passing just below, under the avenue of leafy trees, with quick impatient tread; some one paused at the vine-covered door; some one was leaping up the stairs three steps at a time; some one was coming towards her with out-stretched arms, crying, "esther, little esther, o my wife! my god-given one!" for the first time in seven years, she turned to find herself in her husband's arms. strong and well, with the old light in his eyes, the old thrill in his voice, the glow of perfect health tingling through all his veins, he could only whisper tremulously, as he held her close, "praise god! praise god!" no wonder he seemed like a stranger to joseph. but the clasp of the strong arms, and the deep voice saying "my son," so tenderly, were inexpressibly dear to the little fellow kept so long from his birthright of a father's love. he was the first to break the happy silence that fell upon them. "what a good man rabbi jesus must be, to go about making people glad like this all the time!" "it is he who shall redeem israel!" exclaimed simon. "to god be the glory, who hath sent him into this sin-cursed world! henceforth all that i have, and all that i am, shall be dedicated to his service!" kneeling there in the dying daylight, with his arms around the wife and child so unexpectedly given back to him, such a heart-felt prayer of gratitude went upward to the good father that even the happiest angels must have paused to listen, more glad because of this great earth-gladness below. chapter xv. "i think there will be an unusual gathering of strangers at the passover this year," said rabbi reuben to lazarus, as they came out together from the city, one afternoon. "the number may even reach three millions. a travelling man from rome was in my shop to-day. he says that in the remotest parts of the earth, wherever the hebrew tongue is found, one may hear the name of the messiah. "people pacing the decks of the ships, crossing the deserts, or trading in the shops, talk only of him and his miracles; they have aroused the greatest interest even in athens and the cities of the nile. the very air seems full of expectancy. i cannot but think great things are about to come to pass. surely the time is now ripe for jesus to proclaim himself king. i cannot understand why he should hide himself away in the wilderness as if he feared for his safety." lazarus smiled at the old man, with a confident expression. "be sure, my friend, it is only because the hour has not yet come. what a sight it will be when he does stand before the tomb of our long dead power, to call back the nation to its old-time life and grandeur. i can well believe that with him all things are possible." "would that this next passover were the time!" responded reuben. "how i would rejoice to see his enemies laid low in the dust!" already, on the borders of galilee, the expected king had started toward his coronation. many of the old friends and neighbors from capernaum had joined their band, to go on to the paschal feast. they made slow progress, however, for at every turn in the road they were stopped by outstretched hands and cries for help. nearly every step was taken to the sound of some rejoicing cry from some one who had been blessed. joel could not crowd all the scenes into his memory; but some stood with clear-cut distinctness. there were the ten lepers who met them at the very outset; and there was blind bartimeus begging by the wayside. he could never forget the expression of that man's face, when his eyes were opened, and for the first time he looked out on the glory of the morning sunshine. joel quivered all over with a thrill of sympathy, remembering his own healing, and realizing more than the others what had been done for the blind beggar. then there was zaccheus, climbing up to look down through the sycamore boughs that he might see the master passing into jericho, and zaccheus scrambling down again in haste to provide entertainment for his honored guest. there was the young ruler going away sorrowful because the sacrifice asked of him was more than he was willing to make. but there was one scene that his memory held in unfading colors:-roses and wild honeysuckle climbing over a bank by the road-side. orange-trees dropping a heavy fragrance with the falling petals of their white blossoms. in the midst of the shade and the bloom the mothers from the village near by, gathering with their children, all freshly washed and dressed to find favor in the eyes of the passing prophet. babies cooed in their mother's arms. bright little faces smiled out from behind protecting skirts, to which timid fingers clung. as they waited for the coming procession, and little bare feet chased each other up and down the bank, the happy laughter of the older children filled all the sunny air. as the travellers came on, the women caught up their children and crowded forward. it was a sight that would have made almost any one pause,--those innocent-eyed little ones waiting for the touch that would keep them always pure in heart,--that blessing their mothers coveted for them. but some of the disciples, impatient at the many delays, seeing in the rosy faces and dimpled limbs nothing that seemed to claim help or attention, spoke to the women impatiently. "why trouble ye the master?" they said. "would ye stop the great work he has come to do for matters of such little importance?" repelled by the rebuke, they fell back. but there was a look of displeasure on his face, such as they had never seen before, as jesus turned toward them. "suffer the little children to come unto me," he said, sternly, "and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven!" then holding out his hands he took them up in his arms and blessed them, every one, even the youngest baby, that blinked up at him unknowingly with its big dark eyes, received its separate blessing. so fearlessly they came to him, so lovingly they nestled in his arms, and with such perfect confidence they clung to him, that he turned again to his disciples. "verily i say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of god as a little child, he shall not enter therein." met at all points as he had been by loathsome sights, ragged beggars, and diseases of all kinds, this group of happy-faced children must have remained long in his memory, as sweet as the unexpected blossoming of a rose in a dreary desert. at last the slow journey drew towards a close. the friday afternoon before the passover found the tired travellers once more in bethany. news of their coming had been brought several hours before by a man riding down from jericho. his swift-footed beast had overtaken and passed the slow procession far back on the road. there was a joyful welcome for the master in the home of lazarus. the cool, vine-covered arbor was a refreshing change from the dusty road. here were no curious throngs and constant demands for help. away from the sights that oppressed him, away from the clamor and the criticism, here was a place where heart and body might find rest. the peace of the place, and the atmosphere of sympathy surrounding him, must have fallen like dew on his thirsty soul. here, for a few short days, he who had been so long a houseless wanderer was to know the blessedness of a home. several hours before the first trumpet blast from the roof of the synagogue proclaimed the approaching sabbath, simon hurried to his home. "esther," he called in great excitement, "i have seen him! the christ! i have knelt at his feet. i have looked in his face. and, oh, only think!--he has promised to sit at our table! to-morrow night, such a feast as has never been known in the place shall be spread before him. help me to think of something we may do to show him especial honor." esther sprang up at the news. "we have very little time to prepare," she said. "seth must go at once into the city to make purchases. to-morrow night, no hireling hand shall serve him. i myself shall take that lowly place, with martha and mary to aid me. abigail, too, shall help us, for it is a labor of love that she will delight to take part in. i shall go at once to ask them." the long, still sabbath went by. the worshippers in the synagogue looked in vain for other miracles, listened in vain for the voice that wrought such wonders. through the unbroken rest of that day he was gathering up his strength for a coming trial. something of the approaching shadow may have been seen in his tender eyes; some word of the awaiting doom may have been spoken to the brother and sisters sitting reverently at his feet,--for they seemed to feel that a parting was at hand, and that they must crowd the flying hours with all the loving service they could render him. that night at the feast, as esther's little white hands brought the water for the reclining guests to wash, and martha and abigail placed sumptuously filled dishes before them, mary paused in her busy passing to and fro; she longed to do some especial thing to show her love for the honored guest. never had his face worn such a look of royalty; never had he seemed so much the christ. the soft light of many candles falling on his worn face seemed to reveal as never before the divine soul soon to leave the worn body where it now tarried. an old jewish custom suddenly occurred to her. she seemed to see two pictures: one was aaron, standing up in the rich garments of the priesthood, with his head bowed to receive the sacred anointing; the other was israel's first king, on whom the hoary samuel was bestowing the anointing that proclaimed his royalty. token of both priesthood and kingship,--oh, if she dared but offer it! no one noticed when she stepped out after awhile, and hurried swiftly homeward. hidden away in a chest in her room, was a little alabaster flask, carefully sealed. it held a rare sweet perfume, worth almost its weight in gold. she took it out with trembling fingers, and hid it in the folds of her long flowing white dress. her breath came quick, and her heart beat fast, as she slipped in behind the guests again. the color glowed and paled in her cheeks, as she stood there in the shadow of the curtains, hesitating, half afraid to venture. at last, when the banquet was almost over, she stepped noiselessly forward. there was a hush of surprise at this unusual interruption, although every one there was familiar with the custom, and recognized its deep meaning and symbolism. first on his head, then on his feet, she poured the costly perfume. bending low in the deepest humility, she swept her long soft hair across them to wipe away the crystal drops. the whole house was filled with the sweet, delicate odor. some of those who saw it, remembered a similar scene in the house of another simon, in far away galilee; but only the anointed one could feel the deep contrast between the two. that simon, the proud pharisee, condescending and critical and scant in hospitality; this simon, the cleansed leper, ready to lay down his life, in his boundless love and gratitude. that woman, a penitent sinner, kneeling with tears before his mercy; this woman, so pure in heart that she could see god though hidden in the human body of the nazarene. that anointing, to his priesthood at the beginning of his ministry; this anointing, to his kingdom, now almost at hand. no one spoke as the fragrance rose and spread itself like the incense of a benediction. it seemed a fitting close to this hour of communion with the master. across this eloquent silence that the softest sound would have jarred upon, a cold, unfeeling voice broke harshly. [illustration: "a dark figure went skulking out into the night"] it was judas iscariot who spoke. "why was all this ointment wasted?" he asked. "it would have been better to have sold it and given it to the poor." simon frowned indignantly at this low-browed guest, who was so lacking in courtesy, and mary looked up distressed. "let her alone!" said the master, gently. "ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good: but me ye have not always. she hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying." a dark look gleamed in the eyes of judas,--there was that reference again to his burial. there seemed to be no use of making any further pretence to follow him any longer. his kingdom was a delusion,--a vague, shadowy, spiritual thing that the others might believe in if they chose. but if there was no longer any hope of gaining by his service, he would turn to the other side. that night there was another secret council of some of the sanhedrin, and judas iscariot was in their midst. when the lights were out, and the temple police were making their final rounds, a dark figure went skulking out into the night, and wound its way through the narrow streets,--the dark figure that still goes skulking through the night of history,--the man who covenanted for thirty pieces of silver to betray his lord. chapter xvi. "who is that talking in the house?" asked joel of abigail the morning after the feast. he had been playing in the garden with jesse, and paused just outside the door as he heard voices. "only father and phineas, now," answered abigail. "simon the oil-seller has just been here, and i am sure you could not guess his errand. it was about you." "about me?" echoed joel, in surprise. "yes, i never knew until this morning that you were the one who persuaded him to go to the master for healing. he says if it had not been for you, he would still be an outcast from home. during these weeks you have been away, he has been hoping to find some trace of you, for he longs to express his gratitude. last night at the feast, he learned your name, and now he has just been here to talk to phineas and father about you. his olive groves yield him a large fortune every year, and he is in a position to do a great deal for you, if you will only let him." "what does he want to do?" asked joel. "he has offered a great deal: to send you to the best schools in the country; to let you travel in foreign lands, and see life as it is in rome and athens and the cities of egypt. then when you are grown, he offers to take you in business with himself, and give you the portion of a son. it is a rare chance for you, my boy." "yes," answered joel, flushing with pleasure at the thought of all he might be able to see and learn. he seemed lost for a few minutes in the bright anticipation of such a tempting future; then his face clouded. "but i would have to leave everybody i love," he cried, "and the home where i have been so happy! i cannot do it, mother abigail; it is too much to ask." "now you talk like a child," she answered, half impatiently; but there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she added, "joel, you have grown very dear to us. it will be hard to give you up, for you seem almost like an own son. but consider, my boy; it would not be right to turn away from such advantages. jesse and ruth will be well provided for. all that my father has will be theirs some day. but phineas is only a poor carpenter, and cannot give you much beyond food and clothing. i heard him say just now that he clearly thought it to be your duty to accept, and he had no doubt but that you would." "but i cannot be with the master!" cried joel, as the thought suddenly occurred to him that he could no longer follow him as he had been doing, if he was to be sent away to study and travel. "no; but think what you may be able to do for his cause, if you have money and education and influence. it seems to me that for his sake alone, you ought to consent to such an arrangement." that was the argument that phineas used when he came out; and the boy was sadly bewildered between the desire to be constantly with his beloved master, and his wish to serve him as they suggested. it was in this perplexed state of mind that he started up to jerusalem with jesse and his grandfather. the streets were rapidly filling with people, coming up to the feast of the passover, and joel recognized many old friends from galilee. "there is rabbi amos!" he exclaimed, as he caught sight of an old man in the door of a house across the street. "may i run and speak to him?" "certainly!" answered reuben. "you know your way so well about the streets that it makes no difference if we do get separated. jesse and i will walk on down to the shop. you can meet us there." rabbi amos gave joel a cordial greeting. "i am about to go back to the damascus gate," he said. "i have just been told that the nazarene will soon make his entrance into the city, and a procession of pilgrims are going out to meet him. i have heard much of the man since he left capernaum, and i have a desire to see him again. will you come?" the old man hobbled along so painfully, leaning on his staff, that they were a long time in reaching the gate. the outgoing procession had already met the coming pilgrims, and were starting to return. the way was strewn with palm branches and the clothes they had taken off to lay along the road in front of the man they wished to honor. every hand carried a palm branch, and every voice cried a hosannah. at first joel saw only a confused waving of the green branches, and heard an indistinct murmur of voices; but as they came nearer, he caught the words, "hosannah to the son of david!" "look!" cried rabbi amos, laying his wrinkled, shaking hand heavily on joel's shoulder. "look ye, boy, the voice of prophecy! no roman war-horse bears the coming victor! it is as zechariah foretold! that the king should come riding upon the colt of an ass,--the symbol of peace. so david rode, and so the judges of israel came and went!" joel's eyes followed the gesture of the tremulous, pointing finger. there came the master, right in the face of his enemies, boldly riding in to take possession of his kingdom. at last! no wandering now in lonely wildernesses! no fear of the jealous scribe or pharisee! the time had fully come. with garments strewn in the way, with palms of victory waving before him, with psalm and song and the shouting of the multitude, he rode triumphantly into the city. joel was roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, to see his best beloved friend so honored. people understood him now; they appreciated him. the demonstrations of the multitude proved it. he was so happy and excited, he scarcely knew what he was doing. he had no palm branch to wave, but as the head of the procession came abreast with him, and he saw the face of the rider, he was almost beside himself. he waved his empty hands wildly up and down, cheering at the top of his voice; but his shrillest hosannahs were heard only by himself. they were only a drop in that mighty surf-beat of sound. scarcely knowing what to expect, yet prepared for almost anything, they followed the procession into the city. when they reached the porch of the temple, the master had disappeared. "i wonder where he has gone," said joel, in a disappointed tone. "i thought they would surely crown him." "he evidently did not wish it to be," answered rabbi amos. "it would be more fitting that the coronation take place at the great feast. wait until the day of the passover." as they sat in the court of the gentiles, resting, joel told rabbi amos of the offer made him by the wealthy oil-dealer simon. "accept it, by all means!" was the old man's advice. "we have seen enough just now to know that a new day is about to dawn for israel. in bethany, you will be much nearer the master than in capernaum; for surely, after to-day's demonstration, he will take up his residence in the capital. in time you may rise to great influence in the new government soon to be established." the old rabbi's opinion weighed heavily with joel, and he determined to accept simon's offer. then for awhile he was so full of his new plans and ambitions, he could think of nothing else. all that busy week he was separated from the master and his disciples; for it was the first passover he had ever taken part in. after it was over, he was to break the ties that bound him to the carpenter's family and the simple life in galilee, and go to live in simon's luxurious home in bethany. so he stayed closely with phineas and abigail, taking a great interest in all the great preparations for the feast. * * * * * reuben chose, from the countless pens, a male lamb a year old, without blemish. about two o'clock the blast of two horns announced that the priests and levites in the temple were ready, and the gates of the inner courts were opened, that all might bring the lambs for examination. the priests, in two long rows, caught the blood in great gold and silver vessels, as the animals were killed, and passed it to others behind, till it reached the altar, at the foot of which it was poured out. then the lamb was taken up and roasted in an earthen oven, and the feast commenced at sunset on thursday. the skin of the lamb, and the earthen dishes used, were generally given to the host, when different families lodged together. as many as twenty were allowed to gather at one table. reuben had invited nathan ben obed, and those who came with him, to partake of his hospitality. much to joel's delight, a familiar shock of sunburned hair was poked in at the door, and he recognized buz's freckled face, round-eyed and open mouthed at this first glimpse of the great city. during the first hour they were together, buz kept his squinting eyes continually on joel. he found it hard to believe that this straight, sinewy boy could be the same pitiful little cripple who had gone with him to the sheepfolds of nathan ben obed. "say," he drawled, after awhile, "i know where that fellow is who made you lame. i was so upset at seeing you this way that i forgot to tell you. he had a dreadful accident, and you have already had your wish, for he is as blind as that stone." "oh, how? who told you?" cried joel, eagerly. "i saw him myself, as we came through jericho. he had been nearly beaten to death by robbers a few weeks before. it gave him a fever, and both eyes were so inflamed and bruised that he lost his sight." "poor rehum!" exclaimed joel. "poor rehum!" echoed buz, in astonishment. "what do you mean by poor rehum? aren't you glad? isn't that just exactly what you planned; or did you want the pleasure of punching them out yourself?" "no," answered joel, simply; "i forgave him a year ago, the night before i was healed." "you forgave him!" gasped buz,--"you forgave him! a dog of a samaritan! why, how could you?" buz looked at him with such a wondering, puzzled gaze that joel did not attempt to explain. buz might be ignorant of a great many things, but he knew enough to hate the samaritans, and look down on them with the utmost contempt. "i don't really believe you could understand it," said joel, "so it is of no use to try to tell you how or why. but i did forgive him, fully and freely. and if you will tell me just where to find him, i will go after him early in the morning and bring him back with me. the hand that straightened my back can open his eyes; for i have seen it done many times." all during the feast, buz kept stealing searching glances at joel. he could hardly tell which surprised him most, the straightened body or the forgiving spirit. it was so wonderful to him that he sat speechless. at the same time, in an upper chamber in another street, the master and his disciples were keeping the feast together. it was their last supper with him, although they knew it not. afterwards they recalled every word and every incident, with loving memory that lingered over each detail; but at the time they could not understand its full import. the gates were left open on passover night. while the master and his followers walked out to the garden of gethsemane, where they had often gone together, joel was questioning buz as to the exact place where he was to find his old enemy. "i'll go out very early in the morning," said joel, as his head touched the pillow. "very early in the morning, for i want rehum's eyes to be open just as soon as possible, so that he can see the master's face. lord help me to find him to-morrow," he whispered, and with a blessing on his lips for the one he had so long ago forgiven, his eyes closed softly. sleep came quickly to him after the fatigue and excitement of the day. in his dreams he saw again the master's face as he made his triumphal entrance into the city; he heard again the acclamations of the crowd. then he saw rabbi amos and simon and little ruth. there was a confused blending of kindly faces; there was a shadow-like shifting of indistinct but pleasant scenes. in the fair dreamland where he wandered, fortune smiled on him, and all his paths were peace. sleep on, little disciple, happy in thy dreaming; out in gethsemane's dark garden steals one to betray thy lord! by the light of glimmering lanterns and fitful torches they take him now. armed with swords and staves, they lead him out from the leafy darkness into the moon-flooded highroad. now he stands before the high priest,--alone, unfriended. sleep, and wake not at the cock's shrill crowing, for there is none to make answer for him, and one who loved him hath thrice denied! dream on! in the hall of pilate now, thorn-crowned and purple-clad, him whom thou lovest; scourged now, and spat upon. this day, indeed, shall he come into his kingdom, but well for thee, that thou seest not the coronation. sleep on, little disciple, be happy whilst thou can! chapter xvii. it was so much later than he had intended, when joel awoke next morning, that without stopping for anything to eat, he hurried out of the city, and took the road by which the master had made such a triumphal entry a few days before. faded branches of palms still lay scattered by the wayside, thickly covered with dust. all unconscious of what had happened the night before, and what was even at that very moment taking place, joel trudged on to bethany at a rapid pace, light-hearted and happy. for six days he had been among enthusiastic galileans who firmly believed that before the end of passover week they should see the overthrow of rome, and all nations lying at the feet of a jewish king. how long they had dreamed of this hour! he turned to look back at the city. the white and gold of the temple dazzled his eyes, as it threw back the rays of the morning sun. he thought of himself as he had stood that day on the roof of the carpenter's house, stretching out longing arms to this holy place, and calling down curses on the head of his enemy, rehum. could he be the same boy? it seemed to him now that that poor, crippled body, that bitter hatred, that burning thirst for revenge, must have belonged to some one else, he felt so well, so strong, so full of love to god and all mankind. a little broken-winged sparrow fluttered feebly under a hedgerow. he stopped to gather a handful of ripe berries for it, and even retraced his steps to a tiny spring he had noticed farther back, to bring it water in the hollow of a smooth stone. he did not find rehum at the place where buz had told him to inquire. his father had taken him to his home, somewhere in samaria. joel turned back, tired and disappointed. he was glad to lie down, when he reached bethany again, and rest awhile. a peculiar darkness began to settle down over the earth. joel was perplexed and frightened; he knew it could not be an eclipse, for it was the time of the full moon. finally he started back to jerusalem, although it was like travelling in the night, for the darkness had deepened and deepened for nearly three hours, and the mysterious gloom made him long to be with his friends. his first thought was to find the master, and he naturally turned toward the temple. just as he started across the porch of solomon, the darkness was lifted, and everything seemed to dance before his eyes. he had never experienced an earthquake shock before, but he felt sure that this was one. he braced himself against one of the pillars. how the massive columns quivered! how the hot air throbbed! the darkness had been awful, but this was doubly terrifying. the earth had scarcely stopped trembling, when an old white-bearded priest ran across the court of the gentiles; his wrinkled hands, raised above his head, shook as with palsy. the scream that he uttered seemed to transfix joel with horror. "_the veil of the temple is rent in twain!_" he cried,--"_the veil of the temple is rent in twain!_" then with a convulsive shudder he fell forward on his face. joel's knees shook. the darkness, the earthquake, and now this mighty force that had laid bare the holy of holies, filled him with an undefined dread. he ran past the prostrate priest into the inner court, and saw for himself. there hung the heavy curtain of babylonian tapestry, in all its glory of hyacinth and scarlet and purple, torn asunder from top to bottom. no earthquake shock could have made that ragged gash. the wrath of god must have come down and laid mighty fingers upon it. he ran out of the temple, and towards the house where he had slept the night before. the earthquake seemed to have shaken all jerusalem into the streets. strange words were afloat. a question overheard in passing one excited group, an exclamation in another, made him run the faster. at reuben's shop he found jesse and ruth both crying from fright. the attendant who had them in charge told him that his friends had been gone nearly all day. "where?" demanded joel. "i do not know exactly. they went out with one of the greatest multitudes that ever passed through the gates of the city. not only jews, but greeks and romans and egyptians. you should have seen the camels and the chariots, the chairs and the litters!" exclaimed the man. a sudden fear fell upon the boy that this was the day that the one he loved best had been made king, and he had missed it,--had missed the greatest opportunity of his life. "was it to follow rabbi jesus of nazareth?" he demanded eagerly. the man nodded. "to crown him?" was the next breathless question. "no; to crucify him." the unexpected answer was almost a death-thrust. joel stood a moment, dumb with horror. the blood seemed to stand still in his veins; there was a roaring in his ears; then everything grew black before him. he clutched blindly at the air, then staggered back against the wall. "no, _no_, _no_, no!" he cried; each word was louder than the last. "i will not believe it! you do not speak truth!" he ran madly from the shop, down the street, and through the city gate. out on the highway he met the returning multitude, most of them in as great haste as he. everything he saw seemed to confirm the truth of what he had just heard, but he could not believe it. "no, no, no!" he gasped, in a breathless whisper, as he ran. "no, no, no! it cannot be! he is the christ! the son of god! they could not be able to do it, no matter how much they hated him!" but even as he ran he saw the hill where three crosses rose. he turned sick and cold, and so weak he could scarcely stand. still he stumbled resolutely on, but with his face turned away from the sight he dared not look upon, lest seeing should be knowing what he feared. at last he reached the place, and, shrinking back as if from an expected blow, he slowly raised his eyes till they rested on the face of the dead body hanging there. the agonized shriek on his lips died half uttered, as he fell unconscious at the foot of the cross. a long time after, one of the soldiers happening to notice him, turned him over with his foot, and prodded him sharply with his spear. it partially aroused him, and in a few moments he sat up. then he looked up again into the white face above him; but this time the bowed head awed him into a deep calm. the veil of the temple was rent indeed, and through this pierced body there shone out from its holy of holies the shekinah of god's love for a dying world. it uplifted joel, and drew him, and drew him, till he seemed to catch a faint glimpse of the father's face; to feel himself folded in boundless pardon, in pity so deep, and a love so unfathomed, that the lowest sinner could find a share. but while he gazed and gazed into the white face, so glorified in its marble stillness, joseph of arimathea stood between him and the cross, giving directions, in a low tone, for the removal of the body. it seemed to waken joel out of his trance; and when the bloodstained form was stretched gently on the ground, he forgot his glimpse of heavenly mysteries, he saw no longer the uplifted christ. he saw instead, the tortured body of the man he loved; the friend for whom he would gladly have given his life. almost blinded by the rush of tears, he groped his way on his knees toward it. a mantle of fine white linen had been laid over the lifeless body; but one hand lay stretched out beside him with a great bloody nail-hole through the palm,--it was the hand that had healed him; the hand that had fed the hungry multitudes; the hand that had been laid in blessing on the heads of little children, waiting by the roadside! with the thought of all it had done for him, with the thought of all it had done for all the countless ones its warm, loving touch had comforted, came the remembrance of the torture it had just suffered. joel lay down beside it with a heart-broken moan. men came and lifted the body in its spotless covering. joel did not look up to see who bore it away. the lifeless hand still hung down uncovered at his side. with his eyes fixed on that, joel followed, longing to press it to his lips with burning kisses; but he dared not so much as touch it with trembling fingers,--a sense of his unworthiness forbade. as the silent procession went onward, joel found himself walking beside abigail. she had pushed her veil aside that she might better see the still form borne before them; she had stood near by through all those hours of suffering. her wan face and swollen eyes showed how the force of her sympathy and grief had worn upon her. joel glanced around for phineas. he was one of those who walked before with the motionless burden, his strong brown hands tenderly supporting the master's pierced feet; his face was as rigid as stone, and seemed to joel to have grown years older since the night before. another swift rush of tears blinded joel, as he looked at the set, despairing face, and then at what he carried. o friend of phineas! o feet that often ran to meet him on the grassy hillsides of nazareth, that walked beside him at his daily toil, and led him to a nobler living!--thou hast climbed the mountain of beatitudes! thou hast walked the wind-swept waters of the galilee! but not of this is he thinking now. it is of thy life's unselfish pilgrimage; of the dust and travel stains of the feet he bears; of the many steps, taken never for self, always for others; of the cure and the comfort they have daily carried; of the great love that hath made their very passing by to be a benediction. it seemed strange to joel that, in the midst of such overpowering sorrow, trivial little things could claim his attention. years afterward he remembered just how the long streaks of yellow sunshine stole under the trees of the garden; he could hear the whirr of grasshoppers, jumping up in the path ahead of them; he could smell the heavy odor of lilies growing beside an old tomb. the sorrowful little group wound its way to a part of the garden where a new tomb had been hewn out of the rock; here joseph of arimathea motioned them to stop. they laid the open bier gently on the ground, and joel watched them with dry eyes but trembling lips, as they noiselessly prepared the body for its hurried burial. from time to time as they wound the bands of white linen, powdered with myrrh and aloes, they glanced up nervously at the sinking sun. the sabbath eve was almost upon them, and the old slavish fear of the law made them hasten. a low stifled moaning rose from the lips of the women, as the one they had followed so long was lifted up, and borne forever out of their sight, through the low doorway of the tomb. strong hands rolled the massive stone in place that barred the narrow opening. then all was over; there was nothing more that could be done. the desolate mourners sat down on the grass outside the tomb, to watch and weep and wait over a dead hope and a lost cause. a deep stillness settled over the garden as they lingered there in the gathering twilight. they grew calm after awhile, and began to talk in low tones of the awful events of the day just dying. gradually, joel learned all that had taken place. as he heard the story of the shame and abuse and torture that had been heaped upon the one he loved better than all the world, his face grew white with horror and indignation. "oh, wasn't there _one_ to stand up for him?" he cried, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. "wasn't there _one_ to speak a word in his defence? o my beloved!" he moaned. "out of all the thousands thou didst heal, out of all the multitudes thou didst bless, not one to bear witness!" he rocked himself to and fro on his knees, wringing his hands as if the thought brought him unspeakable anguish. "oh, if i had only been there!" he moaned. "if i could only have stood up beside him and told what he had done for me! o my god! my god! how can i bear it? to think he went to his death without a friend and without a follower, when i loved him so! all alone! not one to speak for him, not one!" groping with tear-blinded eyes towards the tomb, the boy stretched his arms lovingly around the great stone that stopped its entrance; then suddenly realizing that he could never go any closer to the one inside, never see him again, he leaned his head hopelessly against the rock, and gave way to his feeling of utter loneliness and despair. how long he stood there, he did not know. when he looked up again, the women had gone, and it was nearly dark. phineas and several other men lingered in the black shadows of the trees, and joel joined them. roman guards came presently. a stout cord was stretched across the stone, its ends firmly fastened, and sealed with the seal of cã¦sar. a watch-fire was kindled near by; then the roman sentinels began their steady tramp! tramp! as they paced back and forth. high overhead the stars began to set their countless watch-fires in the heavens; then the white full moon of the passover looked down, and all night long kept its silent vigil over the forsaken tomb of the sleeping christ. * * * * * abigail had found shelter for the night with friends, in a tent just outside the city; but joel and phineas took their way back to bethany. little was said as they trudged along in the moonlight. joel thought only of one thing,--his great loss, the love of which he had been bereft. but to phineas this death meant much more than the separation from the best of friends; it meant the death of a cause on which he had staked his all. he must go back to galilee to be the laughing-stock of his old neighbors. he who they trusted would have saved israel had been put to death as a felon,--crucified between two thieves! the cause was lost; he was left to face an utter failure. when the moon went down that morning over the hills of judea, there were many hearts that mourned the man of nazareth, but not a soul in all the universe believed on him as the son of god. hope lay dead in the tomb of joseph, with a great stone forever walling it in. chapter xviii. "wake up, joel! wake up! i bring you good tidings, my lad!" it was abigail's voice ringing cheerily through the court-yard, as she bent over the boy, fast asleep on the hard stones. all the long sabbath day after the burial, he had sat listlessly in the shady court-yard, his blank gaze fixed on the opposite wall. no one seemed able to arouse him from his apathy. he turned away from the food they brought him, and refused to enter the house when night came. towards morning he had gone over to the fountain for a long draught of its cool water; then overcome by weakness from his continued fast, and exhausted by grief, he fell asleep on the pavement. abigail came in and found him there, with the red morning sun beating full in his face. she had to shake him several times before she could make him open his eyes. he sat up dizzily, and tried to collect his thoughts. then he remembered, and laid his head wearily down again, with a groan. "wake up! wake up!" she insisted, with such eager gladness in her voice that joel opened his eyes again, now fully aroused. "what is it?" he asked indifferently. "_he is risen!_" she exclaimed joyfully, clasping her hands as she always did when much excited. "i went to his tomb very early in the morning, while it was yet dark, with mary and salome and some other women. the stone had been rolled aside; and while we wondered and wept, fearing his enemies had stolen him away, he stood before us, with his old greeting on his lips,--'all hail!'" joel rubbed his eyes and looked at her. "no, no!" he said wearily, "i am dreaming again!" he would have thrown himself on the ground as before, his head pillowed on his arm, but she would not let him. she shook his hands with a persistence that could not be refused, talking to him all the while in such a glad eager voice that he slowly began to realize that something had made her very happy. "what is it, mother abigail?" he asked, much puzzled. "i do not wonder you are bewildered," she cried. "it is such blessed, such wonderful news. why he is _alive_, joel, he whom thou lovest! try to understand it, my boy! i have just now come from the empty tomb. i saw him! i spoke with him! i knelt at his feet and worshipped!" by this time all the family had come out. reuben looked at his daughter pityingly, as she repeated her news; then he turned to phineas. "poor thing!" he said, in a low tone. "she has witnessed such terrible scenes lately, and received such a severe shock, that her mind is affected by it. she does not know what she is saying. did not you yourself help prepare the body for burial, and put it in the tomb?" "yes," answered phineas, "and helped close it with a great stone, which no one man could possibly move by himself. and i saw it sealed with the seal of cã¦sar; and when i left it was guarded by roman sentinels in armor. no man could have opened it." "but abigail talks of angels who sat in the empty tomb, and who told them he had risen," replied her father. joel, who had overheard this low-toned conversation, got up and stood close beside them. he had begun to tremble from weakness and excitement. [illustration: "'the stone is gone!'"] "father phineas," he asked, "do you remember the story we heard from the old shepherd, heber? the angels told of his birth; maybe she _did_ see them in his tomb." "how can such things be?" queried reuben, stroking his beard in perplexity. "that's just what you said when rabbi lazarus was brought back to life," piped jesse's shrill voice, quite unexpectedly, at his grandfather's elbow. he had not lost a word of the conversation. "why don't you go and see for yourself if the tomb is empty?" abigail had gone into the house with her mother, and now the summons to breakfast greeted them. she saw she could not convince them of the truth of her story, so she said no more about it; but her happy face was more eloquent than words. all day snatches of song kept rising to her lips,--old psalms of thanksgiving, and half whispered hallelujahs. at last joel and phineas were both so much affected by her continued cheerfulness, that they began to believe there must be some great cause for it. finally, in the waning afternoon, they took the road that led from bethany to the garden where they firmly believed that the master still lay buried. as they came in sight of the tomb, joel clutched phineas by the arm, and pointed, with a shaking finger, to the dark opening ahead of of them. "see!" he said, pointing into its yawning darkness. "she was right! the stone is gone!" it was some time before they could muster up courage to go nearer and look into the sepulchre. when at last they did so, neither spoke a word, but, after one startled look into each other's eyes, turned and left the garden. it was growing dark as they hurried along the highway homeward. two men came half running towards the city, in great haste to reach the gates before they should be closed for the night. they were two disciples well known to phineas. he stopped them with the question that was uppermost in his mind. "yes, he is risen," answered one of the men, breathlessly. "we have seen him. hosanna to the highest! he walked along this road with us as we went to emmaus." "ah, how our hearts burned as he talked with us by the way!" interrupted the other man. "only this hour he sat at meat with us," cried the first speaker. "he broke bread with us, and blessed it as he always used to do. we are running back to the city now to tell the other disciples." phineas would have laid a detaining hand on them, but they hurried on, and left him standing in the road, looking wistfully after them. "it must be true," said joel, "or they could not have been so nearly wild with joy." phineas sadly shook his head. "i wish i could think so," he sighed. "let us go home," urged abigail, the next day, "the master has bidden his brethren meet him in galilee. let us go. there is hope of seeing him again in our old home!" joel, now nearly convinced of the truth of her belief, was also anxious to go. but phineas lingered; his plodding mind was slower to grasp such thoughts than the sensitive woman's or the imaginative boy's. one after another he sought out peter and james and john, and the other disciples who had seen the risen master, and questioned them closely. still he tarried for another week. one morning he met thomas, whose doubts all along had strengthened his own. he ran against him in the crowded street in jerusalem. thomas seized his arm, and, turning, walked beside him a few paces. "_it is true!_" he said, in a low intense tone, with his lips close to his ear. "i saw him myself last night; i held his hands in mine! i touched the side the spear had pierced! he called me by name; and i know now beyond all doubt that the master has risen from the dead, and that he is the son of god!" after that, phineas no longer objected when it was proposed that they should go back to galilee. the story of the resurrection was too great for him to grasp entirely, still he could not put aside such a weight of evidence that came to him from friends whose word he had always implicitly trusted. the roads were still full of pilgrims returning from the passover. as phineas journeyed on with his little family, he fell in with the sons of jonah and zebedee, going back to their nets and their fishing-boats. the order of procession was constantly shifting, and one morning joel found himself walking beside john, one of the chosen twelve, who seemed to have understood his master better than any of the others. the man seemed wrapped in deep thought, and took no notice of his companion, till joel timidly touched his sleeve. "do _you_ believe it is true?" the boy asked. there was no surprise in the man's face at the abrupt question, he felt, without asking, what joel meant. a reassuring smile lighted up his face as he laid his hand kindly on joel's shoulder. "i know it, my lad; i have been with him." the quiet positiveness with which he spoke seemed to destroy joel's last doubt. "many things that he said to us come back to me very clearly; and i see now he was trying to prepare us for this." "tell me about them," begged joel, "and about those last hours he was with you. oh, if i could only have been with him, too!" john saw the tears gathering in the boy's eyes, heard the tremble in his voice, and felt a thrill of sympathy as he recognized a kindred love in the little fellow's heart. so he told joel of the last supper they had taken together, of the hymn they had sung, and of the watch they had failed to keep, when he took them with him into the garden of gethsemane. all the little incidents connected with those last solemn hours, he repeated carefully to the listening boy. from time to time joel brushed his hand across his eyes; but a deep calm fell over him as john's voice went on, slowly repeating the words the master had comforted them with. "let not your hearts be troubled: ye believe in god, believe also in me. in my father's house are many mansions.... i go to prepare a place for you. i will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where i am, there ye may be also.... if ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because i said, i go unto the father.... these things i have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. in the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; i have overcome the world." joel made an exclamation as if about to speak, and then stopped. "what is it?" asked john. "how could he mean that he has overcome the world? cã¦sar still rules, and jerusalem is full of his enemies. i can't forget that they killed him, even if he has risen." john stooped to tie his sandal before he answered. "i have been fitting together different things he told us; and i begin to see how blind we were. once he called himself the good shepherd who would give his life for his sheep, and said, 'therefore doth my father love me, because i lay down my life that i might take it again. no man taketh it from me, but i lay it down of myself. i have power to lay it down, and i have power to take it again.'" they walked on in silence a few paces, then john asked abruptly, "do you remember about the children of israel being so badly bitten by serpents in the wilderness, and how moses was commanded to set up a brazen serpent in their midst?" "yes, indeed!" answered joel. "all who looked up at it were saved; but those who would not died from the poisonous bites." "one night," continued john, "a learned man by the name of nicodemus, one of the rulers, came to the master with many questions. and i remember one of the answers he gave him. 'as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' we did not understand him then at all. not till i saw him lifted up on the cruel cross, did i begin to dimly see what he meant." a light broke over joel's face as he remembered the vision he had had that day, kneeling at the foot of the cross; then he stopped still in the road, with his hands clasped in dismay. there suddenly seemed to rise before him the scenes of daily sacrifice in the temple, when the blood of innocent lambs flowed over the altar; then he thought of the great day of atonement, when the poor scape-goat was driven away to its death, laden with the sins of the people. "oh, that must be what isaiah meant!" he cried in distress. "'he was brought as a lamb to the slaughter!' oh, can it be possible that 'the lord hath laid on _him_ the iniquity of us all'? what an awful sacrifice!" the tears streamed down his face as the thought came over him with overwhelming conviction, that it was for _him_ that the man he loved so had endured all the horrible suffering of death by crucifixion. "why did such a thing have to be?" he asked, looking up appealingly at his companion. john looked out and up, as if he saw far beyond the narrow, hill-bound horizon, and quoted softly: "_for god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life._" just as the feeling had come to him that morning by the galilee, and again as he gazed and gazed into the white face on the cross, joel seemed to feel again the love of the father, as it took him close into its infinite keeping. "'greater love hath no man than this,'" quoted john again, "'that a man lay down his life for his friends.' he is the propitiation for our sins; and not ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world." it was hard for the child to understand this at first; but this gentle disciple who walked beside him had walked long beside the master, and in the master's own way and words taught joel life's greatest lesson. chapter xix. they went back to their simple lives again,--those hardy fishermen, the busy carpenter, and the boy. phineas was silent and grave. for him, hope still lay dead in that garden tomb near golgotha; but joel sang as he worked. the appointed time was nearing when the master was to meet them on the mountain. as often as he could, joel stole away from the moody man at the work-bench, and went down to the beach for more cheerful companionship. one morning, seeing a fishing-boat that he recognized pulling in quickly to shore, he ran down to see what luck his friends had had during the night. he held up his hands in astonishment at the great haul of fish the boat held. "we have been with the master," explained one of the men. "we toiled all night, and took nothing till we met him." joel listened eagerly while they told him of that meeting in the early dawn, and of the meal they ate together, while the sun came up over the galilee, and the blue waves whispered their gladness to the beach, as they heard the master's voice once more. "oh, to think that he is in galilee again!" exclaimed joel. that thought added purpose and meaning to each new day. every morning he woke with the feeling, "maybe i shall see him before the sun goes down." every night he went to sleep saying, "he is somewhere near! no telling how soon i may be with him!" when the day came on which they were to go to the mountain, joel was up very early in the morning. he bathed and dressed himself with the care of a priest about to enter the inner courts on some holy errand. when he started to the mountain, abigail noticed that he wore his finest headdress of white linen. his tunic was spotless, and, from the corners of his brown and white striped mantle, the blue fringes that the law prescribed hung smooth as silk. he did not wait for phineas or any of his friends. long before the time, he had climbed the rocky path, and was sitting all alone in the deep shadowed stillness. the snapping of a twig startled him; the falling of a leaf made him look up hopefully. any minute the master might come. his heart beat so loud it seemed to him that the wood-birds overhead must surely hear it, and be frightened away. imagine that scene, you who can,--you who have just seen the earth close over your best-beloved; who have awakened in the lonely night, with that sudden sickening remembrance of loss; who have longed, with a longing like a constant ache, for the voice and the smile and the footstep that have slipped hopelessly beyond recall. think of what it would mean, if you knew now, beyond doubt, that all that you had loved and lost would be given back to you before the passing of another hour! so joel waited, restless, burning, all in a quiver of expectancy. steps began to wind around the base of the mountain. one familiar face after another came in sight, then strange ones, until, by and by, five hundred people had gathered there, and were sitting in reverent, unbroken silence. the soft summer wind barely stirred the leaves; even the twitter of nestlings overhead was hushed. after awhile, thrilled by some unseen influence, as a field of grain is swayed by the passing wind, they bowed their heads. the master stood before them, his hands outspread in blessing. joel started forward with a wild desire to throw himself at his feet, and put his arms around them; but a majesty he had never seen before in that gentle face restrained him. he listened to the voice as it rose and fell with all its old winning tenderness. as you would listen could the dead lips you love move again; as you would greedily snatch up every word, and hide it in your heart of hearts, so joel listened. "i go to prepare a place for you. i will come again and receive you unto myself, that where i am there ye may be also.... peace i leave with you.... not as the world giveth, give i unto you. let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." as the beloved voice went on, promising the comforter that should come when he was gone, all the dread and pain of the coming separation seemed to be lost. boy though he was, joel looked down the years of his life feeling it was only a fleeting shadow, compared with the eternal companionship just promised him. he would make no moan; he would utter no complaint: but he would take up his life's little day, and bear it after the master,--a cup of loving service,--into that upper kingdom where there was a place prepared for him. it was all over so soon. they were left alone on the mountain-side again, with only the sunshine flickering through the leaves, and the wood-birds just beginning to trill to each other once more. but the warm air seemed to still throb with the last words he had spoken: "lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." phineas came down the mountain with his face all ashine; at last his eyes had been opened. "he and the father are one!" he exclaimed to the man walking beside him. "that voice is the same that spake from the midst of the burning bush, and from the summit of sinai. all these years i have followed the master, i believed him to be a perfect man and a great prophet; i believed him to be 'the rod out of the stem of jesse' who through jehovah's hand was to redeem israel, even as the rod in aaron's hand smote the floods and made a pathway for our people. "when i saw him put to death as a felon, all hope died within me; even to-day i came out here unbelieving. i could not think that i should see him. how blind we have been all these years! god with us in the flesh, and we did not know him!" joel walked on behind the two, sharing their feeling of exaltation. as they came down into the valley and entered capernaum, the work-a-day sights and noises seemed to jar on their senses, in this uplifted mood. a man standing in an open doorway accosted phineas, and asked when he could commence work on the house he had talked to him about building. phineas hesitated, and looked down at the ground, as if studying some difficult problem. in a few minutes he raised his eyes with a look of decision. "i cannot build it for you at all," he answered. "not build it!" echoed the man. "i thought you were anxious for the job." "so i was," answered the carpenter; "but when i asked for it, i had no belief that the master could rise from the dead. just now, on the mountain yonder, i have been with him. his command is still ringing in my ears: 'go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature!' "henceforth i give my life to him, even as he gave his to me. my days are now half spent, but every remaining one shall be used to proclaim, as far and wide as possible, that the risen christ is the son of god!" the man was startled as he looked at phineas; such a fire of love and purpose seemed to illuminate his earnest face that it was completely transformed. "even now," exclaimed phineas, "will i commence my mission. you are the first one i have met, and i must tell to you this glad new gospel. he died for you! 'god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life!' o my friend, if you could only believe that as i believe it!" the man shrank back into the doorway, strangely moved by the passionate force of his earnestness. "i must go up to jerusalem," continued phineas, "and wait till power is given us from on high; then i can more clearly see my way. i do not know whether i shall be directed to go into other lands, or to come back here to carry the news to my old neighbors. but it matters not which path is pointed out, the mission has been already given,--to tell the message to every creature my voice can reach." "and you?" asked the man, pointing to the companion of phineas. "i, too, received the command," was the answer, "and i, too, am ready to go to the world's end, if need be!" "surely there must be truth in what you say," muttered the man. then his glance fell on joel. "you, too?" he questioned. "nay, he is but a lad," answered phineas, before joel could find words to answer him. "come! we must hasten home." joel talked little during the next few days, and stole away often to think by himself, in the quiet little upper chamber on the roof. phineas was making his preparations to go back to jerusalem; and he urged the boy to go back with him, and accept simon's offer. abigail, too, added her persuasions to his; and even old rabbi amos came down one day, and sat for an hour under the fig-trees, painting in glowing colors the life that might be his for the choosing. it was a very alluring prospect; it had been the dream of his life to travel in far countries. he pictured himself surrounded by wealth and culture; he would be able to do so much for his old friends. he could give back to jesse and ruth a hundred fold, what had been bestowed on him; and the poor--how much he could help them, when he received a son's portion from the wealthy simon! o the hearts he could make glad, all up and down the land! the old day-dreams he used to delight in danced temptingly before him. as he stood idly beside the work-bench one afternoon, thinking of such a future, a soft step behind him made him turn. the hammer fell from his hand to the grass, as he saw the woman who came timidly to meet him. "why, aunt leah!" he cried. "what brought _you_ here?" he had not seen her since the night his uncle laban had driven him from home. she drew aside her veil, and looked at him. "i heard you had been healed," she said, "and i have always wanted to come and see you, and tell you how glad i am; but my husband forbade it. child!" she cried abruptly, "how much you look like your father! the likeness is startling!" the discovery seemed to make her forget what she had come to say, and she stood and stared at him; then she remembered. "rabbi amos told me of the offer you have had from a rich merchant in bethany, and i came down here, secretly, to beg you to accept it. in your father's name i beg you!" joel looked perplexed. "i hardly know what to do," he said. "every one advises me just as you do; but i feel that they are all wrong. surely the master meant me as well as father phineas and the others, when he charged us to go and preach the gospel to every creature." a sudden interest came into the woman's face; she took a step forward. "joel, did _you_ see him after he was risen?" "yes," he answered. "oh, i believe then that he is the christ!" she cried. "i have thought all the time that it might be so, and the children are so sure of it." "and uncle laban?" questioned joel. she shook her head sadly. "he grows more bitterly opposed every day." "aunt leah," he asked, coming back to the first question, "don't you think he must have meant me as well as those men?" "oh, hardly," she said, hesitatingly, "you are so young, and there are so many others to do it; it would surely be better for you to go to bethany." after she had gone home, he put away his tools, and, like one in a dream, started slowly towards the mountain. the same summer stillness reigned on its shady slopes as when the five hundred had gathered there. he climbed up near the summit, and sat down on a high stone. to the eastward the galilee glittered like a sapphire in the sun; capernaum seemed like a great ant-hill in commotion. no wonder he could not think among all those conflicting voices; he was glad he had come up where it was so still. phineas was going away in the morning. if joel went also, maybe he would never look down on that scene again. then almost as if some living voice broke the stillness, he heard the words: "go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature!" it was the echo of the words that had fallen from the master's lips. nothing once uttered by that voice can ever die; it lives on and on in the ever-widening circles of the centuries, as a ripple, once started, rings shoreward through the seas. in that instant all the things he had been considering seemed so small and worthless. he had been planning to give simon's gold and silver to the poor; but the master had given them his life, himself! could he do less? "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me," something seemed to say to him. yes; he could do it for the master's sake, for the one who had healed him, for the one who had died for him. then and there, high up in the mountain's solitudes, he found the path he was to follow; and then he wondered how he could have thought for an instant of making any other choice. it was the path the master's own feet had trod, and the boy who had followed, knew well what a weary way it led. for his great love's sake, he gave up the old ambitions, the self-centred hopes, saying, in a low tone, as if he felt the beloved presence very near, "oh, i want to serve thee truly! if i am too young now to go out into all the world, let me be thy little cup-bearer here at home, to carry the story of thy life and love to those around me!" the west was all alight with the glory of the sunset; somewhere beyond its burnished portals lay the city of the king. joel turned from its dazzling depths to look downward into the valley. he had chosen persecution and sacrifice and suffering, he knew, but the light on his face was more than the halo of the summer sunset. as he went down the mountain to his life of lowly service, a deep peace fell warm across his heart; for the promise went with him, a staff to bear him up through all his after life's long pilgrimage: "lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world!" the end selections from the page company's books for young people the blue bonnet series _each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 a texas blue bonnet by caroline e. jacobs. "the book's heroine, blue bonnet, has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness."--_chicago inter-ocean._ blue bonnet's ranch party by caroline e. jacobs and edyth ellerbeck read. "a healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every chapter."--_boston transcript._ blue bonnet in boston; or, boarding-school days at miss north's. by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. "it is bound to become popular because of its wholesomeness and its many human touches."--_boston globe._ blue bonnet keeps house; or, the new home in the east. by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. "it cannot fail to prove fascinating to girls in their teens."--_new york sun._ blue bonnet--dã�butante by lela horn richards. an interesting picture of the unfolding of life for blue bonnet. the young pioneer series by harrison adams _each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.25 the pioneer boys of the ohio; or, clearing the wilderness. 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"a mighty attractive volume in which the owner may record the good times she has on decorated pages, and under the directions as it were of annie fellows johnston."--_buffalo express._ * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. varied hyphenation as in "head-dress" and "headdress" was retained. page 11, word "an" removed from text. original read (never be an any better) page 32, "a good" changed to "good a" (too good a man to) page 68, "persistance" changed to "persistence" (persistence with which the) page 68, "coin" changed to "coins" (small bag of coins) page 90, "acknowleged" changed to "acknowledged" (he acknowledged proudly) page 101, "that" changed to "that" (unto you that) page 114, "was" changed to "was" (was joel's constant) page 116, "kness" changed to "knees" (his knees in readiness) _the fourteenth hartley lecture:_ the message and the man: some essentials of effective preaching by j. dodd jackson. second edition. london: w. a. hammond, primitive methodist publishing house, holborn hall, clerkenwell road, b.c. 1912. to the memory of the rev. james jackson a primitive methodist preacher for fifty-five years and president of the conference of 1897 this book is affectionately and reverently dedicated by his son. "'a workman' needing 'not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.'" preface. it would be strange, indeed, if in the procession of annual volumes of which this lecture is an unit, there did not arrive a book about preaching. the work of the preacher holds so large a place in the service and worship of god; it is, to all appearance, so essential to the accomplishment of the purposes of the redeemer; its content and quality mean so much to the life and health of the church; it has played--and is destined to play--so great a part in the saving of mankind, that, sooner or later, it was bound to come within the purview of this lectureship. now that, at last, the inevitable has happened, it may be said that the following pages have been written under the conviction that one of the greatest needs of the present day is a _pulpit revival_--a revival which will issue in a new endeavour to realise the highest possibilities of the divinest of callings. many of late years have wandered from the fold of the church; mighty is the multitude of those who have never been within her fellowship. the author is more than convinced that any attempt to claim and reclaim must, to be successful on a large scale, commence in a renaissance of gospel preaching. with the preacher, more than with the ecclesiastic or the musician or the theologian, not to mention the biblical critic and the religio-social worker, rests the task of solving the great problem of twentieth century christianity. this problem is neither a critical nor a theological one, but simply that of the age-long campaign:--how shall we so commend the christ as to draw the world to his feet? to this avowal, the writer would venture to add a brief personal explanation. strongly convinced, though he is, of the soundness of the view expressed above, he did not enter willingly upon the task of this book. his brother preachers will know what it is to be captured by a text which comes uninvited and persistently demands to be preached upon. how often such an arrest finds its subject unwilling, doubtful of his powers, afraid to be obedient to the unsought command! so came the subject of this essay to the writer thereof. for long he tried strenuously, though vainly, to make his escape to the refuge of some other topic wherein he might, less daringly, discharge the responsibilities of this lectureship. he disclaims, therefore, any presumption of which he may be accused in attempting an enterprise which some may think is outside his province or beyond his powers. this book embodies not a challenge, but a surrender! one word more may be allowed. surely, no one will need to be told that the "hartley lecture" is delivered under the auspices of the primitive methodist church, or that its delivery is included in the programme of its annual conference. this will explain why the reader will find, here and there, in the chapters here assembled, certain denominational allusions of a historic and biographical character. primitive methodists will readily understand them and, we hope, discover that they add force to argument--strength to appeal. readers of other denominations will not find that the meaning of the writer is obscured by any one of these references. as for the principles sought to be commended and emphasised, any application they may have is not limited by denominational boundaries. london, _june 1st_, 1912. contents. introduction book i. the man. chapter i. the designation of the preacher " ii. things to be realised " iii. the need for certainty " iv. individuality " v. concerning "understanding" " vi. passion book ii. the message:--its essential notes. chapter i. the note of accusation " ii. the note of pity " iii. the note of idealism " iv. the note of edification " v. the note of cheer book iii. the message:--its form and deliverance. chapter i. on attractiveness " ii. on transparency " iii. on appeal conclusion introduction "there is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of god, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most high."--_psalms_. "then said he unto me, these waters issue out toward the east country and go down into the desert." "and by the river upon the bank thereof, on this side and on that side, shall grow all trees for meat, whose leaf shall not fade, neither shall the fruit thereof be consumed: it shall bring forth new fruit according to the months, because their waters they issued out of the sanctuary; and the fruit thereof shall be for meat, and the leaf thereof for medicine."--_ezekiel_. "but the water is nought, and the _ground barren_."--2 _kings_. the message and the man introduction among the many problems of a problem-ridden time the most important, as it is the most difficult, is that of the apparent arrest which has befallen the progress of protestant christianity in this and other lands. for a long period now, we have heard from the various churches an annually repeated story of decreases in membership, in congregations, in sunday school scholars. we have been told, also, of a general decay of reverence for sacred things, of a growth of frivolity, a surrender of high ideals and of old faiths to the spirit of materialism which more and more, so it is said, dominates the age. that sabbath of our youth; that attachment by families to the sanctuary which was so marked a feature of our national life; that fine old english home life and filial piety; that deep communal consciousness of god which, whether it produced personal profession of religion or not, did at least create a sense of the seriousness of life and duty and so make our people strong to labour and endure--these things, we are informed, will soon be no more. regarding the situation, all thoughtful men are concerned and some are panic stricken. the account given by the latter is to the effect that religion is losing its hold; that the church is being left high and dry; that the morality of classes and masses alike shows darker signs of degeneration with the coming of each succeeding day. now, we are of those who, while trying to look facts in the face, endeavour, also, not to see double and to keep heart of hope. it is easy to make too much of statistics, and _very_ easy, in a moment of depression, to come to conclusions concerning the state of the church, and the life of the world, which a day of brighter and truer mood will greatly modify. there is no cause for either panic or pessimism, but there is cause for the asking of questions as to reasons for the condition of things, for the making of suggestions for their improvement. and of such questions, many have been asked, questions relating to the church, her methods, her teaching, her attitude to the world around her, to great social and moral issues. of suggestions, too, there have been many, and many of them have been seriously received and adopted as the starting points of changes and modifications, the purpose of which has been to stay the progress of alleged decline in this field or in that. beyond all admiration, has been the willingness to make sacrifices and put forth efforts to win back the wanderer to the fold which have been exhibited by those to whom changes are not always the most agreeable things in the world. the unfortunate thing is that, notwithstanding all that has been done, it cannot be claimed that the problem has been solved. now, it is a recognition of this problem, and of the fact that all efforts so far made to find a solution and devise a remedy have failed to meet with the success which had been hoped for, that has determined our choice of a subject for this--the fourteenth hartley lecture. can it be possible, that in some degree, the preaching of the preachers has been to blame for the things we mourn? from america we hear of a new profession which has been called into existence as a result of the fierce competition of industrial and commercial life. it is the profession of "the business doctor," and already the idea has been justified. all is not well, perhaps, with some great firm; rivals are getting ahead; profits are declining, and "the business doctor" is called in to investigate and prescribe. he goes from department to department, considering the methods pursued, checking the expenditure on this, on that, on the other. he interviews the partners, the managers, the men down through the various grades; the books are open to him. he presents his diagnosis and writes his prescription. the "business doctor" has been at work in the churches--in _our_ church. he has looked into many things. he has made some suggestions. they have not all been foolish, but, as yet, he has not quite hit upon the very thing. he has, however, not altogether finished his work. why should he not come into the preacher's department, into the pulpit, into the study? why should he not be permitted to read some of those treasured manuscripts which have been--shall we say the joy, or shall we say the discipline?--of so many congregations? why should he not be allowed to bring paper and pencil, and, ensconced in a pew commanding full view of the rostrum, write down the thing that is true about the part _we_ take in the work of saving the world? perhaps he may find that all is well. perhaps he may find that all is not quite well. if _this_ should be the case, how important that we should know it. discovery is often the starting point of improvement. that, in view of the situation referred to, we should, each of us for himself, _consider his preaching_, is the suggestion we would make to every preaching reader of the pages to follow. we leave the figure of the "business doctor," for every illustration is of limited usefulness, which is a good thing to learn. there is but one authority capable of conducting this inquiry in such a way as inevitably to make discovery of the real truth. that authority is surely the preacher's own conscience as taught, illuminated and guided by the holy spirit. at once we make a confession:--this lecture raises a question, but does not presume to answer it. we will be satisfied to set men asking and answering for themselves. here is the inquiry:--_am i, as a preacher, in any way to blame for the decline in church prosperity, for the lack of conversions, for such signs and results of spiritual indifference as are to be seen on every hand_? this question may pave the way for others:--is there anything amiss with the substance of my preaching, with its methods, with its spirit? if there be weakness here or there; if it lack the true note; if it have lost strength to grip, sharpness to probe, power to heal; if, in short, it lacks aught of being the means of grace it was designed to be, can it be brought, once more, on to the right lines? our words may be as a river refreshing the church of god, and flowing out through the portals of the sanctuary, bearing fertility and healing to the world; they may, again, from loss of virtue, fail to enrich the waiting land. there will be living trees by the living stream. there will be barrenness where "the water is nought"! for preaching _has_ been effective and the story thereof is a story full of glory. within the single century of our own church history what wonderful things have been done by the ministry of the word. it must never be forgotten by those of our fellowship that the primitive methodist church owes its existence to a revival of preaching. our founders were not seceders; they were preachers. they searched the scriptures not to find passages to hurl at theological antagonists, or so-called ecclesiastical tyrants, but to find texts for sermons to save sinners, build up saints and glorify the saviour whom they loved better than their own lives. these sermons they preached under the open ceiling of the skies in summer's heat, and autumn's storms, and winter's snow. england had been waiting for just such preaching as these rugged men came forth in god's name to deliver, and the common people heard them gladly. immediately succeeding our actual founders came a race of preachers who carried the glad tidings east, west, north and south, along the highways and byeways of england, gathering in the lost and folding the gathered. some of them, we remember, and could mention them name by name but that the list is very long, and we would insist upon lingering to speak of deeds as names came forth. we must recall their triumphs, for the inspiration we will need as we pursue the task before us now. another thing that must never be forgotten is that, as our church was founded by preaching, and has been built up by preaching, by preaching will it be upheld and increased, or not at all. we are forward to recognise the immense importance of other branches of service and the great part they have played in our wondrous past. the pastor carrying the message of salvation and consolation to the homes of the fallen and stricken; the teacher gathering the little ones around him sabbath by sabbath; the tract distributor, now, alas! too seldom seen about his work, but of great usefulness in earlier days--these and a score of differently named toilers have laboured in the uprearing of this city of the lord. but ever the preacher has been the leader of them all--the pioneer, the quarryman, the inspirer. the pulpit has been ever the place of direction and, still more truly, of encouragement. the church has increased with the increase of the preacher. shall we venture to prophesy? with his decrease shall come the decrease of the church. no church has ever flourished in which the power of the pulpit has declined. primitive methodism cannot afford to underestimate the importance of preaching. _her very life is in it_! so the subject of preaching is of first importance. this must be recognised by the preacher, but not by him alone. it must be recognised by the church as well. the preacher is prone to put upon the place and work of his pulpit much the same estimate as is put upon them by his people. there is one church in this land in which the people think little of preaching. in some great sanctuaries of that church it is a common occurrence for the congregation to leave the building as the liturgical portion of the service comes to an end and the preacher takes his place. the preaching in that body, although it has among its ministers men who are among the pulpit princes of the age, is speaking generally, a sorrow to all who long for the coming of the kingdom of god. "like priest, like people," we sometimes say. we might say with almost equal truth, "like people, like preacher." are there no signs of such a belittling of preaching in our congregations as may have the effect of lowering the preacher's ideals of his labours, or, at least, of damping his enthusiasm and spoiling the joy with which his heart should always run over? do we never hear it said that "it does not so much matter in _our_ circuit whether we have a preacher or not"? have we never been told that really the man most needed is "a visitor," or "an organiser," or "someone who can raise the wind"? "we want a sociable man," says the steward of one station. "we want a public man who will make his mark on the civic and political life of the town," say the brethren of another. we recognise that the gifts of men differ. we see that each, in his own order, may serve and build up the kingdom of god, but to rank the business of preaching as second to any form of service; to care less for the pulpit than for the class-room, the social, the entertainment, the bazaar, is a fatal mistake. you may make the church a successful business concern, an interesting and delightful social circle; you may make it a pleasant and intellectual society whither cultured people may resort for new ideas as to an exchange. all this you may do and care little concerning the preacher; but you can only make a strong church rich in spiritual grace and knowledge and usefulness and power by fostering, with a care amounting to jealousy, the preaching of the gospel of the grace of god. if, therefore, out of the problem we have named, there arises a question to be asked by the preacher concerning his preaching, there also arises, just as certainly, a question for the church. it is a question as to whether preaching has always been allowed its chance amongst us, whether we have helped the preacher to realise his best possibilities by requiring them from him with an affectionate but strong insistence. there may even be another question:--whether we have not sometimes actually discouraged the true preacher and sent him sorrowing away, because, forsooth, it has happened that in his devotion to the great work of his calling, he has seemed to underestimate the importance of some activities we held to be within his duty. no man can be master in everything; which is one of the lessons sorely needing to be learned by us all. there have been preachers, mighty in word and doctrine, whose hearts have been broken because of the blame thrown upon them for failing to prove themselves equally skilful as financial agents. let the church look well to this matter. her preachers will probably be as great, as effective, as successful as she requires and encourages them to be! all this, however, is by the way, though of such moment that we might well linger to lay emphasis upon emphasis. for the present we are concerned more with the preacher than with his congregation. the question we desire to put into his heart has already been indicated. the inquiry is suggested for the use, not of one order of preachers but of all. in the denomination to which we belong only one preacher in eighteen is what is termed a minister. the question is proposed, not only for the exercising of this one brother, but of the other seventeen as well. it has been intimated to us that a book on this subject "might be of special use to our young men." glad shall we be if this prove to be the case! but not among the younger preachers alone do we seek to initiate this searching self-examination. possibly it may be even less needful to them than to the more mature. the most dangerous days of the preacher's career are, after all, not its earliest. in the enthusiasm which, almost always, attends his launching forth into the work there is an element of salvation from some of the perils through which he may lose his strength in years when, perhaps, that enthusiasm may have passed with the novelty which now gives glamour to his tasks. then there is still another class whose consideration we would solicit for what we may have to say. we refer to those--and they are many--to whom, as yet, preaching is but an ambition, a dream, a prayer. some day they hope to stand before others, as now others stand before them, to speak forth for christ's sake the story which has so often warmed their hearts. it is a glorious ambition; the human breast can contain no higher. will such as cherish it join with us in thinking of these things? in order to arrive at the true answer to the questions proposed we shall need to look in various directions. as a beginning, we must, each one of us, go faithfully over his own record, tabulating results so far as they can be ascertained. we are quite willing to admit that some of the finest consequences of preaching may not be known to the preacher, but there is always material for an estimate as to the measure of success or of failure, which has attended his efforts. let us, therefore, go back through the years, back along the path of bygone sabbaths. confession? no! for that we do not ask. our discoveries may well rest between ourselves and god. let us make comparisons, too, however odious comparisons may be. other men are set within our view. there are preachers--thank god!--to whom, even in these days, success is richly given. it may be one of god's purposes that they shall be considered as examples proving the high possibilities of the holy ministry when tuned to its highest notes. let us relentlessly bring our work into comparison with theirs. "if _he_ succeeds, why do not i?" the results of such a measurement may be disappointing, disquieting, humiliating, but the path to the best has often a first mile of painful self-discoveries. then there were the former days of our own ministries and the ideals which in those days we cherished and have never forgotten. let us bring out present selves alongside of what we were; let us put the work of to-day alongside of the work of that far-off time; let us compare the dream with the fulfilment thereof. have passing years dimmed our ardour? have they chilled our love? have we gathered pulpit powers, or lost them, as the days have flown over our heads? there is somewhere a story of a man who, on his fiftieth birthday, received a call from his own beardless self of thirty years before, and, when he gazed upon his strange guest, he wept for what his visitor must see. can it be true that in point of effectiveness and real success some of us were better preachers in youth than we are now after years of study, of experience, of opportunity to wax greater in every way? there is still another test. here are human sin, human sorrow. here are the perplexity of the perplexed, the fear of the fearful. here rachel weeps for her children. here the widow and the fatherless cry aloud. here are misery, crime, despair. the whole world is full of hunger and thirst, of grief and wretchedness, of shame and remorse. let us bring our preaching into comparison with these! above all other means of coming to the truth, let us take our preaching back to him who sent us forth. let us, in his company, walk once more the roads of judea; with him let us stand on the shores of galilee, the slopes of olivet, the pavements of zion, the heights of calvary. let us listen to _his_ preaching and in his presence let us think of _ours_. so let us follow the matter to the end, painful though that end may be. it is needful that we do indeed learn the very truth; needful for the sake of _the church_. she needs the gospel for herself. she must eat if she would live. the times are times of hardness for the flock of god. it is necessary that a table be prepared in the wilderness. the church needs preaching, needs the inspiration of beholding the preachers' victories. nothing strengthens an army like a triumph. the conquests of the preacher are the salvation of the church. for the _world's sake_ it is needful that we come at the truth. the age may not _want_ preaching, but it _needs_ it. possibly it also wants it more than we suspect. it must be preaching of the right kind, however. preaching that lacks the qualities proper to itself is worse than useless. for our _own_ sake, we preachers must come at the facts as they are. it lies before us all to give one day an account of our stewardship, and the years are swiftly passing by. now is the time for investigation. soon will come the hour when opportunity will be succeeded by retrospect. men have been known to make discoveries in relation to this matter when too late; when only the possibilities of regret remained. to look back over the past and think that men have suffered in relation to eternal things as a result of our lack of zeal or of faithfulness, or from some preventable defect in our dispensing of the word, must be a sad occupation for those years when the grasshopper has become a burden. the echo of our sermons will be in our ears at the last. that echo will be either a song of gladness to sing itself forever, or a lamentation to be soothed to sleep no more! to be of some little service in the course of this personal and private inquiry this volume is sent out. it claims only to be a reminder of things perfectly well known, but of the sort that need repeating. will our brethren of their charity acquit us of the charge of presumption in taking up the theme now timidly approached? many, very many, who turn these leaves will bring to their perusal far greater ability, and knowledge, and experience than we are able to wield in their writing. a few men learn the value of wealth from the possession of it; more from a lack thereof. nothing better teaches the value of money than the association in the learner's experience of hunger with an empty pocket. what slight qualification for the production of this book we possess has been obtained in a similar way. some few things we have learned; some we have proved through our many mistakes; some, again, through our frequent failures. they will be found set down in the chapters yet to come. as a general statement of the plan of our endeavour, it may be said that we will try to speak of some essentials of effective and successful preaching, essentials first in the preacher, then in the substance of his message, and, finally, in the form and manner of its presentation and delivery. book i. the man. theory of book i. to have effective preaching you must have the effective preacher. jesus christ first chose and called his men and then communicated the substance of the message he wished them to declare to the world. to every preacher it is left to speak that message in his own way. the importance of the man in relation to the accomplishment of the purposes of the message is therefore obvious, and with him we begin. _what are the essential qualities of the effective preacher?_ chapter i. the designation of the preacher. the preaching of the gospel is more than a mere utterance of certain historical facts with deductions therefrom; more than a declaration of certain doctrines with their applications. it is a highly complex intellectual, moral and spiritual act. two men may deliver the same sermon. there may be similarity of voice, of manner, of delivery, but one of these men will _preach_ the sermon, the other only recite it. the difference may be almost beyond definition, yet it will be felt. at the bottom it will be found to be this:--that one man is a preacher and the other is not. so then the man himself matters? indeed he does, and to the extent that it is not the declaiming of what may be called a sermon that makes a man a preacher, but the _man_ who, through self-expression, by being what he is, makes such an utterance preaching. _first_ the preacher, _afterwards_ the preaching. and in the preacher the first essential to effectiveness and success is what we have called designation, and designation is in part natural and in part spiritual. natural fitness and spiritual calling, gifts, graces and a divine revelation made to his own consciousness--without these the occupation of the preacher's office, especially in the capacity of the separated ministry, can only be a perpetual misery and mortification to the so-called preacher. to those who come to him for guidance in the things of god the result of their absence may be incalculable and eternal! and, alas! there are to be found, in the ministry of all the churches, men in whom natural and spiritual qualifications for their work are absent and have always been absent. concerning such men but a few words, and those in reply to the reminders that we are continually receiving of the ineptitudes and inaptitudes of preachers. these things form a favourite topic with some people, to whom we will at once say, that while there may be misfits in the pulpit, probably they are there in no greater numbers than in other walks of life. we have known such misfits at the bar; in the surgery; in the shop; at the bench. the preacher's failure is of all failures the most public, and consequently more discussed than are such other examples as we have named. we have been so often told that "the fool of the family goes into the church" that we find a natural satisfaction in pointing out that this particular fool is to be met with in every lane of life. never a war which does not reveal his presence in the army; never a political campaign in which we do not see him being shouldered into imperial parliament. never do men talk together of their experiences of bodily suffering, as sometimes even the least morbid of us will, but some one is found to recall afflictions at the hands of the physician of little wit. the "incompetent" is everywhere and if, sometimes, he finds his way into the pulpit, those who jeer at the church on his account have little room for scorn. but, true as is this reply to the oft-repeated gibe to which we have referred, it is also true that nowhere does the square man in the round hole do quite as great and as lasting injury as he does from the pulpit. the _right man_ for the work--_that_ must be the ideal of the church, that man and no other, whatever be the consequence in the way of offending well-to-do supporters whose dream it has been that son of theirs shall "wag his head in a pu'pit," whatever be the disappointment caused to the uninspired ambitions of callow youth or the conceit of later years. the pulpit is not for sale! the honour of standing there is not to be dispensed as a reward or allowed as a compliment. wealth has no rights and poverty no disabilities as to the occupancy of this high place. only the preacher must be suffered there! and on this matter the church must be jealous and alert. sometimes the responsibility for the presence of the wrong man in the pulpit rests with her rather than with the man himself. it is open to question whether the church always regards with quite sufficient seriousness this business of putting names "upon the plan." we have known cases in which an individual has been persuaded against his own knowledge of his qualities to set out upon a career which has brought to himself nothing but failure and to the churches and congregations to which he has ministered nothing but trial. we do well to be anxious to help men into paths of christian service, but it is needful to study the adaptation of the man for the task. to send any man into the work of preaching, either as a minister or as a lay preacher, merely to "find him something to do," in order that he may be "encouraged in the good way," as has been done in many and many an instance, is simply to prepare difficulties for some one else to face. it is not sufficient reason for aiding a man's progress to the pulpit that his ambitions run in that direction, or that his relatives wish to see him in the preacher's office. we have hinted at the possibility of giving offence, and, of course, it is not pleasant to do this, especially when, as is often the case, that offence has to be given to people whom you love and honour for their works and character and sacrifices. in this world, however, unpleasant things have to be faced, and frequently the line of least resistance leads in the end to the greater trouble. it is even more unpleasant to have to disappoint the hopes, and discourage the desire for service, of some young aspirant whose piety and devotion you admire; but it is better to hold a man back from the very thing he longs for most than, by cowardly acquiescence in mistaken purposes, to contribute to place him in a position for which he was not born. has this never been done? have we never known officials vote a formal recommendation "rather than hurt the young man's mind," or "rather than estrange his parents who are such good supporters, you know," trusting, meanwhile, to providence for a happy issue out of all their troubles? in the case of a local preacher the providential issue may be the man's own discovery, sooner or later, of his own unfitness. in the case of a candidate for the ministry some connexional committee sitting in some distant town "may take a stand we cannot take who are on the spot." these providences do not always come to pass. the brother concerned does not always discover his unfitness. he is frequently quite satisfied with himself, and remains so to the end of a career long drawn out, with a persistent contentment which would be amusing if its results were not so tragic. the central committee does _not_ invariably "find out for itself" the facts we are afraid to communicate, and, as a consequence, the candidate goes successfully through, and in after years, as like as not, becomes a conferential problem. often the truest kindness lies in doing the thing hardest to do and most painful to bear, and in the doing of this thing the sacred obligation of the church may consist. here is a lesson that needs learning and remembering. no man becomes a preacher in methodism except with the assent and calling of the church. this must not be forgotten when preachers are being criticised. do you say that such and such an one ought not to be in the pulpit? it is probably quite true, but it is also true that some church helped him up the stair. he, poor man! is not the only person to blame for your unsatisfied hunger; your unquenched thirst; your empty pews! but, to look at this matter of designation more in detail:--we have said that it includes natural fitness and spiritual gifts and is made manifest in a divine revelation to the consciousness of the person concerned. of this natural fitness, it may go without saying, the gift of public speech will form a part. this should surely be regarded as indispensable, yet how often do we come across instances in which the importance of this prime essential seems to have been altogether overlooked? it is not maintained that every pulpiteer need be a demosthenes, or that a man must possess the golden mouth of a chrysostom before he stands up to address his fellows on the concerns of the soul. in these days orators are not numerous, and, if no man be permitted to preach who does not possess this infrequent gift, preachers will be few, while some of the greatest forces of the day will be banished from the pulpit. what is needed is that a man be able to express himself in such a manner as to command and retain the attention of those to whom he speaks, and that, without outraging the just sensibilities of the hearer whom he is sent to bless, he shall be able to tell out the thing that is in him. congregations are not generally unreasonable in their requirements; indeed, as a rule they are predisposed to indulgence, which has been well for some of us. they do not clamour for an exhibition of elocution twice every sunday. they do not come to church demanding to hear in every preacher the wonder of his age. but they _do_ ask that a man be audible; that his voice, if not melodious as a silver bell, be human; that his pronunciation, if not faultless, be distinct, and his delivery without painful hesitancy or torrential rush. surely these requirements are reasonable enough, and it is, at least, open to question whether a man who, manifestly, can never be able to meet expectations so moderate should consider himself, or be deemed by others, as unmistakably marked out for a preacher of the word. along with the gift of utterance to be required in the man who is designated to the pulpit will, almost invariably, be found a mind studiously inclined. the days are gone when it was held that study for the work of preaching the gospel involved dishonour to the holy spirit and unbelief concerning the promise of the divine enlightenment and guidance. the words of paul to timothy are now accepted as a necessary principle of pulpit preparation. "study to shew thyself a workman needing not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth," wrote the apostle; but it is not every man who is gifted for study. books, to some, are irksome, and much study a weariness to the flesh. they "simply cannot do it," try as ever they may. now we will not say that such a man can never become a preacher. we will not even say that he can never become a _great_ preacher. there are some great students who read few printed books--unconscious students, you might almost call them. again, some men arrive at great truths through intuition, and by natural endowment of words are able to express them with an artless art beyond the power of academies to teach. we must never forget that some of our greatest and most successful preachers have been "failures" at college and "hopelessly out of it" in examinations. still, such men are exceptions, and exceptions who, in almost every instance, have, in various ways, given such proof of their exceptional endowments that there has been little danger of their lack of bookishness proving a barrier to their election for labours for which they were, from obvious evidences, designed. notwithstanding all that may be said of these exceptional cases it should be wisely and carefully discussed whether the man who always prefers the street to the study, the crowd to the class, the newspaper to the treatise, was ever meant to spend his life in instructing his fellows in matters that call for the deepest thoughts of men. it is, however, quite possible that a man may have gifts of public speech, and possess a studious disposition, and still be without the _preaching mind_. such a mind will be more sensitive to spiritual truths and influences than the average intellect. it will manifest a talent for religion, a natural interest in things that are divine and heavenly for their own sake and not merely because they are to form the themes for appointed discourses. the "delight," as well as the life work, of such a mind will be in the law of the lord. its possessor will not find himself hopelessly bored by the study of theology any more than the born physician will find himself hopelessly bored by the study of physiology or anatomy or pathology or materia medica. again, to the preaching mind spiritual vision and spiritual hearing will commonly be attended with less effort than in the case of most men; though even the preacher will find that there are times and _times_. spiritualism talks of its "mediums," some of whom are said to "see" while others are said to "hear." the preaching mind will be in the best sense both clair-voyant and clair-audient. call the man a seer, if you will, and speak of preaching as prophecy, and you will describe as well as it can possibly be done the designated preacher and his work. it remains to be predicated that such a man will possess, at least, a more than ordinary endowment of tact and aptness in dealing with men, holding keys to their consciences and their hearts. he will have some special gift of natural power to move his fellows toward the action they would rather not perform. he will abound in that precious sympathy with humanity that _feels_ the truth concerning other lives which it cannot always _know_. to express our meaning in still another tabloid phrase:--the man meant for the pulpit will possess a genius for spiritual things. in these few, incomplete lines we have indicated some of the natural gifts whose possession should be held essential to the proof of a man's designation for the preacher's vocation. before the church suggests this service to one of her sons she should be satisfied of the presence of these qualifications; not, of course, as matured and perfected talents--that would be to ask the impossible--but as evidenced in signs visible to the searching eye. before a man yields to such a suggestion, however kindly and urgently expressed, even if it only point to a place on the plan of some struggling rural circuit, he should know that nature has already in some degree fashioned the instrument for the work. but natural endowments and indications are not--need we say?--the whole necessity. our fathers talked not only of "_gifts_" but also of "_graces_" and of "_fruits_" as well. the work of religion should be realised by the preacher as a personal experience and prove itself in a life accordant therewith. it is perfectly true that every hearer ought to be as good as the preacher, but, paradoxical as the remark may appear, it is none the less true that the preacher ought to be better than those to whom he preaches. it is an absolutely sound instinct for the fitness of things--an instinct honourable to the preacher's office--which asks that he who discourses concerning the elements of piety, calling upon men to embody them in works of faith and righteousness, should prove his own possession of those elements in the same way. it was laid down of old time that "they must be clean that bear the vessels of the lord." "who," asks the psalmist, "shall ascend into the hill of the lord, or who shall stand in his holy place? he that hath clean hands and a pure heart, who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity nor sworn deceitfully." so, before the church sends out a man to preach let her search his life to see not only whether he is able, but, also, whether in his character and deportment grace and truth are so displayed as to give him authority in calling upon others to live the holier life. let the church look, too, for some signs of _whole-heartedness_ in religion. zeal must be regarded as indispensable. we have heard a circuit quarterly meeting refuse to accept the recommendation of a young man for the plan because he invariably failed to attend the sunday night prayer meeting in his own church. would that every quarterly meeting had the moral and spiritual courage to take so wise and discriminating a course! further, when the church _has_ asked a man to assume the ministry of the word, let him see to it that he take the candle of the lord into the secret places of his heart and search diligently therein lest, in going up, he take with him that which will spoil his labours and bring dishonour upon the truth! he had better a thousand times tarry for a more perfect work of god to take place in his soul than do that! and now comes the greatest and most vital question of all. to a man may be given gifts many and acceptable; he may have received grace for grace; he may have known deep and wonderful experiences of heavenly things, and yet it may _not_ be the will of god that he shall be numbered with the preaching host. there are other noble kinds of work demanding all the qualifications already named, and his powers may be given to be expended in one of these. the preacher's designation, therefore, is never complete until the holy spirit has spoken in his soul the direct command of god. this must be clear and unmistakable. personal desire and ambition so often lead men astray. "beloved, try every spirit whether it be of god." this is a word to be followed here. if only it had always been remembered how many tragedies had been averted! for god _does_ directly call those whom he will for this office, and those whom he so calls will certainly recognise his voice. this is assumed everywhere in the scriptures. this is proved in the experience of the ages. how often in the old testament do we find the record of such a revelation? samuel in the temple, in the darkness and silence of the night, hears with the ears of childhood the word that invites him to his destiny. to isaiah, "in the year that king uzziah died," comes in the holy place from "a throne high and lifted up" the question, "whom shall i send and who will go for us?" and he answers, "here am i, send me." in the terms of these histories is enshrined the story of the vivid way in which the almighty revealed his will to the conscience of men of old time. the narratives of the new testament still further illustrate the manner of the divine compelling. how urgent his call may be, is heard in such a cry as this; "woe is me if i preach not the gospel!" here was a man to whom preaching was no personal ambition, no mere means of livelihood, who, indeed, "wrought with his own hands that he might not be chargeable to any." to paul this ministry was a divine compulsion; a duty only to be escaped at the cost of spiritual peace, of the serenity of perfect obedience. in all generations this experience has been repeated. read the life stories of those who have wrought great works with the hammer of the word, and in every such record you will certainly light upon a page upon which will be told the story of the call that could not be disobeyed. the older biographies of our own preachers abound in accounts of how they were spoken to from on high. in those days there was little earthly advantage to be gained from the work of a primitive methodist preacher, itinerant or local. persecutions were many and the labour was hard--_very hard_. often do we read of men struggling to escape from the order which had come unto them, and only yielding at last, because, for love of him who entreated them, they could do no other. "_sent_ by my lord," they cried, "on you i call!" and this clear word which came to men of old time, which has always come to the man whose work was to lie in the breaking of the bread of life--this clear word must still be regarded as essential to a perfect designation. of course, there is but one man to whom _this_ supreme indication will be apparent, the man to whom the voice has come; so that with the preacher, himself, lies the final responsibility of his presence in the pulpit--a sent, or unsent, man. do we say that it is to ask a hard thing to insist that no one shall preach who cannot say confidently that he knows himself to have been moved of god to this place and labour? hard, perhaps, it may seem, but "strait is the gate and narrow is the way" into this excelling service. there are many hard things in the ordinances of the kingdom, and, perhaps, it has not been well that we have so often sought to broaden the path, to widen the gate. possibly there might be fewer preachers if all we have laid down were insisted upon, but there might be more power; there might be more success. designation made plain by gifts, graces and an inward sense of divine election--this then is the first essential in the _man_. the recollection of this will prevent the office of the preacher from being regarded simply as a profession. when a man enters the ministry "for a living," or because, forsooth, he has social aspirations, he has taken a downward, and not an upward, step. when he comes into the work because all his nature, all his experiences, all the results of religion in his heart and life urge him on, the lord saying "go thou and i will be with thee," then glorious is his calling, and glorious will be his record when the day is done! chapter ii. things to be realized. it is absolutely essential to the successful preaching of the gospel that the preacher should realise the greatness and dignity of his position; and having once come into this realisation, it is also essential to continuance in well-doing that he abide in it. in himself he may have little in which to glory, but in his calling he has much indeed. for what is the christian preacher? he is the very messenger of jesus christ to men. he belongs to an order founded and recruited by the master himself. first he sent out "the seventy," who probably soon returned; afterwards he sent forth "the twelve," armed with a permanent commission. when, in the ranks of this early band, a vacancy arose through the unfaithfulness of one of its members, he made choice of another. from the opened skies he arrested saul in his journey to damascus that he might be a chosen vessel to bear the truth to the gentiles. from that day to this he has been calling and sending, not less really, a succession of men every one of whom might with paul have called himself an ambassador of the king of kings. of course there were preachers before the apostles and there was preaching before pentecost. the prophets were preachers, and mighty was their proclamation of the divine message--so mighty that though addressed primarily to their contemporaries it lives and burns to-day. later, in the period lying between the end of the old testament and the beginning of the new, there were notable preachers in israel who kept alive the messianic hope and sought to "prepare the way of the lord and make his paths straight." there was preaching in the synagogues in our lord's own day, and he but observed an established custom when, "entering into the synagogue" at nazareth, as was his practice "on the sabbath day," "he stood up for to read," and "there was brought unto him the book of the prophet esaias." he had a text that day, and he preached from it, and, if the end of his discourse was that he was thrust out of the synagogue and was like to have been put to death, it was because of the unwelcomeness of the word he spoke, and not because he had introduced a new order of service into the sanctuary of an intensely conservative people. he preached in the synagogues of capernaum, too, "and they were astonished at his doctrine, for the word was with power." john the baptist was a preacher who was more than a prophet, and to his preaching doubtless the lord himself listened more than once. "and john began to say unto men everywhere repent." such seems to have been the burden of his message until that hour when he suddenly found his sweetest music and cried "behold the lamb of god which taketh away the sin of the world." yes, there were preachers before christ, and long previous to his coming "it pleased god by the foolishness of preaching" to save them that believed. jesus, however, gave to the order of the preacher a new institution. he put upon the lips of his servants a new message. they were to go, no longer to the children of one favoured nation only, but "out into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature." from all classes did he gather the men upon whom he put this glorious burden. here was a fisherman fresh from his toil upon the deep; here a publican newly come up from the receipt of custom; here a husbandman from distant farm or vineyard, and each was commanded to go "in my name." each was the representative, the ambassador of the king. each was promised his help; each the baptism through which memory was to be quickened to recall the words he had spoken--the baptism which was to explain sentences which, at the moment of their utterance, were full of perplexing and affrighting mystery to such as heard. almost his very last words on earth concerned their mission. then came pentecost, the gift of power, the descent of the holy ghost upon the waiting company in the upper room. signs and wonders filled the hour. the word was with assurance and ran like fire among dry stubble. the multitude was pricked to the heart. soon followed the herodian persecution, and the preaching band was scattered abroad. as a result "they went everywhere preaching the word." so the voice of the preacher proclaiming the new faith was heard throughout the countries of asia minor and in learned greece and warlike rome, on mars hill where walked and taught the philosophers in the presence of the admiring and novelty-seeking sons of athens, in the palace of the caesars whence ran the currents filling the arteries of the world. westward, eastward, all over the known earth they went, and still they preached, until, in years that seem very few, when we think of all that had to be done to make true the boast, it was said "the christians are everywhere." and no preacher has ever risen to any true sublimity of service and success who has not connected his own place, and his own work, with the events of this great history. he is of the same company as were peter, paul, john, james, apollos. the spiritual dignity conferred upon _him_, the responsibility laid upon _his_ shoulders, are of the same kind as were theirs. we stand for a doctrine of apostolic succession, but it is not a succession dependent upon a ceremonial ordination dispensed by a privileged and ghostly class. it is a succession of gifts, of graces, of commission, of power, of victory. the true preacher is god's messenger. does he stand before thousands--a man of learning, of eloquence, of far flung fame? his highest glory is not in any one of these things, but in the fact that his commission is divine. does he plod--a poor "local brother" from mine or loom or plough or forge--along dark lanes and over wild moorlands, in order that in some distant and lowly village sanctuary he may speak to a few simple souls of heavenly things? let him not be depressed by the toil of the journey; let him not be disheartened by the smallness of the audience. rather let him lift up his head in humble pride that he is counted worthy to make this errand, to utter this testimony, for in the king's stead he goes, and in the king's name he speaks! a great, good thing would it be if only the divinity of their calling could be brought home to all who minister among us--brought home, we mean, as a constantly realised truth, warming always and inspiring the hearts of our preachers and giving confidence and authority to their word. the oft-quoted prayer, "lord, give us a good conceit of ourselves," might well be offered with some small change of terms. we do need a "good conceit" of our office. from such a conceit so many great thoughts would flow, such a sense of the importance of our task! we should hear less complaint concerning "poor appointments"; we should hear less criticism of the sermons of humble but sincere men, if preacher and people alike remembered that this commission was given on the steps of the throne. let the preacher think small things of the preaching office and small service will be the inevitable result, small sermons, small faithfulness, small harvests when the reaping time shall come. let the preacher live in the great facts of his history! let him realise--he cannot magnify--his office! this is the word we would speak into every preacher's ear throughout our church. there would be little murmuring concerning poor sermons and forgotten appointments if only this fact could win home. we are persuaded that the cause of much of the poor and careless preaching, the preaching that is perfunctory and cold and lifeless, lies in this:--that here and there are preachers who have never realised the glory of their delegation. another realisation into which the preacher must come before his preaching can reach its highest possibilities, both as to quality and results; and in which he must abide if his ministry has to remain upon the heights, is that of the supreme distinction of the message he has to proclaim. it is a _divine_ message which has been divinely entrusted to him for conveyance to his fellow-men. in regard to this, too, he must occupy and speak from high ground. he is not merely one among the world's many teachers, not simply one among the many speculators who come with theories first ingeniously spun by the spindles of imagination, then woven in the looms of logic. he brings not a theory but a revelation. he is not "one of the philosophers" classified and catalogued with the rest. he is a messenger. behind him is one who sent him; and the message is not a philosophy but a "way." it is neither a guess, nor a speculation, nor a deduction; it is god's word to men! now it may seem a needless thing to insist with such emphasis upon this view of the substance of true christian preaching, a view that we hear and repeat almost every day; but it is not so needless a thing as may appear. is it not true that some preachers condescend too much from the word given unto them? is it not a fact that some of us fail from very wont and use to live in the thought that our message is as far above every message as the name it reveals is "above every name"? has the preacher never been guilty of turning aside from this theme of his to what the apostle called "cunningly devised fables"? it seemed to him that the old story had become so well worn that, for the sake of a little novelty, which might, perhaps, attract the people who stayed away, he might turn into some subject less hackneyed than the staple stock of pulpit addresses. the reason was a very plausible one, and the preacher altogether sincere. the people _did_ come to hear him, too, as they had not come concerning the other matters he had been used to expound. there was a little mild sensation, and sensation is an agreeable variant of the dulness of grey and monotonous years. most folks were pleased, it seemed--indeed all were pleased who were of "any real account." many people even waxed complimentary and the preacher had hard work to keep his humility in flower. the only people who complained were those survivals of far past ages whose antediluvian notions accord so ill with the progressive spirit of our times. of course _they_ grumbled a little; said the preacher gave them less than the best, that he went to the newspapers for his subjects and to--heaven-only-knew-where for the treatment of the "topics" so selected. they complained, too, that the only advantage of leaving the old wells was that the effervescence of the new beverage drew larger congregations of a sort to whom effervescence is everything and they even made the amazing statement that the great purpose of preaching was not, after all, to draw great congregations which might be accomplished in association with failure as well as in association with success, but to change the hearts and lives of men and nations. they were actually so unkind as to remark that of this latter kind of work there could be little done excepting as a result of faithfulness to "the old gospel"--a term getting, nowadays, rather out of date. they _said_ this, and they claimed to prove the statement by figures they unkindly produced. the thing for the preacher to do, they contended, was the work he was _sent_ to do. the greatest subjects possible to him were the subjects _given_ unto him. christ's word, they held, was infinitely better worth repetition and interpretation than any other "word" the world had ever heard. who shall say these critics were wrong? the preacher falls below the splendour of his high calling when he turns from the thoughts of god to the dreams of men. of this mistake, however, there need be little fear if in his own soul the preacher dwell upon the glory of his "treasure," the preciousness of the seed he has to sow. "thus saith the lord." with these words he will refresh his faith and courage what time he challenges the attention and demands the reverence of men. "god hath spoken, once have i heard this; nay twice," so he sings to his spirit as he enters into controversy with those to whom he is sent. "come, let us reason together, saith the lord," thus may he invite rebellious men into confidence concerning all those things that matter to the soul. to him, _even him_, god hath revealed himself. through the written word has he spoken directly to _his_ heart and mind. to _his_ prayerful inquiry and diligent searching has he made known his will, _his_ mind being chosen as the organ of a revelation, honouring his devout spirit and earnest striving to know the truth. through the varying phases of the experience of _this_ messenger of his he has shown him the deep things of god and disclosed new applications of truths already known. god reveals himself to men to-day. let us at least allow ourselves the joy of believing that he has no favourites; that london or new york is as dear to him as jerusalem; that he will, and _does_ speak as certainly through the prophets of our times as through those of any far-off century in the history of the race. of this high doctrine every new sermon ought to bring fresh proof to the preacher's own soul as well as to the people who hear the latest word from heaven through the spokesman of the skies. so the wonder grows!--_an ambassador of the king, speaking the king's own word, spoken to me by the king himself, my heart burning within me the while he talked with me by the way, my own soul growing strong in the incoming strength of living truth warm from the lips of god_! stand we here--each for himself? indeed we must do so; for unless we do, abiding in this consciousness as to our calling and our work, we shall lack full furnishing for toil and accomplishment, for noble battle, for glorious victory! and if it comes to pass that sometimes the preacher fails to realise the greatness of his position and the true distinction of his message, and that his preaching suffers loss of effectiveness as a result of such failure, it also comes to pass, not infrequently, that he fails to realise, as he should, the _great purpose his efforts are meant to serve_. this failure also must hinder his preaching of the success it should command. behind the labours of the humblest of the preaching army lies the purpose which lay back of all god's dealing with the race, which moved him to give his only begotten son; the purpose for which he who was rich and for our sakes became poor, came to earth and "was found in fashion as a man." the purpose behind the preaching of the preacher is one with the purpose behind the cross; it is, in short, that purpose of infinite love which contemplates and designs the salvation of the race. "the son of man is come into the world to seek and to save that which was lost." "_that which was lost!_" the meaning of this word is surely not exhausted in the application of the text to individual wanderers however great their number. the whole world "was lost," and to seek and to save the world, "from the rivers to the ends of the earth," he came--to bring back all humanity to faith, obedience, love, purity, happiness and glory. for the attainment of the highest possibilities wrapped up in himself and his work the preacher must be possessed by this imperial design. he must _feel_ that he is fighting in a campaign for world conquest--for that and no smaller end. we hear, in these days, a good deal about imperialism in politics. we are encouraged to teach this imperialism to our children, and the argument advanced in support of the advice is that the learning of the lesson will have influence on the way in which the scholar will perform the humblest tasks awaiting him in life. the imperialist, it is said, will find himself saved by his imperialism from sordid views and actions, from all temptation to make small personal ends the measure of his service as the days go by. experience, alas! has hardly justified the prophecy. we have seen the well instructed and professed imperialist display much the same infirmities and proclivities as other men. we have heard of him speaking of the british flag, that most sacred symbol of his faith and hope, which it is his high mission to plant on every shore, as an "asset"; and we have found that questions relating to dividends were not altogether alien to his proud determination to "fling the red line further yet." but there is an imperialism in religion which has a happier history. that man possesses it who thinks of every blow struck for god as a blow struck in an age-long and world-wide warfare. this imperialism _does_ redeem the days, and _has_ a royal and quickening effect upon the labours of all who are in bondage to its spell. such an imperialist is no longer the servant of this denomination or that, a mere agent hunting recruits for his own little connexional "interest." he may seek to attach men to his church, but only because that church is part of the great confederacy of states-divine. he goes to his appointment in yonder tiny hamlet, where but few are assembling to hear him, as went out alexander to subdue the nations to his will. it is often said, and it is a saying too often received with small approval, that the church which does most for the support and advocacy of missions to the heathen invariably does most for the spread of the gospel within its own district as well. the saying, we repeat, is not always received with enthusiastic approval, but it is true nevertheless, and it is capable of easy explanation. this superior devotion to the spreading of the gospel at home follows as a direct result of a realisation of that gospel's all-embracing, all-conquering purpose. that purpose _must_ be realised by the church if she would get unto herself the victory. with no meaner proposals must she go into battle, or else the chariot wheels will run heavily and the young men will faint and be weary. what is true for the church is, if possible, still more true for the preacher, for the tasks of leadership and inspiration are in his hands. he must hold firmly to the ideal of a new world wherein dwelleth righteousness. to labour for this, and no meaner dream, must be his constant and unfailing resolve. and how are we to keep this sublime purpose of god ever in recollection, making it our own? ah! here is a question! we have all heard and assented to this grand design of infinite love. we all believe that "through the ages one increasing purpose runs." but to believe in the sense that we do not disbelieve, is _one_ thing, and profoundly and constantly and vitally to realise a truth is _another_. it is so easy to forget a belief when everything around us seems to contradict the possibility of its fulfilment. the labour of the preacher is often very hard; often, in its immediate results, extremely disappointing. the present and immediate care, the difficulty to be faced _here_ and _now_, so much concern and so much, at times, depress us. so much effort must be put forth even to _keep living_, so much patience even to hold up under the burden, that it is little wonder if, at times, we forget that our strenuous struggle is in fulfilment of a great plan to eventuate in the accomplishment of an eternal purpose. if we do hold the thought it is too often only in a theoretic way. it does not _dominate_ us as it should, and as it would if once it seized us by the heart. perhaps, more than in the case of most things to be realised, it requires great grace to make the soul able to grasp it. perhaps, again, the purpose of god seems to ask more from us than we care to give, and the fear of the sacrifice required blinds us to the glory of that purpose. as long as the preacher's programme is parochial or merely patriotic his preaching will lack the clarion note. small conceptions of the will of god make mean service. god's intention is to reign on earth as he reigns in heaven. let us live in this assurance if we would help his kingdom in. but there is still more to be realised before the preacher has grasped all the golden truth with which god would fortify and cheer him for the task he is sent out to perform. did we say that he must come into a consciousness of the true dignity of his office? did we point out his need to discern the true glory of his message, which is that it _alone_ is the message that is indeed from the heart of god? did we emphasise the preacher's need of a clear view of the infinite, loving purpose behind the work he is sent to carry through? to all this he must add a clear and constant vision of the victory to come. in that vision he must live as though the music of the triumph were already falling upon his ear. there is no room in the pulpit for pessimists or pessimism. the man who thinks that the world is growing worse, and _will_ grow worse, and _still_ worse, moving down the slopes of inevitable perdition until the final catastrophe shall burst upon it--that man has no right to pose as a preacher of the gospel of glad tidings to men. not so did his master look forward to the days to come when "for the joy that was set before him, he endured the cross, despising the shame." such a vision was not in _his_ eyes when he said, "and i, if i be lifted up, will draw all men unto me." failure! that is a possibility the preacher must not admit, even in secret to himself, if he would not find his strength stolen and grey hairs upon him here and there! and in the spirit of victory he not only _must_, but _may_ live. there have been darker ages than this in which the preachers have alone held up the lamp of hope. times of apparent unfruitfulness do come, times of drought do fall upon us, but they _pass_, for silently, secretly god works on and on. let us believe in _him_. his are the yet uncounted years. he prepareth his ways in the darkness, "and he will bring it to pass." in that faith alone is great, true and mighty preaching possible. thus, with somewhat of the seer, must the moral pioneer, from the future borrow; clothe the waste with dreams of grain, and on midnight's sky of rain paint the golden morrow. chapter iii. the need for certainty. one of the most obvious lessons to be learned from a study of church history is a lesson teaching the necessity of the positive note in the pulpit. the great ages of christianity have been those in which affirmation has been clear and definite and strong. the great preachers of the past have ever been positive preachers, men whose assurance concerning their message was heard in every tone of their voices, who knew in whom they had believed. especially has this been true of those whose ministrations have been the means of great revivals of religion as seen in the awakening of zeal within the church and the salvation of sinners. how positive were the wesleys! how sure was whitefield! how absolutely certain of things were the fathers of our own church! how real to them were god and jesus and heaven and hell. they were narrow, perhaps. possibly they were often intolerant. it may have been the case that they were rather too ready to damn every one who disagreed with them as to the interpretation of the truth of god. they may not have always displayed a sweet and brotherly reluctance to brand as a heretic any person whose creed was a little more hopeful than their own. it might possibly be shown that there is some truth in the suggestion that they were not always able to render a reason for their convictions with an intelligence and a wealth of knowledge proportionate to the strength with which they held them. but they _did_ know where they were. they _could_ identify themselves among theologians. they were ready with a confession of faith. this is _so_, and _this_ and _this_, they could say. _that_ will come to pass, and _that_ and _that_, they affirmed, as if they saw it all enacted before them. the result of this strong believing was seen in the production of strong belief and, better still, of determined action in those to whom they preached; for belief is at least as infectious as doubt, as the records of spiritual movements and the biographies of religious leaders of all schools will prove. there was no theorising in those camp-meeting sermons to which the people of this land were listening a hundred years ago; no "honest doubt" in those invitations heard upon the greens of the villages and in the market-places of the towns while yet the last century was young. here were preachers as sure of their message as they were of their own existence. of "mental reservations" they knew nothing. they had never even heard the term. they dealt in "wills" and "shalls"; not in "peradventures" or "maybes." they said of a thing "it is" or "it is not." they went up into such pulpits as they possessed, not to conduct a public inquiry after truth, but to declare it. they were not out in search of a gospel adapted to the needs of the age. they had found the one sure way of life adapted to this and every other time. this they cried aloud, and then lifting up their voices in song, "turn to the lord and seek salvation," they went marching on, while men followed enquiring with weeping eyes, "what must we do to be saved?" such was the preaching of our fathers, crude enough, much of it, no doubt; lacking, perhaps, many of the literary excellencies and graces of the preaching of our later days, yet mighty because of its very sureness, because of its splendid dogmatism. the complaint goes that the pulpit of our time lacks this positive note; that by word or tone the preacher conveys the impression that he is "not quite sure." it is reported that he suggests where once he proclaimed, surmises where once he declared. it is alleged that people are turning away from the churches because they can obtain no certain answer to the questions of the soul. instead of quoting a "yea" or a "nay," they report replies to the effect that _probably_ the answer should be "yea," but that, as we are at present passing through "a period of transition," as all our creeds are "in the melting pot," we must wait a little while for an absolutely categorical reply, preserving, in the meantime, an open mind and a trusting heart. for purposes of consolation, and to encourage them to this trustfulness of spirit, they are told, so they relate, that "devout men are at work upon the sacred documents;" that other men, equally devout, are reconsidering the doctrines, and that, among it all, the preacher does not worry, but, with admirable calm, waits and trusts, knowing "that in the end his position will be stronger than ever for the surrender of a few defenceless outposts." by preaching such as this possibilities are suggested which, it is said, cause more concern than comfort to the man in search of definite guidance on the most serious and vital subjects with which the mind is called upon to deal. another statement we have heard:--that as this kind of thing is met with almost exclusively in protestantism it works out largely to the advantage of the roman catholic church. few weeks pass by in which we do not read of this or that well-known person who has "gone over." as only the more prominent "converts" are mentioned in the press we may be sure that the number of unknown and relatively unimportant people who secede from protestantism is much greater than is known. from one of this multitude came a little while ago an explanation of the step he had taken:--"the roman church knows what she believes. her priests are positive. i cannot risk my soul upon a theory; i want a fact!" now it is quite possible that this complaint is greatly an exaggeration. it is certain that many are blamed while comparatively few are guilty. it is quite possible to be too much disturbed and alarmed by criticisms of the church and her preachers. these criticisms do not all come from the sincerest friendliness; neither are they always absolutely without bias, or invariably founded upon extensive observation. the church at her worst has always been better--she always will be better--than her enemies allow. the same is true of preaching. still it is wise to ask ourselves, when a criticism is laid against either church or preacher, whether there may not be a grain or two of truth to the bushel of chaff. it would be a misfortune if in our contempt for this same chaff we should lose the corn hidden there. where there is smoke it is well to remember there is always, at least, a smoulder of fire. grant that much has been made of little, which is a weakness of the critic in every time, and that all the rumour has resulted simply from some lack of definiteness on the part of a few. grant, also, that as the criminal is always far more talked about for his transgression than the honest man for his honesty, so the man who betrays his doubts in the pulpit is far more discussed than the ninety-and-nine sure men who go on their unsensational way according to standards made and received from old time amongst us. grant all this, and it will still remain to be said that the preaching of the present day, in those churches where the right of private judgment on matters of faith and doctrine is recognised, would, to make the least of it, be all the better for a more positive tone. but how has it come to pass that there should have occurred, even in the small degree in which we admit it, a loss of the sureness which means so much in the preaching of the word of truth? the question is a large one, and to answer it fully much more than all the paper composing this book would be required. it may be that the spirit of the age is not a spirit favourable to belief. in some periods faith is glorified; in others, doubt. in these days, it might be thought from much we hear, a little scepticism is the one sure evidence of intellectuality; while steadfastness in the creed of one's youth proves the possession of a dull and narrow mind and the existence of that hopeless mental condition known as fossilisation. ours are the days of science, and science has frightened some people terribly concerning religion, though it would almost appear that she is now beginning, in some measure, to repent, and is turning to soothe the timorous souls whom she formerly terrified. ours are days of criticism too, and the criticism has largely been concerned with the very writings wherein are recorded those words upon which we have relied as containing the way of life. some things said to have been discovered have disturbed us a little, though why they should have done so it is difficult, upon reflection, to see. we have been too prone, perhaps, to surrender ourselves to such a feeling as is natural to those anxious moments when, having called a consultant to the bedside of a sick friend, we have just uttered the request, "now, doctor, tell us candidly the worst." all these things would be mentioned in the long history which would be needed fully to narrate the causes of the slight slackening of faith noted here and there; but, for all the importance which would probably be ascribed to each in turn, they are not the only reasons; they are not even the chief reasons. those, we are bold to say, are not intellectual, but moral and spiritual! and these moral and spiritual causes of doubt in relation to eternal and divine things will emerge as we proceed to try to answer the question, which now arises, as to how we can recover that measure of certainty which we have lost, and which we must regain, with additions, if we would achieve that power in the work of preaching which is needed to turn the hearts of men towards god and goodness. notwithstanding all that may be said as to the difficulties of the situation, we venture to think that the lines upon which confidence may be won back again are not impossible of discernment. for, simple as the suggestion may be; lacking all flavour of the extraordinary as it does; without novelty and confessedly old-fashioned; we have but this to commend to all who waver and doubt, to all whose voices falter as they seek to utter the mighty affirmations of the gospel:--that the way to win again the old assurance is to come back to the source of their sublime vocation, determined, whatever may befall, there to abide all the long and trying day. "reach hither thy finger," he said to the doubter whose faith had well-nigh died for loss of a few days' open vision, "reach hither thy finger and behold my hands and reach hither thy hand and thrust it into my side and be not faithless but believing." the spirit of st. thomas comes upon us all at times, perhaps more often in youth than age. occasionally it comes uninvited; sometimes, alas! we open the door and bid it enter. there is but one way of escaping this spirit, and it is recorded in this old history. surely for doubting souls in all ages was this experience of thomas written down! the way of certainty is the way of the extended hand. ultimately the preacher's faith depends upon the use he makes of his own spiritual opportunities. "if any man will do his will he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of god." there is an intimate connection between intellectual results and moral and spiritual conditions. the surrender of the will to god is always followed by an increase of spiritual intelligence. that this is true we have seen proved unnumbered times as lowly piety has revealed sublimities of faith and trust. spiritual things are, and must be, spiritually discerned. and this is not so hard to understand as may appear. a life surrendered to the will of god is of all lives the most peaceful and composed. it is lived in an atmosphere of repose. in such an atmosphere the mind has an opportunity of looking upon the great spiritual mysteries in the light proper to their contemplation and consideration. it is a life of good works too, and good works tend to establish the gospel by which they were inspired. it would not be easy--we had almost said it would be impossible--to find a man engaged in hard and constant toil for jesus christ who would complain that he suffers from doubt as to the truth of the faith he serves. unbelief is not unfrequently the penalty of indolence. it might in many instances be found possible to trace the doubts of men to their slackness in the service of god. the same spiritual laws as regulate the experience of every saint of god regulate those of the preacher. his sabbath note will be according to his week-day living. let him be all the week absorbed in material things only; let him seek only his own gratification, only his own wealth or pleasure or advantage; let him walk only in the lower paths, and he must not be surprised if, as he stands up upon the sabbath, his voice be found to have lost the old ring of joyful and glorious assertion. he must not be astonished if his grasp of heavenly mysteries and promises and provisions be slack, and if, as a result, he speaks in halting tones. if his daily walk be far from the side of his lord, he must not wonder if other spirits find their way to his ear and fill it with whispers of doubt and fear which make his testimony hesitant and of small effect for good. we say he must not be surprised at these things. no, nor must he find the reasons for this weakening of his faith in the message itself, though that will inevitably be the chief temptation of such dangerous hours. he should ask first concerning the life he is living, whether it is of a sort to make faith an easy thing. he should ask concerning his personal observance of the master's counsel of prayer and self-denial and cross-bearing. it is pleasanter, no doubt, to seek the reasons for one's unbelief in intellectual than in moral directions. the former method may flatter us a little; the latter is often very painful! and yet by inquiring as to our moral condition the whole secret will often be discovered. there is also another question to ask:--if we understand the promises of our lord, in even a slight degree, he gives to all whom he calls into the holy ministry the assurance of a comforter who will guide them into all truth, and bring all things to their remembrance whatsoever he has said. are we quite able, we who are afflicted with doubts which sometimes make it hard to preach, are we quite able to say that we have honoured him in putting his promises to the proof as we might have done? was not one of the master's words to us "it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak"? there was no uncertainty in the upper room in that glad but awful moment when the pledge of the ages was fulfilled to the children of the new and better covenant. let us seek that experience again. let us begin our quest at the cross, with a prayer for forgiveness, and a vow of reconsecration. let us wait upon him for a renewal of that divine outpouring of which he has never disappointed his chosen messengers when they have sought it at his hand, meanwhile denying themselves, taking up their cross and following him. let us but obtain that baptism, and all our crippling and alarming scepticisms will vanish, and the full round tone of fearless confidence return. such a return is the need of the present hour--spiritual certainty in an age of materialism, the one sure antidote for all its cares. thus only can come that revival of religion for which we have sighed and looked so long. be assured that there can be no such work of grace as this unless the message of the pulpit be with definiteness and confidence. here would the answer to many a question, the solution of many a problem be found. hearers would be conscious of a new tone in the delivery of the weekly word. truth would be spoken as if it were truth indeed, and in their very consciences men would know it to be true. no longer would the way of life be pointed with trembling finger. once again the ambassador would stand forth in all his royal glory and cry "thus saith the lord," and now sinai's thunders, now calvary's gales of grace, would give majesty and tenderness to his voice! such is the way back to certainty, if certainty in any of us have been lost for a little while. yet, even as we name it, there comes again to our ears the old enquiry so often heard as an explanation of durance in doubting castle:--how does all this accord with the advice constantly given to men to seek to win each a creed for himself? is it not a man's duty to make his inherited beliefs and the things which are told him the subjects of his individual inquiry and of his own personal judgment and proof? yes; all this is true but other things are true as well. the first of them is surely this:--that a man should have won this creed for himself before he set out to provide a creed for other people. once more, preaching is not a public inquiry after truth but a declaration of it. the man who has not got beyond the stage of inquiry has no right to be in the pulpit at all. some preachers are always making confessions as to their difficulties. it ought to be seen that the people do not come to hear of the preacher's difficulties, but to be helped in their own. another thing that is true is this:--that it is surely not the best way of winning a creed to begin by doubting the truth of everything in order to get at the truth of _something_, as many seem to do. surely it is not the best way of winning a belief of one's own to conduct an inquiry with the object of finding how much is false of the things we have been taught. why not begin with the purpose of finding out how much is true? why not seek for confirmations as well as for contradictions? it is surely something to the credit of the things instilled into us as children that unnumbered generations of great and holy and thoughtful men have found in them their spiritual sustenance and salvation. it might have a helpful effect to ask why it should be left to you or me, so late in time as the beginning of the twentieth century, to make the discovery that the faith which has inspired "saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs," which has saved its millions, satisfying the deepest longings of the heart and the highest demands of the intellect; the faith which has inspired the purity, the benevolence, the courage and endurance of a long, long past--is only in a very limited and partial degree the truth of god. a due appreciation of the significance of history ought, it might seem, to be enough to make it appear, even to the youngest and most daring of us, an impossible thing that teaching which has produced such triumphs can be false. then as to this search for "a creed for himself" which, we are reminded, it is every man's duty to make:--it also remains to be said that for success in this pursuit, as for success in some other pursuits, an observance of spiritual laws is needful. a man should seek for his creed as _prayerfully_ as he seeks for any help of which he ever finds himself in need. the path of prayer is the path of light and of truth. the mistake often made is this, that we try to find this creed without seeking the help of god. "i will be inquired of saith the lord." one more question:--is the possession of this certainty consistent with progress? are we not told to expect new light as years pass on? has not every preacher the right to look upon himself as the possible organ of new revelations to his fellows? even so; but light will not contradict light. as the glimmer of the dawn grows into the brilliance of the day, the rays of the sun, falling ever more brightly upon the landscape, bring more clearly into view the features which at first were dim and dreamlike. as the glory creeps over vale and hill, touching here a winding river, there a patch of vivid green, yonder a window of some distant dwelling, new points of beauty and interest are continually being revealed; but the scene, though better discerned, is still the same as first burst upon our view at the moment when the sun leaped into the firmament from behind yon eastern hill. further revelations we may indeed look for, but they will only be new chapters of the "old, old story," and "continuations" at that. they are for confirmation, not disturbance. god cannot contradict himself. no one was more sure of the law-givers than the prophets; no one more in accord with the prophets than the apostles. our lord came not to destroy but to fulfil. so then certainty is consistent with progress; with an attitude of receptivity toward new light. a firm belief in what the lord told us _yesterday_ is harmonious with an eagerness to hear what he may have to add to-day. it is indeed to be regarded as proof of our faith in yesterday's communication that we hearken for to-day's word. certainty is possible to the preacher, and certainty he must have! yes, certainty he _must_ have; for the people ask for it, and have a right to demand it from those who stand up in god's name to teach them his way. we have read of blind guides, "blind leaders of the blind." such a leadership is that of the preacher who has no sure word to speak. for his own soul's sake the ambassador must have certainty, for what life can be more wretched than the life of a man set up to proclaim a message doubted of his own spirit. for god's sake; for the sake of the gospel to be uttered; for the sake of the high purpose of that gospel he must be _sure_. without certainty there can be no truly effective and successful preaching! chapter iv. individuality. another essential quality of the effective and successful messenger of christ is individuality. the preaching of the truth is, after all, _man's_ work for the sake of man, and _the man_ is needful to the completeness of the definition. it has ever been god's way to work his will and reveal himself to mankind through members of their own race. he does not speak to the nations in a supernatural voice rolling over the land. he does not write his word across the arch of the sky in any way plainer than in that language of which the stars are syllables. it is true that everywhere the inscription of his power and godhead may be seen; but neither in nature, nor in history, nor in human instincts does he declare himself on the deeper needs of the soul. his way is to use men whom he calls, trains and equips. even jesus, himself, came in fashion as a man, that he might speak with the speech of a man to the generations for whom he was to die. one meaning of this must surely be that true preaching derives power from the man himself as well as from the truth expressed. in his infinite resourcefulness the creator has made all men different. wonderful it is, but true, there are no two men who are, in all things, each a duplicate of the other. physically, mentally, morally, spiritually, every man is _another_ man. we speak of the average man; really there is no such being. no average can be struck which takes account of all that every man is and includes every quality and peculiarity of body, mind and spirit. each birth is a new creation. here comes one into the world to occupy a new point of view. he will see things with other eyes; he will hear them with other ears. he will relate them in his own way, if only he be permitted to do so. should he become a preacher, the message will be new in his newness. it will gather something for its commendation to the few or to the many, in that this man looks upon it from his own standpoint and expresses it in his own tongue. it is sometimes complained that in these days the pulpit is in danger of losing that which the individuality of the preacher should bring into it, for the reason that such individuality is being improved out of existence. "there are few personalities that count nowadays," we are told. time was when there were more. names occur to all of us, each of which stands in our mind for someone who, as we put it, was a man of himself. all churches have had such men; our own was rich in them. to-day, they tell us, we are all in real danger of becoming decorously, decently, conventionally alike. we have conceived a typical preacher and we try to approximate to our conception; a typical sermon, and we try to preach it. "he is a typical curate," "a typical presbyterian minister," "a typical baptist pastor," "a typical methodist travelling preacher;" "he is a typical local"--how often we hear these expressions! it may be well to give to this complaint at least so much consideration as to ask whether it is true. at once we may say, if it is "the truth," it is not "the whole truth," neither is it "nothing but the truth." there are still among us, thank god! preachers who bring the aroma of individuality into their ministrations, and are a brand of themselves. some turn of speech, some tone of voice, some distinctive way of putting a thing, some mysterious, but unmistakable, difference of flavour they have managed to preserve, and how grateful we are when we hear or see or taste or feel it. it is like the discovery of a new flower in the woodland, of a new star in the constellation! "it's no a'thegither what he says; it's the way on't," said the old scots woman in eulogy of her minister. we could mention little traits, which, small as they are, have been on the human side the success of ministries familiar to us all. there was a message and there was a _man_. but while the complaint is not all true, it is not for us to say that it is made without reason. it is possible that what many a preacher needs, before the success he desires can be his, is to recover nothing more, nor less, than his own lost self. it may be that some of us present a ministry true to type, but false to our own personality. the fact is that willingly or unwillingly, consciously or unconsciously, everybody (and everything) seems to-day to be combined in a huge conspiracy to crush out the individuality of the individual. this is seen in every department of life. it is the inevitable result of all highly developed civilisation. before society is formed the individual is everything and "one of himself." after society is formed he is one among many; sometimes even rather less than one. in the police-force men are known by numbers. in the world of industry they are described as "hands." civilisation brings infinite advantages, and life would be impossible without it; but we have to pay the price thereof, and it is part of it that the individuality of its subjects must be subordinate to the communal interest. it will be well if, in surrendering ourselves so far as is necessary for the public good, we do not go beyond this requirement to a degree of sacrifice which involves the loss of our own individuality. from this danger the preacher has hard work to accomplish his deliverance. it is not only the peril of social life; it exists in the church, and the more highly organised the church the greater the danger. referring again to our own denomination, there was a time, not so very far behind us, when the preacher was largely left to work out his own development. as a result, individuality had in those days every chance to assert itself. the tree grew much as it would, for there was no one to lop off a branch here, to bend one there, or to graft upon this stem a shoot from some other variety. of course the growth was often very peculiar; luxuriant on the sunward side, starved on the northern aspect, disproportionate, maybe, though often on those curious branches fruit was abundant for those who sought. probably _we_ would train those oaks, and cedars, and apple-trees in the midst of the wood to more conventional shapes if we had them to-day. hugh bourne might have to overcome that habit of putting his hand before his face as he talked, and he would certainly have to use language much less lurid than he occasionally employed. william clowes might have to abandon his practice of repeating a sentence over and over again in animated crescendo. henry higginson might be instructed not to lapse into impromptu rhyme in his camp meeting addresses. joseph spoor might be informed that if he wanted gymnastic exercises he must take them in private, and never by way of standing with one foot on the pulpit seat and the other on the book-board the while he illustrated, by means of a roll of bills, his conception of the trumpet call to the last judgment. these men and a host of others we might put into a correcter shape to-day. now it is not contended that gifts are not to be trained, or that it is undesirable to teach and practise a certain self-restraint. no doubt buffoonery has often masqueraded as originality; and the great results which have undoubtedly attended ministries in which extremely bad taste and irreverence have been prominent have not been in consequence of these things, but in spite of them, and by the power of a passion for souls underlying them all. "other times, other manners," is a proverb we must not forget. that there are risks in courses of study imposed without distinction upon one and all alike cannot be denied, but abundant and convincing reasons support their adoption notwithstanding the risks. it is an old objection to ministerial colleges that they spoil able men and are unable to do much for feeble ones. we hear, often, that such and such a man "is not half the man he was when he left home to keep his terms." there may be truth in it all; but it is equally true that a polished instrument is better than a blunt one; that in the hands of a wise man every atom of knowledge means more than an atom of power. moreover, it can never be proved that a man who comes from college to fail, would not have failed, even more terribly, without the training he there received. again, it _can_ be proved that out of our colleges have come men whose ministries have been of incalculable blessing to the church. in the end, after all, the preservation of a man's individuality rests with himself. the fact is that often we lack the necessary courage to be ourselves, and as a result, we give in too soon and too readily, to what appear to us to be demands to sacrifice our soleness that, thereby, we may become something higher and better than we are. in this way men degenerate into imitators and echoes. such a man is a power and has such a manner. he moves us deeply, shows us heights we have never seen and reveals to us visions of which we have not dreamed. we are not content to appropriate his donation of truth and rest satisfied with the intellectual and moral stimulus he bestows. god did not make two of him, but _we_ think there ought to be another, and we try to be he. the attempt is always a failure. the worst of it is that in our effort to be another we have ceased to be ourselves, and after such a loss what do we still possess? perhaps the disaster comes in another way. conventionality has certain curious notions about the pulpit, the fulfilment of which it paradoxically despises as it demands it. the preacher is expected to speak in a different voice and wear a different expression in the "sacred desk" from his voice and expression in other places. in some churches he is expected to read the bible in a strange, archaic sort of way, pronouncing the words which appear upon its pages with a pronunciation never employed under any other circumstances. the newspaper is _read_, the psalms are _intoned_. it is a crime to be natural. all the time men are sick of the whole fabric of artificiality, and long for that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. another way of losing individuality is to allow oneself to be drowned in officialism, buried beneath its trappings, interred in its dignities. many a man spends his life in a futile attempt to live up to some official tradition, even as he might pass his time in a family picture gallery cultivating the expression of some ancestral portrait on the wall. there is also to be remembered the possibility of a slavery to books. there is such a thing as the spell exercised by a great author through the printed page. we heard the other day of a contemporary literary man who is understood to pose as a second edition of william shakespeare on the strength of some asserted resemblance to a bust of the poet. certainly it cannot be on the strength of any intellectual inheritance. we could name men who have preached in a thousand times more pulpits than they have ever seen through the lips of others whom they have subdued to bondage by some famous volume. we could name the books if we cared to do so. perhaps we could recall periods in our own life when such a spell cast its glamour over us. to resist all these influences successfully, or, rather, to so appropriate what is good and helpful in them, which it is our duty to do, and still remain a full blooded, virile individual, will require resolution. to give due meed of homage to the great, due recognition--and there is a certain recognition due--to the conventions of our church life--to realise the office of the preacher, to assimilate the book, to grind and polish one's gifts--to do all this, and yet be at the end of the doing of it our own natural, unaffected selves, is far from easy. it can only be done as the preacher remembers two or three things which are all too often forgotten or ignored. and the first of these is surely this: that each and every man's individuality is a gift from god, the basal talent on which the rest are built. it was of the wisdom of god that you were born you and i was born _i_. here is the one and only possession which is our very own, and which none other can share, however ready we be to barter it away for something of less value. "do you know who i am?" said the nobleman, swelling with importance, to the boy who failed to lift his cap in the lane. "i am the marquis." "an' does yer honour know who i am?" said the lad. "i am patrick murphy from the cabin by the bog." within that ragged jacket was an inheritance which could not be measured as could land, or counted as could money, or appraised as are titles and coronets, but which was as real as any of them and more valuable than all; an inheritance to be improved, perhaps extended, ennobled, but never changed into something other than itself. let us remember this. with all humility, it is _capital_ for pulpit business that we are what we are. and another thing is written in our experience for our reflection, and it is this:--that it was for what we were that god called us into this preaching work. _he_ had discernment of natural qualities in calling even us, and counted upon them to be serviceable in his kingdom. there is surely no need to deny our manhood, or become ashamed of this being that is "i" when _he_ chose it for employment in ambassadorship. it was for what peter was as peter, dashing, impetuous, impatient, full of driving power and combative energy, that jesus called him from the fishing of galilee into the ministry of the word. it was for what john was as john, intense, clear-eyed and trustful that he, too, was called. thomas was also called--that thomas who found it hard to believe but easy to love, and whose faith, when once achieved, brought a whole heart's devotion to its gracious object--even he was called, not as another, but as himself. very different from them all was saul of tarsus; logical, incisive, proud with the pride of ancient lineage and of high culture, descendant of armoured kings, citizen of the first of cities--he, too, was called for he, for himself, was needed. so through the ages--what contrasts we behold, what differences as between a chrysostom and an augustine, a calvin and a st. francis of assisi, a wesley and a fletcher of madeley; as between william booth and charles haddon spurgeon, called, every one of them, because he was what he was. then let us remember that if he chooses a man for what he is, it is because he knows that the work needs just this very man. many tools will be called into service before the brown pebble hidden away in the blue clay beneath the south african veldt becomes the glorious star of a monarch's crown. one will tear it from its age-long concealment; another will test and prove its value; others will grind; others polish, and by others will it be set in its place of pride. very mysterious, again, are the correspondences and affinities existing between human souls. it is very curious how one hearer will respond to an appeal which would never touch another. "there is something about him that always gets at _me_," remarked a hearer, adding, "and i cannot tell what it is, or how it does it." the "something" was individuality. why it _did it_, was because, somewhere in the soul of the hearer was a chord tuned to some string in the preacher's nature. such ships are reached by a given set of wireless apparatus as have their instruments tuned to that apparatus. there is something between men reminding us of this. again, for a man's own sake it is a pity to surrender this individuality of his. for in holding on to it with grim resolve lies the only possibility of full self-realisation. let a man cultivate himself along the line of what he is if he would come to his best and achieve any genuine success, any real happiness in life. the world is full of men who have failed, simply because they left untrained what they _were_, to try to be what they _were not_ and never could become. nowhere is this more true than in the pulpit. many an excellent brown, or jones, or robinson has been spoiled by his attempt to become a beecher, a joseph parker, an archdeacon farrar. many a david, less wise than he of history, has failed against his philistine because he discarded the sling he knew so well how to use, the smooth stones from the brook he knew so well how to aim, for the panoply and ordnance made for the greater limbs of saul. along one line, and one line only, was victory possible to the son of jesse, and from that line he would not be diverted. it was a shepherd who came from the hills as a shepherd armed. it was this same shepherd with this same weapon who, resisting temptation, went out to the apparently unequal conflict from which he returned bringing the head of his adversary. this history is surely written for preachers that, for their own sake, they may be encouraged to give exercise to their own spiritual genius. along one path alone lies, if not greatness, at least usefulness for every truly called messenger of christ. it is along the path of faithfulness to self in the development, the polishing, the use of his own gifts in his own way. only one other word remains to be added:--that, as already hinted, the pew hails always with respect the man who is brave enough to be himself. let no one imagine that he can try to be someone else, or even that, without trying to be anyone in particular, he can surrender himself to a conventional ideal of clericalism without discovery and loss of the esteem and reverence of men and women of sense. the pew is very quick to see through disguises, be they worn never so skilfully. no voice rings true in a man's throat excepting his own. the people are sick of the cleric in the pulpit; they want the _man_. they had rather hear you when you are planned than any one, or anything, you may try to be. here then is the true originality by which the gospel is made new by every new preacher of it and by every new telling of its wondrous story. the old truths may be repeated in almost the same old words, but here and there will come a new tone, a breath of new influence, a new personal aura. oh, for the _individual_ in the pulpit, the preacher who is not an echo, but comes to relate the evangel as it has been unfolded to himself! oh, for the brother who will bring us, not a sermon only, but _a man_--a man discovered, saved, cleansed, polished by god; improved into value and profitableness, but still a man! in these words we express one of the greatest needs of the hour, and define a quality absolutely essential to the successful and effective preacher. chapter v. concerning "understanding." "and the preacher had understanding," so runs the ancient word, and "understanding" the preacher must have. this is only another way of saying that he must know what he is talking about. so much as this, at least, is essential in every man who comes forth to teach others. and this proposition has reference to more matters than such as are theological or biblical. it ought to go without saying that the preacher should know as much as he can possibly learn about the book in which is written the revelation he has to hand on to others. it ought to be equally well understood that he obtain, at least, a working knowledge of the theology of the church to which he belongs and for which he speaks. again, it is, surely, not unreasonable to expect that he will have some acquaintance with the "evidences" on which rests his appeal to his fellows. a preacher should certainly be as well able to defend his faith as the average man is to attack it. it must be frankly recognised, of course, that it is impossible for every preacher to be an expert on every question of biblical criticism and interpretation that may arise. especially is this true in a church drawing the great majority of its preachers from classes untrained, in the ordinary sense of the word, for their work. still, it is possible for every man among us to have an intelligent grasp of the subject upon which he discourses. it is possible, we say, and it ought to be required. with so elementary a proposition we do not even tarry for discussion, excepting to say that he who will not so far give himself to study as to secure this simple furnishing should not be surprised if the people cease to ask for his services. it was a wise word of dr. adam clarke:--"study yourself to death, and then pray yourself to life." for the purposes of this lecture we take it for granted that every reader is already so convinced of the need just set forth that there is no need to dwell upon it. we do desire, however, to emphasise the need of that understanding which goes beyond what is particularly known as the gospel. there is no department of life and experience which that gospel does not cover, and, therefore, there is no one who needs to speak of so many matters as the preacher. carlyle proposed a professorship of things in general. the pulpit within certain limits is such a chair! it has long been the reproach of the studious class to which the preacher belongs that its members, in their devotion to book-learning, too often remain ignorant of "life," that they live in a world of paper and print, of speculation and theory, which is seldom a faithful reflection of the real world of men and women and actual affairs. such a man, in short, is apt to live in a world of his own--a very delightful world, it may be, intellectual, idealistic, spiritual; but not the world of every day--the world in which the vast majority of men have to spend fifty-two weeks of every year. very delightful, too, is the type of man thus produced--charmingly learned, sweetly innocent, guileless, impracticable; walking the path of life with head in air, with eyes unseeing and ears unhearing the things that fill the thoughts of common men. holding fellowship with the immortals, eating the bread of philosophy, doctrinaire, drinking the wine of poetry--how good would it be to live with such men if only there were nothing else to do in this old world of ours. dreamers of dreams; watchers of the stars; spinners of speculative webs, in which they love to find themselves gloriously entangled; rip van winkles asleep to the actual, so wise among books; so deliciously foolish among men and affairs--we know the type, and we do confess we love it! but, delightful as is this kind of scholar or preacher, he is often far, very far, "out of it" in dealing with the needs and perils of those around him. that was a significant passage in the will of the south african colossus in which, in forming a trust to administer the scholarships he desired to found at the universities of oxford and cambridge, he provided that a number of men of business should find places upon the board, in addition to the men of learning already nominated, as the latter were often unlearned in the ways of business. there is a statesman in this land who has lost the headship of a great party largely because of a confession that he does "not read the newspapers" and is "a child in these matters." even political parties require something more in their chiefs than an appreciation of the subtleties of philosophic doubt. of course there is a place in the scheme of things for this type of man; there is no doubt a use for him in certain fields of thought, and it is our good fortune that plants amongst us men who are with us, but not of us, for to our ultimate advantage may be their sublime detachment of mind. it is here simply pointed out that their place is not in the pulpit of a busy, perplexed and burdened age. their use does not lie in inspiring men to deal with urgent practical issues. true enough, the truth they discern may be of the highest value in the matter of leading men out to the light of day; but it will be found that the lamp will generally have to be kindled and carried by other hands than his who found the wells of illuminating oil. it needs genius to make discoveries and often quite other genius to apply them. "he is a preacher to preachers," was said of one, and said truly, as many hearers could testify. but this "preacher to preachers," as a preacher _to the people_, failed! and the misfortune is that often, alas! it comes to pass that just such men as these do make the attempt to guide men through a world of which they, the preachers, know nothing. to change the figure, they make the attempt to treat by means of remedies which they have studied a little, patients whom they have not studied at all, and of whose condition, habits, history and surroundings they know next to nothing. there is much of this kind of doctoring and what is the result of it? what but the oft-repeated criticism that the sermon had small practical application to the every-day side of things? it answered no present questions, though it did, perhaps, throw light upon some period of jewish history. it solved no present problems, though it _did_ contain an interesting exegesis of a much discussed passage. it dealt with no present difficulties, though it did suggest an entertaining theory as to the authorship of such and such a psalm. it opened out no heart before its own vision. it neither created nor deepened nor satisfied a single desire. it might as well have been a disquisition on the fate of the lost ten tribes of israel, or a treatise on the properties of the differential calculus, or a discussion of the politics of the planet mars for any application it had to the need of any one person, young or old, in the congregation sitting there and providing that example of patience which was the most edifying feature of the occasion. it was eloquent, learned, poetic, profound, but _it was not life_. it is because there is so much of this kind of preaching that it has come to be said that the pulpit is out of touch with the needs of men; that it is too otherworldly, and that it displays a knowledge of everything but the necessities it pretends to meet. the criticism may be exaggerated and unjust, but the contention it is meant to enforce is true. preaching must be _life_. preaching can only be life when the preacher has understanding! understanding of what? of the human creature to be preached to and by preaching saved, ennobled and led up, through almost infinite opposition, to a glorious destiny. that human creature must be studied at first hand. it is not enough to know the heart of man according to theological classification and description. consciously or unconsciously, the effective preacher will be first a practical psychologist and _afterwards_ a theologian. if he cannot be greatly both he had better be a psychologist with small knowledge of theology than a theologian with small knowledge of psychology. he has not to speak to abstractions; not to speak to _sinners_ merely, nor to _saints_ as he knows them through descriptions whereof the subjects were simply types, but he has to preach to _men_ and _women_, men and women who all have their individual and peculiar tastes, tendencies, likes and dislikes, desires and passions; men and women looking at things in ways of their own, influenced by such and such prejudices, such and such hopes and fears. every one has his own disposition, his own history, which began long e'er he came upon the earth in far-off ancestors, who bequeathed to him the inheritance of themselves to be a blessing or a curse, or, what is more frequent, both a blessing and a curse, as circumstances and free-will may decide. here are racial instincts, tribal qualities, individual idiosyncrasies, and all to be studied with care and perseverance. the preacher may preach to five hundred people to-night, and he has so to preach as to bless them all. the first study of the messenger, then, must be the study of men. he must specialise in human nature, and his understanding must go down into its very depths. every addition to the volume and accuracy of his knowledge will mean addition of power and competence. those writers who impress us most are those who understand us best. the physician who most commands our confidence and, as a consequence, does us most good is he whose description of our symptoms most nearly corresponds with our own experience, who, we reason, obviously "knows our case." putting his finger upon the painful spot, the aching limb, he says: "thou ailest here and here," and we feel the cure begun, for the diagnosis is nine-tenths of the treatment. similarly when the man in the pew _feels_ that the man in the pulpit understands _him_--and he soon makes the discovery--he listens for what has yet to come. how often the true preacher hears the remark:--"sir, your sermon was _about me_ and _to me_!" that is a certificate of efficiency which may well make a preacher glad. to attain to this understanding men must be studied in all the ways we can devise--individually and in the mass, for, strangely enough, men in the mass often look at things very differently from the manner in which the individuals, of whom the mass may be composed, would look at them when alone. in books, too, man must be studied, but more especially face to face, in constant, earnest observation. the preacher must get out and about. a recluse he cannot afford to be. pale-faced piety cultivated in the cloister may be admirably adapted for sunday exhibition, but is apt to prove rather ineffective when brought into active service in week-day tasks. wisdom waits to be gathered in every place where men do congregate. earnestly must the preacher listen in those moments--and they come to all true teachers of the things of life--when some fellow-mortal, compelled by very need, opens to him the secret chambers of his soul. great, also, is the knowledge the preacher may win from self-dissection. let him analyse his own heart unsparingly, his own motives and desires. his doubts and fears, his aspirations and longings are for his teaching that he may be able the more wisely to deal with those of other men. "commune with thine own heart and be still." there is one man whom every preacher needs more frequently to meet, and whose acquaintance he needs to cultivate to a point of greater intimacy, and that one man is himself. know him, and so know his race, for he is kindred, bone of bone and flesh of flesh, with all who live. he who would explain a man to himself must first have explored the dark continent of his own soul! and the preacher's knowledge of men must include as large a measure of information as can be acquired concerning the conditions under which their lives are spent, and which so greatly influence a man's character, and account, so largely, for what he is and does. the preacher has to be greatheart to his hearers in relation to the temptations they are called upon to fight, and often our temptations, when not the immediate product of our own hearts, grow out of the circumstances under which our lives are lived. if, again, the temptation be not the direct result of these circumstances, it is often aided by them in the undoing of the soul. the poverty and wretchedness; the low bodily state of the slum dweller, have, at least, as much to do with making him the sot he often is as his intemperance has in bringing him to indigence and misery. criminality, we are beginning to see, may be partly a vice, partly the result of bad economic and social laws, and partly a disease inherited with life itself. the same may be said of many forms of sin which do not, perhaps, come within the scope of the law courts of the land. not that any conditions, or any personal history, abrogate responsibility in the evil-doer. the _final consent_ lies ever with a man himself, but the conditions of his life may explain how many things came to be, and a knowledge of them may point the way to help. the physician of to-day not only feels the pulse and uses the stethoscope; he asks questions as to drainage and ventilation, as to supplies of water and of light. let us remember, then, that the preacher needs to be in a very considerable and general degree acquainted with the life of the world around him. he should know something about business; something about industry; something of the every-day round of those sitting before him in free seat and cushioned pew. ignorance of the world is worse than ignorance of letters, or sciences, or arts. a preacher ought, if possible, to know something of ancient oriental manners and customs and languages; but it is infinitely more important that he know something of the actualities of his own time. history tells us of the great french lady who, hearing the people clamour for bread, remarked that surely they need not make so great a noise about bread. was there not beef to eat? how interesting are those articles, with which our newspapers are sometimes enlivened, wherein duchesses take in hand to teach the wives of working men how to keep house on thirty shillings a week. we have seen "a guide to cookery" written by a countess for the use of families of moderate means, and the book was very well worth buying if only for the sake of a little mild amusement when the spirit is in danger of growing too serious for mental health. a great chapter in humorous literature is that in which mark twain places on record how for a few brief but exciting days he edited an agricultural paper while the editor was, perforce, absent from his chair. good, it is to read the answers he returned to rural inquirers who wished for counsel in relation to the difficulties of farm or garden. this kind of thing in a newspaper is ridiculous; in a cookery book or an article on domestic economy it is amusing; but in the pulpit it is disastrous. thus it comes to pass that while the preacher must not neglect his study, he must just as certainly not fail to learn the lessons of the home and of the street. he must talk often with his fellow-men. he must drive conversation with the workman of the city and with the master for whom he works. he must hold intercourse with the man of business as well as with the brother minister with whom it is so pleasant to chat on topics of mutual interest. he must cultivate the friendship of the ploughman as he "homeward wends his weary way." he must even condescend to little children. men can only learn from _him_ as _he_ first learns from _them_. of course all this may mean some little sacrifice, some self-denial. the tastes of the preacher may lie in other directions. they are such pleasant company--those writers who speak to us from pages waiting to open at our touch. it may seem such a waste of good opportunity to leave the philosopher in half-calf for the society of the workman in fustian. it may mean some coming down from one's stilts, too, some forgetting of what is called "one's position." it may involve, to put it in a word, the living of a human life among human beings; still, the results will be worth the winning. again, an understanding of the material conditions under which life is lived, greatly helpful to the preacher as it is, is not all that is needed. the messenger must know in what direction runs the _thought_ of his age. the learned and able authorities dwelling within the covers of the precious volumes upon his library shelves form an interesting and inspiring society in which it is pleasant to spend his hours. the religious people with whom the preacher mostly consorts form a more, or less, agreeable circle in which it may be pleasant to pass such time as he can spare for social enjoyment. but the world has many men and many minds. continually the ferment of intellect goes on. thoughts ripen into tendencies with wonderful rapidity. it is recorded of a great emperor that he was wont to disguise himself and wander at large among his people, listening to the talk of common men. as a result he knew, even before his counsellors, how set the wind. hence he was "beforehand" in his government. there is no rebellion that is not first a conspiracy, and no conspiracy that is not first a smouldering, and then a blazing, discontent. the preacher must hearken beneath the eaves for his people's sake. he must stand sentinel upon the tower. he must be a watchman in the night. he must put his ear to the earth that he may detect the far-off tramp of approaching foes. what is being said in a whisper to-day will be cried from every high place to-morrow, and he who listens to the whisper may be found ready to answer or explain the cry--perhaps, even, to prevent it. "as those who watch for your souls," so writes the apostle. "_as those who watch._" behold the shepherd, as he tends the flock, sleeplessly gazing for the approach of lion, or wolf, or bear, or prowling bedouin of the desert. so must the preacher sweep the horizon by day; so listen to the speaking silences of the night. then to all this the messenger must add an intimate knowledge of the church, of her condition and of her needs. to know her history is well. it is knowledge from which the christian worker of every name may derive many warnings. it will be found to contain many lessons profitable for consolation and for inspiration. it will suggest many an useful explanation of phenomena in the church life of to-day. but the preacher must study the church as she is in this very hour. how beat her pulses _now_? how run the currents of her life in the days that _are_? does her faith wax, or wane? does her love grow colder or warmer with the passing years? is it well with her, or is it ill? in regard to all these things our friend will have--he _must_ have if he seek to feed the flock of god with food convenient--true understanding. he will know how the work of god is moving in the congregations. he will be able to distinguish between true, spiritual success and that success which is noise and show alone. he will discern the difference between the rosy flush that signifies health and the hectic spot of burning red that speaks only of disease and death. he must look _deep_. he must look _far_. he must look _constantly_. he must look _deep_, because truth lies often at the bottom of a well, and the true state of the church is not always according to superficial signs. he must look _far_, because he is surely more than a mere denominationalist; he belongs to the holy catholic church, and he must know her life in other places in order to better judge her life at home. he must look _constantly_, for "if the good man of the house had known in what watch the thief would come he would have watched and would not have suffered his house to be broken up." for the effective delivery and application of his message, then, we insist that the preacher needs to be in touch with every aspect of the lives of those who come beneath the influence of his preaching. he must know _them_; the conditions under which they live; the thoughts upon which they feed from day to day. oh, if only we knew more about the people, how much more could we help and bless them! there they sit before us as we speak. if only we could look down into their hearts; if only we could hear the questions asking themselves in their minds, the doubts and fears, the sad perplexities which, even within sound of our voices, darken our counsel and come between the soul and god! if only we knew the struggle maintained, the heavy burden borne, from year to year by yonder man anxiously listening to our words! silently he comes and goes between his home and this house of prayer. he neither pines nor whines; he does not rise to put the question which needs an answer before his heart can be at peace. if we only knew--but oh! our knowledge is so small at the best. the more reason then why we should seek to make increase therein, that from the worst results of ignorance in their teachers the people may be saved! lest some may think that, in emphasising the importance of that understanding which is not altogether gained from books we have under-valued the work of the study, let us, in closing our chapter, describe what seems to us to be the highest type of training for the work of the pulpit. it is the training in which the student gives to _every_ means of furnishing its due and proportionate place; in which he turns to books _and_ to life for the wisdom he seeks. we have spoken of the impracticable scholar, but not all men of learning have been of this order. among the most practical of preachers; among those who have displayed the greatest knowledge of the human heart and of the times, their conditions and their problems, have been many renowned for breadth and depth of scholarship. these men were mightier, and not weaker, for their learning. they were able to apply the best of everything to the uses and necessities of the hour. they brought out of their storehouse, to quote a well-worn phrase "things new and old." so let a man be diligent at his books and diligent, everywhere, in using his eyes and ears, and so "let him go round the walls of the city and let him tell the towers thereof." chapter vi. passion. there is a page in tyerman's monumental "life of george whitefield," which illustrates, as few pages do, the quality of that essential of true and effective preaching in regard of which we are now to speak. it is that page in which are described the last hours of the great evangelist. on saturday morning, september 29th, 1770, being exceedingly weak and ill, but bent upon the continuance of his preaching work, whitefield set out from portsmouth (u.s.a.) to ride to boston. fifteen miles from portsmouth, at exeter, he was stopped and persuaded to preach. a friend said to him, "sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach." "true, sir," replied whitefield, and then, clasping his hands and looking up to heaven, he added, "lord jesus, i am weary in thy work but not of it. if i have not yet finished my course, let me go and speak for thee once more in the fields, seal thy truth, and come home and die." at the commencement of his discourse he was unable for some time to speak, but recovering himself he preached for two hours. at exeter, to pursue the story, the rev. jonathan parsons, who, for twenty-four years, had been presbyterian minister at newbury port, met the preacher. the two friends dined together at captain oilman's, and then started for newbury port, a few miles further on. "on arrival there," says the biographer, "whitefield was so exhausted that he was unable to leave the boat without assistance, but in the course of the evening he recovered his spirits." let us give the rest of the story in the words of mr. tyerman:--"while whitefield partook of an early supper, the people assembled at the front of the parsonage, and even crowded into its hall, impatient to hear a few words from the man they so greatly loved. 'i am tired,' said whitefield, 'and must go to bed.' he took a candle and was hastening to his chamber. the sight of the people moved him; and, pausing on the staircase, he began to speak to them. he had preached his last sermon, this was to be his last exhortation. there he stood, the crowd in the hall gazing up at him with tearful eyes, as elisha at the ascending prophet. his voice flowed on until the candle which he held in his hand burned away and _went out in its socket_! the next morning he was not, for god had taken him." now, surely, here is a picture worth the painting, if only one could catch the true spiritual significance and lesson of it all. imagine the scene: the listening multitude crowded into the spacious entrance hall; the preacher, wearied and worn by disease, and still more by his restless and sublime labours in preaching the word in field and temple for many a wondrous year. the candle flickers and fails as the glorious voice, which has made heavenly music for tens of thousands of seeking souls, becomes weaker and weaker. the feeble flame, at last goes out, and leaves the preacher still pleading the cause of the lord, whose face he is so soon to behold. history has no nobler scene to show in all its gathered years! we have appropriated this story because it appears to us to hold an explanation of the meaning of the word at the head of this chapter. possibly there has never been, in all the years of the church, a greater preacher than this same whitefield, and whitefield's greatness has, to a large extent, its explanation in this, the last scene of his ministry. how many he led to god eternity alone can reveal. his spiritual descendants are numbered by multitudes as the sand on the sea-shore, the stars in the firmament, for number. when he died millions in both the old world and the new wept the going of one who to them had been the prophet of a great deliverance. to this day the little new england village where he sleeps is the object of pious pilgrimage to numbers to whom the echo of his voice still comes across the breadth of intervening years. the secret is largely hidden in "this last scene of all." in this mighty _passion_ to preach the word, a passion which neither persecution nor betrayal nor disappointment nor disease nor even the icy breath of approaching death could cool--in this lies the explanation of a ministry that shook the world! and without this passion even whitefield's gifts of oratory would have left no record for our reading, for it is absolutely essential to effective preaching; absolutely essential to success. without it the choicest gifts, the profoundest learning will achieve but little. _with_ it, even humble qualifications and limited scholastic equipment will accomplish--have often accomplished--great things for god and the lives of men. and this passion for preaching will be a passion for preaching for its _own sake_. to the true preacher preaching, and everything connected with preaching, will be things in which his soul delights. he will glory in sermon making and sermon preaching more than in any of his life's other activities. it is not implied that he will always approach his task without fear, or even without shrinking, or, at times, a passing desire to shun the duty devolving upon him. there may be hours when, as he truly realises the purpose of his work, a sense of his responsibility will so surge through his spirit as almost to unman him. other times, again, may come, when even "nerves" may get the better of him, for every preacher worth the name has "nerves," and should thank god for them. there may be days in which, seeing as in a vision something of the mighty issues dependent upon his faithfulness, he will tremble lest he be, indeed, one of those fools who "rush in where angels fear to tread." all these experiences may be--most likely will be--his, and yet he will find in the exercise of his art, both in preparation and performance such a pleasure, and such a sense of mental exaltation, as nothing else can bring. a born artist loves to paint for painting's sake; to such an one there is something almost sacramental in the very mixing of the colours. the true sculptor hears music in the tapping of the mallet upon the chisel as he shapes the marble into grace and beauty. there is no drudgery in the calling that is yours by ordination of nature, by right of true heartfelt affection. the kind of preacher we mean would rather talk about preaching than about any other subject, providing he meet with one like-minded with himself. he is happy to the glowing point when he can discuss with some sharer of the call the latest homiletic creation of his mind or of the mind of his friend. when his creation comes to the stage of delivery he is conscious of that perfect pleasantness which is always felt by a man when engaged in the labour which, of all others, he loves best to perform. "i'd rather preach than be king of england," he will tell you sometimes; and though, on occasion, he may have his "hard times," a form of discipline sent upon him for his soul's good, he will generally be found within a single circling of the sun as eager as ever to return to the place of his humiliation. many a preacher who has felt, on sunday evening, that the only thing left for him to do was immediately to send in his resignation to the proper quarter, has, before monday evening, known what it was to hunger again for the sabbath's sweet return. a strange thing is this preaching madness when it possesses a man, as it often will, body, soul and spirit; which no place can satisfy save the preacher's place, no task save the preacher's task, no honour save the honour of telling men about jesus christ. without it there can be no grand success. he who is not thus possessed should decline to be drawn for this duty. of such as he there are more than enough already in the pulpit--in it, but _not at home_ in it, not glad, gloriously glad, to be there--slaving to make a sermon because "in three days sunday will be here;" taking with them at service time this so-called sermon, strong with the smell of books and of midnight oil; speaking it in pain of utterance, and delighted when the ordeal is over, with a delight most certainly shared by many who neither came to scoff nor remained to pray. heaven help the man whom fate in the shape of foolish friends, or parents, or mistaken church-officials has sentenced to hard labour in the pulpit; who is condemned to preach without possession of that love of preaching which makes for him in whose heart it dwells the business of declaring the gospel the noblest and most rapturous occupation in all the great, wide world! if preparation be invariably irksome--_invariably_, we say, for all men have their moods and no mere passing spell of depression is worth more than a little special prayer; if preaching be always a pain and a cross--_always_, we say--for god may cause the chariot wheels to run heavily for reasons of his own, and the difficulty may not point to retreat, but to supplication; if preparation and preaching be invariably irksome and painful, the fact ought to make the preacher ask whether a mistake has been made in his choice, which ought to be rectified as soon as possible. the true preacher will be in love with preaching for its own sake. this love will be part of the great all-conquering passion of his life. a "part," yes; but only a part. may we call it the human, the temperamental, dispositional part? the passion we desiderate for the present-day pulpit includes something almost infinitely higher than this. it must include _the passion for christ_. it is the hunger to preach because jesus christ is the chief theme of preaching; because it is in _his_ honour; because out of the fulness of the heart the mouth would speak; because the soul's deep reverence for the redeemer _must_ extol its object. he is to be _obeyed_, too, in preaching. it is a form of service rendered to _him_. the truth is _his_ truth, "the truth as it is in jesus," and _he_ gave the command which is honoured in its publication. by this act of preaching _he_ is pleased. it is an evidence of the preacher's glad surrender to _his_ will. it moves others, too, to the same surrender. it extends _his_ kingdom; increases the number of those who "bear _his_ name and sign." it helps _him_ to see "of the travail of his soul and be satisfied." it pushes further back the bounds of _his_ empire; widens the area of _his_ sovereignty. it "crowns _him_ with glory and honour." so the preacher "makes his boast in the lord," and is "glad." thus it can be said that all true preaching is worship, which is always the expression of awe, reverence and love. we sometimes speak of worship, _and_ preaching. to the true preacher this distinction does not exist. no act in all the service is more truly an act of adoration than is the preaching of such a man, because it is the pouring out of his inmost heart's affection. with the spirit with which he prays and sings; with the spirit of the te deum and the magnificat, will he preach; and out of the same emotions toward him whom thus he serves. such preaching is a bringing of the fruits of the mind and the spirit to the altar of sacrifice. the whole doxology is in it! yes, preaching is worship. we free churchmen need to emphasise this truth. again and again have we heard the criticism that in our churches there "is much sermon and little worship." we have not only heard this criticism from the quarter whence it might be expected, but, also, sometimes even from some of our own fellowship. there is an answer to this complaint which proceeds from a misunderstanding of what true worship really is, as well as from an underestimation of the true sacredness of the preacher's work. it is this:--that preaching is worship when offered in the spirit of worship, and that neither song nor prayer becomes worship except upon the same condition. further we would say that _hearing_ is worship, too, when the hearer listens as in the spirit. the hearer to whom song and supplication are worship, indeed, will also make an act of adoration of his hearing of the word which is sent unto him. behind such preaching as this, and producing the passion out of which it will proceed, there must be high experiences of grace. such passion can only proceed from a personal knowledge of christ and from that full surrender which such knowledge at once brings to pass. love has caught the preacher in the way and led him to calvary, where his heart has been set on fire. he does but preach because he must, the lord having done for him such mighty things. as the memory of that divine arrest on the road to damascus abode with paul, and so sustained a sense of the mercy of his lord that he could not help but preach the gospel, so the recollection of the preacher will ever linger around the glad hour when the master met him in the path, having come down from heaven to seek and to save even him. in these remembrances has the passion of the preacher its origin and its reinforcement. it is the first fruit of a melted heart. the true preacher is--the word is not a pleasant one, but it is the only form of expression that, at the moment, occurs--the devotee. he is the slave of love to christ. and without this whole-souled devotion--we say again--there can be no great moving and saving preaching. eloquence there may be, intellectualism, sublimity of conception and description, pathos--all the qualities which are needed in high public address, but something will be lacking. none can speak of a maiden as can her lover, though others may describe her with a choicer diction than he. none can speak of a child as can his mother, to whom the little life is more precious than her own and every childish way of significance and beauty. "_lovest_ thou _me_?" said the lord to simon peter on that grey morning on the sea-shore. "lovest thou me?" he asked again, and yet again. "yea, lord, thou knowest that i love thee," cried the disciple, his soul aflame with a living passion never more to be extinguished or bedimmed, "thou knowest that i love thee." then said the saviour, "feed my sheep," "feed my lambs." peter's preaching hour was come now that this fire had been kindled in his soul. in that confession rang the promise of all the after years, of the ministry in jerusalem, of his declaration of the christ in many a heathen city, of the death he was to die in rome. lack this flame of affection and preaching will be a task, a penance, a weary iteration and reiteration of things so often spoken as to render them threadbare and hackneyed to the speaker. possess this all-consuming love and preaching will be as "a song of the well-beloved!" but the passion of preaching has in it another ingredient--if in this way the matter may be expressed. to be effective and successful the preacher must have in his heart the _passion of humanity_. true preaching is the supreme effort of a man burning to bless and save his fellow-men. precious to him are the souls before him; terrible to him the thought that any one of them should come short of the salvation he has been sent to proclaim, that one life should wither and be wasted. he is "kindly affectioned" toward them. he _loves_, therefore he preaches. as long as there are souls to be warned and invited, penitents to be enlightened and led into the peace of god, hearts to be comforted, powers to be taught a better way--as long, in short, as there are men to whom his message may bring help and hope and life he cannot hold his peace. he will be "all things to all men that peradventure" he "may save some." now this is a harder thing--this passion for men, as that man must possess it who aspires to preach the gospel with power and full accomplishment of the purposes thereof. for the love he must feel must be a love not only for such as of themselves inspire it, but for those whose life and character are hateful. of what is called "affinity" between the man to be loved and sought and the preacher there may be none. how can the ambassador of jesus christ, who has looked upon the face of the son of man and in that look caught a conception of humanity in its fairest beauty,--how can he be in love with men and see, as he must see, their meanness and wrong-doing? the lawyer and the preacher, it is said, see the seamy side of life, and there is no need for wonder if, as has been reported, the lawyer often becomes a cynic. the wonder is if the preacher do not become a cynic too. seeing what he must see, knowing what he must know, how is he to preserve that longing after the souls of the very vilest which alone can sustain him in his search for them "away on the mountains cold?" _can it really be done_? the answer to this question is, and must be, no. it cannot be done if the preacher look at man only through his own eyes and try to love him for himself alone. it will be found impossible to love one man because we do _not_ know him. it will be found even more impossible--if impossibility admit of degrees of comparison--to love another because we _do_! our hearts have neither power to conceive nor life to sustain an universal affection. and yet this love of man as man must be realised before ever we can hope helpfully to lift up christ and goodness for his acceptance. the secret thereof must come as came the message itself; as came our call to declare it,--through another love warming our hearts into living heat. the passion for humanity comes to the preacher as a result of his passion for christ. his love for christ goes beyond its divine object to all who are precious to his lord. the worst of men is, by right of redemption, christ's man, dear to the preacher, because bought by the blood which is more precious than silver and gold. the heathen are his inheritance and the uttermost ends of the earth are his possession. urged, sustained and comforted by this reflection, the missionary crosses stormy seas, ready to find, if need be, a grave in a foreign land far from home and friends that, so going, he may speak to his lord's beloved concerning his wondrous grace. here, and here only, is the true missionary motive, the one missionary argument. we do _not_ seek to save the heathen because of an eschatology which would consign them to the outer darkness. we cannot receive as true any conception of god which includes belief in a doctrine involving so terrible an injustice as that men should be eternally punished for refusing that which has never been offered for their acceptance. we think, rather, of the lord as robbed of the love of hearts he died to win, hearts made precious by his death, and in the passion kindled by our vision of the master looking from his cross away over tossing seas to those far-off lands and including every son of savagery to the last moment of time in his dying petition, "father, forgive them, they know not what they do." we perceive upon every soul the sign of the cross; and this sign makes every man a brother to the ends of the earth. so the preacher is lifted by his love for his master into a love for all for whom he agonised and died. and this, from the beginning of his preaching to its end, and in relation to all the experiences into which his labours shall bring him, must be the true preacher's way of looking at his fellow-men. the social reformer has his way, too, the politician his, the scientist his. this is the preacher's way. each and every man is sanctified to him by the sprinkling of blood. so he, also, will bear a cross for the saving of men; so he, too, will carry the sorrows and sins of humanity. he will have a gethsemane of his own, be led to a calvary waiting for _him_, for every saviour of men must tread this appointed way. every shepherd who is not an hireling "giveth his life for the sheep." one word more. we have named the preacher's passion for his lord. we have also named his passion for those upon whom his lord has set the mark of his love. there is something more needed ere the flame of passion burn with its fullest intensity. it is the passion of the dream--the dream that is not a dream excepting to those who have only heard of it by the hearing of the ear. to the preacher it will be a _vision_. it is the vision of which we have already spoken, and may speak again in pages yet to come--the vision of the divine ideal at last triumphant. in this vision the preacher must live. to lose it is despair. no one has so many disappointments as the idealist; but it is the glorious fact that no one cares about his disappointments less. not that he does not see them, but because he sees _beyond_ them. the true preacher--_he_ is your incorrigible optimist. some men form their expectations of the future out of material supplied in tables of statistics, ecclesiastical blue books, censuses of church attendance, returns and percentages. not so the true preacher. he has "seen the king in his beauty and the land that is far off." columbus like, he steers his barque toward the new world his faith has gazed upon, and, as with columbus, the passion of the coming victory holds him, heart in tune and head erect, while others mournfully prophesy the disasters always by shortsighted people seen. so by the power of his passion the preacher declares his message and this passion gives power to every word thereof. in that same passion is his own sustenance in all the divers contradictions that preaching may bring upon him. he needs it for his own preservation. often the preacher who accomplishes the most is, more than those who accomplish less, rewarded with ingratitude, misjudgment, scorn. "the carnal mind is at enmity against god, and is not reconciled to the law of god, neither, indeed, can be." this means suffering for the preacher as it meant suffering for the lord. what can keep him in countenance among it all? love and the passion of the vision. in these will he conquer ever! the prodigality of the younger son had long worn out the patience of the elder brother. love kept the father waiting on and vision saw the lad's return while still he was far away. in this love and vision he went forth the door; in this love and vision he returned leading the late returning child back again to home and rest and peace and purity. the parable is for preachers as well as prodigals. oh, for the passion, the far, far sight of this old history! they are our greatest need to-day! passion! how is it with us now? have we this absolutely essential possession in our hearts, in our preaching, as we have had it aforetime, as our fathers had it? are we so set upon giving glory to christ that we long for the opportunity to come to speak his name in the congregation? are we so given up to the enterprise of saving men that we rest not day nor night for very longing for their salvation? are we so full of the sense of the triumph drawing nearer that our hearts are already rejoicing with the joy of harvest? these are questions for us all, and we may discover the quality of our preaching from their answers, if only we will whisper them to ourselves with faithfulness to god and men and our own souls. book ii the message:-its essential notes theory of book ii. the effectiveness of the message arises from the completeness with which it meets the needs of men. we believe that the measure of the gospel is the measure of man's spiritual and moral necessity, and we plead for a full statement thereof in order that it may prove its "power unto life." _what are the essential notes of the message?_ chapter i. the note of accusation. in a purely heathen country the first business of the preacher must naturally be concerned with the publication of the great historical facts upon which the christian faith is based. in such a land as ours, where these facts are already the subject of common knowledge, his first service to every soul to whom he is sent is to bring home the truth of that soul's condition and necessity. it is not a pleasant task. it is not an easy one. it forms a duty from which we instinctively shrink, but no ministry is complete in which it is neglected. no ministry that is incomplete can be effective and successful. now an examination of the history of preaching will reveal to us that all the great preachers have been examples of faithfulness concerning, not only the softer, but also the sterner portions of their message. before us are the hebrew prophets. by them was israel arraigned at the bar of god. could anything be more fearful than the indictment they laid? kings, priests, councillors and commoners--against them all was the testimony maintained. "art thou he that troublest israel?" asks a conscience-stricken monarch of the seer from mount gilead. troublers of israel they were, exposing, denouncing, declaring judgment against evil doers. such was their mission. troublers of israel, they were sent to be. after the prophets, when, at last, the fulness of time began to dawn, he appeared who was to be the great herald of the redeemer. "in those days came john the baptist preaching in the wilderness of judea, and saying, repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." john, too, was an accuser. hark, how he addresses the pharisees; how he speaks of "the axe laid at the root of the tree!" once more did israel hear of her rebellion and transgression. again was the veil torn from her heart, the trappings of ceremonialism, the rags of hypocrisy. again were men made to tremble by warning of the doom about to break. wonderfully effective this ministry seems to have been--"then went out to him jerusalem, and all judea, and all the region round about jordan, and were baptized of him in jordan confessing their sins." to the preacher came martyrdom, and that as the direct consequence of his faithfulness. it is dangerous to play the accuser at the foot of the throne, and for this, in the lone dungeon of machaerus, the baptist dies, but not until he whom he announced, and of whom the law and the prophets did speak, has lifted up his voice to preach to the nations and the ages. to the world came jesus also as an accuser, and such accusations were his as men had never heard--accusations founded upon an infinite knowledge of mankind, on an infinite hatred of sin, on a perfect vision of the end of all wrong-doing. to convince and convict the world--for _this_ first of all was he made flesh. over the land his "woe unto you" rang out as the thunder of a divine sentence, blanching the cheek and smiting the soul with shame and fear. for this testimony he died. and after he had ascended up on high the apostles carried on this accusing work. knowing "the terrors of the law" they persuaded men. as paul "reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come, felix trembled." to him the prisoner of that memorable day spoke as the representative of outraged deity. in his voice the hardened consul heard the echo of his own disregarded conscience, and was reminded of his "more perfect knowledge of that way" which would one day make all the deeper the blackness of his condemnation. the joints of his harness were undone. and so in that time of beginnings was set forth for all after years on the stage of that eastern land the pattern of gospel preaching, and its great copyists in all subsequent generations have come forth bearing, as their first word to men, the message of accusation. "all have sinned and come short of the glory of god;" such has been their opening announcement. sin is rebellion against god; such has been their all-embracing definition. "the soul that sinneth it shall die;"--this "certain fearful looking for of judgment" they have held up before mankind. "thou art the man!" has been the constant challenge of the christian ambassador. it would be an interesting employment to journey back across the past and listen for this note as it fell from the lips of the great preachers of bygone ages. our own connexional fathers, however, as the figures most familiar to our minds, may remind us how faithful the pulpit used to be in the execution of this hard task. some of us are old enough to remember as common, a phrase which now we hear only occasionally and in the out of the way corners of our church. it was the expression "black sermon" as descriptive of a discourse in which the sterner side of the revelation was enunciated. such sermons in those days formed part of every preacher's armoury. they were sermons of accusation; sermons about sin; sermons diagnostic of the state of the human heart. in these discourses the sinner was assailed through the gateway of his fears. the old preachers believed there was such a place as hell, and said so,--sometimes with a great wealth of staking, figurative language which was perhaps used less symbolically than literally. they believed in a final and general judgment in which the dead, small and great, with such as shall be then living upon the earth, will be called to stand before the great white throne to give an account of the deeds done in the body. clearly did they see this coming day and clearly did they proclaim that at any time its terrors may break upon a careless and prayerless world. some of them gained celebrity by the vigour and colour of their descriptions. in the north of england they still speak of the sermon with which joseph spoor transported multitudes into the circumstances of that awful hour. hugh bourne, it is well known, gave himself to this kind of preaching to a degree which has made his name the more to be remembered on its account. his language was literal indeed! to our mind, at the moment of writing, returns something of the emotion with which in the days of boyhood we listened to a sermon on "the pale horse and his rider" from a local preacher not long since passed to his reward. another discourse on "the swellings of jordan" has been with us vividly, though forty years have flown since we heard it in a tiny chapel among the northern hills. we can remember, too, an expression now used no more, but which we have often heard as part of the final appeal with which such sermons were wont to close. "my friends," the preacher would say, "i have cleared myself this day of your blood." sometimes this declaration would be followed by a challenge in which the ungodly of the congregation were called to meet the preacher, "on that day when the books shall be opened and the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed," there and then to bear witness of his guiltlessness as to their damnation. it was very terrible, no doubt, very harrowing, and often as unpleasant to listen to as to utter, but such preaching was justified by its results. many a sinner trembled as his heart was opened before him. many a strong man broke into cries and tears as he saw himself a rebel against divine justice and mercy. many an one smote upon his breast in terror as the veil of the future was lifted, and he saw himself standing guilty before the last tribunal, and praying for the mountains to fall and hide him from the eyes of an angry god. in our time, however, such preaching has become a tradition. it might be centuries since it was a fashion in the land, for hardly does its echo reach our ears to-day. and concerning this fact there emerges a curious thing. confessedly the effect of such preaching was often the offending of the hearer. it has ever been so--was so, as we have seen, with the prophets; the apostles; the lord himself--and yet there is complaint when accusation and warning are withheld, and that, strangely, from the very people who would probably protest the most against it. it is said, even by these very people, that nowadays _the preacher does not hurt_; that he fails to find the conscience. the fact is, there exists in the heart of man an instinctive expectation that the messenger of god will do these things. it is one of the criticisms of to-day that sternness has died out of theology. the preacher is no longer the representative of a _judge_; no longer in god's stead the accuser of men. in every age the church displays favouritism in her doctrinal attachments. in our time it is the doctrine of the divine fatherhood of which the most is heard. this were well if the whole truth were told; but what manner of fatherhood is that of which we all too often hear? a fatherhood of colossal good nature, of blind, of foolish, indulgence; a conception of paternal wisdom and affection against which the conscience of the thoughtful instinctively revolts. the man in the street is not satisfied, and never will be satisfied, with a merely sentimental god. some day, perhaps, it may be discovered that he is outside the churches, not because preaching, asking too much, has made him afraid, but because preaching, asking too little, has left him contemptuous. and how has the change come to pass? some say that the lack of the hour is a sense of sin. this sense, they tell us, has been lost as a result of our theorising about the origin of moral evil. there are some, indeed, who talk as if the tragedy of sin was not really a tragedy at all, but actually a blessing in disguise. we have been assured that the only hope for humanity lay in a moral fall which had to come to pass that the race might achieve its destiny through its experience of what is only called "wrong-doing," and of the suffering resulting from it. only by this rugged and shadowed road, so are we informed, can we ever come to perfection and reach the golden age for which our hearts are sighing. others see in sin a proof that man is struggling to be better. they regard his transgression as a hopeful symptom of divine discontent. many _do_ see tragedy in it all, but the blame lies otherwhere than with the transgressor. sin grows less terrible, but more hopeless, as they talk about heredity, as they transfer the responsibility from the criminal to his circumstances, his education, the conditions of his life or the state of society. not a sentence of punishment but a vote of sympathy should crime evoke if all that is said along such lines be true. but not in any one of these things, nor in all of them put together, lies the whole reason of our modern tenderness in dealing with sin. even preaching has its fashions, and he is a bold man who dares to disregard the prevailing mode. the convention of the time may decide that it is not quite "the correct thing" to lay too much emphasis on the harder teaching of the christian belief. whether unpopular with the people or not, this teaching may be unpopular with the preachers. we do not speak of these unpleasant things, for why be singular in direful prophecy? of some preachers, to summarise, we will say that their need is a recovery of the sense of sin; of others that a deepened consciousness of every man's power to triumph over his inherited tendencies, his circumstances, his training and the temptations of his age, must precede the return of success. to others we would venture a reminder that the preacher might, perhaps, be all the better for a little more personal independence, and for the realisation that he is not responsible only to men for the manner in which his work is done, but to him who sent him out to preach the whole message of his heart. the thing for the preacher to do is to learn the truth and tell it, even though it be bitter to the hearer and bitterer to himself; even though it make short work of social respectability and conventional religiosity, bringing the blush of shame to the cheek and setting the pulses throbbing with the fear of the lightnings of god. faithfulness, then, is essential to the completeness of the message--faithfulness as to the true condition of the soul and its position in the sight of god. as samuel stood before saul in that fateful hour when the king, having disobeyed the commandments of the lord, had brought of the sheep and of the oxen which he should have utterly destroyed; as the prophets, the apostles, the master alike lifted up their witness against a corrupt and stiff-necked people, so the preacher of to-day must bear his testimony against the sins of men; must pronounce the penalties of ungodliness. a revelation of the transgression of the individual, of the lost state of every soul out of christ, are part of the word received from him who sent him. this declaration must not concern the individual alone. to the age, also, he has a message of kindred truth. the pulpit is erected as a witness against the generations as they come and go. it is by the preacher that jesus christ speaks to successive centuries. he is the true oracle of god. against the carelessness, the covetousness, the debauchery and corruption of the nations, god would speak through him. against the oppression of the poor, the robbery of the widow, the exploitation of the savage; against the crimes of the empires, the almighty, through his lips, would make his anger known. he has done so often and often. again and again has the preacher turned back the tides of national iniquity, again and again prevented the wrongful purpose upon which a people had set its heart. the need is with us still. this warning and accusing note of sternness must be regained. to tell men of their sins and that they are lost unless god delivers them; to tell the age of its iniquities and that the sure end of national vice is national destruction--here is our work to-day. so there needs something in the nature of a reversion to the methods of days that are no more. yet a _full_ return to the mode of our fathers is impossible. let this be acknowledged frankly and fully and at once. those "black sermons" to which we listened forty years ago can never be preached again. the day has gone, at least within the area of civilisation, for painting flaming pictures of hell, for realistic and horrible descriptions of the tortures of the damned. that kind of thing has had its day and can be done no more. preachers could not do it; hearers would not hear it. the misfortune has been that the passing of our fathers' methods has not been followed by the discovery of others in which the truth they conveyed could be expressed in forms more suitable to different times. even the man outside the church has left behind him the literal understanding of those old figures of speech. few now think of heaven as our grandsires thought of it; few imagine hell as they imagined it. yet is there still a heaven; yet is there still a hell. and, hard as it is to write it, it is to the preaching of hell that we must return--the hell of degradation and of loss and of sure retribution. that hell is the latter state to which every path of wrong-doing leads with the inevitability of eternal law. sin is hell in the making. hell is sin found out, perhaps, alas, too late. this word is needed in our churches this very day. it is needed, it was recently suggested to us, especially by our young people. with good reason the churches are all anxious as to the young people, so many of whom, alas! show a disposition to leave the temples of their fathers. it cannot be said that the church has not done her best along certain lines to keep the coming generation at home. older men and women have been heard to murmur that too much has been done for the young person's sake, too many things sacrificed. religion has been made very easy--too easy, it is said. unpleasant demands have been kept, it is suggested, too much in the background. we all know parents who confess that their children are permitted to do things at home of which they, the parents, disapprove, lest they should go elsewhere and do worse. it is alleged that the same thing often happens in the church for the same reason. ah! you must be careful what you say lest you offend the young! this is an indulgent, a good-natured, a compromising time. behind this solicitude the best reasons lie, but is there no danger to these young people in all this amiability? is it _quite_ impossible for a young man to be put in peril by our very anxiety to save him? yes, there is such a possibility. it arises when we shrink from that plainness of speech which is, after all, friendship's best service. is it not better to offend, even to wound deeply, than to speak only the smoother things, however kindly the intent, and, so speaking, fail to produce that great renunciation, that strengthening of bands, that strong grasp of the eternal which alone mean safety in future years? we know that the whole question is encompassed with difficulties. it is hard to write it, but the best friends of the young are not always those preachers who are most tender concerning their feelings. and not for the sake of the young only is this note of sternness needed. it may be recalled that, some time ago, the columns of a well-known religious weekly contained a discussion as to which are morally the most perilous years of a man's life. the conclusion reached therein was startling, but bore the test of reflection. we have generally assumed that "the dangerous years" are those of early manhood, the years that lie between leaving school and marriage. in those years the youth has probably left the sunday school behind him, probably hangs only loosely to the church. he feels the vigour of his young manhood stirring within him. he is drinking his first draughts of the wine of life. restraints are being relaxed and companionships are being formed, while there is a sense of freedom almost intoxicating in its exhilaration. these are the days that we have commonly described as the most perilous of life. probably, however, we have been wrong in this conclusion. in the discussion referred to it was contended, perhaps established, that the period of greatest moral and spiritual danger lies a score or more years further along the road. from forty to fifty, and nearer fifty than forty, was maintained to be the fateful age. youth has innocence, ambition, enthusiasm, ideals. youth has generous impulses, has not yet been soured by disappointments, has not yet found out the cynicism of the world, has not become infected by the canker of covetousness. it has made no enemies, is not corrupted by success, is not daunted by failure. a score of years later some or all of these things will have happened to a man. harder has become the world, fiercer the battle in which he is engaged, lower burn the fires of life; enthusiasm has faded as grey hairs have come. _these_ are the perilous years. there is one thing the preacher must never forget:--that the men and women before him go in constant peril from temptation. not of the avowedly non-christian only is this true, but of all. yonder man, known for his respectability, his regular attendance at the sanctuary, falters, perhaps, this very day on the crumbling edge of a moral precipice. ever and anon some one is missed from the means of grace. where is he? hush! tell it softly and with tears. he has fallen who but recently bade so fairly to carry his cross to the summit of the hill. can it be that he fell because in the house of prayer no voice warned him? can it be that he has committed the greater sin because no reproof was whispered in his ear concerning the beginnings of transgression? was there no message committed to the preacher for that man as he drew near the parting of the ways? did the messenger suppress the truth because it was hard to utter? what, then, is it that is asked? not, of course, a ministry of continual denunciation, of constant reproach, of endless accusation--not that, but a ministry in which the witness shall be not one-sided but complete. let us hear, if you please, of the sweeter things; tell us again, _and again_, of that divine fatherhood in which must be our final trust; whisper in our cars of the gentleness of god and the infinite tenderness of his son; but tell us _all_, for so wayward are we, so presumptuous, so prone to go astray that we need to hear of chastisement as well as mercy. we must be reminded that "the way of transgressors is hard" as well as of the blessing that the lord has in his heart for us. to the preacher, then, we would say:--here is a task which must not be neglected however hard it be. the word should be a hammer to break, a sword to pierce, an arrow in the heart. here is something for us all to do:--to cultivate the arts of the counsel for the prosecution. in the exercise of those arts all our knowledge of human nature, all possible learning in the word will be needed to their very last syllable. it is not true that any one is qualified to wave the lamp that shall reveal the pitfall in the path of the over-confident disciple. he must be a wise physician who has to diagnose the sickness of the soul. he must be a lawyer learned in the law who has to explain the position of the rebel before his flouted sovereign. he must have larger skill than most who has to bring home the broken will of god to the soul. a reflection, more important still, has yet to be suggested. for this work the preacher will need to be a man of holiness, for, though he speak to his brother only as a fellow-sinner saved by grace, he must speak as one who has escaped from bonds. thus comes character into the business. "woe is me," said the prophet, called to witness against the transgression of judah, "for i am a man of unclean lips." only by prayer, by the cleansing of the fountain, by sustaining grace shall we be sufficient for these things. for this manner of preaching one man alone can ascend into the hill of the lord:--"he that hath clean hands and a pure heart, and hath not lifted up himself unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." chapter ii. the note of pity. in the chapter just concluded we have tried to lay down that one essential of the preacher's message is the note of sternness, that the preacher is, on god's behalf, the accuser of his hearers, charging them before the bar of conscience, declaring to the soul its state and condition, pronouncing, also, the punishment which must follow persistent rebellion against god. it becomes us immediately to say something as to another note which must be heard in unison with this of sternness, and that is the note of pity. it is time to insist upon this. only that man can declare the terrors of the law who knows something of the spirit of the prophet who cried, "oh, that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that i might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!" only he can cry out against jerusalem who, when he beholds the city, weeps over it as he sees its crime and shame and notes the tempest gathering to burst over its "cloud-capp'd towers, its solemn temples, its airy palaces." the preacher, like his lord, must be "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief." it must be true of _him_ that for "the hurt of the daughter of my people was he stricken." his heart must have bled for the tragedy of the world! and into the delivery of the message this pity must find its way and have expression, if not always in word, certainly in tone. in tone, we say, for the tone of the preacher's utterance is almost, if not quite, as important as its words. lacking the accent of pity, the accusations of the preacher will degenerate into scolding, and of all scolds the pulpit scold is the most objectionable. without a pitiful heart his exposure of human nature will become mere fault-finding, and a fault-finding ministry is a ministry of desolation. again, without a pitiful heart the preacher's utterance of the divine judgment will be but more or less terrifying threats, and the pulpit is not set up to threaten but to pronounce. we have heard preaching of this order. "i am not at all well to-night," said a clergyman of whom we once read, "and i shall give it 'em hot." men are sometimes reminded of their sins, not out of a sense of duty borne in upon a reluctant spirit, but because the wind happens to be in the east, or the preacher's nerves are badly out of order. the church is told of her coldness, her indolence and unfaithfulness, her narrowness, bigotry and greed, not because, after a struggle to win permission to tell a more flattering tale, the preacher comes forth under a divine compulsion to "cry aloud and spare not," but because his digestion is upset, or his temporal concerns are awry, or even because his personal ambitions have been disappointed and himself unappreciated. there is such a thing as bad-tempered, ill-natured preaching, in which the weapons of the bible armoury are borrowed for the expression of the preacher's chagrin and spite. in a literal sense every word he speaks may be true, but the spirit of the message destroys all possible good effects and turns the word of god into an angry snarl. it might, therefore, be well to decide to preach along lines of accusation, exposure, judgment or warning only on those days when the heart is happiest, when life goes well and the cheek of health glows with its brightest bloom. perhaps the resolution might take such a form as this:--_resolved: never to preach a hard sermon when i feel like doing so_. all this is no fancy picture, and the peril indicated is not imaginary but real. the story of jonah is left to all time for the warning of the preacher. seated yonder in his booth, biting his nails in vexation, he is the type of the preacher whose righteous indignation, because of its lack of that element of unselfishness, and that spirit of pity by which moral anger should always be qualified, becomes simply grim and merciless wrath. "doest thou well to be angry?" the eternal voice asks of him and of all who follow in his prophetic line. it was not thus that jesus looked upon the multitude. they despised him--many of them. that he knew. they accused and slandered him one to another and in their own secret hearts. some of them said he was a glutton and a wine-bibber, others that he had a devil, others, again, that he was the friend of publicans and sinners. they ate his bread, accepted his healing kindness, and all the time were making ready to cry, "not this man, but barabbas," when opportunity should arise. all this he understood, but "when he saw the multitudes he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted and were scattered abroad as sheep having no shepherd." "all his words are music, though they make me weep, infinitely tender, infinitely deep." and the absence of this undertone of pity from the message of the preacher always destroys the effect of his warnings and causes the hearer to be less afraid than angry, as is always the case when men are captiously scolded and found fault with and threatened. on the other hand, its presence gives power and penetration to the terrors borne upon its breath. it is instinctively felt that the hard words of the preacher are spoken as by one who weeps before he speaks. he does but speak because he must, because it would be cruellest cruelty to be silent. "for zion's sake i will not hold my peace." "zion's sake"--here, then, is the motive of all this unfolding of the secret history of the hearer's heart and life. from very pity this man cannot speak of health when he sees the canker in the rose which blooms upon the cheek, when he perceives that, despite the appearance of strength and vigour, "the whole head is sick, the whole heart is faint." he has not told us pleasant things to-day, though we would have liked to hear them, and he would have been glad to tell them, because he is too deeply concerned for us to prophesy golden groves at the end of a journey whose every footstep is taken upon the broad road leading to destruction. with meekness can we receive the reproofs of a parent knowing that, however hard his word, his heart is tender. "whom he loveth he chasteneth," was written of the lord. when it can be written of the lord's ambassador, then again it will be true that although "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous but grievous," yet will it yield "the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." let us take it, then, that pity is an essential of the preacher's message, and must make its presence felt, if not in word, at least in accent, or tone, or atmosphere. is it too late in the argument to ask what this pity really and truly is? in theodore hunger's volume, "the freedom of faith," a book which will be found in many of our libraries, there is a chapter on the pity of jesus christ which would probably repay us for another perusal. very powerfully the author maintains that pity is a deeper and sublimer passion than love. in "the alchemist," balzac, depicting an ideally perfect affection makes the object of it deformed, indicating that love has not attained its highest height until it has become pity. thus the mother's love for her child is never so noble as when expressed in ministering to its sickness. how near to the little one does she come in those painful, anxious hours when, perchance, all the reward her love seems like to bring is the blighting of her dearest hopes. she loves her child in health, but that love is rewarded with joy; she loves it as it triumphs in its little tasks of intellect, but that love is rewarded with pride; its moral achievements awaken her admiration; its spiritual victories arouse her gratitude, and in admiration and gratitude, love has compensation; but none of these emotions so carry over her soul into fellowship with the soul of that dear one, none bring her into a touch so close, or give such gentleness to the fingers, such softness and tenderness to the voice as does pity, "when pain and sickness wring the brow." and what of the parental feeling for that other child--the child, we mean, whose name no one speaks in her ear, who has gone out from the family circle, who is away in the far country, wasting his substance in riotous living; who, indeed, _has_ wasted it, and who is now feeding the swine of the stranger, and longing to fill his belly with the husks that the swine do eat? behold, now, the father standing upon the threshold shading his eyes as longingly he gazes along the road which climbs the distant hill. a world of trouble is in his eyes. "yonder young fool who has wandered away is not worth a single sigh of this grand old man," we say. "he is reaping as he has sown," we moralise. time was when this youth went brightly to and fro in the homestead, when innocence sat throned upon his forehead, when truth shone brightly from his eyes, when purity and modesty mantled with blushes his boyish cheek. the old man loved him _then_. but this watching from the threshold, this long, long tearful look down the road winding away to the land of profligacy and shame, these are the glories of his love. here is _pity_. this is affection glowing in its fairest flower, its most precious fruit. before us is a dim adumbration of the pity of god, the highest manifestation of his love for man. similarly the pity of man for man is the highest manifestation of our love one for another. it is by pity, and by pity only, that humanity can be brought into true unity. it is by pity that the preacher comes into oneness with his congregation. there is a sense in which he comes nearer to his hearers through their sufferings and their sins than through their joys and their virtues, for suffering and sin give occasion for compassion. only let the man in the pulpit feel this emotion toward the man in the pew; only let the tragedy of his wrong-doing, the poverty of his soul resultant from his neglect of higher things, the awful fact that he is without god and hope in the world come home to the preacher's heart; only let the shadow of this man's fate cast its darkness upon the preacher's soul and oh! how precious does that man become, sinner though he be. let the man in the pew but feel that the heart of the man in the pulpit is almost breaking for the longing it has toward him and how differently will he receive the reproof that man may bring; with what new reverence will he attend to the solemn warning he may utter. at last a _brother_ seeks his soul! for another result of pity will be that the gospel of reconciliation will be preached indeed. if from the compulsion of compassion the preacher declared the terrors of the law, from the same divine concern he will glory to declare the way of return, the counsel and invitation of mercy. even as none but a pitiful man can declare the words of the law so only a pitiful man can declare the provisions and conditions of the cross. if the words of the law, without pity are mere scolding and fault-finding and threatening, the words of the gospel without pity must be cold, perfunctory and lifeless. calvary was the expression of infinite compassion. in its own spirit alone can its message be set forth. you may preach even the justice of god in such a way as to make his judgments seem full of the kindest intention to the heart. on the other hand, you may preach the sacrifice of love in such a manner as to make the story hard as judgment thunders. you may throw a pardon at a man in such a fashion as to make the forgiveness it expresses more bitter than a curse. but how are we so to abound in pity as to be able, at all times, to fill our message with its gracious influence, for pity is not always easy, in which fact is one element of its high nobility? the sins of men, their vices with their results in life and character, often make it hard to pity them. a horrible thing is sin, and so horrible its effects that it seems, at times, almost impossible to look upon those in whom these effects are evident with any emotions save those of loathing and disgust. it was no very natural thing for jonah to look with any sort of tenderness on that great, debauched, besotted nineveh, reeking in its vileness, foul with the accumulated moral filth of many generations. out of a man's own righteousness, too, his jealousy for god and his reverence for goodness, there may grow a certain hardness and, from very loyalty to god, it may not be easy to look with compassionate eyes upon the transgressor. we cannot but remember that every blessed purpose of the kingdom is delayed by sin. by this black impediment every golden dream of devout saints, of moral and spiritual reformers is held back from happy fulfilment. it is difficult, indeed, to feel pitiful when the heart for christ's sake is longing to behold the glories he died to bring to pass and sees those glories thus wantonly postponed. yes, the note of pity is often hard to strike. the more we think of all that is involved the more emphasis we throw into the question--_how has it to be done_? the truth is that pity for such a service needs to be earnestly and constantly cultivated. it only follows as the result of spiritual processes in the preacher's own soul. it is not the mere outflowing of a natural kindliness of disposition, of inborn good nature. it is more than mere sloppy sentimentality. _that_ kind of pity, if you may call it by such a name, never tells the truth excepting when it is pleasant, never preaches a sermon of rebuke, never reasons concerning "judgment to come." there is no such word as hell in its vocabulary; there is no accusation in its programme. the pity we mean blazes up into moral anger, smites and wounds, and compassionates the while. this pity requires cultivation. quoting an old phrase, "it never grew in nature's garden." an understanding of men is absolutely essential to attainment herein. some one has said that "if we knew all we would pity all." god _does_ know all and _does_ pity all. the compassion of jesus was aided by his knowledge of the multitude; so must ours be. it is a terrible story--this story of transgression--but those who know it best water it with tears. nothing is served by closing our eyes to facts, though the temptation is great to exercise the mistaken charity of declining to know. is there no danger of a cowardly refusal of vision, of making the fellowship of saints a hiding place whither we can escape from the sights and shames of the world? are we quite guiltless of seeking in the christian society a forgetfulness of the things that wither and blast human souls without? do none of us make of the church "a little garden walled around," where the sound of crying and of cursing breaks not upon our peace as we dream our happy dreams? we are sent to look steadfastly upon the sore, to behold and analyse the very truth, for it is in the measure in which our souls are pierced that we compassionate. but the greatest school for the learning of pitifulness is yonder at the feet of jesus. in his company hearts grow hard to sin and tender to sinners. "is there any sorrow like unto my sorrow?" he cries, and we know that his sorrow was not for himself, but for those who spurned him. "father, forgive them, they know not what they do," he prays, and, lo! the cry is for his very murderers, and the music of it melts our spirit toward the transgressor while the transgression becomes more hateful in our eyes. where do you abhor sin as you abhor it upon the slopes of calvary? where do you pity sinners as you pity them there? there is the fountain of judgment. there is the fountain of forgiveness. yes, the greatest school of pitifulness is in the presence of christ. from him, in temple court and city street, on mountain brow and sea-shore, in the wilderness and in the domestic circle of bethany, the preacher catches that new tone which shall give his accusation commendation and power. but there is another teacher, still, who will greatly help to fix the lesson in his heart if only he be heard. that teacher is memory. memory is always waiting to whisper in the preacher's ear. "and such were some of you," writes st. paul to the corinthians, "but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the lord jesus, and by the spirit of our god." ah! the preacher, himself is but a sinner saved by grace. there was a time when _he_, also, was in the far country, when he, also, was a rebel against law and love, when even he was "lost already." can he forget those days of darkness and of shame? can he forget how the warning ambassador of his hitherto despised redeemer came to _him_? can he forget the mire and the clay and the horrible pit from which a strong hand brought him forth? let him "think on these things" as he looks upon his congregation, as he rebukes their contumacy. let him remember that he has come into the pulpit only by the steps of mercy, by the long-suffering grace of a sin-pardoning god. here, then, is an essential part of the preacher's training--the training of his own heart to tenderness. if he fail in giving attention to this, all other education will be worse than fruitless. the age needs the pitiful church. the age and the church need the pitiful ministry. this is not to say that men look to the pulpit for nothing but softly spoken indulgences. conscience has taught them that the message should hurt where hurt is salutary. they will not recognise as kindness the withholding, or the dilution of any truth. on the other hand they give to the motive of the preacher who does these things a less flattering name. they will say--have we not heard the criticism?--that the preacher is afraid to be faithful, afraid to offend for reasons that are selfish and cowardly. the offence of unwelcome truth is covered when that truth is watered by a preacher's tears. so let us preach--declaring "the _whole counsel_" concerning sin for pity's sake, preaching the whole truth concerning salvation too. something is in our mind to ask concerning our presentation of this last-named portion of our message:--are we always quite faithful as to what we call the conditions of salvation? in the presentation of these conditions great skill and great care are required. it is so easy to under--or over--emphasise, so easy, out of jealousy for god, to make the way too hard or, out of a desire to win men, to make it too easy. perhaps in the latter possibility lies, in our time, the greater danger. do we always ask for _penitence_ as unmistakably as we ought? there should be repentance "_toward_ god" as well as "faith in our lord jesus christ." we may at least suggest the question:--whether we do not sometimes call for the latter, saying too little of the former. again, in calling for faith in our lord jesus christ, is it not easy to appear to demand a mere belief in historic facts when what is required is the trustful surrender of the soul to the redeemer? we have seen fifty people hold up their hands, at the request of a preacher, to signify their turning to god, and we have noted that no outward sign of deep emotion accompanied the act. we have watched a multitude pass through an inquiry room where, though inquirers were many, tears were few. that "there are diversities of operations" we know. "old times are changed, old manners gone." all this we admit, and, perhaps, we should not demand to see again such things as time has cast behind him. but, oh! those were great days when the returning rebel smote upon his breast and would not so much as lift up his eyes unto heaven, as with sobs and groans, he cried, "god be merciful to me, a sinner." those were glorious scenes when, in one and the same hour, he broke for ever with old habits, old companionships, old loves and, with eyes still streaming went forth exclaiming, "'tis done, the great transaction's done!" chapter iii. the note of idealism. the christian preacher is not only the accuser of men and the ambassador of reconciliation; he is also the prophet of a new order. "go, preach, the kingdom of heaven is at hand," so runs his commission. his message must convey more than the promise of a deliverance from the _consequences_ of sin. it must proclaim new possibilities for the individual. it must point to higher altitudes for the race. the preacher announces a new jerusalem descending out of heaven. his ministry is not to lead to the better only, but to the best. for such preaching as this there is, deep down in the heart of man, a great hunger and thirst. sordid and materialistic as is the life of the age, engrossed as the multitudes appear to be in the pursuit of mammon, of vain glory and of pleasure, there still lingers in the human breast a suspicion that men were fashioned for something higher than the things that, so often, first engross and then exhaust their powers. the millionaire is not satisfied with his millions and, of late, has told us so. the man of pleasure is not satisfied with his pleasures, and, when he unburdens his secret mind, confesses his disappointment and disgust. corn, wine and oil, houses, lands and station are all the objects of loathing as well as of pursuit, to those who, having won them, have found out their real quality. it is a primal instinct of the race that "the life is more than meat and the body than raiment." to the student of our times there is nothing more pathetic than to observe the struggles of those upon whom materialism casts its spell to escape from their bondage. to aid them in this endeavour they call the painter, the sculptor, the dramatist, the man of letters, the player skilled in the language of music, and to one and all they say, "idealise! idealise!" periods of realism in art never last long, though, in a sense, realism is easier to the artist than idealism. the explanation is that it is not realism that is really in demand. the artist must give us not man as he is, but as he _ought_ to be; not life as we know it, but life as we _would_ know it and live it, too; not the human face scarred and seamed by vices inherited from a thousand tainted years, but fresh, and sweet, and beautiful as it came from the hands of god, new washed in the dews of his infinite affection. even nature must be idealised, and the painter struggles to produce the perfect landscape, the sculptor to represent the perfect form. the artist who mixes no imagination with his colours never holds for long the public honour. the heart of man asks for the ideal; the actual is not enough. and to the preacher, also, these unsatisfied spirits bring the same request. if it is not upon their lips, you may read it in the deep longing of their unquiet eyes. the age is not a happy age, and its lack of happiness does not arise, alone, from its sicknesses, its bereavements, its shattered hopes, the cruelties of "offence's gilded hand." some one has said that men would be happy if it were not for their pleasures, and the saying contains a profound truth. in this unhappiness they turn to see if, peradventure, the preacher can show them higher and clearer heights of joy. sometimes, thank god! the vision splendid is spread before them. it is a vision no poet or painter, save such as have been to the springs of the eternal, can depict, and if the glory of it find its way into the seeker's soul life for him is never the same again. but sometimes, alas! he is disappointed. the voice in the pulpit is little more than a sanctimonious echo of the voices of the street. then goes the sorrowing seeker hence, and lo, the tiny glimmer of hope with which he came has all but been put out! for it is a criticism one all too often hears, that the modern preacher, instead of asking too much, asks too little, and that, when he _does_ ask for much, his asking is more for great faith than for great living from both the individual and the age. it has been remarked that almost the whole of the difference between the christian preacher and the heathen moralist is expressed in the statement that the preacher adds to his teaching a flavour of jewish history and sweetens with the promise of a future life. otherwise the heathen moralist points as far up the mountain side as he. there is such a possibility as that of preaching along too low a level. it is an ill thing when the preacher becomes content with the straw and forgets the crown. for the preacher like the rest of men may become enslaved to things and powers material. "where there is no vision the people perish," and of vision, in the larger sense, the preacher may share the general poverty. after all, even he belongs to the age into which he was born, and it needs qualities that are none too common to resist the influences of the times and of environment. beside all this, are there not personal experiences in the lives of all of us which make it hard to keep our eyes upon the stars? we think of the local preacher spending his week in the market or behind the counter, in office or mine or factory or in the field wrestling with nature for the bread that perisheth. we think of the minister often worried, almost distracted, by "the care of the churches," by the crabbed foolishness and miserable jealousies of contentious men and women. we must remember that for many a preacher life is not a may day festival, but a question and a struggle. surely the wonder is _not_ that sometimes the man in the pulpit speaks in a minor key, but that, under all the conditions of his life, we hear from him so much of the higher music as we do. the memory comes to us as we write of a man who preached the gospel for years with the cruel disease of cancer gnawing at his vitals. we can recall others who came to proclaim the golden year from domestic circles blighted by the debauchery and vice of children but too well beloved. did these men sometimes speak falteringly, and with hesitation, the message in which they asked and promised glorious things? did they, from the very darkness of the clouds lowering above them, see only the lower slopes of the mountains of the lord? who could wonder? the preacher is but a man! yes, the preacher is but a man, and as a man finds out something else:--that, after all, it is not out of his experiences of life, nor from the influences of his time, nor from both together that the greatest hindrance to altitude of tone in his preaching arises. as a man _is in heart and life_ so in some degree he preaches. the call of the gospel is to perfection, and the perfect man is not yet, though many there are, even in these days, whose lives are a constant and noble struggle to reach this far-off mark. is it strange that sometimes a preacher's own failure to gain the wished for heights should cause him to put before others possibilities, not, indeed, according to his own low level of attainment, but still far below those he is sent to declare? living on low levels means inevitably preaching on low levels, though, as a man's preaching is derived from higher sources than are found in his own soul, his call to others ought always to be of higher things than he has, himself, attained. here, then, are some of the reasons why it often happens that our preaching lacks the elevation of high idealism. this idealism is none the less needed that there are reasons for its absence. along these lines lies one of the great struggles of the preacher's life, which is so triumphantly to resist the influences of his day and the depression of his personal experiences, so to live his own life that he shall always be able to act as a joyful guide to the alps of god. and what are these higher heights to which he has to point his fellows? we ask the question first as concerning the individual and then as concerning the nations. we shall surely find it easy to obtain an answer to the inquiry in both its forms. "_easy!_" yes; for the heights designed for us to reach are so clearly mapped out in the teaching, and especially in the life of him whose word the preacher comes forward to declare, and whose example it is his glorious employment to put before the world. "the prize of the mark of our high calling" is the utter conquest of sin in the heart, its eradication not only in branch but in very root. our goal is the utterly blameless life. it is more glorious, even, than this. it is the realisation in their perfection, not of negative virtues alone, but of virtues positive, active, aggressive. it is in brief the "perfect man in christ jesus." and of what use is any lower understanding or interpretation of the purpose of christ? indeed, is any lower interpretation possible on the face of things? we cannot bring ourselves to believe that he would of set purpose come to secure a _partial_ triumph in the subjects of his grace. we speak of the difficulties of this our doctrine, but, after all, greater difficulties would have to be overcome in consenting to any lower conception of the divine intent. try to imagine the master effecting the saving of a soul with the design that it shall still hold to some remains of former vices, to some of its old lusts, of its ancient enmities. imagine him, again, agreeing that a man shall continue to be the prey of evil tempers, of covetousness, of jealousy, of pride and falseness. imagine him entering into a tacit compromise with the forces of evil, that he will take _so much_ and expect no more in the worship and ownership and conquest of those for whom he died. the idea is unthinkable! jesus christ came, suffered, bled, died, rose again, and ascended up on high that once more the eyes of god might look upon _a perfect man_. now, all this sounds very old-fashioned and very much like the teaching that we have heard, and perhaps in varying degrees disparaged, from the lips of those whom we call, sometimes with a slight, but none the less real, touch of sarcasm, "holiness men." how afraid we are that any one should ask us to be too good! but the teaching of scriptural holiness was once one of the glories of methodism and clear in the forefront of her preaching. to-day, perhaps, we hear less concerning that gospel than once we did. is it absolutely certain that this fact always works out to the advantage of the preacher and his people? to-day, also, we hear less concerning the joy of the christian life than formerly; less concerning new triumphs in the conversion of sinners than in days it is glorious to remember. to-day men complain, as we have already heard, that the preachers ask too little and do not bid them look so high as something in their bosoms tells them they ought to look. the preaching of scriptural holiness has been discredited, it must be confessed, by the language into which it has often been thrown; by a disposition to censoriousness in those who have given it a large place in their ministry; by a disposition, too, on the part of its preachers to label as sins many things which were capable of innocent use and enjoyment, to cut out of life more than they sought to put in, dealing rather in prohibitions than in inspirations. this doctrine has suffered, again, more than most, from the inconsistencies of its apostles, as was indeed inevitable and should have been expected, for the higher a man's preaching the more clearly his personal imperfections are brought out by force of contrast, which may be rather to the glory of the preaching than to its discredit. say, however, all that can be said in this direction concerning the doctrine of christian perfection; the ideals of the gospel for human living are no lower than the highest word the perfectionist has ever uttered. these ideals, as put before us and required of us, are part of the message of the cross, and the preaching which does not include and enforce them is incomplete and cannot become, in the highest sense, effective in the accomplishment of its divine purpose. when a man's preaching presents ideals higher than those of the sermon on the mount; when he asks for a whiter purity, a more embracing charity, a nobler style of living than are required by jesus christ, _then_ will have come the time to call a halt. up to this point he has behind him not only divine permission but divine command. by his ears, if he but listen, may be heard, also, the voices of men who are weary of the valleys and the swamps, and who long to climb the heights and pierce the clouds that hold their vision from the skies. we need a new puritanism, and it must not be a puritanism principally of prohibitions, as was the old. it must be a puritanism in which all the glories possible to heart and mind and soul are set forth in charm and beauty. but the preacher has a message for society, as well as for the individual, and it is essential to the highest uses of that message that sublimer notes should be struck than are commonly heard. jesus christ showed an interest in trade, and the sellers of doves and changers of money heard from him, one day, words of such a sort as made their ears to tingle. the preacher must not be afraid to insist on perfect integrity, perfect honesty, and even perfect brotherhood in commerce. we have heard somewhere the story of a business man in brighton to whom, one day, a customer chanced to speak concerning f. w. robertson--perhaps, taking one thing with another the most influential preacher of the victorian era. leading his client into a little room behind the shop he pointed, with these words, to a portrait upon the wall: "that is f. w. robertson, and when, standing behind the counter, i feel a temptation to do a dishonest thing in trade, i come in here and look up at that face." what a tribute this to a great ministry which had its message for the office and the shop and turned commerce and handicraft into great religious acts. to the world of industry the messenger of christ must also bring the new ideals he has learned. why should the relationships of master and servant, of capital and labour, be poisoned by suspicion and marred by covetousness, oppression, evasion of mutual obligations? the problem to be solved in this twentieth century is probably this of the relations between the man with money to spend and the man with work to sell. ah, if only jesus christ were president of the board of trade! paul was not afraid to lift up his voice on these extremely practical subjects, and even now, the sixth chapter of ephesians is far from out of date: "servants," he says, turning to the one class, "be obedient to them that are your masters .... not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but as the servants of christ, doing the will of god from the heart." to the masters also, he has something to say: "and, ye masters, do the same things unto them, forbearing threatening, knowing that your master also is in heaven; neither is there respect of persons with him." st. james, that great practical homilist, could not be silent here. of all who ever addressed the capitalist upon his responsibilities surely never one spoke more strongly than did he. "go to, now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you..... behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the lord of sabaoth." here is denunciation hot and stirring, and the preacher may at times have to denounce, and when the time comes, must face that duty manfully for the sake of god and men. on this page, however, we plead not for denunciation but for idealism,--idealism supported by the truths of the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of man, and enforced by all the tender meanings of the cross. for the world of statesmanship, again, the preacher has a teaching of idealism, which is a very different thing from the preaching of party politics, which has done more harm a thousand times than any good it has ever effected. in the nation as christ would have it there should be no jealousy between class and class; no oppression of the poor by the rich; no reproach for either honest poverty or honest wealth. in such a state there would be a chance for every man. government would not mean tyranny; liberty would not mean licence. there would be purity of administration. there would be consecration of national resources to the good of all. war, by such a state, would be as impossible as it is now imminent. in such a state, again, sermons on the text, "our country right or wrong," would neither find preachers to deliver them nor audiences to listen to them. when the new jerusalem is built in england, the slum, the gin palace, the workhouse, and the gaol will be things of the past. "thus saith the lord of hosts; there shall yet old men and old women dwell in the streets of jerusalem, and every man with his staff in his hand for very age. and the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in the streets thereof." oh, the dream is overpowering in its glory; and it is not a dream, but a prophecy from calvary to the sorrowing nations of a sinful world! so the errand of the preacher is to declare the golden age for which men have longed with, oh, such longing! amid the sins, and crimes, and miseries which have made up so much of human history. of this so greatly desired time have they dreamed. to bring it in they have schemed and laboured, bled and died. they have thought to hasten its dawn by the founding of "utopias," of "merrie englands," by many a promising, but disappointing device. there is but one man who can tell them how it must come--how indeed it will come--and he is the man who has sat at the feet of jesus christ; who has seen his arms extended wide upon the cross and learned those politics in which eternity is set. the golden age will come when the world shall listen to him, and give itself to the practice of that old doctrine which is to be the creation not only of a new heaven, but, also, of a new earth. but the preacher must do more than formulate the divine command; more than paint glowing pictures of glorious possibilities. it is required that his idealism shall be shown to be practicable. it is of no use to tell a drunkard that christ wants sobriety, or a liar that the lord wants truth in the inward parts; it is of no use preaching about the conquest of temper and of passion; about the crucifixion of covetousness and envy and jealousy; about patience, gentleness, kindness, love, unless, along with the demands of this new scheme of living, the great evangelical watchwords and promises ring strong and true. the glory of the preacher is that he, alone of those who bring forth programmes for the lives of men, can tell us how his programme may be carried out. he has a wonderful authority given unto him in his dealings with the weak and erring. he can make to every man who gives himself to christ, and to the living of the life he asks, the promise that christ will give to him nothing less than his own very self. to any man who tremblingly, tearfully "makes up his mind to try," the preacher may pledge his lord in guarantees which will be honoured to the very uttermost. _power_! there is god's for his promising. _grace_! there is christ's for his disposal. he is the almoner of an infinite bounty. then to the preacher there comes from his own vision a courage which he can communicate to others. no other man sees such possibilities in human nature as he, for he looks on man in jesus christ, and discerns better things in him than man had hoped for in himself. he beholds, also, the spirit of god at work in the world; hears his footsteps as he goes to and fro in the land. hence he can cry to the nations to lift up their head, knowing that "the lord omnipotent reigneth." he is the idealist whose ideals--more "impossible" than all the dreams of moralists and poets--are the true practical politics of individual and national life. the time is ripe for a new preaching of the possibilities of humanity, for a new setting forth of what life and character, personal and national, may be, and _must_ be, to please him and realise the blessing the creator had it in his heart to give to man when first he sent him forth in the glory of his image. for such preaching, we have already said, men are waiting, listening, longing. they wait, too, for a new declaration of the high provisions of help available for human endeavour. men instinctively anticipate that the ideals of god concerning them will be high, but they anticipate, also instinctively, that the provision for the realisation of these ideals will be sufficient. they do not ask that, for the sake of human weakness, god shall make honesty less than honest; truth less than true; purity less than pure, but they do ask that for all these things he shall give grace and guidance. does our preaching answer these instinctive expectations, these deep longings, these inborn hopes in those to whom we are sent? do we truly put before them that high life their spirits yearn to live? do we show them the path "o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent," to the heights that kiss the stars? if we do, well; but if not:--then, perhaps, we should not wonder, nor be astonished, if pews are empty, if church membership declines, if men say that there is little profit in coming to hear thoughts no higher than their own. they look for the preacher to ask for better, higher, harder things than all their other leaders. if he fail in this his church has but little to draw them within its doors. practical idealism is essential to effective and successful preaching. chapter iv. the note of edification. the preacher is appointed for the upbuilding of the church and of the individual believer upon "the foundation of the apostles and prophets, jesus christ himself being the chief corner stone." upon this foundation, with almost infinite care, with untiring labour and solicitude and prayerfulness, has he to rear "a temple fitly framed together" of "gold, silver and precious stones;" upon this foundation he has to build the fabric of saintly character in men. only that preacher is truly successful who, in the end, is able humbly to claim to have been in this sense a "wise master-builder;" who can point to the results of his labours in the beauty and strength of the churches in which he has toiled, in the saintliness of the men and women to whom he has spoken the re-creating, re-edifying word. now, in our day, it is, perhaps, specially needful that this part of the preacher's duty should be particularly emphasised. of the church it has to be said that she has fallen on somewhat evil times, for there is evidence of the growth of a tendency toward a churchless christianity. many there are who take the view that union with the church is of small importance to the development of christian faith and character. there are more who regard such union as something which, while it may have certain advantages, is nevertheless entirely optional with the christian believer. again and again have we been told that christianity consists of belief in jesus christ resulting in an attempt to imitate him, and that, as this belief and this attempt can be achieved outside of any organised religious community, a man may be essentially a christian without being a member of the church. the reasons for this attitude are not far to seek. among them are a selfishness which fears the sacrifice that membership of the church might involve; a slothfulness anticipating with apprehension the possible demands for christian service which the fellowship might make, and a lack of real intensity and enthusiasm in conviction, which hesitates to make an out-and-out stand for christ and truth. from the same causes, in all ages, men have kept outside the organised flock of god and, therefore, such reasons as these need not greatly alarm us. but there is another objection to joining the church which, alas! is often heard, which peculiarly concerns the preacher and ought to lead him to much careful inquiry. it is that objection which quotes against the church her own condition. it is alleged that, nowadays, the faith of the church is in a state of flux; that her enthusiasm has cooled to the point of chill; that her members are in such small degree better than the men and women outside their society that their company does not promise any moral and spiritual help to a man in search of saving and ennobling companionships. it is said, moreover, that the church is so divided, sub-divided and sub-_sub_-divided that it is impossible to be sure as to where the true church may be found. finally, we are told that in all probability if jesus christ came to earth in the flesh, he would in these times be found outside the sanctuaries in which his name is supposed to be honoured. now, many of these assertions may surely be shown to be the result of misunderstanding, of delusion, even of prejudice, and so should not be taken too much to heart. they may serve, however, to remind us of two truths which ought to be often in mind. the first is that christianity needs the church; the second, that the church needs christianity. as to the former proposition:--the church is the christian organism. it is principally through her agencies and activities that the purposes of christianity are to be realised. this is true not only of those universal purposes which include the ideals of world-wide sovereignty, but, let men say what they will, it is true of those which relate to the realisation of christ's will in the individual soul. it is not the fact that men find it as easy to live the christian life outside the church as within. this is sufficiently demonstrated by experience. personal religion grows in the fellowship and the sacrifice, in the labours, the strength and inspiration consequent upon membership in a great and imperial family. but the church needs christianity, and this, too, the preacher, for her sake, must deeply and constantly realise. the best antidote to the tendency toward a churchless christianity will be found, not in argument or command; certainly not in denunciations addressed to those who are outside the fold, but in the realisation by the church herself of her glorious possibilities both as to character, labour and conquest. what is needed to save the church from the opposing influences of our times is simply more of what she _may_ have _if she will_. she needs a definite and not a nebulous belief. she needs a living and burning enthusiasm; a joy that will not be silent, and a hope that will not cower before the pessimism of the age. she needs such a piety as shall furnish a splendid contrast to the lives of all around her. in short, she must realise the ideals of her founder, and every glorious prophecy shall be fulfilled. all the nations of the world shall flow into her. kings shall come to the brightness of her rising. men shall flock to her courts as doves to glowing windows from the cold and darkness of the wintry night. so, for the sake of the world which cannot spare the church, and for the sake of the church which cannot dispense with what the preacher has to give, it is required that this duty of the christian ministry be emphasised. another reason must be stated that it may be underlined:--faith, piety and enthusiasm, labour, sacrifice and victory are vital to the inner health and joy of the church herself. _this_, too, the preacher must remember. solemn, indeed, is the obligation resting upon him, and solemnly have the great preachers of all ages taken this responsibility to heart. "the care of the churches!"--how heavily it lay upon the shoulders of those early ambassadors whose confessions of fear concerning failure are written in the epistles. how it has driven to the mercy seat for help and guidance those whose work it has been in troublous times, to keep the flock of god committed to their custody! the feeding of the sheep in the wilderness, the care of the lambs, the strengthening of the weak, the endless, patient, prayerful striving needed in the pursuit of erring, foolish, falling ones, that all may be presented perfect in christ jesus--what demands do these make upon the preacher's noblest powers! in the dressing and polishing, to change the figure, of each quarried stone that the result may be seen in a building after the similitude of a palace, flashing in the light of god--here has lain the task in which many a glorious life has been gloriously spent; for even jesus could not entrust to a man a grander or more onerous task than this! and what manner of preaching is needed for the service of this saving and edifying end? it must surely be a preaching _of_ the church _to_ the church. it is to be questioned whether we have not largely failed to place before our people the new testament doctrine of the church. with such a failure may be associated another:--to emphasise duly the importance of those sacraments which are the inheritance of the church from age to age. can we deny that there is among our members a tendency to view very lightly the privileges and obligations of their membership in what we call--we have sometimes thought unhappily and with unfortunate effect--our societies? again, can it be denied that amongst us as a people the sacrament of the lord's supper is undervalued? faithfulness to the church and to her sacraments run together. how many are there who have but the dimmest possible conception of what the church is and of what membership in the church really signifies and involves? there is much work to be done here--spade work we might almost call it--for the ground has hardly yet been broken amongst us. may we venture a suggestion that, among things inherited from an earlier day, the word "societies" as signifying churches should be dropped in favour of the nobler word, and that the preacher, in particular, should cease to use it in this relationship? unless we are wrong in our reading of history this use of the term grew out of the view, long held by the founder of methodism, that while the anglican community was the _church_, the assemblies collected by himself were merely groups of people meeting for mutual help in spiritual things. the time came, no doubt, when he would have been willing to allow to these assemblies, as to the great community of which they were the individual congregations, the title for which we plead; though he himself it must be remembered, remained a member of the church of england until his death. let the preacher take very high ground on this matter. this little band of lowly men and women meeting in their humble sanctuary by the wayside for intercourse on spiritual things, for the hearing of the word of life, for mutual encouragement in the celestial pilgrimage, for praise and prayer and breaking of bread; this little company "gathered together in my name," jesus being "in the midst;" this little circle upon which is shed abroad the holy ghost for the teaching, comforting, sanctifying and anointing of the heavenly bride--this little company, we say, is more than a "society." its members form a _church_, and theirs are the glory, the privileges, the obligations of that "upper room" of eternal memory. let them be told this--kept in remembrance of it--led to delight in it--encouraged to glory concerning it. let it be laid down that it is not for this village fellowship to thank any man or woman, however exalted his or her social station, for condescending to membership therein, but that the honour of the association lies in being permitted an entrance into the fold, small as is the number of the flock and lowly as its members may be. we are confident that the scattered churches of our name need lifting into a realisation of their high dignity in christ jesus. of all the subjects waiting for earnest study, and to which we as preachers, both ministers and laymen, need for the sake of present day necessities to turn our minds, none is more important than this. the church can only retain, or rather, perhaps, we ought to have said--can only enter into her power through self-realisation. _here_ is need for a systematic educational work, and, should it be left undone, we must not be astonished if our members wear the bonds of their union lightly, and easily find ways out of a fellowship whose true significance they have never understood. another eventuality, too, must not astonish us:--the church of england _does_ hold and preach a doctrine of the church, preaches it diligently; preaches it, sometimes, with such limitations of application as we may well resent. the roman catholics do the same, and with limitations that are still more uncompromising. we of the free churches must not be astonished if, as a result of definite and positive teaching within other walls and a lack of such teaching within our own, the people drift away from us. _to build up the church we must preach the church_. she needs the sense of herself. important, however, as is the enunciation of the doctrine of the church, the work of her edification will demand that the preacher have many other things to say. we have already referred to the presentation of a high idealism as essential to the completeness of the christian message. it is indispensable to the adequate accomplishment of this duty that the preacher give himself to a systematic exposition of the scriptures. may we even dare to say that it will be necessary for him to devote much of his strength to what has been termed doctrinal preaching? that these words will have a terrible sound in many ears we are aware. it is very unpopular, nowadays, to lay emphasis on the necessity for creed as well as for conduct--for creed, indeed, for the sake of conduct. we will, nevertheless, make bold to remark that one of the great desiderata of the day is a revival of expository preaching, while another, equally great, is a renaissance of doctrinal preaching. there is not too much theology taught in the churches, but too little. we are told that the preacher's first business is to treat of what are called "living issues"; that he should, above all, exalt conduct and charity as the great concerns of the soul. it is contended that men need guidance on public questions and that the preacher, as the representative of the lord jesus christ, and of the church, should endeavour to meet that need. of course there is truth in it all, but it is also true that men need, most of all, the knowledge of god, and that, whatever bewilderment may exist in relation to public questions and moral issues, there is bewilderment, even greater, as to "the faith once delivered to the saints." there is no truly edifying preaching that is without theology. by such knowledge is the church built up, and the preacher will teach it to his people in the form in which it can be assimilated. one thing he will surely not forget:--that upon him rests a great responsibility, not only in regard to the church of to-day, but also concerning the church of to-morrow, as now gathered before him in the persons of the young people preparing for life and service. he ought, certainly, to provide strengthening food for them in view of responsibilities to come. it is a great charge, this of building up the body of christ, and it is upon us all to ask ourselves to what extent we have endeavoured to discharge this obligation. we admit that the temptations to evade it are many. doctrinal and expository preaching require so much thought, such careful preparation, such scrupulous exactness in expression. it is little wonder that, wearied by other activities, the preacher sometimes seeks for subjects which can be treated with greater ease and less expenditure of intellectual effort than those we have indicated. and such wonder as we may have is further diminished when we recollect that the idea is very commonly held that the people do not want preaching of this type; that, even within the churches indeed, they prefer being _pleased_ to being taught. possibly this is not so true as has been assumed. perhaps again, in that degree in which it _is_ true, the lesson to be learned from the fact is not that such preaching should be withheld, but rather that an effort should be made to invest it with elements of interest and attractiveness which have possibly too often been lacking. on this point we will have something to say later on. meanwhile we are open to maintain that people do not dislike exposition and theology _as such_. the late doctor mclaren was an expository preacher, and his sermons were as charming as fairy tales, multitudes flocking, through a long course of years, to hear them. c. h. spurgeon was a doctrinal preacher, and untold thousands hung entranced upon his lips. each man built up a great congregation, in which the fruits of the spirit flourished in a perpetual harvest of virtues, works and sacrifice. to-day the greatest churches in london are, almost without exception, those whose members sit at the feet of great preachers who are also, according to their separate schools, great theologians and masters in the art of interpreting the scriptures. we remember as we write a cold and depressing sabbath evening last autumn when we turned into westminster chapel. only a few years ago this great sanctuary was a wilderness in which might be realised the tragedy that is contained in the phrase "a down-town church." at this moment it is the home of a mighty spiritual fellowship. on the night of our visit the immense temple was crowded from floor to ceiling. the congregation had obviously been drawn from all ranks and conditions of society. professional men sat side by side with horny-handed sons of toil, fine ladies with servant girls, the old with the young. what new device of sensationalism had brought them together? what startling announcement had been flung out over the city to attract this mighty concourse? absolutely none! the sermon was a closely reasoned doctrinal address, full of quotations from the scriptures and of comparison of passage with passage. it was a sermon to _tax_ attention. we mention this experience to show that doctrinal preaching need not mean empty sanctuaries, as is often asserted. here was a great congregation and, better still, here was a living church. a further duty of the preacher, that the message may become approved in the building up of the church, is that of impressing the demands of jesus christ upon those who bear his name. preaching needs to be more exacting than it is. there are vast multitudes in the church whose religious life--if indeed they have such a life--is absolutely parasitical. they render no service; they offer no sacrifice; their only confession of faith is a more or less intermittent attendance at the public sessions of worship. by such people, one has humourously said, the church seems to be regarded as a pullman car bound for glory. their chief desires are that the train may run so slowly as to enable them to enjoy the scenery by the way; that the time-bill shall allow of frequent and lengthy stoppages on the journey, and _especially_ that the conclusion of the trip shall be postponed to as late an hour as possible, as they labour under no extravagant anxiety to come to its end. are we uncharitable in suspecting that the chief reason many of these people have for making some degree of preparation for paradise is that they cannot remain on earth and that heaven is, on the whole, to be preferred to the only other country available? ah! the preacher has much of this kind of material on his hands and, notwithstanding its quality, the commission to build it up into strength and beauty still applies. clearly, in such cases, the duty of the edifying preacher is not to hide, but _to emphasise_ the demands of jesus christ for active participation in some form of christian service. "the harvest truly is plenteous but the labourers are few," and altogether apart from the advantages to be gained by the church from the bringing in of the sheaves, there is a benefit to be won by the reaper as he garners the grain, which is entirely beyond calculation. our fathers made it their business in the case of every new convert to find him "something to do." sometimes the results were unfortunate, in that men were put to work they were not qualified to attempt; but the new employment kept many a man from falling, and often helped to make useful and polished instruments out of very unpromising material. nearly a thousand years ago peter the hermit passed like a flame of fire across the provinces of europe calling upon men to wrest the holy places from the hands of the saracen. in countless thousands they responded to his call, even little children arising and pressing eastward on the great emprise. surely there is need enough for crusading to-day. surely, too, there are multitudes who, for their own souls' sake, and for the sake of the church, would be all the better for the health and vigour which a little crusading would bring. upon us rests the obligation in christ's name to call these hitherto unemployed and ineffective ones to the standard of the cross. and to this demand for service it is the preacher's duty to add, in view of the advantages to follow in the life and character, the faith and influence of the church, an equally strong demand for sacrifice. it is no kindness of the pulpit to cut down the requirements of the lord upon the time, the strength, the comfort and the substance of those who profess themselves his followers. he that would have life eternal "let him go and sell all that he hath and give to the poor." "he that will be my disciple, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." "he that would save his life the same shall lose it." in these figurative words lies one secret of spiritual growth and health. so then it comes to this:--that the edification of the church and of the individual believer, so far as it forms part of the task of this, our messenger, is to be accomplished by the faithful preaching of such things as the master has left on record for the learning of his followers, and by calling them to make proof of truth in the exercise of christian activity, self-denial, sacrifice and self-culture. we believe, notwithstanding all that may be said to the contrary, that the church and her children long to hear this message and that they will respond to it. once more we admit that to the preacher, it may not be the easiest kind of preaching to attempt, for here he will soon be among the deep things of god, and he will have to ask for great endeavours and great surrenders. but the divine commission is in his hands, and has he not undertaken to speak what god shall teach him "till we have built jerusalem in england's green and pleasant land"? chapter v. the note of cheer the chapter now to be added is written under the influence of a sabbath afternoon service in which, a few hours ago, we occupied a pew. the scene was a village chapel among the mountains of the north of england. the preacher was a layman well advanced in age, who told us that, for five-and-forty years, he had been coming from the head of the circuit to take appointments in the village. the sermon was not eloquent. it was neither learned nor profound. it gave no evidence of any great acquaintance with modern thought. there was absolutely no attempt at exegesis. indeed, the discourse would have failed to satisfy most of those elementary canons upon which the homiletical professors lay such stress. yet, one great excellence it had, which, to its simple-minded auditors, more than atoned for all its many imperfections:--it was effective; it was successful. we came away thanking god for the testimony we had heard. and herein lay the success of this local brother's unpretentious discourse:--_it cheered us_, one and all. faces brightened and drooping heads were lifted up as the old man pursued his way. the last hymn was the heartiest of all, not because, as is sometimes the case, the people were encouraged by the thought of approaching liberation, but because of the spiritual "uplift" they had realised. we heard a happy buzz of pleasant talk from young and old as they poured through the door to assemble in friendly groups for mutual "good-days" on the pavement in front of the little temple. with most of them we were well acquainted. some were aged and infirm. others found the struggle of life a hard one. one pew was filled with mourners who, during the latest week, had stood around an open grave. there were christian workers to whom recent days had brought disappointments and weariness--labourers in the vineyard who had much to try their faith, for religious work in the villages has many difficulties in these days when the great towns attract so many of our most hopeful young people from the lanes to the streets. the widow was there, the orphan, the poor, the man who had failed in life. ah! those people had come together bringing with them to the sanctuary much doubt and care and perplexity and fear. it was good to watch them as the preacher went on; good to feel that these hearts were losing their loads, these minds their anxieties. "not a great discourse," the critic would have said. perhaps not--from some standpoints. having reached the end of fifty years of preaching, this white-haired patriarch had long given up the idea of great discourses. to him the master had said, "comfort ye, comfort ye my people," and he had walked long, long miles up the mountain side to do it. _pace_ the critic! this preaching was _the very thing_ for those needy folk this wintry afternoon. and now, in recollection of that blessed sermon, and under its gracious influence, we are strengthened to assert that it is an essential of the message that it contain good cheer for those who need it. the preacher is more than the accuser of men in christ's stead; more, even, than the mouthpiece of a divine invitation. his task is not completed in the edifying of churches, in the building up of individual souls in faith and doctrine and righteousness. jesus saw the sorrow of the world, anticipated the afflictions through which men would have to pass and the burdens they would have to bear. "he was touched with the feeling of our infirmities," he drank of our bitter cup. our griefs were in his mind when he sent his preachers forth. to be the agents of a great purpose of consolation, ministers of cheer and encouragement to hard-pressed and burdened men and women to the end of time were they sent! and for this work of consolation he not only gave a commission but he furnished, as well, an example to all who should ever preach his word. surely one great secret of the wondrous effectiveness of that brief ministry lay in the fact that while, as we have seen, it spoke to the consciences of men, bringing home the truths of righteousness and judgment; while it set before them the way of spiritual salvation and formulated the demands and conditions thereof, indicating the higher path, the strait gate and the narrow way, it was also directed to the bruised hearts and broken spirits of those who attended his steps. we are told, after all, but very little of the words and deeds of jesus during those eventful years in which he trod the highways and byeways of the land breaking the bread of life from city to city. of the period passed in nazareth in preparation for the strenuous days to come we are told nothing at all. the world, it is said, would hardly contain the books if all had been written down. but enough is told to give us visions of those unrecorded days, and to show that he was a cheering christ, a messenger of comfort--this saviour of ours. healing was in his words. "did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?" said, one to another, those two disciples who, with saddened countenances, had set out together to emmaus on that troubled day. watch him yonder in the house at bethany, what time bereavement casts its shadow upon the dwelling. "and he took little children in his arms and blessed them." here, again, is a whole history of tenderness. from this one act a flood of light streams backward and forward upon his whole earthly life, and we can see the kindly glance that brought the little ones around him. we can hear the gentle voice that dispelled their shyness and gave confidence to their hearts. even in that old time, and in the quiet and dreamy east, life had many cares. there were push and drive and hard and grinding rivalry even then. those days had their economic questions as well as ours. it was only by hardest struggle that many a cupboard was furnished and many a table spread; for poverty is no new thing, and sorrow, affliction, oppression, dread and death are as old as the hills. we read of the beggar by the wayside, of lazarus writhing in hunger and smitten with sores on the threshold of dives, who wore purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. the widow's house was robbed; the orphan was cheated of his small inheritance; life, even for the fortunate, went much as it does now--the music of gladness to-day, the solemn tones of the dirge to-morrow. how gracious to many a hearer would be that sermon on the mount with its passages for the special blessing of perplexed and worried souls, spoken, also, for the teaching of all who may be called to stand before the children of grief and want. "therefore take no thought, saying, what shall we eat? or, what shall we drink? or, wherewithal shall we be clothed?" .... "for your heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of all these things." .... "take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself." .... "and why take ye thought for raiment? consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet i say unto you, that even solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. wherefore, if god so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?" .... "are not five sparrows sold for two farthings? and not one of them is forgotten before god: but even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. fear not, therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows." .... "consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and god feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls?" think of it all! imagine that great multitude gathered out of the cities and villages round about. it was a hard world from which they had come to hear this man of nazareth, and, even as they came, care had tugged at their skirts; fear had rattled upon the doors of their hearts. think what music would be in that sweet new gospel of divine providence and affection, spoken in that calm and gentle voice whose every tone was vibrant with understanding, sympathy and love! can we not see the people as darkness throws its veil across the blue syrian sky turning once more to their distant homes, new hope and courage enthroned upon the forehead so recently seamed by care? can we not follow them to the dawning of another day, and behold their going forth, once again, to the tasks of life brightly, bravely, cheerily? to them, indeed, had come glad tidings of great joy! and if the master so gave himself to this ministry of brightening the lives of men, his first preachers caught the lesson and went forth, the same good purpose lively in their hearts. to "lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees;" to heal "that which was lame," that "it be not turned out of the way;" "to visit the widow and the fatherless;" to "speak peace" to the people--in these happy duties lay a large part of their work. dark, indeed, were those early days for the infant church; heavy the clouds above her; terrible the storms of hate and persecution which spent their fury upon her and scattered abroad her fellowship, but amidst it all more songs were heard than sighs, more triumphs than complaints. in the midnight hour a strange new music ran through the prison, for paul and silas "prayed and sang praises and the prisoners heard them," and so, to crushed and bleeding souls, even there, a breath of heavenly comfort came. we have sometimes heard people talk of st. paul in such a way as to picture one who was above the tenderness wherefrom sad hearts are blessed--the great theologian, the mighty logician, the lone, strong, sublime man whose self-mastery lifted him above sympathy with common men. great he was, but great in compassion as well as in mind. among the watchwords of encouragement you will find none more inspiring than those written by his fettered hand. was it not he who wrote that assurance which has so often come between us and despair:--"and we know that all things work together for good to them that love god"? from him, also, came that glowing word which has shed radiance upon many a couch of pain: "for our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." there is a more noble picture of the great apostle to the gentiles than that above referred to. the ship is "driven up and down in adria." euroclydon roars through the rigging. mighty billows come crashing over the bulwarks. "neither sun, nor moon nor stars" have "for many days appeared." nearer and nearer the helpless craft is being swept to the cruel rocks of yonder savage coast. the ship's company is in an agony of dismay. suddenly from the cabin comes he of tarsus. "wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer," he cries, above the blast, "for i believe god." thus does he summarise in one great assuring word the message learned at the foot of the cross. behind it is all the authority of god's revelation to his soul upon the damascus road! so ministered the master, and so, his first preachers, and hence it came to pass that the early disciples of the infant faith were known for their calmness, their courage and their joy. men "took knowledge of them that they had been with jesus." this was the very age of which the poet has told us:- on that hard pagan world disgust and secret loathing fell; deep weariness and sated lust made human life a hell. but the servants of the galilean, more persecuted than any other men, walked abroad with a gladness which was at once the perplexity and the condemnation of the time. "rejoice evermore" was a sacred command and a glorious possibility of the new religion, for they were taught to believe that "all things are yours and ye are christ's and christ is god's"; they were assured that "nothing shall be able to separate us from the love of god which is in christ jesus our lord"! that was the _first_ century, and with us now is the twentieth; and it is said that the burdens of men become more numerous and more heavy as the years pass on. older grows the world, but there is no lessening of its care, no relief from its perplexity, its pain, its sorrow. as civilisation becomes more complex the "drive" of life waxes ever more and more fierce. along with this complaint, it is said by some, that in the church there is less joy than in those old days--less, indeed, than in times within the memory of the grey-haired among us. we who are methodists are often reminded of a former methodism which was vocal with praises and electric with joy. they whisper that it is different with us now; that even the pulpit has lost its note of gladness. care sits upon the preacher's brow. the songs of zion are timed to the throb of hearts that lag for very weariness. "some are sick and some are sad." "cares of to-day and burdens of to-morrow" haunt us in the very means of grace, and little is said to make us forget. "fightings without and fears within," from these we seek deliverance in vain. the prophet has forgotten how to comfort or, if he have not forgotten, he thinks the task unworthy of hours which might be more learnedly and impressively employed. if we admit, as perhaps we may, the existence of a measure of truth in this complaint, it will only be to claim that there is some excuse for those whom it asperses. the intellectual problems bred of a materialistic age have so compelled the preacher to the defence of the walls of zion that it may well have come to pass that the inhabitants of the city--the men and women down in the streets and dwellings, for the security of whom he has been contending--may have had to go short of many things; a time of siege is a time of deprivations and hardships for citizens as well as soldiers. the great social questions of the present day have also claimed much of his thought and effort. he has felt, and justly, that these questions ought to receive more pulpit recognition. it is possible, and should not be thought surprising, that in the ardour of the social crusade the preacher may have sometimes given to these things time and strength which might have been better spent in ministering to the personal griefs and perplexities of such as sat before him for their need's sake. it may be well for us each to make inquiry concerning ourselves in these matters. as a result we will realise again, no doubt, how numerous and insistent are the demands made upon us to turn aside in our ministry to treat of a hundred things which once upon a time we did not think of as pulpit questions. be this as it may, here lies work for the preacher which he must not neglect. it is as certainly his duty to cheer and encourage the heart of the individual as to indicate the path to better conditions of life for the multitude. and this he can only effectively do as he perfects himself in his understanding of their needs. of this understanding, and of the ways in which it must be sought, we have already written and will say no more, except to point out how every new discovery concerning the preacher's duties furnishes additional illustration of the absolute necessity that he study not books only, but also men and the conditions of their lives. it is of little use knowing the contents of well-filled shelves if we have never read the living volumes before us in the pews. again we say, "if we only knew." still knowledge is not the whole of the preacher's need in order that his message may contain this cheering quality. it is even more needful that he shall, himself, be one of those who abide in the comfort of god. he must have learned the efficacy of the great consoling and gladdening verities by experience of their application to his own soul. he only can surely cheer others who himself is cheerful, and no man who has ever felt the pressure and care of life _can_ be cheerful excepting in so far as these great guarantees have become real to his own spirit. only with "the comfort wherewith he is comforted of god" will he comfort others! and what are the verities whose application he must have experienced? there is not one of all the glorious circle of revealed truths that is not of use for the strengthening and encouraging of men; but there are some of these truths which might almost have been designed for this special use. do we receive--do we preach them as we ought? there is the doctrine of divine providence. surely this truth should be preached more frequently than it is. surely, too, it should be preached in such a way as to link its meanings to the common hours, the common needs and anxieties of life. for the vast majority of men life is actually a struggle for bread for themselves and their dependants. we had almost said that it is a constant escape from ever threatening evils. the question of food and raiment is full for them of the direst probabilities. many a man listens to the preacher whose life is, indeed, from hand to mouth. fierce competition seeks at every turn to rob him of his little opportunity of bread winning. such a man had rather be told of a _providing_ god than of the newest discoveries in biblical criticism. if we forget his need and suffer him to go from the sanctuary no more hopeful and brave than when he came--then, so far as he is concerned, we have surely failed. there is again the doctrine of the divine presence. "i will be with thee in the six troubles, and in the seventh i will not leave thee." the wonderful truth of jesus christ in living, constant, saving nearness to every man, ready to help, to deliver and guide--here is a doctrine, mighty to comfort all the world. before us are men who, morning by morning, go forth with trembling to spend the day in associations full of such temptations and dangers as are undreamed of by us. here are men and women haunted by bitter memories, whose midnight solitude is disturbed by the ghosts of buried years. there are many lonely people in the world, many from whom lover and friend have been put far away. for such is this treasure of promise committed unto us. send yonder man back to his conflict; yonder stranger to his loneliness; yonder memoried soul to his solitude to face again the spirits of his bygone days, with this thought: that every step of the way--whether in the city or in the desert--jesus christ will be by his side. such a preaching will be sweeter to him a thousand times than perplexing metaphysical discussions. then let us not forget to apply the _promises_ by which the master has strengthened the exhortations given to his servants in all times to labour in the fields of christian service. of such promises there is surely a varied and glorious store, and for all of them there is need enough. never do we preach but before us is some toiler almost ready to give up because of long delay in the appearance of the first signs of harvest. _encourage him_! tell him that the god of the sowing is also the god of the reaping. tell him not to be "weary in well doing, for in due season" he "shall reap if" he "faint not." tell him that "he that goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." tell him _this_. he has heard it all before, of course, or else he had not so long struggled on in the work. tell it him again and again, for again and again the need to hear it all will come. tell it him gloriously, confidently. he will go back to his sunday school class, back to his labour among the poor, out to his next appointment on the plan, with a new hope which will be also a new power! and let us remember that there has been given unto us for the comforting of his people the revelation of the glory laid up for them that fear him. to the writer a little while ago an able and spiritually minded unitarian minister made this statement:--"in every service i conduct i announce, at least, one hymn on immortality. the people need to hear of it." there is food for thought in such a confession from such a source. once upon a time it was common in methodism to hear sermons on heaven. to-day how infrequent such sermons are! yet surely the king has not withdrawn this portion of the message from our hands. and surely there is occasion for such reminders to be given. how many there are to whom "earth's but a sorry tent;" how many, again, who go in bondage to the fear of death all their days; how many more who look mournfully after departed dear ones and wonder how it goes with them across the stream. to all such people is the preacher commissioned, and they look wistfully toward him for the word that may let the glory in! and that word we do not speak nowadays as often as we might, perhaps not as often as we ought. here, again, is something to be recovered by the present-day preacher. possibly when he comes to talk of the glories "laid up," this same preacher may find need for some new forms of expression. perhaps he will not find it possible to speak with the old literalism of his predecessors. but the living core of the message is still his as it was theirs. the divine example, too, is before him every time he harks back to his master's presence. in that great day of sorrow when he spake to the disciples of his early departure, he, seeing their grief, said, "in my father's house are many mansions .... i go to prepare a place for you." _preach heaven_! this very day there are hearts breaking for the story! to cheer the souls of men by the use of this, or any other material, and in any legitimate way we can--to this must our preaching be absolutely and resolutely bent. to make brighter the lives of men; to take out of the future its dark dreads and fears and to fill it with beckoning blessings; to make the sanctuary a place of healing, a house of bread, a rock of cooling streams; to make of every service a season of refreshing--for all this are we responsible to the king who sent us out to his suffering children. the message he entrusted to us contains the sufficiency for it all! but more, we repeat, than the mere letter of the message is needed. the best of words may be so spoken as to bring but small assistance to such as hear. again we say that the preacher must, himself, live in the comfort and courage he preaches to others, or else there will be somewhat in his voice that will spoil it all. the word and also the _tone_! "the tone" must be the tone of absolute realisation and assurance. pronounced in any other accent the words of the gospel of joy sound impossible; the blessings they promise seem dim and far away; the fact of providence becomes a mere theory; the future harvest of holy sowing a pious but foolish hope; the sweet fields of eden a fair but airy dream. nothing is colder than perfunctory, official, professional consolation and encouragement. when fear whispers "courage!" the chattering of his teeth makes our terror worse! so, once again, the preacher's success and effectiveness are found largely to depend upon his own heart's condition. the message will carry little more cheer than the messenger can pour into it out of the stored up happiness and confidence of his own breast. in the cheer of god must he abide who would scatter a little comfort among his fellow men! book iii the message:-its form and deliverance theory of book iii. we have spoken of the effective preacher and of the effective message, but this message must have effective form and expression in order to command the largest measure of success. _what are the essentials of effectiveness in the form and delivery of the message?_ chapter i. on attractiveness. having now given some little thought to a consideration of the essential qualifications of the christian messenger, and also to the content of his message, it remains to name certain qualities of form and expression equally needed for success in the publication of the truth. the first business of the preacher is, of course, to secure the friendly attention of his hearers and his next business is to retain it until he makes an end of speaking. to accomplish these things it is obviously needful that he possess some skill in the putting of things in such a way as first to attract, then to enlighten, and finally, to persuade. in beginning then, a very brief inquiry concerning these qualities, it may be assumed that in the sermon as we know it we have by far the best vehicle for the conveyance of the preacher's message. from time to time experiments with other media have been tried, but the sermon has not been superseded. a few years ago trial was made of what was called the sermon-story--a religious novel read by the preacher in weekly parts. "song services" and "lantern addresses" have been well-intentioned attempts to enlist the ear and the eye in the interests of the soul. in the miracle plays of the middle ages, scriptural truth and incident were thrown into dramatic form for the benefit of the ignorant classes. the sermon still holds the field. no form of preaching has use and acceptance so general, nor so lends itself to meet changing times and differing circumstances as does this. the thought is no less true than wonderful, and no less wonderful than true, that of all who appeal to the public ear, none, even in these days of comparative indifference to religion, draw so large an audience as do the preachers of the christian faith. the sermon is still the most popular form of public address! it will be wise therefore for the preacher not only to ask as to whether he possesses within himself a preaching mind and heart and knowledge and designation; whether he can say that he seeks to present the truth in all its completeness, but also whether his _sermons_ are of such a sort as most readily to secure the entrance of the truth they contain. god's truth may be--and often is--hindered in its saving errand by reason of the form and manner in which it is presented, though, behind such ineffective presentation, there may be sincerity of motive and sublime enthusiasm. the preacher may fail as a messenger by failing as a sermoniser. he may fail as a sermoniser from neglect of principles which so wait upon his discovery that it is nothing less than a mystery when they are not seen. and yet, obvious as these principles are, the art of the sermon maker needs learning, and even the study of methods of delivery is of immense importance to success. we have spoken of "the born preacher"; even _he_ must cultivate his gifts in order to realise his highest possibilities. we speak sometimes of "diamonds in the rough"; the value of these precious stones increases as the art of the lapidary is carefully exercised upon them. if it be only to prevent the formation of false methods and bad habits of thought and utterance, a preacher should give attention to the study of homiletics. he may, as the end of all his studies, feel led deliberately to reject much of what he has been taught in favour of original methods of his own. as the years go on he may forget many of the rules laboriously learned. neither of these circumstances should be held to prove that time spent in the sermonising class has been wasted. it is a fact that most of us have forgotten the greater part of what we learned at school. the dates which made up so large a part of our historical lessons, the rules we slavishly committed as we struggled to master the difficulties of syntax and prosody, our latinity, our grounding in the tongue of ancient greece so hardly won--who amongst us, having grey hairs in abundance, could face to-day the examination room where once we triumphed in these things? yet in a sense they are all still with us. we reproduce them in effectiveness in the daily battle; in the thousand and one duties forming the work of life. it may be much the same in the case of homiletics. we may reject; we may forget; but we cannot altogether fail to profit richly in many ways from studies the object of which is to make the student more skilful in the use of the powers bestowed upon him. had these pages been written for young men only, they would have contained more than one chapter devoted to an effort to enforce the absolute necessity of bending the mind, and with the mind the heart, to the earnest pursuit of all that can be learned about the actual building-up of discourses from the foundation of exegesis to the topstone of application. we do not refrain from emphasising this necessity because of any thought that even the elder brethren will find such studies without profit. to read once more some of the homiletic manuals of our far-off days, would not be for many of us a foolish method of spending a quiet hour "between the mount and multitude!" to these books, with others more recently published, we refer the reader who is on the lookout for "rules." in our youth there were many of them:--"kidder," "phelps," "broadus," "beecher," "parker's ad clerum." add to these "phillips brooks," "dale," "the cure of souls," and as many more as can be remembered; their name is legion--all helpful to wise men and good. our present duty seems to be that of naming certain principles which must be remembered by all who would attain to effectiveness in pulpit expression. and the first of these principles seems to be this:--that the sermon should have the quality of _attractiveness_, that it ought to be so interesting that the man in the pew will _wish_ to listen to it, find it harder _not_ to listen than to attend to its every word. you will never save or help a man if you never interest him! now, whether there be need to emphasise this very obvious consideration we may judge from the talk we hear about sermons in general. we have already spoken of the wonderful popularity of this form of public address; but this popularity is not unqualified by complaints, the most frequent of which is, perhaps, about the preacher's dulness. "as dull as a sermon" is a familiar expression--so familiar that no one troubles to protest against its use and application. one of our most hoary and patriarchal anecdotes tells of the minister who, finding a burglar in his study, held the man in deep slumber by the reading of last sunday's discourse while his wife slipped out for the policeman. an american humorist, who has laid us under life-long obligation for hours of honest laughter, tells us, in the history of his courtship of betsy jane, that her folks and his "_slept_ in the same meeting house." again and again have we heard of the risks run by insurance companies in granting fire policies upon the houses of the clergy, because of the immense quantities of very dry material they contain. all these humorous stories and sallies find appreciation because there is, alas! a certain amount of truth at the heart of them. then there is also that demand for shorter sermons in which some see so ominous a portent. we demur to the assumption that this demand invariably grows out of dislike for the subjects upon which the preacher dilates. it is objected that no one grumbles greatly concerning the length of a shakespearian representation, nor when a prominent and eloquent politician occupies the platform for an hour and a half. a little while ago, in a crowded hall in london, we heard a well-known statesman speak for two hours and a quarter on a busy saturday afternoon, and, at the conclusion, hundreds were heard to express surprise on learning that the address had been half so lengthy. "if we preached as long as this what would happen?" asked a friend as we left the hall. "_what," indeed_? but suppose that we preached as _interestingly_ as the politician spoke? suppose we had learned something from the great dramatist of the art of assailing and winning the attention of the men and women to whom we speak? it must not be forgotten, when we find fault with the demand for short sermons, that there are some preachers from whom their hearers demand not short sermons but long! perhaps this demand for brevity may not result so much from the depravity of the pew as from the dulness of the pulpit, by which we mean the sermon and not its subject. at this very moment, there is no subject--we dare to say--on which the average man can be so deeply moved as on the subject of his spiritual needs and questions. it can still be said that more people attend the churches and chapels of london than are to be found in all other places of popular resort. the things of the spirit are still the things most thought of, and should those whose business it is to speak of them fail to win, at least the ear, if not the heart, of those they seek to influence, they ought to ask themselves very faithfully whether it may not be possible that some of the fault may lie in the form, or wording, or delivery of the message. they should inquire whether sermon and delivery are such as to make it easier to listen than to sleep. they should ask, "_can it be that even i am guilty of being dull_?" for the truth must be confessed that some preachers--brethren with golden truth to publish, and possessed of good natural gifts and a real and deep desire to bless the people--_are_ dull--drearily, dreadfully, deadly dull! they are dull with the most interesting, the most wonderful--may we not say the most sensational?--subject in the world to talk about. and what is the cause of this dulness? again we say it does not lie in the nature of the subjects committed to the preacher. to this denial we will add another to the effect that, in almost every instance, the dulness of the sermon does not proceed from a quality of dulness in the preacher. there are few men who, in conversation, are unable to interest us in subjects of intrinsic attractiveness. many a man, dull to boredom in the pulpit, becomes a delightful personality in the social circle. why the startling difference? to answer this question fully might involve the use of many words, but it may, at least, be suggested that preaching is often dull because the preacher has inherited a notion that reverence for the truth and for the sanctuary demands it. there still remain traces of a feeling, said to have been common in old time, that dulness is a virtue. this same feeling was wont, in other days, to fill the homes of the godly with a gravity and a solemnity which almost effected the banishment of laughter and drove forth music as an outcast from the domestic hearth. dominated by this sense of things, men shut their eyes to the joyfulness of life and the beauties of nature and literature and poetry and art. the sabbaths of such men were days to be feared; their sanctuaries places without a gleam of sunshine. what wonder if the pulpit came under the yoke of bondage, or that, having been once enslaved, it should even now have hardly attained to perfect freedom? then there are preachers whose great concern is to maintain "the dignity of the pulpit," and this concern is allowed to crush out their naturalness and brightness and humour--every quality that is human and pleasant and alluring. it is on record that even so great and wise a preacher as dr. dale of birmingham had to confess that his own mighty ministry had suffered because of a certain stateliness of composition and delivery which had militated against the attractiveness of his sermons, especially so far as the younger and less educated of his hearers were concerned. from this solicitude for the dignity of the pulpit have come "the pulpit manner," "the pulpit tone," "the pulpit vocabulary," all of which, as being departures from honest nature's homely plans, have helped to spoil the charm and prevent the triumph of holy, lovely truth. still another may be dull from intellectual pride. not unknown is the man who may often be heard explaining the success attained by other brethren but denied to himself, by references to what he calls "playing to the gallery" or "catering for popular applause." _he_, forsooth, will not so demean himself as to be guilty of practices so degrading. thought is _his_ provision for those who come to hear. _he_ appeals to _thinkers_. alas! for him, his "thinkers," if only he knew it, are human and have a mind to be pleased. "very intellectual," may be the verdict with which they leave the church, but people cannot always be on the intellectual rack, and both the sabbath and the sanctuary were designed for rest for weary brains. we have known a very learned man to admit, as he came away from hearing an exceedingly thoughtful discourse, that, to him, the preacher's address to the children had been the most enjoyable part of the service. the sermon was very clever; but--well, he had had a hard and trying week of it, and came to church with a tired mind and a troubled heart. so it has come to pass that many a preacher has fallen into a homiletic dulness quite foreign to his own disposition. in the home, the social circle, in every place saving the pulpit he was human and natural. he had a jest to cheer the depressed, a tear for sorrow. he could rejoice with those who rejoiced, weep with those who wept. he was responsive to the piping of gladness. in pain or pleasure he was ever a welcome guest, but in the temple he condemned by tone and manner every bit of humanity into which he had been unwittingly betrayed, and atoned for his every lapse into naturalness by dreariness growing drearier. not so did jesus christ preach, else the common people had not "heard him gladly;" not so, else the little children had not gathered around his feet, nor shouted their hosannas as he rode up to the city gate. not dull were those sermons that drew the multitudes from the towns to the wilderness, and held them so entranced that the time for bodily refreshment passed unheeded by. "never man spake like this man," they said, as they spread their garments in the path by which the preacher came up to mount zion. he revealed god; he rebuked sin; he poured his denunciations upon the age; he tore off the mask from the face of hypocrisy; not one jot or tittle of truth did he bate for the sake of applause, yet all judea went out to him, and all the regions beyond jordan. in _his_ preaching there was not only everything to save the soul, there was everything to charm the ear! from this divine example, if from no other consideration, let us set ourselves to preach attractively; and let us begin by resolving to preach _naturally_. the best preaching is talk at its best in subject and in style, and provides exercise for every talent of preacher and hearer alike. "right here," as the americans say, let us remember that talk is always spoken and never read. for the production of the effect of dulness; for the sure spoiling of good thought nobly conceived and nobly phrased, commend us to a manuscript slavishly read to an audience assembled to be _spoken to_ by a man who was appointed to _speak_. there may be churches which, through long suffering, have become so used to being read to that they have learned to endure it, perhaps even to fancy they like it. but watch the congregation in such a church. note when for a moment the preacher lifts his head and ventures a brief excursion from the sheets before him, how obviously their interest quickens and their eyes brighten. even _they_, in the depths of their hearts, would rather be spoken to, though such a practice might mean, now and then, a little looseness in expression, a little breakdown in the preacher's grammar. more than this may be said:--it has seemed to us, as the result of attending many churches, that in such sanctuaries as we have referred to reading is going out of fashion. we have listened of late months to many well-known preachers of various denominations and not one of them "read." on the other hand, we have heard it asserted that while the method of reading becomes less common in these churches, it tends to become more usual in methodism. alas! for methodist preaching if this startling assertion be really true. methodism does _not want_ the read sermon--is not likely, unless it ceases to be methodism, to learn to want it--will only endure it when it cannot help itself, or when, for other reasons, it has great reverence and affection for the man who weakly offers it; or again, when the preacher is old and has outlived his intellectual nimbleness, in which case sympathy may so plead his cause as to secure him a reluctant hearing. methodism grew to greatness under the preaching of men who _spoke_, and that method is traditional to her pulpit; some day she will crystallise her tradition into a law that the _speaker_ alone shall stand in her high place. to attract and hold the people the preacher must speak! and let him speak in the voice and manner with which it is most natural for him to speak to his fellow men. there is as yet no organ sweeter than the human voice in its own natural tones, none so adapted to reach the heart. the pity is, that so often, from simple ignorance, this fine instrument is spoiled. gladly would we see a course of voice tuition included as a necessary part of all pulpit training. so would the spoiling of many a gracious utterance be prevented. it is faulty methods of speech rather than overwork that are responsible for many a "clergyman's sore throat." speaking is as natural an exercise to the voice of a man as is walking to his feet, or handling to his hands, but it must be done naturally; and the use of training is found in its bringing home this lesson. the "pulpit voice" must become a yesterday's blunder. to attractiveness in delivery must be added, if people are to be kept in audience, an attractiveness in treatment; here, again, the method of success is to let nature have her way. let the preacher permit himself to devote _all_ his gifts to the setting forth of his theme. the great thing is to get the word right home and to that end all considerations as to style, language, arrangement, should be subordinate. there be some highly intellectual persons who affect contempt when a preacher tells a story. there are very solemn persons who gravely disapprove when the sermon contains a touch of humour which causes a ripple of laughter in the holy place. some people, again, hate an epigram, and say "the preacher is trying to be smart." it is impossible to please all the critics. the great business of the preacher is to get his work done; and if by a story, a touch of humour or of sarcasm, the use of any gift, he can, keeping within the limits of that good taste which should guide him at all times, entice men to listen, the critics may be ignored. one more paragraph may be added before bringing this chapter to an end. after all, the great secret of being interesting lies in being _interested_. the really enthralling preacher is he who is himself enthralled by his subject and who realises, also, a deep interest in the people before him. should it ever come to pass that the subject grow stale, worn and hackneyed to the man in the pulpit, it will not be a hopeful quest to look for much interest in the pew. again should it ever come to pass that the preacher lose interest in those before whom he stands, and this has been known to occur, there will remain small reason to listen to him for preaching of the sort we most desire. may it not be possible that "the sermon-box" is responsible for much of the dulness we deplore. whitefield, it is said, used to contend that a man could preach the same discourse forty-nine times with ever-increasing effect. there may be some who have not this power, but who faithfully toil to prove the truth of the dictum. it was such a good sermon and went so well when we preached it the first few times, the while our hearts were fired by the truth it taught. so we whispered to ourselves as we turned over the contents of that precious box. other days had come, other circumstances, other people, other needs and other views, but forth came the well-worn and faded manuscript once again. a baptism of holy madness in which every preacher should make a fire of all his sermons dry enough to burn might not be a bad thing for the church and the world. such a baptism may, perhaps, be too great a thing to pray for; such a sacrifice as it would involve, may possibly be too much to ask--and some sermons _are_ worth preaching over and over again, even long after whitefield's maximum has been exceeded. still there is a dangerous temptation in the possession of hoarded sermons from which we will do well to pray to be delivered. to that petition thousands in all the churches would be glad to say amen! chapter ii. on transparency. there is one quality of such vital importance to the effectiveness of our sermons as to merit more than passing mention, and that is the quality of lucidity. the business of the preacher is to make his meaning understood, to make his audience see what he sees, understand what he understands. it is laid upon him as a special instruction to present the truth with such plainness that "a wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err therein." failing here, he fails badly. it is possible, perhaps, to excite a hearer's admiration without clearness. there is to be found in some men a curious liking for being puzzled; and they will credit with high talent and deep learning him who is able thoroughly to mystify them. we have more than once heard a man described as "far learned" because of a style in which polysyllables, not always correctly chosen, did duty for thought, as polysyllables often do. but the mere winning of ignorant admiration is a poor result of pulpit work, and no manly man will set such an end before him as the goal of his ambition. admit that hearers may receive a measure of blessing out of all proportion to the degree of their understanding--a friend of ours tells us that he has had wonderful times in listening to sermons in the welsh language of which he knows not a word,--it still remains true that men are saved through the _knowledge_ of the truth. in joining himself to the eunuch from ethiopia who, sitting in his chariot read the prophet esaias, philip asked, "understandest thou what thou readest?" and all his effort went to make the dusky stranger comprehend. to make men understand, is our bounden duty still. and to accomplish this necessary achievement is not invariably the easiest thing imaginable. indeed, it may well be contended that in none of his aims does the preacher fail more frequently than in this. often would we be greatly surprised and deeply discouraged had we the means of comparing the idea _received_ with the idea we meant to convey. the reticence of our hearers is wisdom in them and mercy to us. for it is absolutely certain that most preachers overestimate--we do not say the intelligence of their congregations,--but their ability to grasp the truth presented at the speed, and in the way in which it is brought before them. because the trained mind of the preacher can readily and easily understand religious literature and speech, it does not follow that the hearer has the same power; nor does it follow that the lack of it proves him a person of smaller intellectuality than the man whose utterances bring perplexity to his mind. the preacher should remember that what are matters of daily thought and research to him are not so familiar to his hearers. to _him_ they form a well-known country. he should not assume that the man who turns to him for direction as to the points and places of this holy land will always be able to comprehend these directions as easily as he gives them. we speak from experience when we assert that it is much easier, in a land one knows very well, to direct the traveller on his way than it is to understand such directions when, from strangeness in the path, we have in turn to seek them ourselves. not only is this true, but it is also true that we are too apt to take for granted that what is knowledge to the preacher is knowledge to the hearer. it is to be feared that in these days the average church-goer is not so well versed in biblical knowledge as the assumptions of our sermons might suggest. most men nowadays live in a hurry, and are busy about many things, and it cannot be pretended that the scriptures receive that reading and study which give such advantage to the hearer of preaching. probably an examination of any ten men chosen without discrimination out of the congregation of one of our churches would reveal a state of things both startling and sad. it is so easy to be misled by appearances. the congregation is well dressed, respectable, keen. there are the usual signs of education, even of culture. all these things are consistent with great shallowness of sacred knowledge. men are careful to till their own fields, but common land is generally sorely neglected. there is a scientist in yonder pew; in his own science he is supreme. near him sits a politician; few there are who know the questions of the hour better than he. in the pulpit stands the preacher; he is--shall we venture the assertion?--a man mighty in the bible. it is _his book_. it is, in a _general_ way, the book of the scientist, of the statesman, of every person in the congregation, but the preacher specialises in it and in all that relates to it. he will make a mistake if he assumes too much either to the credit of one man before him or another. here a memory of many years ago rises to the surface. having to preach one sunday to an audience which usually contained two or three men of positions rather above the common run, we confessed great nervousness to an aged minister of our church now no more. "never bother a bit, lad," was the reply; "remember one thing:--you will know more about that subject than any man in the chapel, because you will have been _working_ at it. the doctor will have spent _his_ week mixing physic, the lawyer _his_ in mixing law. you will have spent _yours_ in getting to know all about this text of which, like as not, neither of them has ever heard." there was consolation in the old man's assurances, though they recognised a sorrowful fact too often forgotten. probably if we knew everything we should come to the conclusion that one fault of our sermons is that they are not half sufficiently elementary. along the same line follows the remark, that it is also a mistake to assume that the terminology familiar to the preacher and conveying to _his_ mind certain ideas, must of necessity be equally familiar and convey the very same ideas to every other man. much of this language is technical; much of it consists of words and phrases which have long been obsolete so far as daily use and wont are concerned. let the preacher set himself to listen to a professional man who elects to speak upon the subjects in which he is most interested in the language of his profession; or let him hearken to an artisan who talks about his craft in the terms in use at the bench, or in the factory, and then he will in some degree comprehend the effect of technical language in mystifying the uninitiated hearer. we recall in this connection a sermon in which, years ago, we heard a very young preacher declaiming to an audience of labouring men and women concerning a certain "anthropomorphic" passage. as we say he was very young, and probably no longer uses the word outside the study. another worthy man in our hearing solemnly advised a congregation largely composed of factory girls to make their lives "christo-centric." we acknowledge our indebtedness to the rev. w. l. watkinson, himself a splendid example of the excellence for which we plead, for two humorous illustrations of the mistake now being considered. one is that of a local preacher who, during a revival of religion, most earnestly counselled his auditors to exercise "fiduciary" faith; the other, of a learned divine whose appointment in a certain village coincided with the visit of a travelling menagerie. "i perceive," he said, in sensational tones, "that a spirit of german transcendental ratiocination is creeping into the church." the congregation, remembering the adjacent caravans, left at once in hurry and alarm. in that very interesting volume in which the proprietors of _the daily news_ tabulated the results of a census of church attendance in the metropolis, mr. f. c. masterman, writing on the religious problem of south east london, has the following words:-"the prevailing theology, even more perhaps than the prevailing liturgy, is wrapped up in an ancient language. the very terms are technical--grace, justification, conversion, perseverance. they flow out glibly from the student who has soaked himself in their historical meanings; they are greek to the general. they were once living realities for which men fought and gladly died; they still symbolise realities, the permanent elements of the life history of the soul--but they are wrapped around in cobwebs and the complications of a technical system, frozen into sterility; and they have no more meaning and no more appeal to the audience at whom they are thrown in such profusion than the details of the performance of the mosaic ritual, or the genealogies of the legendary heroes of the hebrew bible. we want neither edifying lessons drawn from the wanderings of israel or the book of joshua; nor brilliant 'word-painting' of some of the scenes described in the bible with a more appealing eloquence; nor the exposition of the machinery of schemes of salvation once real from which the life has departed; but some message concerning the things of the spirit, delivered in simplicity and humility and sincerity to men who would fain be simple and humble and sincere." these are weighty words, and many a preacher might do worse than take them seriously to heart. such an event might mean the blessing of many who have so far been mystified rather than edified. mr. masterman represents, we are sure, multitudes who could add proof to his words from frequent experience; he speaks, also, for many more who, because of similar experience, come no more to the house of the lord. but the difficulty does not always arise from the preacher's terminology alone. it is possible to fall into the fault of _over-condensation_ in our preaching. highly concentrated foods are proverbially hard of digestion, and the same may be true of highly concentrated sermons. "words packed with profoundest meanings" are apt to pass over the mind carrying much of their meaning with them undiscovered. a "highly sententious style" may have some of the qualities of a thunder shower, in which the rain falls so fast as to be of little use in watering the thirsty ground, over which it courses unabsorbed to join the brook down yonder in the vale. the maxim "_multum in parvo_" may be an admirable one for an author whose book will lie in the reader's hand the while he has time to grasp the full significance of every well-filled sentence. by a public speaker, however, packing may easily be overdone; and here is one of the dangers of the written sermon as compared with one in which the preacher, having gathered together his knowledge and his thought upon a matter, leaves the choice of words to the hour of delivery. a little wise prolixity may be necessary to the speaker. a little repetition; the putting of a truth, first in _this_ way, then in _that_, and again perhaps in quite a different fashion, so that different minds may have in turn their chance--even this may be needed, and though the preacher's impatience may find such a method irksome, duty may lie that way while inclination turns to a more sententious and expeditious mode. when all has been done that can be done to render every argument and lesson absolutely transparent there will still be some who will not have quite understood. the simplest of preachers must some day encounter the old lady who accosted, so it is said, a former bishop of chester, who, at great pains to be lucid, had unfolded the argument against the errors of atheism, with the words, "well, my lord, i must say as i think there is a god after all you've told us." another thing to be remembered is, that much depends upon the order and arrangement of a sermon whether it is "easy to follow" or not. we are old-fashioned enough to believe rather strongly in the method according to which the preacher divided his subject into "heads." we had heard that this method was falling into disuse, but have been surprised during recent months to discover how many of the more acceptable and successful preachers still find it the most effective plan. of course there are those who vote the method out of date; and we have listened to the preaching of some who hold this view and act upon it. our experience teaches us that in respect of clearness and, perhaps especially, of memorability, the method of distinct division has many advantages. it is easier to the preacher; _much_ easier to the hearer. only, let it be remembered that an "introduction" should introduce; that "divisions" should divide, and sub-divisions sub-divide. needless and trifling "majors" or "minors" are irritating and confusing. "firstly," "secondly," "thirdly," and--under very special circumstances--even "fourthly" may contribute to the making of the dark places plain, but the days have long since passed away in which "ninthly" and "tenthly" could be borne; though there have actually been such days. we have read, or tried to read, discourses whose major divisions ran to "eighteenthly" with minor divisions grouped under each like companies in a regiment. people came to preaching early in those days and stayed late. can it be one result of their experiences that we, their posterity, have inherited that strange weariness which so frequently attacks us as "one word more" is announced from the sacred desk? simplicity in language, and in putting things; as much repetition as may be needed; great care not to assume more knowledge in the hearer than he possesses; much allowance for the fact that the minds addressed may not be trained in the theme under discussion, and that there is a wide difference between the catching of an idea which waits upon a printed page and of an idea in flight of spoken discourse; clear and memorable arrangement of the whole address--all these concessions must be made if men are to be sent away from the sanctuary carrying with them any considerable part of the provision with which the preacher climbed the pulpit stair. and after all these concessions have been allowed the _great_ effort to make things plain has yet to be begun! this _great effort_ for the attainment of transparency will be made, we need hardly say, along two lines, the line of illustration and the line of application. possibly it may be held by some that these two lines are really one. and concerning illustration:--the greatest preachers, and the most effective, have been those who have shown the greatest mastery of this art. the writing of these words brings to our minds names sufficient to establish their truth. who can forget the illustrations of c. h. spurgeon; the illustrations of mclaren of manchester, whose expositions of scripture received illumination in this way at every turning of the path along which the preacher led us, happy and entranced? it has been pronounced by some a mistake to class d. l. moody among the _great_ preachers. the answer will depend upon our definition of a great preacher. _we_ would support the inclusion and our reason lies here:--we heard the man in boyhood and so clear, by simplicity and aptness of language, of phrase and of illustration did he make his every contention, that we understood him from beginning to end. an example happily still with us has already been named in the earlier part of this chapter. every preacher should hear the rev. w. l. watkinson, if he walk a score of miles to do it! but the art of illustration, excepting in those rare cases where a man brings to its learning a natural gift waiting only to be brought into use, is not easily acquired. every preacher of experience will be prepared to testify that in attempting to illustrate it is not only easy to make mistakes but difficult to avoid making them at times. sometimes an illustration, intended to light up a subject, rather takes away the thought of a congregation from that subject than otherwise. sometimes, again, the illustration may be found to carry other suggestions than were intended. the lad, to whom the wisdom of early rising was sought to be illustrated by the good fortune of the early bird in securing the first worm, drew precisely the opposite moral, holding that the fate of the worm taught the wisdom of remaining in bed until a later hour. then an illustration may be even less clear than the argument to be illustrated. we have heard scientific illustrations of this character, from which the hearer derived a supplementary dose of mystification rather than an elucidation of the problem with which he was already manfully grappling. an illustration may be too pathetic, and people may weep from the wrong cause, an event which often occurs in church. it is one thing to shed tears over a touching story and another to shed them from penitence. an illustration should not be more sublime than the lesson to be taught lest there follow a swift descent with loss of reverence by the way. there is a place for humour in the pulpit, if it be natural to the preacher and flow spontaneously, but a humorous illustration requires to be very carefully chosen, lest, instead of the healthy and holy laughter often so fatal to anger and meanness and pride, you have the guffaw in which blessing is lost in excess. other reflections as to illustrations are the following:--first, the illustration, if a story, ought at least to contain the element of probability. no preacher can _always_ satisfy himself as to the literal truth of a story he may hear and wish to use, but he can, at least, consider whether the event recounted was possible. we have heard stories from the pulpit which were so hard to swallow as to leave no room for the moral. we have heard illustrations in sermons which have led to criticisms wherein the strength of the preacher's imagination has not been passed over unrecognised. further, an illustration derives power from being drawn from sources familiar to those to whom it is addressed. in some confessions regarding his early ministry, henry ward beecher enforces this very lesson in telling of his failure to impress the people until he turned for his illustrations to fields well known to them. who has not seen a farm-labouring audience lift their heads when a preacher, saying, "it is like," has led his hearers into the fields where they had toiled during the previous week? often have we seen a mining congregation captured _en bloc_ when some brother miner, speaking in native doric from the wagon at a camp meeting, has taken them "doon the pit," or "in bye." we have watched the faces of sea-going men gleam with a new interest as the preacher drew a simile, or caught a metaphor from the mighty deep. only, in using such illustrations as these, let the user be quite certain that he is _accurate_. one mistake about the farm, the mine, the sea, and all is over! with accuracy as a quality constantly present, those illustrations are most effective whose material is most homely and familiar. things startling, novel and foreign, may arouse interest and excite wonder, but it will probably be at the expense of that realisation of truth which was sought to be created. jesus said "like unto leaven," "like to a grain of mustard seed," "behold a sower went forth to sow," "consider the lilies of the field." his hearers saw these things every day. perhaps they were in view as he spoke. finally, the less hackneyed our illustrations are, the better. if this were more generally remembered we would miss, and that with a sense of relief, a few grey-headed similes which, having haunted our youth, threaten to haunt also our age; and which have assailed us so often as to create the kind of familiarity that breeds contempt. in how many sunday school addresses--and a sunday school address is preaching in a way--in how many such addresses have we seen the twig bent; in how many the giant oak which none can train? how often have we heard of that boy in holland who saved his country by the simple expedient of pushing his finger into a hole in the dyke through which the dammed-up waters had begun to escape? there is that other lad, too, who has come down in history by reason of his insane resolve to climb "one niche the higher"--how often have we been told his thrilling story? these two boys are no longer young and have surely earned an honourable superannuation. that little incident of michael angelo and the block of marble from which he "let the angel out"--even that improving narrative might with advantage be pigeon-holed for a generation or two. the reason why these hardy perennials are seen in the gardens of so many preachers must surely be, that every "treasury of illustrations" contains them. we have nothing to say in praise of such treasuries. we have none to recommend for purchase. the best treasury of illustrations is the memory of that man who keeps his eyes and ears open and has a preaching mind. following the naming of illustration as a means of lighting up the sermon comes the mention of application. truth must be related to be understood. how wonderfully the application of a truth to familiar circumstances makes it clear. it may be laboriously defined and leave but a dim and indistinct impression upon the mind; but apply it to the age, to the life of men; show its relation to the passing days, to daily duties, daily trials, daily sins, and how deeply is it impressed. in the greater shops are models whose business it is to "show off" the gown the shopkeeper wishes to sell by wearing it before the possible purchaser. the advantage of the plan is obvious. we must show truth in the wear to make it understood! after all these reflections, the fundamental word still remains to be said:--_clear preaching can only come from clear thinking_. what we see _ourselves_ we may, by great effort and rare good fortune, make others see; but when the preacher only beholds men as trees walking, how can he make clear their features to his fellows? the foggy sermon often proves the preacher's possession of a foggy mind. "if the light that is in _thee_ be darkness, how great is that darkness," so said one of old. chapter iii. on appeal. it is set before us in this last chapter of our lecture to say something in reference to appeal as an essential quality of the sermon. the discourse, it must always be borne in mind, is not an end in itself, but a means to an end, and that end the bending of the human will to "repentance toward god, and faith toward our lord jesus christ." to the full and perfect surrender which this implies men are found to be opposed in every possible way. pride is against it; selfishness is against it; self-indulgence and the lusts of the flesh are against it. often, in addition to these natural elements of opposition, a man's reluctance to yield himself to god will be fortified by tradition and strengthened by association. a hundred circumstances affecting his life, his comfort, his general well-being may seem to encourage, almost necessitate his refusal. then, again, the teaching of all scripture goes to create and establish the belief that there are supernatural prompters of the sinner in his rebellion against god; that the warfare of the preacher for his deliverance is not against flesh and blood only, but also "against principalities and powers and spiritual wickedness in high places." we do not always quite realise all that it may mean to a man to take the step to which we invite him--sometimes so lightly. to begin the following of christ, or, having already begun that following, to arise from slackness to whole-hearted service, may involve the snapping of long cherished ties and an absolute revolution in every habit and mode of life and thought. by many men the kingdom of heaven can only be entered at the cost of what seems to them a stupendous sacrifice and the facing of what appears an appalling risk. against all these forces and considerations has the preacher to prevail, and that, through no compulsive power, but by exercise of such gifts of persuasion as are given unto him to be cultivated to that end, god's spirit helping his efforts. he is here to make men _do_--do that which on every earthly account they had rather not do. unless he accomplishes this result his work has been in vain. now, it is well that the nature of the work, its greatness and the hardness of it, should be fully realised and constantly remembered. there is always a danger of being misled by the shows of incomplete, or false, success. in no branch of service is this more true than in preaching. it is such a glorious thing to be able to gather great congregations; but even this may be done and the messenger fail. it is such a delightful thing to a preacher to watch a multitude waiting spellbound beneath his eloquence in rapt attention, or swept by waves of emotion; but that multitude may disperse, the great end of preaching still unwrought and the whole attempt a splendid failure. it is possible to attract people to your preaching, possible to win the crown of their approval, and yet come short of accomplishing the very results for which you were commissioned from on high. to please is one thing; to prevail against the heart of sin another. and with the recollection of this much-to-be-remembered truth it will be well that a sense of the difficulty of the real task should abide continually with us. some of these difficulties, we have already mentioned. the hardest to overcome are the obstacles within the mind and heart of the hearer himself. it is always finally _the man_ who has to be conquered. this, we surely know through our own spiritual experiences. he is bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. here is surely one reason why the master sets men to preach to men:--because every preacher has been himself a rebel and knows the way rebellion takes in heart and brain. ours also was once the stubborn will; ours the stiff neck; ours the evil heart of unbelief. we, as well as he whom we now assail for jesus' sake, have said, "i will not have this man to reign over me." once upon a time we, also, bore ourselves proudly and contemptuously. never are we weary of thinking of the wonder that ever we were brought to ground our arms at the master's feet. will the winning of others be easier than was the victory won over ourselves? now that we battle against what once we were and did, we should understand from memory the immensity of the task. once realised, it should never be forgotten. there is no miracle in all the gospel history greater than the miracle of a broken human will. yes, the preacher's work is at the best a supremely hard one. the sense of this hardness must get into his soul, or else all hope of success will be vain. should there ever come to him a moment in which it shall appear an easy thing to preach, or when his knowledge of the congregation awaiting him shall seem to indicate that "anything will do," then let him, in that moment, consider himself in peril of missing the true end of his calling. _anything will not do_. the very best will hardly do! think of the hardness of the heart! think of the arguments of the tempter! think how fair and sweet sin often seems! think of all the sacrifice and self-denial and self-surrender we are asking from men! here is need for the utmost diligence; for the development of every latent power of persuasion; for the employment of every ounce of energy, of every resource of skill; for the expenditure of every volt of passion the soul can contain. we can only hope to capture the citadel when the utmost possibilities of attack are brought to bear upon it. even then the garrison may hold out against us! and the ultimate possibilities of attack are the ultimate possibilities of appeal. we speak of appeal as a quality that must pervade the whole of the sermon. we have heard counsels on preaching in which advice was given about "_the_ appeal" or "the _final_ appeal," whereby were meant certain perorative paragraphs; the remainder of the discourse being divided into "introduction," "exegesis," "argument," "illustration," "application." we remember some of these perorative paragraphs, and sometimes we have been tempted to ask whether the same note is struck in the preaching of to-day as was sounded forth in their stirring words. in spite of the homilists the sermon was generally better than their advice concerning its making and its form. the paragraph in question, though, perhaps, neither the preacher nor his adviser suspected the truth, was only powerful because it formed the climax of all that had gone before. it was the final assault following upon processes of sapping and mining, bombardment and fusillade. the appeal must commence _with the first word of the sermon_. the very introduction must be persuasive. the _motif_ of the whole composition must be the wooing note. obviously this note will need to be struck in many keys. the appeal will have many expressions; and in their variety and form the skill of the preacher will have such room for exercise and such need for it as no other duty of his life displays. to mention some of the elements of this appeal, of which, again, the whole sermon is the expression:--there is first, that gift, or endowment, or talent--call it what you will--which we speak of as tact. in some men this power amounts almost to genius. of such an one we say, "he has a way with him." he is the man to bring about "settlements." his very voice, his very manner, bring disputations to an end. in political conflicts, in social misunderstandings, in labour troubles he is invaluable. in the church he is a treasure. in the sunday school his price is above rubies. in the pulpit he enjoys an immeasurable advantage. happy the congregation whose preacher "has a way with him." we have known such men and envied them. their gift defies analysis. it is an element! of men such as these there are, alas, comparatively few! they are born into the world with a genius for always doing the right thing in the right way. most of us enter into life with a genius for doing everything in the wrong way, and we can only look enviously upon our more richly endowed brethren and learn from them to practise as an art what they do as the result of an inheritance. we _can_ do this and, indeed, we _must_ do it if it be any part of our life's work to influence men to courses against their minds. the sermon must be tactful or else, though it possess every other excellence, it will most surely fail. how often have we heard, as a criticism, the one word "tactless," which meant that the truth had been expressed in such language, or in such a manner as to accentuate, rather than allay, the opposition of the hearer; that, instead of getting _round_ the prejudices of the congregation by a flanking movement, the preacher had assailed them by a frontal attack, and so called to the ramparts every sleeping power of opposition. many a well conceived and convincing sermon fails from just this cause. so then we feel inclined to urge that the cultivation of tactfulness should be reckoned an indispensable part of every preacher's training, for there is no prevailing with men without it. for this, among other things, he will require that thorough understanding of men of which we spoke in an earlier chapter--an understanding which must include a familiarity with their tastes, their prejudices, their weaknesses and infirmities. to this understanding must be added the fruits of much self-study and criticism. to be able so to speak as to secure acceptance for the word of life is worth it all. the basis of appeal is conciliation. the instrument of conciliation is tact! and having, through the exercise of this gift of tact, secured for himself and his message the toleration of the hearer, the preacher will proceed to make the best of the advantage thus obtained. he has made his man a listener but the great work still remains to be done, and again we say that it is of all work the hardest to accomplish. at once, let us acknowledge the impossibility of outlining a method that will be effective in every case. at once, too, let us say that in no branch of christian service is so much left to the inventive and initiative faculties of the worker as in preaching. still some principles there are which may well be named as worthy of remembrance in the day of action. and the first of these may well be this:--that the first assault should be made through the intellect. the sermon must contain, at least, a solid foundation of good reasoning. "come now and let us reason together, saith the lord," was the prophet's invitation to israel in the day of her rebellion. the preacher should see to it that he "render a reason." it is no compliment to an audience to fail to recognise its mental powers. it is something less than a compliment merely to _pretend_ to argue, as is so often done. that is not only to fail to produce the result we desire but to estrange the hearer still further and so make his case more hopeless than before. it is one of the many accusations made against the modern pulpit, that it has fallen into the habit of begging the question and basing its appeals upon assumptions. men of mind come to hear the preacher and go away disappointed. the good man declaims, but makes no real attempt to _prove_ the truth of his declamation, or to anticipate the mental difficulties into which his statements may lead the hearer. he makes statements, but does not substantiate them. how often we hear of the intellectual barrenness of the modern sermon! how often we are told that men are asked to take the most important steps, and make the most astounding sacrifices upon arguments which would not convince a seventh standard schoolboy. in speaking of a certain orator, some one said, "there was physical power, for the preacher shouted; ho(a)rse power, for in his roaring he fortunately lost his voice; water power, because he wept most copiously; everything but brain power." we cannot proceed on the exploded fiction that ignorance is the mother of devotion. the schoolmaster is abroad. more than this, the denier is busy, and, though his reasoning may be packed with fallacies, he can only be answered by arguments as sound as his are false. perhaps there was never a time in which the literature of unbelief had so great and general a currency as it has to-day. it circulates in our workshops in unnumbered pages, for its special attack seems to be directed against our working men, especially the younger members of the class. here, undoubtedly, is one of the causes of the apparent drift of the toiling masses from the churches. a preaching that is merely declamatory, visionary, emotional; that takes its stand upon tradition, the authority of great names the dim antiquity of its far-off past, failing, meanwhile, to recognise the eager questioning of the modern man, must be prepared for non-success, though there may come from certain quarters, even in the hour of its failure, the meed of popularity and applause. let this, therefore, be laid down:--that the appeal of the sermon must at the beginning be the appeal of intellect to intellect. let no one be made afraid by this statement. it is not contended that every sermon must be an elaborate argument of the case for the christian demand. this would necessitate that every preacher be a specialist in theology and apologetics, which is obviously impossible. happily, the situation, strained as it is, is not such as to render it needful that only experts should venture to preach the gospel. but it is needful that the sermon stand the test of common sense and, in that way, carry in it its own defence. it is needful that, as the preacher proceeds to develop his subject, the hearer shall find cause to assent to the positions taken up. otherwise it will be useless to invite him to forsake his own ground in order to share that from which he has been addressed. of course it must be conceded that even this modest demand will mean much study for the preacher and a careful preparation of the sermon. surely, however, the end is worth the labour. in no work is proficiency gained without some taking of pains. that preacher who is afraid of a little toil in order that he may thereby improve his usefulness, and increase his success, should find proof in this fear of effort that his commission--if ever he had one--has expired. one thing is sure:--that a sermon which fails to satisfy the intellect--we do not say of the atheist or the agnostic, to whom, by the way, we are hardly ever called to preach, but of the average hearer--will ask in vain for the surrender of men to god. it may be full of sentiment and overflowing with emotion; it holds no true appeal! but the intellect is not the whole of a man. the sermon that contains no appeal to a hearer's emotions will fail, just as certainly as one that contains no address to his reason. if sermons are full of emotion, and empty of arguments, they are invertebrate and produce but transient effects. if the sermon be simply and solely an intellectual effort it will be cold and nerveless and ineffective. you may _convince_ a man beyond all possibility of contradiction or protest, and at the same time utterly fail to bring him to the decision you desire him to register. probably an analysis of most of our congregations would prove that so far as merely intellectual agreement is concerned the great majority of hearers are already on the preacher's side as a result of years of hearing while, as yet, undecided to attempt the path so plainly stretching away before them. the preacher must address himself to _all_ the emotions of the heart for any one of them may be the means of carrying his message to that innermost chamber whither he desires that it shall come. fear and courage, doubt and confidence, all should be assailed, for the awakening of any one of them may bring to pass the accomplishment of the preacher's glorious purpose. of course we have become familiar with all that is said by superior persons about what they are pleased to decry as "mere sentiment." we know, but too well, the man who at once, and invariably, characterises any preaching that touches the hearts of men as "playing to the gallery,"--the man whose one and only demand is for intellectualism. him we know in his superiority to feeling, his scorn of smiles and tears. we know him and, thank god! we generally ignore him; as we must learn to do more and more. the city of mansoul has many gates--more, indeed, than honest bunyan saw--and happy may the preacher be if he can gain admission by any one of them! then, although the hearer is "a sinner," and must be approached as such, the sermon that will lead him furthest along the upward way will be one in which it is recognised that he is not so utterly depraved as to be without some lingering, or latent, good to which appeal may, and ought to be made. find the good in a child and by the use of it lead him to the best, is a sound principle in the training of the young. it is equally sound as a rule for dealing with their elders. find the good in a man if you would save him wholly and for ever. for "good" there is, and that in the very worst of men. no doctrine of human depravity that theologians may teach can alter the fact, that, deep in the heart of man, may be found a starting point whence the highest heights may be gained if we have but the skill to lead him forward. we may speak of him as being sick in head and heart, as "full of wounds and bruises and putrifying sores." it is all true and yet, paradoxical as it may appear, there are still in him the power to love; some gift of gratitude; some sense of fair play; an elemental idea of justice. there is still some secret reverence for purity and modesty and truth. the preacher, notwithstanding all the schoolmen may tell him, must believe this, or else he will not effectively preach. there is much to be gained by every one in believing the best of human nature. for the preacher such a belief will provide ways into the city, the inner fortress of which he means to capture for his lord. he will call upon the best qualities in his hearer to help him as he pushes home the siege. there is a power of loving. surely he will enlist the aid of this by reminding the wanderer of the love wherewith _he_ has loved him. "we love him because he first loved us," so wrote one whose will had been brought low what time his affection was entreated. there is a sense of gratitude. surely this will be called to look upon that sacrifice on which the ages gaze! that sense of justice; that elementary instinct of fair play--they, too, may be rare colleagues of the messenger, if he will but enlist them on his side. for this method of prosecuting his saving warfare he has precedent enough in the prophets:--"and now, o inhabitants of jerusalem, and men of judah, judge, i pray you, betwixt me and my vineyard! what could have been done more in my vineyard, that i have not done in it? wherefore, when i looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes?" here is an appeal to the inborn sense of equity which still lingered in the heart of the chosen people. the claims of honesty and chastity, of truthfulness and benevolence and gentleness will not always be in vain, if the preacher will remember that some reverence for these things still lingers in the heart of even the most abandoned of men and address himself thereto. he is the wisest of all campaigners who enlists the enemy against himself. to all these elements of human nature, then, the preacher will address himself. he will do more:--he will study times and seasons and events, for times and seasons and events often produce moods which infect a whole people. we have examples of this in the moral influence of the festivals of the christian year. they were wise men who, for all futurity, connected with certain dates the outstanding events of the sacred history, the memory of great saints, confessors and martyrs. probably we of the nonconformist pulpits might here learn a lesson in homiletic tactics from our friends of the roman and anglican churches. there should only be one subject for good friday; one for easter morn; one for christmastide; one for the hour wherein the old year dies. it is not merely a tribute to convention to observe these seasons. it is strategically wise to do so. the preacher should use whitsun as an opportunity of leading the church to prayer for new pentecosts; harvest time to stir the slumbering thankfulness of men. he who neglects these ready-made chances throws away precious advantage for his appeal and misses the psychological moment. so much for the seasons and their memories. we have experience, also, of the way in which the watchful and tactful preacher will profit from the occurrences of his time. in the events of the day much material for the pointing of appeal may often be found. the calamities which befall; the happenings which arrest the attention of the multitude and often hush a whole nation with the hush of awe--he will find in these things an opening to be entered on behalf of the enterprise he has in hand. very watchful must he be, for everything that touches the heart may mean "a way in" which it were a misfortune to miss. he must look for the very slightest change of mood in his people, for so his long-hoped-for chance may come. with all he may do; after every plea he may still find that the victory is unwon. he has gained the intellect it may be or moved the heart; but the stubborn will still holds out against him. yes, notwithstanding all he may do the will may resist him still, but this fact, instead of causing the preacher to give up in despair, should move him to still greater efforts. the more difficult the task, the greater the honour laid upon him who is sent to attempt it. this is the understanding of military life, and this should be the understanding of the preacher. he will not fail with _all_. some there will be who will ground their arms at jesus' feet; some who will give themselves to the living of the new life, who will accept the invitation to climb the hills of god. in every one of these the preacher will have ample reward for all his "work of faith and labour of love"; for he who "converteth a sinner from the error of his ways saveth a soul from death and hideth a multitude of sins." to know that he has done these things for one brother man will be better than the breath of popularity. sweeter than all the compliments of men will be the far-echoing "well done" of christ in that day when the messenger lays his commission at his feet. conclusion "and ye are witnesses of these things. "and, behold, i send the promise of my father upon you: but tarry ye in the city of jerusalem until ye be endued with power from on high. "and he led them out as far as to bethany, and he lifted up his hands and blessed them. "and it came to pass, while he blessed them, he was parted from them, and carried up into heaven."--_luke_. conclusion. we approach, at last, the end of our poor attempt. its purpose has been to furnish a reminder of some things that are absolutely essential to the effective preaching of the gospel. let us recall the steps by which we have come thus far upon our way. and first, it appeared to us that for true preaching you must have the true preacher; and the true preacher is he who, designated by nature and by divine calling, endowment and baptism, has come to personal certainty in respect of the great and vital truths committed to his keeping. surrendered to god and his work, he nevertheless realises that among the trusts of which he holds stewardship is that of his own individuality to be used for the ends he is sent to consummate. he is a man of understanding gathered in the study of truth; of men; of the church; of his own heart; of many other fields of knowledge. he lives in constant realisation of the greatness of his calling; the sublimity of his message and the certainty of victory for israel's side. his soul is aflame with the passion of his labour; with devotion to his master; with a love for his fellows learned at the foot of the cross. the supreme fact of his life is the fact of his own spiritual experience and in holy, happy memories he finds continual evidence of things divine, and constant inspiration to prosecute his mission to the end. he is a man whose heart god has touched for the sake of the world. he is the chosen, qualified, and sworn ambassador of the king of kings. he is the very representative and mouthpiece of god and of the church to all with whom opportunity shall give him speech. in all this he is the successor of the first-called and qualified of the preaching band, making proof of his succession by faithfulness, holiness and success. such is the true preacher, whether separated altogether to the work of the ministry or working with his hands, as did the greatest preacher of the apostolic band, that he may "not be chargeable to any." from speaking of the messenger we turned to mention what seem to us to be the notes essential to a complete rendering of the message confided to him for transmission. the notes of accusation and of pity, of idealism and edification and cheer all need to be sounded by the preacher who would go back, at last, to the lord who sent him with the joyful boast that he has "not shunned to declare the whole counsel of god." not only this, but we heard, as we came along our way, from the lips of those to whom the preacher would speak, enough to prove that it is for a message in which these notes are heard that they wait and listen. the world longs for a gospel which shall satisfy the mind, guide the conscience and comfort the heart, the while it shows the way to the best in the life that is and the life that is to come. such a gospel we have. it remains only that we preach it in all its plenitude and promise. "that we preach it":--of this actual preaching we have also had something to say, both as to its form and as to certain great principles to be remembered by the messenger always and everywhere. it _does_ matter much as to the manner in which the truth is expressed. it is possible to prevent the glorious results the message should produce by avoidable faults in the presentation of it. it is the preacher's duty, for the truth's sake, to make his sermons so attractive and so interesting that hearers shall not be repelled from partaking of the divine provision for hungry and thirsty souls. it is his duty to make his sermons so simple in phrasing, so intelligible in arrangement, so luminous by illustration that the average hearer shall readily understand them. to the arts of persuasion and appeal he must devote special attention, for the purpose of the sermon is to induce men to believe and to act upon that belief. he must be a master of argument and of tact. he must learn to use every occasion; to find and enter every door; to turn everything to the advantage of his one great end. the sermon must be at once a work of wisdom, of grace and of art. it is the preacher's weapon in the warfare of his lord. how carefully it should be fashioned; how bright it ought to be, how sharp, to reach the heart of the king's enemies! and all these things we have brought to remembrance that, having them before us, we may be the better able to answer the question with which we started out:--whether this preaching of ours is in any way to blame for that spiritual and moral slide of which we hear so much? are _we_ such men as we have seen that preachers ought to be; so surely designated for our ministry; so wise; so sure; so full of the passion of our calling? has the message we have sought to deliver expressed the whole that god has taught us and provided an answer to the deep questions and strange perplexing needs of those to whom we have ministered? have the sermons in which our message has been set forth always been the best attempt we could make to reach the ear, subdue the mind and win the hearts of those who waited upon our utterance? is there any need for self-reproach on our part, or can we answer all these questions with a gladness increasing with each successive reply? the reader will have a rejoinder ready. we do not ask to hear it. it will be enough that he whisper it to his own soul and into the ear of god. it might be of infinite service to the church and to our fellows if, one and all, we pushed such an inquisition to an end in our secret hearts. there remains now only one word to be added, and that word, the reader will perhaps have looked for earlier, for in every such discussion as the present it must come to utterance. for two reasons we have withheld it until the last and they are these. it is a word with which every reader will agree, and it is the most important word which can be spoken or written upon the subject. is it necessary to say that it has reference to the deepest and most constant of all the preacher's needs--the need of the holy spirit as an abiding presence in his heart, his mind, his work? little did the master say, as he charged those early preachers, concerning the methods of their preaching; little also as to its substance, but many were his words concerning the holy ghost who was to be their teacher, their remembrancer, their comforter and support. for him they were to tarry "until the promise be fulfilled." and they _did_ so tarry, and lo, he came and the young men saw visions and the old men dreamed dreams! then, through the lips of plain, unlettered, toiling men there broke forth a new evangel upon the age which turned all the currents of the world. new things were spoken; new ideals lifted up; new hopes proclaimed, but the secret energy of it all was the new power that thrilled in every word. new things the world had often heard, hopes, ideals, philosophies; some one was always bringing such wares to market, as they bring them to market still; but scarce a ripple on the sea of life did they one and all produce. these words _lived and burned_. _life_ was in them, and _fire_! that life and fire were his whose coming had filled the upper room with wind and flame! the holy ghost in the heart of the preacher, and therefore in his message, filling every sermon with unction, spirituality, throb, _life_--can there be effective and successful preaching without this? no, never; study you never so hard; train you never so carefully; bring to the work never such talents, such grace of diction, of construction, of delivery. "it is not by might nor by power, but by my spirit saith the lord"! and yet there _is_ a duty of study and an obligation of training, and it _is_ incumbent that the most precious of our gifts be polished and dedicated, that the best possibilities of argument, illustration and delivery be attained. in preaching, as in all the works and ways of life, god helps those who help themselves and nothing is worthy but the noblest and the highest. the holy ghost in the heart of the preacher honoured by the grandest effort the preacher can make, the utmost faithfulness he can display:--can it be possible that in these words the twofold need of this very hour finds definition? can we be sure, that if such a sentence were turned into a prayer, and came back upon us as a gracious answer to cries that would not be denied, the multitudes would not turn to us once again? what preaching would there be _then_; how warm would be the sanctuary; what a house of healing would it become; what a place of consolation and encouragement for hard-pressed men; how many problems would find solution; what visions would form themselves upon the darkened clouds overhanging many a human life! preaching would be a living thing. can it be possible that _here_ and _now_ life is its greatest need and that the only way to obtain this life is by a return to that upper room of long ago? so we end with a question, as with a question we commenced. since the world began it has been by the asking of questions that men have come to truth. the end. preaching and paganism by albert parker fitch professor of the history of religion in amherst college works by the same author the college course and the preparation for life can the church survive in the changing order? published on the foundation established in memory of james wesley cooper of the class of 1865, yale college the forty-sixth series of the lyman beecher lectureship on preaching in yale university new haven yale university press mdccccxx copyright, 1920, by yale university press first published, 1920 the james wesley cooper memorial publication fund the present volume is the fourth work published by the yale university press on the james wesley cooper memorial publication fund. this foundation was established march 30, 1918, by a gift to yale university from mrs. ellen h. cooper in memory of her husband, rev. james wesley cooper, d.d., who died in new york city, march 16, 1916. dr. cooper was a member of the class of 1865, yale college, and for twenty-five years pastor of the south congregational church of new britain, connecticut. for thirty years he was a corporate member of the american board of commissioners for foreign missions and from 1885 until the time of his death was a fellow of yale university, serving on the corporation as one of the successors of the original trustees. to my wife preface the chief, perhaps the only, commendation of these chapters is that they pretend to no final solution of the problem which they discuss. how to assert the eternal and objective reality of that presence, the consciousness of whom is alike the beginning and the end, the motive and the reward, of the religious experience, is not altogether clear in an age that, for over two centuries, has more and more rejected the transcendental ideas of the human understanding. yet the consequences of that rejection, in the increasing individualism of conduct which has kept pace with the growing subjectivism of thought, are now sufficiently apparent and the present plight of our civilization is already leading its more characteristic members, the political scientists and the economists, to reëxamine and reappraise the concepts upon which it is founded. it is a similar attempt to scrutinize and evaluate the significant aspects of the interdependent thought and conduct of our day from the standpoint of religion which is here attempted. its sole and modest purpose is to endeavor to restore some neglected emphases, to recall to spiritually minded men and women certain half-forgotten values in the religious experience and to add such observations regarding them as may, by good fortune, contribute something to that future reconciling of the thought currents and value judgments of our day to these central and precious facts of the religious life. many men and minds have contributed to these pages. such sources of suggestion and insight have been indicated wherever they could be identified. in especial i must record my grateful sense of obligation to professor irving babbitt's _rousseau and romanticism_. the chapter on naturalism owes much to its brilliant and provocative discussions. contents page preface 11 i. the learner, the doer and the seer 15 ii. the children of zion and the sons of greece 40 iii. eating, drinking and being merry 72 iv. the unmeasured gulf 102 v. grace, knowledge, virtue 131 vi. the almighty and everlasting god 157 vii. worship as the chief approach to transcendence 184 viii. worship and the discipline of doctrine 209 chapter one the learner, the doer and the seer the first difficulty which confronts the incumbent of the lyman beecher foundation, after he has accepted the appalling fact that he must hitch his modest wagon, not merely to a star, but rather to an entire constellation, is the delimitation of his subject. there are many inquiries, none of them without significance, with which he might appropriately concern himself. for not only is the profession of the christian ministry a many-sided one, but scales of value change and emphases shift, within the calling itself, with our changing civilization. the mediaeval world brought forth, out of its need, the robed and mitered ecclesiastic; a more recent world, pursuant to its genius, demanded the ethical idealist. drink-sodden georgian england responded to the open-air evangelism of whitefield and wesley; the next century found the established church divided against itself by the learning and culture of the oxford movement. sometimes a philosopher and theologian, like edwards, initiates the great awakening; sometimes an emotional mystic like bernard can arouse all europe and carry men, tens of thousands strong, over the danube and over the hellespont to die for the cross upon the burning sands of syria; sometimes it is the george herberts, in a hundred rural parishes, who make grace to abound through the intimate and precious ministrations of the country parson. let us, therefore, devote this chapter to a review of the several aspects of the christian ministry, in order to set in its just perspective the one which we have chosen for these discussions and to see why it seems to stand, for the moment, in the forefront of importance. our immediate question is, who, on the whole, is the most needed figure in the ministry today? is it the professional ecclesiastic, backed with the authority and prestige of a venerable organization? is it the curate of souls, patient shepherd of the silly sheep? is it the theologian, the administrator, the prophet--who? one might think profitably on that first question in these very informal days. we are witnessing a breakdown of all external forms of authority which, while salutary and necessary, is also perilous. not many of us err, just now, by overmagnifying our official status. many of us instead are terribly at ease in zion and might become less assured and more significant by undertaking the subjective task of a study in ministerial personality. "what we are," to paraphrase emerson, "speaks so loud that men cannot hear what we say." every great calling has its characteristic mental attitude, the unwritten code of honor of the group, without a knowledge of which one could scarcely be an efficient or honorable practitioner within it. one of the perplexing and irritating problems of the personal life of the preacher today has to do with the collision between the secular standards of his time, this traditional code of his class, and the requirements of his faith. shall he acquiesce in the smug conformities, the externalized procedures of average society, somewhat pietized, and join that large company of good and ordinary people, of whom samuel butler remarks, in _the way of all flesh_, that they would be "equally horrified at hearing the christian religion doubted, or at seeing it practised?" there are ministers who do thus content themselves with being merely superrespectable. shall he exalt the standards of his calling, accentuate the speech and dress, the code and manners of his group, the historic statements of his faith, at the risk of becoming an official, a "professional"? or does he possess the insight, and can he acquire the courage, to follow men like francis of assisi or father damien and adopt the christian ethic and thus join that company of the apostles and martyrs whose blood is the seed of the church? a good deal might be said today on the need of this sort of personal culture in the ministerial candidate. but, provocative and significant though the question is, it is too limited in scope, too purely subjective in nature, to suit the character and the urgency of the needs of this moment. again, every profession has the prized inheritance of its own particular and gradually perfected human skill. an interesting study, then, would be the analysis of that rich content of human insights, the result of generations of pastoral experience, which form the background of all great preaching. no man, whether learned or pious, or both, is equipped for the pulpit without the addition of that intuitive discernment, that quick and varied appreciation, that sane and tolerant knowledge of life and the world, which is the reward given to the friends and lovers of mankind. for the preacher deals not with the shallows but the depths of life. like his master he must be a great humanist. to make real sermons he has to look, without dismay or evasion, far into the heart's impenetrable recesses. he must have had some experience with the absolutism of both good and evil. i think preachers who regard sermons on salvation as superfluous have not had much experience with either. they belong to that large world of the intermediates, neither positively good nor bad, who compose the mass of the prosperous and respectable in our genteel civilization. since they belong to it they cannot lead it. and certainly they who do not know the absolutism of evil cannot very well understand sinners. genuine satans, as milton knew, are not weaklings and traitors who have declined from the standards of a respectable civilization. they are positive and impressive figures pursuing and acting up to their own ideal of conduct, not fleeing from self-accepted retribution or falling away from a confessed morality of ours. evil is a force even more than a folly; it is a positive agent busily building away at the city of dreadful night, constructing its insolent and scoffing society within the very precincts of the city of god. he must know, then, that evil and suffering are not temporary elements of man's evolution, just about to be eliminated by the new reform, the last formula, the fresh panacea. to those who have tasted grief and smelt the fire such easy preaching and such confident solutions are a grave offense. they know that evil is an integral part of our universe; suffering an enduring element of the whole. so he must preach upon the chances and changes of this mortal world, or go to the house of shame or the place of mourning, knowing that there is something past finding out in evil, something incommunicable about true sorrow. they are not external things, alien to our natures, that happen one day from without, and may perhaps be avoided, and by and by are gone. no; that which makes sorrow, sorrow, and evil, evil, is their naturalness; they well up from within, part of the very texture of our consciousness. he knows you can never express them, for truly to do that you would have to express and explain the entire world. it is not easy then to interpret the evil and suffering which are not external and temporary, but enduring and a part of the whole. so the preacher is never dealing with plain or uncomplicated matters. it is his business to perceive the mystery of iniquity in the saint and to recognize the mystery of godliness in the sinner. it is his business to revere the child and yet watch him that he may make a man of him. he must say, so as to be understood, to those who balk at discipline, and rail at self-repression, and resent pain: you have not yet begun to live nor made the first step toward understanding the universe and yourselves. to avoid discipline and to blench at pain is to evade life. there are limitations, occasioned by the evil and the suffering of the world, in whose repressions men find fulfillment. when you are honest with yourself you will know what dante meant when he said: "and thou shalt see those who contented are within the fire; because they hope to come, when e'er it may be, to the blessed people."[1] it is his business, also, to be the comrade of his peers, and yet speak to them the truth in love; his task to understand the bitterness and assuage the sorrows of old age. i suppose the greatest influence a preacher ever exercises, and a chief source of the material and insight of his preaching, is found in this intimate contact with living and suffering, divided and distracted men and women. when strong men blench with pain and exquisite grief stirs within us at the sight and we can endure naught else but to suffer with them, when youth is blurred with sin, and gray heads are sick with shame and we, then, want to die and cry, o god! forgive and save them or else blot me out of thy book of life--for who could bear to live in a world where such things are the end!--then, through the society of sorrow, and the holy comradeship in shame, we begin to find the lord and to understand both the kindness and the justice of his world. in the moment when sympathy takes the bitterness out of another's sorrow and my suffering breaks the captivity of my neighbor's sin--then, when because "together," with sinner and sufferer, we come out into the quiet land of freedom and of peace, we perceive how the very heart of god, upon which there we know we rest, may be found in the vicarious suffering and sacrifice called forth by the sorrow and the evil of mankind. then we can preach the gospel. because then we dimly understand why men have hung their god upon the cross of christ! [footnote 1: _the divine comedy: hell_; canto i.] is it not ludicrous, then, to suppose that a man merely equipped with professional scholarship, or contented with moral conformities, can minister to the sorrow and the mystery, the mingled shame and glory of a human being? this is why the average theologue, in his first parish, is like the well-meaning but meddling engineer endeavoring with clumsy tools and insensitive fingers to adjust the delicate and complicated mechanism of a genevan watch. and here is one of the real reasons why we deprecate men entering our calling, without both the culture of a liberal education and the learning of a graduate school. clearly, therefore, one real task of such schools and their lectureships is to offer men wide and gracious training in the art of human contacts, so that their lives may be lifted above pharisaism and moral self-consciousness, made acquainted with the higher and comprehensive interpretations of the heart and mind of our race. for only thus can they approach life reverently and humbly. only thus will they revere the integrity of the human spirit; only thus can they regard it with a magnanimous and catholic understanding and measure it not by the standards of temperamental or sectarian convictions, but by what is best and highest, deepest and holiest in the race. no one needs more than the young preacher to be drawn out of the range of narrow judgments, of exclusive standards and ecclesiastical traditions and to be flung out among free and sensitive spirits, that he may watch their workings, master their perceptions, catch their scale of values. a discussion, then, dealing with this aspect of our problem, would raise many and genuine questions for us. there is the more room for it in this time of increasing emphasis upon machinery when even ministers are being measured in the terms of power, speed and utility. these are not real ends of life; real ends are unity, repose, the imaginative and spiritual values which make for the release of self, with its by-product of happiness. in such days, then, when the old-time pastor-preacher is becoming as rare as the former general practitioner; when the lines of division between speaker, educator, expert in social hygiene, are being sharply drawn--as though new methods insured of themselves fresh inspiration, and technical knowledge was identical with spiritual understanding--it would be worth while to dwell upon the culture of the pastoral office and to show that ingenuity is not yet synonymous with insight, and that, in our profession at least, card-catalogues cannot take the place of the personal study of the human heart. but many discussions on this foundation, and recently those of dr. jowett, have already dealt with this sort of analysis. besides, today, when not merely the preacher, but the very view of the world that produced him, is being threatened with temporary extinction, such a theme, poetic and rewarding though it is, becomes irrelevant and parochial. or we might turn to the problem of technique, that professional equipment for his task as a sermonizer and public speaker which is partly a native endowment and partly a laborious acquisition on the preacher's part. such was president tucker's course on _the making and unmaking of the preacher_. certainly observations on professional technique, especially if they should include, like his, acute discussion of the speaker's obligation to honesty of thinking, no less than integrity of conduct; of the immorality of the pragmatic standard of mere effectiveness or immediate efficiency in the selection of material; of the aesthetic folly and ethical dubiety of simulated extempore speaking and genuinely impromptu prayers, would not be superfluous. but, on the other hand, we may hope to accomplish much of this indirectly today. because there is no way of handling specifically either the content of the christian message or the problem of the immediate needs and temper of those to whom it is to be addressed, without reference to the kind of personality, and the nature of the tools at his disposal, which is best suited to commend the one and to interpret the other. hence such a discussion as this ought, by its very scale of values--by the motives that inform it and the ends that determine it--to condemn thereby the insincere and artificial speaker, or that pseudo-sermon which is neither as exposition, an argument nor a meditation but a mosaic, a compilation of other men's thoughts, eked out by impossibly impressive or piously sentimental anecdotes, the whole glued together by platitudes of the martin tupper or samuel smiles variety. it is certainly an obvious but greatly neglected truth that simplicity and candor in public speaking, largeness of mental movement, what phillips brooks called direct utterance of comprehensive truths, are indispensable prerequisites for any significant ethical or spiritual leadership. but, taken as a main theme, this third topic, like the others, seems to me insufficiently inclusive to meet our present exigencies. it deals more with the externals than with the heart of our subject. again we might address ourselves to the ethical and practical aspects of preaching and the ministry. taking largely for granted our understanding of the gospel, we might concern ourselves with its relations to society, the detailed implications for the moral and economic problems of our social and industrial order. dean brown, in _the social message of the modern pulpit_, and dr. coffin in _in a day of social rebuilding_, have so enriched this foundation. moreover, this is, at the moment, an almost universally popular treatment of the preacher's opportunity and obligation. one reason, therefore, for not choosing this approach to our task is that the preacher's attention, partly because of the excellence of these and other books and lectures, and partly because of the acuteness of the political-industrial crisis which is now upon us, is already focused upon it. besides, our present moment is changing with an ominous rapidity. and one is not sure whether the immediate situation, as distinguished from that of even a few years ago, calls us to be concerned chiefly with the practical and ethical aspects of our mission, urgent though the need and critical the pass, to which the abuses of the capitalistic system have brought both european and american society. in this day of those shifting standards which mark the gradual transference of power from one group to another in the community, and the merging of a spent epoch in a new order, neither the chief opportunity nor the most serious peril of religious leadership is met by fresh and energetic programs of religion in action. in such days, our chief gift to the world cannot be the support of any particular reforms or the alliance with any immediate ethical or economic movement. for these things at best would be merely the effects of religion. and it is not religion in its relations, nor even in its expression in character--it is the thing in itself that this age most needs. what men are chiefly asking of life at this moment is not, what ought we to do? but the deeper question, what is there we can believe? for they know that the answer to this question would show us what we ought to do. nor do our reform alliances and successive programs and crusades always seem to me to proceed from any careful estimate of the situation as a whole or to be conceived in the light of comprehensive christian principle. instead, they sometimes seem to draw their inspiration more from the sense of the urgent need of presenting to an indifferent or disillusioned world some quick and tangible evidence of a continuing moral vigor and spiritual passion to which the deeper and more potent witnesses are absent. it is as though we thought the machinery of the church would revolve with more energy if geared into the wheels of the working world. but that world and we do not draw our power from the same dynamo. and surely in a day of profound and widespread mental ferment and moral restlessness, some more fundamental gift than this is asked of us. if, therefore, these chapters pay only an incidental attention to the church's social and ethical message, it is partly because our attention is, at this very moment, largely centered upon this important, yet secondary matter, and more because there lies beneath it a yet more urgent and inclusive task which confronts the spokesman of organized religion. you will expect me then to say that we are to turn to some speculative and philosophic study, such as the analysis of the christian idea in its world relationships, some fresh statement of the gospel, either by way of apologia for inherited concepts, or as attempting to make a new receptacle for the living wine, which has indeed burst the most of its ancient bottles. such was principal fairbairn's monumental task in _the place of christ in modern theology_ and also dr. gordon's in his distinguished discussions in _the ultimate conceptions of faith_. here, certainly, is an endeavor which is always of primary importance. there is an abiding peril, forever crouching at the door of ancient organizations, that they shall seek refuge from the difficulties of thought in the opportunities of action. they need to be continually reminded that reforms begin in the same place where abuses do, namely, in the notion of things; that only just ideas can, in the long run, purify conduct; that clear thinking is the source of all high and sustained feeling. i wish that we might essay the philosopher-theologian's task. this generation is hungry for understanding; it perishes for lack of knowledge. one reason for the indubitable decline of the preacher's power is that we have been culpably indifferent in maintaining close and friendly alliances between the science and the art, the teachers and the practitioners of religion. few things would be more ominous than to permit any further widening of the gulf which already exists between these two. never more than now does the preacher need to be reminded of what marcus aurelius said: "such as are thy habitual thoughts, such also shall be thyself; for the soul is dyed by its thoughts." but such an undertaking, calling for wide and exact scholarship, large reserves of extra-professional learning, does not primarily belong to a discussion within the department of practical theology. besides which there is a task, closely allied to it, but creative rather than critical, prophetic rather than philosophic, which does fall within the precise area of this field. i mean the endeavor to describe the mind and heart of our generation, appraise the significant thought-currents of our time. this would be an attempt to give some description of the chief impulses fermenting in contemporary society, to ask what relation they hold to the christian principle, and to inquire what attitude toward them our preaching should adopt. if it be true that what is most revealing in any age is its regulative ideas, then what is more valuable for the preacher than to attempt the understanding of his generation through the defining of its ruling concepts? and it is this audacious task which, for two reasons, we shall presume to undertake. the first reason is that it is appropriate both to the temperament and the training of the preacher. there are three grand divisions, or rather determining emphases, by which men may be separated into vocational groups. to begin with, there is the man of the scientific or intellectual type. he has a passion for facts and a strong sense of their reality. he moves with natural ease among abstract propositions, is both critical of, and fertile in, theories; indicates his essential distinction in his love of the truth for the truth's sake. he looks first to the intrinsic reasonableness of any proposition; tends to judge both men and movements not by traditional or personal values, but by a detached and disinterested appraisal of their inherent worth. he is often a dogmatist, but this fault is not peculiar to him, he shares it with the rest of mankind. he is sometimes a literalist and sometimes a slave to logic, more concerned with combating the crude or untenable form of a proposition than inquiring with sympathetic insight into the worth of its substance. but these things are perversions of his excellencies, defects of his virtues. his characteristic qualities are mental integrity, accuracy of statement, sanity of judgment, capacity for sustained intellectual toil. such men are investigators, scholars; when properly blended with the imaginative type they become inventors and teachers. they make good theologians and bad preachers. then there are the practical men, beloved of our american life. both their feet are firmly fixed upon the solid ground. they generally know just where they are, which is not surprising, for they do not, for the most part, either in the world of mind or spirit, frequent unusual places. the finespun speculations of the philosophers and the impractical dreams of the artist make small appeal to them; the world they live in is a sharply defined and clearly lighted and rather limited place. they like to say to this man come and he cometh, and to that man go and he goeth. they are enamored of offices, typewriters, telegrams, long-distance messages, secretaries, programs, conferences and drives. getting results is their goal; everything is judged by the criterion of effective action; they are instinctive and unconscious pragmatists. they make good cheer leaders at football games in their youth and impressive captains of industry in their old age. their virtues are wholesome, if obvious; they are good mixers, have shrewd judgment, immense physical and volitional energy. they understand that two and two make four. they are rarely saints but, unlike many of us who once had the capacity for sainthood, they are not dreadful sinners. they are the tribe of which politicians are born but, when they are blended with imaginative and spiritual gifts, they become philanthropists and statesmen, practical servants of mankind. they make good, if conservative, citizens; kind, if uninspiring, husbands and deplorable preachers. then there are those fascinating men of feeling and imagination, those who look into their own hearts and write, those to whom the inner dominions which the spirit conquers for itself become a thousand-fold more real than the earth whereon they stamp their feet. these are the literary or the creative folk. their passion is not so much to know life as to enjoy it; not to direct it, but to experience it; not even to make understanding of it an end, but only a means to interpreting it. they do not, as a rule, thirst for erudition, and they are indifferent to those manipulations of the externals of life which are dear to the lovers of executive power. they know less but they understand more than their scholastic brethren. as a class they are sometimes disreputable but nearly always unworldly; more distinguished by an intuitive and childlike than by an ingenious or sophisticated quality of mind. ideas and facts are perceived by them not abstractly nor practically, but in their typical or symbolic, hence their pictorial and transmissible, aspects. they read dogma, whether theological or other, in the terms of a living process, unconsciously translating it, as they go along, out of its cold propositions into its appropriate forms of feeling and needs and satisfactions. the scientist, then, is a critic, a learner who wants to analyze and dissect; the man of affairs is a director and builder and wants to command and construct; the man of this group is a seer. he is a lover and a dreamer; he watches and broods over life, profoundly feeling it, enamored both of its shame and of its glory. the intolerable poignancy of existence is bittersweet to his mouth; he craves to incarnate, to interpret its entire human process, always striving to pierce to its center, to capture and express its inexpressible ultimate. he is an egotist but a valuable one, acutely aware of the depths and immensities of his own spirit and of its significant relations to this seething world without. thus it is both himself and a new vision of life, in terms of himself, that he desires to project for his community. the form of that vision will vary according to the nature of the tools, the selection of material, the particular sort of native endowment which are given to him. some such men reveal their understanding of the soul and the world in the detached serenity, the too well-defined harmonies of a parthenon; others in the dim and intricate richness, the confused and tortured aspiration of the long-limbed saints and grotesque devils of a gothic cathedral. others incarnate it in gleaming bronze; or spread it in subtle play of light and shade and tones of color on a canvas; or write it in great plays which open the dark chambers of the soul and make the heart stand still; or sing it in sweet and terrible verse, full-throated utterance of man's pride and hope and passion. some act it before the altar or beneath the proscenium arch; some speak it, now in cassandra-tones, now comfortably like shepherds of frail sheep. these folk are the brothers-in-blood, the fellow craftsmen of the preacher. by a silly convention, he is almost forbidden to consult with them, and to betake himself to the learned, the respectable and the dull. but it is with these that naturally he sees eye to eye. in short, in calling the preacher a prophet we mean that preaching is an art and the preacher is an artist; for all great art has the prophetic quality. many men object to this definition of the preacher as being profane. it appears to make secular or mechanicalize their profession, to rob preaching of its sacrosanctity, leave it less authority by making it more intelligible, remove it from the realm of the mystical and unique. this objection seems to me sometimes an expression of spiritual arrogance and sometimes a subtle form of skepticism. it assumes a special privilege for our profession or a not-get-at-able defense and sanction by insisting that it differs in origin and hence in kind from similar expressions of the human spirit. it hesitates to rely on the normal and the intelligible sources of ministerial power, to confess the relatively definable origin and understandable methods of our work. it fears to trust to these alone. but all these must be trusted. we may safely assert that the preacher deals with absolute values, for all art does that. but we may not assert that he is the only person that does so or that his is the only or the unapproachable way. no; he, too, is an artist. hence, a sermon is not a contribution to, but an interpretation of, knowledge, made in terms of the religious experience. it is taking truth out of its compressed and abstract form, its impersonal and scientific language, and returning it to life in the terms of the ethical and spiritual experience of mankind, thus giving it such concrete and pictorial expression that it stimulates the imagination and moves the will. it will be clear then why i have said that the task of appraising the heart and mind of our generation, to which we address ourselves, is appropriate to the preaching genius. for only they could attempt such a task who possess an informed and disciplined yet essentially intuitive spirit with its scale of values; who by instinct can see their age as a whole and indicate its chief emphases, its controlling tendencies, its significant expressions. it is not the scientist but the seer who thus attempts the precious but perilous task of making the great generalizations. this is what aristotle means when he says, "the poet ranks higher than the historian because he achieves a more general truth." this is, i suppose, what houston stewart chamberlain means when he says, in the introduction to the _foundations of the nineteenth century_: "our modern world represents an immeasurable array of facts. the mastery of such a task as recording and interpreting them scientifically is impossible. it is only the genius of the artist, which feels the secret parallels that exist between the world of vision and of thought, that can, if fortune be favorable, reveal the unity beneath the immeasurable complexities and diversities of the present order." or as professor hocking says: "the prophet must find in the current of history a unity corresponding to the unity of the physical universe, or else he must create it. it is this conscious unification of history that the religious will spontaneously tends to bring about."[2] [footnote 2: _the meaning of god in human experience_, p. 518.] it is then precisely the preacher's task, his peculiar office, to attempt these vast and perilous summations. what he is set here for is to bring the immeasurable within the scope of vision. he deals with the far-flung outposts, no man knows how distant, and the boundless interspaces of human consciousness; he deals with the beginning, the middle, the end--the origin, the meaning and the destiny--of human life. how can anyone give unity to such a prospect? like any other artist he gives it the only unity possible, the unity revealed in his own personality. the theologian should not attempt to evaluate his age; the preacher may. because the theologian, like any other scientist, analyzes and dissects; he breaks up the world. the preacher in his disciplined imagination, his spiritual intuitiveness,--what we call the "religious temperament,"--unites it again and makes men see it whole. this quality of purified and enlightened imagination is of the very essence of the preacher's power and art. hence he may attempt to set forth a just understanding of his generation. this brings us to the second reason for our topic namely, its timeliness. all religious values are not at all times equal in importance. as generations come and go, first one, then another looms in the foreground. but i sincerely believe that the most fateful undertaking for the preacher at this moment is that of analyzing his own generation. because he has been flung into one of the world's transition epochs, he speaks in an hour which is radical in changes, perplexing in its multifarious cross-currents, prolific of new forms and expressions. what the world most needs at such a moment of expansion and rebellion, is a redefining of its ideals. it needs to have some eternal scale of values set before it once more. it needs to stop long enough to find out just what and where it is, and toward what it is going. it needs another sheridan to write a new _school for scandal_, another swift, with his _gulliver's travels_, a continuing shaw with his satiric comedies, a mrs. wharton with her _house of mirth_, a thorstein veblen with his _higher learning in america_, a savonarola with his call to repentance and indictment of worldly and unfaithful living. it is a difficult and dangerous office, this of the prophet; it calls for a considerate and honest mind as well as a flashing insight and an eager heart. the false prophet exposes that he may exploit his age; the true prophet portrays that he may purge it. like jeremiah we may well dread to undertake the task, yet its day and hour are upon us! i have already spoken to this point at length, in a little book recently published. i merely add here that in a day of obvious political disillusionment and industrial revolt, of intellectual rebellion against an outworn order of ideas and of moral restlessness and doubt, an indispensable duty for the preacher is this comprehensive study and understanding of his own epoch. else, without realizing it,--and how true this often is,--he proclaims a universal truth in the unintelligible language of a forgotten order, and applies a timeless experience to the faded conditions of yesterday. indeed, i am convinced that a chief reason why preaching is temporarily obscured in power, is because most of our expertness in it is in terms of local problems, of partial significances, rather than in the wider tendencies that produce and carry them, or in the ultimate laws of conduct which should govern them. we ought to be troubled, i think, in our present ecclesiastical situation, with its taint of an almost frantic immediacy. not only are we not sufficiently dealing with the gospel as a universal code, but, as both cause and effect of this, we are not applying it to the inclusive life of our generation. we are tinkering here and patching there, but attempting no grand evaluation. we have already granted that sweeping generalizations, inclusive estimates, are as difficult as they are audacious. yet we have also seen that these grand evaluations are of the very essence of religion and hence are characteristic of the preacher's task. and, finally, it appears that ours is an age which calls for such redefining of its values, some fresh and inclusive moral and religious estimates. hence we undertake the task. there remains but one thing more to be accomplished in this chapter. the problem of the selection and arrangement of the material for such a summary is not an easy one. out of several possible devices i have taken as the framework on which to hang these discussions three familiar divisions of thought and feeling, with their accompanying laws of conduct, and value judgments. they are the humanistic or classic; the naturalistic or primitive; and the religious or transcendent interpretation of the world and life. one sets up a social, one an individual, and one a universal standard. under the movements which these headings represent we can most easily and clearly order and appraise the chief influences of the protestant centuries. the first two are largely preëmpting between them, at this moment, the field of human thought and conduct and a brief analysis of them, contrasting their general attitudes, may serve as a fit introduction to the ensuing chapter. we begin, then, with the humanist. he is the man who ignores, as unnecessary, any direct reference to, or connection with, ultimate or supernatural values. he lives in a high but self-contained world. his is man's universe. his law is the law of reasonable self-discipline, founded on observation of nature and a respect for social values, and buttressed by high human pride. he accepts the authority of the collective experience of his generation or his race. he believes, centrally, in the trustworthiness of human nature, in its group capacity. men, as a race, have intelligently observed and experimented with both themselves and the world about them. out of centuries of critical reflection and sad and wise endeavor, they have evolved certain criteria of experience. these summations could hardly be called eternal laws but they are standards; they are the permits and prohibitions for human life. some of them affect personal conduct and are moral standards; some of them affect civil government and are political axioms; some of them affect production and distribution and are economic laws; some of them affect social relationships. but in every case the humanist has what is, in a sense, an objective because a formal standard; he looks without himself as an individual, yet to himself as a part of the composite experience and wisdom of his race, for understanding and for guides. thus the individual conforms to the needs and wisdom of the group. humanism, at its best, has something heroic, unselfish, noble about it. its votaries do not eat to their liking nor drink to their thirst. they learn deep lessons almost unconsciously; to conquer their desires, to make light of toil and pain and discomfort; the true humanist is well aware that spartan discipline is incomparably superior to greek accidence. this is what one of the greatest of them, goethe, meant when he said: "anything which emancipates the spirit without a corresponding growth in self-mastery is pernicious." all humanists then have two characteristics in common: first, they assume that man is his own arbiter, has both the requisite intelligence and the moral ability to control his own destiny; secondly, they place the source and criterion of this power in collective wisdom, not in individual vagary and not in divine revelation. they assert, therefore, that the law of the group, the perfected and wrought out code of human experience, is all that is binding and all that is essential. to be sure, and most significantly, this authority is not rigid, complete, fixed. there is nothing complete in the humanist's world. experience accumulates and man's knowledge grows; the expectation and joy in progress is a part of it; man's code changes, emends, expands with his onward marching. but the humanistic point of view assumes something relatively stable in life. hence our phrase that humanism gives us a classic, that is to say, a simple and established standard. it is to be observed that there is nothing in humanism thus defined which need be incompatible with religion. it is not with its content but its incompleteness that we quarrel. indeed, in its assertion of the trustworthiness of human experience, its faith in the dignity and significance of man, its respect for the interests of the group, and its conviction that man finds his true self only outside his immediate physical person, beyond his material wants and desires, it is quite genuinely a part of the religious understanding. but we shall have occasion to observe that while much of this may be religious this is not the whole of religion. for the note of universality is absent. humanism is essentially aristocratic. it is for a selected group that it is practicable and it is a selected experience upon which it rests. its standards are esoteric rather than democratic. yet it is hardly necessary to point out the immense part which humanism, as thus defined, is playing in present life. but there is another law which, from remotest times, man has followed whenever he dared. it is not the law of the group but of the individual, not the law of civilization but of the jungle. "most men," says aristotle, "would rather live in a disorderly than a sober manner." he means that most men would rather consult and gratify their immediate will, their nearest choices, their instantaneous desires, than conform the moment to some regulated and considerate, some comprehensive scheme of life and action. the life of unreason is their desire; the experience whose bent is determined by every whim, the expression which has no rational connection with the past and no serious consideration for the future. this is of the very essence of lawlessness because it is revolt against the normal sequence of law and effect, in mind and conduct, in favor of untrammeled adventure. now this is naturalism or paganism as we often call it. naturalism is a perversion of that high instinct in mankind which issues in the old concept of supernaturalism. the supernaturalist, of a former and discredited type, believed that god violates the order of nature for sublime ends; that he "breaks into" his own world, so to speak, "revealing" himself in prodigious, inexplicable, arbitrary ways. by a sort of degradation of this notion, a perversion of this instinct, the naturalist assumes that he can violate both the human and the divine law for personal ends, and express himself in fantastic or indecent or impious ways. the older supernaturalism exalts the individualism of the creator; naturalism the egotism of the creature. i make the contrast not merely to excoriate naturalism, but to point out the interdependence between man's apparently far-separated expressions of his spirit, and how subtly misleading are our highly prized distinctions, how dangerous sometimes that secondary mental power which multiplies them. it sobers and clarifies human thinking a little, perhaps, to reflect on how thin a line separates the sublime and the ridiculous, the saint and the sensualist, the martyr and the fool, the genius and the freak. now, with this selfish individualism which we call naturalism we shall have much to do, for it plays an increasing rôle in the modern world; it is the neo-paganism which we may see spreading about us. sophistries of all kinds become the powerful allies of this sort of moral and aesthetic anarchy. its votaries are those sorts of rebels who invariably make their minds not their friends but their accomplices. they are ingenious in the art of letting themselves go and at the same time thinking themselves controlled and praiseworthy. the naturalist, then, ignores the group; he flaunts impartially both the classic and the religious law. he is equally unwilling to submit to a power imposed from above and without, or to accept those restrictions of society, self-imposed by man's own codified and corrected observations of the natural world and his own impulses. he jeers at the one as hypocrisy and superstition and at the other as mere "middle-class respectability." he himself is the perpetual ajax standing defiant upon the headland of his own inflamed desires, and scoffing at the lightnings either of heaven or society. neither devoutness nor progress but mere personal expansion is his goal. the humanist curbs both the flesh and the imagination by a high doctrine of expediency. natural values are always critically appraised in the light of humane values, which is nearly, if not quite, the same as saying that the individual desires and delights must be conformed to the standards of the group. there can be no anarchy of the imagination, no license of the mind, no unbridled will. humanism, no less than religion, is nobly, though not so deeply, traditional. but there is no tradition to the naturalist; not the normal and representative, but the unique and spectacular is his goal. novelty and expansion, not form and proportion, are his goddesses. not truth and duty, but instinct and appetite, are in the saddle. he will try any horrid experiment from which he may derive a new sensation. over against them both stands the man of religion with his vision of the whole and his consequent law of proud humility. the next three chapters will try to discuss in detail these several attitudes toward life and their respective manifestations in contemporary society. chapter two the children of zion and the sons of greece we are not using the term "humanism" in this chapter in its strictly technical sense. because we are not concerned with the history of thought merely, but also with its practical embodiments in various social organizations as well. so we mean by "humanism" not only those modes and systems of thought in which human interests predominate but also the present economic, political and ecclesiastical institutions which more or less consistently express them. hence, the term as used will include concepts not always agreeing with each other, and sometimes only semi-related to the main stream of the movement. this need not trouble us. strict intellectual consistency is a fascinating and impossible goal of probably dubious value. moreover, it is this whole expression of the time spirit which bathes the sensitive personality of the preacher, persuading and moulding him quite as much by its derived and concrete manifestations in contemporary society as by its essential and abstract principles. there are then two sets of media through which humanism has affected preaching. the first are philosophical and find their expression in a large body of literature which has been moulding thought and feeling for nearly four centuries. humanism begins with the general abstract assumption that all which men can know, or need to know, are "natural" and human values; that they have no means of getting outside the inexorable circle of their own experience. much, of course, depends here upon the sense in which the word "experience" is used. the assumption need not necessarily be challenged except where, as is very often the case, an arbitrarily limited definition of experience is intended. from this general assumption flows the subjective theory of morals; from it is derived the conviction that the rationalistic values in religion are the only real, or at least demonstrable, ones; and hence from this comes the shifting of the seat of religious authority from "revelation" to experience. in so far as this is a correction of emphasis only, or the abandonment of a misleading term rather than the denial of one of the areas and modes of understanding, again we have no quarrel with it. but if it means an exclusion of the supersensuous sources of knowledge or the denial of the existence of absolute values as the source of our relative and subjective understanding, then it strikes at the heart of religion. because the religious life is built on those factors of experience that lie above the strictly rational realm of consciousness just as the pagan view rests on primitive instincts that lie beneath it. of course, in asserting the importance of these "supersensuous" values the religionist does not mean that they are beyond the reach of human appraisal or unrelated by their nature to the rest of our understanding. by the intuitive he does not mean the uncritical nor by the supersensuous the supernatural in the old and discredited sense of an arbitrary and miraculous revelation. mysticism is not superstition, nor are the insights of the poet the whimsies of the mere impressionist. but he insists that the humanist, in his ordinary definition of experience, ignores or denies these superrational values. in opposition to him he rests his faith on that definition of experience which underlies aristotle's statement that "the intellect is dependent upon intuition for knowledge both of what is below and what is above itself." now it is this first set of factors which are the more important. for the cause, as distinguished from the occasions, of our present religious scale of values is, like all major causes, not practical but ideal, and its roots are found far beneath the soil of the present in the beginnings of the modern age in the fourteenth century. it was then that our world was born; it is of the essence of that world that it arose out of indifference toward speculative thinking and unfaith in those concepts regarding the origin and destiny of mankind which speculative philosophy tried to express and prove. from the first, then, humanistic leaders have not only frankly rejected the scholastic theologies, which had been the traditional expression of those absolute values with which the religious experience is chiefly concerned, but also ignored or rejected the existence of those values themselves. thus petrarch is generally considered the first of modern humanists. he not only speaks of rome--meaning the whole semi-political, semi-ecclesiastical structure of dogmatic supernaturalism--as that "profane babylon" but also reveals his rejection of the distinctively religious experience itself by characterizing as "an impudent wench" the christian church. the attack is partly therefore on the faith in transcendent values which fixes man's relative position by projecting him upon the screen of an infinite existence and which asserts that he has an absolute, that is, an other-than-human guide. again erasmus, in his _praise of folly_, denounces indiscriminately churches, priesthoods, dogmas, ethical values, the whole structure of organized religion, calling it those "foul smelling weeds of theology." it was inevitable that such men as erasmus and thomas more should hold aloof from the reformation, not, as has been sometimes asserted, from any lack of moral courage but because of intellectual conviction. they saw little to choose between lutheran, calvinistic and romish dogmatism. they had rejected not only mediaeval ecclesiasticism but also that view of the world founded on supersensuous values, whose persistent intimations had produced the speculative and scholastic theologies. to them, in a quite literal sense, the proper study of mankind was man. it is hardly necessary to speak here of the attitude towards the old "supernatural" religion taken by the english deists of the last half of the seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth century. here was the first definite struggle of the english church with a group of thinkers who, under the leadership of shaftesbury, bolingbroke and others, attempted to adapt humanistic philosophy to theological speculation, to establish the sufficiency of natural religion as opposed to revelation, and to deny the unique significance of the old and new testament scriptures. the english deists were not deep or comprehensive thinkers, but they were typically humanistic in that their interests were not mainly theological or religious but rather those of a general culture. they were inconsistent with their humanism in their doctrine of a personal god who was not only remote but separated from his universe, a _deus ex machina_ who excluded the idea of immanence. while less influential in england, they had a powerful effect upon french and german thinking. both voltaire and rousseau were rationalists and deists to the end of their days and both were unwearied foes of any other-than-natural sources for our spiritual knowledge and religious values. in germany the humanistic movement continued under herder and his younger contemporaries, schiller and goethe. its historical horizon, racial and literary sympathies, broadened under their direction, moving farther and farther beyond the sources and areas of accepted religious ideas and practices. they led the revival of study of the aryan languages and cultures; especially those of the hellenes and the inhabitants of the indian peninsula. they originated that critical and rather hostile scrutiny of semitic ideas and values in present civilization, which plays no small part in the dilettante naturalism of the moment. thus the nature and place of _man_, under the influence of these "uninspired" literatures and cultures, became more and more important as both his person and his position in the cosmos ceased to be interpreted either in those terms of the moral transcendence of deity, or of the helplessness and insignificance of his creatures, which inform both the jewish-christian scriptures and the philosophic absolutism of the catholic theologies. but the humanism of the eighteenth century comes most closely to grips with the classic statements and concepts of religion in the critical philosophy of kant. it is the intellectual current which rises in him which is finding its last multifarious and minute rivulets in the various doctrines of relativity, in pragmatism, the subjectivism of the neo-realists, and in the superior place generally ascribed by present thinking to value judgments as against existential ones. his central insistence is upon the impossibility of any knowledge of god as an objective reality. speculative reason does indeed give us the idea of god but he denies that we have in the idea itself any ground for thinking that there is an objective reality corresponding to it. the idea he admits as necessitated by "the very nature of reason" but it serves a purely harmonizing office. it is here to give coherence and unity to the objects of the understanding, "to finish and crown the whole of human knowledge."[3] experience of transcendence thus becomes impossible. as professor mcgiffert in _the modern ideas of god_ says: "subjectively considered, religion is the recognition of our duties as commands of god. when we do our duty we are virtuous; when we recognize it as commanded by god we are religious. the notion that there is anything we can do to please god except to live rightly is superstition. moreover, to think that we can distinguish works of grace from works of nature, which is the essence of historic christianity, or that we can detect the activity of heavenly influences is also superstition. all such supernaturalism lies beyond our ken. there are three common forms of superstition, all promoted by positive religion: the belief in miracles, the belief in mysteries, and the belief in the means of grace."[4] so prayer is a confession of weakness, not a source of strength. [footnote 3: see _the critique of pure reason_ (müller, tr.), pp. 575 ff.] [footnote 4: _harvard theo. rev._, vol. i, no. 1, p. 16.] kant is more than once profoundly inconsistent with the extreme subjectivism of his theory of ideas as when he says in the _practical reason_: "two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe the oftener and the more steadily we reflect on them: the starry heavens above and the moral law within."[5] again he remarks, "the belief in a great and wise author of the world has been supported entirely by the wonderful beauty, order and providence, everywhere displayed in nature."[6] here the objective reality both of what is presented to our senses and what is conceived of in the mind, is, as though unconsciously, taken for granted. thus while he contends for a practical theism, the very basis of his interest still rests in the conviction of a being external to us and existing independent of our thought. [footnote 5: _the critique of practical reason_ (tr. t.k. abbott), p. 260.] [footnote 6: _the critique of pure reason_, p. 702.] but his intention of making right conduct the essence of religion is typical of the limits of humanistic interests and perceptions. in making his division of reason into the theoretical and the practical, it is to the latter realm that he assigns morality and religion. clearly this is genuine rationalism. i am not forgetting kant's great religious contribution. he was the son of devout german pietists and saturated in the literature of the old testament. it is to amos, who may justly be called his spiritual father, that he owes the moral absoluteness of his categorical imperative, the reading of history as a moral order. he was following amos when he took god out of the physical and put him into the moral sphere and interpreted him in the terms of purpose. but the doctrine of _the critique of practical reason_ is intended to negate those transcendent elements generally believed to be the distinctive portions of religion. god is not known to us as an objective being, an entity without ourselves. he is an idea, a belief, which gives meaning to our ethical life, a subjective necessity. he is a postulate of the moral will. to quote professor mcgiffert again: "we do not get god from the universe, we give him to the universe. we read significance and moral purpose into it. we assume god, not to account for the world, but for the subjective need of realizing our highest good.... religion becomes a creative act of the moral will just as knowledge is a creative act of the understanding."[7] thus there are no ultimate values; at least we can know nothing of them; we have nothing to look to which is objective and changeless. the absolutism of the categorical imperative is a subjective one, bounded by ourselves, formed of our substance. religion is not discovered, but self-created, a sort of sublime expediency. it can carry, then, no confident assertion as to the meaning and destiny of the universe as a whole. [footnote 7: _h.t.r._, vol. i, no. 1, p. 18.] here, then, the nature of morality, the inspiration for character, the solution of human destiny, are not sought outside in some sort of cosmic relationship, but within, either in the experience of the superman, the genius or the hero, or, as later, in the collective experience and consciousness of the group. thus this, too, throws man back upon himself, makes a new exaltation of personality in sharpest contrast to the scholastic doctrine of the futility and depravity of human nature. it produces the assertion of the sacred character of the individual human being. the conviction of the immeasurable worth of man is, of course, a characteristic teaching of jesus; what it is important for the preacher to remember in humanism is the source, not the fact, of its estimate. with jesus man's is a derived greatness found in him as the child of the eternal; in humanism, it is, so to speak, self-originated, born of present worth, not of sublime origin or shining destiny. so man in the humanistic movement moves into the center of his own world, becomes himself the measuring rod about whom all other values are grouped. in the place of inspiration, or prophetic understanding, which carries the implications of a transcendent source of truth and goodness, we have a sharply limited, subjective wisdom and insight. the "thus saith the lord" of the hebrew prophet means nothing here. the humanist is, of course, confronted with the eternal question of origins, of the thing-in-itself, the question whose insistence makes the continuing worth of the absolutist speculations. he begs the question by answering it with an assertion, not an explanation. he meets it by an exaltation of human genius. genius explains all sublime achievements and genius is, so to speak, its own _fons et origo_. thus diderot says: "genius is the higher activity of the soul." "genius," remarks rousseau in a letter, "makes knowledge unnecessary." and kant defines genius as "the talent to discover that which cannot be taught or learned."[8] this appears to be more of an evasion than a definition! but the intent here is to refer all that seems to transcend mundane categories, man's highest, his widest, his sublimest intuitions and achievements, back to himself; he is his own source of light and power. [footnote 8: _anthropologie_, para. 87 c.] such an anthropocentric view of life and destiny in exalting man, of course, thereby liberated him, not merely from ecclesiastical domination, but also from those illusive fears and questionings, those remote and imaginative estimates of his own intended worth and those consequent exacting demands upon himself which are a part of the religious interpretation of life. humanistic writing is full of the exulting sense of this emancipation. these superconsiderations do not belong in the world of experience as the humanist ordinarily conceives of it. hence, man lives in an immensely contracted, but a very real and tangible world and within the small experimental circumference of it, he holds a far larger place (from one viewpoint, a far smaller one from another) than that of a finite creature caught in the snare of this world and yet a child of the eternal, having infinite destinies. the humanist sees man as freed from the tyranny of this supernatural revelation and laws. he rejoices over man because now he stands, "self-poised on manhood's solid earth not forced to frame excuses for his birth, fed from within with all the strength he needs." it is this sense of independence which arouses in goethe a perennial enthusiasm. it is the greatest bliss, he says, that the humanist won back for us. henceforth, we must strive with all our power to keep it. we have attempted this brief sketch of one of the chief sources of the contemporary thought movement, that we may realize the pit whence we were digged, the quarry from which many corner stones in the present edifice of civilization were dug. the preacher tends to underestimate the comprehensive character of the pervasive ideas, worked into many institutions and practices, which are continually impinging upon him and his message. they form a perpetual attrition, working silently and ceaselessly day and night, wearing away the distinctively religious conceptions of the community. much of the vagueness and sentimentalism of present preaching, its uncritical impressionism, is due to the influence of the non-religious or, at least, the insufficiently religious character of the ruling ideas and motives outside the church which are impinging upon it, and upon the rest of the thinking of the moment. now, this _abstract_ humanism of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had a considerable influence upon early american preaching. the latter part of the eighteenth century marked a breaking away from the protestant scholasticism of the reformation theology. the french revolution accented and made operative, even across the atlantic, the typical humanistic concepts of the rights of man and the sovereignty of the individual person. skepticism and even atheism became a fashion in our infant republic. it was a mark of sophistication with many educated men to regard christianity as not worthy of serious consideration. college students modestly admitted that they were infidels and with a delicious naïveté assumed the names of voltaire, thomas paine and even of that notorious and notable egotist rousseau. it is said that in 1795, on the first sunday of president administration in yale college, only three undergraduates remained after service to take the sacrament. the reasons were partly political, probably, but these themselves were grounded in the new philosophical, anti-religious attitude. of course, this affected the churches. there was a reaction from protestant scholasticism within them which, later on, culminated in unitarianism, universalism and arminianism. the most significant thing in the unitarian movement was not its rejection of the trinitarian speculation, but its positive contribution to the reassertion of jesus' doctrine of the worth and dignity of human nature. but it recovered that doctrine much more by the way of humanistic philosophy than by way of the teaching of the new testament. i suppose the thing which has made the weakness of the unitarian movement, its acknowledged lack of religious warmth and feeling, is due not to the place where it stands, but to the road by which it got there. yet, take it for all in all, the effect upon the preaching of the supernatural and speculative doctrines and insights of christianity, was not in america as great as might be expected. kant died in 1804, and goethe in 1832, but only in the last sixty years has the preaching of the "evangelical" churches been fundamentally affected by the prevailing intellectual currents of the day. this is due, i think, to two causes. one was the nature of the german reformation. it found preaching at a low ebb. every great force, scholastic, popular, mystical, which had contributed to the splendor of the mediaeval pulpit had fallen into decay, and the widespread moral laxity of the clergy precluded spiritual insight. the reformation, with its ethical and political interests, revived preaching and by the nature of these same interests fixed the limits and determined the direction within which it should develop. it is important to remember that luther did not break with the old theological system. he continued his belief in an authority and revelation anterior, exterior and superior to man, merely shifting the locus of that authority from the church to the book. thus he paved the way for zwingli and the protestant scholasticism which became more rigid and sterile than the catholic which it succeeded. we usually regard the reformation as a part of the renaissance and hence included in the humanistic movement. politically and religiously, it undoubtedly should be so regarded, for it was a chief factor in the renewal of german nationalism and its central doctrines of justification by faith, and the right of each separate believer to an unmediated access to the highest, exalted the integrity and dignity of the individual. inconsistently, however, it continued the old theological tradition. in the lutheran system, says paul de lagarde, we see the catholic scholastic structure standing untouched with the exception of a few loci. and harnack, in the _dogmengeschichte_ calls it "a miserable duplication of the catholic church." now, new england preaching, it is true, found its chief roots in calvinism; calvin, rather than luther, was the religious leader of the reformation outside germany. but his system, also, is only the continuation of the ancient philosophy of the christian faith originating with augustine. he reduced it to order, expounded it with energy and consistency, but one has only to recall its major doctrines of the depravity of man, the atonement for sin, the irresistible grace of the holy spirit, to see how untouched it was by the characteristic postulates of the new humanism. and it was on his theology that new england preaching was founded. it was calvin who, through jonathan edwards, the elder and the younger, joseph bellamy, samuel hopkins, nathaniel emmons, nathaniel n. taylor, determined the course of the new england pulpit. the other reason for our relative immunity from humanistic influence is accidental and complementary merely. it is the mere fact of our physical isolation, which, until the last seventy-five years, quite largely shut off thinkers here from continental and english currents of thought and contributed to the brilliant, if sterile, provincialism of the new england theology. it is, therefore, to the second set of media, which may be generally characterized as scientific and practical, that we now turn. these are the forces which apparently are most affecting christian preaching at this moment. but it is important to remember that a large part of their influence is to be traced to the philosophic and ethical tendencies of the earlier humanistic movement which had set the scene for them, to which they are so sympathetic that we may assert that it is in them that their practical interests are grounded and by them that their scientific methods are reinforced. i divide this second group of media, for clearness, under three heads. first comes the rise of the natural sciences. in 1859, darwin published the _origin of species_ and gave to the world the evolutionary hypothesis, foreshadowed by goethe and other eighteenth-century thinkers, simultaneously formulated by wallace and himself. here is a theory, open to objections certainly, not yet conclusively demonstrated, but the most probable one which we yet possess, as to the method of the appearance and the continuance of life upon the planet. it conceives of creation as an unimaginably long and intricate development from the inorganic to the organic, from simple to complex forms of life. like kantianism and the humanistic movement generally, the evolutionary hypothesis springs from reasoned observation of man and nature, not from any _a priori_ or speculative process. with this theory, long a regulative idea of our world, preaching was forced to come to some sort of an understanding. it strikes a powerful blow at the scholastic notion of a dichotomized universe divided between nature and supernature, divine and human. it reinforced humanism by minimizing, if not making unnecessary, the objective and external source and external interpretations of religions. it pushes back the initial creative _act_ until it is lost in the mists and chaos of an unimaginably remote past. meanwhile, creative _energy_, the very essence of transcendent life, is, as we know it, not transcendent at all, but working outward from within, a part of the process, not above and beyond it. the inevitable implication here is that god is sufficiently, if not exclusively, known through natural and human media. science recognizes him in the terms of its own categories as in and of his world, a part of all its ongoings and developments. but his creative life is indistinguishable from, if not identical with, its expressions. here, then, is a practical obliteration of the line once so sharply drawn between the natural and the supernatural. hence the demarcation between the divine and human into mutually exclusive states has disappeared. this would seem, then, to wipe out also any knowledge of absolute values. christian theism has interpreted god largely in static, final terms. the craving for the absolute in the human mind, as witnessed by the long course of the history of thought, as pathetically witnessed to in the mixture of chicanery, fanaticism and insight of the modern mystical and occult healing sects, is central and immeasurable. but god, found, if at all, in the terms of a present process, is not static and absolute, but dynamic and relative; indefinite, incomplete, not final. and man's immense difference from him, that sense of the immeasurable space between creator and created, is strangely contracted. the gulf between holiness and guiltiness tends also to disappear. for our life would appear to be plastic and indefinite, a process rather than a state, not open then to conclusive moral estimates; incomplete, not fallen; life an orderly process, hence not perverse but defensible; without known breaks or infringements, hence relatively normal and sufficiently intelligible. a second factor was the rise of the humane sciences. in the seventh and eighth decades of the last century men were absorbed in the discovery of the nature and extent of the material universe. but beginning about 1890, interest swerved again toward man as its most revealing study and most significant inhabitant. anthropology, ethnology, sociology, physical and functional psychology, came to the front. especially the humane studies of political science and industrial economics were magnified because of the new and urgent problems born of an industrial civilization and a capitalistic state. the invention and perfection of the industrial machine had by now thoroughly dislocated former social groupings, made its own ethical standards and human problems. in the early days of the labor movement william morris wrote, "we have become slaves of the monster to which invention has given birth." in 1853, shortly after the introduction of the cotton gin into india, the viceroy wrote: "the misery is scarcely paralleled in the history of trade." (a large statement that!) "the bones of the cotton workers whiten the plains of india." but the temporary suffering caused by the immediate crowding out of cottage industry and the abrupt increase in production was insignificant beside the deeper influence, physical, moral, mental, of the machine in changing the permanent habitat and the entire mode of living for millions of human beings. it removed them from those healthy rural surroundings which preserve the half-primitive, half-poetic insight into the nature of things which comes from relative isolation and close contact with the soil, to the nervous tension, the amoral conditions, the airless, lightless ugliness of the early factory settlements. here living conditions were not merely beastly; they were often bestial. the economic helplessness of the factory hands reduced them to essential slavery. they must live where the factory was, and could work only in one factory, for they could not afford to move. hence they must obey their industrial master in every particular, since the raw material, the plant, the tools, the very roof that covered them, were all his! in this new human condition was a powerful reinforcement, from another angle of approach, of the humanistic impulse. man's interest in himself, which had been sometimes that of the dilettante, largely imaginative and even sentimental, was reinforced by man's new distress and became concrete and scientific. thus man regarded himself and his own world with a new and urgent attention. the methods and secondary causes of his intellectual, emotional and volitional life began to be laid bare. the new situation revealed the immense part played in shaping the personality and the fate of the individual by inheritance and environment. the freudian doctrine, which traces conduct and habit back to early or prenatal repressions, strengthens the interest in the physical and materialistic sources of character and conduct in human life. behavioristic psychology, interpreting human nature in terms of observation and action, rather than analysis and value judgments, does the same. it tends to put the same emphasis upon the external and sensationalistic aspects of human experience. that, then, which is a central force in religion, the sense of the inscrutability of human nature, the feeling of awe before the natural processes, what paul called the mystery of iniquity and the mystery of godliness, tends to disappear. wonder and confident curiosity succeed humility and awe. that which is of the essence of religion, the sense of helplessness coupled with the sense of responsibility, is stifled. whatever else the humane sciences have done, they have deepened man's fascinated and narrowing absorption in himself and given him apparent reason to believe that by analyzing the iron chain of cause and effect which binds the process and admitting that it permits no deflection or variation, he is making the further questions as to the origin, meaning and destiny of that process either futile or superfluous. so that, in brief, the check to speculative thinking and the repudiation of central metaphysical concepts, which the earlier movement brought about, has been accentuated and sealed by the humane sciences and the new and living problems offered them for practical solution. thus the generation now ending has been carried beyond the point of combating ancient doctrines of god and man, to the place where it has become comparatively indifferent, rather than hostile, to any doctrine of god, so absorbed is it in the physical functions, the temporal needs and the material manifestations of human personality. finally, as the natural and humane sciences mark new steps in the expanding humanistic movement, so in these last days, critical scholarship, itself largely a product of the humanistic viewpoint, has added another factor to the group. the new methods of historical and literary criticism, of comparative investigation in religion and the other arts, have exerted a vast influence upon contemporary religious thought. they have not merely completed the breakdown of an arbitrary and fixed external authority and rendered finally invalid the notion of equal or verbal inspiration in sacred writings, but the present tendency, especially in comparative religion, is to seek the source of all so-called religious experience within the human consciousness; particularly to derive it all from group experience. here, then, is a theory of religious origins which once more turns the spirit of man back upon itself. robertson smith, jane harrison, durkheim, rejecting an earlier animistic theory, find the origin of religion not in contemplation of the natural world and in the intuitive perception of something more-than-world which lies behind it, but in the group experience whose heightened emotional intensity and nervous energy imparts to the one the exaltation of the many. smith, in the _religion of the semites_,[9] emphasizes, as the fundamental conception of ancient religion, "the solidarity of the gods and their worshipers as part of an organic society." durkheim goes beyond this. there are not at the beginning men and gods, but only the social group and the collective emotions and representations which are generated through membership in the group. [footnote 9: p. 32.] here, then, is humanism again carried to the very heart of the citadel. religion at its source contains no real perceptions of any extra-human force or person. what seemed to be such perceptions were only the felt participation of the individual in a collective consciousness which is superindividual, but not superhuman and always continuous with the individual consciousness. so that, whatever may or may not be true later, the beginning of man's metaphysical interests, his cosmic consciousness, his more-than-human contacts, is simply his social experience, his collective emotions and representations. thus durkheim: "we are able to say, in sum, that the religious individual does not deceive himself when he believes in the existence of a moral power upon which he depends and from which he holds the larger portion of himself. that power exists; it is society. when the australian feels within himself the surging of a life whose intensity surprises him, he is the dupe of no illusion; that exaltation is real, and it is really the product of forces that are external and superior to the individual."[10] yes, but identical in kind and genesis with himself and his own race. to leuba, in his _psychological study of religion_, this has already become the accepted viewpoint. whatever is enduring and significant in religion is merely an expression of man's social consciousness and experience, his sense of participation in a common life. "humanity, idealized and conceived as a manifestation of creative energy, possesses surprising qualifications for a source of religious inspiration." professor overstreet, in "the democratic conception of god," _hibbert journal_, volume xi, page 409, says: "it is this large figure, not simply of human but of cosmic society which is to yield our god of the future. there is no place in the future for an eternally perfect being and no need--society, democratic from end to end, can brook no such radical class distinction as that between a supreme being, favored with eternal and absolute perfection, and the mass of beings doomed to the lower ways of imperfect struggle." [footnote 10: _les formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse_, p. 322.] there is certainly a striking immediacy in such language. we leave for later treatment the question as to the historical validity of such an attitude. it certainly ignores some of the most distinguished and fruitful concepts of trained minds; it rules out of court what are to the majority of men real and precious factors in the religious experience. it would appear to be another instance, among the many, of the fallacy of identifying the part with the whole. but the effect of such pervasive thought currents, the more subtle and unfightable because indirect and disguised in popular appearance and influence, upon the ethical and spiritual temper of religious leaders, the very audacity of whose tasks puts them on the defensive, is vast and incalculable. at the worst, it drives man into a mechanicalized universe, with a resulting materialism of thought and life; at the best, it makes him a pragmatist with amiable but immediate objectives, just practical "results" as his guide and goal. morality as, in antigone's noble phrase, "the unwritten law of heaven" sinks down and disappears. there is no room here for the job who abhors himself and repents in dust and ashes nor for plato's _one behind the many_; no perceptible room, in such a world, for any of the absolute values, the transcendent interests, the ethics of idealism, any eschatology, or for christian theodicy. that which has been the typical contribution of the religious perceptions in the past, namely, the comprehensive vision of life and the world and time _sub specie aeternitatis_ is here abandoned. eternity is unreal or empty; we never heard the music of the spheres. we are facing at this moment a disintegrating age. here is a prime reason for it. the spiritual solidarity of mankind under the humanistic interpretation of life and destiny is dissolving and breaking down. humanism is ingenious and reasonable and clever but it is too limited; it doesn't answer enough questions. before going on, in a future chapter, to discuss the question as to what kind of preaching such a world-view, seen from the christian standpoint, needs, we are now to inquire what the effect of this humanistic movement upon christian preaching has already been. that our preaching should have been profoundly influenced by it is inevitable. religion is not apart from the rest of life. the very temperament of the speaker makes him peculiarly susceptible to the intellectual and spiritual movements about him. what, then, has humanism done to preaching? has it worked to clarify and solidify the essence of the religious position? or has preaching declined and become neutralized in religious quality under it? first: it has profoundly affected christian preaching about god. the contemporary sermon on deity minimizes or leaves out divine transcendence; thus it starves one fundamental impulse in man--the need and desire to look up. instead of this transcendence modern preaching emphasizes immanence, often to a naïve and ludicrous degree. god is the being who is like us. under the influence of that monistic idealism, which is a derived philosophy of the humanistic impulse, preaching lays all the emphasis upon divine immanence in sharpest contrast either to the deistic transcendence of the eighteenth century or the separateness and aloofness of the god of the hebrew scriptures, or of the classic greek theologies of christianity. god is, of course; that is, he is the informing principle in the natural and human universe and essentially one with it. present preaching does not confess this identification but it evades rather than meets the logical pantheistic conclusion. so our preaching has to do with god in the common round of daily tasks; with sweeping a room to his glory; with adoration of his presence in a sunset and worship of him in a star. every bush's aflame with him; there are sermons in stones and poems in running brooks. before us, even as behind, god is and all is well. we are filled with a sort of intoxication with this intimate and protective company of the infinite; we are magnificently unabashed as we familiarly approach him. "closer is he than breathing; nearer than hands or feet." not then by denying or condemning or distrusting the world in which we live, not by asserting the differences between god and humanity do we understand him. but by closest touch with nature do we find him. by a superb paradox, not without value, yet equally ineffable in sentimentality and sublime in its impiety we say, beholding man, "that which is most human is most divine!" that there is truth in such comfortable and affable preaching is obvious; that there is not much truth in it is obvious, too. to what extent, and in what ways, nature, red with tooth and claw, indifferent, ruthless, whimsical, can be called the expression of the christian god, is not usually specifically stated. in what way man, just emerging from the horror, the shame, the futility of his last and greatest debauch of bloody self-destruction, can be called the chief medium of truth, holiness and beauty, the matrix of divinity, is not entirely manifest. but the fatal defect of such preaching is not that there is not, of course, a real identity between the world and its maker, the soul and its creator, but that the aspect of reality which this truth expresses is the one which has least religious value, is least distinctive in the spiritual experience. the religious nature is satisfied, and the springs of moral action are refreshed by dwelling on the "specialness" of god; men are brought back to themselves, not among their fellows and by identifying them with their fellows, but by lifting them to the secret place of the most high. they need religiously not thousand-tongued nature, but to be kept secretly in his pavilion from the strife of tongues. it is the difference between god and men which makes men who know themselves trust him. it is the "otherness," not the sameness, which makes him desirable and potent in the daily round of life. a purely ethical interest in god ceases to be ethical and becomes complacent; when we rule out the supraphenomenal we have shut the door on the chief strength of the higher life. second: modern preaching, under this same influence and to a yet greater degree, emphasizes the principle of identity, where we need that of difference, in its preaching about jesus. he is still the most moving theme for the popular presentation of religion. but that is because he offers the most intelligible approach to that very "otherness" in the person of the godhead. his healing and reconciling influence over the heart of man--the way the human spirit expands and blossoms in his presence--is moving beyond expression to any observer, religious or irreligious. each new crusade in the long strife for human betterment looks in sublime confidence to him as its forerunner and defense. to what planes of common service, faith, magnanimous solicitude could he not lift the embittered, worldlyized men and women of this torn and distracted age, which is so desperately seeking its own life and thereby so inexorably losing it! but why is the heart subdued, the mind elevated, the will made tractable by him? why, because he is enough like us so that we know that he understands, has utter comprehension; and he is enough different from us so that we are willing to trust him. in what lies the essence of the leadership of jesus? he is not like us: therefore, we are willing to relinquish ourselves into his hands. now, that is only half the truth. but if i may use a paradox, it is the important half, the primary half. and it is just that essential element in the christian experience of jesus that modern preaching, under the humanistic impulse, is neglecting. indeed, liberal preachers have largely ceased to sermonize about him, just because it has become so easy! humanism has made jesus obvious, hence, relatively impotent. with its unified cosmos, its immanent god, its exalted humanity, the whole christological problem has become trivial. it drops the cosmic approach to the person of jesus in favor of the ethical. it does not approach him from the side of god; we approach nothing from that side now; but from the side of man. thus he is not so much a divine revelation as he is a human achievement. humanity and divinity are one in essence. the creator is distinguished from his creatures in multifarious differences of degree but not in kind. we do not see, then, in christ, a perfect isolated god, joined to a perfect isolated man, in what were indeed the incredible terms of the older and superseded christologies. but rather, he is the perfect revelation of the moral being, the character of god, in all those ways capable of expression or comprehension in human life, just because he is the highest manifestation of a humanity through which god has been forever expressing himself in the world. for man is, so to speak, his own cosmic center; the greatest divine manifestation which we know. granted, then, an ideal man, a complete moral being, and _ipso facto_ we have our supreme revelation of god. so runs the thrice familiar argument. of course, we have gained something by it. we may drop gladly the old dualistic philosophy, and we must drop it, though i doubt if it is so easy to drop the dualistic experience which created it. but i beg to point out that, on the whole, we have lost more religiously than we have gained. for we have made jesus easy to understand, not as he brings us up to his level, but as we have reduced him to ours. can we afford to do that? bernard's mystical line, "the love of jesus, what it is, none but his loved ones know," has small meaning here. the argument is very good humanism but it drops the word "saviour" out of the vocabulary of faith. oh, how many sermons since, let us say, 1890, have been preached on the text, "he that hath seen me, hath seen the father." and how uniformly the sermons have explained that the text means not that jesus is like god, but that god is like jesus--and we have already seen that jesus is like us! one only has to state it all to see beneath its superficial reasonableness its appalling profanity! third: we may see the influence of humanism upon our preaching in the relinquishment of the goal of conversion. we are preaching to educate, not to save; to instruct, not to transform. conversion may be gradual and half-unconscious, a long and normal process under favorable inheritance and with the culture of a christian environment. or it may be sudden and catastrophic, a violent change of emotional and volitional activity. when a man whose feeling has been repressed by sin and crusted over by deception, whose inner restlessness has been accumulating under the misery and impotence of a divided life, is brought into contact with christian truth, he can only accept it through a volitional crisis, with its cleansing flood of penitence and confession and its blessed reward of the sense of pardon and peace and the relinquishment of the self into the divine hands. but one thing is true of either process in the christian doctrine of conversion. it is not merely an achievement, although it is that; it is also a rescue. it cannot come about without faith, the "will to believe"; neither can it come about by that alone. conversion is something we do; it is also something else, working within us, if we will let it, helping us to do; hence it is something done for us. now, this experience of conversion is passing out of christian life and preaching under humanistic influence. we are accepting the socratic dictum that knowledge is virtue. hence we blur the distinction between the christian and the non-christian. education supplants salvation. we bring the boys and girls into the church because they are safer there than outside it; and on the whole it is a good thing to do and really they belong there anyway. the church member is a man of the world, softened by christian feeling. he is a kindly and amiable citizen and an honorable man; he has not been saved. but he knows the unwisdom of evil; if you know what is right you will do it. intelligence needs no support from grace. it is strange that the church does not see that with this relinquishment of her insistence upon something that religion can do for a man that nothing else can attempt, she has thereby given up her real excuse for being, and that her peculiar and distinctive mission has gone. it is strange that she does not see that the humanism which, since it is at home in the world, can sometimes make there a classic hero, degenerates dreadfully and becomes unreal in a church where unskilled hands use it to make it a substitute for a christian saint! but for how many efficient parish administrators, y.m.c.a. secretaries, up-to-date preachers, character is conceived of as coming not by discipline but by expansion, not by salvation, but by activity. social service solves everything without any reference to the troublesome fact that the value of the service will depend upon the quality of the servant. salvation is a combination of intelligence and machinery. sin is pure ignorance or just maladjustment to environment. all we need is to know what is right and wrong; the humane sciences will take care of that; and, then, have an advertising agent, a gymnasium, a committee on spiritual resources, a program, a conference, a drive for money, and behold, the kingdom of god is among us! fourth, and most significant: it is to the humanistic impulse and its derived philosophies that we owe the individualistic ethics, the relative absence of the sense of moral responsibility for the social order which has, from the beginning, maimed and distorted protestant christianity. it was, perhaps, a consequence of the speculative and absolute philosophies of the mediaeval church that, since they endeavored to relate religion to the whole of the cosmos, its remotest and ultimate issues, so they conceived of its absoluteness as concerned with the whole of human experience, with every relation of organized society. under their regulative ideas all human beings, not a selected number, had, not in themselves but because of the divine sacrifice, divine significance; reverence was had, not for supermen or captains of industry, but for every one of those for whom christ died. there were no human institutions which were ends in themselves or more important than the men which created and served them. the holy catholic church was the only institution which was so conceived; all others, social, political, economic, were means toward the end of the preservation and expression of human personality. hence, the interest of the mediaeval church in social ethics and corporate values; hence, the axiom of the church's control of, the believers' responsibility for, the economic relations of society. an unjust distribution of goods, the withholding from the producer of his fair share of the wealth which he creates, profiteering, predatory riches--these were ranked under one term as avarice, and they were counted not among the venial offenses, like aberrations of the flesh, but avarice was considered one of the seven deadly sins of the spirit. the application of the ethics of jesus to social control began to die out as humanism individualized christian morals and as, under its influence, nationalism tended to supplant the international ecclesiastical order. the cynical and sordid maxim that business is business; that, in the economic sphere, the standards of the church are not operative and the responsibility of the church is not recognized--notions which are a chief heresy and an outstanding disgrace of nineteenth-century religion, from which we are only now painfully and slowly reacting--these may be traced back to the influence of humanism upon christian thought and conduct. in general, then, it seems to me abundantly clear that the humanistic movement has both limited and secularized christian preaching. it dogmatically ignores supersensuous values; hence it has rationalized preaching hence it has made provincial its intellectual approach and treatment, narrowed and made mechanical its content. it has turned preaching away from speculative to practical themes. it was, perhaps, this mental and spiritual decline of the ministry to which a distinguished educator referred when he told a body of congregational preachers that their sermons were marked by "intellectual frugality." it is this which a great new england theologian-preacher, dr. gordon, means when he says "an indescribable pettiness, a mean kind of retail trade has taken possession of the preachers; they have substituted the mill-round for the sun-path." the whole world today tends toward a monstrous egotism. man's attention is centered on himself, his temporal salvation, his external prosperity. preaching, yielding partly to the intellectual and partly to the practical environment, has tended to adopt the same secular scale of values, somewhat pietized and intensified, and to move within the same area of operation. that is why most preaching today deals with relations of men with men, not of men with god. yet human relationships can only be determined in the light of ultimate ones. most preaching instinctively avoids the definitely religious themes; deals with the ethical aspects of devotion; with conduct rather than with worship; with the effects, not the causes, the expression, not the essence of the religious life. most college preaching chiefly amounts to informal talks on conduct; somewhat idealized discussions of public questions; exhortations to social service. when sermons do deal with ultimate sanctions they can hardly be called christian. they are often stoical; self-control is exalted as an heroic achievement, as being self-authenticating, carrying its own reward. or they are utilitarian, giving a sentimentalized or frankly shrewd doctrine of expediencies, the appeal to an exaggerated self-respect, enlightened self-interest, social responsibility. these are typical humanistic values; they are real and potent and legitimate. but they are not religious and they do not touch religious motives. the very difference between the humanist and the christian lies here. to obey a principle is moral and admirable; to do good and be good because it pays is sensible; but to act from love of a person is a joyous ecstasy, a liberation of power; it alone transforms life with an ultimate and enduring goodness. genuine christian preaching makes its final appeal, not to fear, not to hope, not to future rewards and punishments, not to reason or prudence or benevolence. it makes its appeal to love, and that means that it calls men to devotion to a living being, a transcendence beyond and without us. for you cannot love a principle, or relinquish yourself to an idea. you must love another living being. which amounts to saying that humanism just because it is self-contained is self-condemned. it minimizes or ignores the living god, in his world, but not to be identified with it; beyond it and above it; loving it because it needs to be loved; blessing it because saving it. in so doing, it lays the axe at the very root of the tree of religion. francis xavier, in his greatest of all hymns, has stated once for all the essence of the christian motive and the religious attitude: "o deus, ego amo te nec amo te ut salves me aut quia non amantes te aeternis punis igne. "nee praemii illius spe sed sicut tu amasti me sic amo et amabo te solem, quia rex meus est." what, then, has been the final effect of humanism upon preaching? it has tempted the preacher to depersonalize religion. and since love is the essence of personality, it has thereby stripped preaching of the emotional energy, of the universal human interests and the prophetic insight which only love can bestow. over against this depersonalization, we must find some way to return to expressing the religious view and utilizing the religious power of the human spirit. chapter three eating, drinking and being merry we ventured to say in the preceding chapter that, under the influences of more than three centuries of humanism, the spiritual solidarity of mankind is breaking down. for humanism makes an inhuman demand upon the will; it minimizes the force of the subrational and it largely ignores the superrational elements in human experience; it does not answer enough questions. indeed, it is frankly confessed, particularly by students of the political and economic forces now working in society, that the new freedom born in the renaissance is, in some grave sense, a failure. it destroyed what had been the common moral authority of european civilization in its denial of the rule of the church. but for nearly four centuries it has become increasingly clear that it offered no adequate substitute for the supernatural moral and religious order which it supplanted. john morley was certainly one of the most enlightened and humane positivists of the last generation. in his _recollections_, published three years ago, there is a final paragraph which runs as follows: "a painful interrogatory, i must confess, emerges. has not your school held the civilized world, both old and new alike, in the hollow of their hand for two long generations past? is it quite clear that their influence has been so much more potent than the gospel of the various churches? _circumspice_. is not diplomacy, unkindly called by voltaire the field of lies, as able as ever it was to dupe governments and governed by grand abstract catchwords veiling obscure and inexplicable purposes, and turning the whole world over with blood and tears, to a strange witch's sabbath?"[11] this is his conclusion of the whole matter. [footnote 11: _recollections_: ii, p. 366 ff.] but while the reasons for the failure are not far to seek, it is worth while for the preacher to dwell on them for a moment. in strongly centered souls like a morley or an erasmus, humanism produces a stoical endurance and a sublime self-confidence. but it tends, in lesser spirits, to a restless arrogance. hence, both those lower elements in human nature, the nature and extent of whose force it either cloaks or minimizes, and those imponderable and supersensuous values which it tends to ignore and which are not ordinarily included in its definition of experience, return to vex and plague it. indeed the worst foe of humanism has never been the religious view of the world upon whose stored-up moral reserves of uncompromising doctrine it has often half-consciously subsisted. humanism has long profited from the admitted truth that the moral restraints of an age that possesses an authoritative and absolute belief survive for some time after the doctrine itself has been rejected. what has revealed the incompleteness of the humanistic position has been its constant tendency to decline into naturalism; a tendency markedly accelerated today. hence, we find ourselves in a disintegrating and distracted epoch. in 1912 rudolph eucken wrote: "the moral solidarity of mankind is dissolved. sects and parties are increasing; common estimates and ideals keep slipping away from us; we understand one another less and less. even voluntary associations, that form of unity peculiar to modern times, unite more in achievement than in disposition, bring men together outwardly rather than inwardly. the danger is imminent that the end may be _bellum omnium contra omnes_, a war of all against all."[12] [footnote 12: _harvard theo. rev._, vol. v, no. 3, p. 277.] that disintegration is sufficiently advanced so that we can see the direction it is taking and the principle that inspires it. humanism has at least the value of an objective standard in the sense that it sets up criteria which are without the individual; it substitutes a collective subjectivism, if we may use the term, for personal whim and impulse. thus it proclaims a classic standard of moderation in all things, the golden mean of the greeks, confucius' and gautama's law of measure. it proposes to bring the primitive and sensual element in man under critical control; to accomplish this it relies chiefly upon its amiable exaggeration of the reasonableness of human nature. but the socratic dictum that knowledge is virtue was the product of a personality distinguished, if we accept the dialogues of plato, by a perfect harmony of thought and feeling. probably it is not wise to build so important a rule upon so distinguished an exception! but the positive defect of humanism is more serious. it likewise proposes to rationalize those supersensuous needs and convictions which lie in the imaginative, the intuitive ranges of experience. the very proposal carries a denial of their value-in-themselves. its inevitable result in the humanist is their virtual ignoring. the greatest of all the humanists of the orient was confucius. "i venture to ask about death," said a disciple to the sage. "while you do not know life," replied he, "how can you know about death?"[13] even more typical of the humanistic attitude towards the distinctively religious elements of experience are other sayings of confucius, such as: "to give oneself earnestly to the duties due to men, and while respecting spiritual beings, to keep aloof from them may be called wisdom."[13] the precise area of humanistic interests is indicated in another observation. "the subjects on which the master did not talk were ... disorder and spiritual beings."[13] for the very elements of experience which humanism belittles or avoids are found in the world where pagans like rabelais robustly jest or the high spaces where souls like newman meditate and pray. the humanist appears to be frightened by the one and repelled by the other; will not or cannot see life steadily and whole. that a powerful primitivistic faith, like taoism, a sort of religious bohemianism, should flourish beside such pragmatic and passionless moderation as classic confucianism is inevitable; that the worship of amida buddha, the buddha of redemption and a future heaven, of a positive and eternal bliss, should be the chinese form of the indian faith is equally intelligible. after a like manner it is the humanism of our protestant preaching today from which men are defecting into utter worldliness and indifference on the one hand and returning to mediaeval and catholic forms of supernaturalism on the other. [footnote 13: _analects_, xi, cxi; vi, cxx.] for the primitive in man is a beast whom it is hard to chain nor does humanism with its semi-scientific, semi-sentimental laudation of all natural values produce that exacting mood of inward scrutiny in which self-control has most chance of succeeding. hence here, as elsewhere on the continent, and formerly in china, in greece and in rome, a sort of neo-paganism has been steadily supplanting it. to the study of this neo-paganism we now address ourselves. it is the third and lowest of those levels of human experience to which we referred in the first lecture. the naturalist, you may remember, is that incorrigible individual who imagines that he is a law unto himself, that he may erect his person into a sovereign over the whole universe. he perversely identifies discipline with repression and makes the unlimited the goal both of imagination and conduct. oscar wilde's epigrams, and more particularly his fables, are examples of a thoroughgoing naturalist's insolent indifference to any form of restraint. all things, whether holy or bestial, were material for his topsy-turvy wit, his literally unbridled imagination. no humanistic law of decency, that is to say, a proper respect for the opinions of mankind, and no divine law of reverence and humility, acted for him as a restraining force or a selective principle. an immediate and significant example of this naturalistic riot of feeling, with its consequent false and anarchic scale of values, is found in the film dramas of the moving picture houses. unreal extravagance of imagination, accompanied by the debauch of the aesthetic and moral judgment, frequently distinguishes them. in screenland, it is the vampire, the villain, the superman, the saccharine angel child, who reign almost undisputed. noble convicts, virtuous courtesans, attractive murderers, good bad men, and ridiculous good men, flit across the canvas haloed with cheap sentimentality. opposed to them, in an ever losing struggle, are those conventional figures who stand for the sober realities of an orderly and disciplined world; the judge, the policeman, the mere husband. these pitiable and laughable figures are always outwitted; they receive the fate which indeed, in any primitive society, they so richly deserve! how deeply sunk in the modern world are the roots of this naturalism is shown by its long course in history, paralleling humanism. it has seeped down through the protestant centuries in two streams. one is a sort of scientific naturalism. it exalts material phenomena and the external order, issues in a glorification of elemental impulses, an attempted return to childlike spontaneous living, the identifying of man's values with those of primitive nature. the other is an emotional naturalism, of which maeterlinck is at the moment a brilliant and lamentable example. this exchanges the world of sober conduct, intelligible and straightforward thinking for an unfettered dreamland, compounded of fairy beauty, flashes of mystical and intuitive understanding intermixed with claptrap magic, a high-flown commercialism and an etherealized sensuality. rousseau represents both these streams in his own person. his sentimentalized egotism and bland sensuality pass belief. his sensitive spirit dissolves in tears over the death of his dog but he bravely consigns his illegitimate children to the foundling asylum without one tremor. in his justly famous and justly infamous _confessions_, he presents himself satan-wise before the almighty at the last judgment, these _confessions_ in his hand, a challenge to the remainder of the human race upon his lips. "let a single one assert to thee, if he dare: i am better than that man." but his preachment of natural and spontaneous values, return to primitive conditions, was equally aggressive. if anyone wants to inspect the pit whence the montessori system of education was digged, let him read rousseau, who declared that the only habit a child should have is the habit of not having a habit, or his contemporary disciple, george moore, who says that one should be ashamed of nothing except of being ashamed. there are admirable features in the schooling-made-easy system. it recognizes the fitness of different minds for different work; that the process of education need not and should not be forbidding; that natural science has been subordinated overmuch to the humanities; that the imagination and the hand should be trained with the intellect. but the method which proposes to give children an education along the lines of least resistance is, like all other naturalism, a contradiction in terms, sometimes a _reductio ad absurdum_, sometimes _ad nauseam_. as long ago as 1893, when huxley wrote his romanes lecture on _evolution and ethics_, this identity of natural and human values was explicitly denied. teachers do not exist for the amusement of children, nor for the repression of children; they exist for the discipline of children. the new education is consistently primitivistic in the latitude which it allows to whim and in its indulgence of indolence. there is only one way to make a man out of a child; to teach him that happiness is a by-product of achievement; that pleasure is an accompaniment of labor; that the foundation of self-respect is drudgery well done; that there is no power in any system of philosophy, any view of the world, no view of the world, which can release him from the unchanging necessity of personal struggle, personal consecration, personal holiness in human life. "that wherein a man cannot be equaled," says confucius, "is his work which other men cannot see."[14] the humanist, at least, does not blink the fact that we are caught in a serious and difficult world. to rail at it, to deny it, to run hither and thither like scurrying rats to evade it, will not alter one jot or one tittle of its inexorable facts. [footnote 14: _doctrine of the mean_, ch. xxxiii, v. 2.] following rousseau and chateaubriand come a striking group of frenchmen who passed on this torch of ethical and aesthetic rebellion. some of them are wildly romantic like dumas and hugo; some of them perversely realistic like balzac, flaubert, gautier, zola. paul verlaine, a near contemporary of ours, is of this first number; writer of some of the most exquisite lyrics in the french language, yet a man who floated all his life in typical romantic fashion from passion to repentance, "passing from lust of the flesh to sorrow for sin in perpetual alternation." guy de maupassant again is a naturalist of the second sort, a brutal realist; de maupassant, who died a suicide, crying out to his valet from his hacked throat "_encore l'homme au rancart_!"--another carcass to the dustheap! in english letters wordsworth in his earlier verse illustrated the same sentimental primitivism. it would be unfair to quote _peter bell_, for that is wordsworth at his dreadful worst, but even in _tinlern abbey_, which has passages of incomparable majesty and beauty, there are lines in which he declares himself: "... well pleased to recognize in nature, and the language of the sense the anchor of my purest thought, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul of all my moral being." byron's innate sophistication saves him from the ludicrous depths to which wordsworth sometimes fell, but he, too, is rousseau's disciple, a moral rebel, a highly personal and subjective poet of whom goethe said that he respected no law, human or divine, except that of the three unities. byron's verse is fascinating; it overflows with a sort of desperate and fiery sincerity; but, as he himself says, his life was one long strife of "passion with eternal law." he combines both the romantic and the realistic elements of naturalism, both flames with elemental passion and parades his cynicism, is forever snapping his mood in _don juan_, alternating extravagant and romantic feeling with lines of sardonic and purposely prosaic realism. shelley is a naturalist, too, not in the realm of sordid values but of arcadian fancy. the pre-raphaelites belong here, together with a group of young englishmen who flourished between 1890 and 1914, of whom john davidson and richard middleton, both suicides, are striking examples. poor middleton turned from naturalism to religion at the last. when he had resolved on death, he wrote a message telling what he was about to do, parting from his friend with brave assumption of serenity. but he did not send the postcard, and in the last hour of that hired bedroom in brussels, with the bottle of chloroform before him, he traced across the card's surface "a broken and a contrite spirit thou wilt not despise." so there was humility at the last. one remembers rather grimly what the clown says in _twelfth night_, "pleasure will be paid some time or other." this same revolt against the decencies and conventions of our humanist civilization occupies a great part of present literature. how far removed from the clean and virile stoicism of george meredith or the honest pessimism of thomas hardy is arnold bennett's _the pretty lady_ or galsworthy's _the dark flower_. finally, in this country we need only mention, if we may descend so far, such naturalists in literature as jack london, robert chambers and gouverneur morris. one's only excuse for referring to them is that they are vastly popular with the people whom you and i try to interest in sermons, to whom we talk on religion! of course, this naturalism in letters has its accompanying and interdependent philosophic theory, its intellectual interpretation and defense. as kant is the noblest of the moralists, so i suppose william james and, still later, henri bergson and croce are the chief protagonists of unrestrained feeling and naturalistic values in the world of thought. to the neo-realists "the thing given" is alone reality. james' pragmatism frankly relinquishes any absolute standard in favor of relativity. in _the varieties of religious experience_, which professor babbitt tells us someone in cambridge suggested should have had for a subtitle "wild religions i have known," he is plainly more interested in the intensity than in the normality, in the excesses than in the essence of the religious life. indeed, professor babbitt quotes him as saying in a letter to charles eliot norton, "mere sanity is the most philistine and at the bottom most unessential of a man's attributes."[15] in the same way bergson, consistently anti-socratic and discrediting analytical intellect, insists that whatever unity may be had must come through instinct, not analysis. he refuses to recognize plato's _one in the many_, sees the whole universe as "a perpetual gushing forth of novelties," a universal and meaningless flux. surrender to this eternal flux, he appears to say, and then we shall gain reality. so he relies on impulse, instinct, his _elan vital_, which means, i take it, on man's subrational emotions. we call it intuitionism, but such philosophy in plain and bitter english is the intellectual defense and solemn glorification of impulse. "time," says bergson, "is a continuous stream, a present that endures."[16] time apparently is all. "life can have no purpose in the human sense of the word."[17] essentially, then, james, bergson and croce appeal from intellect to feeling. they return to primitivism. [footnote 15: letter to c.e. norton, june 30, 1904.] [footnote 16: _le perception de changement_, 30.] [footnote 17: _l'evolution creatrice_, 55.] here is a philosophy which obviously may be both as antihumanistic and as irreligious as any which could well be conceived. here is license in conduct and romanticism in expression going hand in hand with this all but exclusive emphasis upon relativity in thought. here is disorder, erected as a universal concept; the world conceived of as a vast and impenetrable veil which is hiding nothing; an intricacy without pattern. obviously so ungoverned and fluid a universe justifies uncritical and irresponsible thinking and living. we have tried thus to sketch that declension into paganism on the part of much of the present world, of which we spoke earlier in the chapter. it denies or ignores the humanistic law with its exacting moral and aesthetic standards; it openly flouts the attitude of obedience and humility before religious mandates, and, so far as opportunity offers or prudence permits, goes its own insolently wanton way. our world is full of dilettanti in the colleges, anarchists in the state, atheists in the church, bohemians in art, sybarites in conduct and ineffably silly women in society, who have felt, and occasionally studied the scientific and naturalistic movement just far enough and superficially enough to grasp the idea of relativity and to exalt it as sufficient and complete in itself. many of them are incapable of realizing the implications for conduct and belief which it entails. others of them, who are of the lesser sort, pulled by the imperious hungers of the flesh, the untutored instincts of a restless spirit, hating hellenic discipline no less than christian renunciation, having no stomach either for self-control or self-surrender, look out on the mass of endlessly opposing complexities of the modern world and gladly use that vision as an excuse for abandoning what is indeed the ever failing but also the ever necessary struggle to achieve order, unity, yes, even perfection. to them, therefore, the only way to conquer a temptation is to yield to it. they rail nonsensically at all repression, forgetting that man cannot express the full circle of his mutually exclusive instincts, and that when he gives rein to one he thereby negates another; that choice, therefore, is inevitable and that the more exacting and critical the choice, the more valuable and comprehensive the expression. so they frankly assert their choices along the lines of least resistance and abandon themselves, at least in principle, to emotional chaos and moral sentimentalism. very often they are of all men the most meticulously mannered. but their manners are not the decorum of the humanist, they are the etiquette of the worldling. chesterfield had these folk in mind when he spoke with an intolerable, if incisive, cynicism of those who know the art of combining the useful appearances of virtue with the solid satisfactions of vice. such naturalism is sometimes tolerated by those who aspire to urbane and liberal judgments because they think it can be defended on humanistic grounds. but, as a matter of fact, it is as offensive to the thoroughgoing humanist as it is to the sincere religionist. they have a common quarrel with it. take, for example, the notorious naturalistic doctrine of art for art's sake, the defiant divorcing of ethical and aesthetic values. civilization no less than religion must fight this. for it is as false in experience and as unclear in thinking as could well be imagined. its defense, so far as it has any, is based upon the confusion in the pagan mind of morality with moralizing, a confusion that no good humanist would ever permit himself. of course, the end of art is neither preaching nor teaching but delighting. for that very reason, however, art, too, must conform--hateful word!--conform to fixed standards. for the sense of proportion, the instinct for elimination, is integral to art and this, as professor babbitt points out, is attained only with the aid of the ethical imagination.[18] because without the ethical restraint, the creative spirit roams among unbridled emotions; art becomes impressionism. what it then produces may indeed be picturesque, melodramatic, sensual, but it will not be beautiful because there will be no imaginative wholeness in it. in other words, the artist who divorces aesthetics from ethics does gain creative license, but he gains it at the expense of a balanced and harmonious expression. if you do not believe it, compare the venus de milo with the venus de medici or a rubens fleshy, spilling-out-of-her-clothes magdalen with a donatello madonna. when ethical restraint disappears, art tends to caricature, it becomes depersonalized. the venus de milo is a living being, a great personage; indeed, a genuine and gracious goddess. the venus de medici has scarcely any personality at all; she is chiefly objectified desire! the essence of art is not spontaneous expression nor naked passion; the essence of art is critical expression, restrained passion. [footnote 18: _rousseau and romanticism_, p. 206.] now, such extreme naturalism has been the continuing peril and the arch foe of every successive civilization. it is the "reversion to type" of the scientist, the "natural depravity" of the older theology, the scoffing devil, with his eternal no! in goethe's _faust_. it tends to accept all powerful impulses as thereby justified, all vital and novel interests as _ipso facto_ beautiful and good. nothing desirable is ugly or evil. it pays no attention, except to ridicule them, to the problems that vex high and serious souls: what is right and wrong? what is ugly and beautiful? what is holy and what is profane? it either refuses to admit the existence of these questions or else asserts that, as insoluble, they are also negligible problems. to all such stupid moralizing it prefers the click of the castanets! the law, then, of this naturalism always and everywhere is the law of rebellion, of ruthless self-assertion, of whim and impulse, of cunning and of might. you may wonder why we, being preachers, have spent so much time talking about it. folk of this sort do not ordinarily flock to the stenciled walls and carpeted floors of our comfortable, middle-class protestant meeting-houses. they are not attracted by tiffany glass windows, nor the vanilla-flavored music of a mixed quartet, nor the oddly assorted "enrichments" we have dovetailed into a once puritan order of worship. that is true, but it is also true that these are they who need the gospel; also that these folk do influence the time-current that enfolds us and pervades the very air we breathe and that they and their standards are profoundly influencing the youth of this generation. you need only attend a few college dances to be sure of that! one of the sad things about the protestant preacher is his usual willingness to move in a strictly professional society and activity, his lack of extra-ecclesiastical interests, hence his narrow and unskillful observations and perceptions outside his own parish and his own field. moreover, there are other forms in which naturalism is dominating modern society. it began, like all movements, in literature and philosophy and individual bohemianism; but it soon worked its way into social and political and economic organizations. now, when we are dealing with them we are dealing with the world of the middle class; this is our world. and here we find naturalism today in its most brutal and entrenched expressions. here it confronts every preacher on the middle aisle of his sunday morning congregation. we are continually forgetting this because it is a common fallacy of our hard-headed and prosperous parishioners to suppose that the vagaries of philosophers and the maunderings of poets have only the slightest practical significance. but few things could be further from the truth. it is abstract thought and pure feeling which are perpetually moulding the life of office and market and street. it has sometimes been the dire mistake of preaching that it took only an indifferent and contemptuous interest in such contemporary movements in literature and art. its attitude toward them has been determined by temperamental indifference to their appeal. it forgets the significance of their intellectual and emotional sources. this is, then, provincialism and obtuseness and nowhere are they by their very nature more indefensible or more disastrous than in the preacher of religion. let us turn, then, to those organized expressions of society where our own civilization is strained the most, where it is nearest to the breaking point, namely, to our industrial and political order. let us ask ourselves if we do not find this naturalistic philosophy regnant there. that we are surrounded by widespread industrial revolt, that we see obvious political decadence on the one hand, and a determination to experiment with fresh governmental processes on the other, few would deny. it would appear to me that in both cases the revolt and the decadence are due to that fierce, short creed of rebellion against humane no less than religious standards, which has more and more governed our national economic systems and our international political intercourse. let me begin with business and industry as they existed before the war. i paint a general picture; there are many and notable exceptions to it, human idealism there is in plenty, but it and they only prove the rule. and as i paint the picture, ask yourselves the two questions which should interest us as preachers regarding it. first, by which of these three laws of human development, religious, humanistic, naturalistic, has it been largely governed? secondly, by what law are men now attempting to solve its present difficulties? the present industrial situation is the product of two causes. one of them was the invention of machinery and the discovery of steam transit. these multiplied production. they made accessible unexploited sources of raw material and new markets for finished goods. the opportunities for lucrative trading and the profitableness of overproduction which they made possible became almost immeasurable. before these discoveries western society was generally agricultural, accompanied by cottage industries and guild trades. it was largely made up of direct contacts and controlled by local interests. after them it became a huge industrial empire of ramified international relationships. the second factor in the situation was the intellectual and spiritual nature of the society which these inventions entered. it was, as we have seen, essentially humanistic. it believed much in the natural rights of man. the individual was justified, by the natural order, in seeking his separate good. if he only sought it hard enough and well enough the result would be for the general welfare of society. thus at the moment when mechanical invention offered unheard-of opportunities for material expansion and lucrative business, the thought and feeling of the community pretty generally sanctioned an individualistic philosophy of life. the result was tragic if inevitable. the new industrial order offered both the practical incentive and the theoretical justification for institutional declension from humane to primitive standards. it is not to be supposed that men slipped deliberately into paganism; the human mind is not so sinister as it is stupid nor so cruel as it is unimaginative nor so brutal as it is complacent. for the most part we do not really understand, in our daily lives, what we are about. hence society degenerated, as it always does, in the confident and stubborn belief that it was improving the time and doing god's service. but he that sitteth in the heavens must have laughed, he must have had us in derision! for upon what law, natural, human, divine, has this new empire been founded? that it has produced great humanists is gratefully conceded; that real spiritual progress has issued from its incidental cosmopolitanism is manifest; but which way has it fronted, what have been its characteristic emphases and its controlling tendencies? let its own works testify. it has created a world of new and extreme inequality, both in the distribution of material, of intellectual and of spiritual goods. here is a small group who own the land, the houses, the factories, machinery and the tools. here is a very large group, without houses, without tools, without land or goods. at this moment only 7 per cent of our 110,000,000 of american people have an income of $3,000 or more; only 1¼ per cent have an income of $5,000 or more! what law produced and justifies such a society? the unwritten law of heaven? no. the law of humanism, of confucius and buddha and epictetus and aurelius? no. the law of naked individualism; of might; force; cunning? yes. here in our american cities are the overwealthy and the insolently worldly people. they have their palatial town house, their broad inland acres; some of them have their seaside homes, their fish and game preserves as well. here in our american cities are the alien, the ignorant, the helpless, crowded into unclean and indecent tenements, sometimes 1,000 human beings to the acre. what justifies a pseudo-civilization which permits such tragic inequality of fortune? inequality of endowment? no. first, because there is no natural inequality so extreme as that; secondly, because no one would dare assert that these cleavages in the industrial state even remotely parallel the corresponding cleavages in the distribution of ability among mankind. what justifies it, then? the unwritten law of heaven? no. the law of humanism? no. the law of the jungle? yes. now for our second question. by what law, admitting many exceptions, are men on the whole trying to change this situation at once indecent and impious? this is a yet more important query. our world has obviously awakened to the rottenness in denmark. but where are we turning for our remedy? is it to the penitence and confession, the public-mindedness, the identification of the fate of the individual with the fate of the whole group which is the religious impulse? is it to a disinterested and even-handed justice, the high legalism of the golden rule, which would be the humanist's way? or is it to the old law of aggression and might transferring the gain thereof from the present exploiters to the recently exploited? it would appear to be generally true that society at this moment is not chiefly concerned with either love or justice, renunciation or discipline, not with the supplanting of the old order, but with perpetuating the naturalistic principle by means of a partial redivision of the spoils, a series of compromises, designed to make it more tolerable for one class of its former victims. thus in capital we have the autocratic corporation, atoning for past outrages on humanity by a well-advertised benevolent paternalism, calculated to make men comfortable so that they may not struggle to be free, or by huge gifts to education, to philanthropy, to religion. in labor we see men rising in brute fury against both employer and society. they deny the basic necessities of life to their fellow citizens; they bring the bludgeon of the picket down upon the head of the scab; by means of the closed shop they refuse the right to work to their brother craftsmen; they level the incapable men up and the capable men down by insisting upon uniformity of production and wage. thus they replace the artificial inequality of the aristocrat with the artificial equality of the proletariat, striving to organize a new tyranny for the old. it is significant that our society believes that this is the only way by which it can gain its rights. that betrays our real infidelity. for between the two, associated capital and associated labor, what is there to choose today? by what law, depending upon what sort of power, is each seeking its respective ends? by the unwritten law of heaven? no. by the humane law, some objective standard of common rights and inclusive justice? no! by the ancient law that the only effectual appeal is to might and that opportunity therefore justifies the deed? on the whole it is to this question that we must answer, yes! turn away now from national economics and industry to international politics. does not its _real politik_ make the philosophical naturalism of spencer and haeckel seem like child's play? for long there has been one code of ethics for the peaceful penetration of commercially desirable lands, for punitive expeditions against peoples possessed of raw materials, for international banking and finance and diplomatic intercourse, and another code for private honor and personal morality. there has been one moral scale of values for the father of his family and another for the same man as ward or state or federal politician; one code to govern internal disputes within the nation; another code to govern external disputes between nations. and what is this code that produced the prussian autocracy, that long insisted on the opium trade between india and china, that permitted the atrocities in the belgian congo, that sent first russia and then japan into port arthur and first germany and then japan into shantung, that insists upon retaining the turk in constantinople, that produced the already discredited treaty of versailles? what is the code that made the deadly rivalry of mounting armaments between army and army, navy and navy, of the europe before 1914? the code, to be sure, of cunning, of greed, of might; the materialism of the philosopher and the naturalism of the sensualist, clothed in grandiose forms and covered with the insufferable hypocrisy of solemn phrases. there are no conceivable ethical or religious interests and no humane goals or values that justify these things. international diplomacy and politics, economic imperialism, using political machinery and power to half-cloak, half-champion its ends, has no law of christian sacrifice and no law of greek moderation behind it. on the contrary, what should interest the christian preacher, as he regards it, is its sheer anarchy, its unashamed and naked paganism. its law is that of the unscrupulous and the daring, not that of the compassionate or the just. in what does scientific and emotional naturalism issue, then? in this; a man, if he be a man, will stand above divine or human law and make it operative only for the weaklings beneath. wherever opportunity offers he will consult his own will and gratify it to the full. to have, to get, to buy, to sell, to exploit the world for power, to exploit one's self for pleasure, this is to live. the only law is the old primitive snarl; each man for himself, let the devil take the hindmost. there is only one end to such naturalism and that is increasing anarchy. it means my will against your will; my appetite for gold, for land, for women, for luxury and beauty against your appetite; until at length it culminates in the open madness of physical violence, physical destruction, physical death and despair. there can be no other end to it. if men dare not risk being the lovers of their kind, then they must choose between being the slaves of duty or the slaves of force. what are we reading in the public prints and hearing from platform and stage? the unending wail for "rights"; the assertion of the individual. ceased is the chant of duty, forgotten the sacrifice of love! the events which have transformed the world since 1914 are an awful commentary upon such naturalism and a dreadful confirmation of our indictment. before the spectacle that many of us saw on those sodden fields of flanders, both humanist and religionist should be alike aghast. how childish not to perceive that its causes, as distinguished from its occasions, were common to our whole civilization. how perverse not to confess that beneath all our modern life, as its dominating motive, has lain that ruthless and pagan philosophy, which creates alike the sybarite, the tyrant and the anarch; the philosophy in which lust goes hand in hand with cruelty and unrestrained will to power is accompanied by unmeasured and unscrupulous force. it is incredible to me how men can take this delirium of self-destruction, this plunging of the sword into our own heart in a final frenzy of competing anarchy and deck it out with heroic and poetic values, fling over it the seamless robe of christ, unfurl above it the banner of the cross! the only contribution the world war has made to religion has been to throw into intolerable relief the essentially irreligious and inhumane character of our civilization. of course, the men and the ideals who actually fought the contest as distinguished from the men and ideals which precipitated it and determined its movements, fill gallant pages with their heroism and holy sacrifice. for wars are fought by the young at the dictation of the old, and youth is everywhere humane and poetic. thus, if i may be permitted to quote from a book of mine recently published: "our sons were bade to enter it as a 'war to end war,' a final struggle which should abolish the intolerable burdens of armaments and conscription. they were taught to exalt it as a strife for oppressed and helpless peoples; the prelude to a new brotherhood and cooperation among the nations, and to that reign of justice which is the antecedent condition of peace. "they did their part. with adventurous faith they glorified their cause and offered their fresh lives to make it good. their sacrifice, the idealism which lay behind it in their respective communities--the unofficial perceptions that they, the fathers and mothers and the boys, were fighting to vindicate the supremacy of the moral over the material factors of life--this has made an imperishable gift to the new world and our children's lives. when an entire commuity rises to something of magnanimity, and a nation identifies its fate with the lot of weaker states, then even mutilation and death may be gift-bringers to mankind. "but it is more significant to our purpose to note that the blood of youth had hardly ceased to run before the officials began to dicker for the material fruits of conquest. not how to obtain peace but how to exploit victory--to wrest each for himself the larger tribute from the fallen foe--became their primary concern. so the youth appear to have died for a tariff, perished for trade routes and harbors, for the furthering of the commercial advantages of this nation as against that, for the seizing of the markets of the world. they supposed they fought 'to end business of that sort' but they returned to find their accredited representatives contemplating universal military service in frank expectation of 'the next war.' they strove for the 'self-determination of peoples' but find that it was for some people, but not all. and as for the cooperation among nations, judge gary has recently told us that, as a result of the war, we should prepare for 'the fiercest commercial struggle in the history of mankind!'"[19] [footnote 19: _can the church survive_? pp. 14 ff.] is it not clear, then, today that behind the determining as distinguished from the fighting forces of the war there lay a commercial and financial imperialism, directed by small and powerful minorities, largely supported by a sympathetic press which used the machinery of representative democracy to overthrow a more naked and brutal imperialism whose machinery was that of a military autocracy? motives, scales of value, methods and desired ends, were much the same for all these small governing groups as they operated from behind the various shibboleths whose magic they used to nerve the arms of the contending forces. the conclusion of the war has revealed the common springs of action of the professional soldier, statesman, banker, ecclesiastic, in our present civilization. on the whole they accept the rule of physical might as the ultimate justification of conduct. they are the leaders and spokesmen in an economic, social and political establishment which, pretending to civilization, always turns when strained or imperiled by foreign or domestic dangers to physical force as the final arbiter. it is truly ominous to see the gradual extension of this naturalistic principle still going on in the state. the coal strike was settled, not by arbitration, but by conference, and "conferences" appear to be replacing disinterested arbitration. this means that decisions are being made on the principle of compromise, dictated by the expediency of the moment, not by reference to any third party, or to some fixed and mutually recognized standards. this is as old as pythagoras and as new as bergson and croce; it assumes that the concept of justice is man-made, produced and to be altered by expediences and practicalities, always in flux. but the essence of a civilization is the humanistic conviction that there is something fixed and abiding around which life may order and maintain itself. progress rests on the platonic theory that laws are not made by man but discovered by him; that they exist as eternal distinctions beyond the reach of his alteration. again, an unashamed and rampant naturalism has just been sweeping this country in the wave of mean and cruel intolerance which insists upon the continued imprisonment of political heretics, which would prohibit freedom of speech by governmental decree and oppose new or distasteful ideas by the physical suppression of the thinker. the several and notorious attempts beginning with deportations and ending with the unseating of the new york assemblymen, to combat radical thinking by physical or political persecution--attempts uniformly mean and universally impotent in history--are as sinister as they are stupid. the only law which justifies the persecution and imprisonment of religious and political heretics is neither the law of reason nor the law of love, but the law of fear, hence of tyranny and force. when a twentieth-century nation begins to raise the ancient cry, "come now and let us kill this dreamer and we shall see what will become of his dreams," that nation is declining to the naturalistic level. for this clearly indicates that the humane and religious resources of civilization, of which the church is among the chief confessed and appointed guardians, are utterly inadequate to the strain imposed upon them. hence force, not justice, though they may sometimes have happened to coincide, and power, not reason or faith, are becoming the embodiment of the state today. we come now to the final question of our chapter. how has this renewal of naturalism affected the church and christian preaching? on the whole today, the protestant church is accepting this naturalistic attitude. in a signed editorial in the _new republic_ for the last week of december, 1919, herbert croly said, under the significant title of "disordered christianity": "both politicians and property owners consider themselves entitled to ignore christian guidance in exercising political and economic power, to expect or to compel the clergy to agree with them and if necessary to treat disagreement as negligible. the christian church, as a whole, or in part, does not protest against the practically complete secularization of political, economic and social life." you may say such extra-ecclesiastical strictures are unsympathetic and ill informed. but here is what washington gladden wrote in january, 1918: "if after the war the church keeps on with the same old religion, there will be the same old hell on earth that religious leaders have been preparing for centuries, the full fruit of which we are gathering now. the church must cease to sanction those principles of militaristic and atheistic nationalism by which the rulers of the earth have so long kept the earth at war."[20] thus from within the sanctuary is the same indictment of our naturalism. [footnote 20: the _pacific_, january 17, 1918.] but you may say dr. gladden was an old man and a little extreme in some of his positions and he belonged to a past generation. but there are many signs at the present moment of the increasing secularizing of our churches. the individualism of our services, their casual character, their romantic and sentimental music, their minimizing of the offices of prayer and devotion, their increasing turning of the pulpit into a forum for political discussion and a place of common entertainment all indicate it. there is an accepted secularity today about the organization. church and preacher have, to a large degree, relinquished their essential message, dropped their religious values. we are pretty largely today playing our game the world's way. we are adopting the methods and accepting the standards of the market. in an issue last month of the _inter-church bulletin_ was the following headline: "christianity hand in hand with business," and underneath the following: "george w. wickersham, formerly united states attorney-general, says in an interview that there is nothing incompatible between christianity and modern business methods. a leading lay official of the episcopal church declares that what the churches need more than anything else is a strong injection of business method into their management. 'some latter-day henry drummond,' he said, 'should write a book on business law in the spiritual world.'" in this same paper, in the issue of march 27, 1920, there was an article commending christian missions. the first caption ran: "commercial progress follows work of protestant missions," and its subtitle was "how missionaries aid commerce." here is business law in the spiritual world! here is the church commended to the heathen and the sinner as an advertising agent, an advance guard of commercial prosperity, a hawker of wares! if the _bulletin_ ever penetrates to those benighted lands of the orient upon which we are thus anxious to bestow the so apparent benefits of our present civilization it is conceivable that even the untutored savage, to say nothing of chinamen and japanese, might read it with his tongue in his cheek. such naïve opportunism and frantic immediacy would seem to me conclusive proof of the disintegration and anarchy of the spirit within the sanctuary. it is a part of it all that everyone has today what he is pleased to call "his own religion." and nearly everyone made it himself, or thinks he did. conscience has ceased to be a check upon personal impulse, the "thou shalt not" of the soul addressed to untutored desires, and become an amiable instinct for doing good to others. the christian is an effusive creature, loving everything and everybody; exalting others in terms of himself. we abhor religious conventions; in particular we hasten to proclaim that we are free from the stigma of orthodoxy. we do not go to church to learn, to meditate, to repent and to pray; we go to be happy, to learn how to keep young and prosperous; it is good business; it pays. we have a new and most detestable cant; someone has justly said that the natural man in us has been masquerading as the spiritual man by endlessly prating of "courage," "patriotism"--what crimes have been committed in its name!--"development of backward people," "brotherhood of man," "service of those less fortunate than ourselves," "natural ethical idealism," "the common destinies of nations"--and now he rises up and glares at us with stained fingers and bloodshot eyes![21] in so far as we have succumbed to naturalism, we have become cold and shrewd and flexible; shallow and noisy and effusive; have been rather proud to believe anything in general and almost nothing in particular; become a sort of religious jelly fish, bumping blindly about in seas of sentiment and labeling that peace and brotherhood and religion! [footnote 21: _rousseau and romanticism_, p. 376.] here, then, is the state of organized religion today in our churches. they are voluntary groups of men and women, long since emancipated from the control of the church as such, or of the minister as an official, set free also from allegiance to historic statements, traditional, intellectual sanctions of our faith; moulded by the time spirit which enfolds them to a half-unconscious ignoring or depreciation of what must always be the fundamental problem of religion--the relationship of the soul, not to its neighbor, but to god. hence the almost total absence of doctrinal preaching--indeed, how dare we preach christian doctrine to the industry and politics and conduct of this age? hence the humiliating striving to keep up with popular movements, to conform to the moment. hence the placid acceptance of military propaganda and even of vindictive exhortation. is it any wonder then that we cannot compete with the state or the world for the loyalty of men and women? we have no substitute to offer. who need be surprised at the restlessness, the fluidity, the elusiveness of the protestant laity? and who need wonder that at this moment we are depending upon the externals of machinery, publicity and money to reinstate ourselves as a spiritual society in the community? a well-known official of our communion, speaking before a meeting of ministers in new york city on tuesday, march 23, was quoted in the _springfield republican_ of the next day as saying: "the church holds the only cure for the possible anarchy of the future and offers the only preventative for the hell which we have had for the last five years. but to meet this challenge the church can only go as far--as the money permits." has not the time arrived when, if we are to find ourselves again in the world, we should ask, what is this religion in which we believe? what is the real nature of its resources? what the real nature of its remedies? do we dare define it? and, if we do, would we dare to assert it, come out from the world and live for it, in the midst of the paganism of this moment? is it true that without the loaves and the fishes we can do nothing? if so, then we, too, have succumbed to naturalism indeed! chapter four the unmeasured gulf you may remember that when daniel webster made his reply to hayne in the senate he began the argument by a return to first principles. "when the mariner," said he, "has been tossed for many days in thick weather and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first pause in the storm, the earliest glance of the sun, to take his latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from his true course. let us imitate this prudence and before we float further on the waves of this debate, refer to the point from which we departed." he then asked for the reading of the resolution. it is to some such rehearsing of our original message, a restatement of the thesis which we, as preachers, are set to commend, that we turn ourselves in these pages. the brutal dislocations of the war, and the long and confused course of disintegrating life that lay behind it, have driven civilization from its true course and deflected the church from her normal path, her natural undertakings. let us try, then, to get back to our charter; define once more what we really stand for; view our human life, not as captain of industry, or international politician, or pagan worldling, or even classic hero, would regard it, but see it through the eyes of a paul, an augustine, a bernard, a luther, the lord jesus. we have already remarked how timely and necessary is this redefining of our religious values. if, as lessing said, it is the end of education to make men to see things that are large as large and things that are small as small, it is even more truly the end of christian preaching. what we are most in need of today is a corrected perspective of our faith; without it we darken counsel as we talk in confusion. so, while we may not attempt here a detailed and reasoned statement of religious belief, we may try to say what is the fundamental attitude, both toward nature and toward man, that lies underneath the religious experience. we have seen that we are not stating that attitude very clearly nowadays in our pulpits; hence we are often dealing there with sentimental or stereotyped or humane or even pagan interpretations. yet nothing is more fatal for us; if we peddle other men's wares they will be very sure that we despise our own. we approach, then, the third and final level of experience to which we referred in the first lecture. we have seen that the humanist accepts the law of measure; he rests back upon the selected and certified experience of his race; from within himself, as the noblest inhabitant of the planet, and by the further critical observation of nature he proposes to interpret and guide his life. he is convinced that this combined authority of reason and observation will lead to the _summum bonum_ of the golden mean in which unbridled self-expression will be seen as equally unwise and indecent and ascetic repression as both unworthy and unnecessary. it is important to again remind ourselves that confidence in the human spirit as the master of its own fate, and in reason and natural observation as offering it the means of this self-control and understanding, are essential humanistic principles. the humanist world is rational, social, ethical. over against this reasonable and disciplined view of man and of his world stands naturalism. it exploits the defects of the classic "virtue"; it is, so to speak, humanism run to seed. just as religion so often sinks into bigotry, cruelty and superstitition, so humanism, in lesser souls, declines to egotism, license and sentimentality. naturalism, either by a shallow and insincere use of the materialistic view of the universe, or by the exalting of wanton feeling and whimsical fancy as ends in themselves, attempts the identification of man with the natural order, permits him to conceive of each desire, instinct, impulse, as, being natural, thereby defensible and valuable. hence it permits him to disregard the imposed laws of civilization--those fixed points of a humane order--and to return in principle, and so far as he dares in action, to the unlimited and irresponsible individualism of the horde. inevitably the law of the jungle is deliberately exalted, or unconsciously adopted, over against the humanist law of moderation and discipline. the humanist, then, critically studies nature and mankind, finding in her matrix and in his own spirit data for the guidance of the race, improving upon it by a cultivated and collective experience. the naturalist uncritically exalts nature, seeks identification with it so that he may freely exploit both himself and it. the faith of the one is in the self-sufficiency of the disciplined spirit of mankind; the unfaith of the other is in its glorification of the natural world and in its allegiance to the momentary devices and desires of the separate heart. it will be borne in mind that these definitions are too clear-cut; that these divisions appear in the complexities of human experience, blurred and modified by the welter of cross currents, subsidiary conflicting movements, which obscure all human problems. they represent genuine and significant divisions of thought and conduct. but they appear in actual experience as controlling emphases rather than mutually exclusive territories. now, the clearest way to get before us the religious view of the world and the law which issues from it is to contrast it with the other two. in the first place, the religious temperament takes a very different view of nature than either romantic, or to a less degree scientific, naturalism. naturalism is subrational on the one hand or non-imaginative on the other, in that it emphasizes the _continuity_ between man and the physical universe. the religious man is superrational and nobly imaginative as he emphasizes the _difference_ between man and nature. he does not forget man's biological kinship to the brute, his intimate structural and even psychological relation to the primates, but he is aware that it is not in dwelling upon these facts that his spirit discovers what is distinctive to man as man. that he believes will be found by accenting the _chasm_ between man and nature. he does not know how to conceive of a personal being except by thinking of him as proceeding by other, though not conflicting, laws and by moving toward different secondary ends from those laws and ends which govern the impersonal external world. this sense of the difference between man and nature he shares with the humanist, only the humanist does not carry it as far as he does and hence may not draw from it his ultimate conclusions. the religious view, then, begins with the perception of man's isolation in the natural order; his difference from his surroundings. that sense of separateness is fundamental to the religious nature. the false sentiment and partial science of the pagan which stresses the identification of man and beast is the first quarrel that religionist and humanist alike have with him. neither of them sanctions this perversion of thought and feeling which either projects the impressionistic self so absurdly and perilously into the natural order, or else minimizes man's imaginative and intellectual power, leveling him down to the amoral instinct of the brute. "how much more," said jesus, "is a man better than a sheep!" one of the greatest of english humanists was matthew arnold. you remember his sonnet, entitled, alas! "to a preacher," which runs as follows: "in harmony with nature? restless fool, who with such heat doth preach what were to thee, when true, the last impossibility- to be like nature strong, like nature cool! know, man hath all which nature hath, but more, and in that more lie all his hopes of good, nature is cruel, man is sick of blood; nature is stubborn, man would fain adore; nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; nature forgives no debt and fears no grave; man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. man must begin; know this, where nature ends; nature and man can never be fast friends. fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave!" religionist and humanist alike share this clear sense of separateness. literature is full of the expression of it. religion, in especial, has little to do with the natural world as such. it is that other and inner one, which can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell, with which it is chiefly concerned. who can forget othello's soliloquy as he prepares to darken his marriage chamber before the murder of his wife? "put out the light, and then put out the light. if i quench thee, thou flaming minister, i can again thy former light restore, should i repent me; but once put out thy light, thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, i know not where is that promethean heat, that can thy light relume. when i have pluck'd the rose i cannot give it vital growth again, it needs must wither." indeed, how vivid to us all is this difference between man and nature. "i would to heaven," byron traced on the back of the manuscript of _don juan_, "i would to heaven that i were so much clay, as i am bone, blood, marrow, passion, feeling." ah me! so at many times would most of us. and in that sense that we are not is where the religious consciousness takes its beginning. here is the sense of the gap between man and the natural world felt because man has no power over it. he cannot swerve nor modify its laws, nor do his laws acknowledge its ascendency over them. but what makes the gulf deeper is the sense of the immeasurable moral difference between a thinking, feeling, self-estimating being and all this unheeding world about him. whatever it is that looks out from the windows of our eyes something not merely of wonder and desire but also of fear and repulsion must be there as it gazes into so cruel as well as so alien an environment. for a moral being to glorify nature as such is pure folly or sheer sentimentality. for he knows that her apparent repose and beauty is built up on the ruthless and unending warfare of matched forces, it represents a dreadful equilibrium of pain. he knows, too, that that in him which allies him with this natural world is his baser, not his better part. this nobly pessimistic attitude toward the natural universe and toward man so far as he shares in its characteristics, is found in all classic systems of theology and has dominated the greater part of christian thinking. if it is ignored today by the pseudo-religionists and the sentimentalists; it is clearly enough perceived by contemporary science and contemporary art. the biologist understands it. "i know of no study," wrote thomas huxley, "which is so unutterably saddening as that of the evolution of humanity as set forth in the annals of history. out of the darkness of prehistoric ages man emerges with the marks of his lowly origin strong upon him. he is a brute, only more intelligent than the other brutes; a blind prey to impulses which as often as not lead him to destruction; a victim to endless illusions which make his mental existence a terror and a burden, and fill his physical life with barren toil and battle. he attains a certain degree of comfort, and develops a more or less workable theory of life in such favorable situations as the plains of mesopotamia or of egypt, and then, for thousands and thousands of years struggles with various fortunes, attended by infinite wickedness, bloodshed and misery, to maintain himself at this point against the greed and ambition of his fellow men. he makes a point of killing and otherwise persecuting all those who first try to get him to move on; and when he has moved a step farther he foolishly confers post-mortem deification on his victims. he exactly repeats the process with all who want to move a step yet farther."[22] [footnote 22: "agnosticism," the _nineteenth century_, february, 1889.] and no less does the artist, the man of high and correct feeling, perceive the immeasurable distance between uncaring nature and suffering men and women. there is, for instance, the passage in _the education of henry adams_, in which adams speaks of the death of his sister at bagni di lucca. "in the singular color of the tuscan atmosphere, the hills and vineyards of the apennines seemed bursting with midsummer blood. the sick room itself glowed with the italian joy of life; friends filled it; no harsh northern lights pierced the soft shadows; even the dying woman shared the sense of the italian summer, the soft velvet air, the humor, the courage, the sensual fullness of nature and man. she faced death, as women mostly do, bravely and even gayly, racked slowly to unconsciousness but yielding only to violence, as a soldier sabred in battle. for many thousands of years, on these hills and plains, nature had gone on sabring men and women with the same air of sensual pleasure. "impressions like these are not reasoned or catalogued in the mind; they are felt as a part of violent emotion; and the mind that feels them is a different one from that which reasons; it is thought of a different power and a different person. the first serious consciousness of nature's gesture--her attitude toward life--took form then as a phantasm, a nightmare, an insanity of force. for the first time the stage scenery of the senses collapsed; the human mind felt itself stripped naked, vibrating in a void of shapeless energies, with resistless mass, colliding, crushing, wasting and destroying what these same energies had created and labored from eternity to perfect." here is a vivid interpretation of a universal human experience. might not any one of us who had endured it turn upon the pagan and sentimentalist, crying in the mood of a swift or a voltaire, "_ca vous amuse, la vie_"? the abstract natural rights of the eighteenth century smack of academic complacency before this. the indignation we feel against the insolent individualism of a louis xiv who cried "_l'état c'est moi_!" or against the industrial overlord who spills the tears of women for his ambition, the sweat of the children for his greed, is as nothing beside the indignation with the natural order which any biological study would arouse except as the scientist perceives that indignation is, for him, beside the point and the religionist believes that it proceeds from not seeing far enough into the process. this is why there is an essential absurdity in any naturalistic system of ethics. even the clown can say, "here's a night that pities neither wise men nor fools." this common attitude of the religionist toward nature as a remote and cruel world, alien to our spirits, is abundantly reflected in literature. it finds a sort of final consummation in the intuitive insight, the bright understanding of the creative spirits of our race. what aristotle defines as the tragic emotions, the sense of the terror and the pity of human life, arise partly from this perception of the isolation always and keenly felt by dramatist and prophet and poet. they know well that nature does not exist by our law; that we neither control nor understand it; is it not our friend? there is, then, the law of identity between man and nature, found in their common physical origin; there is also the law of difference. it is on that aspect of reality that religion places its emphasis. it is with this approach to understanding ourselves that preachers, as distinguished from scientists, deal. our present society is traveling farther and farther away from reality in so far as it turns either to the outside world of fact, or to the domain of natural law, expecting to find in these the elements of insight for the fresh guidance of the human spirit. not there resides the secret of the beings of whom shelley said, "we look before and after and pine for what is not, our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught." instinct is a base, a prime factor, part of the matrix of personality. but personality is not instinct; it is instinct plus a different force; instinct transformed by spiritual insight and controlled by moral discipline. the man of religion, therefore, finds himself not in one but two worlds, not indeed mutually exclusive, having a common origin, but nevertheless significantly distinct. each is incomplete without the other, each in a true sense non-existent without the other. but that which is most vital to man's world is unknown in the domain of nature. already the perception of a dualism is here. but now a third element comes into it. there is something spiritually common to nature and man behind the one, within the other. this something is the origin, the responsible agent for man's and nature's physical identity. this something binds the separates into a sort of whole. this, i suppose, is what professor hocking refers to when he says, "the original source of the knowledge of god is an experience which might be described as of _not being alone in knowing the world_, and especially the world of nature."[23] thus the religious man recognizes beyond the gulf, behind the chasm, something more like himself than it. when he contemplates nature, he sees something other than nature; not a world which is what it seems to be, but a world whose chief significance is that it is more than it seems to be. it is a world where appearance and reality are inextricably mingled and yet sublimely and significantly separate. in short, the naturalist, the pagan, takes the world as it stands; it is just what it appears; the essence of his irreligion is that he perceives nothing in it that needs to be explained. but the religionist knows that the world which lies before our mortal vision so splendid and so ruthless, so beautiful and so dreadful, does really gain both its substance and significance from immaterial and unseen powers. it is significant not in itself but because it hides the truth. it points forever to a beyond. it is the vague and insubstantial pageant of a dream. behind it, within the impenetrable shadows, stands the infinite watcher of the sons of men. [footnote 23: _the meaning of god in human experience_, p. 236.] in every age religious souls have voiced this unearthliness of reality, the noble other-worldliness of the goals of the natural order. "heard melodies are sweet, but unheard melodies are sweeter." poet, philosopher and mystic have sung their song or proclaimed their message knowing that they were moving about in worlds not realized, clearly perceiving the incompleteness of the phenomenal world and the delusive nature of sense perceptions. they have known a reality which they could not comprehend; felt a presence which they could not grasp. they have found strength for the battle and peace for the pain by regarding nature as a dim projection, a tantalizing intimation of that other, conscious and creative life, that originating and directive force, which is not nature any more than the copper wire is the electric fluid which it carries--a force which was before it, which moves within it, which shall be after it. so poet and believer and mystic find the key to nature, the interpretation of that alien and cruel world, not by sinking to its indifferent level, not by sentimental exaltation of its specious peace, its amoral cruelty and beauty, but by regarding it as the expression, the intimation rather, of a purposive intelligence, a silent and infinite force, beyond it all. so the pagan effuses over nature, gilding with his sentimentality the puddles that the beasts would cough at. and the scientist is interested in efficient causes, seeing nature as an unbroken sequence, an endless uniformity of cause and effect, against whose iron chain the spirit of mankind wages a foredoomed but never ending revolt. but the religionist, confessing the ruthless indifference, the amorality which he distrusts and fears, and not denying the majestic uniformity of order, nevertheless declares that these are not self-made, that the amorality is but one half and that the confusing half of the tale. the whole creation indeed groaneth and travaileth in pain, but for a final cause, which alone interprets or justifies it, and which eventually shall set it free. as a matter of fact, nearly all poets and artists thus view nature in the light of final causes, though often instinctively and unconsciously so. for what they sing or paint or mould is not the landscape that we see, the flesh we touch, but the life behind it, the light that never was on land or sea. what they give us is not a photograph or an inventory--it is worlds away from such naïve and lying realism. but they hint at the inexpressible behind expression; paint the beauty which is indistinguishable from nature but not identical with nature. they make us see that not she, red in tooth and claw, but that intangible and supernal something-more, is what gives her the cleansing bath of loveliness. no reflective or imaginative person needs to be greatly troubled, therefore, by any purely mechanical or materialistic conception of the universe. they who would commend that view of the cosmos have not only to reckon with philosophical and religious idealism, but also with all the bright band of poets and artists and seers. such an issue once resolutely forced would therewith collapse, for it would pit the qualitative standards against the quantitative, the imagination against literalism, the creative spirit in man against the machine in him. here, then, is the difference between the naturalist's and the religionist's attitude toward nature. the believer judges nature, well aware of the gulf between himself and her, hating with inexpressible depth of indignation and repudiating with profound contempt the sybarite's identification of human and natural law. but also he comes back to her, not to accept in wonder her variable outward form, but to worship in awe before her invariable inner meaning. sometimes, like so many of the humanists, he rises only to a vague sense of the mystic unity that fills up the interspaces of the world, and cries with wordsworth: "... and i have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man; a motion and a spirit, that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things."[24] sometimes he dares to personalize this ultimate and then ascends to the supreme poetry of the religious experience and feels the cosmic consciousness, the eternal "i" of this strange world, which fills it with observant majesty. and then he chants, "the heavens declare the glory of god, the firmament showeth his handiwork." or he whispers, "whither shall i go from thy spirit, or whither shall i flee from thy presence? if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there, if i make my bed in hell, behold thou art there, if i take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the earth, even there shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall hold me."[25] indeed, the devout religionist almost never thinks of nature as such. she is always the bush which flames and is not consumed. therefore he walks softly all his days, conscious that god is near. "of old," he says, "thou hast laid the foundations of the earth; and the heavens are the work of thy hands. they shall perish, but thou shalt endure; yea, all of them shall wax old like a garment; as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed; but thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end."[26] to him nature is the glass through which he sees darkly and often with a darkling mind, the all-pervasive presence; it is the veil--the veil that covers the face of god. [footnote 24: _lines composed a few miles above tintern abbey_, stanza 3, ll. 36-45.] [footnote 25: psalm cxxxix. 7-9.] [footnote 26: psalm cii. 25-27.] here, then, we have the contrasting attitude of worldling and believer toward nature, the outward universe. now we come to the contrasting attitude of humanist and believer toward man, the world within. for why are we so sure, first, of the chasm between ourselves and nature and, second, that we can bridge that chasm by reaching out to something behind and beyond her which is more like us than her? what gives us the key to her dualism? why do we think that there is something which perpetually beckons to us through her, makes awful signs of an intimate and significant relationship? because we feel a similar chasm, an equal cleft in our own hearts, a division in the moral nature of mankind. we know that gulf between us and the outward world because we know the greater gulf between flesh and spirit, between the natural man and the real man, between the "i" and the "other i." here is where the humanist bids us good-by and we must go forward on our road alone. for he will not acknowledge that there is anything essential or permanent in that divided inner world; he would minimize it or explain it away. but we know it is there and the reason we know there is something without which can bridge the outer chasm is because we also know there is something-else within which might bridge this one. for we who are religious know that within the depths and the immensities of this inner world, where there is no space but where there is infinite largeness, where there is no time but where there is perpetual strife, there is something-else as well as the "i" and the "other i," and it is that he who is the something-else who alone can close the gap in that divided kingdom and make us one with ourselves, hence with himself and hence with his world. you ask how we can say, "he's there; he knows." we answer that this "other," this "he" is a constant figure in the experience; always in the vision; an integral part of the perception. what is he like? "he" is purity and compassion and inexorableness. something fixed, immutable, not to be tricked, not to be evaded and oh! all-comprehending. he sees, his eyes run to and fro in all the dark and wide, the light and high dominions of the soul. if we will not come to terms with "him," that eternal and changeless life will be the cliff against which the tumultuous waves of the divided spirit shall shatter and dissipate into soundless foam; if we will come to terms, relinquish, accept, surrender, then that purity and that compassion will be the cleansing tide, the healing and restoring flood in which we sink in the ecstasy of self-loss to arise refreshed, radiant, and made whole. so we reckon from within out. the religious view of the world is based upon the religious experience of the soul. we have no other means of getting at reality. i know that there is something-more than me and something-more than the nature outside of me, because we know that there is something which is not me and is not nature, inside of me. so the man of religion, like any other poet, artist, seer, looks in his own heart and writes. what he finds there is real, or else, as far as he is concerned, there is no reality. he does not assert that this reality is the final and utter truth. but he knows it is his trustworthy mediator of that truth. here, then, is an immense separation between religionist and both humanist and naturalist; a separation so complete as to come full circle. we are convinced of the secondary value, both of natural appearances and of the mortal, temporal consciousness. so we substitute for impertinent familiarity with nature, a reverent regard for what she half reveals, half hides. we interpret her by ourselves. we are the same compound of identity and difference. we acknowledge our continuity with the natural world, our intimate and tragic alliance with the dust, but we also know that we, within ourselves, are something-else as well. and it is that something-else in us which makes the significant part of us, which sets our value and place in the scale of being. in short, the dualism of nature is revealed in the dualism of the soul. there is a gulf within, and if only man can span the inner chasm, he will know how to bridge the outer. he must begin by finding god within himself, or he will never find him anywhere. now, it is out of this sense of a separation within himself, from himself and from the author of himself, that there arises that awful sense of helplessness, of dependence, of bewilderment, which is the second great element in the religious life. man is alone in the world; man is helpless in the world; man ought not to be alone in the world; man is therefore under scrutiny and condemnation; he must find reconciliation, harmony, companionship, somehow, somewhere. hence the religious man is not arrogant like the pagan, nor proud like the humanist; he is humble. it is burke, i think, who says that the whole ethical life of man has its roots in this humility.[27] the religious man cannot help but be humble. he has an awful pride in his kinship with heaven, but, standing before the lord of heaven, he feels human nature's proper place, its confusion and division and helplessness; its dependence upon the higher power. [footnote 27: _correspondence_, iii, p. 213.] it is at this point that humanism and religion definitely part company. the former does not feel this absolute and judging presence, hence cannot understand the spiritual solicitude of the latter. st. paul was not quite at home on mars hill; it was hard to make those who were always hearing and seeing some new thing understand; the shame and humility of the cross were an unnecessary foolishness to them. so they have always been. the humanist cannot take seriously this sense of a transcendent reality. when cicero, to escape the vengeance of clodius, withdrew from rome, he passed over into greece and dwelt for a while in thessalonica. one day he saw mount olympus, the lofty and eternal home of the deities of ancient greece. "but i," said the bland eclectic philosopher, "saw nothing but snow and ice." how inadequate, then, as a substitute for religion, is even the noblest humanism. true and fine as far as it goes, it does not go far enough for us. it takes too little account of the divided life. it appears not to understand it. on the whole it refuses to acknowledge that it really exists, or, if it does, it is convinced of man's unaided ability to efface it. it isn't something inevitable. hence the pride which is an essential quality of the humanistic attitude. but the religious man knows that it does exist and that while he is not wholly responsible for it, yet he is essentially so and that, alas, in spite of that fact, he alone cannot bridge it. so he cries, "wretched man that i am, what shall i do to be saved?" here is the feeling of uneasiness, the sense of something being wrong about us as we naturally stand, of which james speaks. in that sense of responsibility is the confession of sin and in the confession of sin is the acknowledgment of the impotence of the sinner. "the moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on nor all your wit nor all your tears, can wash a line of it." man cannot, unaided, make his connection with this higher power. the world is at fault, yes, but we are at fault, something both within and without dreadfully needs explaining. so man is subdued and troubled by the infinite mystery; and he cannot accept the place in which he finds himself in that mystery; he is ashamed of it. vivid, then, is his sense of helplessness! it makes him resent the humanist, who bids him, unaided, solve his fate and be a man. that is giving him stones when he asks for bread. he knows that advice makes an inhuman demand upon the will; it assumes a reasonableness, an insight and a moral power, which for him do not exist; it ignores or it denies the reality and the meaning of this inner gulf. it is important to note that even as philosophy and art and literature soon parted company with the naturalist, so, to a large degree, they part company with the humanist, too. they do not know very much of an harmonious and triumphant universe. few of the world's creative spirits have ever denied that inner chasm or minimized its tragic consequences to mankind. isaiah and paul and john and augustine and luther are wrung with the consciousness of it. indeed, the antithesis between flesh and spirit is too familiar in religious literature to need any recounting. it is more vividly brought home to us from the nonprofessional, the disinterested and involuntary testimony of secular writing. was there ever such a cry of revolt on the part of the trapped spirit against the net and slough of natural values and natural desires as runs through the sonnets of william shakespeare? we remember the 104th: "poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, foiled by these rebel powers that thee array, why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, painting thine outward walls so costly gay? why so large cost, having so short a lease, dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? shall worms, inheritors of this excess, eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss and let that pine to aggravate thy store, buy terms divine in selling hours of dross within be fed, without be rich no more--" or turn to our contemporary poet, james stephens: "good and bad are in my heart but i cannot tell to you for they never are apart which is the better of the two. i am this: i am the other and the devil is my brother and my father he is god and my mother is the sod, therefore i am safe, you see owing to my pedigree. so i cherish love and hate like twin brothers in a nest lest i find when it's too late that the other was the best."[28] here, then, we find the next thing which grows out of man's sense of separation both from nature and from his own best self. it is his moral judgment on himself as well as on the world outside, and that power to judge shows that he is greater than either. as dr. gordon says, "every honest man lives under the shadow of his own rebuke." we can go far with the humanist in acknowledging the failures that are due to environment, to incompleteness, to ignorance; we do not forget the helpless multitude who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death; and we agree with the scientist that their helplessness foredooms them and that their fate cannot be laid to their charge. but we go far beyond where scientist and humanist stop. for we know that the deepest cause of human misery is not inheritance, is not environment, is not ignorance, is not incompleteness; it is the informed but the perverse human will. just as unhappiness is the consciousness of the divided mind, so guilt is this sense of the deliberately divided will. jonathan swift knew that; on every yearly recurrence of the hour in which he came into the world, he cried lamentably, "let the day perish wherein i was born." [footnote 28: _songs from the clay_, p. 40.] the lord jesus knew it, too. his teaching, unlike that of paul, does not throw into the foreground the divided will and its accompanying sense of sin and guilt. but he does not ignore it. he brought it out with infinite tenderness but inexorable clearness in the parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin and the lost boy. the sheep were but young and silly, they did not wish to be lost on the mountain-side; they knew no better; inexperience, ignorance were theirs, and for their sad estate they were not held responsible. for them the compassionate shepherd sought until he found them in the wilds, took them, involuntary burdens, on his heart, brought them back to safety and the fold. the coin had no native affinity with the dirt and grime of the careless woman's house. it was only a coin, attached to anklet or bracelet, having no power, no independence of its own; where it fell, there must it lie. so with the lives set by fate in the refuse and grime of our industrial civilization, the pure minted gold effectually concealed by the obscurity and filth around. for such lives, victims of environment, the father will search, too, until they are found, taken up, and somewhere, in this world or another, restored to their native worth. but the chief of the parables, and the one that has captured the imagination and subdued the heart of mankind, because it so true to the greater part of life, is the story of the lost boy. for he was the real sinner and he was such because, knowing what he was about and able to choose, he desired to do wrong. it was not ignorance, nor environment, nor inheritance, that led him into the far country. it was its alien delights and their alien nature, for which as such he craved. how subtle and certain is the word of jesus here. no shepherd seeks this wandering sheep; no householder searches for this lost coin. the boy who willed to do wrong must stay with the swine among the husks until he wills to do right. then, when he desires to return, return is made possible and easy, but the responsibility is forever his. the source of his misery is his own will. so the disposition of mankind is at the bottom of the suffering and the division. there is rebellion and perverseness mingled with the helplessness and ignorance and sorrow. no man ever understands or can speak to the religious life unless he has the consciousness of this inner moral cleft. no man will ever be able to preach with power about god unless he does it chiefly in terms of god's difference from man and man's perilous estate and desperate need of him. indeed, god is not like us, not like this inner life of ours; this is what we want to hear. god is different; that is why we want to be able to love him. and being thus different, we are separated from him, both by the inner chasm of the divided soul and the outer chasm of remote and hostile nature. then comes the final question: how are we, being helpless, to reach him? how are we, being guilty, to find him? when men deal with these queries, with this range of experience, this set of inward perceptions, then they are preaching religiously. and then, i venture to say, they do not fail either of hearers or of followers. then there is what catherine booth used to call "liberty of speech"; then there is power because then we talk of realities. for what is it that looks out from the eyes of religious humanity? rebellion, pride? no! humility, loneliness, something of a just and deserved fear; but most of all, desire, insatiable, unwavering, an intense desire. this passion of the race, its never satisfied hunger, its incredible intensity and persistency of striving and longing, is at once the tragedy and glory, the witness to the helplessness, the revelation of the capacity of the race. the mainspring of human activity, the creative impulse from which in devious ways all the thousand-hued motives of our lives arise, is revealed in the ancient cry, "my soul thirsteth for god, for the living god!" that unquenched thirst for him underlies all human life, as the solemn stillness of the ocean underlies the restless upper waves. the dynamic of the world is the sense of the divine reality. the woe of the world is man's inability to discover and appropriate that reality. who that has entered truly into life does not perceive beneath all the glitter of its brilliance, the roar of its energy and achievement, the note of melancholy? the great undertone of life is solemn in its pathetic uniformity. the poets and prophets of the world have seized unerringly upon that melancholy undertone. who ever better understood the futility and helplessness of unaided man, the certain doom that tracks down his pride of insolence, or his sin, than the greek tragedians? sophocles, divided spirit that he was, heard that note of melancholy long ago by the ægean, wrote it into his somber dramas, with their turbid ebb and flow of human misery. sometimes the voices of our humanity as they rise blend and compose into one great cry that is lifted, shivering and tingling, to the stars, "oh, that i knew where i might find him!" sometimes and more often they sink into a subdued and minor plaint, infinitely touching in its human solicitude, perplexity and pain. again, james stephens has phrased it for us in his verse _the nodding stars_.[29] [footnote 29: _songs from the clay_, p. 68.] "brothers, what is it ye mean, what is it ye try to say that so earnestly ye lean from the spirit to the clay. "there are weary gulfs between here and sunny paradise, brothers! what is it ye mean that ye search with burning eyes, "down for me whose fire is clogged, clamped in sullen, earthy mould, battened down and fogged and bogged, where the clay is seven-fold." now we understand the tragic aspect of nature and of the human soul caught in this cosmic dualism without which corresponds to the ethical dualism within. this perception of the one behind the many in nature, of the thing-in-itself, as distinguished from the many expressions of that thing, is the chief theme for preaching. this is what brings men to themselves. herein, as dr. newman smyth has pointed out, appears the unique marvel of personality. "it becomes conscious of itself as individual and it individualizes the world; it is the one discovering itself among the many. in the midst of uniformities of nature, moving at will on the plane of natural necessities, weaving the pattern of its ideas through the warp of natural laws, runs the personal life. on the same plane and amid these uniformities, yet itself a sphere of being of another order; in it, yet disentangled from it, and having its center in itself, it lives and moves and has its being, breaking no thread of nature's weaving, subject to its own law, and manifesting a dynamic of its own."[30] [footnote 30: _the meaning of the personal life_, p. 173.] the source, then, as we see it, of all human hopes and human dignity, the urge that lies behind all metaphysics and much of literature and art, the thing that makes men eager to live, yet nobly curious to die, is this conviction that one like unto ourselves but from whom we have made ourselves unlike, akin to our real, if buried, person, walketh with us in the fiery furnace of our life. there is a spirit in man and the breath of the almighty giveth him understanding. starting from this interpretation, we can begin to order the baffling and teasing aspects, the illusive nature of the world. why this ever failing, but never ending struggle against unseen odds to grasp and understand and live with the divine? why, between the two, the absolute and the changeless spirit, unseen but felt, and the hesitant and timid spirit of a man, would there seem to be a great gulf fixed? because we are wrong. because man finds the gulf within himself. he chafes at the limitations of time and space? yes; but he chafes more at the mystery and weakness, the mingled deceitfulness and cunning and splendor of the human heart. because there is no one of us who can say, i have made my life pure, i am free from my sin. he knows that the gulf is there between the fallible and human, and the more than human; he does not know how to cross it; he says, "i would think until i found something i can never find something lying on the ground in the bottom of my mind." here, then, can we not understand that mingling of mystic dignity and profound humility, of awe-struck pride and utter self-abnegation, wherewith the man of religion regards his race and himself? he is the child of the eternal; he, being man, alone knows that god is. "when i consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that thou visitest him?" here is the humility: "why so hot, little man!" then comes the awe-struck pride: "yet thou hast made him a little lower than the angels and crowned him with glory and honor." "alone with the gods, alone!" god is the high and lofty one which inhabiteth eternity, but he is also nigh unto them who are of a broken and a contrite heart. here we are come to the very heart of religion. man's proud separateness in the universe; yet man's moral defection and his responsibility for it which makes him know that separateness; man's shame and helplessness under it. over against the denial or evasion of moral values by the naturalist and the dullness to the sense of moral helplessness by the humanist, there stands the sense of moral difference, the sense of sin, of penitence and confession. no preaching not founded on these things can ever be called religious or can ever stir those ranges of the human life for which alone preaching is supposed to exist. what is the religious law, then? it is the law of humility. and what is the religious consciousness? the sense of man's difference from nature and from god. the sense of his difference from himself within himself and the longing for an inner harmony which shall unite him with himself and with the beauty and the spirit without. so what is the religious passion? is it to exalt human nature? it would be more true to say it is to lose it. what is the end for us? not identification with nature and the natural self, but pursuit of the other than nature, the more than natural self. our humility is not like that of uriah heep, a mean opinion of ourselves in comparison with other men. it is the profound consciousness of the weakness and the nothingness of our kind, and of the poor ends human nature sets its heart upon, in comparison with that other one above and beyond and without us, to whom we are kin, from whom we are different, to whom we aspire, to reach whom we know not how. this, then, is what we mean when we turn back from the language of experience to the vocabulary of philosophy and theology and talk about the absolute values of religion. we mean by "absolute values" that behind the multifarious and ever changing nature, is a single and a steadfast cause--a great rock in a weary land. we have lost the old absolute philosophies and dogmatic theologies and that is good and right, for they were outworn. but we are never going to lose the central experience that produced them, and our task is to find a new philosophy to express these inner things for which the words "supernatural," "absolute," are no longer intelligible. for we still know that behind man's partial and relative knowledge, feeling, willing, is an utter knowledge, a perfect feeling, a serene and unswerving will; that beneath man's moral anarchy there is moral sovereignty; that behind his helplessness there is abundant power to save. perhaps this other is always changing, but, if so, it is a oneness which is changing. in short, the thing that is characteristic of religion is that it dwells, not on man's likenesses, but on his awful differences from nature and from god; sees him not as little counterparts of deity, but as broken fragments only to be made whole within the perfect life. it sees relativity as the law of our being, yes, but relativity, not of the sort that excludes, but is included in, a higher absolute, even as the planet swings in infinite space. the trouble with much preaching is that it lacks the essentially religious insight; in dwelling on man's identities it confuses or drugs, not clarifies and purges, the spirit. thus, it obscures the gulf. sometimes it evades it, or bridges it by minimizing it, and genuinely religious people, and those who want to be religious, and those who might be, know that such preaching is not real and that it does not move them and, worst of all, the hungry sheep look up and are not fed. for in such preaching there is no call to humility, no plea for grace, no sense that the achievement of self-unity is as much a rescue as it is a reformation. but this sense of the need of salvation is integral to religion; this is where it has parted company with humanism. humanism makes no organic relations between man and the eternal. it is as though it thought these would take care of themselves! in the place of grace it puts pride; pride of caste, of family, of character, of intellect. but high self-discipline and pride in the human spirit are not the deepest or the highest notes man strikes. the cry, not of pride in self, but for fellowship with the infinite, is the superlative expression of man. augustine sounded the highest note of feeling when he wrote, "o god, thou hast made us for thyself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in thee." the words of the lord jesus gave the clearest insight of the human mind when he said, "and when he came to himself, he said, i will arise and go to my father." chapter five grace, knowledge, virtue i hope the concluding paragraphs of the last chapter brought us back into the atmosphere of religion, into that sort of mood in which the reality of the struggle for character, the craving of the human spirit to give and to receive compassion, the cry of the lonely soul for the love of god, were made manifest. these are the real goods of life to religious natures; they need this meat which the world knoweth not of; there is a continuing resolve in them to say, "good-by, proud world, i'm going home!" the genuinely religious man must, and should indeed, live in this world, but he cannot live of it. merely to create such an atmosphere then, to induce this sort of mood, to shift for men their perspectives, until these needs and values rise once more compelling before their eyes, is a chief end of preaching. its object is not so much moralizing or instructing as it is interpreting and revealing; not the plotting out of the landscape at our feet, but the lifting of our eyes to the hills, to the fixed stars. then we really do see things that are large as large and things that are small as small. we need that vision today from religious leaders more than we need any other one thing. for humanism and naturalism between them have brought us to an almost complete secularization of preaching, in which its characteristic elements, its distinctive contribution, have largely faded from liberal speaking and from the consciousness of its hearers. we have emphasized man's kinship with nature until now we can see him again declining to the brute; we have proclaimed the divine immanence until we think to compass the eternal within a facile and finite comprehension. by thus dwelling on the physical and rational elements of human experience, religion has come to concern itself to an extraordinary degree with the local and temporal reaches of faith. we have lost the sense of communion with absolute being and of the obligation to standards higher than those of the world, which that communion brings. out of this identification of man with nature has come the preaching which ignores the fact of sin; which reduces free will and the moral responsibility of the individual to the vanishing point; which stresses the control of the forces of inheritance and environment to the edge of fatalistic determinism; which leads man to regard himself as unfortunate rather than reprehensible when moral disaster overtakes him; which induces that condoning of the moral rebel which is born not of love for the sinner but of indifference to his sin; which issues in that last degeneration of self-pity in which individuals and societies alike indulge; and in that repellent sentimentality over vice and crime which beflowers the murderer while it forgets its victim, which turns to ouija boards and levitated tables to obscure the solemn finality of death and to gloze over the guilty secrets of the battlefield. thus it has come about that we preach of god in terms of the drawing-room, as though he were some vast st. nicholas, sitting up there in the sky or amiably informing our present world, regarding with easy benevolence his minute and multifarious creations, winking at our pride, our cruelty, our self-love, our lust, not greatly caring if we break his laws, tossing out his indiscriminate gifts, and vaguely trusting in our automatic arrival at virtue. even as in philosophy, it is psychologists, experts in empirical science and methods, and sociologists, experts in practical ethics, who may be found, while the historian and the metaphysician are increasingly rare, so in preaching we are amiable and pious and ethical and practical and informative, but the vision and the absolutism of religion are a departing glory. what complicates the danger and difficulty of such a position, with its confusion of natural and human values, and its rationalizing and secularizing of theistic thinking, is that it has its measure of reality. all these observations of naturalist and humanist are half truths, and for that very reason more perilous than utter falsehoods. for the mind tends to rest contented within their areas, and so the partial becomes the worst enemy of the whole. what we have been doing is stressing the indubitable identity between man and nature and between the creator and his creatures to the point of unreality, forgetting the equally important fact of the difference, the distinction between the two. but sound knowledge and normal feeling rest upon observing and reckoning with both aspects of this law of kinship and contrast. all human experience becomes known to us through the interplay of what appear to be contradictory needs and opposing truths within our being. thus, man is a social animal and can only find himself in a series of relationships as producer, lover, husband, father and friend. he is a part of and like unto his kind, his spirit immanent in his race. but man is also a solitary creature, and in that very solitariness, which he knows as he contrasts it with his social interests, he finds identity of self, the something which makes us "us," which separates us from all others in the world. a crusoe, marooned on a south sea island, without even a black man friday for companionship, would soon cease to be a man; personality would forsake him. but the same crusoe is equally in need of solitude. the hell of the barracks, no matter how well conducted, is their hideous lack of privacy; men condemned by shipwreck or imprisonment to an unbroken and intimate companionship kill their comrade or themselves. we are all alike and hence gregarious; we are all different and hence flee as a bird to the mountain. the reality of human personality lies in neither one aspect of the truth nor the other, but in both. the truth is found as we hold the balance between identity and difference. hence we are not able to think of personality in the godhead unless we conceive of god as being, within himself, a social no less than a solitary being. again, this law that the truth is found in the balance of the antinomies appears in man's equal passion for continuity and permanency and for variety and change. the book of revelation tells us that the redeemed, before the great white throne, standing upon the sea of glass, sing the song of moses and the lamb. what has the one to do with the other? here is the savage, triumphant chant of the far dawn of israel's history, joined with the furthest and latest possible events and words. well, it at least suggests the continuity of the ageless struggle of mankind, showing that the past has its place in the present, relieving man's horror of the impermanence, the disjointed character of existence. he wants something orderly and static. but, like the jet of water in the fountain, his life is forever collapsing and collapsing, falling in upon itself, its apparent permanence nothing but a rapid and glittering succession of impermanences. the dread of growing old is chiefly that, as years come on, life changes more and faster, becomes a continual process of readjustment. therefore we want something fixed; like the sailor with his compass, we must have some needle, even if a tremulous one, always pointing toward a changeless star. yet this is but one half of the picture. does man desire continuity?--quite as much does he wish for variety, cessation of old ways, change and fresh beginnings. the most terrible figure which the subtle imagination of the middle ages conjured up was that of the wandering jew, the man who could not die! here, then, we arrive at knowledge, the genuine values of experience, by this same balancing of opposites. continuity alone kills; perpetual change strips life of significance; man must have both. now, it is in the religious field that this interests us most. we have seen that what we have been doing there of late has been to ignore the fact that reality is found only through this balancing of the law of difference and identity, contrast and likeness. we have been absorbed in one half of reality, identifying man with nature, prating of his self-sufficiency, seeing divinity almost exclusively as immanent in the phenomenal world. thus we have not merely been dealing with only one half of the truth, but that, to use a solecism, the lesser half. for doubtless men do desire in religion a recognition of the real values of their physical nature. and they want rules of conduct, a guide for practical affairs, a scale of values for this world. this satisfies the craving for temporal adjustment, the sense of the goodness and worth of what our instinct transmits to us. but it does nothing to meet that profound dissatisfaction with this world and that sense of the encumbrances of the flesh which is also a part of reality and, to the religious man, perhaps the greater part. he wants to turn away from all these present things and be kept secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues. here he has no continuing city. always while we dwell here we have a dim and restless sense that we are in an unreal country and we know, in our still moments, that we shall only come to ourselves when we return to the house of our father. hence men have never been satisfied with religious leaders who chiefly interpreted this world to them. and indeed, since july, 1914, and down to and including this very hour, this idealizing of time, which we had almost accepted as our office, has had a ghastly exposure. because there has come upon us all one of these irrevocable and irremediable disasters, for which time has no word of hope, to which nature is totally indifferent, for which the god of the outgoings and incomings of the morning is too small. for millions of living and suffering men and women all temporal and mortal values have been wiped out. they have been caught in a catastrophe so ruthless and dreadful that it has strewed their bodies in heaps over the fields and valleys of many nations. today central and south and northeastern europe and western asia are filled with idle and hungry and desperate men and women. they have been deprived of peace, of security, of bread, of enlightenment alike. something more than temporal salvation and human words of hope are needed here. something more than ethical reform and social readjustment and economic alleviation, admirable though these are! something there must be in human nature that eclipses human nature, if it is to endure so much! what has the god of this world to give for youth, deprived of their physical immortality and all their sweet and inalienable human rights, who are lying now beneath the acre upon acre of tottering wooden crosses in their soldier's graves? is there anything in this world sufficient now for the widow, the orphan, the cripple, the starving, the disillusioned and the desperate? what europe wants to know is why and for what purpose this holocaust--is there anything beyond, was there anything before it? a civilization dedicated to speed and power and utility and mere intelligence cannot answer these questions. neither can a religion resolved into naught but the ethics of jesus answer them. "if in this world only," cries today the voice of our humanity, "we have hope, then we are of all men the most miserable!" when one sees our american society of this moment returning so easily to the physical and the obvious and the practical things of life; when one sees the church immersed in programs, and moralizing, and hospitals, and campaigns, and membership drives, and statistics, and money getting, one is constrained to ask, "what shall be said of the human spirit that it can forget so soon?" is it not obvious, then, that our task for a pagan society and a self-contained humanity is to restore the balance of the religious consciousness and to dwell, not on man's identity with nature, but on his far-flung difference; not on his self-sufficiency, but on his tragic helplessness; not on the god of the market place, the office and the street, an immanent and relative deity, but on the absolute, that high and lofty one who inhabiteth eternity? indeed, we are being solemnly reminded today that the other-worldliness of religion, its concern with future, supertemporal things, is its characteristic and most precious contribution to the world. we are seeing how every human problem when pressed to its ultimate issue becomes theological. here is where the fertile field for contemporary preaching lies. it is found, not in remaining with those elements in the religious consciousness which it shares in common with naturalism and humanism, but in passing over to those which are distinctive to itself alone. it has always been true, but it is especially true at this moment, that effective preaching has to do chiefly with transcendent values. our task is to assert, first, then, the "otherness" of man, his difference from nature, to point out the illusoriness of her phenomena for him, the derived reality and secondary value of her facts. these are things that need religious elucidation. the phrase "other-worldliness" has come, not without reason, to have an evil connotation among us, but there is nevertheless a genuine disdain of this world, a sense of high superiority to it and profound indifference toward it, which is of the essence of the religious attitude. he who knows that here he is a stranger, sojourning in tabernacles; that he belongs by his nature, not to this world, but that he seeks a better, that is to say, a heavenly country, will for the joy that is set before him, endure a cross and will despise the shame. he will have a conscious superiority to hostile facts of whatever sort or magnitude, for he knows that they deceive in so far as they pretend to finality. when religion has thus acquired a clear-sighted and thoroughgoing indifference to the natural order, then, and then only, it begins to be potent within that order. then, as professor hocking says, it rises superior to the world of facts and becomes irresistible.[31] [footnote 31: _the meaning of god in human experience_, p. 518.] the time is ripe, then, first, for the preacher to emphasize the inward and essential difference between man and nature which exists under the outward likeness, to remind him of this more-than-nature, this "otherness" of man, without which he would lose his most precious possession, the sense of personality. faith begins by recognizing this transcendent element in man and the acceptance of it is the foundation of religious preaching. what was the worst thing about the war? not its destruction nor its horrors nor its futilities, but its shames; the dreadful indignities which it inflicted upon man; it treated men as though they were not souls! no such moral catastrophe could have overwhelmed us if we had not for long let the brute lie too near the values and practices of our lives, depersonalizing thus, in politics and industry and morals and religion, our civilization. it all proceeded from the irreligious interpretation of human existence, and the fruits of that interpretation are before us. the first task of the preacher, then, is to combat the naturalistic interpretation of humanity with every insight and every conviction that is within his power. if we are to restore religious values, rebuild a world of transcendent ends and more-than-natural beauty, we must begin here with man. in the popular understanding of the phrase all life is not essentially one in kind; physical self-preservation and reproduction are not the be-all and the end-all of existence. there is something more to be expressed in man without which these are but dust and ashes in the mouth. there is another kind of life mixed in with this, the obvious. if we cannot express the other world, we shall not long tolerate this one. to think that this world is all, leans toward madness; such a picture of man is a travesty, not a portrait of his nature. only on some such basic truths as these can we build character in our young people. paganism tells them that it is neither natural nor possible to keep themselves unspotted from the world. over against it we must reiterate, you can and you must! for the man that sinneth wrongeth his own soul. you are something more than physical hunger and reproductive instinct; you are of spirit no less than dust. how, then, can you do this great sin against god! how abundant here are the data with which religious preaching may deal. indeed, as huxley and scores of others have pointed out, it is only the religious view of man that builds up civilization. a great community is the record of man's supernaturalism, his uniqueness. it is built on the "higher-than-self" principle which is involved in the moral sense itself. and this higher-than-self is not just a collective naturalism, a social consciousness, as durkheim and overstreet and miss harrison would say. the simplest introspective act will prove that. for a man cannot ignore self-condemnation as if it were only a natural difficulty, nor disparage it as though it were merely humanly imposed. we think it comes from that which is above and without, because it speaks to the solitary and the unique, not the social and the common part of us. hence conscience is not chiefly a tribal product, for it is what separates us from the group and in our isolation unites us with something other than the group. "against thee, thee only, have i sinned and done this evil in thy sight." so religious preaching perpetually holds us up above our natural selves and the natural order. thus man must live by an other-than-natural law if he is to preserve the family, which is the social unit of civilization. its very existence depends upon modifying and transforming natural hunger by a diviner instinct, by making voluntary repressions, willing sacrifices of the lower to the higher, the subordinating of the law of self and might to the law of sacrifice and love--this is what preserves family life. animals indeed rear and cherish their young and for the mating season remain true to one another, but no animality _per se_ ever yet built a home. there must be a more-than-natural law in the state. our national life and honor rest upon the stability of the democracy and we can only maintain that by walking a very straight and narrow path. for the peace of freedom as distinguished from precarious license is a more-than-natural attainment, born of self-repression and social discipline, the voluntary relinquishment of lesser rights for higher rights, of personal privileges for the sake of the common good. government by the broad and easy path, following the lines of least resistance, like the natural order, saying might is right, means either tyranny or anarchy. _circumspice_! one of the glories of western civilization is its hospitals. they stand for the supernatural doctrine of the survival of the unfit, the conviction of the community that, to take the easy path of casting out the aged and infirm, the sick and the suffering, would mean incalculable degeneration of national character, and that the difficult and costly path of protection and ministering service is both necessary and right. and why is the reformatory replacing the prison? because we have learned that the obvious, natural way of dealing with the criminal certainly destroys him and threatens to destroy us; and that the hard, difficult path of reeducating and reforming a vicious life is the one which the state for her own safety must follow. genuine preaching, then, first of all, calls men to repentance, bids them turn away from their natural selves, and, to find that other and realer self, enter the straight and narrow gate. the call is not an arbitrary command, born of a negative and repressive spirit. it is a profound exhortation based upon a fundamental law of human progress, having behind it the inviolable sanction of the truth. such preaching would have the authentic note. it is self-verifying. it stirs to answer that quality--both moral and imaginative--in the spirit of man which craves the pain and difficulty and satisfaction of separation from the natural order. it appeals to a timeless worth in man which transcends any values of mere intelligence which vary with the ages, or any material prosperity which perishes with the using, or any volitional activity that dies in its own expenditure. much of the philosophy of socrates was long ago outmoded, but socrates himself, as depicted in the phaedo, confronting death with the cup of hemlock in his hand, saying with a smile, "there is no evil which can happen to a good man living or dead," has a more-than-natural, an enduring and transcendent quality. whenever we preach to the element in mankind which produces such attitudes toward life and bid it assert itself, then we are doing religious preaching, and then we speak with power. jesus lived within the inexorable circle of the ideas of his time; he staked much on the coming of the new kingdom which did not appear either when or as he had first expected it. he had to adjust, as do we all, his life to his experience, his destiny to his fate. but when he was hanging on his cross, forgotten of men and apparently deserted by his god, something in him that had nothing to do with nature or the brute rose to a final expression and by its more-than-natural reality, sealed and authenticated his life. looking down upon his torturers, understanding them far better than they understood themselves, he cried, "father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." that cry has no place in nature; it has no application and no meaning outside the human heart and that which is above, not beneath, the human heart, from which it is derived. there, then, again was the supernatural law; there was the more-than-nature in man which makes nature into human nature; and there is the thing to whose discovery, cultivation, expression, real preaching is addressed. every time a man truly preaches he so portrays what men ought to be, must be, and can be if they will, that they know there is something here "that leaps life's narrow bars to claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven! a seed of sunshine that doth leaven our earthly dullness with the beams of stars, and glorify our clay with light from fountains elder than the day."[32] [footnote 32: j.r. lowell, _commemoration ode_, stanza iv, ll. 30-35.] such preaching is a perpetual refutation of and rebuke to the naturalism and imperialism of our present society. it is the call to the absolute in man, to a clear issue with evil. it would not cry peace, peace, when there is no peace. it would be living and active, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing of both joints and marrow, quick to discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. following this insistence upon the difference from nature, the more-than-natural in man, the second thing in religious preaching will have to be, obviously, the message of salvation. that is to say, reducing the statement to its lowest terms, if man is to live by such a law, the law of more-than-nature, then he must have something also more-than-human to help him in his task. he will need strength from outside. indeed, because religion declares that there is such divine assistance, and that faith can command it, is the chief cause and reason for our existence. when we cease to preach salvation in some form or other, we deny our own selves; we efface our own existence. for no one can preach the more-than-human in mankind without emphasizing those elements of free will, moral responsibility, the need and capacity for struggle and holiness in human life which it indicates, and which in every age have been a part of the message of him who said, "be ye therefore perfect, even as your father, which is in heaven, is perfect." therefore, as we have previously corrected the half truth of the naturalist who makes a caricature, not a portrait of man, we must now in the same way turn to the correcting of the humanist's emphasis upon man's native capacity and insist upon the complementary truth which fulfills this moral heroism of mankind, namely, the divine rescue which answers to its inadequacy. man must struggle for his victory; he can win; he cannot win alone. we must then insist upon the doctrine of salvation, turning ourselves to the other side of the humanist's picture. man cannot live by this more-than-natural law unaided. for not only has he the power to rise above nature; the same thing gives him equal capacity to sink beneath her, and, when left to himself, he generally does so. the preacher does not dare deny the sovereignty of sin. humanism hates the very name of sin; it has never made any serious attempt to explain the consciousness of guilt. neither naturalist nor humanist can afford to admit sin, for sin takes man, as holiness does, outside the iron chain of cause and effect; it breaks the law; it is not strictly natural. it makes clear enough that man is outside the natural order in two ways. he is both inferior and superior to it. he falls beneath, he rises above it. when he acts like a beast, he is not clean and beastly, but unclean and bestial. when he lifts his head in moral anguish, bathes all his spirit in the flood of awe and repentance, is transfigured with the glorious madness of self-sacrifice, he is so many worlds higher than the beast that their relationship becomes irrelevant. so we must deal more completely than humanists do with the central mystery of our experience; man's impotent idealism, his insight not matched with consummation; the fact that what he dares to dream of he is not able alone to do. for the humanist exalts man, which is good; but then he makes him self-sufficient for the struggle which such exaltation demands, which is bad. in that partial understanding he departs from truth. and what is it that makes the futility of so much present preaching? it is the acceptance of this doctrine of man's moral adequacy and consequently the almost total lack either of the assurance of grace or of the appeal to the will. no wonder such exhortations cannot stem the tide of an ever increasing worldliness. such preaching stimulates the mind; in both the better and the worse preachers, it moves the emotions but it gives men little power to act on what they hear and feel to the transformation of their daily existence. thus the humanistic sense of man's sufficiency, coupled with the inherent distrust of any notion of help from beyond and above, any belief in a reinforcing power which a critical rationalism cannot dissect and explain, has gradually ruled out of court the doctrine of salvation until the preacher's power, both to experience and to transmit it, has atrophied through disuse. who can doubt that one large reason why crude and indefensible concepts of the christian faith have such a disconcerting vitality today is because they carry, in their outmoded, unethical, discredited forms, the truth of man's insufficiency in himself and the confident assurance of that something coming from without which will abundantly complete the struggling life within? they offer the assurance of that peace and moral victory which man so ardently desires, because they declare that it is both a discovery and a revelation, an achievement and a rescue. there are vigorous and rapidly growing popular movements of the day which rest their summation of faith on the quadrilateral of an inerrant and verbally inspired scripture, the full deity of jesus christ, the efficacy of his substitutionary atonement, the speedy second coming of the lord. no sane person can suppose that these cults succeed because of the ethical insight, the spiritual sensitiveness, the intellectual integrity of such a message. it does not possess these things. they succeed, in spite of their obscurantism, because they do confess and meet man's central need, his need to be saved. the power of that fact is what is able to carry so narrow and so indefensible a doctrine. so the second problem of the preacher is clear. man asserts his potential independence of the natural law. but to realize that, he must bridge the gulf between himself and the supernatural lawgiver to whose dictates he confesses he is subject. he is not free from the bondage of the lower, except through the bondage to the higher. nor can he live by that higher law unaided and alone. here we strike at the root of humanism. its kindly tolerance of the church is built up on the proud conviction that we, with our distinctive doctrine of salvation, are superfluous, hence sometimes disingenuous and always negligible. the humanist believes that understanding takes the place of faith. what men need is not to be redeemed from their sins, but to be educated out of their follies. but does right knowing in itself suffice to insure right doing? socrates and plato, with their indentification of knowledge and virtue, would appear to think so; the church has gone a long way, under humanistic pressure, in tacit acquiescence with their doctrine. yet most of us, judging alike from internal and personal evidence and from external and social observation, would say that there was no sadder or more universal experience than that of the failure of right knowledge to secure right performance. right knowledge is not in itself right living. we have striking testimony on that point from one of the greatest of all humanists, no less a person than confucius. "at seventy," he says, "i could follow what my heart desired without transgressing the law of measure."[33] the implication of such testimony makes no very good humanistic apologetic! most of us, when desire has failed, can manage to attain, unaided, the identification of understanding and conduct, can climb to the poor heights of a worn-out and withered continence. but one wonders a little whether, then, the climbing seems to be worth while. [footnote 33: _analects_, ii, civ.] but the doctrine usually begins by minimizing the free agency of the individual, playing up the factors of compulsion, either of circumstance or inheritance or of ignorance, as being in themselves chiefly responsible for blameful acts. these are therefore considered involuntary and certain to be reformed when man knows better and has the corresponding strength of his knowledge. but aristotle, who deals with this socratic doctrine in the third book of the _ethics_, very sensibly remarks, "it is ridiculous to lay the blame of our wrong actions upon external causes rather than upon the facility with which we ourselves are caught by such causes, and, while we take credit for our noble actions to ourselves, lay the blame of our shameful actions upon pleasure."[34] "the facility with which we are caught"--there is the religious understanding there is that perversion of will which conspires with the perils and chances of the world so that together they may undo the soul. [footnote 34: _ethics_, book iii, ch. ii, p. 61.] of course, as aristotle admits, there is this half truth lying at the root of the socratic identification of virtue and knowledge that every vicious person is ignorant of what he ought to do and what he ought to abstain from doing in the sense that what he is about to do could not be defended upon any ground of enlightened self-interest. and so, while he finds sin sweet and evil pleasant, these are delusive experiences, which, if he saw life steadily and whole, he would know as such. but one reason for this ignorance is unwillingness to know. good men do evil, and understanding men sin, partly because they are misled by false ideas, partly, also, because, knowing them false, they cannot or will not give them up. this is what goethe very well understood when he said, "most men prefer error to truth, because truth imposes limitations and error does not." and another reason is that when men do know, they find a deadly and mysterious, a sort of perverted joy--a sweet and terrible and secret delight,--in denying their own understanding. thus right living calls for a repeated and difficult exercise of the will, what professor babbitt calls "a pulling back of the impulse to the track that knowledge indicates." such moral mastery is not identical with moral perception and most frequently is not its accompaniment, unless observation and experience are alike fallacious. thus the whole argument falls to the ground when we confess that possession of knowledge does not guarantee the application of it. therefore the two things, knowledge and virtue, according to universal experience, are not identical. humanists indeed use the word "knowledge" for the most part in an esoteric sense. knowledge is virtue in the sense that it enables us to see virtue as excellent and desirable; it is not virtue in the sense that it alone enables us to acquire it. who, indeed, that has ever lived in the far country does not know that one factor in its fascination was a bittersweet awareness of the folly, the inevitable disaster, of such alien surroundings. who also does not know that often when the whole will is set to identify conduct with conviction, it may be, for all its passionate and bitter sincerity, set in vain. in every hour of every day there are hundreds of lives that battle honestly, but with decreasing spiritual forces, with passion and temptation. sometimes a life is driven by the fierce gales of enticement, the swift currents of desire, right upon the jagged rock of some great sin. lives that have seemed strong and fair go down every day, do they not, and shock us for a moment with their irremediable catastrophe? and we must not forget that before they went down, for many a month or even year they have been hard beset lives. before that final and complete ruin, they have been drifting and struggling, driven and fighting, sin drawing nearer and nearer, their fated lives urged on, the mind growing darker, the stars in their souls going out, the steering of their own lives taken from their hands. then there has been the sense of the coming danger, the dark presentiment of how it all must end when the "powers that tend the soul to help it from the death that cannot die, and save it even in extremes, begin to vex and plague it." there has been the dreadful sense of life drifting toward a great crash, nearer and nearer to what must be the wreck of all things. what does the humanist have to offer to these men and women who know perfectly well where they are, and what they are about, and where they would like to be, but who can't get there and who are, today and every day, putting forth their last and somber efforts, trying in vain to just keep clear of ruin until the darkness and the helplessness shall lift and something or someone shall give them peace! now, it is this defect in the will which automatically limits the power of the intellect. it is this which the socratic identification ignores. so while we might readily grant that it is in the essential nature of things that virtue and truth, wisdom and character, understanding and goodness, are but two aspects of one thing, is it not trifling with one of the most serious facts of human destiny to interpret the truism to mean that, when a man knows that a contemplated act is wrong or foolish or ugly, he is thereby restrained from accomplishing it? knowledge is not virtue in the sense that mere reason or mere perception can control the will. and this is the conclusion that aristotle also comes to when he says: "some people say that incontinence is impossible, if one has knowledge. it seems to them strange, as it did to socrates, that where knowledge exists in man, something else should master it and drag it about like a slave. socrates was wholly opposed to this idea; he denied the existence of incontinence, arguing that nobody with a conception of what was best could act against it, and therefore, if he did so act, his action must be due to ignorance." and then aristotle adds, "the theory is evidently at variance with the facts of experience."[35] plato himself exposes the theoretical nature of the assertion, its inhuman demand upon the will, the superreasonableness which it expects but offers no way of obtaining, when he says, "every one will admit that a nature having in perfection all the qualities which are required in a philosopher is a rare plant seldom seen among men."[36] [footnote 35: _ethics_, book vii, ch. iii, pp. 206-207.] [footnote 36: _republic_, vi, 491.] it would be well if those people who are going about the world today teaching social hygiene to adolescents (on the whole an admirable thing to do) but proceeding on the assumption that when youth knows what is right and what is wrong, and why it is right and why it is wrong, and what are the consequences of right and wrong, that then, _ipso facto_, youth will become chaste,--well if they would acquaint themselves either with the ethics of aristotle or with the christian doctrine of salvation. for if men think that knowledge by itself ever yet produced virtue in eager and unsated lives, they are either knaves or fools. they will find that knowledge uncontrolled by a purified spirit and a reinforced will is already teaching men not how to be good, but how to sin the more boldly with the better chance of physical impunity. "philosophy," says black, "is a feeble antagonist before passion, because it does not supply an adequate motive for the conflict."[37] there were few men in the nineteenth century in whom knowledge and virtue were more profoundly and completely joined than in john henry newman. but did that subtle intellect suffice? could it make the scholar into the saint? hear his own words: "o holy lord, who with the children three didst walk the piercing flame; help, in those trial hours which, save to thee, i dare not name; nor let these quivering eyes and sickening heart crumble to dust beneath the tempter's dart. "thou who didst once thy life from mary's breast renew from day to day; o might her smile, severely sweet, but rest on this frail clay! till i am thine with my whole soul, and fear not feel, a secret joy, that hell is near." so, only when we include in the term "knowledge" understanding plus good will, is the humanist position true, and this, i suppose, is what aristotle meant when he finally says, "vice is consistent with knowledge of some kind, but it excludes knowledge in the full and proper sense of the word."[38] [footnote 37: _culture and restraint_, p. 104.] [footnote 38: _ethics_, book vii, ch. v, p. 215.] now, so finespun a discussion of intricate and psychological subtleties is mildly interesting presumably to middle-aged scholars, but i submit that a half truth that needs so much explanation and so many admissions before it can be made safe or actual, is a rather dangerous thing to offer to adolescence or to a congregation of average men and women. it cannot sound to them very much like the good news of jesus. culture is a precious thing, but no culture, without the help of divine grace and the responsive affection on our part which that grace induces, will ever knit men together in a kingdom of god, a spiritual society. as long ago as the second century celsus understood that. he says in his polemic against christianity, as quoted by origen, "if any one suppose that it is possible that the people of asia and europe and africa, greeks and barbarians, should agree to follow one law, he is hopelessly ignorant."[39] now, celsus was proceeding on the assumption that christianity was only another philosophy, a new intellectual system, and he was merely exposing the futility of all such unaided intellectualism. [footnote 39: _origen, contra celsum_, viii, p. 72.] it is, therefore, of prime importance for the preacher to remember that humanism, or any other doctrine which approaches the problem of life and conduct other than by moral and spiritual means, can never take the place of the religious appeal, because it does not touch the springs of action where motives are born and from which convictions arise. you do not make a man moral by enlightening him; it is nearer the truth to say that you enlighten him when you make him moral. "blessed are the pure in heart," said jesus, "for they shall see god. if any man wills to do the will, he shall know the doctrine." education does not wipe out crime nor an understanding mind make a holy will. the last half of the nineteenth century made it terribly clear that the learning and science of mankind, where they are divorced from piety, unconsecrated by a spiritual passion, and largely directed by selfish motives, can neither benefit nor redeem the race. consider for a moment the enormous expansion of knowledge which the world has witnessed since the year 1859. what prodigious accessions to the sum of our common understanding have we seen in the natural and the humane sciences; and what marvelous uses of scientific knowledge for practical purposes have we discovered! we have mastered in these latter days a thousand secrets of nature. we have freed the mind from old ignorance and ancient superstition. we have penetrated the secrets of the body, and can almost conquer death and indefinitely prolong the span of human days. we face the facts and know the world as our fathers could never do. we understand the past and foresee the future. but the most significant thing about our present situation is this: how little has this wisdom, in and of itself, done for us! it has made men more cunning rather than more noble. still the body is ravaged and consumed by passion. still men toil for others against their will, and the strong spill the blood of the weak for their ambition and the sweat of the children for their greed. never was learning so diffused nor the content of scholarship so large as now. yet the great cities are as babylon and rome of old, where human wreckage multiplies, and hideous vices flourish, and men toil without expectancy, and live without hope, and millions exist--not live at all--from hand to mouth. as we survey the universal unrest of the world today and see the horrors of war between nation and nation, and between class and class, it would not be difficult to make out a case for the thesis that the scientific and intellectual advances of the nineteenth century have largely worked to make men keener and more capacious in their suffering. and at least this is true; just so far as the achievement of the mind has been divorced from the consecration of the spirit, in just so far knowledge has had no beneficent potency for the human race. is it not clear, then, that preaching must deal again, never more indeed than now, with the religion which offers a redemption from sin? this is still foolishness to the greeks, but to those who believe it is still the power of god unto salvation. culture is not religion. when the preacher substitutes the one for the other, he gives stones for bread, and the hungry sheep go elsewhere or are not fed. it is this emasculated preaching, mulcted of its spiritual forces, which awakes the bitterest distrust and deepest indignation that human beings know. they are fighting the foes of the flesh and the enemies of the spirit, enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, standing by the open graves of their friends and kindred, saying there, "i shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." and then, with all this mystery and oppression of life upon them they enter the doors of the house of god and listen to a polite essay, are told of the consolations of art, reminded of the stupidity of evil, assured of the unreality of sin, offered the subtle satisfactions of a cultivated intelligence. in just so far as they are genuine men and women, they resent such preaching as an insult, a mockery and an offense. no, no; something more is needed than the humanist can offer for those who are hard-pressed participants in the stricken fields of life. religious preaching, then, begins with these two things: man's solitary place in nature, man's inability to hold that place alone. hence two more things are necessary as essentials of great preaching in a pagan day. the clear proclamation of the superhuman god, the transcendent spirit who is able to control and reinforce the spirit of man, and the setting forth of some way or some mediator, through whom man may meet and touch that spirit so far removed yet so infinitely near and dear to him. it is with these matters that we shall be occupied in the next chapter. chapter six the almighty and everlasting god if the transcendent element in man which endows him with the proud if tragic sense of personality is the first message of the preacher to a chattering and volatile world, and the second is the setting forth of what this endowment demands and how pitiably man fails to meet it, then the third message is of the rock that is higher than he, even inclusive of his all, in whose composed and comprehensive being his baffled and divided person may be gathered up, brought to its own consummation of self. the rivers that pour tumultuously to their ocean bed, the ascending fire ever falling backward but leaping upward to the sun, are poor figures to express the depth and irresistible urge of the passion in man for completeness, for repose, for power, for self-perception in self-expression, for victory and the attainment of the end. conscious and divided spirit that he is, man turns away, sooner or later, with utter weariness and self-disgust from the nature which pleases him by betraying him, which maims his person that he may enjoy his senses, and reaches out after the other-worldly, the supernatural, the invisible and eternal hope and home of the soul. humanism which bids men sufficiently find god within themselves, if they think they need to find him at all, seems not to comprehend this passion of pride and humility, this inner perception of the futility and the blunder of the self-contained life. life is so obviously not worth its brevity, its suffering, its withheld conclusions, its relative insignificance, if it must thus stand alone. all that can save it, preserve to it worth and dignity, maintain its self-respect and mastery, is to find that abundant power without which confesses, certifies and seals the divinity within. how foredoomed to failure, then, especially in an age when men are surmounting life by placating it, enjoying it by being easy with themselves--how foredoomed to failure is the preaching which continues in the world of religion this exaltation of human sufficiency and natural values, domesticating them within the church. it is to laugh to see them there! it means so transparent a surrender, so pitiable a confession of defeat. if anything can bring the natural man into the sanctuary it is that there he has to bring his naturalness to the bar of a more-than-natural standard. if he comes at all, it will not be for entertainment and expansion but because there we insist on reverence and restraint. if church and preacher offer only a pietized and decorous naturalism, when he can get the real thing in naked and unashamed brutality without; if they offer him only another form of humanistic living, he will stay away. such preaching is as boresome as it is unnecessary. such exercise of devotion is essentially superfluous and a rather humorous imposition upon the world. the only thing that will ever bring the natural man to listen to preaching is when it insists upon something more-than-the-natural and calls him to account regarding it; when it speaks of something different and better for him than this world and what it can offer. "take my _yoke_ upon you" is the attractive invitation, "make inner obeisance and outward obedience to something higher than thy poor self." it is clear, then, that these observations have a bearing upon our preaching of the doctrine of god. there is a certain illogicality, something humorous, in going into a church, of all places in the world, to be told how like we are to him. the dull and average personality, the ordinary and not very valuable man, can probably listen indifferently and with a slow-growing hardness and dim resentment to that sort of preaching for a number of years. but the valuable, the highly personalized people, the saints and the sinners, the great rebels and the great disciples, who are the very folk for whom the church exists, would hate it, and they would know the final bitterness of despair if they thought that this was so. either saint or sinner would consider it the supreme insult, the last pitch of insolence, for the church to be telling them that it is true. for they know within themselves that it is a lie. their one hope hangs on god because his thoughts are not their thoughts, nor his ways their ways; because he seeth the end from the beginning; because in him there is no variableness, neither shadow that is caused by turning; because no man shall see his face and live. they, the sinners and the saints, do not want to be told that they, within themselves, can heal themselves and that sin has no real sinfulness. that is tempting them to the final denial, the last depth of betrayal, the blurring of moral values, the calling of evil good and the saying that good is evil. they know that this is the unpardonable madness. in the hours when they, the saints and sinners, wipe their mouths and say, "we have done no harm"; in the days when what they love is ugliness because it is ugly and shameless, and reckless expression because it is so terrible, so secretly appalling, so bittersweet with the sweetness of death, they know that it is the last affront to have the church--the one place where men expect they will be made to face the facts--bow these facts out of doors. no, we readily grant that the religious approach to the whole truth and to final reality is like any other one, either scientific, economic, political, a partial approach. it sets forth for the most part only a group of facts. when it does not emphasize other facts, it does not thereby deny them. but it insists that the truth of man's differences, man's helplessness which the differences reveal, and man's fate hanging therefore upon a transcendent god, are the key truths for the religious life. it is with that aspect of life the preacher deals, and if he fails to grapple with these problems and considerations, ignores these facts, his candlestick has been removed. the argument for a god, then, within his world, but also distinct from it, above its evil custom and in some sense untouched by its all-leveling life, is essential to the preservation of human personality, and personality is essential to dignity, to decency, to hope. the clearest and simplest thing to be said about the hebrew god, lofty and inaccessible being, with whom nevertheless his purified and obedient children might have relationships, or about the "living god" of greek theology, far removed from us but with whose deathless goodness, beauty and truth our mortality by some mediator may be endowed, is that the argument that supports such transcendence is the argument from necessity. it is the facts of experience, the very stuff of human life, coming down alike from hebraic and hellenic civilization, which demand him. immanence and transcendence are merely theistic terms for identity and difference. through them is revealed and discovered personality, the "i" which is the ultimate fact of my consciousness. i can but reckon from the known to the unknown. the world which produced me is also, then, a cosmic identity and difference. in that double fact is found divine personality. but that aspect of his person, that portion of the fact which feeds the imaginative and volitional life, is the glorious and saving unlikeness of god--his unthinkable and inexpressible glory; his utter comprehension and unbelievable compassion; his justice which knows no flaw and brooks no evasion and cannot be swerved; his power which may not be withstood and hence is a sure and certain tenderness; his hatred of sin, terrible and flaming, a hatred which will send sinful men through a thousand hells, if they will have them, and can only be saved thereby; his love for men, which is what makes him hate their sin and leads him by his very nature as god to walk into hell with the sinner, suffering with him a thousand times more than the sinner is able to understand or know,--like the paul who could not wish himself, for himself, in hell, but who did wish himself accursed of god for his brethren's sake; like jesus, who, in gethsemane, would for himself avoid his cross, but who accepted it and was willing to hang, forsaken of god, upon it, for the lives of men, identifying himself to the uttermost with their fate. yes; it is such a supernal god--that god who is apart, incredible, awful--that the soul of humanity craves and needs. of course, here again, as throughout these discussions, we are returning to a form of the old dualism. we cannot seem to help it. we may construct philosophies like hegel's in which thesis and antithesis merge in a higher synthesis; we may use the dual view of the world as representing only a stage, a present achievement in cosmic progress or human understanding. but that does not alter the incontestable witness of present experience that the religious consciousness is based upon, interwoven with, the sense of the cosmic division without, and the unresolved moral dualism within the individual life. it is important enough to remember, however, that we have rejected, at least for this generation, the old scholastic theologies founded on this general experience. fashions of thought change with significant facility; there is not much of the absolute about them! nevertheless we cannot think with forgotten terms. therefore ours is no mechanically divided world where man and god, nature and supernature, soul and body, belong to mutually exclusive territories. we do not deny the principle of identity. hence we have discarded that old view of the world and all the elder doctrines of an absentee creator, a worthless and totally depraved humanity, a legalistic or substitutionary atonement, a magical and non-understandable incarnation which flowed from it. but we are not discarding with them that other aspect of the truth, the principle of separateness, nor those value judgments, that perpetual vision of another nature, behind and beneath phenomena, from which the old dualism took its rise. it is the form which it assumed, the interpretation of experience which it gave, not the facts themselves, obscure but stubborn as they are, which it confessed, that we have dropped. identity and difference are still here; man is a part of his world, but he is also apart from it. god is in nature and in us; god is without and other than nature and most awfully something other than us. indeed, the precise problem of the preacher today is to keep the old supernatural values and drop the old vocabulary with the philosophy which induced it. we must acknowledge the universe as one, and yet be able to show that the he or the it, beyond and without the world, is its only conceivable beginning, its only conceivable end, the chief hope of its brevity, the only stay of its idealism. it was the arbitrary and mechanical completeness of the old division, not the reality that underlay the distinction itself, which parted company with truth and hence lost the allegiance of the mind. it was that the old dualism tried to lock up this, the most baffling of all realities, in a formula,--that was what undid it. but we shall be equally foolish if now, in the interests of a new artificial clearness, we deny another portion of experience just as our fathers ignored certain other facts in the interests of their too well-defined systems. we cannot hold to the old world view which would bend the modern mind to the support of an inherited interpretation of experience and therefore would not any longer really explain or confirm it. neither can we hold new views which mutilate the experience and leave out some of the most precious elements in it, even if in so doing we should simplify the problem for the mind. it would be an unreal simplification; it would darken, not illumine, the understanding; we should never rest in it. nor do we need to be concerned if the intellect cannot perfectly order or easily demonstrate the whole of the religious life, fit each element with a self-verifying defense and explanation. no man of the world, to say nothing of a man of faith or imagination, has ever yet trusted to a purely intellectual judgment. so we reject the old dualism, its dichotomized universe, its two sorts of authority, its prodigious and arbitrary supernaturalism. but we do not reject what lay behind it. still we wrestle with the angel, lamed though we are by the contest, and we cannot let him go until the day breaks and the shadows flee away. it would be easier perhaps to give up the religious point of view, but for that ease we should pay with our life. for that swift answer, achieved by leaving out prime factors in the problem, we should be betraying the self for whose sake alone any answer is valuable. it does not pay to cut such gordian knots! our task, then, is to preach transcendence again, not in terms of the old absolutist philosophy, but in terms of the perceptions, the needs, the experience of the human heart and mind and will which produced that philosophy. nor is this so hard to do. now, as always for the genuinely religious temperament, there are abundant riches of material lying ready to its hand. it is not difficult to make transcendence real and to reveal to men their consummate need of it when we speak of it in the language of experience and perception. what preaching should avoid is the abstractions of an archaic system of thought with all their provocative and contentious elements, the mingled dogmatism and incompleteness which any worked-out system contains. it is so foolish in the preacher to turn himself into a lay philosopher. let him keep his insight clear, through moral discipline keep his intuitions high, his spirit pure, and then he can furnish the materials for philosophy. thus an almost universal trait of the religious temperament is in its delight in beauty. sometimes it is repressed by an irreligious asceticism or narrowed and stunted by a literal and external faith. but when the religious man is left free, it is appropriate to his genius that he finds the world full of a high pleasure crowded with sound, color, fragrance, form, in which he takes exquisite delight. there is, in short, a serene and poetic naturalism, loosely called "nature-worship," which is keenly felt by both saints and sinners. all it needs for its consecration and perfection is to help men to see that this naturalism is vital and precious because, as a matter of fact, it is something more than naturalism, and more than pleasure objectified. recall, for instance, the splendors of the external world and that best season of our climate, the long, slow-breathing autumn. what high pleasure we take in those hushed days of mid-november in the soft brown turf of the uplands, the fragrant smell of mellow earth and burning leaves, the purple haze that dims and magnifies the quiescent hills. who is not strangely moved by that profound and brooding peace into which nature then gathers up the multitudinous strivings, the myriad activities of her life? who does not love to lie, in those slow-waning days upon the sands which hold within their golden cup the murmuring and dreaming sea? the very amplitude of the natural world, its far-flung grace and loveliness, spread out in rolling moor and winding stream and stately forest marching up the mountain-side, subdues and elevates the spirit of a man. now, so it has always been and so men have always longed to be the worshipers of beauty. therefore they have believed in a conscious and eternal spirit behind it. because again we know that personality is the only thing we have of absolute worth. a man cannot, therefore, worship beauty, wholly relinquish himself to its high delights, if he conceives of this majestic grace as impersonal and inanimate. for that which we worship must be greater than we. behind it, therefore, just because it seems to us so beautiful, must be something that calls to the hidden deeps of the soul, something intimately akin to our own spirits. so man worships not nature, but the god of nature; senses an eternal presence behind all gracious form. for that interprets beauty and consecrates the spell of beauty over us. this gives a final meaning to what the soul perceives is an utter loveliness. this gives to beauty an eternal and cosmic significance commensurate to its charm and power. as long as men's hearts surge, too, when the tide yearns up the beach; as long as their souls become articulate when the birds sing in the dawn, and the flowers lift themselves to the sun; so long will men believe that only from a supreme and conscious loveliness, a joyous and a gracious spirit could have come the beauty which is so intimately related to the spirit of a man. but not all saints and sinners are endowed with this joy and insight, this quick sensitiveness to beauty. some of them cannot find the eternal and transcendent god in a loveliness which, by temperament, they either underrate or do not really see. there are a great many good people who cannot take beauty seriously. they become wooden and suspicious and uncomfortable whenever they are asked to perceive or enjoy a lovely object. incredible though it seems, it appears to them to be unworthy of any final allegiance, any complete surrender, any unquestioning joy. but there are other ways in which they, too, may come to this sense of transcendence, other aspects of experience which also demand it. most often it is just such folk who cannot perceive beauty, because they are practical or scientific or condemned to mean surroundings, who do feel to the full the grim force and terror of the external world. prudence, caution, hard sense are to the fore with them! very well; there, too, in these perceptions is an open door for the human spirit to transcend its environment, get out of its physical shell. the postulate of the absolute worth of beauty may be an argument for god drawn from subjective necessity. but the postulate of sovereign moral being behind the tyranny and brutality of nature is an argument of objective necessity as well; here we all need god to explain the world. for we deal with what certainly appear to be objective aspects of the truth, when we regard ourselves in our relation to the might of the physical universe. for even as men feed upon its beauty, so they have found it necessary to discover something which should enable them to live above and unafraid of its material and gigantic power. we have already seen how there appears to be a cosmic hostility to human life which sobers indeed those who are intelligent enough to perceive it. it is only the fool or the brute or the sentimentalist who is unterrified by nature. the man of reflection and imagination sees his race crawling ant-like over its tiny speck of slowly cooling earth and surrounded by titanic and ruthless forces which threaten at any moment to engulf it. the religious man knows that he is infinitely greater than the beasts of the field or the clods of the highway. yet vesuvius belches forth its liquid fire and in one day of stark terror the great city which was full of men is become mute and desolate. the proud liner scrapes along the surface of the frozen berg and crumples like a ship of cards. there is a splash, a cry, a white face, a lifted arm, and then all the pride and splendor, all the hopes and fears, the gorgeous dreams, the daring thoughts are gone. but the ice floats on unscarred and undeterred and the ocean tosses and heaves just as it did before. now, if this is all, if there is for us only the physical might of nature and the world is only what it seems to be; if there is no other god except such as can be found within this sort of cosmic process, then human life is a sardonic mockery, and self-respect a silly farce, and all the heroism of the heart and the valor of the mind the unmeaning activities of an insignificant atom. the very men who will naturally enter your churches are the ones who have always found that theory of life intolerable. it doesn't take in all the facts. they could not live by it and the soul of the race, looking out upon this universe of immeasurable material bulk, has challenged it and dared to assert its own superiority. so by this road these men come back to the transcendent god without whom they cannot guard that integrity of personality which we are all set to keep. for here there is no way of believing in oneself, no way of enduring this world or our place in it and no tolerable way of understanding it except we look beneath this cosmic hostility and find our self-respect and a satisfying cosmic meaning in perceiving spiritual force, a conscious ethical purpose, which interpenetrates the thunder and the lightning, which lies behind the stars as they move in their perpetual courses. "through it the most ancient heavens are fresh and strong." integrity of personality in such a world as this, belief in self, without which life is dust and ashes in the mouth, rest on the sublime assumption that suffusing material force is ethical spirit, more like unto us than it, controlling force in the interest of moral and eternal purposes. in these purposes living, not mechanical, forces play a major part. of course, to all such reasoning the kantians and humanists reply that these notions of an objective and eternal beauty, of a transcendent and actual cosmic being exist within the mind. they are purely subjective ideas, they are bounded by the inexorable circle of our experience, hence they offer no proof of any objective reality which may in greater or less degree correspond to them. however, there must be a "source" of these ideas. to which the philosophers reply, yes, they are "primitive and necessary," produced by reason only, without borrowing anything from the senses or the understanding. yet there is no sufficient evidence that the idea of god is thus produced by any faculty of mind acting in entire freedom from external influence. on the contrary, the idea appears to owe much to the operation of external things upon the mind; it is not then the wholly unaffected product of reason. it is a response no less than an intuition. like all knowledge a discovery, but the discovery of something there which could be discovered, hence, in that sense, a revelation. it is not necessary, then, for men to meet their situation in the cosmos by saying with kant: we will act as though there were a god, although we are always conscious that we have no real knowledge of him as an external being. in the light of the tragic circumstances of humanity, this is demanding the impossible. no sane body of men will ever get sufficient inspiration for life or find an adequate solution for the problem of life by resting upon mere value judgments which they propose, by an effort of will, to put in the place of genuine reality judgments. indeed, there is a truly scholastic naïveté, a sort of solemn and unconscious humor, in seriously proposing that men should vitalize and consecrate their deepest purposes and most difficult experiences by hypothesizing mere appearances and illusions. nor are we willing either to say with santayana that all our sense of the beauty of the world is merely pleasure objectified and that we can infer no eternal beauty from it. we are aware that there cannot be an immediate knowledge of a reality distinct from ourselves, that all our knowledge must be, in the nature of the case, an idea, a mental representation, that we can never know the thing itself. but if we believe, as we logically and reasonably may, that our subjective ideas are formed under the influence of objects unknown but without us, produced by stimuli, real, if not perceived apart from our own consciousness, then we may say that what we have is a mediate or representative knowledge not only of an eternal being but formed under the influence of that being. nor does the believer ask for more. he does not expect to see the king in his beauty; he only needs to know that he is, that he is there. how self-verifying and moving, then, are the appeals ready to our hands. as long as man with the power to question, to strive, to aspire, to endure, to suffer, lives in a universe of ruthless and overwhelming might, so long, if he is to understand it or maintain his reason and his dignity, he will believe it to be controlled by a spirit beyond no less than within, from whom his spirit is derived. it is out of the struggle to revere and conserve human personality, out of the belief in the indefectible worth and honor of selfhood that our race has fronted a universe in arms, and pitting its soul against nature has cried, "god is my refuge: underneath me, at the very moment when i am engulfed in earthquake shock or shattered in the battle's roar, there are everlasting arms!" there is something which is too deep for tears in the unconquerable idealism, the utter magnanimity of the faith of the human spirit in that which will answer to itself, as evidenced in this forlorn and glorious adventure of the soul. sometimes we are constrained to ask ourselves, how can the heart of man go so undismayed through the waste places of the world? but, of course, the preacher's main task is to interpret man's moral experience, which drives him out to search for the eternal in the terms of the "other" and redeeming god. we have spoken of the depersonalizing of religion which paganism and humanism alike have brought upon the world. one evidence of that has been the way in which we have confounded the social expressions of religion with its individual source. we are so concerned with the effect of our religion upon the community that we have forgotten that the heart of religion is found in the solitary soul. all of which means that we have here again yielded to the time spirit that enfolds us and have come to think of man as religious if he be humane. but that is not true. no man is ever religious until he becomes devout. and indeed no man of our sort--the saint and sinner sort--is ever long and truly humane unless the springs of his tenderness for men are found in his ever widening and deepening gratitude to god! hence no man was ever yet able to preach the living god until he understood that the central need in human life is to reconcile the individual conscience to itself, compose the anarchy of the spiritual life. men want to be happy and be fed; but men must have inward peace. we swing back, therefore, to the native ground of preaching, approach the religious problem, now, not from the aesthetic or the scientific, but from the moral angle. here we are dealing with the most poignant of all human experiences. for it is in this intensely personal world of moral failure and divided will that men are most acutely aware of themselves and hence of their need of that other-than-self beyond. the sentimental idealizing of contemporary life, the declension of the humanist's optimism into that superficial complacency which will not see what it does not like or what it is not expedient to see, makes one's mind to chuckle while one's heart doth ache. there is a brief heyday, its continuance dependent upon the uncontrollable factors of outward prosperity, physical and nervous vigor, capacity for preoccupation with the successive novelties of a diversified and complicated civilization, in which even men of religious temperament can minimize or ignore, perhaps sincerely disbelieve in, their divided life. sometimes we think we may sin and be done with it. but always in the end man must come back to this moral tragedy of the soul. because sin will not be done with us when we are done with it. every evil is evil to him that does it and sooner or later we are compelled to understand that to be a sinner is the sorest and most certain punishment for sinning. then the awakening begins. then can preaching stir the heart until deep answereth unto deep. it can talk of the struggle with moral temptation and weakness; of the unstable temperament which oscillates between the gutter and the stars; of the perversion or abuse of impulses good in themselves; of the dreadful dualism of the soul. for these are inheritances which have made life tragic in every generation for innumerable human beings. whoever needed to explain to a company of grown men and women what the cry of the soul for its release from passion is? every generation has its secret pessimists, brooding over the anarchy of the spirit, the issues of a distracted life. we need not ask with faust, "where is that place which men call 'hell'?" nor wait for mephistopheles to answer, "hell is in no set place, nor is it circumscribed, for where we are--is hell!" now, it is from such central and poignant experiences as these that men have been constrained to look outward for a god. for these mark the very disintegration of personality, the utter dissipation of selfhood. that is the inescapable horror of sin. that is what we mean when we say sinners are lost; so they are, they are lost to their own selves. with what discriminating truth the father in the parable of the lost boy speaks. "this, my son," he says, "was dead though he is alive again." so it is with us; being is the price we pay for sinning. the more we do wrong the less we are. how then shall we become alive again? it is out of the shame and passion, the utter need of the human heart, which such considerations show to be real that men have built up their redemptive faiths. for all moral victory is conditioned upon help from without. to be sure each will and soul must strive desperately, even unto death, yet all that strife shall be in vain unless one stoops down from above and wrestles with us in the conflict. for the sinner must have two things, both of them beyond his unaided getting, or he will die. he must be released from his captivity. who does not know the terrible restlessness, that grows and feeds upon itself and then does grow some more, of the man bound by evil and wanting to get out? the torture of sin is that it deprives us of the power to express ourselves. the cry of moral misery, therefore, is always the groaning of the prisoner. oh, for help to break the bars of my intolerable and delicious sin that i may be myself once more! oh, for some power greater than i which, being greater, can set me free! but more than the sinner wants to be free does he want to be kept. along with the passion for liberty is the desire for surrender. again, then, he wants something outside himself, some being so far above the world he lives in that it can take him, the whole of him, break his life, shake it to its foundations, then pacify, compose it, make it anew. he is so tired of his sin; he is so weary with striving; he wants to relinquish it all; get far away from what he is; flee like a bird to the mountain; lay down his life before the one like whom he would be. so he wants power, he wants peace. he would be himself, he would lose himself. he prays for freedom, he longs for captivity. now, out of these depths of human life, these vast antinomies of the spirit, has arisen man's belief in a saviour-god. sublime and awful are the sanctions upon which it rests. out of the extremity and definiteness of our need we know that he must be and we know what he must be like. he is the one to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, from whom no secrets are hid. who could state the mingling of desire and dread with which men strive after, and hide from, such a god? we want him, yet until we have him how we fear him. for that inclusive knowledge of us which is god, if only we can bear to come to it, endows us with freedom. for then all the barriers are down, there is nothing to conceal, nothing to explain, nothing to hold back. then reality and appearance coincide, character and condition correspond. i am what i am before him. supreme reality from without answers and completes my own, and makes me real, and my reality makes me free. but if he thus knows me, and through that knowledge every inner inhibition melts in his presence and every damning secret's out, and all my life is spread like an open palm before his gaze, and i am come at last, through many weary roads, unto my very self, why then i can let go, i can relinquish myself. the dreadful tension's gone and in utter surrender the soul is poured out, until, spent and expressed, rest and peace flood back into the satisfied life. so the life is free; so the life is bound. so a man stands upon his feet; so he clings to the rock that is higher than he. so the life is cleansed in burning light; so the soul is hid in the secret of god's presence. so men come to themselves; so men lose themselves in the eternal. there is perfect freedom at last because we have attained to complete captivity. there is power accompanied by peace. that is the gift which the vision of a god, morally separate from, morally other than we, brings to the inward strife, the spiritual agony of the world. this is the need which that faith satisfies. it is, i suppose, in this exulting experience of moral freedom and spiritual peace which comes to those men who make the experiment of faith that they, for the most part, find their sufficient proof of the divine reality. who ever doubted his existence who could cry with all that innumerable company of many kindreds and peoples and tongues: "he brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay; and he set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. and he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our god." here, then, is the preaching which is religious. how foolish are we not to preach it more! how trivial and impertinent it is to question the permanence of the religious interpretation of the world! what a revelation of personal insignificance it is to fail to revere the majesty of the devout and aspiring life! that which a starved and restless and giddy world has lost is this pool of quietness, this tower of strength, this cleansing grace of salvation, this haven of the spirit. belief in a transcendent deity is as natural as hunger and thirst, as necessary as sleep and breathing. it was the inner and essential needs of our fathers' lives which drove them out to search for him. it will be the inner and essential needs of the lives of our children that shall bring them to the altar where their fathers and their fathers' fathers bowed down before them. are we going to be afraid to keep its fires burning? and so we come to our final and most difficult aspect of this transcendent problem. we have talked of the man who is separate from nature, and who knows himself as man because behind nature he sees the god from whom he is separate, too. we have seen how he needs that "otherness" in god to maintain his personality and how the gulf between him and that god induces that sense of helplessness which makes the humility and penitence of the religious life. we must come now to our final question. how is he to bridge the gulf? by what power can he go through with this experience we have just been relating and find his whole self in a whole world? how can he dare to try it? how can he gain power to achieve it? perhaps this is the central difficulty of all religion. it is certainly the one which the old greeks felt. plato, the father of christian theology, and all neo-platonists, knew that the gulf is here between man and god and they knew that something or someone must bridge it for us. they perceived that man, unaided, cannot leap it at a stride. we proceed, driven by the facts of life, to the point where the soul looks up to the eternal and confesses the kinship, and knows that only in his light shall it see light, and that it only shall be satisfied when it awakes in his likeness. but how shall the connection be made? what shall enable us to do that mystic thing, come back to god? we have frightful handicaps in the attempt. how shall the distrust that sin creates, the hardness that sin forms, the despair and helplessness that sin induces, the dreadful indifference which is its expression,--how shall they be removed? how shall the unfaith which the mystery, the suffering, the evil of the world induce be overcome? being a sinner i do not dare, and being ignorant i do not believe, to come. god is there and god wants us; like as a father pitieth his children so he pitieth us. he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust. we know that is true; again we do not know it is true. all the sin that is in us and all which that sin has done to us insists and insists that it is not true. and the mind wonders--and wonders. what shall break that distrust; and melt away the hardness so that we have an open mind; and send hope into despair, hope with its accompanying confidence to act; change unfaith to belief, until, in having faith, we thereby have that which faith believes in? how amazing is life! we look out into the heavenly country, we long to walk therein, we have so little power to stir hand or foot to gain our entrance. we know it is there but all the facts of our rebellious or self-centered life, individual and associated alike, are against it and therefore we do not know that it is there. philosophy and reason and proofs of logic cannot greatly help us here. no man was ever yet argued into the kingdom of god. we cannot convince ourselves of our souls. for we are creatures, not minds; lives, not ideas. only life can convince life; only a person but, of course, a transcendent person that is more like him than like us, can make that other-who-lives certain and sure for us. this necessity for some intermediary who shall be a human yet more-than-human proof that god is and that man may be one with him; this reinforcing of the old argument from subjective necessity by its verification in the actual stuff of objective life, has been everywhere sought by men. saviours, redeemers, mediators, then, are not theological manikins. they are not superfluous figures born of a mistaken notion of the universe. they are not secondary gods, concessions to our childishness. they, too, are called for in the nature of things. but to really mediate they must have the qualities of both that which they transmit and of those who receive the transmission. most of all they must have that "other" quality, so triumphant and self-verifying that seeing it constrains belief. a mediator wholly unlike ourselves would be a meaningless and mocking figure. but a mediator who was chiefly like ourselves would be a contradiction in terms! so we come back again to the old problem. man needs some proof that he who knows that he is more than dust can meet with that other life from whose star his speck has been derived. something has got to give him powerful reinforcement for this supreme effort of will, of faith. if only he could know that he and it ever have met in the fields of time and space, then he would be saved. for that would give him the will to believe; that would prove the ultimate; give him the blessed assurance which heals the wounds of the heart. then he would have power to surrender. then he would no longer fear the gulf, he would walk out onto it and know that as he walked he was with god. some such reasoning as this ought to make clear the place that jesus holds in christian preaching and why we call him saviour and why salvation comes for us who are of his spiritual lineage, through him. of course it is true that jesus shows to all discerning eyes what man may be. but that is not the chief secret of his power; that is not why churches are built to him and his cross still fronts, defeated but unconquerable, our pagan world. jesus was more-than-nature and more-than-human. it is this "other" quality, operative and objectified in his experience within our world, which gives him the absoluteness which makes him indispensable and precious. the mystery is deepest here. for here we transfer the antinomy from thought to conduct; from inner perception to one being's actual experience. here, in him, we say we see it resolved into its higher synthesis in actual operation. here, then, we can almost look into it. yet when we do gaze, our eyes dazzle, our minds swerve, it is too much. it is not easy, indeed, at the present time it seems to be impossible to reconcile the christ of history with the christ of experience. yet there would be neither right nor reason in saying that the former was more of a reality than the latter. and all the time the heart from which great thoughts arise, "the heart which has its reasons of which the mind knows nothing," says, here in him is the consummate quality, the absolute note of life. here the impossible has been accomplished. here the opposites meet and the contradictions blend. here is something so incredible that it is true. of course, jesus is of us and he is ours. that is true and it is inexpressibly sweet to remember it. again, to use our old solecism, that is the lesser part of the truth; the greater part, for men of religion, is that jesus is of god, that he belongs to him. his chief office for our world has not been to show us what men can be like; it has been to give us the vision of the eternal in a human face. for if he does reveal god to man then he must hold, as president tucker says, the quality and substance of the life which he reveals. here is where he differs immeasurably from even a socrates. what men want most to believe about jesus is this, that when we commune with him, we are with the infinite; that man's just perception of the eternal spirit, his desire to escape from time into reality, may be fulfilled in jesus. that is the gospel: come unto him, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, for he will give you rest. whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again. but whosoever drinketh of the water that i shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that i shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. if the son therefore shall make you free, you shall be free indeed. now, if all this is true, what is the religious preaching of jesus, what aspect of his person meets the spiritual need? clearly, it is his transcendence. it is not worthy of us to evade it because we cannot explain it. surely what has hastened our present paganism has been the removal from the forefront of our consciousness of jesus the saviour, the divine redeemer, the absolute meeter of an absolute need. of such preaching of jesus we have today very little. the pendulum has swung far to the left, to the other exclusive emphasis, too obviously influenced by the currents of the day. it was perhaps inevitable that he should for a time drop out of his former place in christian preaching under this combined humanistic and naturalistic movement. but it means that again we have relinquished those values which have made jesus the heart of humanity. of course, he was a perfected human character inspired above all men by the spirit of god, showing the capacity of humanity to hold divinity. this is what mary celebrates in her paean, "he that is mighty has magnified me and holy is his name." but is this what men have passionately adored in jesus? has love of him been self-love? is this why he has become the sanctuary of humanity? i think not. we have for the moment no good language for the other conception of him. he is indeed the pledge of what we may be, but how many of us would ever believe that pledge unless there was something else in him, more than we, that guaranteed it? what, as president tucker asks, is this power which shall make "maybe" into "is" for us? "without doubt the trend of modern thought and faith is toward the more perfect identification of christ with humanity. we cannot overestimate the advantage to christianity of this tendency. the world must know and feel the humanity of jesus. but it makes the greatest difference in result whether the ground of the common humanity is in him or in us. to borrow the expressive language of paul, was he 'created' in us? or are we 'created' in him? grant the right of the affirmation that 'there is no difference in kind between the divine and the human'; allow the interchange of terms so that one may speak of the humanity of god and the divinity of man; appropriate the motive which lies in these attempts to bring god and man together and thus to explain the personality of jesus christ, it is still a matter of infinite concern whether his home is in the higher or the lower regions of divinity. after all, very little is gained by the transfer of terms. humanity is in no way satisfied with its degree of divinity. we are still as anxious as ever to rise above ourselves and in this anxiety we want to know concerning our great helper, whether he has in himself anything more than the possible increase of a common humanity. what is his power to lift and how long may it last? shall we ever reach his level, become as divine as he, or does he have part in the absolute and infinite? this question may seem remote in result but it is everything in principle. the immanence of christ has its present meaning and value because of his transcendence."[40] [footnote 40: "the satisfaction of humanity in jesus christ," _andover review_, january, 1893.] preaching today is not moving on the level of this discussion, is neither asking nor attempting to answer its questions. great preaching in some way makes men see the end of the road, not merely the direction in which it travels. the power to do that we have lost if we have lost the more-than-us in jesus. humanity, unaided, cannot look to that end which shall explain the beginning. and does jesus mean very much to us if he is only "jesus"? why do we answer the great invitation, "come unto me"? because he is something other than us? because he calls us away from ourselves? back to home? most of us no longer know how to preach on that plane of experience or from the point of view where such questions are serious and real. our fathers had a world view and a philosophy which made such preaching easy. but their power did not lie in that world view; it lay in this vision of jesus which produced the view. is not this the vision which we need? chapter seven worship as the chief approach to transcendence whatever becomes the inward and the invisible grace of the christian community such will be its outward and visible form. those regulative ideas and characteristic emotions which determine in any age the quality of its religious experience will be certain to shape the nature and conduct of its ecclesiastical assemblies. their influence will show, both in the liturgical and homiletical portions of public worship. if anything further were needed, therefore, to indicate the secularity of this age, its substitutes for worship and its characteristic type of preaching would, in themselves, reveal the situation. so we venture to devote these closing discussions to some observations on the present state of protestant public worship and the prevailing type of protestant preaching. for we may thus ascertain how far those ideas and perceptions which an age like ours needs are beginning to find an expression and what means may be taken to increase their influence through church services in the community. we begin, then, in this chapter, not with preaching, but with worship. it seems to me clear that the chief office of the church is liturgical rather than homiletical. or, if that is too technical a statement, it may be said that the church exists to set forth and foster the religious life and that, because of the nature of that life, it finds its chief opportunity for so doing in the imaginative rather than the rationalizing or practical areas of human expression. even as michael angelo, at the risk of his life, purloined dead bodies that he might dissect them and learn anatomy, so all disciples of the art of religion need the discipline of intellectual analysis and of knowledge of the facts of the religious experience if they are to be leaders in faith. there is a toughness of fiber needed in religious people that can only come through such mental discipline. but anatomists are not sculptors. michael angelo was the genius, the creative artist, not because he understood anatomy, but chiefly because of those as yet indefinable and secret processes of feeling and intuition in man, which made him feel rather than understand the pity and the terror, the majesty and the pathos of the human spirit and reveal them in significant and expressive line. knowledge supported rather than rivaled insight. in the same way, both saint and sinner need religious instruction. nevertheless they are what they are because they are first perceptive rather than reasoning beings. they both owe, the one his salvation, the other his despair, to the fact that they have seen the vision of the holy universe. both are seers; the saint has given his allegiance to the heavenly vision. the sinner has resolved to be disobedient unto it. both find their first and more natural approach to religious truth, therefore, through the creative rather than the critical processes, the emotional rather than the informative powers. there are, of course, many in our churches who would dissent from this opinion. it is characteristic of protestantism, as of humanism in general, that it lays its chief emphasis upon the intelligence. if we go to church to practice the presence of god, must we not first know who and what this god is whose presence with us we are there asked to realize? so most protestant services are more informative than inspirational. their attendants are assembled to hear about god rather to taste and see that the lord is good. they analyze the religious experience rather than enjoy it; insensibly they come to regard the spiritual life as a proposition to be proved, not a power to be appropriated. hence our services generally consist of some "preliminary exercises," as we ourselves call them, leading up to the climax--when it is a climax--of the sermon. here is a major cause for the declension of the influence of protestant church services. they go too much on the assumption that men already possess religion and that they come to church to discuss it rather than to have it provided. they call men to be listeners rather than participants in their temples. of course, one may find god through the mind. the great scholar, the mathematician or the astronomer may cry with kepler, "behold, i think the thoughts of god after him!" yet a service which places its chief emphasis upon the appeal to the will through instruction has declined from that realm of the absolutes where religion in its purest form belongs. for since preaching makes its appeal chiefly through reason, it thereby attempts to produce only a partial and relative experience in the life of the listener. it impinges upon the will by a slow process. sometimes one gets so deadly weary of preaching because, in a world like ours, the reasonable process is so unreasonable. that's a half truth, of course, but one that the modern world needs to learn. others would dissent from our position by saying that service, the life of good will, is a sufficient worship. the highest adoration is to visit the widows and the fatherless in their affliction. _laborare est orare_. what we do speaks so loud god does not care for what we say. true: but the value of what we do for god depends upon the godliness of the doer and where shall he find that godliness save in the secret place of the most high? and the greatest gift we can give our fellows is to bring them into the divine presence. "there is," says dr. william adams brown, "a service that is directed to the satisfaction of needs already in existence, and there is a service that is itself the creator of new needs which enlarge the capacity of the man to whom it would minister. to this larger service religion is committed, and the measure of a man's fitness to render it is his capacity for worship." but no one can give more than he has. if we are to offer such gifts we must ourselves go before and lead. to create the atmosphere in which the things of righteousness and holiness seem to be naturally exalted above the physical, the commercial, the domestic affairs of men; to lift the level of thought and feeling to that high place where the spiritual consciousness contributes its insights and finds a magnanimous utterance--is there anything that our world needs more? there are noble and necessary ministries to the body and the mind, but most needed, and least often offered, there is a ministry to the human spirit. this is the gift which the worshiper can bring. knowledge of god may not be merely or even chiefly comprehended in a concept of the intelligence; knowledge of him is that vitalizing consciousness of the presence felt in the heart, which opens our eyes that we may see that the mountain is full of horses and chariots of fire round about us and that they who fight with us are more than they who fight with them. this is the true and central knowledge that private devotion and public worship alone can give; preaching can but conserve and transmit this religious experience through the mind, worship creates it in the heart. edwards understood that neither thought nor conduct can take its place. "the sober performance of moral duty," said he, "is no substitute for passionate devotion to a being with its occasional moments of joy and exaltation." we should then begin with worship. a church which does not emphasize it before everything else is trying to build the structure of a spiritual society with the corner stone left out. let us try, first of all, to define it. an old and popular definition of the descriptive sort says that "worship is the response of the soul to the consciousness of being in the presence of god." a more modern definition, analyzing the psychology of worship, defines it as "the unification of consciousness around the central controlling idea of god, the prevailing emotional tone being that of adoration." evidently we mean, then, by worship the appeal to the religious will through feeling and the imagination. worship is therefore essentially creative. every act of worship seeks to bring forth then and there a direct experience of god through high and concentrated emotion. it fixes the attention upon him as an object in himself supremely desirable. the result of this unified consciousness is peace and the result of this peace and harmony is a new sense of power. worship, then, is the attainment of that inward wholeness for which in one form or another all religion strives by means of contemplation. so by its very nature it belongs to the class of the absolutes. many psychologies of religion define this contemplation as aesthetic, and make worship a higher form of delight. this appears to me a quite typical non-religious interpretation of a religious experience. there are four words which need explaining when we talk of worship. they are: wonder, admiration, awe, reverence. wonder springs from the recognition of the limitations of our knowledge; it is an experience of the mind. admiration is the response of a growing intelligence to beauty, partly an aesthetic, partly an intellectual experience. these distinctions coleridge had in mind in his well-known sentence "in wonder all philosophy began; in wonder it ends; and admiration fills up the interspace. but the first wonder is the offspring of ignorance; the last is the parent of adoration." awe is the sense-perception of the stupendous power and magnitude of the universe; it is, quite literally, a godly fear. but it is not ignoble nor cringing, it is just and reasonable, the attitude, toward the whole, of a comprehensive sanity. thus "i would love thee, o god, if there were no heaven, _and if there were no hell, i would fear thee no less_." reverence is devotion to goodness, sense of awe-struck loyalty to a being manifestly under the influence of principles higher than our own.[41] now it is with these last two, awe and reverence, rather than wonder and admiration, that worship has to do. [footnote 41: for a discussion of these four words see allen, _reverence as the heart of christianity_, pp. 253 ff.] hence the essence of worship is not aesthetic contemplation. without doubt worship does gratify the aesthetic instinct and most properly so. there is no normal expression of man's nature which has not its accompanying delight. the higher and more inclusive the expression the more exquisite, of course, the delight. but that pleasure is the by-product, not the object, of worship. it itself springs partly from the awe of the infinite and eternal majesty which induces the desire to prostrate oneself before the lord our maker. "i have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. wherefore i abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes." it also springs partly from passionate devotion of a loyal will to a holy being. "behold, as the eyes of servants look unto the hand of their masters and as the eyes of a maid unto the hand of her mistress; so our eyes wait upon the lord." thus reverence is the high and awe-struck hunger for spiritual communion. "my soul thirsteth for god, for the living god. when shall i come and appear before god?" there is a noble illustration of the nature and the uses of worship in the journals of jonathan edwards, distinguished alumnus of yale college, and the greatest mind this hemisphere has produced. you remember what he wrote in them, as a youth, about the young woman who later became his wife: "they say there is a young lady in new haven who is beloved of that great being who made and rules the world, and that there are certain seasons in which this great being in some way or other invisible comes to her and fills her mind with exceeding sweet delight, and that she hardly cares for anything except to meditate on him. therefore if you present all the world before her, with the richest of its treasures, she disregards and cares not for it and is unmindful of any pain or affliction. she has a strange sweetness in her mind, and singular purity in her affections, is most just and conscientious in all her conduct, and you could not persuade her to do anything wrong or sinful if you would give her all the world, lest she should offend this great being. she is of wonderful calmness and universal benevolence of mind, especially after this great god has manifested himself to her mind. she will sometimes go about from place to place singing sweetly and seems to be always full of joy and pleasure, and no one knows for what. she loves to be alone, walking in the fields and groves, and seems to have some one invisible always conversing with her." almost every element of worship is contained in this description. first, we have a young human being emotionally conscious of the presence of god, who in some way or other directly but invisibly comes to her. secondly, we have her attention so fixed on the adoration of god that she hardly cares for anything except to meditate upon him. thirdly, as the result of this worshipful approach to religious reality, we have the profound peace and harmony, the _summum bonum_ of existence, coupled with strong moral purpose which characterize her life. here, then, is evidently the unification of consciousness in happy awe and the control of destiny through meditation upon infinite matters, that is, through reverent contemplation of god. is it not one of those ironies of history wherewith fate is forever mocking and teasing the human spirit, that the grandson of this lady and of jonathan edwards should have been aaron burr? clearly, then, the end of worship is to present to the mind, through the imagination, one idea, majestic and inclusive. so it presents it chiefly through high and sustained feeling. worship proceeds on the understanding that one idea, remaining almost unchanged and holding the attention for a considerable length of time, so directs the emotional processes that thought and action are harmonized with it. if one reads the great prayers of the centuries they indicate, for the most part, an unconscious understanding of this psychology of worship. take, for instance, this noble prayer of pusey's. "let me not seek out of thee what i can find only in thee, o lord, peace and rest and joy and bliss, which abide only in thine abiding joy. lift up my soul above the weary round of harassing thoughts, to thy eternal presence. lift up my soul to the pure, bright, serene, radiant atmosphere of thy presence, that there i may breathe freely, there repose in thy love, there be at rest from myself and from all things that weary me, and thence return arrayed with thy peace, to do and bear what shall please thee." this prayer expresses the essence of worship which is the seeking, through the fixation of attention, not the delight but rather the peace and purity which can only be found in the consciousness of god. this peace is the necessary outcome of the indwelling presence. it ensues when man experiences the radiant atmosphere of the divine communion. the same clear expression of worship is found in another familiar and noble prayer, that of johann arndt. here, too, are phrases descriptive of a unified consciousness induced by reverent loyalty. "ah, lord, to whom all hearts are open, thou canst govern the vessel of my soul far better than can i. arise, o lord, and command the stormy wind and the troubled sea of my heart to be still, and at peace in thee, that i may look up to thee undisturbed and abide in union with thee, my lord. let me not be carried hither and thither by wandering thoughts, but forgetting all else let me see and hear thee. renew my spirit, kindle in me thy light that it may shine within me, and my heart burn in love and adoration for thee. let thy holy spirit dwell in me continually, and make me thy temple and sanctuary, and fill me with divine love and life and light, with devout and heavenly thoughts, with comfort and strength, with joy and peace." thus here one sees in the high contemplation of a transcendent god the subduing and elevating of the human will, the restoration and composure of the moral life. finally, in a prayer of st. anselm's there is a sort of analysis of the process of worship. "o god, thou _art_ life, wisdom, truth, bounty and blessedness, the eternal, the only true good. my god and my lord, thou art my hope and my heart's joy. i confess with thanksgiving that thou hast made me in thine image, that i may direct all my thoughts to thee and love thee. lord, make me to know thee aright that i may more and more love and enjoy and possess thee." one cannot conclude these examples of worshipful expression without quoting a prayer of augustine, which is, i suppose, the most perfect brief petition in all the christian literature of devotion and which gives the great psychologist's perception of the various steps in the unification of the soul with the eternal spirit through sublime emotion. "grant, o god, that we may desire thee, and desiring thee, seek thee, and seeking thee, find thee, and finding thee, be satisfied with thee forever." i think one may see, then, why worship as distinct from preaching, or the hearing of preaching, is the first necessity of the religious life. it unites us as nothing else can do with god the whole and god the transcendent. the conception of god is the sum total of human needs and desires harmonized, unified, concretely expressed. it is the faith of the worshiper that this concept is derived from a real and objective being in some way corresponding to it. no one can measure the influence of such an idea when it dominates the consciousness of any given period. it can create and set going new desires and habits, it can minish and repress old ones, because this idea carries, with its transcendent conception, the dynamic quality which belongs to the idea of perfect power. but this transcendent conception, being essentially of something beyond, without and above ourselves can only be "realized" through the feeling and the imagination, whose province it is to deal with the supersensuous values, with the fringes of understanding, with the farthest bounds of knowledge. these make the springboard, so to speak, from which man dares to launch himself into that sea of the infinite, which we can neither understand nor measure, but which nevertheless we may perceive and feel, which in some sense we know to be there. so, if we deal first with worship, we are merely beginning at the beginning and starting at the bottom. and, in the light of this observation, it is appalling to survey the non-liturgical churches today and see the place that public devotion holds in them. it is not too much, i think, to speak of the collapse of worship in protestant communities. no better evidence of this need be sought than in the nature of the present attempts to reinstate it. they have a naïveté, an incongruity, that can only be explained on the assumption of their impoverished background. this situation shows first in the heterogeneous character of our experiments. we are continually printing on our churches' calendars what we usually call "programs," but which are meant to be orders of worship. we are also forever changing them. there is nothing inevitable about their order; they have no intelligible, self-verifying procedure. anthems are inserted here and there without any sense of the progression or of the psychology of worship. glorias are sung sometimes with the congregation standing up and sometimes while they are sitting down. there is no lectionary to determine a comprehensive and orderly reading of scripture, not much sequence of thought or progress of devotion either in the read or the extempore prayers. there is no uniformity of posture. there are two historic attitudes of reverence when men are addressing the almighty. they are the standing upon one's feet or the falling upon one's knees. for the most part we neither stand nor kneel; we usually loll. some of us compromise by bending forward to the limiting of our breath and the discomfort of our digestion. it is too little inducive to physical ease or perhaps too derogatory to our dignity to kneel before the lord our maker. all this seems too much like the efforts of those who have forgotten what worship really is and are trying to find for it some comfortable or attractive substitute. second: we show our inexperience by betraying the confusion of aesthetic and ethical values as we strive for variety and entertainment in church services; we build them around wonder and admiration, not around reverence and awe. but we are mistaken if we suppose that men chiefly desire to be pleasantly entertained or extraordinarily delighted when they go into a church. they go there because they desire to enter a holy presence; they want to approach one before whom they can be still and know that he is god. all "enrichments" of a service injected into it here and there, designed to make it more attractive, to add color and variety, to arrest the attention of the senses are, as ends, beside the point, and our dependence upon them indicates the unhappy state of worship in our day. that we do thus make our professional music an end in itself is evident from our blatant way of advertising it. in the same way we advertise sermon themes, usually intended to startle the pious and provoke the ungodly. we want to arouse curiosity, social or political interest, to achieve some secular reaction. we don't advertise that tomorrow in our church there is to be a public worship of god, and that everything that we are going to do will be in the awe-struck sense that he is there. we are afraid that nobody would come if we merely did that! what infidels we are! why are we surprised that the world is passing us by? we say and we sing a great many things which it is incredible to suppose we would address to god if we really thought he were present. yet anthems and congregational singing are either a sacrifice solemnly and joyously offered to god or else all the singing is less, and worse, than nothing in a church service. but how often sentimental and restless music, making not for restraint and reverence, not for the subduing of mind and heart but for the expression of those expansive and egotistical moods which are of the essence of romantic singing, is what we employ. there is a great deal of truly religious music, austere in tone, breathing restraint and reverence, quietly written. the anthems of palestrina, anerio, viadana, vittoria among the italians; of bach, haydn, handel, mozart among the germans; and of tallis, gibbons and purcell among the english, are all of the truly devout order. yet how seldom are the works of such men heard in our churches, even where they employ professional singers at substantial salaries. we are everywhere now trying to give our churches splendid and impressive physical accessories, making the architecture more and more stately and the pews more and more comfortable! thus we attempt an amalgam of a mediaeval house of worship with an american domestic interior, adoring god at our ease, worshiping him in armchairs, offering prostration of the spirit, so far as it can be achieved along with indolence of the body. so we advertise and concertize and have silver vases and costly flowers and conventional ecclesiastical furniture. but we still hold a "small-and-early" in the vestibule before service and a "five o'clock" in the chapel afterward. sunday morning church is a this-world function with a pietized gossip and a decorous sort of sociable with an intellectual fillip thrown in. thus we try to make our services attractive to the secular instincts, the non-religious things, in man's nature. we try to get him into the church by saying, "you will find here what you find elsewhere." it's rather illogical. the church stands for something different. we say, "you will like to come and be one of us because we are not different." the answer is, "i can get the things of this world better in the world, where they belong, than with you." thus we have naturalized our very offices of devotion! hence the attempts to revive worship are incongruous and inconsistent. hence they have that sentimental and accidental character which is the sign of the amateur. they do not bring us very near to the heavenly country. it might be well to remember that the servant of jahweh doth not cry nor lift up his voice nor cause it to be heard in the streets. now, there are many reasons for this anomalous situation. one of them is our inheritance of a deep-rooted puritan distrust of a liturgical service. that distrust is today a fetish and therefore much more potent that it was when it was a reason. puritanism was born in the reformation; it came out from the roman church, where worship was regarded as an end in itself. to catholic believers worship is a contribution to god, pleasing to him apart from any effect it may have on the worshiper. such a theory of it is, of course, open to grave abuse. sometimes it led to indifference as to the effect of the worship upon the moral character of the communicant, so that worship could be used, not to conquer evil, but to make up for it, and thus sin became as safe as it was easy. inevitably also such a theory of worship often degenerated into an utter formalism which made hyprocrisy and unreality patent, until the _hoc est corpus_ of the mass became the hocus-pocus of the scoffer. here is a reason, once valid because moral, for our present situation. yet it must be confessed that again, as so often, we are doing what the germans call "throwing out the baby with the bath," namely, repudiating a defect or the perversion of an excellence and, in so doing, throwing away that excellence itself. it is clear that no protestant is ever tempted today to consider worship as its own reason and its own end. we are, in a sense, utilitarian ritualists. worship to us is as valuable as it is valid because it is the chief avenue of spiritual insight, a chief means of awakening penitence, obtaining forgiveness, growing in grace and love. these are the ultimates; these are pleasing to god. a second reason, however, for our situation is not ethical and essential, but economic and accidental. our fathers' communities were a slender chain of frontier settlements, separated from an ancient civilization by an unknown and dangerous sea on the one hand, menaced by all the perils of a virgin wilderness upon the other. all their life was simple to the point of bareness; austere, reduced to the most elemental necessities. inevitably the order of their worship corresponded to the order of their society. it is certain, i think, that the white meeting-house with its naked dignity, the old service with its heroic simplicity, conveyed to the primitive society which produced them elements both of high formality and conscious reverence which they could not possibly offer to our luxurious, sophisticated and wealthy age. is it not a dangerous thing to have brought an ever increasing formality and recognition of a developed and sophisticated community into our social and intellectual life but to have allowed our religious expression to remain so anachronistic? largely for social and economic reasons we send most of our young men and young women to college. there we deliberately cultivate in them the perception of beauty, the sense of form, various expressions of the imaginative life. but how much has our average non-liturgical service to offer to their critically trained perceptions? our church habits are pretty largely the transfer into the sanctuary of the hearty conventions of middle-class family life. the relations in life which are precious to such youth, the intimate, the mystical and subtle ones, get small recognition or expression. a hundred agencies outside the church are stimulating in the best boys and girls of the present generation fine sensibilities, critical standards, the higher hungers. our services, chiefly instructive and didactic, informal and easy in character, irritate them and make them feel like truculent or uncomfortable misfits. a third reason for the lack of corporate or public offices of devotion in our services lies in the intellectual character of the protestant centuries. we have seen how they have been centuries of individualism. character has been conceived of as largely a personal affair expressed in personal relationships. the believer was like christian in bunyan's _pilgrim's progress_. he started for the heavenly country because he was determined to save his own soul. when he realized that he was living in the city of destruction it did not occur to him that, as a good man, he must identify his fate with it. on the contrary, he deserted wife and children with all possible expedition and got him out and went along through the slough of despond, up to the narrow gate, to start on the way of life. it was a chief glory of mediaeval society that it was based upon corporate relationships. its cathedrals were possible because they were the common house of god for every element of the community. family and class and state were dominant factors then. but we have seen how, in the renaissance and the romantic movement, individualism supplanted these values. now, protestantism was contemporary with that new movement, indeed, a part of it. its growing egotism and the colossal egotism of the modern world form a prime cause for the impoverishment of worship in protestant churches. and so this brings us, then, to the real reason for our devotional impotence, the one to which we referred in the opening sentences of the chapter. it is essentially due to the character of the regulative ideas of our age. it lies in that world view whose expressions in literature, philosophy and social organizations we have been reviewing in these pages. the partial notion of god which our age has unconsciously made the substitute for a comprehensive understanding of him is essentially to blame. for since the contemporary doctrine is of his immanence, it therefore follows that it is chiefly through observation of the natural world and by interpretation of contemporary events that men will approach him if they come to him at all. moreover, our humanism, in emphasizing the individual and exalting his self-sufficiency, has so far made the mood of worship alien and the need of it superfluous. the overemphasis upon preaching, the general passion of this generation for talk and then more talk, and then endless talk, is perfectly intelligible in view of the regulative ideas of this generation. it seeks its understanding of the world chiefly in terms of natural and tangible phenomena and chiefly by means either of critical observation or of analytic reasoning. hence preaching, especially that sort which looks for the divine principle in contemporary events, has been to the fore. but worship, which finds the divine principle in something more and other than contemporary events--which indeed does not look outward to "events" at all--has been thrown into the background. it seems to me clear, then, that if we are to emphasize the transcendent elements in religion; if they represent, as we have been contending, the central elements of the religious experience, its creative factors, then the revival of worship will be a prime step in creating a more truly spiritual society. i am convinced that a homilizing church belongs to a secularizing age. one cannot forget that the ultimate, i do not say the only, reason for the founding of the non-liturgical churches was the rise of humanism. one cannot fail to see the connection between humanistic doctrine and moralistic preaching, or between the naturalism of the moment and the mechanicalizing of the church. "the christian congregation," said luther, child of the humanistic movement, "should never assemble except the word of god be preached." "in other countries," says old isaac taylor, "the bell calls people to worship; in scotland it calls them to a preachment." and one remembers the justice of charles kingsley's fling at the dissenters that they were "creatures who went to church to hear sermons!" it would seem evident, then, that a renewal of worship would be the logical accompaniment of a return to distinctly religious values in society and church. what can we do, then, better for an age of paganism than to cultivate this transcendent consciousness? direct men away from god the universal and impersonal to god the particular and intimate. nothing is more needed for our age than to insist upon the truth that there are both common and uncommon, both secular and sacred worlds; that these are not contradictory; that they are complementary; that they are not identical. it is the church's business to insist that men must live in the world of the sacred, the uncommon, the particular, in order to be able to surmount and endure the secular, the common and the universal. it is her business to insist that through worship all this can be accomplished. but can worship be taught? is not the devotee, like the poet or the lover or any other genius, born and not made? well, whether it can be taught or not, it at least can be cultivated and developed, and there are three very practical ways in which this cultivation can be brought about. one of them is by paying intelligent attention to the physical surroundings of the worshiper. the assembly room for worship obviously should not be used for other purposes; all its suggestions and associations should be of one sort and that sort the highest. quite aside from the question of taste, it is psychologically indefensible to use the same building, and especially the same room in the building, for concerts, for picture shows, for worship. here we at once create a distracted consciousness; we dissipate attention; we deliberately make it harder for men and women to focus upon one, and that the most difficult, if the most precious, mood. for the same reason, the physical form of the room should be one that does not suggest either the concert hall or the playhouse, but suggests rather a long and unbroken ecclesiastical tradition. until the cinema was introduced into worship, we were vastly improving in these respects, but now we are turning the morning temple into an evening showhouse. i think we evince a most impertinent familiarity with the house of god! and too often the church is planned so that it has no privacies or recesses, but a hideous publicity pervades its every part. we adorn it with stenciled frescoes of the same patterns which we see in hotel lobbies and clubs; we hang up maps behind the reading desk; we clutter up its platform with grand pianos. it is a mere matter of good taste and good psychology to begin our preparation for a ministry of worship by changing all this. there should be nothing in color or ornament which arouses the restless mood or distracts the eye. severe and simple walls, restrained and devout figures in glass windows, are only to be tolerated. descriptive windows, attempting in a most untractable medium a sort of naïve realism, are equally an aesthetic and an ecclesiastical offense. figures of saints or great religious personages should be typical, impersonal, symbolic, not too much like this world and the things of it. there is a whole school of modern window glass distinguished by its opulence and its realism. it ought to be banished from houses of worship. since it is the object of worship to fix the attention upon one thing and that thing the highest, the room where worship is held should have its own central object. it may be the bible, idealized as the word of god; it may be the altar on which stands the cross of the eternal sacrifice. but no church ought to be without one fixed point to which the eye of the body is insensibly drawn, thereby making it easier to follow it with the attention of the mind and the wishes of the heart. at the best, our protestant ecclesiastical buildings are all empty! there are meeting-houses, not temples assembly rooms, not shrines. there is apparently no sense in which we are willing to acknowledge that the presence is on their altar. but at least the attention of the worshiper within them may focus around some symbol of that presence, may be fixed on some outward sign which will help the inward grace. but second: our chief concern naturally must be with the content of the service of worship itself, not with its physical surroundings. and here then are two things which may be said. first, any formal order of worship should be historic; it should have its roots deep in the past; whatever else is true of a service of worship it ought not to suggest that it has been uncoupled from the rest of time and allowed to run wild. now, this means that an order of worship, basing itself on the devotion of the ages, will use to some extent their forms. i do not see how anyone would wish to undertake to lead the same company of people week by week in divine worship without availing himself of the help of written prayers, great litanies, to strengthen and complement the spontaneous offices of devotion. there is something almost incredible to me in the assumption that one man can, supposedly unaided, lead a congregation in the emotional expression of its deepest life and desires without any assistance from the great sacramentaries and liturgies of the past. christian literature is rich with a great body of collects, thanksgivings, confessions, various special petitions, which gather up the love and tears, the vision and the anguish of many generations. these, with their phrases made unspeakably precious with immemorial association, with their subtle fitting of phrase to insight, of expression to need, born of long centuries of experiment and aspiration, can do for a congregation what no man alone can ever hope to accomplish. the well of human needs and desires is so deep that, without these aids, we have not much to draw with, no plummet wherewith to sound its dark and hidden depths. i doubt if we can overestimate the importance of giving this sense of continuity in petitions, of linking up the prayer of the moment and the worship of the day with the whole ageless process so that it seems a part of that volume of human life forever ascending unto the eternal spirit, just as the gray plume of smoke from the sacrifice ever curled upward morning by morning and night by night from the altar of the temple under the blue syrian sky. we cannot easily give this sense of continuity, this prestige of antiquity, this resting back on a great body of experience, unless we know and use the language and the phrases of our fathers. it is to the god who hath been our dwelling place in all generations, that we pray; to him who in days of old was a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night to his faithful children; to the one who is the ancient of days, infinite watcher of the sons of men. only by acquaintance with the phrases, the petitions of the past, and only by a liberal use of them can we give background and dignity, or anything approaching variety and completeness, to our own public expression and interpretation of the devotional life. if anyone objects to this use of formal prayers on the ground of their formality, let him remember that we, too, are formal, only we, alas, have made a cult of formlessness. it would surprise the average minister to know the well-worn road which his supposedly spontaneous and extempore devotions follow. phrase after phrase following in the same order of ideas, and with the same pitiably limited vocabulary, appear week by week in them. how much better to enrich this painfully individualistic formalism with something of the corporate glories of the whole body of christian believers. but, second: there should be also the principle of immediacy in the service, room for the expression of individual needs and desires and for reference to the immediate and local circumstances of the believer. a church in which there is no spontaneous and extempore prayer, which only harked backward to the past, might build the tombs of the prophets but it might also stifle new voices for a new age. but extempore prayer should not be impromptu prayer. it should have coherence, dignity, progression. the spirit should have been humbly and painstakingly prepared for it so that sincere and ardent feeling may wing and vitalize its words. the great prayers of the ages, known of all the worshipers, perhaps repeated by them all together, tie in the individual soul to the great mass of humanity and it moves on, with its fellows, toward salvation as majestically and steadily as great rivers flow. the extempore and silent prayer, not unpremeditated but still the unformed outpouring of the individual heart, gives each man the consciousness of standing naked and alone before his god. both these, the corporate and the separate elements of worships are vital; there should be a place for each in every true order of worship. but, of course, the final thing to say is the first thing. whatever may be the means that worship employs, its purpose must be to make and keep the church a place of repose, to induce constantly the life of relinquishment to god, of reverence and meditation. and this it will do as it seeks to draw men up to the "otherness," the majesty, the aloofness, the transcendence of the almighty. to this end i would use whatever outward aids time and experience have shown will strengthen and deepen the spiritual understanding. i should not fear to use the cross, the sacraments, the kneeling posture, the great picture, the carving, the recitation of prayers and hymns, not alone to intensify this sense in the believer but equally to create it in the non-believer. the external world moulds the internal, even as the internal makes the external. if these things mean little in the beginning, there is still truth in the assertion of the devotee that if you practice them they will begin to mean something to you. this is not merely that a meaning will be self-induced. it is more than that. they will put us in the volitional attitude, the emotional mood, where the meaning is able to penetrate. just as all the world acknowledges that there is an essential connection between good manners and good morals, between military discipline and physical courage, so there is a connection between a devotional service and the gifts of the spiritual life. such a service not merely strengthens belief in the high and holy one, it has a real office in creating, in making possible, that belief itself. we shall sum it all up if we say in one word that the offices of devotion emphasize the cosmic character of religion. they take us out of the world of moral theism into the world of a universal theism. they draw us away from religion in action to religion in itself; they give us, not the god of this world, but the god who is from everlasting to everlasting, to whom a thousand years are but as yesterday when it is past and as a watch in the night. thus they help us to make for ourselves an interior refuge into whose precincts no eye may look, into whose life no other soul may venture. in that refuge we can be still and know that he is god. there we can eat the meat which the world knoweth not of, there have peace with him. it is in these central solitudes, induced by worship, that the vision is clarified, the perspective corrected, the vital forces recharged. those who possess them are transmitters of such heavenly messages; they issue from them as rivers pour from undiminished mountain streams. does the world's sin and pain and weakness come and empty itself into the broad current of these devout lives? then their fearless onsweeping forces gather it all up, carry it on, cleanse and purify it in the process. over such lives the things of this world have no power. they are kept secretly from them all in his pavilion where there is no strife of tongues. chapter eight worship and the discipline of doctrine if one were to ask any sermon-taster of our generation what is the prevailing type of discourse among the better-known preachers of the day, he would probably answer, "the expository." expository preaching has had a notable revival in the last three decades, especially among liberal preachers; that is, among those who like ourselves have discarded scholastic theologies, turned to the ethical aspects of religion for our chief interests and accepted the modern view of the bible. to be sure, it is not the same sort of expository preaching which made the scottish pulpit of the nineteenth century famous. it is not the detailed exposition of each word and clause, almost of each comma, which marks the mingled insight and literalism of a chalmers, an alexander maclaren, a taylor of the broadway tabernacle. for that assumed a verbally inspired and hence an inerrant scripture; it dealt with the literature of the old and new testaments as being divine revelations. the new expository preaching proceeds from almost an opposite point of view. it deals with this literature as being a transcript of human experience. its method is direct and simple and, within sharp limits, very effective. the introduction to one of these modern expository sermons would run about as follows: "i suppose that what has given to the old and new testament scriptures their enduring hold over the minds and consciences of men has been their extraordinary humanity. they contain so many vivid and accurate recitals of typical human experience, portrayed with self-verifying insight and interpreted with consummate understanding of the issues of the heart. and since it is true, as goethe said, 'that while mankind is always progressing man himself remains ever the same,' and we are not essentially different from the folk who lived a hundred generations ago under the sunny palestinian sky, we read these ancient tales and find in them a mirror which reflects the lineaments of our own time. for instance,..." then the sermonizer proceeds to relate some famous bible story, resolving its naïve semitic theophanies, its pictorial narration, its primitive morality, into the terms of contemporary ethical or political or economic principles. take, for instance, the account of the miracle of moses and the burning bush. the preacher will point out that moses saw a bush that burned and burned and that, unlike most furze bushes of those upland pastures which were ignited by the hot syrian sun, was not consumed. it was this enduring quality of the bush that interested him. thus moses showed the first characteristic of genius, namely, capacity for accurate and discriminating observation. and he coupled this with the scientific habit of mind. for he said, "i will now turn aside and see why!" thus did he propose to pierce behind the event to the cause of the event, behind the movement to the principle of the movement. what a modern man this moses was! it seems almost too good to be true! but as yet we have merely scratched the surface of the story. for he took his shoes from off his feet when he inspected this new phenomenon, feeling instinctively that he was on holy ground. thus there mingled with his scientific curiosity the second great quality of genius, which is reverence. there was no complacency here but an approach to life at once eager and humble; keen yet teachable and mild. and now behold what happens! as a result of this combination of qualities there came to moses the vision of what he might do to lead his oppressed countrymen out of their industrial bondage. whereupon he displayed the typical human reaction and cried, "who am i, that i should go unto pharoah or that i should lead the children of israel out of egypt!" my brother aaron, who is an eloquent person--and as it turned out later also a specious one--is far better suited for this undertaking. thus he endeavored to evade the task and cried, "let someone else do it!" having thus expounded the word of god (!) the sermon proceeds to its final division in the application of this shrewd and practical wisdom to some current event or parochial situation. now, such preaching is indubitably effective and not wholly illegitimate. its technique is easily acquired. it makes us realize that the early church fathers, who displayed a truly appalling ingenuity in allegorizing the old testament and who found "types" of christ and his church in frankly sensual oriental wedding songs, have many sturdy descendants among us to this very hour! such preaching gives picturesqueness and color, it provides the necessary sugar coating to the large pill of practical and ethical exhortation. to be sure, it does not sound like the preaching of our fathers. the old sermon titles--"suffering with christ that we may be also glorified with him," for instance--seem very far away from it. nor is it to be supposed that this is what its author intended the story we have been using to convey nor that these were the reactions that it aroused in the breasts of its original hearers. but as the sermonizer would doubtless go on to remark, there is a certain universal quality in all great literature, and genius builds better than it knows, and so each man can draw his own water of refreshment from these great wells of the past. and indeed nothing is more amazing or disconcerting than the mutually exclusive notions, the apparently opposing truths, which can be educed by this method, from one and the same passage of scripture! there is scarcely a chapter in all the old testament, and to a less degree in the new testament, which may not be thus ingeniously transmogrified to meet almost any homiletical emergency. now, i may as well confess that i have preached this kind of sermon lo! these many years _ad infinitum_ and i doubt not _ad nauseam_. we have all used in this way the flaming rhetoric of the hebrew prophets until we think of them chiefly as indicters of a social order. they were not chiefly this but something quite different and more valuable, namely, religious geniuses. first-rate preaching would deal with amos as the pioneer in ethical monotheism, with hosea as the first poet of the divine grace, with jeremiah as the herald of the possibility of each man's separate and personal communion with the living god. but, of course, such religious preaching, dealing with great doctrines of faith, would have a kind of large remoteness about it; it would pay very little attention to the incidents of the story, and indeed, would tend to be hardly expository at all, but rather speculative and doctrinal. and that brings us to the theme of this final discussion. for i am one of those who believe that great preaching is doctrinal preaching and that it is particularly needed at this hour. the comparative neglect of the new testament in favor of the old in contemporary preaching; the use and nature of the expository method--no less than the unworshipful character of our services--appear to me to offer a final and conclusive proof of the unreligious overhumanistic emphases of our interpretation of religion. and if we are to have a religious revival, then it seems to me worshipful services must be accompanied by speculative preaching and i doubt if the one can be nobly maintained without the other. for we saw that worship is the direct experience of the absolute through high and concentrated feeling. even so speculative and, in general, doctrinal preaching is the same return to first principles and to ultimate values in the realm of ideas. it turns away from the immediate, the practical, the relative to the final and absolute in the domain of thought. now, obviously, then, devout services and doctrinal preaching should go together. no high and persistent emotions can be maintained without clear thinking to nourish and steady them. there is in doctrinal preaching a certain indifference to immediate issues; to detailed applications. it deals, by its nature, with comprehensive and abstract rather than local and concrete thinking; with inclusive feeling, transcendent aspiration. it does not try to pietize the ordinary, commercial and domestic affairs of men. instead it deals with the highest questions and perceptions of human life; argues from those sublime hypotheses which are the very subsoil of the religious temperament and understanding. it deals with those aspects of human life which indeed include, but include because they transcend, the commercial and domestic, the professional and political affairs of daily living. we have been insisting in these chapters that it is that portion of human need and experience which lies between the knowable and the unknowable with which it is the preacher's chief province to deal. doctrinal preaching endeavors to give form and relations to its intuitions and high desires, its unattainable longings and insights. there is a native alliance between the doctrine of immanence and expository preaching. for the office of both is to give us the god of this world in the affairs of the moment. there is a native alliance between expository preaching and humanism which very largely accounts for the latter's popularity. for expository preaching, as at present practiced, deals mostly with ethical and practical issues, with the setting of the house of this world in order. there is also a native and majestic alliance between the idea of transcendence and doctrinal preaching and between the facts of the religious experience and the content of speculative philosophy. not pragmatism but pure metaphysics is the native language of the mind when it moves in the spiritual world. but i am aware that already i have lost my reader's sympathy. you do not desire to preach doctrinal sermons and while you may read with amiable patience and faintly smiling complacency this discussion, you have no intention of following its advice. we tend to think that doctrinal sermons are outmoded--old-fashioned and unpopular--and we dread as we dread few other things, not being up to date. besides, doctrinal preaching offers little of that opportunity which is found in expository and yet more in topical preaching for exploiting our own personalities. some of us are young. it is merely a polite way of saying that we are egotistical. we know in our secret heart of hearts that the main thing that we have to give the world is our own new, fresh selves with their corrected and arresting understanding of the world. we are modestly yet eagerly ready to bestow that gift of ours upon the waiting congregation. one of the few compensations of growing old is that, as the hot inner fires burn lower, this self-absorption lessens and we become disinterested and judicial observers of life and find so much pleasure in other people's successes and so much wisdom in other folk's ideas. but not so for youth; it isn't what the past or the collective mind and heart have formulated: it's what you've got to say that interests you. hence it is probably true that doctrinal preaching, in the very nature of things, makes no strong appeal to men who are beginning the ministry. but there are other objections which are more serious, because inherent in the very genius of doctrinal preaching itself. first: such preaching is more or less remote from contemporary and practical issues. it deals with thought, not actions; understanding rather than efficiency; principles rather than applications. it moves among the basic concepts of the religious life; deals with matters beyond and above and without the tumultuous issues of the moment. so it follows that doctrinal preaching has an air of detachment, almost of seclusion from the world; the preacher brings his message from some pale world of ideas to this quick world of action. and we are afraid of this detachment, the abstract and theoretical nature of the thinker's sermon. i think the fear is not well grounded. what is the use of preaching social service to the almost total neglect of setting forth the intellectual and emotional concept of the servant? it is the quality of the doer which determines the value of the deed. why keep on insisting upon being good if our hearers have never been carefully instructed in the nature and the sanctions of goodness? has not the trouble with most of our political and moral reform been that we have had a passion for it but very little science of it? how can we know the ways of godliness if we take god himself for granted? no: our chief business, as preachers, is to preach the content rather than the application of the truth. not many people are interested in trying to find the substance of the truth. it is hated as impractical by the multitude of the impatient, and despised as old-fashioned by the get-saved-quick reformers. nevertheless we must find out the distinctions between divine and human, right and wrong, and why they are what they are, and what is the good of it all. there is no more valuable service which the preacher can render his community than to deliberately seclude himself from continual contact with immediate issues and dwell on the eternal verities. when darwin published _the descent of man_ at the end of the franco-prussian war, the _london times_ took him severely to task for his absorption in purely scientific interests and hypothetical issues. "when the foundations of property and the established order were threatened with the fires of the paris commune; when the tuileries were burning--how could a british subject be occupying himself with speculations in natural science in no wise calculated to bring aid or comfort to those who had a stake in the country!" well, few of us imagine today that darwin would have been wise to have exchanged the seclusion and the impractical hours of the study for the office or the camp, the market or the street. yet the same fear of occupying ourselves with central and abstract matters still obsesses us. at the quadrennial conference of the methodist episcopal church held recently at des moines, thirty-four bishops submitted an address in which they said among other things: "of course, the church must stand in unflinching, uncompromising denunciation of all violations of laws, against all murderous child labor, all foul sweat shops, all unsafe mines, all deadly tenements, all excessive hours for those who toil, all profligate luxuries, all standards of wage and life below the living standard, all unfairness and harshness of conditions, all brutal exactions, whether of the employer or union, all overlordships, whether of capital or labor, all godless profiteering, whether in food, clothing, profits or wages, against all inhumanity, injustice and blighting inequality, against all class-minded men who demand special privileges or exceptions on behalf of their class." these are all vital matters, yet i cannot believe that it is the church's chief business thus to turn her energies to the problems of the material world. this would be a stupendous program, even if complete in itself; as an item in a program it becomes almost a _reductio ad absurdum_. the _springfield republican_ in an editorial comment upon it said: "it fairly invites the question whether the church is not in some danger of trying to do too much. the fund of energy available for any human undertaking is not unlimited; energy turned in one direction must of necessity be withdrawn from another and energy diffused in many directions cannot be concentrated. count the adjectives--'murderous,' 'foul,' 'unsafe,' 'deadly,' 'excessive,' 'profligate,' 'brutal,' 'godless,' 'blighting'--does not each involve research, investigation, comparison, analysis, deliberation, a heavy tax upon the intellectual resources of the church if any result worth having is to be obtained? can this energy be found without subtracting energy from some other sphere?" the gravest problems of the world are not found here. they are found in the decline of spiritual understanding, the decay of moral standards, the growth of the vindictive and unforgiving spirit, the lapse from charity, the overweening pride of the human heart. with these matters the church must chiefly deal; to their spiritual infidelity she must bring a spiritual message; to their poor thinking she must bring the wisdom of the eternal. this task, preventive not remedial, is her characteristic one. is it not worth while to remember that the great religious leaders have generally ignored contemporary social problems? so have the great artists who are closely allied to them. neither william shakespeare nor leonardo da vinci were reformers; neither gautama nor the lord jesus had much to say about the actual international economic and political readjustments which were as pressing in their day as ours. they were content to preach the truth, sure that it, once understood, would set men free. but a second reason why we dislike doctrinal preaching is because we confound it with dogmatic preaching. doctrinal sermons are those which deal with the philosophy of religion. they expound or defend or relate the intellectual statements, the formulae of religion. such discourses differ essentially from dogmatic sermonizing. for what is a doctrine? a doctrine is an intellectual formulation of an experience. suppose a man receives a new influx of moral energy and spiritual insight, through reading the bible, through trying to pray, through loving and meditating upon the lord jesus. that experience isn't a speculative proposition, it isn't a faith or an hypothesis; it's a fact. like the man in the johannine record the believer says, "whether he be a sinner i know not: but one thing i know, that, whereas i was blind, now i see." now, let this new experience of moral power and spiritual insight express itself, as it normally will, in a more holy and more useful life, in the appropriate terms of action. there you get that confession of experience which we call character. or let it express itself in the appropriate emotions of joy and awe and reverence so that, like ray palmer, the convert writes an immortal hymn, or a body of converts like the early church produces the _te deum_. there is the confession of experience in worship. or let a man filled with this new life desire to understand it; see what its implications are regarding the nature of god, the nature of man, the place of christ in the scale of created or uncreated being. let him desire to thus conserve and interpret that he may transmit this new experience. then he will begin to define it and to reduce it, for brevity and clearness, to some abstract and compact formula. thus he will make a confession of experience in doctrine. doctrines, then, are not arbitrary but natural, not accidental but essential. they are the hypotheses regarding the eternal nature of things drawn from the data of our moral and spiritual experience. they are to religion just what the science of electricity is to a trolley car, or what the formula of evolution is to natural science, or what the doctrine of the conservation of energy is, or was, to physics. doctrines are signposts; they are placards, index fingers, notices summing up and commending the proved essences of religious experience. two things are always true of sound doctrine. first: it is not considered to have primary value; its worth is in the experience to which it witnesses. second: it is not fixed but flexible and progressive. someone has railed at theology, defining it as the history of discarded errors. that is a truth and a great compliment and the definition holds good of the record of any other science. now, if doctrines are signposts, dogmas are old and now misleading milestones. for what is a dogma? it may be one of two things. usually it is a doctrine that has forgotten that it ever had a history; a formula which once had authority because it was a genuine interpretation of experience but which now is so outmoded in fashion of thought, or so maladjusted to our present scale of values, as to be no longer clearly related to experience and is therefore accepted merely on command, or on the prestige of its antiquity. or it may be a doctrine promulgated _ex cathedra_, not because religious experience produced it, but because ecclesiastical expediencies demand it. thus, to illustrate the first sort of dogma, there was once a doctrine of the virgin birth. men found, as they still do, both god and man in jesus; they discovered when they followed him their own real humanity and true divinity. they tried to explain and formalize the experience and made a doctrine which, for the circle of ideas and the extent of the factual knowledge of the times, was both reasonable and valuable. the experience still remains, but the doctrine is no longer psychologically or biologically credible. it no longer offers a tenable explanation; it is not a valuable or illuminating interpretation. hence if we hold it at all today, it is either for sentiment or for the sake of mere tradition, namely, for reasons other than its intellectual usefulness or its inherent intelligibility. so held it passes over from doctrine into dogma. or take, as an example of the second sort, the dogma of the immaculate conception, promulgated by pius ix in the year 1854, and designed to strengthen the prestige of the papal see among the catholic powers of europe and to prolong its hold upon its temporal possessions. de cesare describes the promulgation of the dogma as follows: "the festival on that day, december 8, 1854, sacred to the virgin, was magnificent. after chanting the gospel, first in latin, then in greek, cardinal macchi, deacon of the sacred college, together with the senior archbishops and bishops present, all approached the papal throne, pronouncing these words in latin, 'deign, most holy father, to lift your apostolic voice and pronounce the dogmatic decree of the immaculate conception, on account of which there will be praise in heaven and rejoicings on earth.' the pope replying, stated that he welcomed the wish of the sacred college, the episcopate, the clergy, and declared it was essential first of all to invoke the help of the holy spirit. so saying he intoned _in veni creator_, chanted in chorus by all present. the chant concluded, amid a solemn silence pius ix's finely modulated voice read the following decree: "'it shall be dogma, that the most blessed virgin mary, in the first instant of the conception, by singular privilege and grace of god, in virtue of the merits of jesus christ, the saviour of mankind, was preserved from all stain of original sin.' the senior cardinal then prayed the pope to make this decree public, and, amid the roar of cannon from fort st. angelo and the festive ringing of church bells, the solemn act was accomplished.'"[42] here is an assertion regarding mary's conception which has only the most tenuous connection with religious experience and which was pronounced for ecclesiastical and political reasons. here we have dogma at its worst. here, indeed, it is so bad as to resemble many of the current political and economic pronunciamentos! [footnote 42: _the last days of papal rome_, pp. 127 ff.] now, nobody wants dogmatic preaching, but there is nothing that we need more than we do doctrinal preaching and nothing which is more interesting. the specialization of knowledge has assigned to the preacher of religion a definite sphere. no amount of secondary expertness in politics or economics or social reform or even morals can atone for the abandonment of our own province. we are set to think about and expound religion and if we give that up we give up our place in a learned profession. moreover, the new conditions of the modern world make doctrine imperative. that world is distinguished by its free inquiry, its cultivation of the scientific method, its abandonment of obscuranticisms and ambiguities. it demands, then, devout and holy thinking from us. who would deny that the revival of intellectual authority and leadership in matters of religion is terribly needed in our day? sabatier is right in saying that a religion without doctrine is a self-contradictory idea. harnack is not wrong in saying that a christianity without it is inconceivable. and now i know you are thinking in your hearts, well, what inconsistency this man shows! for a whole book he has been insisting on the prime values of imagination and feeling in religion and now he concludes with a plea for the thinker. but it is not so inconsistent as it appears. it is just because we do believe that the discovery, the expression and the rewards of religion lie chiefly in the superrational and poetic realms that therefore we want this intellectual content to accompany it, not supersede it, as a balancing influence, a steadying force. there are grave perils in worshipful services corresponding to their supreme values. mystical preaching has the defects of its virtues and too often sinks into that vague sentimentalism which is the perversion of its excellence. how insensibly sometimes does high and precious feeling degenerate into a sort of religious hysteria! it needs then to be always tested and corrected by clear thinking. but we in no way alter our original insistence that in our realm as preachers, unlike the scientist's realm of the theologians, thought is the handmaid, not the mistress. our great plea, then, for doctrinal preaching is that by intellectual grappling with the final and speculative problems of religion we do not supersede but feed the emotional life and do not diminish but focus and steady it. it is that you and i may have reserves of feeling--indispensable to great preaching--sincerity and intensity of emotion, that disciplined imagination which is genius, that restrained passion which is art, and that our congregations may have the same, that we must strive for intellectual power, must do the preaching that gives people something to think about. these are the religious and devout reasons why we value intellectual honesty, precision of utterance, reserve of statement, logical and coherent thinking. we are come, then, to the conclusion of our discussions. they have been intended to restore a neglected emphasis upon the imaginative and transcendent as distinguished from the ethical and humanistic aspects of the religious life. they have tried to show that the reaching out by worship to this "otherness" of god and to the ultimate in life is man's deepest hunger and the one we are chiefly set to feed. i am sure that the chief ally of the experience of the transcendence of god and the cultivation of the worshipful faculties in man is to be found in severe and speculative thinking. i believe our almost unmixed passion for piety, for action, for practical efficiency, betrays us. it indicates that we are trying to manufacture effects to conceal the absence of causes. we may look for a religious revival when men have so meditated upon and struggled with the fundamental ideas of religion that they feel profoundly its eternal mysteries. and finally, we have the best historical grounds for our position. sometimes great religious movements have been begun by unlearned and uncritical men like peter the hermit or john bunyan or moody. but we must not infer from this that religious insight is naturally repressed by clear thinking or fostered by ignorance. dr. francis greenwood peabody has pointed out that the great religious epochs in christian history are also epochs in the history of theology. the pauline epistles, the _confessions of augustine_, the _meditations_ of anselm, the _simple method of how to pray_ of luther, the _regula_ of loyola, the _monologen_ of schleiermacher, these are all manuals of the devout life, they belong in the distinctively religious world of supersensuous and the transcendent, and one thing which accounts for them is that the men who produced them were religious geniuses because they were also theologians.[43] [footnote 43: see the "call to theology," _har. theo. rev._, vol. i, no. 1, pp. 1 ff.] it is to be remembered that we are not saying that the theologian makes the saint. i do not believe that. devils can believe and tremble; abelard was no saint. but we are contending that the great saint is extremely likely to be a theologian. protestantism, methodism, tractarianism, were chiefly religious movements, interested in the kind of questions and moved by the sorts of motives which we have been talking about. they all began within the precincts of universities. moreover, the lord jesus, consummate mystic, incomparable artist, was such partly because he was a great theologian as well. his dealings with scribe and pharisee furnish some of the world's best examples of acute and courageous dialectics. his theological method differed markedly from the academicians of his day. nevertheless it was noted that he spoke with an extraordinary authority. "he gave," as dr. peabody also points out, "new scope and significance to the thought of god, to the nature of man, to the destiny of the soul, to the meaning of the world. he would have been reckoned among the world's great theologians if other endowments had not given him a higher title."[44] [footnote 44: "call to theology," _har. theo. rev._, vol. i, no. 1, p. 8.] it is a higher title to have been the supreme mystic, the perfect seer. all i have been trying to say is that it is to these sorts of excellencies that the preacher aspires. but the life of jesus supremely sanctions the conviction that preaching upon high and abstract and even speculative themes and a rigorous intellectual discipline are chief accompaniments, appropriate and indispensable aids, to religious insight and to the cultivating of worshipful feeling. so we close our discussions with the supreme name upon our lips, leaving the most fragrant memory, the clearest picture, remembering him who struck the highest note. it is to his life and teaching that we humbly turn to find the final sanction for the distinctively religious values. who else, indeed, has the words of eternal life? * * * * * lyman beecher lectureship on preaching yale university 1871-72 beecher, h.w., yale lectures on preaching, first series. new york, 1872. 1872-73 beecher, h.w., yale lectures on preaching, second series. new york, 1873. 1873-74 beecher, h.w., yale lectures on preaching, third series. new york, 1874. 1874-75 hall, john, god's word through preaching. new york, 1875. 1875-76 taylor, william m., the ministry of the word. new york, 1876. 1876-77 brooks, p., lectures on preaching. new york, 1877. 1877-78 dale, r.w., nine lectures on preaching. new york, 1878. 1878-79 simpson, m., lectures on preaching. new york, 1879. 1879-80 crosby, h., the christian preacher. new york, 1880. 1880-81 duryea, j.t., and others (not published). 1881-82 robinson, e.g., lectures on preaching. new york, 1883. 1882-83 (no lectures.) 1883-84 burton, n.j., yale lectures on preaching, and other writings. new york, 1888.* 1884-85 storrs, h.m., the american preacher (not published). 1885-86 taylor, w.m., the scottish pulpit. new york, 1887. 1886-87 gladden, w., tools and the man. boston, 1893. 1887-88 trumbull. h.c., the sunday school. philadelphia, 1888. 1888-89 broadus, j.a., preaching and the ministerial life (not published). 1889-90 behrends, a.j.f., the philosophy of preaching. new york, 1890. 1890-91 stalker, j., the preacher and his models. new york, 1891. 1891-92 fairbarn, a.m., the place of christ in modern theology. new york, 1893. 1892-93 horton, r.f., verbum dei. new york, 1893.* 1893-94 (no lectures.) 1894-95 greer, d.h., the preacher and his place. new york, 1895. 1895-96 van dyke, h., the gospel for an age of doubt. new york, 1896* 1896-97 watson, j., the cure of souls. new york, 1896. 1897-98 tucker, w.j., the making and the unmaking of the preacher. boston, 1898. 1898-99 smith, g.a., modern criticism and the old testament. new york, 1901. 1899-00 brown, j., puritan preaching in england. new york, 1900. 1900-01 (no lectures.) 1901-02 gladden, w., social salvation. new york, 1902. 1902-03 gordon, g.a., ultimate conceptions of faith. new york, 1903. 1903-04 abbott, l., the christian ministry. boston, 1905. 1904-05 peabody, f.g., jesus christ and the christian character. new york, 1905.* 1905-06 brown, c.r., the social message of the modern pulpit. new york, 1906. 1906-07 forsyth, p.t., positive preaching and modern mind. new york, 1908.* 1907-08 faunce, w.h.p., the educational ideal in the ministry. new york, 1908. 1908-09 henson, h.h., the liberty of prophesying. new haven, 1910.* 1909-10 jefferson, c.e., the building of the church. new york, 1910. 1910-11 gunsaulus, f.w., the minister and the spiritual life. new york, chicago, 1911. 1911-12 jowett, j.h., the preacher; his life and work. new york, 1912. 1912-13 parkhurst, c.h., the pulpit and the pew. new haven. 1913.* 1913-14 home, c. silvester, the romance of preaching. new york, chicago, 1914. 1914-15 pepper, george wharton, a voice from the crowd. new haven, 1915.* 1915-16 hyde, william dewitt, the gospel of good will as revealed in contemporary scriptures. new york, 1916. 1916-17 mcdowell, william fraser, good ministers of jesus christ. new york and cincinnati, 1917. 1917-18 coffin, henry sloane, in a day of social rebuilding. new haven.* 1918-19 kelman, john, the war and preaching, new haven.* 1919-20 fitch, albert parker, preaching and paganism. new haven.* *also published in london. printed by e.l. hildreth & company brattleboro, vermont, u.s.a. [transcriber's note: i dedicate this transcription to the very reverend richard trout of corpus christi parish, celebration, florida. his gentle and moving homilies are perfect examples of the style and content recommended by this author. as the preface observes, the many references to nineteenth century france may not all apply to our times, but people and cultures are remarkably similar over time and distance.] {3} the clergy and the pulpit in their relations to the people. by m. l'abbé isidore mullois, chaplain to the emperor napoleon iii., and missionary apostolic. translated by george percy badger, late chaplain in the diocese of bombay, author of "the nestorians and their rituals," etc. first american edition. new-york: the catholic publication society, lawrence kehoe, general agent, 126 nassau street. 1867. {4} john a. gray & green, printers, 16 and 18 jacob street, new-york. {5} preface to the american edition. this excellent translation of the now celebrated work of the abbé mullois is presented to the american public with every assurance that it will meet with a most cordial welcome. it is a live book; full of earnest words, fresh from the heart no less than from the head of the devout and zealous author. it has gained an unwonted popularity in france, where it has already passed through many editions. no less than twenty thousand copies are said to be in the hands of as many ecclesiastics. we judge it to be one of the most timely books that could be offered to our own clergy, who will find much in these pages to encourage and stimulate them in their arduous pastoral duties. {6} the sceptical spirit which pervades a large mass of the french people, hardly yet recovered from the fearful shock which their faith received in the revolution, is one which, happily, we in america have not to contend with; and the suggestions of the author in reference to this are, of course, of no practical moment to us: but the principle that underlies every subject of which the author treats is a universal one, applicable at all times and to every nation: "to address men well, they must be loved much." this is the title of the first chapter, and the key to the whole work. it is written in a pleasing, familiar style, with an unction that endues every sentence with an irresistible power of conviction and persuasion. its perusal cannot fail of exerting a most healthful influence upon the character and tone of the discourses which the reader may be called upon by virtue of his office to deliver for the instruction and edification of the people committed to his spiritual care. -----{7} author's preface. it is surprising that whereas, during the last three centuries, many books have been published on the mode of preaching to the higher classes, scarcely any thing has been written on the same subject with reference to the people, or lower orders. it seems to have been thought that the latter ought to be satisfied with the crumbs which might fall from the table provided for the educated portion of society. nevertheless, nothing could be more opposed to the spirit of the gospel; which is specially addressed to the poor and humble--"he hath anointed me to preach to the poor." the fathers of the early church did not consider it beneath their genius to write treatises on the manner of communicating religious instruction to the people. the people form nearly the whole of the population. {8} in france, they number twenty-three out of a total of twenty-five millions; yet, strange to say, they are quite overlooked. the educated two millions appear to have assumed that they constitute france, and that france has so willed it. but if a few men were to arise capable of laying hold of the instincts of the multitude, were it only of one of the emotions which stir them, they would soon undeceive those who fancy that the people are under their guidance. we know something by experience on that score. there is a prevailing conviction among the well-disposed that nothing but religion can save us; that france must either once more become christian or perish. but in order that religion may exercise a beneficial influence over the masses, it must be brought into contact with them; and that can only be done by the preaching of the word, agreeably with the inspired declaration:--"faith cometh by hearing." {9} it is much more difficult than is imagined to preach to the common people, because they are so little conversant with spiritual things, and so much absorbed in what is material. it is more difficult to address them than the wealthier classes; for, in addressing the latter, one has only to fall in with the current of their ideas; whereas in preaching to the former, we have to bring high and sublime thoughts within the grasp of feeble intelligences. besides, there exists among the masses a certain amount of knowledge more or less superficial, and none is more difficult to direct than a half-taught man. the foregoing considerations have led us to indite this little treatise; wherein our object has been not to lay down any specific rules, but simply to set forth the teachings of experience. what we most need nowadays is a popular religious literature to meet the temper and wants of the people. such a literature does not exist. it should be based entirely on the national character and on the precepts of the gospel. invested with those two qualities, it would become an irresistible agency for good, and would act as powerfully on the educated few as on the unlettered many. {10} it might inaugurate the regeneration of our literature by restoring to it vitality, naturalness, and dignity. the time has come for taking up the cause of the people in earnest. the community generally is impressed with that conviction, and manifests a praiseworthy desire to encourage every effort for ameliorating their moral condition. upward of one hundred thousand volumes specially designed for them are sold every year. worldly-minded men, too, are anxious to foster the movement; finding that those who show a disposition to benefit the masses are sure to meet with countenance, sympathy, and even veneration. moreover, we are at present in the enjoyment of profound calm. heretofore, the apology for delay was:--"let us wait to see the upshot of passing events; for who knows what may become of us; who knows but that we may be driven from our own homes?" the evil-disposed have had their day; let us see what honest folk may and can do. let us mutually co-operate, piously and charitably, to become once more a united people and country--a france with one heart and one soul. 'twill be the beginning of blessedness. {11} contents. page preface to the american edition, 5 preface by the author, 7 chapter i. 15 to address men well, they must be loved much. the gospel enjoins universal benevolence. the men of the present age have a special claim to our love. the success of preaching depends upon our loving them. wherein true apostolical eloquence consists. chapter ii. 40 the people. the actual state of the people. their good and bad qualities. the people in large cities. the people in small towns. the people in rural districts. how to benefit these three classes of the people. one powerful means is to act upon the people through the upper classes, and upon the latter through the former. chapter iii. 118 the order of a sermon. the exordium. divisions. proofs. are there many unbelievers in france? manner of refuting objections. {12} chapter iv. 136 the sermon should be popular. what constitutes true popularity? popularity in words, in thought, in sentiment. one of the most popular sentiments in france is patriotism. means to utilize that sentiment. the relationship between popularity and genius. demosthenes. saint john chrysostom. daniel o'connell. chapter v. 160 the sermon should be plain. an obscure sermon is neither christian nor french. abuse of philosophical terms. philosophical speculations not popular amongst us. the french mind is clear and logical. plainness of speech. plainness of thought. starting from the known to the unknown. metaphors. similes. parables. facts. père lejeune. m. l'abbé ledreuil. chapter vi. 183 the sermon should be short. the discourses of the fathers were short. the french mind is quick to apprehend. sermons are generally too long. sermons of ten, seven, and of five minutes. chapter vii. 197 tact and kindliness. we should assume that our hearers are what we wish them to be. reproaches to be avoided. how to address unbelievers. special precautions to be taken in small towns and rural districts. how to treat men during times of public commotion. forbearance due to the church for being obliged. to receive money from the faithful. {13} chapter viii. 222 interest. emotion, and animation. we should endeavor to excite interest by thoughts, by sallies or epigrams, by studies of men and manners. the truth should be animated. the père ravignan. the père lacordaire. the heart is too often absent. chapter ix. 243 the power and accent of conviction. the divine word has always been the first power in the world. the gospel still the first of books. there can be no christian eloquence without the accent of personal conviction. chapter x. 254 action. action should be: first, true and natural; secondly, concentrated; thirdly, edifying. it should be cultivated. how cultivated by the society of jesus suggestions. chapter xi. 275 study. study a duty. the state of the world calls for knowledge on the part of the clergy. knowledge has always been one of the glories of religion. all the eminent men in the church were men of study. reasons adduced for not studying, answered: want of leisure, natural aptitude, the plea of having already studied sufficiently; that one is fully equal to the requirements of the people committed to his charge. {14} chapter xii. 287 zeal. the excellency of zeal. love for the body should be coupled with love for the soul. the zeal of the wicked. how zeal should be exercised. associations: of apprentices, of operatives, conferences of saint vincent de paul, of domestics, of clerks, of the young. circulation of good books. happy results of the same. the advantages and difficulties of opposition. great occasions. -----{15} the clergy and the pulpit in their relations to the people. --- chapter i. to address men well, they must be loved much. the gospel enjoins universal benevolence. the men of the present age have a special claim to our love. the success of preaching depends upon our loving them. wherein true apostolical eloquence consists. many rules of eloquence have been set forth, but, strange to say, the first and most essential of all has been overlooked, namely, charity. ... to address men well, they must be loved much. whatever they may be, be they ever so guilty, or indifferent, or ungrateful, or however deeply sunk in crime, before all and above all, they must be loved. love is the sap of the gospel, the secret of lively and effectual preaching, the magic power of eloquence. ... the end of preaching is to reclaim the hearts of men to god, and nothing but love can find out the mysterious avenues which lead to the heart. {16} we are always eloquent when we wish to save one whom we love; we are always listened to when we are loved. but when a hearer is not moved by love, instead of listening to the truth, he ransacks his mind for some thing wherewith to repel it: and in so doing human depravity is seldom at fault. if, then, you do not feel a fervent love and profound pity for humanity--if in beholding its miseries and errors you do not experience the throbbings, the holy thrillings of charity--be assured that the gift of christian eloquence has been denied you. you will not win souls, neither will you ever gain influence over them, and you will never acquire that most excellent of earthly sovereignties--sovereignty over the hearts of men. i may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the tradition of this great evangelical charity has declined among us. i hasten to add, however, that this is the fault of the age, of its injustices and sarcasms. it has dealt so hardly with christianity, and has been so ungrateful toward it, that our souls have become embittered, and our words have been sometimes cold and dry: like the mere words of a man and nothing more. but that bitterness is passing away. {17} religion in france, at the present day, is in the condition of a mother who meets with indifference and abuse from her son. the first outburst of her heart is one of pain and repugnance; but soon the better part of her nature gains the ascendency, and she says within herself: "after all, it is true that he is wicked; it is also true that he fills me with grief, and is killing me with anguish; nevertheless, he is still my child, and i am still his mother. ... i cannot help loving him, so great is his power over me. let them say what they will, i still love him. ... would to god that he had a desire to return! would that he might change! how readily would i pardon every thing and forget all! ... how, then, can i enjoy a moment's happiness whilst knowing that he is wicked or wretched?" ... this is what religion and those who represent it have felt. we have been wounded; we have been made to suffer cruelly. yes, men have been unjust and ungrateful: but these same are our brethren still, still our children. and can we be happy while we see them wicked and miserable? have they not already suffered enough? .... the question is not to ascertain what they are worth, but to save them such as they are. our age is a great prodigal son; let us help it to return to the paternal home. now is the time to recall the admirable words of fenelon:--"o ye pastors, put away from you all narrowness of heart. enlarge, enlarge your compassion. you know nothing if you know merely how to command, to reprove, to correct, to expound the letter of the law. be fathers, ... yet that is not enough; be as mothers." {18} this large love for men, alike for the good and the evil, is the pervading spirit of the gospel. it is the true spirit of christianity. its power was felt by our fathers in the sacred ministry, and it governed their lives. look at saint paul, that great missionary of the catholic church. a stream of love flows from his apostolic soul. he did not suffer himself to be disconcerted by the failings, the vices, or the crimes of men. his heart uplifts him above such considerations, and he overcomes human prejudices and errors by the power of his charity. let us hear him:--"o ye corinthians, our mouth is open unto you, our heart is enlarged. ye are not straitened in us, but ye are straitened in your own bowels. ... be ye also enlarged. for though ye have ten thousand instructors in christ, yet have ye not many fathers: for in christ jesus i have begotten you. i seek not yours, but you, ... and i will very gladly spend and be spent for you; though the more abundantly i love you, the less i be loved." and, again:--"would to god ye could bear with me a little in my folly: and, indeed, bear with me. for i am jealous over you with godly jealousy. wherefore? because i love you not? god knoweth." [footnote 1] [footnote 1: 2 cor. vi. 13. i cor. iv. 15. 2 cor. xii. 14, 15; xi. i, 2, 11.] {19} "i say the truth in christ that i lie not," saith he to the romans; "i have great heaviness, and continual sorrow in my heart. for i could wish that myself were accursed from christ for my brethren." [footnote 2] [footnote 2: rom. ix. 2, 3.] and addressing the galatians, he says:--"brethren, be as i am; for i am as ye are. ye know how through infirmity of the flesh i preached the gospel to you at first. and my temptation, which was in my flesh, ye despised not, nor rejected. where is, then, the blessedness ye spake of? for i bear you record, that, if it had been possible, ye would have plucked out your own eyes, and have given them to me. am i therefore become your enemy because i tell you the truth? ... my little children, of whom i travail in birth again until christ be formed in you." [footnote 3] [footnote 3: gal. iv. 12-16, 19.] ... and, again, writing to the philippians:--"it is meet for me to think this of you all, because i have you in my heart. for god is my record, how greatly i long after you all in the bowels of jesus christ. ... yea, and if i be offered upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, i joy, and rejoice with you all." [footnote 4] [footnote 4: philip, i. 7, 8; ii. 17.] alas! in this our day we see around us the same men, the same frailties, the same passions. let us aim at possessing the same apostolical heart. {20} in like manner saint chrysostom. ... what love, what charity, what devotedness dwelt in the heart of that christian orator! and as regards the people with whom he had to deal; what laxity, what vices, what baseness had he not to contend against! nevertheless, his heart is inflamed with charity, his yearnings are kindled. exclamations of pain, the plaintive accents of pity escape from him; and even when he grows angry, he entreats, he sues for pardon. "i beseech you," said he to the faithful, "to receive me with affection when i come here; for i have the purest love for you. i feel that i love you with the tenderness of a father. if occasionally i reprove you rather sharply, it arises from the earnest desire which i have for your salvation. ... if you reject my words, i shall not shake off the dust of my feet against you. not that herein i would disobey the saviour, but because the love which he has given me for you prevents my doing so. ... but, and if you refuse to love us, at least love yourselves by renouncing that sad listlessness which possesses you. it will suffice for our consolation that we see you becoming better, and progressing in the ways of god. hereby, also, will my affection appear still greater, that while having so much to youward, you shall have so little toward me. ... we give you what we have received, and, in giving it, ask nothing but your love in return. if we are unworthy of it, love us notwithstanding, and perchance your charity may render us deserving." {21} "you love me and i love you," said he, addressing the believers, "and i would willingly give you my life, and not merely that small service which i render by preaching the gospel unto you." in consequence of sickness he had been obliged to go into the country. on his return he thus addressed his audience:--"you thought of me, then, during my absence. for my part, it was impossible for me to forget you. ... even when sleep closed my bodily eyes, the strength of your affection for me opened the eyes of my mind insomuch that while sleeping i often fancied that i was addressing you. ... i have preferred to return with the remains of my ailment rather than by staying longer away to do any injury to your charity; for while i was in the country you were unremitting in the expression of your grief and condolence. this was the subject of all your letters; and i am not less grateful for your grief than for your praise, since one must be capable of loving in order to grieve as you have done. ... hence, as i am no longer ill, let us satisfy one an other; if, indeed, it be possible that we should be satisfied; for love is insatiable, and the continual enjoyment of it by those whom it endears only inflames it still more. this is what was felt by saint paul, that foster-child of charity, when he said: 'owe no man any thing but to love one another;' for that debt is always being paid, yet is never discharged." [footnote 5] [footnote 5: second homily on repentance.] {22} also the following passage, which is quite to the purpose here: "you are to me in the place of father, mother, brothers and children. you are every thing to me, and no joy or sorrow can affect me in comparison with that which concerns you. even though i may not have to answer for your souls, i should not be the less inconsolable were you to perish; just as a father is not consoled for the loss of his son, although he may have done all in his power to save him. that i may some day be found guilty, or that i may be justified before the awful tribunal, is not the most pressing object of my solicitude and of my fear; but that you may all, without exception, be saved, all made happy forever, that is enough: that is also necessary to my personal happiness, even if the divine justice should have to reprove me for not having discharged my ministry as i ought; although, in that respect, my conscience does not upbraid me. but what matters it by whom you are saved, provided that you are saved? and if any one is surprised to hear me speak in this manner, it is because he knows not what it is to be a father." [footnote 6] [footnote 6: homily iii. on the acts.] {23} on the other hand, if men ever ought to be loved, if, above all, the heart of the christian priest ought to be touched, moved even to tears with deep compassion for humanity, this is preëminently the time. doubtless, humanity is deserving of blame, but it is also most worthy of pity. who, indeed, can be bold enough to hate it? let us rather grieve for it: grieve for the men of the world who are truly miserable. ... what truths can they lay hold of to resist themselves, to fill the void in their souls, to control themselves under the trials of life? all have been assailed, shaken, denied, overturned. what are they to do in the midst of this conflict of affirmations and negations? hardly has a powerful and divine truth been presented to them, than one of those so-called talented men has come forward to sully it by his gainsaying or scornful derision. above all, the rising generation calls for our pity, because it has so long been famished. the half of its sustenance has been withheld from it by the cruelty of the age. but let us do it justice: youth appreciates sincerity and candor above every thing. it is straightforward, and hates nothing so much as duplicity and hypocrisy. well, when a young man awakens into life, what does he see around him? contradiction and inconsistency, a very babel of tongues: a discordant, a hellish concert. one bawls out to him, "reason!" another "faith!" here some bid him "suffer!" there others tell him to "rejoice!" but soon all join in the chorus, "money, my son, money!" what, we ask, is a youth of eighteen, with all his besetting passions, to do in the midst of confusion like this? {24} it were well if even the domestic hearth afforded an asylum from this turmoil; but, unhappily, it assumes there its most flagrant form in father and mother. there we find one building up, and the other destroying. the mother prays, the father is prayerless; the mother is a communicant, the father is not; the mother confesses, the father does not; the mother speaks well of religion, the father derides it. ... what, we ask again, is a youth to do with his affections under circumstances like these? reason tells him that if there is a truth, it must be the same for all; if there is a rule of morals, it should apply to all; that if there is a religion, it should be the religion of all. next, he is tempted to believe that he is being made sport of, and that the words _vice_, _truth_, and _virtue_ are nothing but bare words after all. such is the aspect of things presented to the rising generation; and were it not that there is something naturally good and generous in the hearts of the young, how much would they despise their predecessors in life! ... they are told of the existence of duties, laws, and other subjects of vast importance, and yet they see men who ought to be serious spending their time in material pursuits, in hoarding money, or in sensual gratifications. {25} is there not in all this enough to distress a sensitive mind, and to lead it to utter the complaint, "o god! wherefore hast thou placed me in the midst of such contradictions? what am i to do? my father, the man whom i am bound to resemble most on earth, can i condemn him? can i any the more blame my mother, or charge her with weakness--my mother, whose influence over me is so strong? what, then, am i to do? what must i become? is life a desert wherein i am lost? is there no one to guide me? those who should direct are the first to mislead me. my father says: do as i do; follow my example. my mother, with all the power of maternal affection, says: 'no, no, my son; do not follow your father, for if you do you will perish'." what shame should we take to ourselves for a state of things like this, and how much should we pity those who are its victims! and then the lower classes--the people,--who do penance under our eyes in toil and suffering, how can we help loving, how avoid compassionating, them? undoubtedly, they have their faults, their frailties, and their vices; but are we not more blameworthy than they? the people are always what they are made. is it their fault if the pernicious doctrines and scandals of the higher orders have stained the lower classes of society? moreover, they have been treated without pity and without mercy. {26} they have been despoiled of all: even that last resource, hope, has been taken from them. they have been forbidden to dream of happiness. heartless men have interposed between them and heaven, and have said to them, "listen; your toil, your trials, your rags, your hunger, the hunger of your wives and children--such is your lot. you have nothing else to hope for; except, perchance, the pleasures of revelry." they have been deprived of every thing: they had hopes of a better future, which have been taken from them; they had god above, who has been robbed from them, and they have been told that heaven consisted in the enjoyments of earth. meanwhile, they are miserable; and being miserable are, as it were, doomed already: yet, what have they done to merit this? yes, there has been no pity shown to the people; for has not the present age regarded christianity as a delusion? christianity ought to have been respected among the people, because it benefited them, because it alleviated their wretchedness. but no, a cruel age has had the fell courage to snatch it from them. a tale is told of a prisoner who became deeply attached to a spider, which served to while away the tedium of his captivity. he fed it with his own food, and it was his delight to see it scamper about his cell; but the jailer, noticing this innocent gratification, crushed the insect. ... {27} the spider was undoubtedly an insignificant thing; but the jailer's conduct was harsh, and all would denounce it as a gratuitously brutal act. well, then, if religion among the people had been regarded merely as the spider of this poor prisoner, it ought to have been respected, because it might have done them good. on the contrary, the laborer has been denied the hope that there will be a time of rest; the sufferer, that some day there will be consolation; the wronged has not been allowed to anticipate that hereafter justice will be meted out; the mother who deplores the loss of her child has been denied the hope that some day she shall behold him again. every thing has been taken from the people, and nothing has been left them but material pleasures to be enjoyed at rare intervals. what a field is here opened out for the exercise of love, of compassion, and of pity! o ye poor people whom christ loved! is it that all your struggles and trials are merely a foretaste of eternal misery? if you are to suffer here, and to suffer also after death, then you must needs suffer forever! but that we cannot allow, and after the example of christ, we should say to ourselves:--"i have pity upon the multitude, for if i send them away fasting they will faint by the way." lastly, on this charity depends the success of evangelical preaching. {28} to be co-workers with christ in regenerating and saving mankind, we must love it as he loved. he first did men good, then he addressed them. hence it was that the people, unmindful of their most urgent wants, followed him exclaiming: "never man spake like this man." let us never forget that the object of preaching is to turn men from wrong-doing, and to lead them to that which is good. this is the great aim of the christian orator. but where is the seat of good and evil, and where are both elaborated? according to the divine word, "_out of the heart_ proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemy." the heart, then, must be touched, moved, laid hold of. it is the heart which receives or rejects the truth; which says to it: "come, i welcome you;" or, "begone, you annoy me;" and it is love alone that can reach the heart and change it. an arab proverb runs thus:--"the neck is bent by the sword; but heart is only bent by heart." if you love, you yourself will be loved; the truth from you will be loved; even self-sacrifice will be an act of love. ... what we most want nowadays is not additional knowledge, for nearly all of us know full well what we ought to do. what we really want is the courage to act, the energy to do what is right. {29} truth has sadly diminished amongst us, and its characteristics also. what we need, then, is a style of preaching which enlightens and sustains, which threatens and encourages, which humbles and exalts, and which throughout speaks to individuals, saying, "i love thee." it is not by essays of reasoning, any more than by the sword, that the moral world is to be swayed. a little knowledge, much sound sense, and much more heart--that is what is requisite to raise the great mass, the people, and to cleanse and purify them. to be able to reason is human, very human, and one who is a man and nothing more may possess that ability as well as you, perhaps in a higher degree. but to love, to devote one's self, to sacrifice self, is something unearthly, divine, possessing a magic power. self-devotion, moreover, is the only argument against which human malevolence can find no answer. ... you may employ the most splendid reasonings, clothed in the grandest phraseology, and yet the mind of man will readily find wherewith to elude them. who knows but that french wit, by one malicious word, may not upset all at once your elaborate structure of arguments? what is required in sacred eloquence is something new, something unexpected. ask you what it is? it is love; for loving, you will surprise, captivate: you will be irresistible. {30} for it is useless to disguise the fact that in france nowadays there is scarcely any belief in disinterestedness. even the people are beginning to think that no one acts without a motive of self-interest; and their thought is aptly expressed in the frank and original reply of a poor devil who was brought before the correctional police for having inscribed some legitimist sentences on a wall. the president, observing his tattered garments, and his any thing but aristocratic appearance, asked him if he was really a legitimist. "by no means, monsieur le president," was the answer; "i merely do as others, as you do, as all do nowadays--_i work for those who feed me_." but when the people meet with real affection, a thorough devotedness, then they are overcome at once and yield heartily. you visit a poor family, or one of the working-classes in a large town, where the people are generally frank, and hardly know how to conceal their thoughts. do not be surprised, then, if something like the following dialogue should take place: "well, sir, but who pays you for visiting us?" "nobody." "what interest, then, have you in coming?" "none whatever, beyond that of wishing to benefit you and your little ones, whom i love." "i can scarcely believe it. there must be something underhand in this." {31} but when such persons are convinced that you entertain a sincere affection for them--that there is nothing _underhand_ in what you do--you become all-powerful. the disclosure breaks in upon them like a divine revelation, and they may be said to love the truth even before knowing it. then you may speak, entreat, or command; you will be listened to, you will be believed, obeyed. what else, indeed, could any do who love you, and also inspire love on your part? it is quite right to reason and to appeal to the intellect, but it is not enough. human malice will never be at a loss for a reply to your arguments. you may be acute, logical, endowed with learning and talent, the right may be most clearly on your side, and yet your efforts will be unproductive; nay, you will often be defeated, insomuch that it may be affirmed that he who uses reason only shall perish by reason. on the contrary, love causes things to be regarded from a different point of view, removes difficulties, and imparts light and courage simultaneously. you say to a worldly woman:--"if you were to occupy yourself a little in good works, such as visiting the poor." ... forthwith she starts a thousand objections against the suggestion:--"what, i, in my position! ... i really have no leisure. i have my house, my children, my servants, and so many other things to attend to. then, my health is so wretched, and my husband cares for nothing. ... besides, it is a woman's first duty to look after her domestic concerns." {32} in a word, she instantly bristles up with good reasons. you encounter a pointed defence everywhere, and no gap to admit your arguments. beware, therefore, of reasoning with her. go straight to her heart, beget charity within her, make her to feel, to love, and soon you will hardly recognize her as the same individual, for the change will be almost instantaneous, and every subsidiary stumbling-block will disappear. then she will go and come, suffer, be humble, self-denying, examplary. woman is called the feeble sex. true, when she does not love; but when love takes possession of her soul, she becomes the strong, the able, the devoted sex. she then looks difficulties in the face which would make men tremble. an orator of high intellectual powers occupies a pulpit, and leaves scarcely any results behind him. he is succeeded by one of ordinary attainments, who draws wondering crowds and converts many. the local sceptics are amazed. "this man's logic and style," say they, "are weak; how comes it that he is so attractive?" it comes from this, that he has a heart; that he loves and is loved in return. so when a venerable superior of missionaries [footnote 7] wished to learn what success a priest had met with on his tour, he generally asked, "did you really love your congregations?" if the answer was in the affirmative, the pious man remarked--"then your mission has been a good one." [footnote 7: this clearly refers to home missionaries. ed.] {33} have a heart, then, in dealing with the people; have charity; love, and cause others to love, to feel, to thrill, to weep, if you wish to be listened to, and to escape the criticisms of the learned as well as the ignorant. then let them say what they like, let them criticise and inveigh as they please, you will possess an invincible power. what a grand mission, what a glorious heritage is that of loving our fellow-men! let others seek to lord it over them, and to win their applause; for my part, i prefer holding-out a hand to them, to bless and to pity them, convinced by a secret instinct that it is the best way to save them. i have already remarked that our language has not always breathed this broad and tender charity. the injustice and unreason which we have had to encounter have made us somewhat querulous, and we have become champions when we should have remained fathers and pastors. we have followed the world too much into the arena of discussion. we have fancied that it was enough to prove a truth in order to secure its adoption into the habits of life. we have forgotten that saint françois de sales converted 70,000 protestants by the sweetness of his charity, and not one by argument. {34} nevertheless, strange enough, much is urged on the young clergyman as regards the necessity and mode of proving a truth and of constructing a sermon, but scarcely any thing on the necessity and manner of loving his audience. just look at the young priest on his entrance upon the sacred ministry. he is armed cap-à-pie with arguments, he speaks only by syllogisms. his discourse bristles with _now, therefore, consequently_. he is dogmatic, peremptory. one might fancy him a nephew of one of those old bearded doctors of the middle ages, such as petit jean or courte-cuisse. he is disposed to transfix by his words every opponent, and to give quarter to none. he thrusts, cuts, overturns relentlessly. my friend, lay aside a part of your heavy artillery. take your young man's, your young priest's heart, and place it in the van before your audience, and after that you may resort to your batteries if they are needed. make yourself beloved,--be a father. preach affectionately, and your speech, instead of gliding over hearts hardened by pride, will pierce _even to the dividing of the joints and marrow_; and then that may come to be remarked of you which was said of another priest by a man of genius who had recently been reclaimed to a christian life:--"i almost regret my restoration, so much would it have gratified me to have been converted by so affectionate a preacher." {35} i do not mean to say that the truth should not be set forth with power and energy. god forbid! but it should be seasoned throughout with abundant charity. it is only those, indeed, who love much and are themselves beloved, who possess the prerogative of delivering severe truths in an effectual manner. the people pardon every thing in those to whom they are attached, and receive home, without recoiling, the sternest truths and reproofs addressed to them by a beloved preacher. let your preaching, then, be the effusion of a heart full of love and truth. skilfully disconnect vices and errors from individuals. place the latter apart, and then assail the former: be merciless, close up all loop-holes, allow no scope for the resistance of bad passions; tread the evil under foot. but raise up the vicious and erring, stretch out a hand to them, pour confidence and good-will into their souls, address them in language such as will make them hail their own defeat:--"brethren, i speak to you as i love you, from the bottom of my heart." "permit us to declare unto you the whole truth; suffer us to be apostles; suffer us to address you in words enlivened by charity; suffer us to save you. ..." thus have we endeavored to describe the nature, the power, and the triumphs of apostolical preaching; which should be the same now as it was in olden time. {36} but apostolical eloquence is no longer well understood. it is now made to consist of i hardly know what: the utterance of truths without any order, in a happy-go-lucky fashion, extravagant self-excitement, bawling, and thumping on the pulpit. there is a tendency in this respect to follow the injunctions of an old divine of the sixteenth century to a young bachelor of arts:--"_percute cathedram fortiter; respice crucifixum torvis oculis; nil diu ad propositnm, et bene prcedicabis_." it is evident that any thing so congenial to indolence cannot be apostolical eloquence, which consists of an admixture of truth, frankness, and charity. to be an apostle one must love, suffer, and be devoted. for, what is an apostle? to use the language of one who was worthy to define the meaning of the word, and who exemplified the definition in his own life: [footnote 8] "an apostle is fervent charity personified. ... the apostle is eager for work, eager to endure. he yearns to wean his brethren from error, to enlighten, console, sustain, and to make them partakers of the happiness of christianity. the apostle is a hero; he is a martyr; he is a divine, a father; he, is indomitable, yet humble; austere, yet pure; he is sympathizing, tender. ... the apostle is grand, eloquent, sublime, holy. he entertains large views, and is assiduous in carrying them out for the regeneration and salvation of mankind." [footnote 8: père ravignan.] {37} we must return, then, to this broad and tender benevolence. let our congregations feel it, read it; see it in our persons, in our features, in our words, in our minutest actions. let them understand that the priest is, before all others, their best, their most faithful friend. nothing must disconcert our charity. our heart must be enlarged, and soar above the frail ties, the prejudices, and the vices of humanity. did not saint paul say: "i could wish that myself were accursed from christ," for the sake of his erring brethren? and did not moses elect to be blotted out from the book of life rather than see his cowardly, ungrateful, fickle countrymen stricken by the hand of the almighty? the weaker men are, the more need have they to be loved. such love does good to all. it cheers the heart of the preacher. it also creates sympathy, and those electric currents which go from the speaker to the hearts of the faithful, and from the hearts of the faithful back to the speaker. it reveals what should be said, and, above all, supplies the appropriate accent wherein to express it. saint augustine writes: "love first, and then you may do what you choose." we may subjoin: "love first, and then you may say what you please;" for affectionate speech fortifies the mind, removes obstacles, disposes to self-sacrifice, makes the unwilling willing, and elevates the character as well as the mind. {38} charity is the great desideratum of the present time. it is constantly being remarked that the age in which we live requires this and that. what the age really wants is this:--it needs to be loved. ... it needs to be drawn out of that egotism which frets and consumes it. it needs a little esteem and kindly treatment to make good all its deficiencies. how silly we are, then, to go so far in search of the desired object, overlooking the fact that _the kingdom of god is within us_--in our hearts. be it ours, therefore, to love the people. ... is it not to that end that we have no family ties? ... let us prevent their hate, which is so harmful to them. let love be present with us always, according to the saying of saint augustine:--"let us love in speaking, and speak in love. let there be love in our remonstrances ... love also in our reproofs. let the mouth speak, but let the heart love." yes, let us learn to love, to endure, to be devoted. what! do we not belong to the same family as those excellent and self-denying men who leave country and home to seek and to save souls beyond the ocean? were we not brought up at the same school? they love infidels, they love pagans and savages sufficiently well to sacrifice every thing for them. ... are not our pagans in france worth as much as the pagans of oceania? are not our french little ones as deserving of compassion as chinese children? {39} true, their parents do not expose them on the highways; but they abandon them to shame, to vice, to the education of the streets. ... it is right that we should commiserate the heathen, that devotion should be manifested on their behalf; but let us have compassion on our own children also, on our brothers in france, that they be not suffered to perish before our eyes. ... yes, i invoke pity for this people; pity for their sufferings, their miseries, their prejudices, their deplorable subjection to popular opinion, their ignorance, their errors. let us, at least, try to do them good, to save them. therein lies bur happiness; we shall never have any other. all other sources are closed to us; there is the well-spring of the most delectable joys. apart from charity, what remains? vanity, unprofitableness, bitterness, misery, nothingness. {40} chapter ii. the people. the actual state of the people. their good and bad qualities. the people in large cities. the people in small towns. the people in rural districts. how to benefit these three classes of people. one powerful means is to act upon the people through. the upper classes, and upon the latter through the former. we shall now assume that you love the people. but, besides that, in order to address them pertinently, you must understand them well, know their good qualities, their failings, instincts, passions, prejudices, and their way of looking at things; in a word, you must know them by heart. to a profound acquaintance with religion must be joined a profound knowledge of humanity as it exists at the present day. but, to speak frankly, the people are not known; not even by the most keen-sighted, not even by our statesmen. they are only studied superficially, in books, in romances, in the newspapers, or else they are not studied at all. {41} judgment is mostly formed from appearances. one sees a man mad with rage, who insults, blasphemes, or who staggers through the streets, and he says: "there; behold the people!" another sees one who risks his own life to save a fellow-creature, or who finds and restores a purse or a pocket-book to its owner, and he exclaims exultingly, "behold the people!" both are mistaken, for both substitute an exception for the rule. in order to understand the people well, we must probe beyond the surface, and take them as they are when they are most themselves. they must be studied in the spirit, as it were, and not on the outside; for they often appear worse than they actually are. still less should we arrest our researches, as is frequently done, at a point where they clash against ourselves. on the other hand, i feel bound to state that if we do not know the people, they, in turn, do not know the classes of society above them; and it is on that account that we do not love each other as we ought. at first sight, the french people--the lower orders--are a real mystery: an inconceivable medley of weakness and of courage, of goodness and ill-will, of delicacy and rudeness, of generosity and egotism, of seriousness and of frivolity. it may be said that they possess two natures: one endowed with good sense, which is generous, feeling, and contrite; the other unreflecting, which raves and drinks, curses and swears. on one side they are frivolous, vain, weak, scornful, sceptical, credulous, headstrong. {42} in their frivolity they jeer at every thing; at what is frivolous and what is serious, at what is profane and what is sacred. their weakness under temptation is lamentable: they have no restraint over themselves. but, above all, their credulity is unbounded. this is their weak, their bad side; the source of one portion of our evils. alas! what may not this people be led to believe? there is no lie so great, no absurdity so gross, the half of which they may not be made to swallow when their passions dictate that any thing may be gained thereby, or they conceive that their interests are assailed. at certain seasons of blind infatuation they may be made to believe any thing; even that which is incredible, even what is impossible. unfortunately this is to some extent the case among the higher classes. the people surrender themselves to the first comer who has a glib tongue and can lie adroitly. their credulity, as already stated, knows no bounds; especially as respects the rich and the clergy, whom they regard as the cause of all the ills which befall them. accidents wholly independent of human volition are placed to their account. is there a dearth? they create the scarcity of corn. is there stagnation in trade? they restrain the capitalists. undoubtedly they had some hand in the cholera; and it is not quite certain but that there exists some damnable connivance between them and the caterpillars and weevils. ... poor people! yet how they are deceived! thereupon their good sense disappears, their heads reel, reflection abandons them, and then they rise up in anger: strike, pillage, kill. ... they become terrible. {43} but i hasten to say that if there is evil in the french people, there is also good: much good. they are witty, frank, logical, generous, amiable, and above all, _they have hearts_. this is undeniable; and we should never despair of a man who has a heart, for there is always something in him to fall back upon. when all else is lost to this people, their heart survives, for it is the last thing which dies within them. it has been said that frivolity is the basis of the french character; but that judgment is incorrect. more truly it should be said that the french character is frivolous outwardly, but at the bottom it is generous, combined with exquisite good sense. very few are aware how much generosity and sympathy toward all suffering are hid under the jerkin and smock-frock. the people possess an inexhaustible store of sentiment, of the spirit of self-sacrifice and devotedness. why, then, are they not better understood? the mischievous, indeed, know them too well; for when they would mislead or stir them up, they appeal to their sense of justice, to their love of humanity. they point out to them grievances which should be redressed, oppressions to be avenged. {44} then are their passions lit up, and they are carried away ... we need not tell the rest. the motive on their part was almost always praiseworthy at the outset, in some measure at least; but once led beyond themselves they hurried headlong into extremes. the heart, then, is the better side of the french people; their honorable and glorious side; their genius. others may claim the genius of extensive speculations in science and industry; to them belongs the genius of heart, of love, of sympathy, of charity. endowed with so goodly a portion, what have they to complain of; for is not dominion over mankind achieved thereby? hence, when providence designs to spread an idea throughout the world, it implants it in a frenchman's breast. there it is quickly elaborated; and then that heart so magnanimous and communicative, so fascinating and attractive, gives it currency with electric speed. if noble aspirations spring from the heart, they nowhere find a more fertile soil; and, strange to say, this excellent gift is found in all classes, and under all conditions. a man may be worse than a nonentity in a moral point of view, but he has a heart still. would you do him good? aim at that. but you will say: "look at those coarse fellows, those besotted clowns sunk in materialism, those men stained with crime and degraded by debauchery, where is their heart? they have none." i say they have a heart still: go direct to the soul, pierce through that rough and forbidding crust of vices and evil passions, and you will find a treasure. {45} proof in point is to be met with everywhere; even in the theatres, where its manifestation has been noticed by observant spectators. the galleries are generally occupied by persons of all conditions; mechanics, profligates, vagabonds, loose women, and even men, who, to use their own indulgent expression, _have had a weakness_: that is, have spent some years in prison, or at the treadmill. it is gratifying to witness the conduct of that mass during the performance of some touching scene or generous action. they are often moved even to tears--they applaud and stamp with enthusiasm. on the contrary, when mean or heinous actions are represented, they can not hoot or execrate enough: they shake the fist at the scoundrel or traitor, hurl abuse at him, and not unfrequently more substantial missiles. it will be said that all this feeling is transitory. so it may be; still it shows that there remain in such breasts, chords which may be made to vibrate, hearts not yet dead, good sentiments which are capable of cultivation. such are the french people taken in the mass; such their merits and defects. the head is not their better part, and they might almost be described as having a good heart but a bad head. {46} in order to lead them, they must be seized where they present the best hold. to do this effectually requires sound sense and a kindly heart, moderate reasoning, and very little metaphysics. an opposite course, however, is too frequently pursued. crotchets, fancies, theories, vapid ideas--such is the stuff wherewith attempts have been made to influence them. is it surprising that they have not always yielded to such guidance? on points of wit, argument, and right, the frenchman is acute, punctilious, headstrong. on points of generosity and devotedness he is tractable, liberal, admirable. demand any thing from him as a right, and he will refuse it. ask the same thing of him, appealing to his heart, and he will often grant it with the best possible grace. but, above all, if you wish to restore him to equanimity and a right mind, get him to perform an act of charity. to prove that the heart rarely disappears, and that it always retains a hold on the mind, i must be permitted to cite an example combining the good and the bad qualities which are to be met with in the lower grades of society. i shall frequently refer to facts; for in morals, as in many other matters, they bring us sooner to the point aimed at. {47} it was in one of the most wretched quarters of paris that a priest went to visit a rag-woman who was dangerously ill. she was lying on straw so damp that it was fit only for the dung-hill. the visitor had reached the landing-place, and was reflecting how he might best minister to the poor woman's wants, when he heard the cry of another female from the end of a dark corridor, exclaiming: "help! murder!" he ran toward the spot, and pushing open a door saw two young children crying. extended on the floor lay the unfortunate woman, while a tall man with a sinister countenance, and clad only in a pair of pantaloons and a ragged shirt, stood over her, kicking her. her face was already black and blue from his violence. the priest sprang towards the man and said: "wretch! what are you about? will you not desist?" he did desist, but it was to attack the speaker. he seized him suddenly by the breast, thrust two fingers under his cassock, and then, without uttering a word, lifted him as if he had been an infant, and carried him to an open window. there he angrily told him that he would not have priests intermeddling with his affairs, and _disturbing the peace of his household_, and that he intended to pitch him out of the window forthwith. in fact, he was preparing to put the threat into execution; but, as if wishing to gloat over his victim, he continued to glare at him with the eyes of a tiger, holding him all the while as with an arm of steel. {48} the priest was alarmed, but god enabled him not to betray it. he regarded his antagonist calmly, and said almost with a smile: "gently, my friend; you are much too hasty. do you really mean to throw me out of the window? is that the most pressing business on hand? you who are always talking about fraternity and charity; do you know what was taking place while you were beating your wife? another woman was dying on a dung-heap in your house. i am sure you would be horrified at such a thing. now, let us both see what we can do on her behalf; for you are by no means such a bad fellow as you wish to appear. i will pay for some clean straw, if you will go and fetch it." terror, combined with the desire of winning over his assailant, made the priest eloquent, and he had hardly ended his appeal before the lion was tamed. the man's countenance rapidly changed, and he relaxed his hold at once; then taking off his shabby cap and placing it under his arm, he assumed a respectful attitude, like that of a soldier in presence of a superior officer, and replied:--"if you talk in that style, sir, the case is different. i have always been humane, and will readily help you to assist the poor woman. i will, in fact, do any thing you please; for it won't do to let a fellow-creature die in that plight." thereupon the priest gave him the money, and he went out to purchase two bundles of clean straw. {49} in the mean time the women of the neighborhood, attracted by the altercation, had rushed to the spot, and on seeing the priest expostulated with him in these terms:--"what are you about? do you know where you are? you are in the clutches of the worst man in the quarter. he is so outrageous that even cut-throats are afraid of him, and he has often said that nothing would give him more pleasure than to break a man's neck, especially if that man were a priest." these remonstrances were by no means encouraging; but those who urged them little knew the power of charity. the sturdy fellow soon returned with the bundles on his shoulder. he was calm, and his countenance had become almost honest. on entering the room where the poor woman lay, he took half a bundle of straw and spread it on the floor. the most touching part of the scene followed. he lifted the sufferer in his arms with the tenderness of a mother, placed her on the clean straw, then made her bed, and finally laid her upon it, just as a mother would her child. a female wished to help him, but he pushed her aside, remarking that he was well able to do a humane act unassisted. the man was in tears, and the priest perceiving that he wished to address him, retired toward the window. but his new acquaintance could not utter a word; emotion choked him. the priest gave him his hand, and the stalwart workman squeezed it as in a vice, in token of his affection. {50} "well done, my friend," said the priest, "well done; i quite understand you. i knew full well that you were not as bad as you wanted to make me believe. i knew you were capable of doing a good action." "you have done it all," was the reply; "four men could not master me, and yet you have overcome me with as many words. _you must be a true pastor_." the priest hastened to turn this favorable opportunity to profit, by pleading the cause of the wife, and rejoined:--"but, my friend, you have done something which is not becoming. you have ill-used your wife; and a man does not marry a woman to beat her. i have no doubt she has her failings, and you also have yours. you should bear with one another. come, promise me that you will never strike her again." at these words, his face assumed somewhat of its former sullenness, and dropping the priest's hand he said frankly:--"i am very sorry that i cannot do as you wish. i will not promise because i should not keep my word." ... the priest returned to the charge, and among other remarks which made some impression on the man, he was quite brought to bay by the following:--"so you won't promise not to beat your wife? that is simply because you don't reflect. surely, you who have just done an act of kindness to a strange woman, cannot, with any decency, continue to beat your own wife." {51} after much hesitation, he pledged his word, backing it with a tremendous oath. since then, he has never been intoxicated, neither has he once struck his wife. you should have seen with what gratitude the woman welcomed her preserver on his next visit. "what a blessing my acquaintance with you has proved," said she. "since your last visit you have saved me from two _floorers_. my husband does not drink now, but he still goes into violent passions. he raises his fist, and i fear he is about to strike me; but he forbears. he calms down at once, and says: 'tis well for you that that abbé came, otherwise i would have floored you again." not long after, he was reclaimed to a christian life; he confessed and communicated, and it is now rare to find a man of more exalted sentiments. he refused assistance from every one, saying that he was able to earn his own livelihood, and to provide for his family. to do this, he worked all day and part of the night also. peace and comfort were restored to his home, which his wife now likens to a paradise. to give an instance of his noble disposition, i may mention that toward the end of last december he called on the priest, to whom he had become greatly attached, and said to him with his characteristic frankness:--"i am very sad to-day, monsieur l'abbé." {52} "why, my friend?" "because i am poor. in the course of my lifetime i have suffered misery enough. i have cursed the rich, and that providence which gave them their wealth. nevertheless, i don't believe i ever felt the wretchedness of being poor as much as i do to-day; although it is for a different reason." "what is it, then, my good friend?" "well, it is this. here we are close upon the beginning of a new year, and i wished to make you a small present--for you have been very kind to me and i have no money. however, be assured of this, at least, that you have in me a devoted friend, and that i am always at your service. send me wherever you please; i would walk barefoot and beat a steam-engine to serve you." then, taking the priest's hand, he added with unspeakable kindness and energy:--"monsieur l'abbé, should there ever be another revolution, and any assault be made on the clergy, come and take refuge with me; come and hide in our quarter, and i vow that many heads shall be broken before a hair of yours is touched." such are the people, taken as they are with the good and the bad which is in them. i have again selected my illustrations from among the least favorable specimens, and i may further add that it rarely happens that a priest meets even with abuse from the most depraved. the instance above adduced is exceptional, and arose out of the anger of the moment. {53} such, then, are the people generally; but their characteristics are modified by circumstances of locality, intercourse, and education. there are the people of the large cities, those of small towns, and the people in rural districts. there are also the people who work, and those who are always looking for work and never find it; with whom the true people are often confounded. the people in large cities. the people in large cities possess, in a high degree, all the merits and defects which we are about to notice. they are fickle, vain, braggart, improvident, mad after pleasures, and not very moral. the ease with which they may be duped is astounding. they are readily excited, they clamor, are carried away, strike for nothing whatever, and then they reflect. they live from hand to mouth. when work is plentiful, they squander; when it is scarce, they fast and suffer. they love money for the pleasures which it procures; and in their estimation a debauch is one of the greatest enjoyments of life. {54} this latter tendency they have borrowed from the present age; which is somewhat sensual, not to say gluttonous--that term would not be parliamentary--as it would have been called in former times. nowadays a good dinner is not a matter of indifference to others besides men of high standing. a person of exalted rank was once told that his cook had the talent of adding considerably to his own wages. "i know it," was the reply; "but i hold that we cannot pay a man too handsomely for making us happy twice a day." in fact, in these times, one who can thus serve you out two rations of happiness _per diem_ is regarded as a treasure. despite the vices, however, which exist in large cities, there are many virtues also to be found among the resident people. they are sincere, generous, disinterested, amiable, and withal extremely witty. in the midst of their hardships, or when exposed to danger, they will often utter sparkling sallies, or laugh good-naturedly at their miseries. they are not rich; but what matters that? they are ever ready to help those who are poorer than themselves. in case of an accident, they will run, work, expose themselves to save others at the risk of their own lives. they are ready to sacrifice themselves for whatever they deem just and right. unfortunately, in their opinion, the authorities are always in the wrong, and they are never backward to take part against the law. {55} the more i study the people, the more incomprehensible they appear to me. they are at once sceptical and religious. watch them in a public-house there they curse and swear, and indulge freely in ribald talk; but if a funeral happens to pass by, they immediately doff their caps, and make the sign of the cross. to-day they will thrash one of their comrades unmercifully; the day after they will adopt an orphan. no class ever had so much need of guidance; of benevolent sympathizing guidance. they drift with the wind under the influence of good or evil counsels. they may become sublime or atrocious, angels of heaven or demons. the people themselves feel their own weakness and fickleness, and are occasionally dismayed at it. some time back, one of them, while looking at the stains of blood which had been shed in a church in the month of september, 1792, was seized with a sudden horror, and, laying hold of the arm of the priest who accompanied him, exclaimed with a shudder:--"i fear those times may return; for, you see, we are unfortunate. we are ill-advised, and are as ready to kill with one hand as we are to embrace with the other." they require, then, to be under constant guidance they always need to have some one near who will sustain and keep them in the right way by appealing to the better dictates of their hearts. {56} in one respect, such guidance is easier here than elsewhere. you tread on ground which is perfectly well-known. these people can hide nothing. as the saying is, when an idea tickles them, they must scratch it until it finds utterance. their frankness is occasionally foul-mouthed, and they do not hesitate to blurt it out to your face. nevertheless, such a style rather pleases me than otherwise. you know, at least, with whom you have to deal; and when such an one says that he is attached to you, he is sincere. god grant that the feeling in every case may be abiding! they are not tenacious either of their errors, their prejudices, or their passions. it is true that they are disposed to assume airs, to repine, and to threaten. they declare that they will do this and that; but it is by no means difficult to prevent them from doing it at all. ridicule their prejudices and their foibles fairly, and with sound sense, and they will surrender them, and you will overcome them all. moreover, they will not be the last to laugh at their own folly. some weeks after the revolution of february, when men's brains were all in a whirl, and every one fancied himself called upon to present us with a better world than that which providence has given us, monseigneur d'amata, bishop of oceania, happened to be in paris. one day he passed by a club in full session. the attendance was numerous, and all ears were bent and all eyes fixed on an orator who was dilating on the benefits of communism. {57} he wound up with the usual phrases: no more poor nor rich; no more great nor small; no more palaces nor hovels; but perfect equality and happiness for all. after which peroration there was a tremendous outburst of applause. the bishop then asked leave to speak, which being granted, he mounted on a table which served for a rostrum, and spoke to the following effect: "citizens, you have just been hearing about communism, and a great deal of good has been attributed to it. i am entitled as much as any man to have my say on the subject. for a long time past i have resided in a country where communism is carried out into practice thoroughly." (increased attention.) "there every thing is common: the land, the forests, rivers, fish, game, and women. but let me tell you how matters go on there. nobody works; the fields are untilled; and the inhabitants live on fish and game. when these fail, as the people must eat, they hunt one another. the stronger catches the weaker, roasts him on a spit, and then eats him. reflect, therefore, before establishing communism, whether such a state of existence would suit you. should you persist, i would advise you to lay in a good supply of spits, and to sharpen them well, for they will be the most valuable stock under the reign of communism." whereat there followed an outcry of "down with communism! away with communism!" {58} _the people in small towns._ in small towns, the scene changes and assumes smaller proportions. little things play the part of great things. a small town is the home, the real classical soil of petty ideas, petty vanities, petty triumphs, and gross backbiting. they all know, salute, and criticise each other. none is more slanderous than the male resident in a small town, except it be his wife. the chief authority of the place is neither the mayor, nor the sub-prefect, nor even the prefect himself. it is public opinion, flanked by its inseparable companion, routine. the local virtue is not independence of character, but timidity. every one fears his friends as well as his enemies, neighbors as well as strangers; he fears for his own _amour propre_, and he fears to give others cause for talking about him. all this has exercised a pernicious influence over the people in such localities. they are extremely timid, niggardly, insincere, rather hypocritical, and inordinately obsequious. they may be well-disposed to discharge their religious duties; but should there happen to be a free-thinker among them, one who takes the lead in the finance or trade of the place, who might traduce or turn such conduct into ridicule, or bespatter it with some of the blasphemies picked up from among the off-scourings of the eighteenth century, they do not dare to perform them; they tremble at the idea, so abject is their state of dependence: they have not even the courage to brave sarcasm. {59} this servile deference, which has been ignominiously expelled from our great cities, has taken refuge in our small towns and country districts, where it exercises a tyrannical sway. on the other hand, the people in small towns are more moral, more provident, less turbulent, and more faithful to family obligations than those in large cities. they, above all others, should not be judged by appearances: by that cold and lifeless indifference which characterizes them. hence it is that they are so little understood, even by those who come into closest contact with them. in order to win them, you must attack them boldly. promote concurrence toward some benevolent object, by grouping your men together, so that they may not feel isolated. then they will take courage, and will get to understand that it is no disgrace to practise religious duties; or, at least, that in attending to them, they are in fair and goodly company. to that end, organize a society of st. vincent de paul; or, should one exist already, develop it still further. it is no longer allowable that a small town, or even a village, should be without a branch of that institution. the attempt has succeeded in many hamlets; and, surely, there is no inhabited locality so unfortunate as not to possess at least three zealous christians. {60} if so, they must be created forthwith; otherwise, what are we good for? have also a society of saint francis xavier, and an apprentices association. occupy yourself chiefly with the men; leave the faithful flock in order to seek after the lost sheep; and, above all, let it not be said of you as it is said of certain small towns, that _religion there is engrossed with the distaff_. _the people in rural districts._ the people in the country are the reverse of the people in large cities. there, every thing moves slowly. results are tardily obtained, but they are more durable. the peasant is bound to routine; he is diffident, dissembling, susceptible, cunning, and somewhat avaricious. above all others, usage and custom are a law to him. he never risks any thing novel, or trusts to new faces, but with reserve. he possesses few ideas; but those he has he adheres to as tenaciously as he does to his little bit of land. he seldom comes straight to the point; he is incapable of saying yes or no frankly, and he must be very acute who can penetrate his thoughts. he will listen to you, and appear to approve all you say; but in fact, he disagrees with you. {61} he has, moreover his grain of vanity; why should he not? is he not a child of adam, like the rest of mankind? has he not, like them, preserved the tradition of his noble origin? hence he is prouder of being mayor of his _commune_, or an officer in the national guard, than either a prefect or a marshal of france is of his dignity. and as regards deference, no man is more exacting than a peasant who has risen to the rank mayor, or become an enriched shopkeeper. lastly, the peasant does not possess much acquired knowledge; but he makes up for the deficiency by consummate shrewdness. he must be a sharp person indeed, who can overreach him where money is concerned; unless he can manage to play upon his credulity or his dread of spells and witchcraft. nothing can be more perverse, more astute, or more cunning than an old peasant of normandy or lorraine. he will expend more craft in disposing of an unsound horse than our diplomats would in formulating one of those protocols destined to preserve the balance of power in europe. he will haggle for half-an-hour to gain sixpence on a sheep which he wants to buy or to sell. in other respects, the peasant is generally good-natured, laborious, sober, full of good sense, and religious as well as moral, up to a certain point; were it not for the public house. his life is capable of easy adaptation to precepts of the gospel. {62} in order to lead him, you must first secure his confidence, take hold of him by his better side, or even by his weak side--which is, his vanity. ought we not to become little with the little, that we may save all? but the best way of gaining that confidence is to do him a good turn. the peasant, undoubtedly, relishes kind words, but he likes kindly actions still better; and therein i agree with him. in other respects, he is by no means exacting. a little forethought on his behalf, a little politeness, a salutation, a manifestation of interest, or a trifling present to his child, will be enough to open his heart, and to make him well-disposed. when he is bent on doing a thing, never oppose him directly, otherwise he will become restive and obstinate; and if you attempt to lead him to the right, he will show a malicious pleasure in going to the left. beware still more of pushing him to extremes; for he may become obstreperous, spiteful, pitiless, and perchance atrocious. take the peasant by the heart; for, after all, it is the most healthy part of the community generally. {63} _on the way of doing some little good to these three classes of the people._ such are the people, with whom we have to deal, and who need to be restored to vital christianity; seeing that they are, unfortunately, sadly deficient in practical religion, and their manner of life is often far removed from evangelical morality. still, let us beware of judging that the religious sentiment is extinct among them. the people in france are naturally christian. there is more religion in the little finger of the people than in the superb bodies of our _demi-savants_. the people, i say, are still capable of comprehending and of appreciating religion; and whenever their hearts are brought into contact with the gospel, they allow themselves to be penetrated, ruled, elevated by its influence. look at them in the presence of a preacher who speaks to the souls of his hearers. their attention is suddenly riveted, their countenances become animated, their eyes glisten. they listen with an attention and good-will, which one often wishes to see in the most pious audiences. they welcome without a frown the severest truths, and even applaud those passages which bear most against themselves. those are, therefore, mistaken who think that religion has no longer any influence over the masses. it is true that at first, owing to the prejudices and sarcasms of a past age, the cassock is a scarecrow to certain classes. {64} they begin by suspecting. but when the same persons come to know the priest well, when they are once won over by his address, there is no man in the world--neither tribune, nor popular orator, nor demagogue--who ever acquires so powerful a hold over them. it is on that very account that those who distrust the clergy express their apprehensions, and say:--"their influence is excessive; their preaching should be interdicted; otherwise they may proceed to abuse it, and then we shall all be upset." this ascendency is often obtained over the most stubborn and vicious. condemned felons, despite their vices and their crimes, have been amazed to find themselves amenable to its power. those who had been confided to the mission of toulon, remarked:--"how strange it is that we who require armed soldiers to make us obey, nevertheless cheerfully do whatever the priests bid us!" and when the mission referred to terminated, no less than 2800 of the prisoners partook of the holy communion. no, the people are not so much estranged from god and christianity as is thought. we were made to understand each other; but evil passions have interposed between us and them. they still possess good sense and an inward instinct which draws them toward religion. they feel their need of it, because they feel the need of hope. religion belongs preeminently to them; they are linked to it by their sympathies. let us, moreover, do them this justice: they, the people, did not give up religious practices till long after the other classes. {65} they held out for more than a century. errors and scandals descended upon them from a sphere above them, yet they did not succumb. the churches were closed to them, their priests were driven away, even their god was hunted, yet they did not yield. they were pursued even into their cottages, their huts, and their workshops with licentious books and pamphlets, and they resisted still. at length, religion was covered with ridicule, the mantle of derision was thrown over it, as it was over christ, and they were bade in scorn to behold their religion! then they gave way. ... but the crash did not come till 1830, as the whole world can testify. the people were assailed on their weak side, with taunts and sneers which they were the least capable of withstanding. but though deficient in evangelical morality, religious sentiment has still clung to them. as a pious and illustrious prelate, [footnote 9] who knows the people well, who loves them, and is beloved in return, remarked to the emperor, on his way to moulins:--"i thank your majesty for having understood that the french nation, left to its natural tendencies, preserves the character of the most christian nation, and that, in spite of many rude shocks, the faith of their fathers is the first want of their hearts." [footnote 9: monseigneur de dreux-brézé, bishop of moulins.] {66} a dignitary of religion is always venerated by the people. they run to see him and to solicit his benediction. the visits of monseigneur the late archbishop of paris to the faubourgs, tenanted by a population regarded as the most irreligious and immoral of the capital, may be adduced in illustration of this statement. crowds of men and women flocked to him, bent under his paternal hand, and held up their squalid and half naked children to receive his blessing. in like manner, they brought him from all sides chaplets, images, and medals; while those who did not possess such pious articles brought halfpence, that he might bless them; and these they afterward preserved as sacred relics. the same soothing influence followed the devout prelate in the streets, the workshops, and the public places. his words had a magic effect everywhere among those hardened and redoubtable denizens of the faubourgs. it was in a quarter as poor in spiritual as in temporal things that an immense crowd thronged to him, and like the good shepherd--like the blessed saviour--unwilling to send them away fasting, that is, without a few affectionate words, he mounted some steps, and stood on a landing, which served him for a pulpit. among the crowd was a group of those men who are at perpetual war with society, keepers of smoking-dens, and worse places too; blacklegs, and setters-up of barricades. they looked at him without removing their caps, and with a sneer on their lips. {67} no sooner had the prelate begun to speak than there was silence. as he proceeded, one cap was doffed, then two or three more, and soon all heads were bared, in accordance with the rules of french politeness. when the sermon was ended, these men shouted louder than the rest:--"vive monseigneur! vive la religion!" it cannot be denied that the manners of the people are often painful in the extreme; but, then, they have so little to fall back upon, and are surrounded by so many temptations. ignorance frets them, debauchery degrades them, and, besides, having constantly to struggle against the pinchings of want, it is not surprising that they become, as it were, linked to a necessity which weighs upon them so heavily. even we, with all our education, our science, the superior moral atmosphere which we breathe,--are we always blameless? when the people look above them, do they always find good examples in the higher classes of society? what would you have them think when they see men who ought to be patterns of virtue, when they see, to use their own expression, _respectable scoundrels_, with money in their hands and lying words on their lips, endeavoring to seduce their wives or their daughters? {68} nevertheless, they have not lost the courage of truthfulness: a rare thing nowadays. they have still moral energy enough to condemn themselves, to condemn their own mode of life, and to admit that they are wrong-doers. a notorious reprobate, after hearing a sermon, remarked to his companion: "all right; religion, after all, is not such a humbug as it has been represented." scarcely any but the people retain such ingenuousness. elsewhere the truth is not relished, is not recognized, is rather thrust aside as an intruder. where, i should like to know, among other classes, will you hear the admission:--"i am misled; i am in the wrong?" the people scarcely ever attempt to justify their failings by reasoning, or to reduce their vices to a system; for there exists in them a sense of justice and integrity which, when they are calm, leads them to confess that they are unworthy to live. a man [footnote 10] who was in the habit of mixing with the least moral class in paris, relates that he one day had the following conversation with the father of a family whose union had not been blessed by religion. [footnote 10: m. gossin, _manuel de la société de saint-françois régis_, p. 143.] {69} "i must apologize," he remarks, "for reproducing this colloquy in all its original crudity; but i shall invent nothing; i shall merely repeat what was actually said by both parties the first time this _argmnentum ad hominem_ was employed. "'i regret to find that we cannot understand each other. what! you persist in maintaining that in seducing the woman at your side eighteen years ago you did nothing wrong?' "'nothing at all. i am an honest man; i have never stolen nor committed murder. i was rather gay when young; but there is no harm in that. as to the woman, i did not compel her. why did she allow herself to be enticed?' "'let us speak on another subject. ... are all these your children?' "no, sir; we have another at home, a young lass named seraphine.' "'i am sorry you have not produced her. i should have been very glad to see her.' "'it is very civil of you to say so, sir.' "'is she grown-up?' "'tolerably: she is twelve years old. she is getting on nicely with the sisters, which is very satisfactory. she sews well already, and is a promising girl.' "'your boys here are comely and well-behaved, and do credit to the mother's care.' {70} "'yes, it cannot be denied that what she does for them she does thoroughly. she keeps them well washed, and one hears nothing in the morning but "let me comb you; let me wash you." you should see how she souses and scrubs them.' "'is seraphine as comely as her brothers?' "'do you hear that, missis? what a goose you are; won't you answer? well, i will decide for both. on my honor, seraphine is better looking than any in this house, though we have eighteen lodgers, who have a jolly lot of damsels among them of all shades.' "'(then looking fixedly at the man)--'in two or three years, seraphine, who is still a child, will be a very attractive and modest young woman, and she will be a comfort to you. ... but what would you say if a working-man, doing as you did by her mother, should seduce and dishonor the poor girl?' "he sprang up almost beside himself, and said:--'what should i say? i would say nothing; but i would murder the villain who dared to inveigle my daughter.' "'you would be wrong; for the man, according to what you yourself have just said, would be, in your opinion, a perfect man; for he would neither have killed, nor stolen, nor forced your daughter. he could only be charged with having wished to amuse himself a little; which you say is not a crime. "still beside himself with rage, he said:--'nevertheless, i would murder the wretch.' {71} "'but, my friend, recall to mind what you have done yourself, and then judge.' "with tears in his eyes, and pressing the hand of his interlocutor, he said:--'forgive me, sir; i lied to myself when i said what i did. i was boasting just as many others of us do; but i am better than my stupid speeches.' "i may add, as a characteristic trait of the human heart, that after this dialogue, the father's emotion at seeing his faults placed naked before him was so strong, that he was seized with a fever which lasted several days; that he subsequently thanked me most warmly for having opened his eyes; and that i have now reason to believe in his complete and sincere conversion." are we certain that we should find the same frankness and courage elsewhere? the people, notwithstanding the bravado common to their class, deplore their failings, and if intimate with them, you will often hear them expressing their regret in some such style as this:--"pity me, for i am most wretched. do you think it does not make me uncomfortable to see my wife and children miserable, and to know that i am the cause of their misery? i have made good resolutions a thousand times over, and have broken them as often. my passions and my habits have become so inveterate that i am unable to resist them." ... they are right; for left to themselves they will never be able to persevere in well-doing. {72} they need the aid of religion, which ought to be afforded them, and which is by no means an impracticable task. let us hear no more of those incessant excuses that nothing can be done with them on that score. away with all discouragement! away with all despair! those who indulge in such feelings do us infinite mischief. they are a most dangerous class in our midst; they will do nothing themselves, and will not allow others to do any thing. they try to prevent all good by ceaselessly repeating:--"it will never succeed. ... there are so many obstacles to be encountered. ... it is headstrong to attempt it." this is one of the most hideous sores of the age. such men accuse others, and yet never seem to reflect that despair is the greatest possible crime in the sight of god. nothing can be done with the french people! what, then, have we come to? we admit that something can be done for felons in the hulks, for the pagan chinese, for american savages, for the cannibals of oceania. we believe it, for we send them help and missionaries; and yet nothing can be done for our france, for the nation beloved of god and his church, which sheds its blood and spends its gold for the conversion of the infidels, and where so many heroic virtues still exist! {73} it is a calumny against france. in order to justify your own neglect, you slander your brethren, you expose your ignorance of your country, you ignore the power of the gospel and the virtue of the cross. ... know, then, that we may yet regenerate the people. ... yes, we can, and if we cannot we ought, for it is a sacred duty; and he who does not discharge his own duty in that respect, has no right to give an opinion about the duty of others. but what are the means which should be employed to bring the people nearer to the gospel? religion must first be exhibited to them as it really is--beautiful, good, and lovely; and then you may hold it up to them as true, divine, and obligatory. you must first attract them by the senses and the imagination, by sentiment, and by the heart. the people like to be interested, touched, moved. they are fond of sentiment, of festivals, and shows. after a week spent in absorbing material drudgery their poor souls require the breath of the divine word to animate and cheer them. to them especially religion should be "glad tidings"--should bring them mental repose, refreshment, and peace. we should set out by making them to feel, to love, and to bless; instead of which we begin with reasoning, and end with the same. we have a mania, a rage for reasoning; but make the people love first, then you may reason, and will be understood. {74} i say that in order to make religion lovely in the eyes of the people, you should exhibit it under its most attractive aspect. point out the good which it does on all sides, to orphans, to children and their parents, to the forsaken, to the people themselves, their wives, their daughters, and their fathers. appeal to their good sense and to their heart. ask: "is it not true? i refer the decision to your own judgment." say to the people, but with overflowing affection:--"my dear friends, do what you will, you will never find a better resource than religion; religion will always be your best stay. ... when you have spent your all, when the world will have nothing more to do with you, when your bodies shall be worn out by old age and sickness, when from dread of you men will flee from you as from a contagion, you will still find by your bedside a priest or a sister of charity to care for you and to bless you." [footnote 11] [footnote 11: _le manuel de charité_.] but in order to make religion beloved, you must secure some love for the priest also; for the people confound our cause with that of god. in their estimation, religion is what the priest is; and if they do not love the one, they will hardly entertain any love for the other. {75} the priest, then, should appear to them surrounded with a halo of charity. he must make himself known; he will always gain by being known. he has been depicted in such dark colors that a true view of him will effectually remove many prejudices, and give occasion to the oft-recurring remark:--"would that all priests were like this one." but if the people no longer come to us, we must go to them. we don't mind going after the heathen of america and asia; we cross the seas to get at them; whereas there are in our midst--in our workshops, our cottages, and throughout the country--tens of thousands, perhaps millions, of practical pagans. we know this well, we confess it, we deplore it, and yet we hesitate to cross the distance which separates us from them! poor french souls! can it, indeed, be that you are not of so much value as the souls of chinese? to come to us the people must know the value, the necessity of religion. but do they entertain any such idea? surrounded as they have been with so many passions and prejudices, is it surprising that they are now insensible and mistrustful? should we be better than they if we had breathed the same pestiferous atmosphere? if they are weak in the faith, it is our duty to pity them, according to the apostolic injunction:--"we that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves." {76} but one replies:--"i cannot go to the people, for i don't know what to say to them, how to address them." well, i will tell you. the best way of winning them, and others too, is to know how to listen. that is one of the greatest talents in the direction of human affairs. the man to whom you have listened attentively will always go away satisfied with himself, and with you also. you do the people good by the bare fact of listening to them. let them, therefore, complain and talk nonsense to their hearts content. overlook their errors, prejudices, outbursts of passion, and their profanities, too. let them discharge all the gall which is in their hearts, and then they will be far more tractable. they will tell you that they have no time to practise religious duties; that they have no need of religion; that it is enough to be honest; that they don't believe in another life; that providence is unjust, bestowing all the comforts on one class, and all the miseries on the other. you may also expect to meet with opprobious personalities. they will tell you that priests are just like other men; that they only work when they are paid, and so forth. overlook all such remarks; they are enemies which are taking their departure, and you will have fewer to encounter. hear all, and be not disconcerted at any thing that you hear; on the contrary, after such an explosion, redouble your kindness, assail the heart where your attack is least expected, sympathize cordially with them, give them a hearty shake of the hand, and on leaving say with candor:--"well, well, i perceive that there is good in you. at all events, you are frank, and i like frankness. you are not as bad as you think. i will call again to-morrow and have another chat with you." in this way you may baffle the most diabolical ill-will. {77} then, when a friendly footing has been established, you may refer to the most salient objections and errors, and your words will be like so many gleams of light. who knows but that the individuals themselves will not be the first to say:--"i know what you are referring to; but make yourself easy on that score, for _much that i said the other day was in order to get rid of you_." occasionally you will have to deal with a blunt and surly character. ask such an one, in an affectionate manner, after he has expended his curses and oaths:--"is that all that you have to urge against religion and society? it is all you know, perhaps; but i could tell you a great deal more. you have forgotten this and overlooked that," till at length he will be induced to say:--"i perceive that you are bantering me;" and he will never afterward repeat his objections or his imprecations. but, good god! why are we so much startled and horrified when we hear such profanities? it is the very way to increase the evil. are we ignorant of what a man is who is vicious, or ignorant, or passionate? {78} does he always know the drift of his words? the man of the present age has a special claim to the pardon which the saviour prayed for on the cross. besides, the profane man is not always so far from god as is thought; such an one is not the most difficult of conversion. a very witty man, speaking of another whose restoration to religion has since gladdened the church, remarked:--"i begin to have hope of him; for when one talks about christianity to him he is annoyed, and blasphemes." we have the besetting foible of readily believing those who tell us that they have no faith. they must, indeed, regard us as most credulous simpletons when they see us approach them with a cart-load of argument to prove to them what they already know as well as we do, or what they would know if their poor hearts were a little less diseased. here, again, we see that charity must initiate and direct our efforts. as to subsequent measures, if you would win over the people, if you would acquire an irresistible influence over them, busy yourself in what concerns them, and be unremitting in your care of their poor. i will even go so far as to say, make a semblance of taking this interest in them, and you will gain a great ascendency over them, your words will have a magic effect upon them, and they will be ready to overlook every thing else in you, even the fact of your being a priest. ... this is a subject deserving the serious consideration of those who have a hearty desire to labor for the salvation of souls. {79} a priest enters a workshop, say, of gunsmiths. on perceiving the cassock, those blackened figures immediately become blacker still. they purposely turn their backs, in order to give him no inducement to address them, and should he do so, the reply is generally a curt "yes, sir," uttered in as dry and morose a tone as possible. he walks through the establishment, and meets everywhere with a similar reception. meanwhile, one of the workmen whispers something to the foreman, which the priest fancies may be a suggestion for his immediate expulsion; but he is speedily reassured. what passed is transmitted from one group to another, and suddenly the countenances and hearts of all undergo a change. instead of turning their backs, the workmen now move sideways, as if to invite a colloquy as the visitor moves along, and before he utters a word, they all stand ready, with cap in hand, to welcome his address. the men become at once polite, amiable, charming--frenchmen, in fact, in the best meaning of the word. the whispered sentence was the sacramental saying of the poor:--"this priest is kind to the unfortunate; he loves the people; he is not a proud man." o wondrous power of charity! how little art thou understood? and yet thou canst thus tame even the most unruly! we hear much on all sides about the best means of enlightening and reforming the people, and of preventing them from harboring envy and hatred. what is really required to that end is, as we have been endeavoring to show, the exercise of charity. {80} but, further, would you acquire an unlimited sway over the people? would you exert a divine power over them? become poor, and live in an humble dwelling. herein i no longer insist on duties and obligations; i merely give the counsels of charity, and the reader may, if he pleases, skip over the next few lines. yes, unfurnish your house for the poor; send your silver plate, if you have any, to the money changer; send your fauteuils and your couches to the fancy warehouse; give one of your mattresses to him who has none; send your clock to the pawnbroker, and let your watch go and exchange places with it occasionally. contend for your left-off clothes and linen with your old housekeeper, who will threaten to be seriously vexed if you attempt _to rob_ her of her perquisites. accustom yourself to privations. have a room like that of the cardinal cheverus: a small table and a chair constituted the furniture, a truck bedstead covered with a light mattress formed his couch, and the most miserable room in his palace was that which he chose to occupy. [footnote 12] [footnote 12: _vie du cardinal_, p. 316.] {81} do this, and then speak and act, and you will be listened to, believed, blessed, worshipped. your heart will overflow with joy, so much so that you may be induced to say:--"i fear lest i am receiving my reward here, and that none awaits me in heaven." such voluntary poverty not only impresses the people, it exercises also a powerful influence on the highest intellects, transforming and disposing them to acknowledge the truth. a person who had taken a prominent part in public affairs made the following remarks after an interview with an eminently pious man:--"what most impressed me was not his language, which, nevertheless, was powerful and keen; but it was his furniture, his wretched pallet, his three rush chairs and rickety table--all which formed a most appropriate frame, so to speak, to his anchorite figure. i returned home saying:--'i have seen something divine.'" these are the ways of doing good which cost little, and are within the reach of every one. but to return. as i was remarking, the priest must be known and loved, in order that, through him, religion may be known and loved. to attain this, let him first appear to the people as _full of grace_, and afterward as _full of truth_. let love precede truth, and then the latter will enter into the heart as into its own domain. {82} argument must be avoided, lest we drive the man of the people to the miserable vanity of setting himself up as an enemy to christianity. above all, we must be on our guard against humiliating any one; for it is very easy to reduce a man to silence by a witticism, or to make him fall into inconsistency when he is not a christian. with the reason of god it is always possible to nonplus the reasoning of men. in a word, we should consult our hearts much, and our heads only a little. yes, let us love the poor people, who have been so little loved during their lives. are not the people the most notable part of our family? i mean of the priest's family; for we have no other to love. it is true that we do not find its members very amiable at first; but we soon get attached to them: we even become enthusiastic about them, and experience a sincere pleasure in associating with those dear _mauvais sujets_. especially must we bear with the weak, with the smoking flax and the bruised reed. we must have a kindly word for all: a smile for this one, a salutation for that one, a picture for the little child of the more depraved. that child will love us; the mother will like nothing better than to do the same, and perchance the father may follow. ... in a word, we must bring into play all the assiduities and the holy wiles of charity. {83} i conceive that the blessed saviour lived and acted in this way, in the midst of that wicked nation which put him to death. he began by doing good--_coepit facere_; and then he taught--_docere_. he healed, he comforted, he pitied, he ate with sinners, he took the part of the guilty woman, he deplored the impending ruin of his country. seize every opportunity of mixing with the people and of showing them kindness; even those who seem the least promising. are not all a source of good to those who love? you are a priest, and in walking along hear some one imitating the cry of a raven. such an occurrence is less frequent now, but it happens occasionally. you recognize a human voice, for you hear the accompanying remark:--"it will be foul weather today, and some misfortune will befall us, for the ravens are on the wing." take no notice of the ill-nature, and do not assume a proud or disdainful demeanor. it is vulgar to do so, and by no means christian. the first chance comer could do no more. but, with a gracious smile on your countenance, and fervent charity in your heart, and, above all, avoiding anything like irony, accost the man somewhat in this style:--"so, my friend, it seems to amuse you to cry like a raven. i am glad of it. there is so little enjoyment in the world that i am gratified to have given you a moment's pleasure. besides, you are quite right; our dress is as black as the raven. nevertheless, if you knew us well, you would discover that we are not as bad as our dress is black. {84} but, what are you doing here?" this will lead to conversation, explanations will follow, a good understanding and mutual esteem will be the result, and you will take leave of each other with a hearty shake of the hand. thus, an embittered spirit may be restored to calm and to a better judgment; you will have made a friend yourself, and perhaps gained one over to god; for who can tell to what a favorable issue such simple beginnings may lead? god be praised! many souls have been reclaimed to religion and to society by similar means. i must forewarn you, however, that success will not always attend your efforts. you will often encounter obstacles, and even opprobrium; but what then? to a christian, that will not be the worst feature in the case. thereby, in the first place, you will learn to be more a man; for one who has never known strife and conflict, victory and defeat, is not a man: he has not lived: he does not know himself, he does not know others; he is ignorant of the science of life. he is an imperfect man: a man who has come short of manhood: because he has never fallen back upon himself to discover the treasures which providence has hidden there. he will never be a man to initiate, or a man of action. it is only obstacles and contests which form useful as well as great men. there is, somehow, a most unreasonable tendency in us always to be sure of success; and yet our blessed lord expired in anguish, he. . . . {85} as to jeers and sarcasms, you may fully reckon on them. occasionally, moreover, you will be made to act the part of a dupe or ninny. so much the better; such experience will serve as a useful counterpoise to our natural arrogance. such things are trifles compared with what our missionaries have to endure among the infidels. they brave the sword, and we are afraid of needles' points, and call our fear prudence. but why this dread of being derided? can it be that we are ignorant of the french people? are we not aware that they must banter or ridicule some one, even though it be a benefactor? what else can we expect? it is their nature; but they are sterling at bottom. join, then, to all your other benevolent actions, that of allowing them occasionally to sneer at you. should an opportunity offer, say to them, in the words of st. chrysostom:--"i give you leave to turn me into ridicule; i will forgive all the evil which you may say of me, on the express condition that you become less wicked and less unhappy." here, then, we have another means of touching the heart; for even revilers will find it difficult to help loving one who thus throws himself upon their mercy, and sacrifices self for their welfare. {86} a priest who was in the habit of visiting prisons, acting like a clever man, generally addressed the most obstinate of the inmates, and made it a point to enter into conversation with the groups which appeared to be the most vicious and ill-disposed, knowing that if these were converted the rest would probably follow. he was specially gracious to the more impious, so much so that the remark was often made to him by one and another:--"don't you remember that it was i who abused you the other day?" "of course i do," he replied; "but do you imagine that i care for abuse? on the contrary, i consider myself rather lucky when i get a good round of it, and feel to like the abuser the more. besides, i was fully convinced that you were better than your language might lead one to believe." when he retired, the observation was frequently made:--"there's a priest unlike the rest. he acts up to his religion. i don't know but that i shall confess to him;" and the veiled intent was often carried into practice. act in this way, and you will be loved more and more; and when men have learned to love the servant on earth, they may perchance learn to love his master who is in heaven. this done, you will have made a good beginning, and you must persevere by presenting religion under its most attractive aspect. generally, however, religion has been exhibited to the people in a manner which imposes too great a restraint on individual liberty. {87} we should talk less about what religion forbids, and a little more of the benefits which it imparts. don't be always saying:--"religion forbids this, and that, and the other thing;" for you will turn the people against it, and will be charged with insisting on what is impossible. we frenchmen are very children of adam--and of eve too. it is quite enough for a thing to be forbidden to induce us to do it. we have a ravenous taste for the forbidden fruit. for instance, a man curses and swears in your presence. don't tell him that it is a sin, an abominable habit; for he will then take a malicious pleasure in repeating his profanity. tell him rather that it is unseemly, that it is vulgar, that it shows bad taste, and he will abstain; for all, even the most depraved, wish to be thought well brought up. let us therefore talk less of vices and more of virtues. let us now suppose that you are brought in contact with a crafty and narrow-minded class of persons. disconcert all their manoeuvres by a straight forward and sincere address, and by a still more frank demeanor, always combined with discretion. then there will be no gratification in deceiving you. above all, never resort to underhand measures, and carefully avoid slander. the people hate them: and god and his truth have no need of a secret police. {88} when you have to deal with an egotistical and slanderous set, never speak of egotism or slander; but scatter love broadcast among them, make the good chords of their hearts vibrate, filling them with the holy palpitations of charity toward their brethren. thus slander and egotism will vanish, according to the saying of st. françois de sales:--"when there is a fire in the house, every thing is thrown out through the windows." in large cities, where the people are quick, bustling, and petulant, your speech should be lively, frank, bold, winning, and irresistible, that it may cause their hearts to thrill with emotion, and excite their interest by occasionally drawing a smile from them. in small towns, on the contrary, be less bold and more circumspect, and let it be your first aim to acquire the confidence of the people. study your ground well, the prevailing prejudices, and even the local routine. novelties often engender distrust. to gain currency for them, you must secure the affections of your charge, and soar above petty ideas and feelings. be impassible and kind in the midst of the puerile interests which surround you. be just, for the people love justice: they even love a severe man who is just; how much more, then, will they regard such an one if he is benevolent also? confidence once restored, go to the main point; stir up men's consciences, appeal to the better part of human nature, and throw routine overboard. {89} bring religion into close contact with those hearts which seem so cold, and you will witness things unknown to those who believe these people to be indifferent or hostile, simply because, as is often the case, the people in small towns are not known. they are looked at too near, they are judged by the exterior, and almost always by those characteristics wherein they clash against ourselves. there is another reason why you should keep aloof from the narrow-mindedness above mentioned. one frequents certain excellent families of the locality who are devoutly inclined and are munificent to the church. there is no harm in that; but it often happens that these worthy persons have rather contracted views, and are not altogether exempt from petty passions. they are fond of hearing and repeating some ill-natured gossip, or the least edifying news of the day; and as we are all apt to acquire some of the ideas of those with whom we associate, one comes at length to look at things with their eyes, and finally adopts some such style as this:--"my parish is this, my parish wishes that;" whereas, if matters were closely analyzed, it would turn out that the alleged wish of the parish is confined to a few of those aforesaid pious souls. {90} the next false step is to adopt a self-conceited course of action and of religious teaching, wholly irrespective of the catholic church: nothing is thought of what may be done elsewhere. "success can only be achieved in such a way," becomes the expression of this self-sufficiency; while those who fall into it grow exclusive and empirical, and forget that, thanks be to god, the ways of doing good are multifarious, and among them such as are suited to all dispositions and characters. nay, it will be fortunate if this conceit does not assume to have done all that could be done, and to deny the possibility of others doing better or more. happy indeed is the man who can truly bear such a testimony to himself! we war against prejudices: let us therefore beware of entertaining any ourselves, for they are not the easiest enemies to be dislodged. yes, we sometimes circumscribe, we confine the beautiful catholic religion within the small town where we ourselves reside; we recognize it there, and there only; it is taught as it should be only there; no good can be done except what is done there, whether that said small town be called quimperlé or saint-pierre-de-chignac. as regards the people in rural districts, who are dull, timid, susceptible, and rather gross, you must strive to open out their souls in order that religion may penetrate them. they are not over-exacting, not having been spoilt on that score, and a very little attention satisfies them. {91} a token of good-will, a salutation, an act of politeness, a trifling gift bestowed on their children, will suffice to attract them toward religion; for, generally speaking, when it is properly presented to them, they are attached to it: they love it, they are proud of their church and of their curé, and are ready to fight to prove that he is the most accomplished priest in the kingdom. the peasant must never be provoked or pushed to extremes. when he resists, don't attack him in front, but turn the difficulty by laying hold of one of his weaker points, some one of the good fibres of his heart; otherwise, the more you talk and threaten the more he will consider it a duty not to listen to you. never be at variance with any one. the priest should have no enemies, and should not be content while he has any. i do not like to hear the remark: "that man is my enemy." christ never said so; but he did say:--"father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." one of the most effectual ways of gaining over the peasant, as well as the people generally, is to show great confidence in him, and to raise him in his own eyes. don't be chary either of encouragement or commendation when he has but partially deserved them. suppose him to be all that you could wish; you will thereby pave the way to impart some useful truths to him. exalt his good qualities in his own estimation. he has fallen so low that you need not be afraid of making him vain, or of raising him too high. {92} may you rather succeed in exalting him to heaven! did not christ come to raise the fallen? carrying about with him, as man does, the remembrance of his noble origin, he finds it very hard to resign himself to being a nonentity on the earth. for my part, i prefer a little vanity to the mania of envy and hatred. in this respect also, timidity has led to our passive cooperation with the malevolent. we have suffered the people to be too much depressed. we have allowed them to be practically told that they are nothing and the rich every thing; that the lot of the disinherited poor is toil, misery, and contempt; that of the rich, affluence, enjoyment, and honors. rather raise the people by telling them, in the accents of truth, that they are great in the estimation of god and the gospel; that they have their share of dignity and honor, and have no cause to envy others.--"my friends, the rich have their advantages and you have yours. they have their joys and so have you. beware of envying them. a good workman! why, such an one is the spoilt child of providence. you are mistaken in thinking that wealth alone brings happiness. the rich happy, indeed! how can any one be led into such a delusion? you know not what they have to suffer: their sufferings are fearful; and if i wished to discover the most poignant sorrows on earth, i should not knock at the hut or cottage to seek for them. {93} i should knock at the gates of those splendid mansions which adorn our squares. it is there, behind those triple curtains, that i should find them with their claws of iron embedded in broken hearts. ... my friends, with a stout heart and two strong arms you may be as deserving, as happy, as great, as noble as any one." but this must not only be said; the people must be treated in such a manner that they may understand it. we must respect them much, in order that they may learn to respect themselves; showing them always due deference: as, indeed, we should show all men. in a word, we should practise, in our dealings with the people, all the decorum and refined politeness of the drawing-room; with greater sincerity, to boot. for, indeed, they have more need of such treatment than others. as manifested toward them it would be novel and efficacious; elsewhere it is generally vain and barren. this kind of politeness charms and raises them out of that moral degradation, the remembrance of which besets and weighs them down. so treated they will cease to hate, to envy, or chafe; and will learn to love, to be resigned, to have better aspirations: and, withal, they will bless you. {94} the best way to direct, to benefit, and to reclaim the people to religion, is to develop the good sentiments which lie dormant in the recesses of hearts; the foremost of which is charity, or the spirit of self-sacrifice. france is the home of charity: it exists among the high, the low, and the middle classes. the people are naturally sympathizing. as already remarked, it is a pleasure to see their readiness to oblige. the rich class are charitable; but are they more so than the popular classes? i will not judge; i prefer saying to all: "well done; onward!" if you wish to inspire a man of the people with good-feeling, calm, and a love of the truth, prevail on him to perform a charitable act. get him to comfort or to relieve some one, even though you undertake to compensate him for so doing. when you meet with a hasty or passionate man, do not adopt the ill-timed and absurd method of arguing with him. is he capable of understanding you? he is drunk with rage, and such intoxication is more terrible and brutifying than that with wine. in attempting to argue with him, you are like the woman who sermonizes her husband on his return home with his reason drowned in liquor. rather take the man, and induce him to undertake an act of charity. talk to him about humanity, get him to help a fellow-creature, and after that you will hardly recognize him as the same individual. that act of generosity will transform him; will raise him in his own eyes, will give him holy joys, will draw him toward god, will reconcile him to himself and to humanity. god be praised for having brought down charity to our earth! it blesses him who receives, and him who bestows it. {95} the people are specially capable of appreciating disinterestedness, the spirit of self-devotion. it is their element, and constitutes the largest share of their happiness. but latterly they have been treated harshly and cruelly. wants, aspirations, and desires have been fostered in them which can never be gratified, and their life has been poisoned thereby. much has been said about ameliorating their condition. so far well; but that amelioration has been made to consist, in a great measure, of material enjoyments, of more to eat and drink: in fact, of feasting. in former times they lived on rye bread and were not unhappy. now they have wheaten bread, and meat with it, and even coffee; yet they complain and are not content. a want should not be created among the people, unless there is a certainty of its being amply and always provided for. the people, however, are not always won over through their appetites; they prefer being led by the nobler instincts of the human heart. they like what is grand, what is costly, and what is obtained by great sacrifices. they have not, in any degree, the _bourgeois_ tastes, the _bourgeois_ petty calculations, the _bourgeois_ love of little comforts. {96} they are much more disinterested than is thought. we must not attempt to gain them over by their material interests solely: that would be to ruin them and ourselves also; but, allowing them a due share of such inducements, we should rely mainly on their generosity and devotedness; for the people really admire great actions, great achievements, and the great characters who bear sway over the destinies of mankind. they entertain a species of worship for them; they refuse them no sacrifice. they attach themselves to their good or evil fortune, and with them they are always popular, always abiding. the wars of the revolution and of the empire have weighed heavily upon france, have levied the tax of blood on many families; nevertheless, the name of the emperor is still surrounded with a magic halo. moreover, in the east of france, the marches and counter-marches of armies, with two successive invasions, have devastated the country, overburdened the peasantry with imposts, and altogether ruined many of them. for all that, enter any cottage there, and you will find the picture of napoleon by the side of the image of the virgin. even on the field of battle, amid showers of shot and shell which decimated their ranks, the brave children of the people exclaimed in death: "vive l'empereur!" such are the french people at heart: if there is a tendency in them to seek their own interests, there is a tendency in them, equally strong, toward devotion and self-sacrifice. {97} if, then, you would give them a right guidance, speak to them of other than petty ideas and material enjoyments: the more so, because, if you attempt to win them over by such low motives, they will become insatiable; their appetites will get the mastery over them and plunge them into every kind of excess. material enjoyments, indeed! it may be questioned whether france, with all its fertility, and all the resources of its advanced civilization, would suffice, in that case, to furnish their first repast. in order to elevate, to control, and to satisfy this great colossus, the people, you must be provided with something more than human, something mysterious, surpassing human views and human reason; otherwise, you will continue powerless, and will never bring about any moral improvement in the world. what has become of our great men, who trusted in man, who appealed to reason only, however exalted that reason may have been? where is now their ascendency? where the devotion which they have kindled? where are the masses who have clung to their good or evil fortune? they fall, and their fall is regarded with indifference. {98} even in prosperity, do they secure attachment? do they acquire a permanent sway over the hearts of men? not in the least; respect, and esteem, and even fidelity are meted out to them according to their characters, or according to the benefits which they are judged to have conferred on us. "that man is worth so much: he possesses so much learning, so much talent, and may be so far profitable to me. he only deserves so much consideration; i owe him nothing more." that is his account fully made up. a halo of superhuman radiance should surround him who would govern the masses--something divine, infinite, presaging immortality, heaven, hell, eternity ... otherwise, you will continue to have a degraded, besotted, or savage people, a people who, in the country, are sunk in materialism, encroach on their neighbor's field, or become the prey of usurers; who, when their asses are diseased, will call in a veterinary surgeon, but will let their wives suffer rather than pay a doctor to attend them; who will weep over the break-down of one of their horses, but find no tears for the death of an aged parent;--a people who, in towns, find all their pleasures and happiness in rioting and debauchery; who are never well; who accuse others of their sufferings; and who, after squandering their own substance, appeal to others, with hate on their lips and a sword in their hands, saying: "now we will share with you." {99} the best means of reclaiming them to religion is, first, to get possession of their ideas, their instincts, and their good feelings. we must enter in at their door, and make them go out by ours. bind, rivet religious thought to their thought--to those sentiments which cause their hearts to vibrate most, and then elevate their souls; wean them from the prepossessions of earth, from indifference and evil passions, and impart to them the joys of religion and charity. take advantage of any occurrence, of any great event, of a fire, a calamity, an illness. ... a fire reduces a poor family to ruin, appeal for aid, placing yourself at the head of the movement, and the result will surprise you. a laborer falls sick, and his fields remain untilled. call his fellow-laborers together, and they will be glad, they will forget their own interest, to come to the assistance of their suffering comrade. the people of france are not known; the spirit of self-sacrifice and generosity which is in them is not known. it may require some great occasion to develop it. well, it is for you to bring it about. for instance, you wish to restore a church or to build a new one, and require a considerable sum of money for the purpose. so much the better; out of that requirement, you may draw treasures of charity and religion. {100} enter the pulpit and state your object; be like a father in the midst of his family. set the whole case before them, your fears, your hopes, your need, and then add:--"we rely upon you. you will aid me, will you not? for i shall take the lead, and this will be our church." you will then witness how the old french and christian enthusiasm may be rekindled in the hearts of the people, insomuch that you will be tempted to ask:--"are we really in the nineteenth century? are we not still in the middle ages?" all will cooperate: the poor man will offer his two arms, work men will give their day's labor, the agriculturists, if there be any, will supply carts; this one will give money, another wood, a third stone; here windows, and there ornaments will be presented. who knows but that some, who have never been accustomed to work, will offer to aid in the building? the little _bourgeois voltairien_, who has been known to speak evil of god and of his curé, even he may wish to have a hand in the erection of the church; so that all will thereby be brought nearer to god, nearer to the truth, and nearer salvation. similar things have occurred in every part of france; though few have any conception of the existence of such a spirit among the people. we have even heard venerable pastors exclaim on witnessing it:--"i have held this parish for twenty-five years without knowing of it. i could not have believed that my parishioners had so much good in them." {101} haymon, abbé of saint-pierre-sur-dives, [footnote 13] tells us that in the middle ages, kings and mighty men of the time, renowned and wealthy, nobles of both sexes, stooped so low as to lay hold of the ropes attached to the carts laden with provisions and materials for building churches, and drag them to the house of god. and what appeared most astonishing was, that, although owing to its size and heavy burden, the cart was sometimes drawn by upward of a thousand persons, so profound was the silence maintained that nobody's voice was heard above a whisper, and the eye alone could recognize particular individuals in that vast multitude. [footnote 13: _manuel de charité_, p. 244.] similar spectacles may be witnessed again. scenes akin to them occur frequently in the least religious parts of the country, and under the most adverse circumstances. one such took place during the present year at the prison of st. pélagie. two years ago, a new parish was formed in one of the most miserable quarters of paris, where the people were almost pagans. an appeal was made to their charity, and five hundred francs, in _sous_, were collected after the sermon. moreover, the poor brought gifts of bread, and wished to help in the erection of the church. {102} two poor women brought the fire-wood which had been given to them by the _bureau de bienfaisance_. many brought their rings and wedding presents. working men clubbed together to ornament the church; and, what is better still, now that it is built, they go there to pray. o people whom christ loved, how little are ye known! how little beloved! ye would be saved. ... to sum up: in order to benefit the people, they must be cared for; they must be loved, must be made to love all that is good and great, and then you may lead them where you will. charity is popular in france. above all, succor the unfortunate; do so bountifully, and you will gain an ascendency which nothing will be able to wrest from you. you may then defy the criticisms of wits, of the press, and of hate, and retain possession of the most glorious sovereignty in the world--that over the hearts of men. we must insist, therefore, on the necessity of giving the people a right direction; not the dry and cold direction of a metaphysical argument, or of a sword's point, but a benevolent, sympathetic, devoted impulse. ... we have not busied ourselves as we ought about the people, about their moral amelioration. we have abandoned them to the intriguing and ambitious, and then we complain of and reproach them. have they not as much reason to murmur against and to upbraid us? the people are what they are made. {103} they are like those unclaimed lands which belong to the first occupant: they are good or bad according as they are well or badly managed; and, looking at the manner in which the people have progressed for the last ten or twelve years, it would hardly seem that they have been under the direction of honest men. what have we done? what masters have we given them? to what school have we sent them? to the school of the tavern, the liquor-vaults, and debauchery. and who have been the masters of this great french people? men over head and ears in debt, bankrupt tradesmen, briefless barristers, peddling tipstaffs--such have been their educators; and yet forsooth, we have the face to complain that they have been badly brought up! what ought to surprise those who know the temptations and allurements to which they have been exposed, and the kind of literature which has been put into their hands--no less than eight millions of mischievous books every year by colportage alone--is, not that the people are so bad as they are, but that they are no worse. their nature must be good at bottom, and christianity must still survive in their hearts, to have withstood as they have done. i deplore the good which is ours no longer; but i bless providence for that which still subsists. {104} we have, in truth, played into the hands of designing and malevolent; for when we have seen them set on the people, overwhelming them under a crushing load of errors, prejudices, and antipathies, instead of taking part in the contest, we have too often stood aloof, and contented ourselves with the vain deprecation, uttered perhaps with a smile of disdain:--"they are being taught what is unreasonable and will not bear examination!" very true; but do the people examine? when a bad press has been active, lavish, and amusing withal--when it has followed them into their workshops, their cottages, in fact, everywhere--how did we act? why, we gave them some wearisome treatises which were either puerile or crammed full of metaphysics. good heavens! when shall we be brought to understand that the people do not reflect, that they look, listen, and then go forward? they need some one to guide them, and if honest men do not undertake the mission, they will find others who will. ... to aid us in affording that guidance, we should invoke the cooperation of the higher classes, inducing them to exert themselves for the moral amelioration of the people. here, again, we have another rich mine to be worked which has been greatly neglected, but whereby all may be benefited. the people must be morally reformed by the rich, and the rich by the people. {105} alas! we often have to deplore the little effect which our words produce on the higher classes. but why should you expect them to understand us? they have no longer the christian sense; they do not wish to endure, their aim is to enjoy themselves. they are devoured by sensualism and hardened by egotism. to remedy this, begin by dipping their souls in the waters of charity; teach them the way of self-sacrifice and devotion; enlist them in efforts for the moral benefit of the people, their children, and the poor, and then you will be listened to. this kind of charity is readily understood in france. all of us have some sort of pretension of wishing to do something for the moral welfare of the people, even though we may not be strictly consistent in our own morality. but the french mind is so logical that it cannot play such a part for any length of time without being bettered thereby, were it only for shame's sake or out of self-respect. something within will say:--"before attempting to reform others, i shall do well to reform myself." then charity will attract heavenly blessings, and the heart will open itself to the inspirations of the gospel. if, therefore, you wish to convert or reform a man, set him to reform one somewhat worse than himself. you will succeed much more readily in that way than by argument. take the case of a young man whose virtue is more than wavering, and the flights of whose imagination cause you anxiety. set him at work to reform others, or to make the effort on some notorious offender. {106} he will do his part wonderfully well; his own virtue will be strengthened and confirmed thereby, and you will have given beneficent scope to an exuberant vivacity which the youth himself did not know how to utilize. it is related that a president of the society of saint vincent de paul had reason to fear that some of its members failed to discharge their paschal obligations. there were, at the same time, several poor families to be converted, and he committed the task to the suspected defaulters. the result was that they were the first to partake of the holy communion. the thing was simple enough: before leading others to the confessional, it was necessary that they themselves should show them the way. every effort made by the higher classes to benefit those below them, revives and sustains in the former the spirit of compassion, of benevolence, and of self-sacrifice--the best sentiments of the human heart. it imparts life to them; for to live is to feel, is to love, is to be loved, and to cause love in others. to have sympathy with and fellow-feeling for the poor--that is to live; but to be wholly absorbed in business matters, in advancing one's own fortune, or in concocting intrigues--that is not to live; rather it is to become brutish and to go to ruin. nothing is more immoral and contrary to nature than to be always taken up with self. {107} moreover, the course which we are recommending tends to draw the different classes closer together, to teach them to know and esteem each other, and to assuage mutual jealousies and antipathies. the people are fond of being thought of, of having interest manifested toward them. under such treatment they readily yield, and are glad to be reconciled. they become even proud of the tokens of benevolence bestowed on them by some wealthy individual; it is a kind of safeguard to them against evil passions. they say to themselves:-"we are loved and esteemed: let us by honest and christian conduct continue to deserve such consideration." further, it cannot be denied that there is a tendency in the spirit of the people to fancy themselves despised by the rich. even suspicion on that point must be rendered impossible, for it may lead to serious evils. the people are implacable on the subject of contempt: they are even cruel, and they cannot pardon it, whatever else they may be ready to overlook. they forgive those who deceive and those who rob and over-work them; but they do not forgive those who despise them. to be despised is to them the last indignity: and perhaps there is some reason in that popular instinct. it is surprising that our blessed lord complained but once during his passion. ... he suffered, he died, without a murmur; but when the affront of contempt was inflicted on him, he complained, and uttered that speech which revealed a heart profoundly bruised:--"if i have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil; but if well, why smitest thou me?" {108} but when the people meet with benevolence and cordiality among the rich, jealousy and hate give way, and they may be heard to say:--"if all the rich were of that sort, they would be adored; we should be ready to die for them." moreover, they are led thereby to have more faith in god and in the reality of a providence. some few years ago there lived an artisan's wife who was notorious for her hatred toward society, toward the rich, and even toward god. she hated them with an implacable, a woman's hate. her malignity was specially directed against the _rolls of silk_ and _bundles of stuff_--so she designated the females of the upper classes--and she was known to be in the habit of saying to her children:--"i have brought you up for the democracy ... to humble the rich and to reestablish equality; and if you do not become democrats, i will disown you." a priest commissioned a young marchioness, as virtuous as she was accomplished, to attend to this poor creature. she began by listening with kindness to all her grievances and insults, and even allowed herself to be called a _coquine_. nevertheless, by dint of patience, she soon succeeded in calming her embittered soul. {109} one day, the marchioness, who was about to absent herself for several weeks, went to bid farewell to her _protégée_. she took her affectionately by the hand, and then, moved thereto spontaneously by her kind heart, and doubtless by the grace of god also, cordially kissed her, saying, as she left:--"i shall soon see you again." the poor woman was stunned with amazement, and moved even to tears, and forthwith went to the priest; but instead of first saluting him, she began by exclaiming:--"is it possible? you will not believe me; nevertheless it is true. she kissed me! .... yes, the lady marchioness kissed a miserable creature like me. ... ah! i have frequently declared that there was no good god; now i say there is, because that lady is one of his angels. i have said, too, that i would never confess; now you may confess me as often as you please." since that time she has been an exemplary christian. the day after, the priest wrote as follows to the excellent lady whom god had made the instrument of this good work:--"you may, indeed, consider yourself happy. ... we priests are at great pains to preach, and do not always succeed in converting our hearers; but you succeed with an embrace!" oh, if women only knew! oh, if they would, what good they might do, what evil they might prevent! .... {110} moreover, the existence of real virtue in a woman of the world depends upon her coming out of self, and devoting herself assiduously to works of charity. ... for, you may rest assured of this, that without self-denial on her part you will never be able to keep her in the right way. ... take the case of a light, worldly, and gay woman--and there are many such; you will never acquire any influence over her except through the medium of charity. she will make promises, but she will take care not to keep them: you can never rely on her being faithful to them. it will be vain for you to address her in the most conclusive speeches, to ply her with refined and smart essays on good breeding--in vain that you assail her foibles and waywardness with irony and sarcasm--in vain that you hold up before her the terrors of death, hell, and eternity. she will find loopholes by which to elude all that, and to deceive herself. it will not prevent her in the least from being vain and excessively addicted to pleasure, from baring her shoulders immoderately, and from going a-begging for idolatrous incense in fashionable circles. before all, she must be made to feel, to love, to be loved, to devote herself. charity filling her soul will set fire to the house, and then every thing else will be thrown out of the window. {111} strive, therefore, to enlist all--women, men, and even children--in searching out the distressed, and in the moral improvement of the people. make charity honorable; let there be benevolent enterprises in your locality in which all can take part, so that there may not be a man or woman who has not his or her poor, or who is not engaged somehow in works of charity. this is the case already in several towns in france, where a person can scarcely decline being a member of some benevolent association without suffering a loss of respect. you must overcome all repugnances on this subject, more especially that of _amour propre_. there are those who will raise the following objection, which is by no means rare:--"how can i, a man in my position, a woman of my standing, busy myself about a set of beggarly people like these?" to such reply:--"and why not? in the great cities, men the most eminent by fortune, talent, and reputation, do it. ... even ladies who are fêted and sought after in the world--the young and beautiful, countesses, marchionesses, and princesses--even such do not disdain the task. there are women in paris, possessing every thing that heart can desire, with a rental of from two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand francs, who deprive themselves of legitimate pleasures to occupy themselves in making clothes for the poor, visiting the most wretched hovels, and nursing the indigent sick." {112} tell them all this with gentleness and kindness; make the grand ladies of certain small towns--such as the wives of lawyers, judges, advocates, merchants, commission agents, and viscounts--ashamed of themselves. it will tend to wean them from that spirit of contempt and sensualism, and that pride of shabby finery, which consists in thinking one's self superior to a rival because she has had the signal honor of finding a better dressmaker. tell them that, if they affect the fashions and usages of paris, they would do well to imitate the charity, zeal, and devotion which are exercised there. to cite but one instance, that of donoso cortès, whom we may now praise, for god has just called him to himself. he disappeared every day from home at certain hours. no one knew where he went; but it was afterward discovered that it was the time of his visits to the poor. m. de montalembert, who knew him well, tells us that he loved the poor passionately, but, withal, discreetly. in fact, in order to benefit the people, that is how they must be loved. thereby alone can you hope to succeed in restoring them to the path of gospel self-denial and self-sacrifice. be on your guard, moreover, against another excuse often urged by certain of the wealthier classes. they say:--"but the people distrust us; it is quite enough for us to attempt to lead them in one way to make them determined to follow another." {113} the people distrust the wealthy classes! if it be so, whose fault is it? is it all theirs? they do not know those classes; they seldom see them except at a distance, and from a lower standing. their estimate of them is founded on slander; how, then, can they have confidence in them? ... their confidence must be won, it must be raised by dint of benevolence, charity, and self-devotion, and the task is by no means impracticable. what! the possessors of fortune, and talent, and a name, and yet unable to gain that confidence on the part of the people which a schoolmaster, a village lawyer, a tipstaff, a man without any intellectual or moral worth, is able to secure! of what avail, then, is it to spend so many long years in study? what does a good education mean, and of what use is it? surely a very false idea has been formed of education. it will soon be made to consist in knowing how to train a horse, or to turn a compliment, or in instilling vanity into brains which need no addition of that quality. knowledge, talent, position, and birth are not bestowed on us for the benefit of self, but for the welfare of all; and it therefore behoves those who are endowed with a greater capacity--who possess more knowledge, more time, more influence, and more heart than others--to share their advantages with those who have less, or who have not the leisure to acquire them. {114} that the influence of which we are speaking may be secured is proved by the fact of its existence throughout france. there are parts of the country where the rich man is king and father of his _commune_; which then resembles one great family. there, the tenant of the cottage exchanges smiles with the proprietor of the mansion, and the joys and sorrows of both are warmly reciprocated. no important step is taken by those who are below without knowing first what those above them think of it. under such circumstances, how many evils are avoided, how many quarrels adjusted, how many animosities appeased! oh, what a glorious mission! how sad to reflect that it is not carried out everywhere! nevertheless, strive to make it understood by persuasion. make frequent appeals to the hearts of the rich, to their love of humanity. invoke them to aid us in stopping the misery at its source. invoke their pity on the masses who toil and suffer beneath us; their pity for those poor children whose fathers devour their bread; pity on behalf of the aged who pine in cold and hunger; pity for the woman who spends her sunday evenings in tears, expecting every moment to encounter the brutality of a husband who reels home with his reason and heart drowned in liquor. appeal even to their sense of shame, and tell them that, if it is right to protect animals, it is still more so to cherish human beings--that their words, coupled with a good example, would be all-powerful to remedy these miseries--that it is the rich and great of the earth who sow good or evil in the hearts of men, and that if matters do not progress to their satisfaction, they should begin by taking the blame to themselves. ... your efforts will be appreciated by many. ... you will be blessed by all. {115} such are the french people; such, it appears to us, is the way to do them good. it is well to study books: it is indispensable; but it is not enough. we must also study the hearts, the minds, the manners of those with whom we have to deal, otherwise our knowledge will be like gold buried in the mountains of america. "the good shepherd knows his sheep, and is known of them." is that saying always realized amongst ourselves? there is one particular point, however, on which we must be thoroughly convinced, namely, that what sufficed in former times will not suffice now. a great revolution has taken place among the masses. a century ago, christianity bore all away in its strong current. passions broke loose, no doubt; but sooner or later all bowed before the gospel. nowadays, attempts are made to justify human weaknesses. formerly, scarcely any other guidance was permitted but that of the christian pulpit. now, there are platforms everywhere, and within a century we have between fifteen and eighteen millions more who can read--from fifteen to eighteen millions of men who may easily be led astray. {116} it is a common saying that "france is very sick." then, i beseech you not to treat it as if it were in perfect health. would you make an end of it? "christianity alone can save us," is another common remark. very true; but it must be brought in contact with the masses, and if they do not come to us, we must go to them. ... we have been unsuccessful in the ministry of the word; let us try the ministry of charity. is it not the aim of christian eloquence to win over the hearts of men, and to dispose them toward that which is good? avail yourselves, then, of your position to carry out that object. ... be persuaded that the world is tired of fine speeches; it wants actions: and of that demand, who can complain? ... to study and to argue is to act well; to act and to love is better still. but the most formidable argument against christianity is this:--"we admit that christianity has rendered great benefits to mankind by endowing the world with admirable institutions; but its sap is exhausted; its ascendency over the masses is lost." let us prove that this is false, not by words merely, but by deeds: by self-denial and self sacrifice. those arguments are unanswerable. {117} but in order to remedy the evils which beset us, we must not rely on the systems of the learned or on human laws. good heavens! if reasonings and codes of law sufficed to secure the peace and happiness of a people, france ought to be the most prosperous country in the world. neither must we rely upon the power of the sword. it is easily used; but, as de maistre has said, to rely on force is like lying down on the sail of a windmill to obtain quiet sleep. then, again, the adoption of force leads to the most terrible excesses. those who invoke it know not what they do: they have never witnessed civil war or barricades, they have never seen french blood flow in the streets, they have never heard the roar of cannon or the crash of grapeshot. . . . may god preserve us from a recurrence of such experience! rather by dint of persuasion, of devotion, and of love, let us strive to reconcile all hearts, and make france the foremost people in the world--the most christian and divinely blessed nation. {118} chapter iii. the order of a sermon the exordium. divisions. proofs. are there many unbelievers in france? manner of refuting objections. after getting to know the people and to be known of them, to love them and to be loved by them in return, the next step is to lead them to the knowledge and love of god and his gospel by means of oral teaching. ... in carrying this out, use plain speech, and aim straight at your object, which is to expound the truth proposed to be treated in such a way as shall cause it to be listened to with interest. let it be perceived at once what the subject is, and what you intend to say. sketch out your truth in a few sententious words, clearly and emphatically enunciated. let there be none of those vague and halting considerations which give the speaker the air of a man who is blindfolded, and strikes at random,--none of those perplexing exordiums wherein every conceivable fancy is brought to bear upon a single idea, and which frequently elicit the remark:--"what is he driving at? what topic is he going to discuss?" {119} let the subject-matter be vigorously stated at the outset, so that it may rivet the minds and engage the attention of the audience. generally speaking, at the commencement of a discourse, there is profound silence, and all eyes are fixed on the preacher. avail yourself of that opportunity to arrest the imagination of your hearers, to attract their attention, which you should maintain throughout, and to withdraw their minds from the things of earth and from themselves, in order that they may live your life for the space of half-an-hour. let your onset be bold and vigorous, that your audience may catch a glimpse of the strength of your position, your means of defence, and the triumph of the truth which you are about to handle. ... "i prefer," says montaigne, "those discourses which level the first charge against the strongest doubt. i look for good and solid reasons to come after." this should be followed by a word of appeal to the heart, to restrain its evil promptings--something genial and earnest, calculated to open out the soul, and which, coupled with a simple and modest demeanor, shall at once bespeak the preacher as sincerely attached to his audience. {120} if preaching on the duty of charity toward the poor, you might say:--"i come before you on the present occasion to plead a cause which will secure me against all adverse criticism, for i know your charity. i have not to address you to-day in language of censure or rebuke, but in words of encouragement and blessing." if a severe truth is to be urged on the congregation, it might be introduced thus:--"you will permit me to declare the truth unto you; for you love the truth. the people have never been hostile to it. ... you yourselves would not be satisfied with half truths; you desire something better. therefore i shall deem it my duty to tell you the whole truth with the freedom of an apostle, but at the same time, with all christian charity." in a word, you should exhibit that gentle admixture of power and benignity which so well befits him who speaks in the name of the most high; exciting the love of your hearers as with the influence of a mother. or, following therein the example of saint paul, being like one who serves, and not like one who rules; condescending toward all; striving to withdraw them from the sorrows and passions of life, that you may lead them to the truth, to virtue, and to heaven. ... on great occasions it is usual to recite the _ave maria_ before the sermon. it is a venerable and edifying practice which ought to be followed; but forbear invoking the holy spirit or the blessed virgin unless you do it devoutly and sincerely. {121} it is frequently otherwise: one appeals to heaven, and fixes his eyes on the earth: another, instead of the posture of prayer, assumes the attitude of menace, and looks very much like a man who demands your money or your life. there should be order in the sermon, and the ideas should be linked together, and should mutually support each other. but it should not be laid down as an invariable rule always to follow those categorical divisions which necessarily cut up a truth into two or three parts, these to be cut up again into two or three sections of truth, giving the speaker the air of a man who is amusing himself with pulling a machine to pieces, and then putting it together again. the fathers did not ordinarily follow that course. indeed all discourses cannot be so subdivided; for not every subject will bear it without losing much of its interest. ... most sermons seem to be modelled on the same pattern, so much so, that the hearer is disposed at the very outset to remark:--"i have heard that already twenty times over, set forth just in the same way. what use is there in my listening to it again?" this is one drawback, in addition to the consideration that it is not prudent to take the audience into your confidence as to the conclusion to which you intend to lead them. ... or another listener will say:--"alas! we are still at the second subdivision of the first part. {122} what a long sermon it will be!" he is seized with _ennui_, and then farewell to all feeling of interest in the divine word, and to all hope of any benefit to be derived from it. it is preferable to have a range of ideas known to yourself alone, with intervening pauses. in that way you will carry the hearers along with you. they will listen, will be moved, will forget how time passes, and at the conclusion will not feel tired with having followed you. it appears that the mania for subdividing every thing is a complaint of long standing. la bruyère has passed his judgment upon it; which, apart from exaggeration--the inseparable companion of criticism--is not inapplicable at the present day. speaking of preachers he says:--"they hold three things to be of indispensable and geometrical necessity, and to deserve your admiring attention. they will prove a certain proposition in the first part of their discourse, another in the second part, and an other in the third. thus, you are to be convinced, first, of a certain truth--that is their first point; then of a third truth--which is their third point; so that the first reflection is to instruct you on one of the most fundamental principles of religion; the second, on another not less so; and the third, on a third and last principle, the most important of all, but which, nevertheless, must be postponed for lack of time to another occasion. finally, in order to resume and sum up these divisions, and to form a plan. ... {123} what! you are ready to exclaim, more yet! and are these merely the preliminaries to a discourse of forty-five minutes duration which is still to follow! why, the more they attempt to digest and throw light upon the subject, the more they confuse me! i readily believe you, for it is the most natural effect of that heap of ideas, which always turns upon one and the same thought, with which they pitilessly burden the memory of their hearers. it would seem, to witness their obstinate adherence to this practice, as if the grace of conversion was attached to these preposterous divisions. i heartily wish that they would pause in their impetuous course to take breath, and give a little breathing-time to others. vain discourses! words thrown away! the time of homilies exists no longer; our basils and chrysostoms will fail to reclaim them; people will pass over into other dioceses to be beyond the reach of their voice and familiar instructions: for men in general like set phrases and finely turned periods, admire what they don't understand, consider themselves edified thereby, and rest satisfied with deciding between the first and second points of a discourse, or between the last sermon and that which preceded it." division must not be sought for; it must present itself, and spring out of the subject which you are about to discuss, or the object which you have in view. {124} for instance, you intend to treat on deference to man's opinion. establish these two points:--1st. that there is no disgrace attached to the practice of religion; and 2nd. that even if there were, in the estimation of some men, it is our bounden duty to brave it. when a dogma of the faith is to be treated either before the people or others, never propound the truth in a hypothetical form, which is fraught with danger. thus, do not say:--"does the soul die with the body or does it pass to another life?" ... "is jesus christ a mere man; or is he the son of god?" always use the affirmative form:--"the soul does not die with the body; the soul will live for ever." ... "jesus christ is the son of god; he is god himself." otherwise, you will seem to question those verities, and may give rise to doubts. such was the result in the cause of an artisan, who remarked, after listening to a sermon:--"for my part, i was quite sure that there was another life; but i learn from what the preacher has stated to-day, that there is something to be said against as well as in favor of the doctrine." the people like a strong, self-reliant, and fearless affirmative, declared boldly and sincerely in the name of god, which admits of no buts, or ifs, but which descends from on high, claiming the ready assent of all without distinction. {125} discussion is not the way to teach christianity. it must be fully understood that the truth of the gospel is not the conclusion of an argument; that it depends neither on the talents of the preacher, not yet on the acceptance of the hearer; that all such accidents do not affect it in any way. christianity must be expounded just as it is; but in a noble and energetic manner, such as shall cause it to be readily understood and loved in spite of all opposition. nevertheless, in condescension to human infirmity, you may occasionally justify god, as the divine word says, by pointing out the fitness of a catholic truth; but this must be by the way only. resume quickly the high standing of a man who speaks in the name of god--_tanquam potestatem habens_--who is himself controlled by a truth which he cannot modify in the least degree. call in frequently the aid of faith; prove, without stating that you are going to prove; and, in order the better to combat men's errors, confront human authority with the authority of god. men will raise such objections as these:--"but the gospel itself declares. ... those great men who are called the fathers on account of their piety and genius have said ... the catholic church, armed with its infallible authority, says ... god himself has declared ... and as against these witnesses what is the word of a mere man to me? moreover, i will not submit; i will not bow down to human authority. am not i a man as well as he? am i not endowed with reason? he affirms, i deny; he denies, i affirm; my word is as good as his, even were he what is called a man of genius. {126} granted that genius commands respect--and i respect it when it yields to what is superior to it--but, as compared with the law of god, what is a man of genius? a poor pigmy, who labors and drudges for forty years to acquire some traces of a superior mind; who more frequently possesses the _amour propre_ of a silly woman; and who, while pretending to govern the world from his study, allows himself to be led by his own female domestic. for my part, i require something better than that; a greater, a higher authority, and one much more self-reliant." you will best restrain and meet these objections by having god always at your side. entrench yourself behind the divine authority; efface the man and hold up god; impose silence on the earth and let him speak, but with power and loving-kindness. unhappily, we have not maintained this high standing. the divine word has been brought down too much to a human level; it has been made too much to reflect man's image. the incessant attacks of the enemies of religion, and, it may be, our own scholastic studies also, have inspired us with a combative, and querulous humor. christianity is now discussed, proved, philosophically demonstrated. you constantly meet men who are going to _prove_ this to you, then to _prove_ that, and then again to _prove_ something else. in god's name, don't repeat this so often, but do it a little better. {127} these attempts to prove certain propositions generally result in obscuring and confounding them. a preacher states a truth; you understand and enjoy it. he demonstrates it; and you understand it less, and perchance begin to doubt it. some years ago especially, we were seized with the malady of dogmatic conferences. every one wished to hold conferences to prove the _reasonableness_ of christianity. the epidemic has abated, but we are not wholly free from it. ... that there should still be one or two of these conference-men in certain large towns is all well enough; yet even that is to be regretted, for the genus is an offshoot of the misfortune of the age, and is by no means apostolic. in order to treat christianity in that way, extraordinary talent is required, together with a thorough knowledge of the dogmas of our religion, a knowledge equally profound of the human heart, of philosophical systems and errors, and a mathematical precision of language. we may rest assured that the control over antagonisms and passions, so as to preclude doubt or suspicion from creeping into the mind, must always proceed from an elevated standing, and that men possessing the necessary qualifications, or even some of them in a high degree, are extremely rare. {128} this consideration has been sadly overlooked. very soon we shall have every one attempting to philosophize christianity. there are scarcely any, down to the youngest priest, who does not take up the most difficult dogmas, and who does not seek to do battle with those who are styled "unbelievers"--that is the current word nowadays, because, as it would seem, the old term (infidel) has been worn out by long usage, and, therefore, it has been thought necessary to create a new one. all this is very deplorable. until quite lately there was hardly a discourse, addressed even to the people exclusively, which did not contain passages intended for unbelievers, or tirades against unbelievers, or apostrophes to unbelievers. the believers who were present were neglected for the sake of the unbelievers who were absent. it is not rare, indeed, to meet with men who call themselves unbelievers, who assert it, and who write themselves such; but will you find men who are seriously unbelievers, and who do not falter in their negations? a pious priest, who was frequently called upon to attend the sick in the higher classes of society in paris, was once asked whether he often met with men who had ceased to believe. he replied, good-naturedly:--"pray, don't allude to the subject. though i have been long accustomed to minister to great sinners, i have never yet had the good fortune to lay my hand on one who was even a little unbelieving. as regards the faith, men in general are better than their words or their writing either." {129} as has been well remarked:--"the man who, even in all sincerity, says: 'i don't believe,' often deceives himself. there is in the depths of his heart a root of faith which never dies." real unbelief cannot prevail in france. there is too much good sense, too much rectitude in the french mind, and too much moral beauty in the gospel, to render absolute unbelief possible. these pretensions to unbelief are generally based on a little ignorance combined with a large amount of feeble-mindedness; so that when one tells you that he does not, that he cannot believe, you should understand him to mean that he is weak and timid. let us be on our guard against taking such men at their word, for we should thereby show how little knowledge we possess of the human heart. a priest who was called in to attend a person who had spoken and written much against religion, put this question to him:--"when you wrote were you quite sure of your own unbelief?" the other replied, "alas! monsieur l'abbé," ... in a deprecating tone, which seemed clearly to imply:--"how young you are, and how little you know of the human heart!" no; the question between the world and ourselves is not whether the miracles and mysteries of christianity are believed, but whether the morality of the gospel is practised. {130} that is the real question at issue. so true is this, that scholars and honest men will not hesitate to say frankly:--"the matter is not one of argument; only retrench from your religion several small commandments of god and the church, which we need not specify, and then we will be on your side." that is the secret of unbelief. it is not faith that is wanting, but the courage to do what is right. how, then, are we to get rid of those preachers who are always taken up with unbelievers? how delivered from those endless sermons addressed to unbelievers? they do us much harm and very little good. the whole thing, besides being ill-judged, is a mistake. by incessantly speaking to men about unbelief, we may end in making them unbelievers; just as we may make a dolt of a man by dint of telling him that he has no sense. besides, what a blow it is to christianity to give the people to understand that a notable portion of a great nation has seriously contested its divine origin! is not this to suggest the temptation that they too should become unbelievers, since, by so doing, they would be in so numerous and goodly a company? instead of such a course, begin by telling your audience--but in the accents of profound conviction--that there is not one unbeliever among them; that they all have faith; that they believe as you do; that they are better than they judge themselves to be; that not every one who wishes it can become an unbeliever; that jesus christ is too eminent in history and in the world to be regarded, in earnest, as a mere man: ... tell them this, and you will do them good, and, besides, you will be telling the truth. {131} they all believe, but their faith is imperfect, wounded. so true is this, that voltaire himself, as all the world knows, could not rid himself entirely of his faith, all voltaire that he was. ... what! voltaire, with all his wit, and, if you will, his genius, voltaire, with his demon pride, his satanic hatred of christ, his half century of blasphemies,--voltaire, the head of the most redoubtable cohort of enemies that christianity ever had,--even he could not wholly divest himself of his belief; and yet it is pretended that our pigmies of the nineteenth century, with their limited knowledge and petty malice, are able to stifle their faith when that giant of impiety was unable to strangle his in his eagle's clutch! ... only a little reflection is needed to convince ourselves on this point. for what is unbelief? it is the conviction that christianity is false. now, how can such a conviction be arrived at against eighteen centuries of genius and virtue, against the authority of the gospel, against christ himself? how can any man reasonably attain the position of being able to confront those eminent men and facts, and say:--"i am quite sure that you have deceived the world ... you have lied?" {132} it is impossible. it may be said and written in a moment of passion; but such assurance is not, cannot be attained. we shall, therefore, be acting truly as well as wisely in not descanting so much about unbelievers. for, after all, of what use is it? for the most part, these alleged unbelievers are not present to listen to you. neither is that the worst feature in the case. these kinds of sermons are by no means calculated to convert them. generally speaking, they show too little regard for the _amour propre_ of such characters; who, as is well known, do not pique themselves on their humility. if we would benefit them we must pass quickly from the mind to the heart: that is their weak point. we must not keep ourselves so much on the defensive, but carry the war into the enemy's country. our tactics should be to do good abundantly to all men that we may save all, and then there will be no doubt about their believing in the divinity of christianity. all the parts of a sermon need not be equally good and powerful. two or three more elaborate and striking passages will suffice to ensure success; but those passages should be such as effectually to overthrow prejudices and errors, and should be conclusive against all gainsayers. {133} there should also be intervals to break monotony--that stumbling-block of many sermons; to give the mind rest; to allow time for the hearts of the audience to be penetrated by what has been said; to introduce familiar topics which do the soul so much good; to soften the asperities of any great emotion; to bind up the wounded; in a word, intervals for the preacher to become the father after having represented the king, to attract the hearts after having gained the minds of his hearers. it is a mistake to aim at making every part of a sermon equally powerful and equally prominent. it is an attempt against nature. moreover, we should not aspire to adduce every available proof in support of a particular truth. one or two will suffice, and the strongest is not always the most convincing to your audience. select those likely to produce the greatest impression, and forbear when that end is attained. the victory is yours, retain it, and do not expose yourself to a reverse. there are men who do not think they have proved a thing until they have brought together, pell-mell, all the known proofs in the world. the consequence is that, after listening to one of their sermons, the question discussed appears more confused to you than ever. {134} as regards objections to be refuted, you should never adduce any but such as are current in the locality where you are speaking; and it is dangerous to give them a too salient form, for you may thereby wound the faith of your audience. but the objection once stated, refute it at once in a few sharp and decisive words. let your reply be in language as prompt, striking, and decisive as that of the objection. avoid all circumlocution and hesitation in meeting it. show it no pity, but let it expire forth with in the presence of your audience. let every word tell like the cut or thrust of a sword, or, at least, like the stroke of a mace which shall effectually silence the objection. you may then justify, easily, the blows which you have dealt: but strike first and explain afterward; otherwise, never attempt to place an objection before the people. if, as is too often done, you begin by saying:--"before refuting this objection, two principles must first be laid down," or, "three reflections must be made," the minds of your hearers will go a wool-gathering; they will not listen to your reflections; they will retain nothing of your discourse beyond the objection; you will have lost your time, and may have done harm into the bargain. in sermons to the people, the peroration should be energetic, captivating, fervent; not a fervor of the head or throat, but of the soul, accompanying something to enlighten the minds of the hearers, to gain the assent of their hearts, to subdue their passions, and to electrify their spirits. {135} let us be on our guard against those vapid perorations which are nothing more than the ending of a discourse which we are at a loss how otherwise to wind up. the audience must not be dismissed with a wrong impression; therefore be more affectionate at the conclusion, the more severe the truths have been which you have enunciated. in a word, the peroration should be sympathetic and vibrating. it should comprise all the power, all the marrow, and all the energy of the sermon. it should contain some of those keen thoughts, some of those proverbial phrases, which recur to the mind again and again like the strains of a familiar song which we sing involuntarily,--or a single thought, which when once entertained leads one to say:--"were i to live a hundred years, i shall never forget it." {136} chapter iv. the sermon should be popular. what constitutes true popularity? popularity in words, in thought, in sentiment. one of the most popular sentiments in france is patriotism. means to utilize that sentiment. the relationship between popularity and genius. demosthenes. saint john chrysostom. daniel o'connell. the language of the christian orator whose object is to make religion known and loved, should possess the following characteristics:-it should be, 1st, popular; 2dly, plain; 3dly, short. all eloquence to be effectual must be popular. an orator is essentially the man for all, and is specially made for the people. the people are the best judges of true eloquence, and are themselves the best soil to be cultivated thereby. cicero says that "the most infallible token of an orator is to be esteemed as such in the opinion of the people." he was so persuaded of this that he remarks in another place:--"i wish my eloquence to be relished by the people." {137} this is still more true as regards the christian orator. he appeals to all: to the little, to the poor and the ignorant as well as to the great, the wealthy, and the learned, and his speech should be understood and enjoyed by all. he is not free to deprive any one of the truth. all men are people before the gospel, and that gospel speaks in unison with the souls of all. it stoops to raise, to comfort, and to enlighten all. hence the truly popular preacher proclaims himself at the outset as no ordinary orator, but one about to be powerful, and to rise into a giant, before whom even the most learned will be obliged to bow, because his soul is linked with the divine word, and with the hearts of the people. this popularity of christian discourses has become rare, more especially in our towns. instead of being satisfied with the life, the sap of that gospel which has moved the world, preachers have deemed themselves obliged to call in the aid of philosophy, metaphysics, and distorted phraseology and rhetoric. the exception has been taken for the rule. the divine word has been bound, imprisoned in a terminology, which many do not understand. the preacher speaks, but the man remains impassible and cold. painful reflection! the word of god passes by and says nothing to the mind, the soul, or even to the ears of the audience. {138} but i hasten to observe that the popularity of a sermon does not consist in using common, trivial, or vulgar language. the people do not like such a style, and regard it as derogatory to their intelligence and dignity. they have much more tact than is generally supposed. they know perfectly well what befits each, and have an exquisite sense of propriety. the people wish their preacher to speak better than they do, and appreciate dignified language. hence, whenever they have to name any thing mean before you, they are careful to preface it with the proverbial apology: "saving your presence." in fine, the object of preaching being to elevate the people, the language adopted should be superior to theirs. the style of speaking has an important bearing on the morals of life. we may, however, occasionally borrow some of their most striking and picturesque, and even some of their quaint expressions, put them into a good framing, and make them the starting-point for a felicitous sally or thought. they have then a powerful effect. the people perceive thereby that you are acquainted with them, that you must have visited among them, that you know their life, their toil, their sorrows, and even their foibles, and they will open their hearts to you at once. they feel themselves to be on familiar ground, where they find, as it were, an old friend. there is a strange instinct among the people which leads them to reason thus:--"that man knows us, therefore he loves us;" whereupon they readily give you their confidence. {139} then, again, it is not very difficult to maintain a style of speaking at once dignified and popular. look at the lady of fashion dealing with the petty tradesman, or even with a fish-woman--a character by no means celebrated for choice or polite expressions. the price of the article treated for is discussed, the bargain is struck, both parties come to a satisfactory understanding, and the language of the woman of the world has been sober throughout, and perfectly becoming. ... but popular speech consists not so much in the expressions used as in the thoughts and sentiments conveyed thereby. we have already remarked that the people have good sense, ready wit, and above all a heart. ... we must lay hold of those points in them to effect an entry into their minds as well as their hearts, thereby preparing the way for religion to follow. the people have a certain aggregate of ideas and thoughts, and their own way of apprehending and appreciating things. all this should be studied, for it constitutes the best holdfast of humanity. we should make ourselves of the people, as it were, in their mode of thought, joining thereto superior knowledge; study those ideas which they do not adequately estimate, put them into expressive and proverbial language such as they relish, and then engraft religious thought into their thoughts in order to elucidate and elevate them. {140} but the people possess, above all, an inexpressible richness of sentiment, together with admirable instincts. these must be laid hold of, cultivated, and profoundly stirred, and then christianity should be brought in and fused, so to speak, with those good instincts and noble sentiments. dive down to the bottom of the souls of the people ... touch the best chords of their hearts ... be inspired with their aspirations ... be animated with their passions; i had almost said be agitated with their anger. possess yourself of what is best in them, and return it to them in vivid expressions and glowing effusions of the soul, that they may think, feel, will, as you do; that their thought may seem to have anticipated yours, while, at the same time, you exercise sway over them. then your sermon will be the outward expression of the best sentiments of the human heart, ennobled by the divine word. such, we take it, is true popularity; such also is the real power of christian eloquence. in this way you may lead men onward to the highest speculations, and raise them even to heroism. you may then use the language of scholars, provided that you continue to be of the people in heart. {141} one noble and powerful sentiment which should be cultivated--a sentiment which may be made to call forth the sublimest aspirations and the most heroic transports--is patriotism. the people love france, they love the glory of france, they love all that concerns france. if, then, you wish to interest them, to induce them to listen to you, to stir them up, to enlarge their hearts, speak well of france to them; dilate to them of their earthly country, and then you will find it much easier to raise them to that country which is in heaven. an admirable example of this was afforded by monseigneur the archbishop of paris, during his visitations, and he produced one of those magic effects which seem hardly to belong to our times. the venerable prelate visited a school of adults, consisting of about four hundred youths, all in the flower of their age and the heyday of their passions. on taking his seat, the whole assembly intoned a harmonious and popular hymn, full of patriotic sentiments. the archbishop made this the starting-point of his lecture, and soon there was such a thunder of applause that the floor of the hall shook, to say nothing of the ears of the spectators. the speaker himself must have been stunned, but he resumed with animation:- "do you know, my children, why this magic word 'country' electrifies your hearts? it is because one's native country is the sacred home of man, of his duties and his privileges. it is his life, his cradle, his tomb; it is every thing to him after heaven, from whence he comes, and whither he must return; and which is on that account the glorious country, the kingdom of all righteousness, the fruition of all privileges, the communion of all souls, of all happiness, of all good. chaunt, therefore, your earthly country, but be not forgetful of that country which is beyond the skies. {142} "yes, sing it, and love it well. it has need of all your filial love and useful prowess. it has bled much; it still suffers. respect it, comfort it, for it is your mother. you are indebted to it for birth, instruction, employment, and a livelihood. it behoves you to show yourselves worthy of these benefits, to merit them, to win them, and to preserve them. young citizens, be men! young men, be christians! "i recognize in your ardor the descendants of those warriors who, on the approach of the enemy, gained the frontier at a bound, and as one man. they were workmen when they left; workmen less fortunate and educated than you are. they returned, as you know, conquering heroes, or they fell covered with glory. "were the country again menaced, and an appeal made to your courage, i should have no misgivings; for, hardly should i have blessed the tricolored standard over your heads, than it would take the eagle's flight and echo a reply by a brilliant victory, either from the summits of the alps or from the borders of the rhine." {143} we must renounce all attempt[s] to describe the sensation which this discourse elicited, and which it at the same time restrained, that the speaker might not be interrupted. it broke out at last; the hurricane burst through all bounds, and then suddenly subsided as if in remorse at its own violence. this intelligent silence seeming to say: "go on," the archbishop proceeded:- "i doubt not that you would easily triumph over the enemy: but would you overcome yourselves also? would you subdue your passions, calm your impetuosity, be christians, be virtuous?" [footnote 14] [footnote 14: _visites pastorales_, p. 136.] "yes, yes!" exclaimed these noble youths. their hearts were touched, and they were ready for any sacrifice. the prelate then rapidly set forth the virtues which they ought to practise, the temptations which they should avoid, the vices they should subdue, and the passions which they should curb. thereupon, the explosion of enthusiasm was redoubled, showing that these brave youths were not irretrievably wedded to their errors and foibles; for though in reality undergoing a partial defeat, they applauded as if they had been the conquerors. we repeat it: one of the best means to popularize religion among the people is to speak always in favorable terms of their native country. {144} there can be no doubt that deplorable excesses in the history of the last seventy years have wounded the hearts of the clergy, and imparted a savor of bitterness and sarcasm to our language respecting france. but it is wrong: one should always love one's country and one's times, though it may be a duty to combat their prejudices and their errors. on this subject i commend the words of one of our own statesmen, endeared both to religion and to his country:-[footnote 15] [footnote 15: m. de falloux.] "do not misunderstand what i am about to say; do not imagine that i wish to unduly criticise the era in which we live. no; my country and my contemporaries will find in me rather an impassioned advocate then a prejudiced detractor. i love my country and my time, for i cannot separate the one from the other. i believe that one cannot be loved without the other. he who does not acquiesce in the age in which he lives, its responsibilities and its dangers, does not wholly love his country: does not love his country except in times which either exist no longer, or in those which have not yet come. to do this, is to discourage, to lessen the power which we should hold at its service. the age in which each of us lives is simply the frame wherein god sets our duties; the career which he opens to and imposes upon our faculties. to study one's age is to search out what god desires and demands of us." {145} then, again, we are bound to be just. if france has done wrong, how much good has she not done; how much is she not still doing every day! the words _gesta dei per francos_ have not ceased to be true as regards ourselves. is not the blessed institution of the _propagation of the faith_ the work of france? is not, also, the _archiconfrérie_ for the return of sinners to the paternal home, the work of france? is not the society of saint vincent de paul likewise the work of france? that society numbers eight hundred confraternities throughout the world, and of these, five hundred are claimed by france. and wherever any good work is to be wrought for the church, is it not accomplished by the words, the money, the prayers, and even by the sword of france? surely, the citizen of such a country, the child of such a fatherland, has a right to speak well of his mother; more especially when the object is to lead souls to virtue. reawaken, then, the old french and christian enthusiasm, filling all hearts with the sacred emotions of earthly patriotism, and with holy love for that better home which is eternal in the heavens. such is true popularity; such the power of speech. one is strong when he has on his side the reason and will of the multitude; when he has sympathy with humanity, and possesses the hearts of the masses. {146} let others say what they please: the many possess more mind than one person, whoever he may be; and popular speech has more weight than the speculations or fancies of a man of science, or even a man of genius. further, there is a sort of relationship between popularity and genius, so that one cannot exist with out the other. for, what is a man of genius? he is one who has learnt to seize the thoughts, the aspirations, the wants of his own times, and has profoundly traced them in brilliant, energetic, sympathetic pages; a man who astonishes and revivifies the age in which he lives, by telling it aright what it is, what it thinks, what it wants, and what it suffers. moreover, as has been remarked long ago, the finest conceptions of genius are always grasped by the people. on the other hand, the most sublime pages are always popular. i shall cite but one example, which is familiar to all. ... the prophet isaiah is describing the fall of the king of babylon:- "how hath the oppressor ceased! ... the whole earth is at rest, and is quiet; yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of lebanon, saying:--since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us. hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming; it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth; it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. all they shall speak and say unto thee: art thou also become weak as we? art them become like unto us? {147} thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols; the worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. all the kings of the nations ... lie in glory ... but thou art cast out of thy grave like an abominable branch, and as the slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit; as a carcase trodden under feet. how art thou fallen from heaven, o lucifer, son of the morning! for thou hast said in thine heart, i will ascend unto heaven, i will exalt my throne above the stars of god, i will also sit upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north. ... i will be like the most high. yet thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit. they that see thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and consider thee, saying:--is this the man that made the earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms, that made the world as a wilderness? ... thou hast destroyed thy land and slain thy people. the seed of evil-doers shall never be renowned. prepare slaughter for his children for the iniquity of their fathers, that they do not rise nor possess the land." (_isaiah_ xiv. 4-21.) as might be expected, all great orators have been popular; for one cannot be truly an orator by one's own power or by dint of study; there must be, besides, a multitude to inspire you, and to stimulate you by their criticism and opposition. {148} demosthenes, the greatest orator of ancient times, was pre-eminently a popular orator, and that popularity was the chief element of his glory. the people of athens were all for him, for he loved them and knew them thoroughly: knew their frivolity, their vanity, their generosity, and their happy impulses. he invoked all that was great and good in the heart of man; not by vain declamations, but by energetic appeals to sentiments which one would blush not to possess. he drew his inspirations from the noblest patriotism, and his politics--a rare exception--had their source in the deepest affections of his heart. hence it was that the people were so much attached to demosthenes, and that he, on his part, could place such unbounded confidence in them. aeschines had complained that demosthenes had reproached him with being the host of alexander. he answered him in these terms:--"i reproach you with being the host of alexander! i reproach you with alexander's friendship! how could you attain it? by what means? no, i cannot call you either the friend of philip or the host of alexander; i am not so foolish. are reapers and hirelings called the hosts of those who pay them? he is nothing, nothing of the kind. first, a mercenary of philip, he is now the mercenary of alexander; that is what i and all our hearers call you. if you doubt it, ask them ... or, rather, i will do it for you. men of athens, what, then, is your opinion? is aeschines the host, or the mercenary of alexander? ... do you hear their reply?" {149} so likewise saint john chrysostom, who was, perhaps, the most popular of orators. we do not find that he amused himself with vain speculations. he did not wander far and wide to hunt up topics whereon to address his hearers, for they themselves supplied all that he wanted. he found ample materials for his purpose in the depths of their minds and hearts, and under his masterly treatment the simplest things acquired an accent of eloquence which gratified and moved his audience, which the people understood and the learned admired. surrounded by his congregation, he seems like a father in the midst of his family. he converses, he questions, he even consults, and he always loves. it was the custom in his time for the audience to applaud the preacher during the sermon. they did not spare him that manifestation, and these are the terms in which he complains of it:- "believe me--the more so because i would not say it were it not true--that when you applaud my discourses, i am seized with a certain infirmity, and feel quite contented and happy. ... but, on returning home, i reflect that all fruit of my speaking is lost through these applauses and commendations; {150} and i say to myself: of what avail is my labor if my hearers do not profit thereby? i have even thought of making a rule positively to forbid all applause, that you may listen to me in silence, with proper decorum and reserve. ... i pray and conjure you to suffer me to establish such a rule forthwith. ... let us now order that no hearer shall make any noise while the preacher is speaking; and that if any one wishes to admire, let it be by keeping silence. (applause.) why do you still applaud me, even while i am making a law to prohibit the abuse? though you will not suffer me to speak to you on the subject, nevertheless, let us enact the law, for it will be to our advantage. ... however, i do not wish to be too rigorous, for fear of appearing uncivil in your estimation; so that if you find so much gratification in applauding, i shall not hinder it; but i will suggest to you a much superior motive for eliciting still greater applause on your part, namely, that you carry away with you what you hear, and practise it." when condemned to his first exile, the people flocked round their pastor, determined to proceed to extremities rather than let him depart. he then addressed them the following touching farewell:-{151} "a violent tempest surrounds me on all sides; but i fear nothing, because i stand on an immovable rock. the fury of the waves cannot sink the vessel of jesus christ. death cannot terrify me; it would rather be a gain to me. do i fear exile? all the earth is the lord's. do i fear the loss of goods? naked i was born into the world, and naked i shall return. i despise the scorn and the flattery of the world. i have no desire to live but for your welfare." the people remained with him eight days to defend him, and the holy pastor, in order to prevent an insurrection, escaped by a secret door, and delivered himself up to his enemies. the empress _eudoxia_, however, was soon obliged to recall him. "we shall lose the empire," said she, "unless john is recalled." then, again, o'connell, that orator who acquired so wide an influence, how popular he was! but i shall let m. de cormenin describe him:- "look at o'connell with his people--for they are truly his people. he lives of their life, he smiles with their joys, he bleeds with their wounds, he groans with their pains. he transports them at his will from fear to hope, from slavery to liberty, from the fact to the right, from the right to duty, from supplication to invective, and from anger to mercy and pity. he directs the people to kneel on the ground and pray, and they all kneel and pray; to raise their faces to the skies, and they raise them; to curse their tyrants, and they curse them; to sing hymns to liberty, and they sing them; to bare their heads and swear on the holy gospels, and they uncover, raise the hand, and swear; to sign petitions for the reform of abuses, to unite their forces, to pardon their enemies, and they sign, they forget, they embrace, they forgive. {152} "that which makes him incomparable among all the orators of this or any other country, is that, without any premeditation, and by impulse alone, by the sole force of his powerful and triumphant nature, he enters wholly into his subject, and appears to be more possessed by it than of himself. his heart overflows; it goes by bounds, by transports, bringing into play all its pulsations. like a high-bred charger, suddenly pulled back on its nervous and quivering haunches, even so can o'connell arrest himself in the unbridled course of his harangues, turn short and resume them--such versatility, spring, and vigor is there in his eloquence. you imagine at first that he is staggering, and about to succumb under the weight of the divinity which inwardly agitates him; but he rises again with a halo on his brow, an eye full of flame, and his voice, unlike that of a mortal, begins to resound in the air, and to fill all space. "he is lyrical as a poet, and familiar even to playfulness. he draws his audience to him, and then transfers them to the floor of the theatre; or descends himself and mixes with the spectators. he never allows the stage to be without speech or action for a single moment. {153} he distributes the parts to each. he himself sits as judge: he arraigns and he condemns; the people ratify, upraise the hand, and seem to believe that they are joining in a verdict. some times o'connell adapts the interior drama of a family to the external drama of political affairs. he calls up his aged father, his ancestors and the ancestors of the people. ... he disposes and extemporizes narratives, monologues, dialogues, _propoeia_, interludes, and peripatetics. knowing that the irish are both light-hearted and melancholy, that they are fond of metaphor, flourish, and sarcasm, he stifles laughter with tears, the grandiose by the grotesque. he attacks the house of lords, and, chasing them from their aristocratic lairs, tracks them one by one like wild beasts. he is always popular, be his speech grave, sublime, or jocular:- "'ireland! oh, how that name alone sticks in the saxon throat. my friends, my heart and my mind are known to you, and i wish you to understand this, that i have power enough to prevent either peel or wellington from treading on the liberties of ireland. i have only to say this to them: we will entrench ourselves behind the law and the constitution; but do not attempt to put our patience to the test beyond bounds, for if there is danger in exasperating cowards, there is a thousand times more danger in exasperating those who are not.' (applause.) {154} 'i told you at the outset that i did not feel disposed to speak: this is not a speech, it is history which i am making at this moment. the people have placed unlimited confidence in me. i might, perhaps, say with affected modesty that i do not deserve it. i will be more frank. i believe that i do deserve it.' (applause: yes! yes!) 'mine is a strange fortune. i believe i am the only man, living or dead, who has enjoyed uninterrupted confidence and popularity for forty years. "_a voice_.--may you enjoy them twice as long! "_o'c._--'that is impossible. long before then, i shall be summoned before my maker to give an account of all the actions of my public and private life.' "_a voice_.--'you have always done your duty!' "_o'c_.--may such be the judgment of the most high!' (applause.) 'kindly spare me these interruptions.' (laughter.) 'our first duty is to obey the law. don't think that in giving you this advice i intend that you should submit to unlawful outrage. after all, violence is not what i fear--i who am alone in the world.' (cries of no, no, you are not alone!) 'pardon me, my friends, i am alone; for she for whom i might have entertained fears, but whose courage would certainly never have failed, has been taken from my affections.' (o'connell pronounced these last words with deep emotion, in which the whole assembly seemed to participate. several ladies present raised their handkerchiefs to their eyes.) {155} "'were they to put a gag in my mouth or handcuffs on my wrists, i would still point out the safest and wisest course for you to follow. i trust there will be no conflict: let us close our ranks, shoulder to shoulder, let us rally round the constitution, that ireland may not be delivered over to her enemies by the folly, the passions, or the treachery of her children.' (applause.)" he knows how to excite the laughter of his audience, and to enliven them with racy comparisons, which are sometimes, however, of a kind unsuited to christian discourses. "there was formerly a fool in kerry--a rare thing there. this fool having discovered a hen's nest, waited till the hen had quitted it, and then took the eggs and sucked them. after sucking the first, the chicken which had been in the shell began to cry out while descending the fool's throat. 'ah, my boy, said he, 'you speak too late.' (laughter.) my friends, i am not a fool; i know how to suck eggs. (laughter.) should england now be disposed to tell me that she is ready to do us justice, i would say to england as the kerry fool said to the chicken: my darling, you speak too late. (laughter and applause.)" {156} he then continued, in the most sublime and rapturous accents:- "in the presence of my god, and with the most profound feeling of the responsibility attached to the solemn and arduous duties which you irishmen have twice imposed on me, i accept them, relying not on my own strength, but on yours. the people of clare know that the only basis of liberty is religion. they have triumphed because the voice raised in behalf of the country was first uttered in prayer to god. songs of liberty are now heard throughout our green isle, their notes traverse the hills, they fill the valleys, they murmur with the waves of our rivers and streams, and respond in tones of thunder to the echoes of the mountains. ireland is free!" one may readily conceive the magic of this speech. i borrow once more from the pen of m. de cormenin. "eloquence does not exercise all its power, its strong, sympathetic, moving power, except upon the people. look at o'connell, the grandest, perhaps the only orator of modern times. how his thundering voice towers over and rules the waves of the multitude! i am not an irishman, i have never seen o'connell; i believe i should not understand him. why, then, am i moved by his discourses even when translated into a strange tongue, discolored, stunted, and deprived of the charm of voice and action more than with all i have ever heard in my own country? {157} it is because they are utterly unlike our jumbled, wordy rhetoric; because it is true passion that inspires him: passion which can and does say all that it has to say. it is, that he draws me from the shore, that he whirls with me, and drags me with him into his current. it is that he shudders, and i shudder; that he utters cries from the depths of his soul which ravish my soul; that he raises me on his wings and sustains me in the sacred transports of liberty. under the influence of his sublime eloquence, i abhor, i detest with furious hatred, the tyrants of that unfortunate country, just as if i were o'connell's fellow-citizen; and i seem to love green ireland as much as my own native land." here we have an orator who should be constantly studied by all those who wish to benefit the people. there is a wide difference between such powerful speeches and those dreary metaphysical sermons, those finely-spun phrases, that quintessence of reasoning, so common amongst us. for, what do we often take for an orator or preacher? ... one who wraps himself in his own conceptions, and soars into sublime regions, while the poor audience is left on the plain below to gaze at him or not, to grow weary, to sleep or to chat, when they cannot decently go away. and yet it is so easy to be popular in france. the native mind is prompt and readily roused to the noblest sentiments. {158} moreover, we are bound to do the higher classes this justice, that they always tolerate and even admire the preacher who addresses the people. they mingle with the crowd to join in their applause, and, what is better, to profit by what they hear. yes, strange to say, under the influence of such eloquence, scholars and wits throw aside their arguments and their prejudices, and become one with the people--think, feel, and commend as they do. ... there are two powerful ways of leading men: to take up with the higher classes or to go to the masses. the latter appears the more powerful nowadays, for opinion and strength always prevail with those whose wills are feeble. we must retrace our steps, then, and resume a popular style of address, which, to use a homely comparison, consists simply in entering in by the door of the people, and making them go out by ours; for to be truly popular is: to love the people ardently, to throw our souls into theirs, to identify ourselves with them; to think, feel, will, love, as they do; to rouse their instincts of justice, generosity, and pity; to fill their souls with the noblest thoughts; to exalt with the breath of the gospel their holiest aspirations, and to send these back to them in burning words, in outbursts and sallies of the heart; and then, as with a back-stroke of the hand, to crush their errors and destroy their vices, and to lead them onward after you, while they shall believe that they are still leading the way; to abase them to the lowest depths, and then to raise them to heaven. {159} in all this, making them to play so prominent a part that, after hearing you, they may almost be led to say with secret satisfaction:--"what an excellent sermon we have delivered!" then will your words be invested with the two greatest powers in the world: they will be the voice of the people and the voice of god. {160} chapter v. the sermon should be plain. an obscure sermon is neither christian nor french. abuse of philosophical terms. philosophical speculations not popular amongst us. the french mind is clear and logical. plainness of speech. plainness of thought. starting from the known to the unknown. metaphors. similes. parables. facts. père lejeune. m. l'abbé ledreuil. the sermon should be plain. ... this truth has been partially demonstrated in the course of the foregoing remarks. it follows, moreover, as a consequence from the nature and design of the gospel. the religious discourse which is not plain is neither christian nor french. the divine word should be understood by all, even by the poor woman who crouches into a corner of the church; for she too has a soul to save, and her soul is as precious in the sight of god as the soul of a rich or learned man: perhaps more. this is one of the glories of christianity. human lore is only within the reach of those who are able to comprehend it, or who have money enough to pay for it. {161} the word of god is for all; and none can be deprived of it, as far as the preacher is concerned, without a grave dereliction of duty on his part. severe censure is passed upon those professors who, to further their own ambitious views, take great pains with some of their pupils and neglect others. this is called a crying injustice, plundering the parents, and so forth. but the matter under consideration involves something far more serious than a pecuniary robbery. we are all bound to preach the gospel. now, the gospel is remarkably plain. when it was first announced, or while the facts which it narrates were extant or palpable, it must have been surpassingly so. hence it is not surprising that the multitude upon whom our blessed lord had been pouring forth the torrents of his divine eloquence, exclaimed:--"never man spake like this man!" further: he who does not use plain speech does not speak french; for the french language is naturally plain, limpid, and simple, insomuch that obscure speech is not really french: it is teutonic, a jargon, or a patois; but it is by no means the language of the great frank people. all our most celebrated and popular writers and orators had a clear and impressive style. their weakest passages are those which are most obscure. {162} voltaire possessed this perspicuity in a high degree; and it was partly on that account that he acquired so much influence and popularized so many errors. his speech was true french, both in expression and conception; but there was no heart in it. he had perfectly mastered his own tongue, and had equally learned to know the people with whom he had to deal. he who does not use plain speech proves that he possesses neither a knowledge of men nor a knowledge of the gospel; nor even of his primary duties. but it will be said:--is it not occasionally allowable that one should clothe his thoughts in language above the common, in order thereby to raise religion and the preacher in the eyes of the people, who admire what they do not understand? i do not object, if you believe that any good is to be done in that way, and if you feel incapable of exciting interest by a simple exposition of the beauties of christianity. but i tell you that the idea savors strongly of charlatanism, and that christianity has no need of such an auxiliary. whenever such a course is adopted, it should be regarded as a tolerated exception; but on this point, also, the exception has too frequently been taken for the rule. nowadays, the gospel is almost entirely overlooked, there are so many other matters to be attended to. we must needs discuss and argue, and treat all kinds of philosophical and humanitarian questions. {163} hence a great part of our time is taken up with talking philosophy to pious men and women,--and after what fashion? the pulpit resounds with such words as these: rationalism, philosophism, protestantism, materialism, pantheism, socialism; and it will be lucky if all this does not ultimately get mixed up with fetishism, anthropormorphism, vishnooism, buddhism, kantism, hegelism, etc. no wonder that a woman of fashion once exclaimed, in a fit of petulance:--"the lord deliver us from these preachers of _isms!_" i repeat, it is all well enough that a few eminent men should treat such questions before select audiences; but now every one seems bent on talking philosophy, or on philosophizing about every thing. we have the philosophy of theology, the philosophy of the sacraments, the philosophy of the liturgy; and to what does it all tend? to prove that god might have occupied a prominent place among the thinkers of these times: which would be proving very little in god's favor. there has, indeed, been quite a mania to make philosophy about every thing. we have heard a treatise on the philosophy of the hand-grenade. as a malicious wag once remarked:--"we shall soon have the philosophy of boots and shoes." hence it is that the ignorance respecting religion everywhere prevailing, among high and low, even among those who constantly hear sermons, is truly deplorable. {164} society in general is much less instructed in matters of religion, and even in philosophical questions, than is usually supposed; for religion is no longer taught. we demonstrate, argue, philosophize, but we do not evangelize. ... there is so much ignorance among men, otherwise well-informed, on the subject of religion, that they would certainly be deemed unfit for confirmation even in a country district. neither is the community more proficient in philosophical than in religious questions; and much less attention is bestowed upon them than is imagined. we meet with certain systems in special books, or among a particular class of persons, and we may think that those systems are about to make a great stir in the world. but do the masses trouble themselves about them? for the most part, even intelligent men hardly know what to say when referred to on such subjects. some years ago, a preacher delivered several discourses in one of the principal towns of france on the subject of rationalism. he decried it in good set terms, and was judged to have spoken very ably. but the wife of a councillor in the court of appeal, tired of hearing so much about rationalism without being able to make out what it was, asked her husband, who was a great admirer of the discourses, to explain to her what rationalism meant. {165} the husband stammered out a few words in reply, but was obliged at last to say:--"sincerely, i know nothing about it; but inquire of m. le curé, for he ought to be able to give you the information." instead of dragging all these systems into the pulpit, it would have been far better to leave them immured in books and in the schools. they are not dangerous in france while restricted to the formulae in which they were originally conceived, because philosophical speculations are by no means popular amongst us. the french mind is too precise and active to be taken up with such like dreams and crude systems. a proof of this is afforded by the old chamber of deputies. ... when a speaker was practical, and entered into the gist of the question in debate, there was profound silence; but if he attempted lofty flights, and soared into the region of philosophical speculations, the attention of the hearers flagged, and a great uproar ensued, insomuch that the luckless orator was frequently driven to call upon the president to enforce silence and order; who, on his part, reiterated that he could not interfere. ... altogether such scenes presented a curious study. generally speaking, the frenchman is essentially a practical man. {166} it is true that ever and anon we pretend to great depth; but the malady is momentary and does not last long. we are, in fact, like certain eminent men who affect a speciality to which they have no just claim, and who consider themselves more honored by a compliment for an acquirement which they do not possess, than by any which may be paid them for a talent for which they are really conspicuous. in combating this tendency and these systems, we must be on our guard against assailing them with hazy tirades or dull metaphysics. we should drag them into the full light of the gospel, and dissect them by translating them into plain french, and then they will soon disappear altogether. we must further bear in mind that the truth, and especially evangelical truth, is only rightly apprehended by the heart; whereas there is a general disposition amongst us to be always reasoning. are we not aware that bare reason is foolishly vain, dishonest, stern, and sometimes pitiless, and that to be constantly appealing to its authority is to lose our time, and to engender the most deplorable ignorance in matters of religion? the people are very fond of understanding what is addressed to them, for it raises them in their own eyes, and is, moreover, a real gratification to them. therein they are active, whereas when merely astounded they are simply passive; to say nothing of the additional fact that they go away as ignorant as they came. {167} a preacher who had been specially appointed to deliver a course of sermons in one of our towns, was accosted while walking out by a poor woman, upon whom his presence seemed to produce a lively impression of joy, which was forthwith manifested in these words:--"how delighted i am to have met you! i must tell you that i attend your sermons and understand them. yes, believe me, even i understand your sermons. every body says that you are a _savant_, but for my part i don't believe it; because, whenever our rector or his curates preach, i don't understand anything they say; whereas when you preach i understand all. if you were a _savant_, an ignoramus like me would not be able to understand you." ... we must retrace our steps, then, and return to a clear, plain, simple, and vivifying exposition of the gospel; for when religion is set forth in that way it is always attractive. we may have to study much to attain it, but when once christianity is rightly understood, and we get thoroughly to know those with whom we have to do, we shall find it possible to acquire an influence over their minds and hearts, and easy to adapt our style to the intelligence of all. you should see the working classes when addressed by one of our great preachers: their countenances brighten, their eyes glisten, their bosoms glow. they understand, they are moved, they applaud. {168} to attain this plainness--speech being the vehicle of thought--words should never be used which are not generally understood. there are terms in language which are common to the literary and non-literary; only such should be adopted, and all scientific, philosophical, technical, theological, and even devotional terminology should be discarded. our age is not strong in spiritual matters: they speak a language which it does not even care to learn, for it does not feel the need of it. use none of those set phrases, those trite expressions, which follow one after another in all sermonizers for the last half century. they form a threadbare language which no longer conveys any meaning, and which is quite unfit for the transmission of thought. drive them from your pen and lips; try to acquire a disgust, a hatred for them: they are more unintelligible than either latin or greek. you would do well to abstain entirely from perusing such sermonizers, because one unwittingly picks up their hackneyed phraseology; which will recur to you when you are at a loss what else to say. moreover, they prevent you from being natural. ... it is desirable, doubtless, that you should read bourdaloue for doctrine, bossuet for touch and for the sublime, massillon for style and form; but let that suffice. {169} then read the scriptures, the fathers, books of devotion, and such other works as will make you acquainted with the wants and tendencies of the age, and teach you how to combat its passions and its errors. you must beware, however, of attempting to preach like bossuet, bourdaloue, or massillon. they addressed courtiers, and the elite of society of their times, when men had more knowledge of religion than they have now. besides, if those eminent preachers lived in these days, there is every reason to believe that they would not always speak now as they did then. plain speech should be coupled with plain thought. the thoughts which serve as starting points, should always be simple, natural, and popular. the people do not understand abstractions or the speculations of reason, which are to them a strange language. you should start from the known to lead them to the unknown. that is the mathematical and logical method. you must begin with sensible, visible, and above all with actual things, in order to draw them gently toward spiritual and invisible things, and to the life that is to come. by adopting this course, you may conduct them far onward, and elevate them to great heights, even to the sublimest aspirations of heart and soul. ... as we have already said by way of example: first exhibit religion to them as grand, good, and lovely, then as true and divine; winding up by fervently and energetically insisting on the necessity of submission to its moral law. {170} it is an excellent plan to adopt the ordinary expressions in every-day use among the people, and to apply them in a religious sense. thus, you might tell them to lay up in the _savings bank_ of heaven, to become members of the _refuge fund_ of eternity, and you will be understood. monsigneur the archbishop of paris, during some of his visitations, furnishes us with a delightful model of this style of addressing the people:- "my children," said he to the operatives who had assembled in a courtyard to see and hear him, "my children, while attending to your worldly interests and material welfare--for the increase of which you have my sincere wishes--think also sometimes of that god who created us, and in whom we live, and move, and have our being. do you know what that man resembles who lives without god and without hope? he is like a piece of wheel-work out of gear, or a faulty machine, which only mars what it ought to make, wounds the hand which it should help, and obliges the owner to break it up and throw it aside. "maintain, then, my beloved children, the sentiments, and practise the duties which belong to your dignity as men. as workmen, be industrious, honest, and temperate, and your condition will be as happy as it can be here below, remembering that rest will come after toil; for we are all the day-laborers of a gracious god, and life is but a day, at the end of which we shall receive ample wages, and be abundantly recompensed for all our pains. {171} "my children, i am glad to see that my words affect you. i regret being obliged to separate from you; but before going i give you my benediction as an earnest of my paternal tenderness, and of all the divine graces which i invoke upon you, upon all who are dear to you, upon your families and your labors." we should begin, then, by exhibiting the material aspects of religion, proceeding from thence to doctrines and duties, without ceasing to be simple, true, and natural throughout. this, however, is not the usual course pursued: we start with metaphysics, move onward through a redundant phraseology, and end by making religion more unintelligible than ever. but we must be fair: preachers are not wholly to blame in this matter; for if one tries to be simple, true, natural, and evangelical, they will tell him in certain districts that his style is not sufficiently high-flown, that it does not do honor to the pulpit. this actually occurred to one of our best preachers. a member of the congregation came to him and said:-"you speak admirably; but there is one drawback to your sermons, they are too well understood." so that the poor preacher, in order to carry out the views of his adviser, felt that he would be obliged to invoke the holy spirit to give him grace to say unintelligible things! ... {172} what they wanted was something bombastic, academical, and highly seasoned; and such is what is generally regarded as constituting a profound, dignified, and useful sermon. look at our blessed lord: surely he knew what real dignity was. or, let us study the gospel: do we find there any of these fine airs, this inflated and consequential tone? it is simple, clear, and profound throughout. we hear it occasionally said of certain individuals:--"he cannot adapt himself to the capacity of every one; his knowledge is far too high and deep for that;" which means, that the poor man indicated has heaped up in his brains, pell-mell, a mass of ill-digested ideas which he is unable to call forth with anything like order: and that is all. the truly profound man, on the contrary, is always clear. he moves calmly through the highest regions of science, and is as much at his ease there as if he were at home. he sees things, and he narrates them. he turns his thoughts over and over again, putting them into a thousand forms, so as to be able to place them within reach of the feeblest intellects. take m. arago as an example of this wisdom and simplicity combined. he succeeds in rendering the highest problems of astronomy intelligible, and that in a few words, even to very young children. ... {173} herein, also, a wrong estimate has been formed of the french mind; since even those who move in the highest circles of society much prefer what is simple, clear, and natural. there is a well-known preacher in paris who gives familiar lectures--they are real sermons--even when appointed select season-preacher. he has been preaching for the last twenty years without ever sparing himself, readily responding to every call. crowds of the elegant world, notwithstanding, press round his pulpit, and there is always the same affluence of hearers. the most eminent of preachers, who adopted a different style of address, would have been used-up long since. a priest, full of the spirit of god, died some years ago in the flower of his age. he was remarkable in the art of giving plain and simple lectures. after his death, these lectures, in a mutilated form, were collected and published by a female, and obtained as wide a circulation as the most celebrated discourses. plain speech pleases and benefits all; whereas what is called sublime speech only amuses a few, and benefits fewer still. but one of the most effectual ways of making the truth understood by the people is by metaphor and simile. they speak an analogous language themselves and readily understand it; more especially when the comparisons are drawn from visible, present, or actual things, and when they are striking or popular. the sacred scriptures are full of expositions of this nature, and the sermons of père lejeune also contain a rich mine of the same class. {174} o'connell did not overlook this means of influencing the people, and he sometimes employed it in the most picturesque and characteristic fashion. he was one day assailing the hereditary peerage. "what are the lords?" said he. "because the father was considered a good legislator, therefore the son must be the same! just as if a man who proposed to make you a coat should answer the question: are you a tailor? by saying that his father before him was. is there any of you who would employ such an hereditary tailor? this principle of common sense as regards the lords will become popular in time. we want no hereditary legislators or tailors. do you ask who will make this principle popular? i reply, the lords themselves, who show themselves to be very bad tailors." above all, similes drawn from actual things make a still greater impression. thus, steam-engines and railroads are a common topic of conversation nowadays, and form a rich source from whence to derive matter for stirring similes and for profitable instruction. for example, you wish to point out the necessity of mastering the passions, and of restraining them by the laws of god. the heart of man may be likened to a steam-engine of terrific power, which we should mistrust, and which requires to be under the most vigorous control. {175} look at the locomotive confined within its iron furrows. it is a wonderful thing; it approximates distances, develops commerce, and contributes to the welfare of man. there is much in it to call forth gratitude to a beneficent providence. but look at it when thrown off the line. o god! what do i hear and see? i hear the most piercing and heart rending screams; i see blood flowing, limbs broken, heads crushed; and i turn from the spectacle, and almost curse the inventor. ... in like manner, the heart of man, when restrained by the law of god, is worthy of all admiration; it begets the noblest and sublimest virtues, and scatters the blessings of a good example all around. it brings joy and gladness to the domestic hearth, rendering all those happy who love it; and on seeing such results i am proud of being a man. but once beyond the bounds of that law--thrown off the rails, as it were--o god! what do i hear and see? i hear bitter lamentations, the harrowing cries of mothers, wives, and children. i see vice, and crime, and shame mantling on the brow of those who indulge therein; and at the sight of so much misery and degradation i am tempted to utter imprecations, and almost blush that i am a man. {176} finally, another way of simplifying truth is by narrative, of which the people are very fond. they cast every thing, even spiritual things, into tales, legends, and facts, which they take pleasure in learning to recite. we should imitate them, by putting a moral or dogmatic truth into action, connecting it with a fact, and then narrate it; in short, give it the form of a little drama. when skilfully employed, this method has a powerful effect upon the people, and even upon educated men. the _paroles d'un croyant_ owed a part of the notoriety which it acquired to this feature. the people must have facts, and often nothing but facts. in like manner the gospel narrates, but seldom argues. the holy scriptures are full of truths rendered palpable, as it were, by scenic representation. thus the prophet isaiah exposes the folly of idolatry in these words:- "who hath formed a god or a graven image that is profitable for nothing? ... he heweth him down cedars, and taketh the cypress and the oak from among the trees of the forest; he planteth an ash, and the rain doth nourish it. ... he burneth part thereof in the fire; with part thereof he eateth flesh; he eateth roast and is satisfied; yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, aha! i am warm, i have seen the fire. and the residue thereof he maketh a god, even his graven image; he falleth down to it, and worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, deliver me, for thou art my god. they have not known nor understood, for he hath shut their eyes that they can not see, and their hearts that they cannot understand. {177} and none considereth in his heart, neither is there knowledge nor understanding to say, i have burned part of it in the fire; yea, also i have baked bread upon the coals thereof; i have roasted flesh and eaten it; and shall i make the residue thereof an abomination? shall i fall down to the stock of a tree? he feedeth on ashes; a deceived heart hath turned him aside, that he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, is there not a lie in my right hand?" père lejeune, apart from certain quaint and obsolete modes of expression, has some charming things of this sort, which must have produced a marvellous effect. he is attempting to point out the heinousness of sin, and to describe the punishment of adam and eve:- "picture to yourselves, then, the unfortunate pair, staff in hand, going forth from the earthly paradise, carrying nothing with them but two skins, given them out of compassion by the judge, to cover their nakedness. they found themselves in the fields as if they had fallen from the clouds, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, to wild beasts, and to their own natural infirmities, without shelter, bed, linen, bread, covering for their hands or feet; without thread or needle, knife or hammer, destitute of any implements beyond their own feeble arms. {178} they collect stones as best they may, and cement them together with mud to form a low room, and cover it with branches of trees, which they are obliged to break off with their hands; for they had neither saw nor hatchet. they gather leaves for their couch, and fruits and wheat for their subsistence; but if they wanted any in years to come, they must till the ground, or rather they must dig it up with sticks, having no other kind of spade. think, then, of the woman, and of the straits to which she must have been put on being seized with the pangs of labor, which she had never before experienced, and on being confined with her first child. when she saw her firstborn ushered into the world in its natural state, moaning and trembling with the cold, and found herself utterly destitute of linen, cradle, cap, bandages, and all the other requisites for a new-born babe,--when she was called to bear all this, how poignantly she must have recognized the enormity of her offence! "but when both parents saw their son abel, a youth as beautiful as a star, gentle as a lamb, and devout as an angel, stretched stark dead upon the ground, wounded and weltering in his blood, a ghastly spectacle to behold; the bloom on his face gone, his lips livid, the light of his eyes utterly extinguished,--on first beholding all this, they could have no idea that he was dead, for they had never witnessed death; but drawing near they say:--'abel, what dost thou here? who hath done this?' the dead are silent. {179} 'my beloved abel, why speakest thou not? my son! my soul! i pray thee speak? but abel has no more words, no more voice, no sight, no motion. decay soon sets in, and abel becomes foul and corrupt, and father and mother are obliged to cover him with earth. when at length they learn that it was their sin which had given entrance to death, what grief, what tears, what anger against the fatal tree, against the tempter, against themselves, and against everything which had contributed to their disobedience, must have agitated the wretched pair! why did we pluck of that tree? why did we not burn it rather than be tempted to gather its fruit? why did we not quit the earthly paradise, and flee to the end of the world to avoid the risk of so tremendous an evil? why did i not pluck out my eyes rather than look upon that which i was forbidden to know? ill-advised that i was, why did i suffer myself to be amused with talking to the serpent? liar, thou didst assure me that we should be as gods, and behold we are more humiliated and miserable than the beasts of the field! "in like manner, when you are in hell, you will regret, and lament, and resolve; but it will then be too late. you will be maddened with spite and rage against everything that has conspired to your condemnation. alas! why did i not cut out my tongue when preachers told me that my oaths would damn me? why did i not smite to death this scandalous bosom of mine? {180} why did i not destroy the papers of that lawsuit which i prosecuted so unjustly, and the schedule and bond of that poor man who could not pay the usurious interest which i charged him for money lent? why did i not leave the town and province, and bury myself in the wilds of canada, rather than remain where there was an occasion of my falling into sin?" in concluding, i must be permitted to quote a more recent example, premising that i only adduce it as a model of familiar conversation with the working classes. m. l'abbé ledreuil, in an address to operatives, is endeavoring to convince them that they have no reason to envy the rich, since the working man has his share of joy and happiness as well as they. he expresses himself somewhat as follows, though i must apologize for abridging, and therefore for disfiguring his lecture:- "my friends, do not envy the rich, and don't believe them happy because they have nothing to do. the rich must work, after their fashion, under pain of being unhappy and of leading a miserable existence. hence it is that, for the most part, they condemn themselves to work as you do. ... and do you know how one of this class passes his life who does not work? i will tell you: he thinks everything a bore, and he yawns. {181} "in the morning, he no sooner begins to dress than he stops short. he is so tired! he stretches his limbs, and--he yawns. "he next sets about his toilet, which is a very formidable affair to him; enters into his dressing-room quite a perfumery shop in its way--looks around him, and then--he yawns. "breakfast-time comes. he goes to the breakfast-room, surveys the different dishes, knows not which to choose, for the poor man is not hungry, and--he yawns. "after breakfast, he takes up a paper and skims over it. pugh! politics are so uninteresting. then more than ever--he yawns. "toward noon, or one o'clock, he must go out, and asks himself: where shall i go to-day? shall i go to madame so-and-so? no, she is at the waters. i will go to mr. so-and-so. by the way, he is in the country; and then--he yawns. "for something better to do, he seeks the promenade, where he meets a friend of his own stamp. they shake the tips of each other's fingers, not to hurt their hands, touch the brims of their hats, and then together, one more than the other,--they yawn. "he next takes a chair, adjusts his feet on the bars, places himself at his ease, thinks of nothing, looks vacantly into the air, or bites the head of his cane, and then--he yawns. {182} "in the evening he goes to the theatre, extends himself at full length in his box, gazes around him, listens, and then--he yawns. "he returns home very late. he is quite worn out and needs sleep, and ends the day as he began it--he yawns. "not so the laborer: he rises early, goes to his work betimes, and he sings or whistles. "the breakfast-hour arrives. he loses no time in examining which dish he will partake of, for there is only one. he does not yawn over it, but eats with a good appetite, and in the same cheery mood he passes the remainder of the day. "my friends, don't be discontented with your lot. don't say:--'if i were rich i would take my ease; for work is a blessing. don't envy the rich, but be thankful for what god has given you. the honest and industrious workman, who has a good heart, and loves virtue, is the spoilt child of providence." {183} chapter vi. the sermon should be short. the discourses of the fathers were short. the french mind is quick to apprehend. sermons are generally too long. sermons of ten, seven, and of five minutes. "long sermons bore us," [footnote 16] says m. de cormenin; "and when a frenchman is bored, he leaves the place and goes away. if he cannot so retire, he remains and talks. if he cannot talk, he yawns and falls asleep. anyhow, he declares that he will not come again. ..." [footnote 16: "_nous ennuient._" it is useless to attempt giving the full force of the french _ennui_ in any one english word. that above adopted appears to me the nearest approach to it which our language affords; still it comes far short of the expressive original. translator.] the sermon should be short. at all events, it must not bore. bore or ennui is fatal in france, and is never pardoned. it has been said, there are two things which are not permitted in france, namely, to ridicule and to bore. {184} unhappily the former is allowed nowadays, for there are many who use it, and many who abuse it; but on the article of bore society is still inflexible and implacable. the man who is deemed a bore is shunned and detested. we, the clergy, must beware of exciting this antipathy on the score of religion; the more so, because most minds secrete a stock of the sentiment, which is readily called forth when they are brought in contact with any thing serious. on the other hand, why preach so long? i know not how we have allowed ourselves to be led into these lengthy discourses. what is the good of it? what is the object? we speak in god's name. now, power and majesty are always chary of words; yet such words are not the less efficacious for being few. the instructions of our blessed lord, who is the divine master of us all, were uniformly short. even the sermon on the mount, which has revolutionized the world, does not appear to have lasted more than half an hour. the homilies of the fathers also were short, and saint ambrose says:--"_nec nimium prolixus sit sermo ne fastidium pariat; semihorae tempus communiter non excedat._" saint françois de sales, too, recommends short sermons, and remarks that excessive length was the general fault in the preachers of his time. he says:--"the good saint françois, in his rules to the preachers of his order, directs that their sermons should be short. {185} "believe me, and i speak from experience, the more you say, the less will the hearers retain; the less you say, the more they will profit. by dint of burdening their memory, you will overwhelm it; just as a lamp is extinguished by feeding it with too much oil, and plants are choked by immoderate irrigation. "when a sermon is too long, the end erases the middle from the memory, and the middle the beginning. "even mediocre preachers are acceptable, provided their discourses are short; whereas even the best preachers are a burden when they speak too long." is not long preaching very much like an attempt to surpass these men, who were so highly imbued with the spirit of christianity? on the other hand, we have to deal with the most intelligent, keen, and sensible people in the world. they understand a thing when only half stated, and very often divine it. you hardly speak before they are moved to accept or to reject; and yet we overcharge them with long and heavy dissertations. to act in this way, is to evince an utter unacquaintance with one's people, and to display our own ignorance, in spite of all the learning which we may possess. moreover, it tends to excite antipathy. {186} the frenchman does not care to be treated like a german: he does not wish to be told every thing, thereby depriving him of the pleasure of working out the truth for himself. open the vein, lance his imagination and feelings, let them flow on the road to truth, and he will pursue it alone; perchance more quickly and further than you. nothing impairs intelligence, sentiment, and the effusion of thought so much as redundancy of words and even of ideas. a sharp working man, who had been listening to a sermon, was once asked- "what did the preacher say? what do you remember of his sermon?" "nothing at all." "how's that? surely you heard him?" "perfectly." "how is it, then, that you did not understand any thing?" "ah," replied he, in an original language, which only the people can command, "because all he had to say was hid behind a mass of words." there is too much reminiscence of our philosophical and scholastic studies in our sermons. it often appears as if we were speaking to a meeting of young bachelors in theology. we seem to believe--and the notion is generally taken for granted--that we have not adequately developed an idea unless we discuss it for an hour or for three-quarters of an hour at the least. {187} thus the audience is overwhelmed under the weight of a ponderous erudition. it is not sufficient that they should have one proof set before them, they must submit to any conceivable number on the same subject. or, to use m. de cormenin's language, preachers keep on using the flat side of their sword with weak proofs, after they have given a decisive thrust with the weapon's point. what has been said a thousand times before is repeated, and what everybody knows, or what nobody needs to know, is dilated upon to no purpose. a man must be endowed with extraordinary genius who can bring forcible thoughts to bear upon one and the same subject for the space of a whole hour. but this consideration does not appear to occasion the least embarrassment. the vacuities of thought are filled up with words, and that is called developing an idea. for the most part, we are all convinced that others speak too long, but we are beguiled by the world's flattery. we preach, and people are delighted, and send intimations to us that we have acquitted ourselves to admiration; that they would gladly have listened to us much longer, and so forth. {188} but we know better than any one else that the world does not always speak the truth, and that we ourselves have frequently denounced its want of sincerity. how comes it, then, that we are deluded by such fine speeches? in flattering us, the world simply plies its trade; but it is our duty not to give heed to its blandishments. moreover, there prevails at present a strong and universal conviction that, generally speaking, our sermons are too long. ask whom you please, enemies and friends, ask even the most fervent christians--thanks be to god there are intelligent men, and men renowned for their charity among the sincerely religious--ask them, i say, and they will tell you that our sermons and services are too long. and if pious and intelligent men are of that opinion, what must the masses think? undoubtedly, the intention is praiseworthy. ... we aim at securing a greater good by lengthening out the services and sermon. still, it is equally certain that in so doing we discard both prudence and charity. it resembles the ordinary treatment of wives, who insist on giving their sick husbands good strong broth, on the plea that it will do them more good than all the chemist's medicines. the intention is unquestionably a kind one; but it is no less true that the regimen, instead of benefiting the patients, is most likely to kill them outright. alas! the same result has followed a similar injudicious treatment of men's souls. {189} a man of high intellectual attainments, recently converted, declared that the manner in which he was bored by sermons during his youth, had kept him from listening to them for twenty years. we complain, and with reason, that the masses have ceased to frequent the church, and that sermons nowadays are not popular. but do not we assist in driving them away? the services are longer now than they were in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when there was more faith abroad among the people generally. religion would most probably be greatly promoted if the sermon and the services also were abridged. this might readily be affected as regards the latter. pitch your music out of the window, or rather out of the door, as the former might not be considered parliamentary. or, take care at least that the polkas with which your organist embellishes the _magnificat_ shall not occupy more than a quarter of an hour. with respect to the sermons, they might easily be shortened without injuring them in the least. lop off all commonplace considerations from the exordium, all useless discussions from the body of the discourse, and all vague phrases from the peroration. prune away all redundant words, all parasitical epithets, using only those that triple the force of the substantive. be chary of words and phrases; economize them as a miser does his crown-pieces. {190} the people affect those thoughts which are formulated in a single word. they like such expressions as the following:--_vive! ... à bas! ... mort! ... vengeance! ... liberté! ... justice!_ these simple words often move men more than a long discourse. in this respect, however, there has been a marked improvement in many of our churches. there are parishes in paris where a rule prevails that no one shall preach more than forty minutes. in some popular meetings, preachers are not allowed to speak beyond fifteen minutes, and it is there that the most good is done. nowadays, brevity is one of the first conditions of success, and of promoting the welfare of souls. the preacher who was most frequented at paris during the lenten season this year, hardly ever exceeded half-an-hour. there are, undoubtedly, many other rules to be observed, but brevity will not injuriously affect any of them. the people are easily impressed: they like to be moved; but nothing passes away so quickly as an emotion. in order to bring them back to the church, we must have sermons of ten, seven, and even of five minutes duration. the mass and the sermon together should not exceed half-an-hour. {191} this plan has been attempted. the experiment was made, and produced the most happy and unexpected results. intelligent and zealous pastors, distressed at seeing that the greater part of their flock scarcely ever heard the word of god or went to church, established a low mass, announced as specially designed for the men, with a lecture of from ten to five minutes duration every sunday. ... crowds flocked to the church, which was sometimes found too small to hold them. nor was this all: many attended high mass also, and even went to the confessional; which they had not done, some for twenty, some for thirty, and some for forty years. this success was obtained in irreligious as well as religious districts, and under the most unfavorable circumstances; even in populous manufacturing towns. and the same plan is practicable everywhere. frequently, nothing more is required than a man to take the initiative with a right good will, in order to attract crowds to the church and to religion. but it will be objected: what can be said in ten or seven minutes? much, much more than is generally thought, when due preparation is made, when we have a good knowledge of mankind, and are well versed in religious matters. ... have not a few words often sufficed to revolutionize multitudes, and to produce an immense impression? {192} the harangues of napoleon only lasted a few minutes, yet they electrified whole armies. the speech at bourdeaux did not exceed a quarter of an hour, and yet it resounded throughout the world. had it been longer, it would have been less effective. in fifteen weeks, with a sermon of seven minutes every sunday, one might give a complete course of religious instruction, if the sermons were well digested beforehand. [footnote 17] [footnote 17: we have chosen the seven minutes sermon, because experience has taught us that it attracts the greatest numbers.] if, then, you wish to be successful, in the first place fix the length of your sermon, and never go beyond the time; be inflexible on that score. should you exceed it, apologize to your audience for so doing, and prove in the pulpit of truth that you can be faithful to your word. in your course of instruction, do not follow the old method which commences with metaphysical questions and principles; but adhere to the plan which we have indicated: start from the known to the unknown. ... in the first place, disconnect religion from all prejudices and passions, and from every thing uncongenial. discard all objections and antagonisms. exhibit it as good and lovely, then true, then divine, then as obligatory, proceeding onward from thence to god's commandments and to the sacraments. if you apprehend that the term "god's commandments" does not sufficiently strike your hearers, you may call them the duties of an upright man. {193} when about to compose your sermon, study your subject thoroughly, grasp the salient points, and then write. ... but do not stop there; begin afresh. supposing that you have written four pages, reduce them to two, taking care that all the strong thoughts and sentiments remain. ... use those terms which belong to a single thought, those expressions which imprint themselves--or, as the scripture says, engrave the truth as with a pen of steel--on the hearts of men, and which scatter it abroad full of life and exultation. nothing is so profitable as this exercise: it cultivates and supplies the intellect, gives us a deeper insight into christianity and mankind, and it teaches us how to think, and how to write. ... during the reading of the gospel, ascend the pulpit and be quite ready. place your watch by your side and begin thus:--"last sunday we said so and so. to-day we continue." ... then enter fully into your subject, enlightening the minds of your hearers or stirring up their hearts as may be suitable, during the discourse. when the allotted time arrives, stop short and conclude. "but do speak more at length ... you are wrong in being so brief ... you only tantalize your audience ... you deprive them of a real pleasure." expostulations like these will pour in upon you; but don't listen to them: be inflexible, for those who urge them are enemies without knowing it. {194} be more rigid than ever in observing the rule which you have prescribed for yourself. then your sermon will be talked of--it will be a phenomenon--every body will come to _see_ a sermon of seven minutes duration. the people will come; the rich will follow. faith will bring the one, and curiosity will attract the other, and thus the divine word will have freer course and be glorified. ... if the men do not come, appeal to the women, and ask them to help you. if you want to attract the women, announce that you intend preaching specially for the men. you will find this method infallible; the men will follow. moreover, go yourself and find them out: visit the workshops, factories, and wharves. be particularly attentive to those who are shabbily dressed and ill-favored. on taking your departure, tell them with a smile that french politeness--in which you feel quite sure they are not deficient--demands that visits received should be returned: that you will dispense with their coming to you personally, but will expect to see them at the seven minutes sermon. the result will not disappoint you. {195} when you have many male hearers, you should reserve a space for them. the women will complain that thereby they are placed further away; but you must appease them with a compliment. tell them that you know their charity, and are persuaded that they would not certainly wish to hinder the word of god from being heard by those who need it most. when you have well cultivated your congregation, when a strong current of sympathy and charity has set in from them to you and from you to them, when a number of conversions shall have been made, then you may think of sending some of them to high mass and to vespers. don't fail to felicitate such:--"you have come hither to hear me. so far well, and i am greatly rejoiced at it. still you may do something better: you may attend high mass," adding your reasons, and then conclude somewhat in this style:--"now, i hope that those who are rightly disposed will attend high mass. i only want the badly disposed, poor downright sinners, at my sermons." you will be obeyed by some, and you will thereby do much toward repopularizing religion; and when those who are not converted fall sick they will say:--"send for the man who preaches the seven minutes sermon; i don't want any other." thus god will be blessed and glorified. ... here, then, you have a very simple and cheap means of restoring the people to religion. it may be put into practice everywhere: in great cities, in small towns, and even in hamlets. the subject is one for serious reflection. {196} even in our most religiously disposed towns, hardly a third of the inhabitants habitually hear the word of god. elsewhere, matters are still worse; and yet all are sheep of the same divine pastor, all have a soul to save. moreover, according to all theologians, every parish priest of a cure is required, _sub gravi_, to preach at low mass, whenever the faithful generally do not attend high mass. hence, by pursuing the course above indicated, we may not only save others but shall also exonerate ourselves. {197} chapter vii. tact and kindliness. we should assume that our hearers are what we wish them to be. reproaches to be avoided. how to address unbelievers. special precautions to be taken in small towns and rural districts. how to treat men during times of public commotion. forbearance due to the church for being obliged to receive money from the faithful. in france, it is not enough to say good things, they must also be well said. this remark applies to all, but more especially to him who speaks in behalf of the gospel; for he is bound to follow the divine injunction:--"be ye wise as serpents, and harmless as doves;" which i should prefer to see carried out as commented upon by st. françois de sales:--"ah! my dear philothea, i would give a hundred serpents for one dove." it is especially in this respect that we should endeavor to reduce to practice what has already been advanced on the importance of becoming thoroughly acquainted with the people, and the necessity of loving them in order to our being qualified to address them to good purpose. {198} we must make ourselves sisters of charity to the souls of men; having all their pliancy and kindness, so as to be capable of conforming ourselves to those light, weak, vain, and fickle characters--to say nothing of the suspicious and malevolent--with whom we may have to deal. our age is arrayed in prejudices from head to foot, and no sooner is one destroyed than another is ready to take its place. for the most part, a great mistake is made as regards this necessity of exercising tact in our intercourse with the people. it is remarked:--"we have to do with little people, such circumspection is therefore uncalled for. why should we give ourselves so much trouble on their account?" very true; but little people are often very susceptible people everywhere; not among the laity only, but among the clergy likewise. the people have certain formalities, courtesies, and politenesses of their own which we should learn to respect, for when once outraged, they are more difficult to be appeased than the educated and genteel classes. complaints are often made of our congregations; but have they not sometimes cause on their part to complain of their preachers? ... are these latter always prudent and conciliatory in their mode of procedure? and yet success depends on this mixture of tact and kindliness. {199} in our sermons, we should start with assuming that the people are what we wish them to be; thereby raising them in their own estimation, and laying hold of them by their better part. ... you will then feel yourself quite at ease, and in spite of any desire on the part of your hearers to oppose you, they will be restrained from doing so by an exquisite sentiment of respect. a _religieux_ who was engaged on a mission in a rural district, had announced that a particular gallery, which had previously been occupied by the men, would in future be reserved for the ladies forming the choir. now, the men were much attached to the said gallery, and were determined to keep it. accordingly, the day after, long before the sermon, they installed themselves in it as usual. on ascending the pulpit, the preacher noticed that his directions had not been attended to. what would he do? command or scold? a vulgar man might have done so under the circumstances, but he got over the difficulty by a compliment. turning toward the occupants of the gallery, he addressed them in a kindly tone as follows:--"my dear friends, you are aware that the gallery was set apart for the ladies. now, french politeness calls upon us always to give place to the ladies, and not to deprive them of it. from what i already know of you, i feel persuaded that you will not be behindhand in that respect." ... "we have put our foot into it," whispered the men one to another; "and can hold out no longer. {200} ah! the crafty fellow, he has outwitted us, and we must go." the gallery was evacuated forthwith and made over to the ladies; to the satisfaction of all, even of those who had been worsted in the affair. that is the way to deal with the people. the preacher might have asserted his absolute authority on the occasion; but, like a wise man, he preferred the exercise of prudence and charity. we repeat it: the most effectual way of communicating the truth to the people, of putting them in the right way, and of reforming them, is not to be chary of complimenting them when they have deserved it ever so little; and to show that we have confidence in them. this course tends to gladden their souls; disposes them to what is good, exalts, elates them. it should never be neglected, for it is capable of transforming the most obstinate characters. subsequent to the revolution of 1848, an association of unemployed operatives was formed at the church of the carmelites; amongst whom was a number of sharpers, makers of barricades, and workmen always on the look-out for work--men clothed in rags and in a state of complete destitution. there were about twelve hundred of them. a meal was first served out to them, which was followed by a lecture. {201} the priests who addressed them soon acquired an irresistible ascendency over this formidable body; so much so that certain parties took umbrage at it, as a dangerous power to be wielded by the clergy, and accordingly hired a set of roughs to hiss and otherwise disturb the congregation. the preacher, who was apprised of this on entering the pulpit, did not manifest the least discomposure. before beginning the sermon, however, he looked round upon the sinister figures and tattered habiliments of his hearers with a benevolent countenance, and then said in a sonorous voice:--"what a pleasant meeting this is, my friends! what an excellent audience! what silence! what attention! therein i recognize the people. ... père lacordaire preaches at notre-dame to the noble and wealthy, and it is found necessary to station constables there to maintain order. ... none but men of the people are here, and yet we have no constables amongst us. we do not want them, for the people are their own police; the people are discreet." ... he then delivered his sermon, which was listened to amidst the most profound silence. never was an audience of nuns more attentive than those men; their deportment was admirable. the roughs took the hint, saw that their game was up, and that those who had engaged them would lose their money. they accordingly moved toward the door. {202} when the sermon was over, however, a few hisses were attempted; but fifty stalwart arms instantly seized the intruders, and administered a castigation to them which was by no means fraternal. by laying hold of men in this manner we may lead them onward a great way on the road to improvement. ... one should be very cautious not to assume that his hearers are wicked, impious, or unbelieving. the people do not relish such imputations: they don't like reproaches; neither do you, dear reader. they rarely do any good, and often much harm. if it is deemed desirable to censure a fault, a vice, or a scandal, such delinquencies may be treated of in a general way, and energetically denounced. in applying the lesson to your hearers, you might say in a subdued tone--"malpractices like these are committed elsewhere. it is even stated that you are not wholly free from them; but perhaps it is only the malevolent who say this of you. however, if you have really been guilty of them, i am sure you will abandon them in future. it is always a duty to prove that the malevolent are in the wrong." you may further add:--"i will do you this justice, that whenever i have given you any advice, i have always had the satisfaction of finding that some at least have profited by it." {203} it shows a want of charity as well as tact--and it is, moreover, deplorably vulgar--to address a congregation in such a style as the following:--"all my preaching, and all the trouble which i take in your behalf are in vain, for you are not a whit better. faith is departing from france. ... i must abandon you to your fate. no matter how i preach, none the more come to the sermons." ... i say this mode of address is as vulgar and contemptible as it is derogatory to the minister of the gospel. saint john chrysostom, as already remarked, did not talk in that style:--"if you reject my words," said he, "i shall not shake off the dust of my feet against you. not that herein i would disobey the saviour; but because the love which he has given me for you prevents my doing so." ... if sermons are not attended, whose fault is it? it is our duty to look into that question. at all events, if only a few come it is not certainly their fault, and therefore they should be spared all reproaches; otherwise some captious hearer--and such are to be met with everywhere--may slip into a corner of the pulpit, and say:--"take care, mr. preacher; you are speaking ill of the absent, and you know better than i do that such a proceeding is improper." ... {204} if your audience is scanty, i can quite fancy that you would like to comment upon it, and also to express a little annoyance at the fact; but you may do something better. begin by congratulating those who are present, thank them heartily for coming to listen to you, and tell them afterward, in an affectionate manner, that it would be a praiseworthy act if they could induce one or two of their comrades to accompany them to the next meeting. instead of uttering reproaches against the erring absentees, which your hearers might report to them, charge the latter to communicate words of kindness to them:-"tell those dear brethren who do not attend the lectures, that we bear them no ill-will; that we love all of them; that they too are our children; and that we never cease praying for them." thereby all will be edified, and god will be less offended. ... further, it is highly imprudent to say to one's audience:--"i have preached to you a long time, and yet you are still the same: i see no improvement in you. on the contrary, evil increases every year. i wash my hands of you; you will be lost: you will be damned." ... now, the people do not like to be damned, or to be discouraged. besides, such a course is highly dangerous. ... might they not say:--"as it seems that we are damned already, let us at least enjoy life while it lasts." moreover, may there not still be a portion for the pastor, even from among the erring flock? a pastor once recapitulated in the pulpit the results of his ministrations in this language:--"my time is thrown away upon you, for you become more and more ungodly. {205} "the first year of my cure there were only five persons who did not communicate at easter. "the second year there were eleven. "the third year there were thirty. "and the number has gone on increasing, so that at present there are eighty non-communicants." after mass, a mischievous peasant approached the speaker, and said, in a low voice:--"monsieur le curé, take my advice, and don't make so much stir about this matter. according to your own testimony, we were in a satisfactory condition when you took charge of us, so that we must have deteriorated under your _reign_." neither should such commonplace and infelicitous remarks as the following be made:--"faith is departing from among men. ... hell is let loose on earth; ... everybody is abandoning religion;" ... for observations like these only tend to induce others to abandon it; and the people will hardly feel disposed to practise a religion which the rest of the world is alleged to be giving up. they would rather prefer being lost with the multitude. on the contrary, you should say something to this effect,--"go to! faith is not extinct, for there are many godly men to be found in all ranks of society. {206} you would be convinced of this if you only knew what takes place in our large towns, where numbers of the young, the rich, and the learned belonging to the higher classes, and others occupying distinguished positions, may be seen devoutly frequenting the services of the church, partaking of the holy communion, visiting the poor, and practising confession with the docility of little children. moreover, what exemplary women there are amongst us!" ... you might then add:--"brethren, we should strive to imitate such men, and should not allow ourselves to be outdone by them." representations like these will induce the people to think more highly of religion, and will make it more attractive to them. we have already discussed the most appropriate method of warning the people against the bad example and pernicious talk of those who affect infidelity; but a few additional remarks may not be out of place here. in general, we should not evince any fear of such antagonism, nor attach much importance to it. we should rather cause the impression to be produced that god having bestowed mind and talent upon mankind, is a proof that he can be in no dread of those endowments. above all, we should lay great stress on such reflections as these:--that those who call themselves unbelievers are, in fact, nothing of the kind, and are better than their words would imply; although, perchance, they might not be greatly disappointed if they could attain to infidelity; that they have as good reason for fearing hell as others have of being in dread of the police; and that by dint of repeating that they are unbelievers, they have been led to imagine that they are so in reality. {207} you might liken them to some of those old soldiers of the empire, who, from having travelled a good deal in foreign countries, are generally allowed the license of embellishing and even of inventing a little. as everybody knows, they make free use of the privilege, and concoct a number of tales wherein they themselves are made to play a prominent part. these they repeat incessantly, until at length they succeed in persuading themselves that such stories are true, and that the incidents actually occurred as they have narrated them. ... it is the same with those who wish to pass themselves off as unbelievers. hence we should not allow ourselves to be moved by their words; for at heart they are better men and nearer to god than is thought, and you should insist on the duty of praying for them. if you pursue this course, none will be hurt or offended, and the wives, daughters, or mothers of these pretended unbelievers will return home from your sermons happier at the thought that all hope for those whom they love is not wholly lost. {208} the sterner the truths which you have to set forth, the more should tact and kindliness be brought into play, that the souls of the hearers be not depressed. this, however, is a very common error. we are terrible in the pulpit; we thunder and storm there; whereas in the confessional we are gentle and paternal. that was all well enough in times of faith; but an entirely different course is called for nowadays, otherwise you will estrange the hearts of your people. be paternal in the pulpit, be paternal in the confessional as well; but at the same time uncompromising in your principles. there are many things which terrify at a distance, but which, nevertheless, are readily assented to in the familiar intercourse of the confessional. we sometimes hear such language as this, uttered in a tone of great self-conceit, after a long tirade or vehement declamation:--"i have driven them into a corner. i have now fairly crushed them." you have crushed them, have you? so much the worse, for in so doing you have altogether misapprehended your duty. god has not called you to crush men, but to raise and save them. moreover, there is much cause to fear that those whom you have crushed will not run the less eagerly in the way of evil. hence all strong admonitions should be tempered with such deprecations as these:--"brethren, why am i constrained to tell you these stern truths? you will pardon me for doing so, because it is my duty. it pains me as much as it does you to have to say them." {209} or, something to this effect:--"if i wished to pain you, or if it was not rather my heart's desire to spare you, or if i did not love you, i might inflict on you the chastisement of irony and defeat; i might say this or that, and speak truly and justly. but no; i leave you to your own consciences, which will tell you of your faults and failings more forcibly than i can. for my part, i prefer holding out a hand to you, i prefer to pity, to save you." ... we must become the servants of all. ... that was the course pursued by saint john chrysostom. "a man," says he, "who is only bound to serve one master, and to submit to one opinion only, may discharge his duty without trouble; but i have an infinity of masters, being called to serve an immense people who hold many different views. not that i bear this servitude with any sort of impatience, nor that by the present discourse i would defend myself against the authority which you exercise over me in the capacity of masters. god forbid that i should entertain such a thought! on the contrary, nothing is so glorious to me as this servitude of love." the same feelings ought to pervade the heart of every christian priest, who should be able to say as st. paul did to the corinthians:--"out of much affliction and anguish of heart, i wrote unto you with many tears; not that ye should be grieved, but that ye might know the love which i have more abundantly unto you." {210} you become aware, for instance, of a prevailing disposition to ill-will, and have cause to apprehend the ridicule of certain parties. under these circumstances, throw yourself into the hands of your audience; make them your judge, and rest assured you will be treated with indulgence. as saint augustine has said:--"if you fear god, cast yourself into his arms, and then his hands cannot strike you." in like manner, if you fear the wit and ridicule of the french people, throw yourself into their hearts, and then the sallies of their tongues will fail to reach you. there are certain thoughts and expressions which have a great hold on the french mind, such as progress, liberty, enlightenment. these you should never meddle with unless absolutely obliged. we ought to respect even the illusions of our brethren, when they do nobody any harm. when we are forced to combat them, it should be done with courtesy, with gentle irony, or with profound ability. we, too, may speak of enlightenment, of progress, and of liberty, and point out that they can only be effectually attained through the instrumentality of religion. ... matters have undoubtedly improved on this score; proving that, if we correct our own errors, the effect will not be lost upon others. we are now far removed from the time when nothing but the future was talked of, the philosophy of the future, the happiness of the future, when it used to be said that the time was big with the future, big with a new philosophy; nay, even with a new religion; whereas, in truth, it was big with nothing but misery, as the event fully proved. ... {211} we must not assail these delusions directly, nor imitate the bold preacher who is reported to have said--"so we are supposed to be living in the era of light! if so, then it is the devil who holds the candle." on the contrary, you should enter into the current of the ideas of the age, and strive vigorously to turn it in favor of religion, by taking advantage of prevailing errors and delusions to edify your hearers. one of the lectures of the rev. père ventura supplies a fine model of this style of preaching; which but for the sacredness of the place where it was delivered, would undoubtedly have elicited roars of applause. he had been showing that the attempt to introduce german philosophy into france was a great mistake, inasmuch as it was altogether unsuited to the positive, sensible, and christian mind of the french people. he wound up as follows:--"frenchmen, it is your bane that you do not value yourselves as you ought, that you wish to imitate foreigners; whereas you are rich enough in resources of your own. last century you imitated english politics and were not very successful. why do you now wish to borrow a philosophy from protestant germany? frenchmen, be yourselves. ... {212} what! are you not rich enough in mind, in your wonderful talent for comparison and for development, and in your extreme quickness at deducing consequences from the most remote premises? not rich enough in the truth which eighteen centuries of christianity have poured into your bosoms, and to which you owe your civilization and grandeur. frenchmen, forbear aping others; you have only to be yourselves in order to be great." (prolonged sensation.) we should become all things to all men, without ever being rude; being always simple, natural, true, and upright. these are qualities admired alike by all; by the little, and especially by the great. ... the wealthy residents in towns frequently go to spend a part of the fine season in the country, where the curé, in order to exalt religion in their eyes--and the pastor a little as well--thinks himself called upon to be at the expense of some grand phrases and flights of fancy. now, such a course is neither adroit nor apostolic. as to grand phrases, the visitors hear enough of them in the towns. besides, they may judge that you have talked at them, and may be offended. moreover, it is not at all unlikely that they may think you have mistaken your profession. ... instead of acting in this way, do not seem to be aware of their presence, but speak boldly to your people in your usual style. {213} avail yourself, nevertheless, of any fitting occasion to tell them some useful truths; to draw their attention to some striking parable, like that of the poor man with the ewe lamb and the prophet nathan, which may afford you a good opportunity of reaching the rich over the shoulders of the peasant. be careful, however, always to do this in a kindly manner; both rich and poor will then be more satisfied with you, and god himself will concur in the same opinion. remember that you have a difficult part to play in a small town. there, you may not say all that may be said in a large city. there, the most paltry things assume huge proportions. one of our best preachers entirely failed of success through having omitted to repeat the _ave maria_ after the exordium, and for not having allowed his audience time to cough, to expectorate, and to take breath. it is a wonder that he escaped without having his orthodoxy suspected. moreover, the residents in small towns are excessively fond of finely-turned phrases, rhetorical displays, and pomposity. they call such rodomontade poetry, and think it sublime. you may adopt it occasionally by way of accompaniment. nevertheless, don't be led into the delusion that any essay in that style will prevent the _sturdy bourgeois_ from slandering his neighbor, from cheating him if he can, and from doing many other things of a similar kind. {214} good manners have great weight in france, and many things are excused in him who says them cleverly. a celebrated preacher was expected to preach a charity sermon in one of the paris churches. a crowded audience had already assembled, when, to their surprise and disappointment, they saw the parish priest enter the pulpit, and heard him announce that, owing to the sudden indisposition of the eminent preacher, he was obliged to supply his place. thereat the congregation rose and began to leave the church. meanwhile the priest, seeing the crowed on the move, and the anticipated collection disappearing with them, suddenly arrested them with a _bon mot_. "my brethren," said he, "when everybody has left the church, i will begin." this so delighted the audience that they remained where they were; the priest preached an excellent sermon, and the collection was most liberal. we should endeavor to acquire and practise all the breeding and politeness of good society, with sincerity superadded. by birth, we are for the most part children of the people; that is neither a fault nor a disgrace; it forms an additional resemblance between ourselves and the apostles. but our primary education was neglected, and we should fill up the gap by retaking from the world those forms which it has borrowed from christianity, and fill them up with the substance. then we shall be powerful men. {215} the present age has given us a great model of this tact, kindliness, and urbanity of speech in the person of the cardinal de cheverus. "he generally spoke," says m. hamon, [footnote 18] "with such tact and moderation, and so much to the purpose, that, far from offending any one, his audience always went away gratified. some were convinced, others were staggered, and all disabused more or less of their prejudices. when he addressed persons of a different communion, his kind and affectionate words were the utterances of a heart overflowing with benevolence and charity. he made his audience feel by the accents of his voice and his whole deportment that it was a friend who was addressing them; not merely a sincere, but a tender and devoted friend, who wished them all possible good; and this persuasion, by disposing them to welcome his words, opened the way for him to their hearts. [footnote 18: _histoire du cardinal de cheverus_.] "his usual course was this: he first stated the question clearly, expounding carefully the true doctrine of the church; eliminating therefrom all the erroneous interpretations, wherewith heretics have travestied it in order that they might decry it. he then adduced his proofs in a form so simple and natural, combining them with reasons so completely within the reach of ordinary intelligences, that no effort of the mind was required to feel their force. {216} he adhered above all to those proofs which speak to the heart; setting forth all that is lovely and affecting, noble and excellent in the catholic creed. it is almost unnecessary to add that his efforts were often crowned with deserved success." but the exercise of tact and kindliness on our part, is specially called for in times of public commotion, when men's minds are disturbed and their passions inflamed. under such circumstances, we should endeavor to be perfectly self-possessed ourselves, in order that we may be the better able to control others. before all, we should be just. the people, on their part, have an exquisite sense of justice. in depicting their faults or their excesses, abstain from all exaggeration; rather say too little than too much, and they will accuse themselves unsparingly. outstep the limits of truth, and they will rebel, and you will forfeit all your influence over them. further, take pains to explain to them in detail how matters stand; show them that you are not an enemy, but a sincere friend and adviser, and they will resign themselves, even to suffering. a great orator has left on record a perfect model of this style of address. he is so little known that i cannot resist the desire of quoting him. some time prior to the revolution of '89, the dearness of bread had excited public indignation at marseilles, excesses had been committed, and still greater outrages were apprehended. {217} mirabeau caused a notice, containing the following passages, to be put up on all the walls of the town:- "my good friends, i am about to tell you what i think of the occurrences which have taken place in this superb city during the last few days. listen to me: i shall not deceive you; my only wish is to be of use to you. "every one of you desires what is right, for you are all honest people; but every one does not know how he ought to act. a man is often deceived, even with respect to his own interests. "you complain chiefly of two things: of the price of bread and the price of meat. "let us consider the subject of the bread first; other matters will come after. "bread is the most indispensable article of food, and there are two requisites regarding it: first, that there should be an adequate supply; and, secondly, that it should not be too dear. "well, my good friends, i have some cheering news to tell you. there is no deficiency of wheat at the present moment. there are 50,000 loads in the city, which will furnish bread for three months and twelve days. but, my good friends, that is not all; your administrators and the merchants still expect a large additional supply. ... {218} "be calm, therefore; be perfectly calm. thank providence for giving you what others are deprived of. "you have heard it reported, and you yourselves know, that the seasons generally have been bad throughout the country. the people have to suffer elsewhere much more than you do here; yet they bear it patiently. "i trust, therefore, that you will be contented and quiet, and that your example may promote peace on all sides. then, my good friends, it will be said everywhere: the marseillaise are a brave people. the king will hear it--that excellent king whom we should not afflict, whom we unceasingly invoke--even he will hear of it, and will esteem and love you the more." as might have been expected, this address produced the happiest results. the people do not, cannot resist such appeals, unless some mischievous demagogue interferes to rekindle their passions. lastly, i must say a few words on a subject which should be candidly explained to the people. i allude to the money taken for the use of chairs in our churches, and the difference which exists in the celebration of marriages and funerals for the rich and the poor. {219} this is a matter which causes great estrangement from religion, and he who is not aware of the fact shows his ignorance of the feelings prevailing among the people. it is desirable that all should be set right on this point, both rich and poor; even the most pious amongst us. faith is no longer large enough to comprehend these exigencies, and there is a wide-spread suspicion abroad that the church is following the ruling passion of the multitude--love of money. besides, the people entertain strong views on the subject of equality, and expect it in matters of religion, if they do not meet with it anywhere else. hence it is not uncommon to hear reflections such as the following among the operatives of our work shops:--"religion nowadays is no longer the religion of the gospel. the gospel loves and prefers the people; but religion as practised at present prefers the rich and encourages felons. "take, for example, two men of humble parentage. the one remains a workman and maintains his integrity all his life; he toils on and dies poor. the other becomes rich by very questionable means, defrauds right and left, and dies wealthy. he is then placed in the centre of the church, and surrounded with burning tapers and chanting priests. ... the poor devil of a workman, on the contrary, who has been upright all his life, is borne in the rear of the parish priest, accompanied by two or three assistants, with as many tapers, and is then pitched into a corner. . . . and you would have me believe that this is the religion of christ? it is no such thing; it is the religion of the priests: it is the religion of money." .... {220} arguments like these have a powerful effect on persons who are incapable of sober reflection and who scarcely ever look beyond the present state of existence. they harrow up the popular instincts; and with the people instinct is everything. the man who secures the command over their instincts may do any thing with them; he who fails in that respect cannot manage them at all. ... it is most desirable, then, that the inequality complained of should be kindly and frankly explained. in doing so, we might say something to the following effect:- "dear friends, this subject is quite as painful to us as it can be to you; but you are aware that there are some stern necessities in life. the church is poor nowadays, and yet has many expenses to meet. the sacred fabrics must be maintained, the wages of employés paid, suitable furniture provided, and we ourselves, brethren, even we, the clergy, must live. ... would you like us to go begging our bread? say, would you wish that? certainly not; for if you knew we were in need, you would be the first to succor us, even though you had to stint yourselves. {221} moreover, it is our duty to visit the poor; and would you condemn us to the greatest possible misery, that of witnessing want without being able to relieve it? say, would you inflict such torture upon us? well, then, brethren, the money in question goes to defray these expenses, to give us bread, and to enable us to alleviate the necessities of the poor. "instead of complaining, therefore, be content that the weddings and burials of the wealthy should be made to provide for these requisites. moreover, brethren, let us lift up our souls and look beyond the present life. thank god, we are not destined to spend all our existence on earth. you know full well that this life is not all our life. there is another to follow, where all the inequalities which we see here will be perfectly adjusted, and when every one shall receive according to his works and not according to his good fortune. why, then, attach so much importance to these matters? surely you do not think that god troubles himself about them; that he counts the number of tapers, or carpets, or chairs? ... god looks to see whether a man has been upright and honest, faithfully discharging his duties as a citizen and a christian. be all that, my brethren, and he will not fail to give you a blissful abode in heaven; which will be far better than the most magnificent place in the church, either at your wedding or your funeral." {222} chapter viii. interest, emotion, and animation. we should endeavor to excite interest by thoughts, by sallies or epigrams, by studies of men and manners. the truth should be animated. the père ravignan. the père lacordaire. the heart is too often absent. we remarked in a former chapter that the preaching of the divine word, especially on sundays, should be to the people, wearied with the toil and cares of the week, a rest, a joy; or, as the scripture says, a refreshment. ... it should be to them what a spring of water surrounded with verdure is to our soldiers worn out with marching, and scorched by the sun and burning sands of africa. under its breath, the souls of men should dilate, blossom, as it were, and feel less unhappy; for is not the gospel glad tidings? was it not proclaimed at the nativity of christ:--"i bring you glad tidings of great joy?" {223} christian pulpit instruction should be a sort of paternal intercourse enlivened with faith and charity--a family meeting where the different members come to talk over their labors and their trials, their fears and their hopes, and the bounty of that father who is in heaven, in such a way that each may go away benefited and less unhappy, saying within himself:--"i feel all the better now. the words of the preacher have cheered me. why did he not speak a little longer? while he spoke, my soul was on fire."--"did not our heart burn within us, while he talked with us by the way?" unfortunately, this is no longer the case. the sermon is looked upon as something cold, official, and tedious; or merely as a necessary accompaniment of the service. it is thought wearisome to listen to, but must needs be endured for the sake of example. generally speaking, moreover, the greater part of the faithful are absent, and the majority of the pious souls present consists of females. these place themselves as much at their ease as possible on a couple of chairs, and resign themselves to undergo the sermon. when it is over, they remark that it was either a good or an indifferent discourse, and then depart absolutely as they came; none feeling in the least bound to practise what has been enjoined. {224} preaching, indeed, is a sorry trade. the preacher studies and meditates on his subject, composes his sermon, and then commits it to memory. what a task! he then goes into the pulpit, and is grieved to perceive that the minds of his audience are abstracted--that they look like persons who are being bored; so much so, that he is glad if even by a nod of assent they do not prove that they have been doing anything else rather than listening to him. for the sermon is undoubtedly regarded in the light of an infliction; a species of forced labor. when the faithful learn that there is to be no sermon, they hail the announcement with pleasure, and seem to say with great glee: "another sermon got over!" hence one frequently hears the remark:--"i shall not go to such a mass because there is preaching there." truly, all this is sad, very sad, as regards the preaching of the divine word. but who is to blame, ourselves or the faithful? in the first place, it is quite certain that in france there is a decided distaste for any thing serious, or that requires attention and mental effort. nothing is cared for nowadays but what is amusing; hence the most highly remunerated people amongst us are those who cater for the amusement of others, some of whom make fabulous incomes. how to be amused is, in fact, the great question of the day, insomuch that you hear the remark on all sides:--"i will not go there again, for the entertainment did not amuse me." the malady of _ennui_ pervades the social atmosphere and all who move in it, while any thing serious suggests wearisomeness and disgust. this state of mind is the result of excessive selfishness. for three-fourths of their time, men are bored about themselves personally. they then feel the want of some excitement to get rid of the incubus, and generally resort to whatever is romantic in search of it. {225} again, there is scarcely any prevailing love of the truth; on the contrary, it is rather dreaded, and men manifest a strange pusillanimity when confronted with it. whenever a stern truth is addressed to others, they readily applaud, and think it quite right that this and that vice should be strongly reprehended; but when it is brought home to themselves, they frown, question the propriety of the censure, and can see no harm in their own delinquencies. besides which, there is a universal tendency to pass judgment on every thing sacred and profane, and a sermon is criticised as if it were nothing more than an ordinary literary production. ... these are shortcomings on the part of the congregation, but are they wholly responsible for them? the blame is sometimes cast on the world, on the absorbing passion for frivolity, and on the literature of the day; but may there not be a little fault elsewhere? it is our duty to look into this subject; and as we are called upon to proclaim the truth to others, it behoves us to administer it in the first place to ourselves. this will be a real charity; the more so, because if we are not told it to our faces, we may rest assured that it will be repeated with additions behind our backs. {226} i hasten, then, to state it. there is a large amount of talent in paris, and no lack of clergymen who know how to draw, to interest, and to direct an audience. in the provinces, too, how many preachers are there, who, though little known, do a vast amount of good! christian eloquence is still one of the glories, one of the purest and most indisputable glories of france. as a witty writer has said:--"god has evidently made france his spoilt child. the misfortune is that the child does not always profit by the parent's indulgence." unquestionably, there are still apostolic preachers amongst us, whose words are effectual in stirring up and saving the souls of men; nevertheless, is it not equally sure, that our usual style of preaching is deficient in interest and perspicuity, is too monotonous and didactic, is made up of a misuse of reasoning and rhetorical phraseology, is wanting in heart and soul, and, above all, in that tone of conviction which lends to speech its paramount power? ... in the first place, we must interest our hearers; for that is an indispensable condition of benefiting them. ... people generally require to be interested. they may be rather exacting on that point: it may be a weakness on their part; but what is to be done? must we not become all things to all men? must we not take them as they are? it is constantly being repeated that society is unsound; then, should we not overlook some things in those who are ailing? {227} after all, the question is not to discover whether they are right or wrong. the vital question is to save them, and how to get them to listen to us, and to cause gospel truth to reach their ears, their minds, and their hearts to that end. why should we take so much trouble in preparing sermons if they are not to be listened to? in that case, it becomes nothing more than a disheartening, profitless labor. as somebody once remarked:--"they teach me to compose magnificent sermons. i only wish they would also teach me how to make people come and hear them." our aim then should be to secure a hearing. to attain that, we must first excite interest. ... there are different ways of doing this. we may interest our hearers by well-digested studies of men and manners, conveyed in various styles of unsophisticated and sympathetic language; by spirited sallies; by metaphors drawn from the incidents of every-day life; and by heart-stirring impulses and emotions. ... in the first place, in order to interest an audience you must never lose sight of them, but keep them always in your wake. they should be made to think and feel with you, and even to anticipate or divine your train of thought; for that will gratify them. at other times, prepare a surprise for them, and that too will please them. {228} when you perceive that the attention of your hearers is flagging, it may be stimulated by a lively speech or sally; such as shall gladden their hearts, and draw from them that gentle smile which bespeaks approving assent. frenchmen are delighted with this style of address; and surely there is nothing to urge against it. with so many depressing cares to battle with, one should rejoice to see them inspirited a little under the breath of the divine word. moreover, it may be made a useful medium for communicating some wholesome truths. sallies of this kind are greatly relished by the french people, even when directed against themselves. all great orators have employed them. saint chrysostom himself, always so grave and dignified, did not disdain to use them. he thus wittily derides the vanity of the male sex of his time:--"look at that young man. he walks delicately on the tips of his toes for fear of soiling his shoes. my friend, if you dread the mud so much on account of your shoes, put them on your head and they will be safe." in another place he assails the vanity of the women. "why are you so proud of your fine clothes? you reply: 'only look at this stuff and see how beautiful it is: touch it, and feel how silky it is.' true: but that is no merit of yours. 'but how exquisitely this dress fits me!' true, again, but the merit of that is due to the sempstress." {229} "alas! for human weakness," he exclaimed; "it takes the produce of a plant, an animal, or a vile insect, bedizens itself therewith, then goes abroad and asks the world's admiration, saying: look at me, for i am worth something to-day." all our great modern orators, both of the tribune and pulpit, abound in trenchant sallies; which almost always carry conviction, because they are universally understood. "france," says m. de falloux, "repels equally those men who can do every thing, and those who can do nothing." the rev. père lacordaire excels in epigrams of this kind. he has a peculiar talent in that line, and has succeeded in winning over many of his hearers by his pithy humor. one day his object was to show that rationalism does not possess that charity which distinguishes the christian faith and ministry. instead of entering into a long dissertation on the subject, he expressed himself thus:- "i shall only say a few words about rationalism in connection with the topic before us. i have never heard of a rationalist having been beaten by the cochin-chinese. minds like theirs are too highly polished and too ingenious to risk encountering such distinction in behalf of the truth. it will, therefore, be time enough to trouble ourselves about them, when the next vacancy occurs in the academy. we are too well bred to offer them any thing else than a laurel branch, which they unquestionably deserve." {230} on another occasion he remarked with a smile, addressing those who affected unbelief:--"yes, sirs, i admit that you have mind, that you have plenty of mind; but know this, that god has endowed you with it--a clear proof that he entertains no fear of it." even the rev. père ravignan, who is generally so austere, ever and anon adopts a similar style. one day, in recapitulating the philosophical errors of the present time, he remarked:--"rationalism is another error, and has the largest following. it comprises a class of thinkers who are devoid of faith; men who are eternally seeking but never find; jaded in their search by the oscillations of doubt, the sport of grand and pretty phrases. according to them, the day is at length about to dawn; the solution of all questions is at hand. if, by any chance, we may have still to wait a long time for it ... in that case, you must exercise patience; the religion of the future will come at last;" [then, taking off his cap and bowing ironically, he added,] "for which, of course, we are much obliged." {231} similar points are to be met with throughout the discourses of m. lecourtier. addressing wives, he says:--"do not play the master at home. i know of no one so ridiculous as the wife who does so, unless it be the husband who obeys her." sallies like these are treasured up, and serve to recall to memory a whole discourse. moreover, they enlarge the heart and dispose it to subsequent nobler impulses. ... "to do children good," says a well-known writer, "they must be interested: they must be made to laugh, to cry, and then sent away happy." are not the people still children? are we not all children still, in more than one respect? let it not be supposed that in what has been said above, it is intended that any person whatever should be ridiculed or held up to contempt. on the contrary, irony should never be employed except against prejudices, vices, and crimes. another way of exciting interest is by lively, skilful, witty, and delicate sketches of men and manners. ... the frenchman is fond of being spoken to about himself, about his occupations, his characteristics, his trials, even his foibles and caprices. this fact is too much lost sight of. we descant on the hebrews, the jews, the egyptians, midianites, philistines, and other nations of the past. set all that aside, and speak more freely of the gospel and frenchmen, and of frenchmen and the gospel; of frenchmen of the present age, of their virtues and vices. do this, and you will not fail to interest your hearers: you will interest them in spite of themselves. {232} m. lecourtier transcends in such portraiture. hence, as before remarked, his sermons always attract crowded audiences; and he is never listened to with more attention then when delineating the inner history of a man or woman of the nineteenth century. occasionally some are offended, and declare that they will not come to hear him again; but they seldom keep their word, for they find his discourses so interesting that they cannot stay away. humility is not our forte; on the contrary, we are all very fond of engaging the attention of others. indeed, we prefer ill-usage to neglect; an instance of which is afforded by a letter addressed to a celebrated man by an obscure author, wherein he wrote:--"i entreat you to be kind enough to refute me, and, if need be, to abuse me, for that will bring me into notice." studies of men and manners are well-timed everywhere. they are understood by and interest all, because they draw forth a repetition of the speech made by the woman of samaria:--"i have seen a man who hath told me all things that ever i did." nevertheless, we must not stop there. after depicting what is evil, we must combat, and overcome, and drive it away by the force of logic, and by the impulses of thought and heart combined. in this, also, we may find it easy to excite interest. {233} every truth should be proved. the french mind is pre-eminently logical; but it is also prompt and quick, and likes neither that which is long, nor that which is heavy; nor that which affirms without proving, nor yet that which proves too much. state your principles, therefore, in a clear and concise form, and then demonstrate them in prompt and vigorous language; making your audience feel from the outset that you are master of the situation; thereby precluding the possibility of resistance on the part of the ingenuous or even of the disingenuous, and that while listening to you they may be led to repeat the remark of the great condé when he saw bourdaloue ascending the pulpit:--"attention! voilà l'ennemi." such however, is far from being the case with ourselves. ... the faithful are fed with nothing but frigid, precise, dogmatic and even unintelligible discourses, which are supposed to convey solid instruction. but what if it be so, if the discourses are neither listened to nor understood? dry bread is also solid, yet nobody likes it only, any more than you do yourself; and if you provide nothing but such food at your table, rest assured that you will find but few guests. we should animate or impassion reason itself. demosthenes did this, and so did all great orators. the rev. père ravignan, whose reasoning is always so forcible and logical, gives sensation and life to his arguments in a masterly manner. {234} in his sermon on the divinity of the lord jesus christ, after demonstrating that we must admit the mystery of the incarnation or else submit to many other mysteries, he subjoins:--"but the objection is raised that a mystery is inexplicable, insolvable. so be it; nevertheless not to admit it, is to throw every thing into the most frightful chaos. ... then is christianity false; the world believes what is false; has been converted, regenerated, civilized, by what is false; there is falsehood in the faith, in the love, and in all the other inspirations of the christian religion; falsehood in all the blessings which have been conferred upon humanity in the name of god the redeemer; falsehood in the heroism of innumerable martyrs; falsehood in all the master-minds who have adorned christianity; falsehood in the whole chain of science, zeal, devotion, and superhuman virtues; falsehood in the entire series of the ages of the church, in all its monuments, in all its testimonies; falsehood in the catholic priesthood and in the sacred ministry of all centuries; falsehood in the happiness springing from faith and a pure conscience; falsehood in the pulpit; falsehood on my lips and in my heart. what! does your light and disdainful tongue find a lesser mystery in all these consequences which necessarily result from your principles? me they terrify." {235} we should, moreover, attempt in some way to put the truth into action, making it to come and go, to speak, question, and reply; and should always keep the scene so fully occupied that the minds of the audience may not be diverted therefrom for an instant. in this respect also, the rev. père lacordaire supplies us with an excellent model. in his discourse on the _intellectual society founded by the church_, he points out the efforts which have been made by the world to destroy the immutability of her doctrine, in a style truly dramatic:--"when every thing else on earth is subject to change, what a weighty prerogative must the possession by others of an unchangeable doctrine be in the estimation of those who do not themselves possess it! a doctrine which some feeble old men, in a place called the vatican, keep secure under the key of their cabinet, and which, without any other safeguard, has resisted the progress of time, the conceits of sages, the machinations of sovereigns, the downfall of empires, and maintained throughout its unity and identity. a standing miracle this, and a claim which all ages, jealous of a glory which disdained theirs, have attempted to gainsay and silence. one after another they have approached the vatican, and knocked at the gate with buskin or boot. whereat doctrine has come forth under the form of a feeble and decrepit septuagenarian, and has asked:-"'what do you want of me?' "'change.' {236} "'i change not.' "'but every thing in the world has changed. astronomy has changed; philosophy has changed; empire has changed; why are you always the same?' "'because i come from god, and god is always the same.' "'but know this, that we are masters. we have a million of men under arms, we will draw the sword, and the sword which demolishes thrones may easily be made to behead an old man like yourself, and to tear into fragments the leaves of a book.' "'attempt it. blood is the aroma which gives me new youth.' "'well, then, accept half of my purple; join in a sacrifice to peace, and let us go shares.' "'keep thy purple, o caesar; to-morrow we will bury you in it, and will chant over you the _alleluia_ and _de profundis_, which never change.'" this is something which everybody can understand, and which will always be listened to with pleasure, and with profit to the truth. but further: it is not enough to speak to the mind. that goes a very little way, however powerful our speech may be; for the mind is merely the vestibule of the soul. we must penetrate to the sanctuary of the temple, namely, to the heart. the heart is nearly the whole man, and we are hardly any thing apart from the heart. it is the heart which believes--"with the heart man believeth"--and it is the heart which begets virtues. moreover, the heart is what god demands from us. {237} but in order to speak to the heart, we must have a heart ourselves, and make use of it too. now, it is questionable in these days whether many preachers have a heart. no one can perceive it in them; so great is the care which they take not to expose even a corner of it, lest by so doing they might derange the massive chain of their arguments. and, besides, who knows but that it might subject them to the charge of being deficient in dignity? in fact, the heart appears to have come down from the pulpit, and fears to occupy it again ... it is no longer allowed to play a part there, lest it might prove disconcerting. it is now regarded with suspicion, and god must have been mistaken when he said:--"my son, give me thine heart." the general notion seems to be, that nothing more is required in order to do men good than clearly or obscurely to demonstrate the truth to them. but knowing and doing are as widely apart as heaven and earth, and the distance between the two can only be surmounted by the heart. ... nothing, indeed, profits an audience so much; nothing is so successful as the windings, the boundings of the heart, even when introduced in the middle of an argument. {238} all those who heard the discourse of père ventura on the _philosophical reason of modern times_, will recall to mind the profound and sympathetic impression which he produced when, after having spoken of a well-known philosopher, he added:--"but, after all, he was endowed with a rare intellect, a genial heart, and a noble disposition. deceived and led astray as he had been by the false doctrines of the day, he nevertheless eventually recognized and avowed that he had made a sad bargain when he exchanged the tenets of the faith for the vain conceptions of science. some moments before death, he shed tears over his beloved daughter, who had just partaken of the holy communion for the first time. let me believe that his avowal and tears were acts of faith, of repentance, and of love, which availed toward his salvation at the hands of a merciful god. let me, i say, believe this; for it is a consolation to me to believe that my brethren have found again, even in death, that grace which i hope to find myself with a benevolent god." yes, if we appealed to the heart we should frequently discover how good, true, and sincere it is, and how little is required to change it:--often nothing more than a word, a reminiscence, a tear, a look, a sigh. and yet how sadly has this easy and effectual means been neglected! ... every body does not understand a fine dissertation, but every body does understand a good sentiment. {239} to sum up: the sermon should be interesting, animated, vivifying; ten years of a lifetime should be comprised in a sermon of thirty minutes duration. speak to the mind, to the good sense, to the imagination, to the hearts of men, in words that breathe and thoughts that burn; laying hold of them, as it were, by whatever stirs the lively and profound emotions of the soul: by grief and by joy, by hatred and by love, by tears and by consolations, by hell and by heaven. let your speech be always powerful and triumphant. whatever you attempt, do well. if you reason, let your reasoning be sharp, to the point, and decisive. if you exercise charity, let it flow in broad streams, that it may inundate and cheer all around. if you give vent to anger, let it escape in glowing and irresistible sallies. if you are ever at a loss what other influence to invoke, then appeal to pity. after such outbursts, there should be intervals of calm to tone down asperities, to smooth to softness any bitterness, and to express regret for having used them; but in reality to make a deeper impression by touching a different chord of the heart. these contrasts of thought and sentiment always produce a powerful effect. m. berryer is well aware of this, and often avails himself of them with the greatest success. {240} in the celebrated discussion on the affairs of the east, after having exhibited the humiliation of france, he added:--"let no more be said upon what has been done; above all, let us never, never again recall the humiliating admissions which have reached us both from london and constantinople. (profound sensation.) "let that despatch, wherein lord palmerston is stated to have said that france would yield, and that the eastern question would be settled in accordance with the wishes of england, be buried in oblivion. ... is there a country whose ambassadors have cognizance of such language, and not only retain their posts, but become ministers? (bravo, bravo!) that country is certainly not france. (renewed applause.) england cannot have said so. those who saw us even at waterloo could not say such a thing. ..." but after this suspension of arms, we must return to the charge with redoubled nerve and bravery, implanting our weapon in the heart, and turning it again and again within the wound. in other words, our train of thought should be still more energetic, our sentiments more powerful; embodied sometimes in a dramatic or tragic form, wherein truth and error are brought together in a fierce and obstinate hand-to-hand struggle; truth being made to overthrow error and to triumph over vice, and then to raise the erring and the transgressor, to embrace them, and to bear them away with herself to virtue, to happiness, to heaven. ... {241} the following extract from m. de cormenin furnishes an admirable summary of the foregoing chapter:- "select with a quick and confident instinct, from among the methods available to you, the method of the day; which may not be the most solid, but which, considering the disposition of men's minds, the nature of the matter in hand, and the peculiarity of concomitant circumstances, is the best adapted for making an impression upon your audience. "take strong hold of their attention. stir up their pity or indignation, their sympathies or their antipathies, or their pride. appear to be animated by their breath, all the while that you are communicating yours to them. when you have, in some degree, detached their souls from their bodies, and they come and group themselves of their own accord at the foot of the pulpit, riveted beneath the influence of your glance, then do not dally with them, for they are yours; your soul having, as may be truly said, passed into theirs. look now how they follow its ebb and flow! how they will as you will! how they act as you act! but persist, give no rest; press your discourse home, and you will soon see all bosoms panting because yours pants; all eyes kindling because yours emit flame, or filling with tears because you grow tender. you will see all the hearers hanging on your lips through the attractions of persuasion; or, rather, you will see nothing, for you yourself will be under the spell of your own emotion; you will bend, you will succumb, under your own genius, and you will be the more eloquent the less effort you make to appear so. {242} "be clear, exact, concise, impartial. "do not attempt to say everything, but what you do say, say well." {243} chapter ix. the power and accent of conviction. the divine word has always been the first power in the world. the gospel still the first of books. there can be no christian eloquence without the accent of personal conviction. hitherto, we may be said to have treated merely of human instrumentality; we must now consider our subject in a higher point of view. reason, imagination, and sentiment are necessary qualifications to success in our vacation; but we require besides these the power of god, because our aim is to lay hold of and to direct the souls of men. now, as that mighty genius bossuet has remarked:--"there is nothing so indomitable as the heart of man. when i see it subdued, i adore." and why? because he recognized in such submission a superhuman agency. this power we possess in the word, which is the power of god; before which every head must bow, and every knee bend, whether on earth, in heaven, or in hell. armed with the divine word, our power is immense; only, in order to wield it, we must ourselves be thoroughly penetrated thereby, and, above all, be able to convince others that we are so. it must be felt, seen, and acknowledged that god is with us. {244} the divine word is the foremost power in the world. it has withstood and overcome every other power. ... it has uttered its voice everywhere: in the catacombs, at the foot of the scaffold, under the axe of the executioner, and within the jaws of wild beasts. it has spoken while the feet of the speakers have been drenched in blood. ... during the middle ages, mighty barons, sheltered behind impregnable strongholds, had cast the network of their sway over the whole of france, and silence was imposed on all lips. nevertheless, on more than one occasion did the divine word, in the guise of a priest or monk, venture to ascend the steps of those redoubtable fortresses; and its voice alone sufficed to inspire fear in the breasts of men clad in armor of steel. there was a king in whom power seemed incarnate. that king was louis xiv. he dared to say:--"l'état, la france, c'est moi." under his inspiring look, military genius triumphed in war; poetry begat the sublimest conceptions; canvas spoke; marble was animated; and the arts replenished even the gardens of his royal abode with master-piece s of skill. {245} one sunday, louis xiv., surrounded by his court, took his seat in the chapel at versailles, when the preacher boldly uttered from the pulpit those terrible words: "woe to the rich! woe to the great!" whereat the monarch lowered his eyes and the courtiers murmured. ... after the sermon, there was some talk of reprimanding the priest for his temerity; but the king remarked, with a justice which does him honor:--"gentlemen, the preacher has done his duty; it behoves us now to do ours." we may recognize herein the power of the divine word; and it is that same word which is on our lips. what, indeed, is the word of man even in the mouth of the boldest orator, even when set forth in all the brilliancy of its power, when compared with the divine word? ... much has been said of the force of mirabeau's famous apostrophe:--"the communes of france have decided on deliberating. we have heard of the designs which have been suggested to the king; and you, who are not allowed to be his organ with the national assembly--you who possess neither the standing nor the option, nor the right of speaking--go and tell your master that we are here by the power of the people, and that it shall not be wrested from us except at the point of the bayonet." [footnote 19] [footnote 19: the authenticity of this statement has been questioned.] {246} this speech has been eulogized as grand, bold, and even audacious; but, what does it amount to? any priest might do as much, and say something far better, with greater truth and less arrogance; for there is no priest, however poor and humble he may be, who might not say:--"we are here in god's name, and here we intend to remain, and we will speak in spite of guns and bayonets." ... but the fact is, we are not adequately convinced of our own power, and of the superiority which we possess over every thing around us; for, with nothing else in our hands but that little book which is called the gospel, we may bring the world to our feet; inasmuch as the gospel is, and will continue to be, as regards mankind generally, the first of books. there are not wanting those who taunt us in this style:--"ye men of a past age, ye retrogrades, follow in the wake of your own age; strive to progress. we, on our part, have been constantly advancing, especially within the last two centuries ... we have gained ground." ... to this we are justified in replying:--"very true; the human mind has developed; you have worked hard; you have stirred up thought; you have filled our libraries with first-rate books; there have been some profound thinkers and sublime geniuses among you; and you have given birth to many admirable ideas. all this we admit; nevertheless, show us a book superior to our gospel, or one which will even bear comparison with it. tell us where it is to be found. you talk of progress, and bid us follow you; but it is we who are in advance, and you who are behind. ... begin your studies afresh; do something better; and then come to us again, and we will see. in the meantime, we occupy the foremost place, and are determined to hold it." {247} our power, we maintain, is far above that of any earthly weapons; for the christian preacher is backed by eighteen centuries of learning and virtue, which believed what he declares by more than ten millions of martyrs, who died to attest the truth of what he proclaims; and, behind all that, he is supported by the mighty voice of god which says to him:--"speak, and be not afraid, for i am with thee." it behoves us, therefore, to be thoroughly persuaded of the power which the divine word confers upon us. but, besides this, we must make our hearers feel that we are so endowed. they must be impressed, while listening to us, that we verily and indeed speak in god's name--that we are not men who have merely cogitated or mused in their studies, and then come forth to propound their own ideas; but that we are commissioned from on high to proclaim to mankind the laws and promises of god, before whom we ourselves profoundly bow. they must read all this in our whole deportment, in our voice, our gestures, and, above all, in our charity. in a word, we must possess _the accent of conviction_, that accent which believes, speaks, arrests, and alarms. {248} the accent of conviction is made up of a mixture of faith, power, and love combined; the combination forming a characteristic which is at once simple, pious, and grand, redolent of inspiration and sanctity. it is the power, the life of speech; the sacred fire, or what mirabeau styles _divinity_ in eloquence. "i have never heard any one speak," said he, referring to barnave, "so long, so rapidly, and so well; but there is no divinity in him." the accent of conviction is the magic of speech ... that which puts argument to silence, withdraws all attention from the preacher, and fixes it solely on what he says; or rather, on what god says through him. unhappily, we are very backward in this respect. there is faith undoubtedly in our souls; but it is not always manifest in our speech. ... how, then, can we expect to make others believe what we do not seem to them to believe ourselves? we have to deal with a light, reasoning, and somewhat sceptical world, accustomed to regard every one as merely acting a part ... and if you do not possess the accent of conviction, it will either suspect you of hypocrisy, or will brand you by admiring how well you ply _the trade_, and how cleverly you play your game. {249} there is a remark very common nowadays, which is much to be regretted. if one speaks of a preacher, he is immediately asked: "has he faith?" which means: does he appear to believe what he says? should the reply be: "no; ... but he is a fine speaker;" the rejoinder generally is: "then i shall not go to listen to him; for i want to hear somebody who has faith." this observation is not intended to imply any doubt of the inward faith of the preacher, but that he preaches as if he did not believe what he utters. let us, however, do the world this justice, that when it meets with the accent of conviction--the bold accent of faith, as saint chrysostom calls it,--it is deeply impressed thereby. the preacher who believes and speaks out of that belief, astounds, staggers, and overcomes the gainsayers. a few words uttered with the accent of conviction go much further than many long sermons. how, indeed, can any prevail against one in whom god is felt to dwell? ... fine language, talent, imagination, brilliant argumentative powers--all these are common enough amongst us, and we are quite accustomed to them; but what is rare, what is unlooked for, what carries every thing before it, is the language of a faith and of a heart which seems to echo the voice of god himself. {250} two years ago, the late pious and gallant captain marceau was present at a meeting of operatives in paris, many of whom were unbelievers and wrong-headed men. he felt moved to address them, and the impression which he produced was almost magical. he had never before spoken in public; nevertheless, he did so on the occasion referred to with that accent of conviction and candor which finds its way at once to the heart, overcoming all resistance, and sometimes seeming to take away one's breath. "my friends," said he, "there are doubtless some among you who are not yet christians, and who have no love for religion. i was once as ungodly as you are--perhaps more so; for no one has hated christianity more cordially than i have done. i am bound, however, to do it this justice, that while i was not a christian, that is, till i was twenty-three years old, i was unhappy, profoundly unhappy. ... up to that period, my friends, i had not lived. no, it was not living ... i worried myself, or, rather, my passions drew or drove me hither and thither, and carried me away; but i did not live ... i was a machine ... but i was not a man. ..." strange to say, scarcely any attention is paid to this accent of conviction, which is the soul of all eloquence; more especially of sacred eloquence. those destined to proclaim the divine word are instructed in every thing else but this. ... hence the language from the pulpit is often cold, monotonous, turgid, stiff, cramped, conventional, perfunctory; savoring of a formal compliment, but of nothing to indicate the effusion of a genial soul, and without any of those felicitous sallies of the heart, those insinuating and familiar tones, as fénélon calls them, which produce in you almost a divine impression. {251} and yet there are many pious priests amongst us, many who are truly men of god. still, such is the deplorable power of routine, that their piety seems sometimes to abandon them when in the pulpit--the very place where it should be most conspicuous. like myself, you have, doubtless, in the course of your life, often met with one of these estimable priests, full of faith and charity. his countenance alone did you good, and his words cheered you alike in familiar conversation and in the confessional. ... the same individual occupies the pulpit: you are delighted to see him there, and forthwith set yourself to listen to him with earnest attention; but, alas! you no longer recognize him: he is no longer the same; what he utters is no longer the word of life. you exclaim: "what has become of my model pastor, my saint?" ... for you hear nothing now but declamation, or a sing-song speech ... a uniform tone which utters the denunciation: "depart ye cursed into ever lasting fire," and the invitation: "come, ye blessed of my father," in the same strain. ... you hear what you have heard a hundred times before--a poor man who, with a painful sense of effort, is doing his best to evoke refractory thoughts and phrases, and are almost led to doubt whether he is not acting a part. {252} this monotony, this dull uniformity, this mannerism must be abandoned, and we must resume our personality--our own minds and hearts--enlarged and inspired by the breath of god; ... otherwise, by persisting in that dismal tone, that frigidly philosophical style, that finely spun phraseology, that speech without emphasis, which characterizes the generality of our sermons nowadays, we shall wholly lose our time, our pains, and perchance our souls also. ... can it, indeed, be that we are wanting in a just sense of our mission, and that we do not adequately estimate the object which those who speak in god's name should have in view? the end of preaching is to bring back the souls of men to the creator. in this respect also, it is to be feared that the philosophical spirit, and a tendency to controversy, have turned us aside from our proper aim and the end of all our efforts. take away the accent of conviction from a sermon, divest it of energetic faith, and what is left thereof to the hearers? mere sounding phrases, and nothing more. now, let me ask, are you aware of the enemies with whom you have to deal, and the difficulties which you have to contend against? the object set before you is to redeem the hearts of men, who in their thirst, their rage for happiness, have given themselves up to the sensual, visible, intoxicating things which surround them. {253} you will have to do battle with the human passions: to say to pride, be abased; to voluptuousness, be accursed; to the love of gold, renounce your avarice and be bountiful ... and you fancy that you will succeed in the encounter by the use of mere phrases; forgetting, perchance, that those passions can make better phrases than yours. they know how to give them life, and will hurl them at you, glowing with a fire which will speedily devour your cold and meagre speeches ... nothing can restrain and subdue the passions but the inspiration, the power of god. ... it is high time that we should resume the accent of conviction in our ministrations. having that, the soul is perfectly at ease, and, feeling sure of its footing, cherishes the widest benevolence. ... why should it be troubled, knowing that it is secure in the power on which it relies? it is only those powers which doubt their own strength that are suspicious and wavering. and when god is with us, we cannot fail to entertain profound pity for the weaknesses, the prejudices, the profanities, and the false reasonings of humanity. {254} chapter x. action. action should be: first, true and natural; secondly, concentrated; thirdly, edifying. it should be cultivated. how cultivated by the society of jesus. suggestions. action is not mere gesture, neither is it motion nor sound. it is the manifestation of the thoughts and sentiments of the soul through the bodily organs. it is the soul which, unable to reveal itself, makes its material exterior the medium of communicating its conceptions of truth and love to the souls of others. the principle of action should be the heart. ... action itself may be in the voice, in gesture, in the face, in the hand, in demeanor generally, and even in silence. ... action plays a conspicuous part in eloquence. we are familiar with what demosthenes said on the subject. being asked three times what was the first quality in an orator, he thrice replied:--action. this is an exaggerated judgment; but demosthenes probably estimated action in proportion to the pains which its acquirement had cost him: nevertheless, it is certain that action adds greatly to the clearness, the weight, the impressiveness, and the power of thought. {255} it is the charm of eloquence. saint françois de sales writes: "you may utter volumes, and yet if you do not utter them well, it is lost labor, speak but little, and that little well, and you may effect much." only a few are capable of appreciating the intrinsic value of a discourse; whereas all can see whether you speak from an inward sense of the truth--from the heart and from personal conviction. it is more especially upon the people that action produces a powerful effect; it attracts, it transports them. a preacher who possesses sterling and noble ideas, who has genuine sentiment and true action, is irresistible with them. such weapons will assuredly do great havoc among them; or, as i should rather say, will save many. they may not always admit their discomfiture: but they will not hesitate to confess that your words are weighty and true, and tell against them. but in order to be impressive, action must be: first, true and natural; secondly, concentrated; thirdly, edifying. ... 1. in the first place, the preacher should be himself, and should speak like a man. it is preeminently in the pulpit that every thing should be genuine: that every accessory should harmonize with the thoughts; that the eye, the look, and the hand should corroborate what is uttered by the lips. {256} strange to say, hardly any attention is paid to this point. once in the pulpit, it seems to be taken for granted that no effort is required to give the truth distinctness. words are strung on to words, and any tone of voice is deemed appropriate. ... the preacher speaks as nobody in the world ever spoke: he bawls, chants, or sings without modulation and without feeling. hence, a malicious wag on hearing a preacher pronounce those terrible words: "depart ye cursed!" in a bland tone, turned to his companion, and said: "come here, my lad, and let me embrace you; that is what the preacher has just expressed." everywhere else, men speak; they speak at the bar and the tribune; but they no longer speak in the pulpit, for there we only meet with a factitious and artificial language, and a false tone. ... this style of speaking is only tolerated in the church, because, unfortunately, it is so general there; elsewhere it would not be endured. ... what would be thought of a man who should converse in a similar way in a drawing-room? he would certainly provoke many a smile. some time ago, there was a warden at the pantheon--a good sort of fellow in his way--who, in enumerating the beauties of the monument, adopted precisely the tone of many of our preachers, and never failed thereby to excite the hilarity of the visitors, who were as much amused with his style of address as with the objects of interest which he pointed out to them. {257} a man who has not a natural and true delivery, should not be allowed to occupy the pulpit; from thence, at least, every thing that is false should be summarily banished. ... but is it so very difficult to be one's self? assume your usual voice, your usual manner, modifying them according to the number of your hearers, and the truth which you are about to set forth. let your speech be frank, sincere, cordial, revealing a true and affectionate soul. be yourself, and be persuaded that to be so suits you best. make manifest your heart, your soul; for there is nothing so attractive as a soul. saint catherine of sienna said that if a soul could be seen, she believed that people would die of happiness at the sight. look at the man who has a cause to plead, or one who is moved with a strong passion; he is always true--true even to grandeur. in these days of mistrust, every thing that is false should be set aside; and the best way of correcting one's self in that respect, as regards preaching, is frequently to listen to certain monotonous and vehement preachers. we shall come away in such disgust, and with such a horror of their delivery, that we shall prefer condemning ourselves to silence rather than imitate them. {258} the instant you abandon the natural and the true, you forego the right to be believed, as well as the right of being listened to. 2dly. action should be concentrated: that is to say, it should proceed from a soul which is itself convinced, penetrated, fervent; which puts a restraint upon itself that it may not say all that it feels: unless it be from time to time, like the flames which escape at intervals from a volcano. inward fervor harmonizes with the sacred word, whereas excessive noise and motion are wholly unsuited to it. if a passionate outburst sometimes escapes us, it should be repressed forthwith. père ravignan is admirable in this respect: after thundering at his audience, he immediately resumes the most benignant countenance. in the first place, the preacher should be calm; master of himself as well as of his subject. he should have a steady demeanor, should keep his forces well in hand, not relinquish his hold over them, unless it be designedly, and never lose self-control:--_be carried away and yet possess himself, and retain self-possession while allowing himself to be carried away_. vocal power and bodily motion are frequently very much abused. {259} the more a man shouts, the greater effect he is believed to produce, and the greater orator he is held to be. often, however, it is quite the reverse. genuine passion--passion driven to extremities--speaks low, says little, and that little in a few detached words. the most captivating eloquence is that which says much in a few words, and that noiselessly. ... the vocal power is the animal part of man; he shares it in common with the brute creation, who often possess it in a high degree. but the distinguishing sign of intelligence is the consonant. well-educated men attend less to sound than to articulation. the vowel is the letter that kills; the consonant is the spirit which vivifies. bodily motion should be moderate; too much motion wearies the preacher and the audience likewise, and distracts their attention. one may be eloquent without much gesticulation. there is a famous preacher who generally speaks with his hand in his robes, whose discourses, nevertheless, are very powerful. ... here, also, the same reflection which was made above recurs to us; namely, that a profound passion is scarcely ever accompanied with agitation; it is unmoved, prostrate, and does not manifest itself except by occasional sudden outbursts. mistakes are often made on this score, and that is thought to be a fervent sermon which is delivered with much bawling and much gesticulation. {260} it is true, as m. de cormenin remarks, that the people are fond of expressive gestures, such as are visible at a distance, and above the heads of the congregation; that they also like a powerful and thrilling voice; ... but all this cannot be kept up long, for preacher and hearers soon, grow tired of it. then, again, the people are fond of variety, and a monotonous voice sends them to sleep. that the delivery of a sermon should sometimes be accompanied with significant gestures, and that emotion should occasionally vent itself in an outburst, is all well enough; but compress such power as much as possible, so that it may be felt that you possess within your own soul a force threefold greater than you outwardly manifest. ... the more vehement you wish your sermon to be, the more you should restrain the air in its passage, forcing it to make its way in thrilling explosions and a resounding articulation. then many will fall by the sword of the word. 3dly. action should be edifying. the bearing of a man who speaks in the name of the gospel should be full of grace and truth. it is most desirable that he should possess knowledge and talent, but those endowments do not suffice; he must possess, in addition, a virtuous, yea, even a holy exterior. frenchmen are much more sensitive on this point than is usually thought. a godly man at once inspires their respect and veneration; and were a saint to appear in our midst, it is certain that he would reproduce many of the scenes of the middle ages. a saint is essentially a man beloved by the people, because he is surrounded with a divine halo. {261} the christian orator makes his appearance with simplicity and modesty. he kneels and bows profoundly, rises up, and then looks round upon his audience with a kindly expression, devoutly makes the sign of the cross, and then begins his sermon, thinking only how to arrest the attention of his hearers. the time is happily long gone by when the preacher used to enter the pulpit with great formality, a flushed countenance, and hair most carefully got up; then place by his side a fine white handkerchief, sometimes of costly silk, which ever and anon he methodically passed over his face. these airs no longer suit the times: the preacher nowadays must not be engrossed with self, with his handkerchief, or his surplice, or his hair; neither must he cause others to be taken up with such trifles. in the pulpit the man should disappear, and the apostle alone be seen. ... the people, who have an exquisite notion of propriety, are very sensitive on all such matters; and god often derides our affected words and actions by rendering them vain and barren, and by making use of the most insignificant things to convert the souls of men. {262} a converted parisian operative, a man of a wilful but frank disposition, full of energy and spirit, who had often spoken with great success at the clubs composed of men of his own class, was asked by the priest who had reconciled him to god to inform him by what instrumentality he who had once been so far estranged from religion had eventually been restored to the faith. "your doing so," said his interrogator, "may be useful to me in my efforts to reclaim others." "i would rather not," replied he; "for i must candidly tell you that you do not figure very conspicuously in the case." "no matter," said the other; "it will not be the first time that i have heard the same remark." "well, if you must hear it, i can tell you how it took place, in a few words. a _religicuse_ had pestered me to read your little book--pardon the expression: i used to speak in that style in those days. on reading a few pages, i was so impressed that i felt a strong desire to see you. "i was told that you preached in a certain church, and i went to hear you. your sermon had some further effect upon me; but to speak frankly, very little, comparatively, indeed, none at all. {263} what did much more for me was your open, simple, and good-natured manner, and, above all, your ill-combed hair; _for i have always detested those priests whose heads remind one of a hair-dresser's assistant;_ and i said to myself: that man forgets himself on our behalf; we ought, therefore, to do something for his sake.' thereupon i determined to pay you a visit, and you _bagged me_. such was the beginning and end of the affair." the thought should never be absent from our minds that we preach the gospel, and that the gospel is preeminent in inculcating love toward humanity. away, then, with all domineering and dictatorial airs! away with all violent language! the people regard it as the ebullition of anger, and are not at all edified thereby. on the other hand, in order to succeed, the heart of the preacher must first be penetrated with what he teaches; an appropriate accent will follow of itself. there are men who carry about with them something godlike. ... such men are eagerly listened to, they are believed, and then loved. from what has been said, it is obvious that we should train ourselves to obtain proficiency in action. {264} action is the manifestation of the thoughts of the soul through the medium of the body. but the body often rebels and weighs down the soul; and in this, as well as in many other things, requires to be suppled, mortified, disciplined to obedience. however strong the soul may be, it rarely gets the mastery over the body at the outset, and does its part very inefficiently. it is the same with soldiers. when a young conscript first joins his regiment he is heavy and awkward, and his military arms seem a burden to him. six months later all this is changed: he is quick and smart, and carries his arms with quite a french grace. the same transformation may be effected as regards public speaking. one who has had considerable experience in the direction of seminaries, has written the following; which i feel it a duty to transcribe entire:- "it is incumbent on a preacher to possess oratorical action, and to practise himself therein until he has acquired it. conscience, indeed, must tell him that he ought not to neglect a matter on which the success of his ministry depends; and that if, to the mischief of men's souls, theatrical actors spare no pains to attain perfection in action, the preacher should strive, with at least an equal zeal, to become proficient in that respect for the good of men's souls. what! shall the ministers of god weaken by vicious action the force of all they say, while the ministers of satan, by consummate skill in action, redeem the vanity of their speeches, and impassion the souls of their audience! surely, this would be a disgrace to the clergy, and an outrage on the word of god. {265} "if it be objected that in the case under consideration art is useless, because nature teaches what is needful, we reply, with quintilian:--_nihil licet esse perfcctum, nisi ubi natura curâ juvatur_. all talents are rude and unformed until the precepts of art refine and impart to them that polish which makes them valuable. demosthenes had few natural gifts for public speaking; but exercise and experience gave what nature had denied him. "if it be objected, further, that the apostles never learnt the rules of action, we reply that they received the power of miracles--a more than adequate compensation for human eloquence. that, moreover, they received the gifts of the holy spirit, which enabled them to proclaim the gospel worthily. that, inspired by that divine spirit, they were eloquent in action as well as in speech; and that st. paul would not have been listened to on the areopagus unless he had been able to captivate the eloquent people whom he addressed, as well by external action as by the sublimity of his language. "saint charles directed that the candidates for holy orders in his seminary should be exercised several times a week in public speaking; and the church has always followed the same practice. the fathers also bestowed much attention on the formation of speech. deprive me of every thing else, says saint gregory of nazianzen, but leave me eloquence, and i shall never regret the voyages which i have made in order to study it." [footnote 20] [footnote 20: _traité de la prédication_. by m. hamon, curé de saint-sulpice.] {266} what we are most deficient in is articulation--that powerful articulation which isolates, engraves, and chisels a thought ... which fills the ear with harmony and the soul with truth; which gives the orator an extraordinary power of animation, by bringing into play the whole nervous system. we have already remarked that the force of a word is entirely in the consonant, whereas it is often laid on the vowel. the emission of the vowel is the rude block; the consonant is the artist's chisel, which works it into a masterpiece. ... it appears to be frequently imagined that it requires as much effort to discharge waves of air as to hurl a heavy club into space; but it is not so in the least. what is needed is that the air should be compressed and triturated, and reduced into expressive and harmonious sounds. it is from misapprehension on this score that so many preachers fume and tire themselves and others, and that some appear like men who disgorge words which they have swallowed by mistake. a little practice would prevent them from falling into these and similar aberrations. {267} at the same time, we should not practise, as is often done, upon every sermon which we preach, for by so doing we shall be apt to deliver them very badly. it is scarcely in nature to prepare sentiments beforehand. as m. de cormenin satirically puts it:--"be impassioned, thunder, rage, weep, up to the fifth word, of the third sentence, of the tenth paragraph, of the tenth leaf. how easy that would be! above all, how very natural!" the course to be pursued is this:--we should practise ourselves in the delivery of the several parts of a discourse, such as the expository, the demonstrative, and especially those which give expression to the different passions. that done, and when once in the pulpit, such studies should cease to occupy the mind. the exercise thus insisted on is practised in other professions. men who devote themselves to the theatre, cultivate their voices and their limbs. young law students and advocates have their conferences, where they train themselves to plead at the bar; and yet those who are called to save souls neglect to cultivate the talents which god has given them! this is the usual process:--a young man composes a sermon while at college, which is generally made up of odds and ends and quotations, and in putting them together he does his best not to be himself. with this stuff he mounts the pulpit, it may be of a town church or even of a cathedral; and behold him a full-fledged preacher! and then, forsooth, astonishment is expressed because the faithful are bored, and do not come to listen to us! the wonder is that so many attend our sermons. {268} but let us be just: all do not entertain this idea of sacred eloquence. by certain religious orders, the jesuits for example, it is regarded in quite a different light. i crave pardon for revealing their family secrets; but it is for the good of souls. a novice among the jesuits, no matter what he may have been previously--whether a lawyer, author, preacher, canon, grand vicar, bishop, or even a cardinal--must attend a reading-class three or four times a week. there he is made to read like a child, is taught to articulate and accentuate, and every now and then is stopped while those present are called upon to point out the merits and defects in his reading. this training is persisted in until his pronunciation is perfect, and he is free from all disagreeable accent. but that is not all: every monday during his noviciate, or during the term of his studies, that is, for five, six, eight, or ten years, he has to undergo a training in the _tones_, which consists in his being made to recite what is called the formula of the general _tones_--a short discourse, comprising all the tones ordinarily used in oratorical compositions; such as the tone of persuasion, of menace, of kindness, of anger, of the mercy and justice of god, of prayer, and of authority. {269} thereby the young preacher is taught how to supple, to break in his own organism, and to adapt it to those different tones. after these come the _special tones_. this consists of a short discourse, to be composed in two hours on a given text, and must contain certain specified strokes of oratory. three or four of the younger novices are exercised in this way, exclusive of the sermons which are preached in the refectory. but the most profitable part of the exercise is this, that after reciting his tones, the preacher must remain in the pulpit while the master of the novices asks some of the spectators what they think of its substance, form, expression, etc., the poor patient being present and obliged to hear all his faults detailed. this, however, is done in all charity; and moreover, his good qualities are pointed out in a similar way. these are most interesting meetings. they comprise, besides young lawyers and ecclesiastics, men of general experience, logicians, poets, and preachers, who are all invited to express their opinion with the greatest freedom. the youngest are interrogated first; for the young are naturally fastidious, and generally find much to blame. time, however, will correct them of that fault. after these come the older novices, then the jesuits well trained to preaching; and lastly, the master of the novices, who sums up the different opinions elicited, and then proceeds to expound the science. {270} it sometimes happens, however, that the judgments passed are so well formulated and so well based, that, despite his desire to criticise or to applaud, the master is obliged to modify his own opinions. when the young preacher leaves the pulpit, he retires to note down his defects and merits, which he is subsequently expected to read over from time to time. one excellent feature in this exercise is the encouragement which it is designed to impart; for besides pointing out defects, no efforts are spared to develope in the novices the talents which god has given them. they are made to understand that a man may do good even though he be subject to half a dozen drawbacks. mistakes are often made on this score. one qualification only may suffice to render a man a remarkable orator, whereas another may be free from all obvious defects, and yet be a sorry speaker. the lord deliver us from a faultless preacher! for he is generally a very bore, as incapable of a trait of genius as he is of a blunder. always intent on guarding against this and that defect, he loses his personality. he is no longer a man; he is no longer a priest: he is merely a scholar doing his recitation. ... {271} in order to form a young speaker into a good preacher, he should first be set to address the lower classes. ... among such audiences he will be better able to discover his own special talent, and to utilize his qualifications. the jesuits pursue a similar course. the young jesuit is sent to address the inmates of prisons and hospitals; if in orders, he is charged with missions in rural districts; if unordained, he is put to catechise; but always accompanied by the indispensable _socius_, who is not chary of criticising or applauding him. it is doubtless owing to this training that the members of the society of jesus have acquired that standing, power, and unction for which they are so conspicuous. another advantage of this training is that it teaches the science of life, and imparts wisdom in forming opinions. if a young priest has not thoroughly studied the difficulties of public speaking, he is apt to think that the art of preaching consists in composing a sermon, learning it by rote, and then delivering it without tripping. if he finds that he is considered to have acquitted himself tolerably well, he is thenceforward disposed to dogmatize remorselessly, and to tolerate no appeal from his irrevocable verdicts, with all the stateliness of a man who has the satisfaction of not knowing what he says. {272} but when a man has studied and labored, say, for fifteen years, he becomes more indulgent and moderate, and begins to understand that there may be other ways of doing good besides his own. a priest who was once called upon to preach before several others of the same profession, complained that their presence rather embarrassed him. whereupon one of our most celebrated orators remarked:--"it is far better for you to have to deal with a dozen of our first-rate preachers than with an equal number of curates or even collegians." practice, therefore, is indispensable. but it will be urged: "where is the time to come from? one has so much to do during the four years passed at college, and afterward in the work of the ministry." very true; still we are bound to pay attention to the most essential requirements of our vocation: and should not preaching be of the number nowadays? we learn dogmatic theology, designed to serve as the ground-work for solid lectures; but if nobody comes to hear them, or if they send the audience to sleep? ... ethics also are learnt, and the solution of difficulties which occur at the confessional: but what if the people do not come to confession? ... it should ever be borne in mind that the object and aim of our studies is _propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem_. then, again, might we not talk less about past heresies and errors, and be more taken up with the time present? {273} might we not also devote less attention to those doubtful questions which are the great temptation as well as the great bane of professors of theology and philosophy, who dilate at great length on the opposite opinions held regarding them, never omitting to add their own, and generally wind up somewhat in this style: decide as you please? i submit these considerations to the wisdom and piety of the directors of our colleges, who are well aware that a priest should not be learned for himself only, but should be capable of communicating what he knows to others, and of securing their attachment to it. things are taken for granted which no longer exist. it is supposed that the churches are full, that careless christians attend the services, and that the confessionals are frequented; all of which are often mere gratuitous assumptions. something must be done before such notions are borne out by facts; namely, our priests must be taught how to attract men to the church and the confessional, and then to instruct them when they are there. lastly, the young students might meet together during the vacations, and mutually aid one another by their common experience. parish priests might also meet in a similar manner, and communicate to each other their reflections and the progress of their labors, in all simplicity and charity, just as young lawyers do. {274} then we might anticipate the happiness of seeing every thing that is false, borrowed, factitious, artificial, stiff, vehement, trite, and noisy, together with all unmeaning action, monotony, and _ennui_, descend from the pulpit; and of seeing their places occupied by the true, the simple, the natural, the powerful: in a word, by the gospel. {275} chapter xi. study. study a duty the state of the world calls for knowledge on the part of the clergy. knowledge has always been one of the glories of religion. all the eminent men in the church were men of study. reasons adduced for not studying, answered: want of leisure, natural aptitude, the plea of having already studied sufficiently, that one is fully equal to the requirements of the people committed to his charge. from what has been said above, it will readily be inferred that much study is called for on our part--study of the sciences and study of mankind, study of books and study of the human heart. ... in order to attain a noble simplicity, to acquire ease, and to be natural, a man must possess profound knowledge. i even venture to say that a little study leads us away from the natural, whereas much study conducts us to it. but there are other and still stronger motives for study on our part: namely, duty, and the salvation of mankind. it has been said, and that truly, that piety is the first and most essential requirement. we admit that it is so; but genuine piety consists in the faithful discharge of the duties of one's station. {276} now, it is absolutely impossible for a priest at the present day, whatever position he may occupy, to discharge his duty without an adequate amount of learning. for, what is a priest? he is the depositary of the science of life, and is debtor therein to every man. he is bound to trace out the way for all; for the small and great, the young and aged, the learned and ignorant, the humble and proud together. he is bound to confront human passions and errors, to expose their wiles, to withstand the assaults of vice, and to enlighten the minds and win over the hearts of men by the power of the gospel. a priest's need of knowledge is truly paramount. ... hence the church has always recommended study. the fathers were men of study; the men whose genius has made them illustrious, were studious men. look at bossuet! we boast of his fluency; yes, he was fluent; but the thought of the life which he led up to a very advanced age is enough to make one tremble. he generally rose at two in the morning, to continue a task hardly interrupted. let us not deceive ourselves in this matter: the labors which have redounded to the glory of the church have been dearly bought. {277} bossuet's intense devotion to study was notorious. one day his gardener accosted him thus: "monseigneur, i am very much put out; for i dig away and plant flowers, and you do not take the least notice of them. if i could plant some john chrysostoms or some saint augustines in my garden i should be much more successful." even in our own times, those priests who effect any real good are unremitting in their studies. the rule which père maccarthy prescribed for himself is appalling:--"my recreations," said he, "must be short. it is generally enough for me to walk about with a book in my hand, or while i am reciting my prayers. unprofitable talk and time misspent are crimes in a priest." at the age of fifty, he could no longer work seated, owing to an infirmity brought on by doing a charitable act. he lay down on a sheepskin spread in the centre of his room, and there worked from ten to twelve hours a day. we admire his success; but we here see what it cost him. we complain that the faithful do not come to our sermons; have we made any such efforts as these? let us do the men of our time this justice, that whenever they come in contact with a priest possessing piety and knowledge--sound knowledge which is not acquired from books alone--he never fails to make a lively impression upon them. on the other hand, the men of the present day crave after knowledge: it is one of their fancies. are they right in this, or are they to blame? you may think as you please on the subject; but we are, nevertheless, bound by the obligation of charity to become all things to all men, that we may save all; and among the means thereto, knowledge is one of the most efficacious. {278} there are but two powers in the world nowadays: namely, the power of wealth and the power of talent. the prestige of a name, of authority, and of dignity, has passed away. the fact is to be deplored; but it is true. what are we to do in consequence? we must take men as they are, in order to better them. as regards the power of wealth, we do not possess it; and we are certainly not the worse for that. we are for the most part poor, the offspring of humble parents; and what saint paul said of the first christians is applicable to us:--"not many mighty men, not many noble, are called." we must array ourselves, therefore, on the side of the power of talent. therewith we may secure a hearing, and may succeed in reclaiming some to the faith. ... there are two ways leading to religion: many are led thereto by love, and through the heart, and many likewise by knowledge; but when the two are conjoined, incalculable good is the result. a priest who is notoriously ignorant is already condemned: he is morally dead, whatever other excellent qualities he may possess. he is stigmatized with some such remark as this:--"he is a worthy man, but he knows nothing." ... thenceforward, what can you expect him to effect, even among peasants, who have heard that fatal verdict? {279} the world calls for knowledge from us, and we are bound to supply it. to that end, we must study, i do not say all human sciences, but we should acquire some thoroughly, especially those which bear upon our special duties; and, as regards others, should not be what may be called "ignorant" of them. it would be disgraceful, for example, if we were obliged to refer to laymen to explain to us the beauties of our church architecture, or the symbols which decorate our ornaments. frenchmen like a bold, animated, lively--a telling style of speech; let us endeavor, therefore, to attain it. ... the world comes to us; let us meet it half way. let us partake of its science, and it will partake of our religion. further, knowledge has always been one of the greatest glories of the church. at the period of the revolution of '93, even according to the testimony of occasionally prejudiced historians, there was an immense number of men among the clergy of france who were eminent for learning and talent. nowadays, we are called an admirable clergy--the first clergy in the world. that sounds very well; but it is a mere compliment: that is, we do not merit the eulogy. let us lose no time in proving our claim to it in every respect. {280} but there is no lack of plausible reasons adduced for our dispensing with study. good god! the egregious mistakes and infirmities which speech has taken under its patronage ought to be well known by us. on the point under consideration, the reasons urged are various. the first is: "we would gladly do it, but, really, we have no time." now, let us be fair here. this is quite true in some cases. ... the labors and anxieties of the sacred ministry are absorbing, and, besides, they cut up the little leisure which is left us after a conscientious discharge of our duty. ... i say, this is true sometimes; but very often, if we only had the will! ... how is it with us, whenever we have a strong desire for any thing? ... put the question to the weakest among men, and you will learn even from them, that when they have the will they always find the way. come along with me, and i think we may succeed in picking up some scraps of time, and, perchance, a large supply. ... and, first, as regards those long dinners: if you were to curtail a little from the commencement, a little from the end, and a small portion from the middle, methinks what remained would be amply sufficient for that meal. {281} dignity is brief in words, and at dinner likewise; feeling that it is endangered by exhibiting itself too long and too near in the midst of meats and drinks, which savor little of gospel mortification: without taking into account the poor, who do not see us sitting down at sumptuous tables, while they are hard at work and fare scantily. ... and what shall we say of the numberless visits received and returned, the cares which are self-imposed, travelling, certain kinds of reading, and inordinate sleep? in all these there is much scope for economy. place an old academician, or a compiler of works which nobody reads, or a decipherer of illegible manuscripts, or a bird-stuffer, or the eternal collector of coins and butterflies, in the same position, and you will see how he will contrive to save therefrom five hours a day at least. ... and we who are called to save men's souls! ... oh, idleness! idleness! that, too, is another of our calamities. ... the serpent of indolence, one of the vilest beasts in creation, glides in everywhere. ... what restrains us is this, that we do not plunge into study; that we have not the taste, the passion for study. we can only attain such a temper by hard work. let us break through the first difficulties, then the taste will come, and ample time will be found. ... the fact of a man having studied a good deal during his lifetime, is another plea on the same side. it may not be expressed, but the flattering notion is nevertheless entertained that we have already acquired a certain amount of knowledge; that the public are aware of it, and have more than once complimented us on that score. {282} yes, one has studied a good deal, learnt a good deal, and, we may add, forgotten a good deal. ... nothing is so soon forgotten as a science which is not cultivated. a strange habit obtains in this respect. ... we judge of a man's abilities by what he was at college. he had ability then; but subsequently he learnt nothing, and has forgotten much of what he did learn. his knowledge has dwindled down to the wretched _just enough_:--a fact which is patent. for all that, he is still regarded as an able man. ... another was rather backward at college, but since then has worked, striven, and succeeded in enlarging his talents. why should such an one be spoken of as unapt, while we venture to think that we ourselves are well up in every thing, because we were believed to know something fifteen years ago? moreover, it never seems to be borne in mind that college education merely gives us the key to knowledge and the taste for study. but one is naturally endowed with great ingenuity; what need is there, then, for so much application? the lord deliver us from these gifted men! they are long-winded, tedious, monotonous, bombastic, and any thing but natural; bearing out what we said above, that a little study removes us from the natural, whereas much study draws us toward it. {283} our aim should be to have it remarked of our discourses:--"really, all that is very simple, and precisely what ought to have been said. it is just what i should have said myself had i been called upon to speak." but we shall not attain that stage without much painstaking. sermons generally are worth what they cost; and our most able men are those who study most. the course sometimes pursued of restricting study to one special subject is a sorry habit. it reminds one very much of a young man whose chief aim is to get his bachelor's degree. but it is further urged:--"no complaints are made; on the contrary, people have been pleased to tell us that they are quite delighted with us." good god! and has not every one experienced the same! who, indeed, has not been deluged with compliments? do you know any one to whom the like has not happened? it would be a great curiosity to discover a preacher, however wretched, tiresome, and insipid he may be, who has not found a few pious souls to bestow on him the alms of a small compliment, or a small lie. he is to be congratulated, indeed, if in addition thereto, after having listened to one of our good preachers, some of them do not come to him and say, with all the subtlety of the serpent:--"yes, his sermon was very grand, it was magnificent; still, we like your excellent and charming little discourses much better." {284} there is no doubting one's ability after that; and one is tempted to believe himself a ravignan, or an unrecognized lacordaire. ... one sees, of course, that there is some exaggeration in all this: nevertheless he is fain to believe the half of it at least. ... alas! flattery is the ruin of kings--and of preachers also. lastly, we have this plea:--"i know quite enough to speak to my own people; i shall always be superior to the good souls which are committed to my charge." ... it is not superior to, but in unison with them that you should be. ... let us see, however, what your knowledge really is, in connection with the good souls you speak of. whenever you address them from the pulpit, is their attention riveted? do their countenances beam, do their eyes glisten, or are they moistened with tears? do you hold them under the spell of your words? do you possess their souls, together with your own? ... "alas! no," you reply; "blockheads that they are; they yawn, they dread the sermon, and are delighted on finding that at mass the gospel is immediately followed by the creed." ... away to study! then; ... brush up your knowledge and your heart; betake yourself once more to the study of your people; find out their weak and their strong points; study their minds, their manner of looking at and apprehending things; and then you will come forth to proclaim the truth pithily and powerfully, and will take up your proper position. {285} the general impression, however, appears to be that a preacher has but to open his mouth and the people should listen to him with ecstasy; otherwise they are called dull and stupid. instead of speaking to them a language which they understand, they are treated to a theological theme amplified; whereon they remark:--"all that is undoubtedly very grand; but it does not concern us." or, as an operative once said:--"if that is the word of god, it is not addressed to us; it must be intended for the rich." ... study, then, is necessary to qualify us for doing good to all; even to the lower orders, the poorest and meanest. we have remarked elsewhere, that it is more difficult to preach to the ignorant than to the literary: more preparation is required. hence it is that there are more men fitted to address the upper than the lower classes; and yet the latter form nearly the whole of the community. ... be it ours, then, to attain that superiority which knowledge confers; whereby also we shall be able to lay hold of both small and great, through the medium which they severally offer for being so secured. the world thirsts for knowledge; let us give them knowledge; let us make ourselves masters of knowledge, for then we shall undoubtedly be stronger than the world. {286} we shall then be invested with a twofold power: the power of human and the power of divine knowledge. the world possesses the power of human speech only; we shall possess that, and the power of god's word likewise. in a word, the world possesses the earth; absolutely nothing but the earth: we, too, shall possess the earth and heaven besides. {287} chapter xii. zeal. the excellency of zeal. love for the body should be coupled with love for the soul. the zeal of the wicked. how zeal should be exercised. associations of apprentices, of operatives. conferences of saint vincent de paul, of domestics, of clerks, of the young. circulation of good books. happy results of the same. the advantages and difficulties of opposition. great occasions. there is a sentiment which should sustain us, and infuse life into all that has been above set forth; into our studies, our composition, and into the divine word: namely, zeal. zeal is power, joy, happiness, expectation, reward and salvation, to the priest and to humanity generally. we need not stop to prove the necessity of zeal. ... it is enjoined on all men:--_unicuique mandavit dominus de proximo suo_. ... is a priest who is without zeal a priest at all? is not such an one rather a mere man? he is placed here solely to keep up the sacred fire which the lord jesus brought down to earth; and what must a cold and insensible priest be nowadays in the midst of those who are perishing through the vices which fret and consume them? he is an almost inconceivable contradiction. ... {288} one of the glories of christianity is its zeal in ministering to the wants of the body: a charitable service, wherein the priest takes a conspicuous part. but of what avail is it to succor the body, if the soul is neglected? of what use is it to go forth proclaiming charity! charity! if the soul, the most sensitive and suffering part of mankind, is abandoned to endless misery? who can fail to be touched with compassion at the sight of so many poor creatures who drudge and wear themselves out, who go and come, who endure and curse, unconsoled and hopeless? the greater part of them, notwithstanding, are not vicious. some are ignorant, others are led astray; ... many waver between the good and the bad, only waiting for a kindly word to be addressed to them; for an outstretched hand; for some great stream of good to pass by them, and carry them away in its current. how gladly would they follow it! well, be it ours to create such currents of truth and virtue; be it ours to confront human errors and passions, and to arrest their onward progress. i fancy that we stick too closely to our own snug corners, and to our own ideas. yes, we stand apart! ... and, regarding the world's progress from thence, we naturally find that it goes on most unsatisfactorily. {289} very likely: ... we suffer it to be led by evil passions; ... whereas we should take our stand in the breach as moses did; confront the invading vices and lusts, come to a hand-to-hand struggle with them, and cry out to them with the mighty voice of god:--"stop! stop! you shall not carry away these souls, for they are not yours, but christ's; he has bought them, and redeemed them with his blood!" ... if such courage, such resolution, such vigor as this was more common amongst us, the aspect of the world would speedily be changed. but, alas! our good qualities are feeble; we have lost the power to will; we allow ourselves to be carried away in the stream. what is wanted nowadays to direct the world is not knowledge so much as it is _will_. ... where, indeed, are we to look for men with a will? ... if we needed any additional consideration to stimulate our zeal, we might say to ourselves:--"let us observe the world; let us see how the wicked act." the wicked, indeed, afford us christians some most humiliating and painful lessons, enough to make us hide our faces from very shame; so much so, that we can wish nothing better than that the best amongst us might possess that zeal for what is good which the wicked evince for what is evil. {290} we censure the wicked, and are right in doing so; but let us at any rate do them this justice, that they are adepts in their profession: ... they profess their opinions boldly; ... they are zealous and active; ... they are energetic, and ready to sacrifice every thing, repose, money, liberty, even life itself. ... then, how adroit they are! how expert in making themselves great with the great, and little with the little! a pernicious book appears ... forthwith it is put into an attractive shape and embellished with fine engravings ... there it is, to suit the rich and the drawing-room. ... next, an ordinary edition at a moderate cost is prepared for the middle classes, for reading-rooms, and for the counter; and then a popular edition--copies to be had at four sous each--for the workshop and the cottage. a man recently converted, avowed that he had contributed in three years no less a sum than 30,000 francs in the dissemination of such books. and we! ... we christians, who know the worth of men's souls, whose duty it is to save them, rest satisfied with a few slender efforts, directed often by mere routine! shall we continue any longer inactive at the sight of the torrents of vice and error which are hurrying our brothers on to the abyss? would that be to have faith? would that be to have charity? would that be to love god and our neighbor? ... but how should this zeal be carried out into practice? that is the important question. ... in the first place, associations should be formed. in these days we cannot dispense with them. {291} society must be taken up in detail, ameliorated part by part, and then formed into a compact structure; for a good community can only be composed of good elements. these objects may be attained through the medium of associations. there should be such for all ages: associations of children, of apprentices, of operatives, of saint vincent de paul, of the _sainte famille_, [footnote 21] etc. they benefit all, the members and the directors also. [footnote 21: see the _manuel de charité_, and the _livre des classes ouvrières_ for the details and manner of establishing and conducting these associations.] how comes it that there are not associations of young apprentices in all the towns of france? how comes it that any town dares to be without one? what strange beings we are sometimes! we surround children with the most tender and assiduous care up to the time of confirmation, and then, at the most critical age, when their passions begin to cross them, we launch them forth, without support and without counterpoise, into that pestilential atmosphere called the workshop; and then we wonder, and say naively that they do not persevere in the right path. ... pray, can they be expected to persevere when thus left to their own resources? ... you, with all your religious knowledge, with all your acquired virtues, with all your experience and age, would you do so in their place? i defy you to persevere under such circumstances. {292} an affiliated society of saint vincent de paul should exist everywhere, even in the most retired corner of france. it already comprises five hundred conferences. they have been founded in the country, where they do a vast amount of good. no town or village, at least, should be without its conference. it is sometimes urged that the elements are wanting. that must be a wretched town or hamlet which can not muster three god-fearing and charitably disposed individuals. moreover, no town should be without its association of operatives. there can no longer be any excuse on this head. they exist elsewhere, are in active operation, and effect much good in many places. the way to form and direct them is well known. we have our associations of girls and grown-up women; but the men, the poor men, are overlooked, neglected, and cast aside. ... lastly, we should have an association of the _saint famille_--an association for the poor. the poor are so miserable as they are owing to the ignorance and moral abandonment in which they live. ... an association tends to enlighten, to support, to elevate them; as also to bring charity into play. let no one tell us that he lacks time for this object. {293} time is given you especially for the service of the poor; your first duty is to evangelize the poor. ... on the other hand, are you anxious to benefit the rich, to touch their hearts, to gain their confidence, or even to secure their adoration--i say, is such your desire? if so, busy yourselves on behalf of the poor, devote yourselves to the service of the poor, be popular in a holy sense; then, instead of vegetating in the midst of your fine phrases and isolation, you will live in the fulness of life. you will see around you outstretched hands, willing hearts, and open purses, and will hear many a voice applauding and cheering you with a cordial "well done! take courage!" you will be driven to humble yourself before god, saying: "depart from me, for i am a sinful man, o lord." yes, let us be just toward the wealthy classes, toward the world generally, and even toward those who do not practise religion at all. whenever they fall in with a priest who is friendly to the poor, they are ready to pay him a large tribute of respect and veneration; and nothing so much resembles love toward god as the love which is shown toward one of his ministers. other associations might also be formed with advantage. for example, in towns, a servants association; but as humility is not one of our virtues, either among high or low, it might be called the household association. {294} it might meet on sunday--say once a month--and one would have an opportunity of telling that class a host of truths which could not well be spoken elsewhere; and these poor people, who are more and more disposed to treat their masters as enemies, might be set right. it is much to be regretted that a hostile party is being formed in families; which, under certain circumstances, might prove highly dangerous. on the other hand, all the fault does not come from below. nothing now but interest binds the master to his servant, and servants attach themselves to those who give the highest wages. as to probity, fidelity, and discretion, where are they to be found? ... masters are not only robbed, they are outraged. further, a mothers' association. the duties of a mother, more especially among the lower classes, are very arduous. she requires to be enlightened, encouraged, stirred up, and perhaps rebuked. such an association would afford eligible opportunities for telling them many things which could not be appropriately delivered before a mixed assembly. it is a great misfortune for a family when the husband forgets himself and his duties; but when the wife gives way, all is lost. is she not, indeed, the guardian of religion and virtue at the domestic hearth? the attempt thus suggested has been made at bordeaux and elsewhere with perfect success. [footnote 22] [footnote 22: see the _manuel de charité_.] {295} there are two other associations which should by all means be established in large towns: namely, an association of young clerks, and an association of those young persons who are called shop-girls or girls of the counter. these two classes are most shamefully neglected; hence their morality is generally _nil_ ... and from the large towns they go to the smaller towns, and into the larger villages, where they help to form that egotistical, sensual, _voltairian_, excitable, and vain shop-class, ever ready to disseminate the vicious lessons which they have acquired. it would be easy to form these associations. there would be no difficulty as regards the young females. with respect to the men, all that is required is a good nucleus; which would soon be increased by those who are at a distance from their homes. families are often pained at being obliged to launch a young man alone into a great city, and would feel much happier on learning that there would be some to protect him against being led astray, and who would help him on in his new career. almost all the young people who come up from the country are christians up to the time of leaving their homes. some genial title might be given to the association, which would make it attractive. another great field for the exercise of zeal is the diffusion of good books. [footnote 23] [footnote 23: see the _manuel de charité_ under the chapter headed _les bibliothèques_.] {296} this kind of ministration has not been adequately or generally appreciated hitherto. the ministry of the word, which is proclaimed in our churches, is recognized; but that of the word which, in the guise of a good book, goes and sits down at the domestic hearth, is not understood as it should be. we are, however, making some progress in this respect; and i trust that the magnitude of existing evils may stir us up to greater activity, and that after being thoroughly beaten we shall rise up again as becomes christians. the christian of the present day is not constitutionally brave; he is rather timid, is subject to a number of little infirmities, and does all he can to reconcile duty with interest. but when he perceives that he has been wronged, when he is driven to extremes, he falls back upon himself, recovers his strength, and stands up for the faith. then he is grand and bold; then he defends himself, resists, assails, and triumphs even in death. the time has come for us to avail ourselves of that tremendous engine which providence has introduced into the world for good and for evil. has not the press injured us enough already? has it not already thrown blood and scum enough at humanity and religion? are not the two hundred millions of pernicious books scattered throughout france enough? is not the world sufficiently estranged from the church already? what do we wait for? {297} a powerful means of doing good is here placed within our reach. don't be deceived; almost every body reads nowadays. mistakes, however, are frequently made on that score. a preacher gives a _retreat_ [footnote 24] in a country district, and is told by the curé that his people do not read. as the exercises progress, heaps of books are forth coming of so abominable a description that the like are not to be found in the purlieus of paris--books the very titles of which are an outrage on public morality. [footnote 24: a series of special religious services. ed.] let us here recall to mind what has already been stated, that there are now in france from eighteen to twenty millions more persons able to read than there were at the end of the eighteenth century. but it is urged that good books are not read.--_that_ in a great measure depends on the quality of the books. further, that after reading them, men are just the same as they were. not always; and who can tell but that some thought has taken root in their minds which in time will bear fruit? there are books which have wrought many conversions; which in the course of a few years have reclaimed more individuals than our most celebrated preachers have converted during their lives. {298} i may instance one which is universally known, which has been and still is the angel of good to many perishing sinners; yes, and such sinners too! such men! you have already guessed the title of the book alluded to--it is the _etudes philosophiques_ by m. nicholas. [footnote 25] [footnote 25: a person holding a high position wrote to the author of the above-named work as follows:--"from being wholly indifferent to religion, you have made me, in a fortnight, a fervent christian, one sincerely repentant, and firmly determined to lead a holy life." ... another addressed him thus:--"i owe a great share of my restoration to your book, which i shall try and induce all my relations and friends to read."] sober town curés have expressed to us their belief that they have effected more good among their people by means of their libraries, than by their sermons and all the other resources of the ministry combined. but these books should be selected with great care: nevertheless, very little attention is bestowed on that point. how strange! one takes great pains about a sermon, which will be heard at most by a few hundreds of individuals, and no care is exercised in the selection of a book which will go to speak of god to the thousands who do not frequent the church! at the yearly distribution of prizes in france, twelve hundred thousand volumes are given gratuitously to respectable schools. {299} what a vast amount of good might be done through that channel, if the books were well chosen! what a mass of profitable reading might be introduced thereby among families! but as it is, the works are taken up at random. a book receives a bishop's approval; which is deemed amply sufficient to warrant its adoption. it may be barren of ideas, tiresome, nothing more than a bad religious romance; it may even be dangerous: no matter, it is given away, notwithstanding all those defects. but what is passing strange is the fact that this is done by men who have a religious vocation, who are otherwise most distinguished, and who are intrusted with the education of the children of the upper classes. it would seem, indeed, as if we were bent on verifying the assertion of our adversaries, that the pious possess no other than a contemptible and humdrum literature. it would be an act of intelligent zeal to remedy these aberrations. lastly, another way of promoting the diffusion of good books is to give men a personal interest in the undertaking. authors and publishers should be amply commended and remunerated for their coöperation; and the trade--if you choose to call it so--made subservient to the good work. let those, also, who sell such books make large profits by the sale. generally speaking, success is not best attained by acting alone, but by securing and availing ourselves of the assistance of others. we often make too much fuss about our proceedings, and should effect twice as much if we fussed one half less. {300} but it will be urged:--"such associations cannot be formed without self-sacrifice and money; besides, they will encounter opposition." undoubtedly they will; and so much the better. opposition and calumny are the rod which god uses to drive us onward. ... if there be opposition, then there will be courage too; and many other noble qualities will be elicited. is it so, i ask, that we are called to "vulgarly follow the masses?" ... there is a class of well-disposed people, who appear to have no misgivings as to what christianity is, who, nevertheless, give expression to their supineness with a charming naïveté. you propose some good work to them; they reply at once: "excuse me; there will be obstacles in the way; the time has not yet come for such things; and, moreover, i should not like to put myself forward in matters of that kind, for it might place me in an awkward position." one feels tempted on these occasions to ask the apologist:--"are you a christian?" you may do so, and the ready reply will be:--"yes, by the grace of god." what, then, do you understand by being a christian? one who believes in the doctrine of christ, has been baptized. ... {301} now, listen to what the doctrine of christ is: blessed are they who are persecuted. blessed are ye when men shall revile you,--when they shall drag you before the rulers of the people. ... i think there is a prevailing tendency to regard those texts of holy writ which embarrass us as mere rhetorical figures. men talk of the possibility of being placed in a false position--that the time has not come--that there will be opposition, etc. in like manner, when christ sent his apostles to convert the world, might they not also have said:--"but, lord, the world is not prepared; it is still so insensible. besides, we shall encounter opposition?" ... or, when their shoulders were beaten with rods, might they not have felt justified in saying:-"let us return to our own quiet life, for this only brings us into difficulties." is not a priest's life essentially a militant life? is not the priest a soldier? what would be said, what would be thought of a soldier who, on hearing the alarm, the enemy! to arms! should coolly reply:--"stop, there will be opposition; the enemy will resist and assail us with musketry and artillery?" there would only be one name for such a soldier in france--he would be called a coward. {302} but no such soldier is to be found amongst us; on the contrary, at the bare thought of opposition and resistance to be encountered, his courage rises, his heart leaps, he runs, he strikes, he conquers, or he dies a glorious death. that is what a priest ought to be; ... better still; he should feel that he is safe beneath the power of the almighty; and be like a general who maintains perfect calm while shot, shell, and death, are flying around him in every direction. good god! what have we to do with peace? peace will never be yours. ... talk of peace to men who are conquerors! ... was it not said in a celebrated harangue:--"we are the first soldiers ... and yet they come to talk to us of peace!" the priest is a jeopardized, a sacrificed man, dead to the life of this world, to whom it has been said:--"go and defend such a post, and die to save, not an army, but humanity." be assured, then, that you will never have peace, because human passions will eternally war against you. we have borrowed two things from the present age--and those by no means the best of what it possesses--which do us a vast amount of injury. the first is, a profound weakness of character, which prefers a petty, vulgar, and rather sensual existence, disposing us to lead the life of a retired tradesman. the second is a tendency to _officialism_. we blame that tendency in others; but are we not somewhat bureaucratic ourselves? we consider those among us to be great men who are what is called good administrators. {303} the accessory has usurped the place of principal. administration is every thing: in certain localities it stifles the sacred ministry. if saint paul himself were to return to earth, he would hardly be deemed fit to be the curé of a canton, unless he was judged to be well versed in administration. yet when christ placed saint peter at the head of his church, he did not put the question to him:--"canst thou administer well?" but, "lovest thou me? lovest thou me? art thou quite sure that thou lovest me?"--that is, dost thou know how to save the souls of men? how to devote thyself, how to die for their sakes? this brings us back again to the subject of zeal. there are many earnest-minded priests in france--most admirable men in every respect. among the laity also, there is no lack of zeal, devotion, and the spirit of self-sacrifice ... a christian who has no zeal is not tolerated: in fact, there is much more of it than is generally supposed. now, something like this frequently happens:--on going to a town which has hitherto exhibited no signs of zeal, you ask the priest:--"how comes it that you have no associations, no society of apprentices, of operatives, or of the _sainte famille?_ what are you about? it is a shame!" ... he will reply:--"how can i help it? i have no colleagues, and no laymen are available. {304} besides, our people do not like to be drawn out of their old habits: it is not with us as it is elsewhere." ... you then make the same observations to the laymen, and they immediately answer:--"pray, don't mention it, for it is not our fault. we should like nothing better; but we have no priests to take the lead, and to tell us how to act. our priests are excellent men in their way, but _they cannot step out of their routine_." it should be our endeavor, therefore, to bring priests and laymen together; then there will be a mutual understanding between them, and both will heartily coöperate in doing good. for, at any cost, we must save souls. that is our duty, our joy, our crown, that whereon our whole future depends; and what is said of men of the world, who have made a false step in life, will be said of the priest who fails in that respect--he has lost his chance. we should take advantage of every opportunity to benefit the souls of men; to enlighten, to reclaim, to reconcile them. a confirmation, for example, associated as it is with so many sweet and sad reminiscences, offers a most eligible occasion for such efforts. but beware of all vulgar vituperation of unbelievers, or of the parents. they are on the look-out for such tirades, and have already hardened their hearts and their faces against them. rather aim at their hearts, where they least expect an attack, and where they are not prepared to resist you. {305} after stating that god will require a strict account of parents for the manner in which their children have been brought up, turn at once to the parents and say:-"do not be alarmed, for i am not going to reproach you. i would not disturb your present happiness. i would not detract one iota from your gratification. enjoy it thoroughly, for you have a right to it; it is but a slender recompense for all your pains. look at your children, they are happy, and they owe their happiness to religion. no, i cannot bring myself to utter any thing which might trouble you on this occasion; for it must have cost you pain enough already to see your children go alone to the holy table, absolutely like orphans, while you yourselves stand apart, and are driven to say:--'yes, my child is worthy to be there, but i am not. ... i say, such a reflection as this must have caused you intense sorrow. "nevertheless, you are not so much estranged from religion as you may think: god is not far from you. one always loves his child's friend, and your child's best friend is god. ... can you repel religion, can you repulse god himself, whom we are about to send to you this evening in the angelic form of a dearly loved child? draw near then to the gospel ... carry away with you, at least, some pious sentiment, some wholesome regret, some incipient desire after that which is good." ... adopt some such strain as this, and your words will not be in vain. {306} similar efforts might be made on the termination of the special services for lent and the great ecclesiastical seasons, and on other extraordinary occasions also. after congratulating those who have profited by the means of grace, be careful to abstain from upbraiding or denouncing those who have abused them. such a course is low and vulgar, and does much harm. on the contrary, do all you can to encourage and touch the hearts of all. i may suggest the following. say what a pious and zealous _religieux_ once said to his audience, at the end of a home mission:-"brethren, i am going to tell you an anecdote. it is not true, for the details are impossible. it is merely a parable. "it is alleged that there is a country near the north pole, where it is so cold that words are frozen as they issue from the lips. if two men placed apart at a certain distance attempt to converse, they do not hear one another, for their words freeze in the air. but when spring comes, then their words are heard. "brethren, it is cold too and icy round your souls, and our words freeze; but when spring comes, when god's sun shall shine, then these our words will thaw and penetrate into your hearts, even though it be not till the hour of death." {307} thus, let there be an outburst of love and kindliness toward those who have been edified by the means of grace, and a still larger and more affectionate appeal to those who seemingly have not profited thereby.--"what shall i say to you? shall i address you in the language of severity? i might claim the right to do so in god's name; but certainly i have no desire to avail myself of that prerogative. i prefer holding out a hand to you; i prefer pitying, commiserating your misfortune. it would have been delightful for me to have been the instrument of your salvation; but you would not let me save you. doubtless, god has not judged me worthy; although my mission here embraced you also. ... another, i trust, will be more successful. ... be assured that i entertain no ill-will toward you: i do not denounce you; on the contrary, i shall ever pray for you. "draw a little nearer toward religion. in your calmer moments you sometimes say:--'i do not wish to die without the consolations of religion. were i to fall sick, i should send for a priest. well, then, dispose yourself to return to the right path: curb your passions, and break off those habits which poison your existence. above all, do not be a stumbling-block to your children. {308} how often, as you well know, alas! are fathers the ruin of their offspring. therefore have pity on your children, and on your wives also; for i whisper it to you that you are said to be sometimes harsh toward them. ah, the poor wives! such treatment must be very painful to them: they who have already suffered and endured so much." that is the way to appeal to the hearts of men! such are the joys of the sacred ministry! they are the only joys vouchsafed to us: and yet can we dare to complain? are they not the most delectable joys which earth can afford? to have committed to him the souls of poor sinners to save, to love, and to bless; to be charged with condescending toward his erring brethren; gathering them in his arms amidst the miseries and sufferings of this life, and of leading them to the truth, to virtue, and to heaven, is not this the sweetest enjoyment which a priest's heart can desire? was it not to that end that he bade adieu to the world and left his father and his mother in tears? ... o holy joys of the sacred ministry, how little are they known and felt by any of us! it is painful, doubtless, to have to stir up sin-sick souls; but when at the cost of much self-sacrifice we are able to benefit but one such soul, with what overflowing gratitude shall we thank god, and say: "may all my days be like this day!" -------{309} books published by the catholic publication society. the life and sermons of the rev. francis a. baker, priest of the congregation of st. paul, edited by rev. f. a. hewit. one volume, crown octavo, pp. 504, $2.50 extracts from notices of the press. "father baker was a lovely boy, a wise and thoughtful youth, and a devout servant of christ. the son of a methodist, the graduate of a presbyterian college, he became first an episcopal clergyman, and then a catholic priest. in all these changes, he everywhere won love; and whatever were the peculiarities of his character, he was a sincerely good and thoroughly pure man, and deserved the tribute which this remarkably appreciative and tender biography pays him."- --_new-york watchman_. "after newman's apologia and robertson's 'life', the memoir contained in this volume is perhaps the most respectable clerical biography that we have met for a long time. we recommend such persons as have already attained to settled principles, and who may have an opportunity, to give the memoir itself a thorough perusal. it is rich in personal reminiscences. it is, at the same time, like the 'apologia', both an argument and a biography." --_christian times_. "father hewit's biography of his deceased friend is a most noticeable piece of writing. it is as impartial as could be expected, and has a marked local interest from its allusions to local affairs in religious circles. a great part of it is occupied with an elaborate view of the oxford, or, as it is familiarly called here, the puseyite movement, and of its effect on this country. the conversion of bishop ives, the remarkable scenes at the ordination of rev. arthur carey, the movement toward a protestant oriental bishopric at constantinople, in which bishop southgate was engaged, and various other features in recent church history, all are described, rendering the biography of marked interest to episcopalians as well as to catholics; while the history of father baker is a curious study of the operation of religious belief on a young, vigorous, and active mind." --_new-york evening post_. {310} "the portrait which forms the frontispiece to this volume appears to represent one of the contemplative, saintly, seraphic spirits of the early ages of christianity, rather than a man whose life was cast amid the bustle and activity and worldly-mindedness of the nineteenth century. the impression is confirmed by the perusal of the memoir. it introduces us to a type of character which is rare in these days, and reminds us of a strain of mediaeval music. ... the sermons are remarkable for the earnestness of their spirit, the simple and vigorous eloquence of their style, and their frequent beauty of conception and illustration. the biography, by his bosom friend and companion, is an athletic piece of composition, controversial and aggressive in its tone, abounding in personal episodes, and presenting a spirited and impressive sketch of the movement in which both the author and the subject have been prominent actors. the volume, of course, possesses a paramount interest for catholic readers, but it forms too remarkable an illustration of some important features in the religious tendencies of the day not to challenge a wide attention from intelligent observers." --_new-york tribune_. "this is the very best edition, as regards typographical skill, that has as yet been issued of any catholic work in this country." --_boston pilot_. "his sermons are brief, addressed to the common heart and reason of his hearers, and remarkably free from clerical assumptions of authority. the sermon on the duty of growing in christian knowledge is liberal and philosophical to a degree not usual in the pulpits of any denomination." --_new-york nation_. ----- ii. the works of the most rev. john hughes, d.d., first archbishop of new-york, containing biography, sermons, letters, lectures, speeches, etc. carefully compiled from the best sources, and edited by lawrence kehoe. this important work makes two large volumes of nearly 1500 pages. the editor has spared neither labor nor expense to have it as correct and as complete as it is possible to make a work of the kind. the prominent position occupied for so many years by archbishop hughes makes this a highly important work; his views on all the general questions of the day so eagerly read at the time--are here collected and presented to the catholic public in two elegant volumes, which are indispensable to every library of american catholic literature. _price, cheap edition._ two volumes, 8vo, cloth, $6.00 _fine edition, on extra paper._ two volumes, cloth, bevelled, $8.00 two volumes, half morocco, bevelled, $10.00 two volumes, half calf, extra, $12.00 {311} extracts from notices of the press. "opening these volumes, the first thing that strikes us is the vast energy, the indomitable resolution, the all-embracing zeal of this great prelate. no subject affecting the interests of catholics was beneath his notice. the collection of such a vast pile of materials is in itself an arduous and laborious task, and when collected the arrangement and collation of the documents were a work of time and trouble, requiring both judgment and discrimination; both these qualities are apparent in the contents of the two large volumes before us." --_new-york tablet_. "the editor deserves great credit for the care, industry, and taste with which he prepared his work." _baltimore catholic mirror_. "this is one of the most carefully prepared, as well as most interesting, contributions to american and catholic history." --_boston pilot_. "every catholic should provide himself with a copy of the works, because they are the history, almost, of the church in her infancy in the eastern states." --_cincinnati catholic telegraph_. "take him all in all, archbishop hughes was the greatest man that the catholic church has yet produced in this country, and his writings must have a deep interest for all the members of his communion." --_chicago republican_. "there is a fund of instruction in his writings alike to the christian and the worldling, the protestant and the catholic." --_daily news_. "the work of the editor appears to have been done in a manner worthy of the highest commendation." --_pittsburg catholic._ "every catholic household should have the work." --_irish american_. "this work gives his speeches and discourses in full. these will be sought for by multitudes of his admirers." --_new-york freeman's journal_. ------- iii. sermons of the paulist fathers, for 1865 and 1866. price, $1.50 extracts from notices of the press. "they are good examples of practical, earnest, pungent preaching. ... others besides catholics may be stimulated by these discourses, and some protestant preachers we have heard might learn how to talk plainly to the heart and conscience of men." --_round table_. "these sermons are dictated with a conviction of mind and earnestness of heart that the hearer and the reader are carried away while reading or listening to them, which, after all, is the triumph of eloquence." --_boston pilot_. "these sermons, like those which preceded them, are sound, practical, and able productions." --_catholic mirror_. "they are adapted to the wants of our age and country, and consequently must elevate the standard of morality whenever they can secure the attention of a reader." --_pittsburg catholic_. "here are twenty-one catholic sermons in various degrees of excellence, nearly all of which are so thoroughly and truly catholic in the widest sense of the term, that they will be read with pleasure by protestants, as well as by members of the communion to which they are carefully addressed." --_new-york citizen_, ------- iv. may carols and hymns and poems. by aubrey de vere. blue and gold, . . . $1.25 ------- v. christine, and other poems. by george h. miles. price, $2.00 ------- vi. dr. newman's answer to dr. pusey's eirenicon. paper, $0.75 ------- vii. three phases of christian love: the mother, the maiden, and the religious. by lady herbert. one volume, 12mo, $1.50 extracts from notices of the press. "the author writes in a spirit and style worthy of the sacred subjects of her pen. it is a book that should be in the hands of every catholic, and one which protestants might read with benefit to themselves, and without having their prejudices rudely assailed. mr. kehoe has issued the volume in admirable taste. its mechanical execution is without a flaw." --_citizen_. "we hail this work as a great acquisition to our catholic literature, and recommend it to the attention of all. it is just the book that ought to be placed in the hands of catholic ladies. the publisher deserves great credit for the beautiful type, paper, and binding, which make this book equal in taste and elegance to any published in this country." --_pittsburg catholic_. ------- viii. aspirations of nature. by rev. i. t. hecker. fourth edition, revised, cloth, extra, ... $1.50 