The subject
was St. Paul or the active life, his former one having been St. John or
the inner life, of the Christian. I felt the golden spell of eloquence:
I found myself hanging on the lips of the orator, fascinated by his
boldness, his grace, his energy, and his art, his sincerity, and his
talent; and it was borne in upon me that for some men difficulties are a
source of inspiration, so that what would make others stumble is for
them the occasion of their highest triumphs. He made St. Paul _cry_
during an hour and a half; he made an old nurse of him, he hunted up his
old cloak, his prescriptions of water and wine to Timothy, the canvas
that he mended, his friend Tychicus, in short, all that could raise a
smile; and from it he drew the most unfailing pathos, the most austere
and penetrating lessons. He made the whole St. Paul, martyr, apostle and
man, his grief, his charities, his tenderness, live again before us, and
this with a grandeur, an unction, a warmth of reality, such as I had
never seen equaled.
How stirring is such an apotheosis of pain in our century of comfort,
when shepherds and sheep alike sink benumbed in Capuan languors, such an
apotheosis of ardent charity in a time of coldness and indifference
toward souls, such an apotheosis of a _human_, natural, inbred
Christianity, in an age, when some put it, so to speak, above man, and
others below man! Finally, as a peroration, he dwelt upon the necessity
for a new people, for a stronger generation, if the world is to be saved
from the tempests which threaten it.
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