voice. He has the look of one whose head has long been thrust out of a
window gloomily expecting an accident to happen at the street corner.
FitzGerald once admirably described the face of Carlyle as wearing "a
crucified expression." No such bitterness of pain and defeat shows in
the face of Dr. Gore. But his look is the look of one who has not
conquered and who expects further, perhaps greater disaster.

He has told us that "a man must be strong at the centre before he can be
free at the circumference of his being," and in support of this doctrine
he quotes the words of Jesus, "It is better to enter into life halt or
maimed rather than having two hands or two feet to go into hell." Has he
reached strength at the centre, one wonders, by doing violence to any
part of his moral being? Is his strength not the strength of the whole
man but the strength only of his will, a forced strength to which his
reason has not greatly contributed and into which his affections have
not entirely entered? Is this, one asks, the reason of that look in his
face, the look of bafflement, of perplexity, of a permanently troubled
conscience, of a divided self, a self that is both maimed and halt?

How is it, we ask ourselves, that a man who makes so profound an
impression on those who know him, and who commands as no other teacher
of his time the affectionate veneration of the Christian world, and who
has placed himself whole-heartedly in political alliance with the
militant forces of victorious Labour, exercises so little influence in
the moral life of the nation? How is it that he suggests to us no
feeling of the relation of triumphant leadership, but rather the spirit
of Napoleon on the retreat from Moscow?

We learn from his teaching that no one can be a Christian without "a
tremendous act of choice," that Christ proclaimed His standard with