"
_Barnabas_. "Then--all men might succeed."
_The Preacher_. "Assuredly! for success is the common heritage of Man.
It is only Self, blind, ignorant Self, who is the coward, crying 'I
cannot! I dare not! It is impossible!'"
_Barnabas_. "What do you mean by 'Self'?"
_The Preacher_. "I mean the grosser part, the slave that panders to
the body, a slave that, left unchecked, may grow into a tyrant, a
Circe, changing Man to brute."
Here Barnabas, having finished his bread and butter, very
thoughtfully cut himself another slice.
_Barnabas_ (still thoughtful). "And do you still go about preaching
Forgetfulness of Self, sir?"
_The Preacher_. "And Forgiveness, yes. A good theme, young sir,
but--very unpopular. Men prefer to dwell upon the wrongs done them,
rather than cherish the memory of benefits conferred. But,
nevertheless, I go up and down the ways, preaching always."
_Barnabas_. "Why, then, I take it, your search is still unsuccessful."
_The Preacher_. "Quite! Sometimes a fear comes upon me that she may be
beyond my reach--"
_Barnabas_. "You mean--?"
_The Preacher_. "Dead, sir. At such times, things grow very black
until I remember that God is a just God, and therein lies my sure
and certain hope.
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