Myself.—­What do you think, Dominie, about all this talk about sensationalism in the pulpit?

Scattergood.—­As far as I can understand, it seems to be a war between stagnation and sensationalism, and I dislike both.

I do not know which word is the worst.  It is the national habit in literature and religion to call that sensationalism which we ourselves cannot do.  If an author write a book that will not sell, he is apt to charge the books of the day which do succeed as being sensational.  There are a great many men who, in the world and the Church, are dead failures, who spend their time in letting the public know that they are not sensationalists.  The fact is that they never made any stir while living, nor will they in dying, save as they rob the undertaker of his fees, they not leaving enough to pay their dismission expenses.

I hate sensationalism in the pulpit so far as that word means the preaching of everything but the gospel, but the simple fact is that whenever and wherever faith and repentance and heaven and hell are proclaimed with emphasis there will be a sensation.  The people in our great cities are hungry for the old gospel of Christ.  If our young men in the ministry want large audiences, let them quit philosophizing, and hair-splitting, and botanizing, and without gloves take hold of men’s sins and troubles, and there will be no lack of hearers.  Stagnation is worse than sensationalism.

I have always noticed that just in proportion as a man cannot get along himself he is fearful of some one else making an excitement.  Last week a mud-turtle down by the brook opened its shell and discoursed to a horse that was coming down to drink.  The mud-turtle said to the horse:  “Just as I get sound asleep you are sure to come past and wake me up.  We always used to have a good quiet time down here in the swamp till you got in the habit of thumping along this way.  I am conservative and like to keep in my shell.  I have been pastor of thirteen other mud-turtles, and we always had peace until you came, and next week at our semi-annual meeting of mud-turtles we shall either have you voted a nuisance or will talk it over in private, eight, or ten of us, which will probably be the more prudent way.”  Then the mud-turtle’s shell went shut with a snap, at which the horse kicked up his heels as he turned to go up to the barn to be harnessed to a load of corn that was ready for the market.

Let us all wake up and go to work.  There are in the private membership of our churches and in the ministry a great many men who are dead, but have never had the common decency to get buried.  With the harvest white and “lodging” for lack of a sickle, instead of lying under the trees criticising the sweating reapers who are at work, let us throw off our own coat and go out to see how good a swathe we can cut.

Myself.—­You seem, Dominie Scattergood, though you have been preaching a great while, to be very healthy and to have a sound throat.