“And who shall doubt, when he contemplates the complicated mechanism by which, everywhere, this God-Nature—­blind as to pain and sin and death, but tender and solicitous as to birth and life—­makes Love possible, imperative, soulful, overwhelming, that the purposed end and aim of life is Love.  And how pitiful and barren seem to us the lives of the superstitious and ascetic hermits of the ancient world, who fled to desert places, to escape from Love, and believed that they were overcoming the foul fiend by prayers and fastings and scourgings.  But outraged Nature, mighty amid the ruins of their blasted hearts, reasserted herself, and visited them even in dreams; and the white arms and loving lips of woman overwhelmed them with hot and passionate caresses, in visions against which they strove in vain.

“Oh, my brethren, every nerve, fiber, muscle, and ’petty artery of the body,’ participates in Love.  Love is the conqueror of death, because Love alone perpetuates life.  Love is life!  Love is religion!  Love is the universe!  Love is God!” And with this climax he sat down amid great applause, as in a theater.

I need scarcely say to you, my dear Heinrich, that I was absolutely shocked by this sermon.  Knowing, as you do, the kind and pure and gentle doctrines taught in the little church in our mountain home, where love means charity for man and worship of God, you may imagine how my blood boiled at this cruel, carnal and heartless harangue.  The glowing and picturesque words which he poured out were simply a carpet of flowers spread over crawling serpents.

The audience of course were familiar with these doctrines.  The preacher owed his success, indeed, to the fact that he had courageously avowed the sentiments which had dwelt in the breasts of the people and had been enacted in their lives for generations.  The congregation had listened with rapt attention to this eloquent echo of their own hearts; this justification of their Nature-worship; this re-birth of Paganism.  The women nestled closer to the men at the tender passages; and I noticed many a flashing interchange of glances, between bold, bright eyes, which told too well that the great preacher’s adjurations were not thrown away upon unwilling listeners.

Another song was sung; and then there was a rustle of silks and satins.  The audience were about to withdraw.  The preacher sat upon his sofa, on the platform, mopping his broad forehead with his handkerchief, for he had spoken with great energy.  I could restrain myself no longer.  I rose and said in a loud voice, which at once arrested the movement of the congregation: 

“Reverend sir, would you permit a stranger to make a few comments on your sermon?”

“Certainly,” he replied, very courteously; “we welcome discussion.  Will you step to the platform?”

“No,” I replied; “with your permission I shall speak from where I stand.

“I can only say to you that I am inexpressibly shocked and grieved by your discourse.