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years have sported there amid granite columns torn from the vast arches of ruined temples. These memorials of ancient splendor serve to throw into relief the humble simplicity of the shrines of primitive Christianity.

In the midst of this city of palaces and temples the Christian disciples are huddled together in the upper room, probably of some private dwelling. The ship which is to carry S. Paul to Jerusalem rocks in the harbor. The prospect of his departure has brought every Christian in Troas to the place of meeting, to receive Holy Communion at his hands and to hear his final words. The night is dark, for three weeks have not elapsed since the Passover feast, when the moon was full. The atmosphere of the upper room is hot and stifling. There is added to the intense heat of the evening not only the sweltering of the crowd that chokes the entrances and windows, but the reeking of many lights that are set about for illumination and ceremonial

use.

Every preacher who has attempted to address a congregation on a hot summer day, and every member of a congregation who

has attempted to listen under such conditions, can realize that there is no sort of ordinary discomfort which renders more difficult the effort of commanding or giving sustained attention.

S. Paul is preaching earnestly, and, in the fervor of his enthusiasm, thinks not of heat, or discomfort, or the lateness of the hour, or of the length of his discourse.

Many preachers prolong their sermons beyond what they intend, partly because it is easier to expand one's thoughts than to state them concisely, but chiefly because time passes with such incredible swiftness to one who speaks of what interests himself. As the seven years which Jacob served for Rachel seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her, so the discourse which sometimes wearies the congregation by its prolixity seems to the preacher to occupy but a few moments, because of the love he has for his subject.

It is fair to assume, however, that S. Paul holds the close attention of his congregation, with the single exception of this young man named Eutychus,

who sits in a window where the lat

tice, overlooking the courtyard, is open for air. There is a descriptive exactness in the tense of the Greek verbs in the narrative that brings this young man vividly before us. As S. Paul continues long in preaching, the young man's head begins to droop, the words of the sermon grow indistinct and drowsy, his body relaxes, his head sinks low upon his breast;-suddenly he lurches and falls headlong from the window into the courtyard below.

The congregation is thrown into confusion. Some rush down the outer stairs into the courtyard. Eutychus lies there, apparently killed by the fall. But S. Paul hastens to the spot, flings aside the crowd, throws his arms about the young man, and cries, "Trouble not yourselves. For his life is in him!"

There is perhaps no person mentioned in the New Testament who has so singular a claim for distinction as Eutychus, since the one thing we learn of him is that he went to sleep while S. Paul was preaching. Judas was a traitor, and Ananias was a liar, and Stephen was a hero, and Peter was a prince of apostles. Such claims to fame and infamy are comprehensible. But the name of this

man is preserved for nearly two thousand years, who went to hear S. Paul, and in the discourse of one of the most flaming and dominant personalities of all human history was so little interested that he fell asleep.

S. Paul was a man who universally stirred either the most intense devotion, or the most implacable hostility. The jailer who imprisoned S. Paul at Philippi heard him speak, and fell at his feet a suppliant; the people at Lystra heard him speak, and brought oxen and garlands to do sacrifice unto him, believing him to be one of the gods; Felix the governor heard him speak, and trembled upon his throne; the mob at Jerusalem heard him speak, and cast off their clothes, threw dust in the air, and cried, "Away with such a fellow from the earth, for it is not fit that he should live!" Nero heard him speak, and had him put to death by the sword.

But Eutychus heard him speak, and went fast asleep.

Eutychus was a man whose purpose and profession were Christian, else he would not have been attracted by that gathering of Christians in Troas. But he was lacking in Christian enthusiasm, else he could not have fallen asleep, despite adverse conditions,

while listening to the foremost Christian hero of his time. He stands as a type of conventional Christian, who if he does little evil, does very little good. He is unenthusiastic, lukewarm. He is a Laodicean. Dante discovers such a type in his Inferno:

This miserable measure the wretched souls maintain,
Of those who lived apart from infamy or praise;
Mingled are they with that caitiff choir of angels,
Who were not rebels, nor holding faith to God,
But lived all for themselves.

To be not less glorious, the heavens chased them out,
Nor doth the depth of Hell receive such shades
Because the damned would have some glory from them.

As we look back through the vista of centuries to the conquests of S. Paul and his companions, they appear among the most romantic exploits of Christian heroism. But we can perhaps realize, in recalling the actual scene at Troas, that to a man like Eutychus the whole thing was most unromantic. A hot, upper room crowded with perspiring people, and a converted Pharisee talking for hours about the conquest of the world! Where was the romance in that?

As Eutychus looked at the things of his day, so, perhaps, we are tempted to look at The romance is always of yesterday.

ours.

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