before the heavenly throne, it is quite safe to assume, even
without an actual visit, that the ecclesiastic who has worked the
miracle is a fair and toothsome fellow, and a good deal more
aphrodisiacal than learned. All the great preachers to women in
modern times have been men of suave and ingratiating habit, and
the great majority of them, from Henry Ward Beecher up and
down, have been taken, soon or late, in transactions far more
suitable to the boudoir than to the footstool of the Almighty. Their
famous killings have always been made among the silliest sort of
women--the sort, in brief, who fall so short of the normal acumen of
their sex that they are bemused by mere beauty in men.


Such women are in a minority, and so the sex shows a good deal
fewer religious enthusiasts per mille than the sex of sentiment and
belief. Attending, several years ago, the gladiatorial shows of the
Rev. Dr. Billy Sunday, the celebrated American pulpit-clown, I was
constantly struck by the great preponderance of males in the pen
devoted to the saved. Men of all ages and in enormous numbers
came swarming to the altar, loudly bawling for help against their
sins, but the women were anything but numerous, and the few
who appeared were chiefly either chlorotic adolescents or pathetic
old Saufschwestern. For six nights running I sat directly beneath the
gifted exhorter without seeing a single female convert of what
statisticians call the child-bearing age--that is, the age of maximum
intelligence and charm. Among the male simpletons bagged by his
yells during this time were the president of a railroad, half a dozen
rich bankers and merchants, and the former governor of an
American state. But not a woman of comparable position or
dignity. Not a woman that any self-respecting bachelor would care