How dear, how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling the lonely place, effacing the scars of our mistakes and disappointments.—Emerson.

That grand sin of atheism or impiety, Melancthon calls it monstrosam melancholiam, monstrous melancholy; or venenatam melancholiam, poisoned melancholy.—Burton.

It would be very far from the truth to say that when people cast off their orthodox creeds they turn their morals out of doors. Some of the noblest and most beautiful souls maintain their pure and lovely lives in spite of their having long ceased to be Christians—that is, as far as they can tell—for sure it is that many such follow Christ and know it not, perhaps follow Him very much closer than more orthodox believers. Still, it must be confessed from an impartial view of the question, that these cases are quite exceptional, that they cannot be claimed as the fruits of atheism. For one such opponent of Christian teaching who lives an exemplary life in spite of his want of faith, a thousand quiet, self-sacrificing men and women could be found. Of course, philosophy and high culture will do something for mankind. It did something for the pagan world, it does much for the Buddhist and Confucian peoples. But the note of all these philosophers is Melancholy, and the note of all true Christian folk is Cheerfulness. “Christianity alone stands between the human intellect and madness.”

Elsworth could not but notice the despair which at times and in moments of confidence was so manifest in Dr. Day and his daughter, and Linda and her brother; they were “without hope and without God in the world.” They often lamented that they could not believe, and enjoy the peace of God that passes all understanding. How often in the wards of the hospital or at the bedsides of out-door patients had he been moved by the contrast offered by the simple, sublime faith of some poor suffering Christian man or woman, whose sick-room was illumined by a light that never sprang from the human intellect, but rayed forth from the face of God Himself. Peace that yet was not indifference, cheerfulness that was not stoicism, made the chambers and the couches of these men and women unspeakably different from those of their unbelieving neighbours. Prayer, “the window that opens towards the infinite,” as a great writer has beautifully expressed it, brought light and warmth and joy to these poor souls; and his atheist friends would not have made proselytes of them on any account. They said that for these folk their religion was philosophy made easy, and thought this accounted for the matter satisfactorily.

The chaplain of a general hospital should be a man of liberal ideas and wide sympathies; he should be capable of taking an interest in the daily life of his charges, and try to see the things that interest them as much as possible from their own points of view. Here he will meet with people who have perhaps had no instruction in religion whatever, and whose sole knowledge of its working has been gathered from the misrepresentations of a street infidel orator or the ignorant distortions of an atheist journal. To such he cannot be too human and unecclesiastical. He must not talk “Church” to them, but the simplest, most loving human words. One of the St. Bernard chaplains made a great mistake when he asked everybody “if they had said their prayers.” He never got to their hearts, and no wonder. The new chaplain, Mr. Anderson, was a man of very different stamp; he was of Charles Kingsley’s school, and seemed familiar with every calling and phase of the life of his people. He was a devoted son of the Church, but you did not find it out by any symbols or tone. The fact that no patient, whether heathen, Christian, or “unattached,” left the hospital without being the better for knowing him, proved his fitness for his work.

He taught many an indifferent one the true spirit and method of prayer, and many thanked God for the accident or malady which had brought them under his happy influence. In him they had secured at least one friend for life, for discharge from the wards was not the usual termination of the friendship of Mr. Anderson. Before he came the chapel was seldom attended by the resident students; their pews were conspicuous by their emptiness, but he won even them, and helped many out of difficulties with the authorities. Mr. Horsley, the late chaplain of Clerkenwell prison, tells us he learned thieves’ slang, the better to acquaint himself with his flock. Mr. Anderson had some very curious specimens of humanity to deal with who required almost as much skill on his part, for many men injured in unlawful proceedings are taken to hospitals and watched by the police till their recovery permits their removal. He neglected not even these.