the deep concern of a friend, he went at once to the heart of his errand.
The rector heard him through without interruption, apparently unperturbed.
"I cannot resign," was his answer.
"Why not?" asked Westgate.
"I will tell you. In the first place it would be a tacit admission that I am in the wrong. I cannot admit that, for I believe that I am indubitably right. In the next place, to resign would be breaking faith with the hundreds of humble folk to whom I have promised the privileges of Christ Church, and who are even now, in a sense, receiving them. Were I to leave your pulpit they would be as sheep without a shepherd. I do not speak in self-aggrandizement. I simply know that no one whom your vestry would be likely to call to succeed me could fill, or would try to fill, the place which I now hold in their hearts and confidence. Were I to go the respect that these people now have for the Church would disappear, the religious sensibility that has been awakened in them would be destroyed, they would go back to their old, churchless, hopeless, irreligious life, unreconciled either to God or man. I tell you, Westgate, I cannot resign."
"Do you think that an interest, or even a religion based on a mere personal relation to a pastor, is likely to become an enduring or a fundamental thing in any man's life?"
"Yes; if it is accompanied and followed by conditions which make the gospel that is being preached to him real and satisfying."
"But you should know that the people who are flocking to Christ Church now are merely seeking new sensations. They are improving an opportunity to gratify class resentment against the rich and the well-to-do. They have no thought of attaching themselves permanently to the Church. When the novelty of the thing has worn off they are certain to drift away."
