A clear statement of this truth holds out hopeful encouragement
to the man whose theological attainments could not be described
as "brilliant": it teaches, too, the man who has distinguished
himself in theology that if he ambitions being a preacher he has
an entirely new set of sciences to master, but, best of all, it
breaks into small bits an oft-used weapon in the hands of the
young preacher's arch-enemy--the critic.

[Side note: The critic at work]

How often do we see this self-constituted oracle rely for his
sole support on this sophistry?

You turn from a church door filled with admiration; there is a
glow of rapture around your heart; every nerve is tingling; you
have been enthralled. A truth, old indeed but now dressed in a
new robe, lives before your mind with a meaning and a richness of
colour never experienced before. Your will is swept captive on
the crest of that subtle tide of unseen fire that seems to fill
the air. You are bracing yourself to a heroic resolve. The
preacher's voice, like ceaseless music, is still thrilling down
through the avenues of your soul. When the critic comes and in
pity asks you--"Do you really think that a good sermon?" he
compassionates your poor judgment, leads you to the library,
takes down a volume of Lehmkuhl or Suarez, and with a triumphant
wave of his hand assures you that every idea in that sermon may
be found there.

You are now face to face with the most perplexing of