iously 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