Not far away from this old lady, not more than three-quarters of a
mile at most, sat Mr. Parchester in his luxurious study, writing a
perfectly beautiful, sustaining sermon about the Need of Faith in God.
He was a handsome, earnest, modern preacher, he was rector of one of
our big West End churches, and he had amassed a large, fashionable
congregation. Every Sunday, and at convenient intervals during the
week, he fought against Modern Materialism, Scientific Education,
Excessive Puritanism, Pragmatism, Doubt, Levity, Selfish
Individualism, Further Relaxation of the Divorce Laws, all the Evils
of our Time--and anything else that was unpopular. He believed quite
simply, he said, in all the old, simple, kindly things. He had the
face of a saint, but he had rendered this generally acceptable by
growing side whiskers. And nothing could tame the beauty of his voice.
He was an enormous asset in the spiritual life of the metropolis--to
give it no harsher name--and his fluent periods had restored faith and
courage to many a poor soul hovering on the brink of the dark river of
thought....
And just as beautiful Christian maidens played a wonderful part in the
last days of Pompeii, in winning proud Roman hearts to a hated and
despised faith, so Mr. Parchester's naturally graceful gestures, and
his simple, melodious, trumpet voice won back scores of our half-pagan
rich women to church attendance and the social work of which his
church was the centre....
And now by the light of an exquisitely shaded electric lamp he was
writing this sermon of quiet, confident belief (with occasional hard
smacks, perfect stingers in fact, at current unbelief and rival
leaders of opinion) in the simple, divine faith of our fathers....
When there came this truncated trump and this vision....