and another innovation would have explained such a Christ, that nothing would remain to believe in—only think of Him becomingly and—you will be good. But even that was difficult in this case: how was my fine fellow to commence thinking, when all his thinking powers were frozen into a lump, and he could not thaw them again.
I remembered how Karl von Eckartshausen with the simplest comparisons was able admirably to convey to simple people the greatness of Christ's sacrifice in coming to earth, by making the comparison of a free man who, through his love for criminal prisoners, went to dwell with them in prison so as to share their sinful nature. Very simple and good; but my hearer, thanks to circumstances, knew no greater villains than those from whom he was running away to prevent them from baptizing him; he knew no other place, that might have produced on him greater horror, to compare with the terrible place he always inhabited. . . . Nothing could be done for him—either with Massillon or Bourdalone, or Eckartshausen. There he was poking his stick into the snow or cracking it—his face like a lump of soapsuds—there was no expression in his peep-holes (it would be a shame to call them eyes); there was not a spark of the soul's fire; even the sound
