there is peril in the sickness, so that there is the strange and
solemn feeling of the struggle between the human skill one wields and
the supreme enemy, Death. There is a strange fascination in fighting
Death, step by step, and this is of course felt to the full where one
fights for life as life, and not for a life one loves. When the
patient is beloved the struggle is touched with agony, but where one
fights with Death over the body of a stranger there is a weird
enchantment in the contest without personal pain, and as one forces
back the hated foe there is a curious triumph in the feeling which
marks the death-grip yielding up its prey, as one snatches back to
earth the life which had well-nigh perished.

The spring of 1873 brought me knowledge of a power that was to mould
much of my future life. I delivered my first lecture, but delivered it
to rows of empty pews in Sibsey Church. A queer whim took me that I
would like to know how "it felt" to preach, and vague fancies stirred
in me that I could speak if I had the chance. I saw no platform in the
distance, nor had any idea of possible speaking in the future dawned
upon me. But the longing to find outlet in words came upon me, and I
felt as though I had something to say and was able to say it. So
locked alone in the great, silent church, whither I had gone to
practise some organ exercises, I ascended the pulpit steps and
delivered my first lecture on the Inspiration of the Bible. I shall
never forget the feeling of power and delight--but especially of
power--that came upon me as I sent my voice ringing down the aisles,
and the passion in me broke into balanced sentences and never paused
for musical cadence or for rhythmical expression. All I wanted then
was to see the church full of upturned faces, alive with throbbing
sympathy, instead of the dreary emptiness of silent pews. And as
though in a dream the solitude was peopled, and I saw the listening