much in the way of commanding attention, and even winning reverence, but very little in the way of gaining souls; the bitterest, the most crushing discovery in the whole circle of ministerial experience.  All this was seeming failure.

And this, brethren, is the picture of almost all human life.  To some moods, and under some aspects, it seems, as it seemed to the psalmist, “Man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain.”  Go to any churchyard, and stand ten minutes among the grave-stones; read inscription after inscription recording the date of birth, and the date of death, of him who lies below, all the trace which myriads have left behind, of their having done their day’s work on God’s earth,—­that is failure or—­seems so.  Cast the eye down the columns of any commander’s despatch after a general action.  The men fell by thousands; the officers by hundreds.  Courage, high hope, self-devotion, ended in smoke—­forgotten by the time of the next list of slain:  that is the failure of life once more.  Cast your eye over the shelves of a public library—­there is the hard toil of years, the product of a life of thought; all that remains of it is there in a worm-eaten folio, taken down once in a century.  Failure of human life again.  Stand by the most enduring of all human labours, the pyramids of Egypt.  One hundred thousand men, year by year, raised those enormous piles to protect the corpses of the buried from rude inspection.  The spoiler’s hand has been there, and the bodies have been rifled from their mausoleum, and three thousand years have written “failure” upon that.  In all that, my Christian brethren, if we look no deeper than the surface, we read the grave of human hope, the apparent nothingness of human labour.

And then look at this history once more.  In the isolation of John’s dying hour, there appears failure again.  When a great man dies we listen to hear what he has to say, we turn to the last page of his biography first, to see what he had to bequeath to the world as his experience of life.  We expect that the wisdom, which he has been hiving up for years, will distil in honeyed sweetness then.  It is generally not so.  There is stupor and silence at the last.  “How dieth the wise man?” asks Solomon:  and he answers bitterly, “As the fool.”  The martyr of truth dies privately in Herod’s dungeon.  We have no record of his last words.  There were no crowds to look on.  We cannot describe how he received his sentence.  Was he calm?  Was he agitated?  Did he bless his murderer?  Did he give utterance to any deep reflections on human life?  All that is shrouded in silence.  He bowed his head, and the sharp stroke fell flashing down.  We know that, we know no more—­apparently a noble life abortive.

And now let us ask the question distinctly, Was all this indeed failure?  No, my Christian brethren, it was sublimest victory.  John’s work was no failure; he left behind him no sect to