and church government? What are we put here for,
if it is not to learn, every year, every day, every
hour if we can. And of what use is all this learning
if we are not to advance by means of it? And how
could we move a step if we did not tell our neighbor
what we think we have learned—that is,
tell him our opinions. I say to you, Madam (and
I say it the more freely that she is out of hearing),
that opinions rule the world, and while it may be
possible that mine do not rule my own household, it
impairs their value no more than imprisonment and
persecution did those of other philosophers in the
past. An opinion is a valuable thing—in
its information if it is true, in the mental exercise
it gives in combating it, if it is error, and in any
event as a feather that indicates which way the wind
is blowing—in what direction the blind
mole of man’s finite judgment is groping around
its prison in search of an outlet to the infinite.
And that is true, Madam, whether you call them opinions,
or o-pin-ions!
OBSERVATIONS OF A RETIRED VETERAN II
You have been to the Conference? So have I, but
it was twelve years ago. Still I shall never
forget a scene I witnessed there. It was in the
same Methodist church that this one is being held in.
For days I had been interested in a plain, homely-faced
minister, considerably past his half century, who
came in evidently with great pain on crutches.
The town bell striking the hour was not more punctual
than the sound of his crutches. His hands were
distorted by rheumatism, his limbs twisted, and his
face had a patient look as of one who had suffered
for a hundred years. His face was rough, but somewhere
about its expression there was a graciousness that
attracted my attention. One other expression
in it struck me; it was the air of a man who had finished
his work. Not that he hadn’t frequent consultations
with the ministers who approached him, or showed any
lack of interest in what was going on, but just a
look as if he was doing anything for the last time.
Once he got up and made an official report of some
kind to the Bishop. As he closed it, his eyes
burned with an intense anxiety and he opened his lips
as if to say something. But it was left unsaid,
and as he painfully resumed his seat the old look
returned. As the close of the Conference approached,
I saw him several times with his head bent over the
back of the pew. It was on an evening very near
the close. The rays of the westering March sun
shone through the windows with a cold, cheerless light.
His name was called. He raised his head.
His face was flushed. He struggled to his feet
and with his crutches hobbled around the aisle to
the front of the pulpit, where he stood, balancing
himself on his crutches. And then the story came
out. It was told to those in the seats rather
than to the Bishop. He had entered the ministry
young and had hoped to give his whole life to God.
