breath of God upon those with whom I come in contact, making the world
feel that I have no harmony with any of its aims or inclinations, but
that I really belong to Heaven?

By inference, rather than directly, this life is a tremendous
confirmation of the old faith. John Fletcher gained all he had because
he believed the Bible just as it stands. He knew from his own
experience and from daily intercourse with Him that the promises it
contains come direct from the mouth of God, and not from the "sublime
imagination" of some Jew poet, as the contemptible deceivers of our
day would have us believe. If there were any delusion about that old
Book, then John Fletcher was one of the most pitiful specimens of a
degraded superstition this world ever contained. But where, amongst
all the applauded doubt-preachers of our day, is there to be found a
man of love and prayer and power approaching to this one?

Do not let us be discouraged as to the possibility of a life as holy
as this amidst the circumstances of our rushing warfare. John Fletcher
was, after all, only a thorough disciple of Him who had not where to
lay His head. None of us are called to live amidst denser crowds, more
hurry, worry, or contention of any sort than was the daily lot of our
Heavenly Master. This book would draw us farther from Him, not nearer,
if it only made us thirst for retirement and stillness, for hours of
meditation or privacy. It is, not the imitation of Fletcher, but the
imitation of Christ to which these pages are meant to call us. Most of
us may never possess many of the charming traits of this most refined
gentleman. We may perhaps suit God's purposes amidst the rough crowd
all the better for that. But, depend upon it, close intercourse with
the Nazarene is as possible amidst the throngs of London, or Glasgow,
or New York, or Madras, as it was in the alleys of Jerusalem or