Hamlin ascended the pulpit.
He chose for his text a maxim of Bishop Berkeley:
"Where the heart is right, there is true patriotism."
The shuffling of skirts and occasional coughs soon died down. Sir Geoffrey, from his coign of vantage in the chancel, perceived with some astonishment that Hamlin had a script on the cushion in front of him. As a rule he preached without notes. The Squire inferred rightly that the Parson deemed his theme to be of such paramount importance that he distrusted the effect of one careless, unconsidered word. Hamlin, however, possessed long sight. He could read his typewritten sheets without lifting them. Few in the congregation were aware of them.
He began with the curt statement that the actual word "patriotism" is not to be found in the Bible. This challenged attention immediately. The Squire fidgeted. He considered that Hamlin had made a shockingly bad start. A weapon had been thrust into the hands of recalcitrants. This apprehension, however, vanished as the preacher set forth convincingly, in words that children could understand, the obsessing love of country, of the Promised Land, which informed and sustained God's Chosen People during forty weary years in the wilderness. With a swift transition, he passed to the New Testament, dwelling, with more insistence, upon the love that had inspired simple, obscure men to forsake home, country and kindred, to fight God's battles in new and strange countries. When he paused, before touching his real theme, he had the ears of his congregation. He indulged in no gestures, his familiar tones fell quietly. So far, what he had said was preparatory, novel neither in theme nor treatment. None knew better than he how sadly his parishioners were lacking in imagination. His success, as a preacher, had not been gained by dealing with abstractions or by inviting ill-educated persons to transplant themselves to surroundings and conditions which the wisest of moderns find difficulty in apprehending. Hamlin believed in the personal appeal.
He leaned forward out of his pulpit, gazing keenly at the faces upturned to his.
"I am wondering," he said slowly, "how many of you young unmarried men will be here a few Sundays from now?"
He paused again. His voice was gentler:
"I am wondering, also, what the mothers and sisters and sweethearts of these young men are thinking to-day, and what part they mean to play—to-morrow." Then he said austerely: "Where the heart is right, there is true patriotism."
Many hearts began to beat faster, as he went on, picking his way, pausing again and again, but never faltering. The Squire, upright in his comfortable chair, became conscious of the man's grip upon everybody present, gentle and simple. He could see their tense faces.