nestly and
constantly cultivated. It only follows as the result of spiritual
processes in the preacher's own soul. It is not the mere outflowing of
a natural kindliness of disposition, of inborn good nature. It is more
than mere sloppy sentimentality. _That_ kind of pity, if you may call
it by such a name, never tells the truth excepting when it is pleasant,
never preaches a sermon of rebuke, never reasons concerning "judgment
to come." There is no such word as Hell in its vocabulary; there is no
accusation in its programme. The pity we mean blazes up into moral
anger, smites and wounds, and compassionates the while. This pity
requires cultivation. Quoting an old phrase, "it never grew in
Nature's garden." An understanding of men is absolutely essential to
attainment herein. Some one has said that "if we knew all we would
pity all." God _does_ know all and _does_ pity all. The compassion of
Jesus was aided by His knowledge of the multitude; so must ours be. It
is a terrible story--this story of transgression--but those who know it
best water it with tears. Nothing is served by closing our eyes to
facts, though the temptation is great to exercise the mistaken charity
of declining to know. Is there no danger of a cowardly refusal of
vision, of making the fellowship of saints a hiding place whither we
can escape from the sights and shames of the world? Are we quite
guiltless of seeking in the Christian Society a forgetfulness of the
things that wither and blast human souls without? Do none of us make
of the Church "a little garden walled around," where the sound of
crying and of cursing breaks not upon our peace as we dream our happy
dreams? We are sent to look steadfastly upon the sore, to behold and
analyse the very truth, for it is in the measure in which our souls are
pierced that we compassionate.

But the greatest school for the learning of pitifulness is yonder at
the feet of Jesus. In His company hearts grow hard to sin and tender
to sinners. "Is there any sorrow like unto My sorrow?" He cries, and
we know that His sorrow was not for Himself, but for those who spurned
Him. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do," He prays,
and, lo! the cry is for His very murderers, and the music of it melts
our spirit toward the transgressor while the transgression becomes more
hateful in our eyes. Where do you abhor sin as you abhor it upon the
slopes of Calvary? Where do you pity sinners as you