s of bliss break through us. "The peace with God." "The sense
of sins forgiven." Methodists and revivalists say the words, and the
mocking world shoots out its lip, and walks by smiling--"Hypocrite."

There are more fools and fewer hypocrites than the wise world dreams
of. The hypocrite is rare as icebergs in the tropics; the fool common
as buttercups beside a water-furrow: whether you go this way or that you
tread on him; you dare not look at your own reflection in the water but
you see one. There is no cant phrase, rotten with age, but it was the
dress of a living body; none but at heart it signifies a real bodily or
mental condition which some have passed through.

After hours and nights of frenzied fear of the supernatural desire to
appease the power above, a fierce quivering excitement in every inch
of nerve and blood vessel, there comes a time when nature cannot endure
longer, and the spring long bent recoils. We sink down emasculated. Up
creeps the deadly delicious calm.

"I have blotted out as a cloud thy sins, and as a thick cloud thy
trespasses, and will remember them no more for ever." We weep with soft
transporting joy.

A few experience this; many imagine they experience it, one here and
there lies about it. In the main, "The peace with God; a sense of
sins forgiven," stands for a certain mental and physical reaction. Its
reality those know who have felt it.

And we, on that moonlight night, put down our head on the window, "Oh,
God! we are happy, happy; thy child forever. Oh, thank you, God!" and we
drop asleep.

Next morning the Bible we kiss. We are God's forever. We go out to work,
and it goes happily all day, happily all night; but hardly so happily,
not happily at all, the next day; and the next night the devil asks us,
"where is your Holy Spirit?"

We cannot tell.

So month by month, summer and winter, the old life goes on--reading,
praying, weeping, praying. They tell us we become utterly stupid. We
know it. Even the multiplication table we learnt with so much care we
forgot. The physical world recedes further and further from us. Truly we
love not the world, neither the things that are in it. Across the bounds
of sleep our grief follows us. When we wake in the night we are sitting
up in bed weeping bitterly, or find ourself outside in the moonlight,
dressed, and walking up and down, and wringing our hands, and we cannot
tell how we came there. So pass two years, as men reckon them.

V.