and that was his wish to defeat my installation as pastor of that
church, or make it to me a disagreeable experience.

As soon as he opened upon me a fire of interrogations, what little
spirit I had in me dropped. In the agitation I could not answer the
simplest questions. But he assailed me with puzzlers. He wanted to know,
among other things, if Christ's atonement availed for other worlds; to
which I replied that I did not know, as I had never studied theology in
any world but this. He hooked me with the horns of a dilemma. A Turkish
bath, with the thermometer up to 113, is cool compared to the
perspiration into which he threw me. At this point Rev. James W. Scott,
D.D. (that was his real name, and not fictitious) arose. Dr. Scott was a
Scotchman of about 65 years of age. He had been a classmate of the
remarkable Scottish poet, Robert Pollock. The Doctor was pastor of a
church at Newark, N.J. He was the impersonation of kindness, and
generosity, and helpfulness. The Gospel shone from every feature. I
never saw him under any circumstances without a smile on his face. He
had been on the Mount of Transfiguration, and the glory had never left
his countenance.

I calculate the value of the soul by its capacity for happiness. How
much joy it can get in this world--out of friendships, out of books, out
of clouds, out of the sea, out of flowers, out of ten thousand things!
Yet all the joy it has here does not test its capacity.

As Dr. Scott rose that day he said, "Mr. President, I think this
examination has gone on long enough, and I move it be stopped, and that
the examination be pronounced satisfactory, and that this young man be
licensed to preach the Gospel, and that this afternoon we proceed to his
ordination and installation." The motion was put and carried, and I was