But we know better than any one else that the world does not always speak the truth, and that we ourselves have frequently denounced its want of sincerity. How comes it, then, that we are deluded by such fine speeches? In flattering us, the world simply plies its trade; but it is our duty not to give heed to its blandishments. Moreover, there prevails at present a strong and universal conviction that, generally speaking, our sermons are too long. Ask whom you please, enemies and friends, ask even the most fervent Christians--thanks be to God there are intelligent men, and men renowned for their charity among the sincerely religious--ask them, I say, and they will tell you that our sermons and services are too long. And if pious and intelligent men are of that opinion, what must the masses think? Undoubtedly, the intention is praiseworthy. ... We aim at securing a greater good by lengthening out the services and sermon. Still, it is equally certain that in so doing we discard both prudence and charity. It resembles the ordinary treatment of wives, who insist on giving their sick husbands good strong broth, on the plea that it will do them more good than all the chemist's medicines. The intention is unquestionably a kind one; but it is no less true that the regimen, instead of benefiting the patients, is most likely to kill them outright. Alas! the same result has followed a similar injudicious treatment of men's souls. {189} A man of high intellectual attainments, recently converted, declared that the manner in which he was bored by sermons during his youth, had kept him from listening to them for twenty years. We complain, and with reason, that the masses have ceased to frequent the church, and that sermons nowadays are not popular. But do not we assist in driving them away? The services are longer now than they were in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when there was more faith abroad among the people generally.