Why should the mighty king have bidden the youth to rejoice after so many awful words had been penned to show the end of all rejoicing?  Every pleasure on earth the king had enjoyed, and he had drained life’s chalice so far down that he tasted the bitterness of the lees.  But had he not savoured joy to the full?  Was there one gift showered by the lavish bounty of God which had not fallen on the chosen of fortune?  We revere the intellect of the man who chastens our souls with his sombre discourse; but I could wish he had veiled his despair, and had told us of the ravishing delights which he had known.  No; the Preacher is great, but his sorrow is not the highest.  I give my chief reverence to the men who let their sorrow pass into central fire that blazes into deeds; I revere the men and women who bear their yoke and utter never a word of complaint; on them sorrow falls like a pure soft snow that leaves no stain.

Of late, the nations of the world have been thrilled by the deeds of one humble man who embraced Sorrow and let her claim him for the best part of his life.  I cannot bear to think much of the tragedy of Damien’s life—­and I shall not dream of endeavouring to find excuses, or of declaring that life an essentially happy one.  The good Father chose Grief and clave to her as a bride; he chose the sights and sounds of grief as his surroundings and he wrought on silently under his fearful burden of holy sorrow until the release was given.  He spoke no boastful words of contentment save when he thought of the rest that was coming for him; he gallantly accepted the crudest and foulest conditions of his dreadful environment, and he uttered no craving for sympathy, no wish for personal aid.  If we think of that immortal priest’s choice, we understand, perhaps for the first time, what the religion of Sorrow truly means.  On the lonely rock the meek, strong soul spent its forces; joy, friendly faces, laughter of sweet children, healthy and kindly companions—­there were none of these.  The sea moaned round with many voices, and the sky bent over the lonely disciple; the melancholy of the sea, the melancholy of the changeless sky, the monotony of silence, must all have weighed on his heart.  In the daytime there were only sights whereat strong men might swoon away—­pain, pain, pain all round, and every complication of horror; but the Child of Sorrow bore all.  Then came the sentence of death.  For ten weary years the hero had to wait in loneliness while the Destroyer slowly enfolded him in its arms.  We pity the monster who dies a swift death after his life of wickedness has been forfeited; we are vexed if a criminal endures one minute of suffering; but the noble one on that sad isle watched his doom coming for ten years, and never flinched from his task during that harrowing time.  It makes the heart grow chill, despite the pride we feel in our lost brother.  The religion of Sorrow has indeed conquered; and Father Damien has set the seal to its triumph.