All Saints' Day and Other Sermons by Charles Kingsley
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Surely of those words it is true, "blessed are they who, going through
the vale of misery, find therein a well, and the pools are filled with water." Know you not what I mean? Happier, perhaps, are you--the young at least among you--if you do not know. But some of you must know too well. It is to them I speak. Were you never not merely puzzled--all thinking men are that--but crushed and sickened at moments by the mystery of evil? Sickened by the follies, the failures, the ferocities, the foulnesses of mankind, for ages upon ages past? Sickened by the sins of the unholy many--sickened, alas! by the imperfections even of the holiest few? And have you never cried in your hearts with longing, almost with impatience, Surely, surely, there is an ideal Holy One somewhere, or else how could have arisen in my mind the conception, however faint, of an ideal holiness? But where, oh where? Not in the world around, strewed with unholiness. Not in myself--unholy too, without and within--seeming to myself sometimes the very worst company of all the bad company I meet, because it is the only bad company from which I cannot escape. Oh, is there a Holy One, whom I may contemplate with utter delight? and if so, where is He? Oh, that I might behold, if but for a moment, His perfect beauty, even though, as in the fable of Semele of old, the lightning of His glance were death. Nay, more, has it not happened to some here--to clergyman, lawyer, physician, perhaps, alas! to some pure-minded, noble- hearted woman--to be brought in contact perforce with that which truly sickens them--with some case of human folly, baseness, foulness--which, however much their soul revolts from it, they must handle, they must toil over many weeks and months, in hope that that which is crooked may be made somewhat straight, till their whole soul was distempered, all but degraded, by the continual sight of sin, till their eyes seemed full of nothing but the dance of death, and their ears of the gibbering of madmen, and their nostrils with the odours of the charnel house, and they longed for one breath of pure air, one gleam of pure light, one strain of |
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