ain takes wing, off she went! Janet
Dempster is all the more real because she is unreal. She is all the more
a substance because she is only a shadow. She is all the more symbolic
and typical because she appears, not in history, but in fiction. If I
had found her in the realm of biography, I might have regarded hers as
an isolated and exceptional case. But, since I have found her in the
realm of romance, I can only regard her--as her creator intended me to
regard her--as a great representative character. She represents all
those thousands of people upon whom the heroic record of Henry Martyn's
brief career has acted as a stimulant and a tonic. She represents all
those thousands of people through whom Henry Martyn is making history.

II

The Gospels tell of a certain man who was _borne of four_ to the feet of
Jesus. I know his name and I know the names of the four who brought him.
The man's name was Henry Martyn, and the quartet consisted of a father,
a sister, an author and a minister. Each had a hand in the gracious
work, and each in a different way. The father did his part accidentally,
indirectly, unconsciously; the sister did her part designedly,
deliberately, and of set purpose. The author and the minister did their
parts in the ordinary pursuit of their vocations; but the _author_ did
his part impersonally and indirectly, whilst the _minister_ did his part
personally and face to face. The author's shaft was from a bow drawn at
a venture; the minister's was carefully aimed. He set himself to win the
young student in his congregation, and he lived to rejoice unfeignedly
in his success. Let me introduce each of the four.

_The Father bore his Corner._ Before Henry Martyn left England, he was
one of the most brilliant students in the country, Senior Wrangler of
his University, and the proud holder of scholarships and fellowships.
But, in his earlier days, he failed at one or two examinations, and, in
his mortification, heaped the blame upon his father. In one of these
fits of passion, he bounced out of the elder man's presence--never to
enter it again. Before he could return and express contrition, the
father suddenly died. Henry's remorse was pitiful to see. His heart was
filled with grief and his eyes swollen with tears. But that torrent of
tears so cleansed those eyes that he was able to see, as he had never
seen before, into the abysmal depths of his own heart. He was astonished
at the baseness and depravity h