like Lord Robert, a particular sense of enjoyment into the motion of his legs, as though he would get rid of all perilous swagger at that, the less harmful end of his two extremities—­the antipodes of his reason.  Like Lord Robert, too, he has a most pleasant voice, and a slow deliberate way of speaking, and a warm kindly smile which fades at the first movement of serious thought, leaving the whole pale face, even the dark eyes under their heavy brows, almost deathlike in immobility.  One seems to see in such moments the spirit withdraw from the surface of things to take up its duty at the citadel of the intellect.

The same conflict between temperament and purpose which has prevented Lord Robert Cecil from taking his place at the head of a Government prevents Canon Barnes from advancing at the head of modern Churchmen to the rich future of a depaganised and wholly rational Christianity.  His heart says “Fight,” but his reason says “Watch.”  Fighting is distasteful; watching is congenial.  Besides, while one is watching one can review all the hypotheses.  A man who is not careful in destroying a fallacy may damage a truth.

But let us be grateful for his public utterances, which show a high spirit, a noble devotion, an enviable range of culture, and, for the discerning at least, tell the true time of day.  It is one of the encouraging signs of the period that such distinguished preaching should have made a mark.  Moreover, he is yet three years from fifty, with a mind so hospitable to growth that it has no room for one of those prejudices which are the dry-nurses of old age.  Those who love truth die young, whatever their age.  Canon Barnes may yet give the Church a proof of his power to lead—­a Church at present aware only of his power to suggest.

He considers that we are living in a time of revolution, and, judging by historic precedents, particularly the Renaissance, he thinks we are now in the second stage of our revolution, which is the most difficult of all.  First, comes the destruction of false ideas—­a bracing time for the born fighter; second, comes the tentative search for new ideas—­an anxious time for the responsible philosopher; third, comes the preaching of these new ideas with passion—­the opportunity of the enthusiast.  Happy were the divines of the seventeenth century!

We, however, are in the second stage.

This is not a period for new ideas:  it is a period of searching for the best idea.  He who rushes forward with an untried new idea may be more dangerous than he who still clings, in the Name of Christ, to an old idea which is false.  We must be quite certain of our ground before we advance with boldness, and our boldness must be spiritual, not muscular.

Modernism has fought and won the battle of verbal inspiration.  No man whose opinion counts in the least degree now holds that the Bible was verbally inspired by God.  It is respected, honoured, loved; but it is no longer a fetish.  In ceasing to be a superstition, and in coming to be a number of genuine books full of light for the student of history, the Bible is exercising at the present time an extraordinary influence in the world, a greater influence perhaps on thoughtful minds than it ever before exercised.