This story would not be amiss, I think, as a sort of ridiculous argument showing what power the gospel ought to have over the human mind. Dr. Moffat tells us of a certain Kaffir, who came to him one day, saying that the New Testament, which the missionary had given him a week before, had spoiled his dog. The man said that his dog had been a very good hunting-dog, but that he had torn the Testament to pieces, and eaten it up, and now he was quite spoiled. “Never mind,” said Dr. Moffat, “I will give you another Testament.” “Oh!” said the man, “it is not that that troubles me, I do not mind the dog spoiling the book, for I could buy another; but the book has spoiled the dog.” “How is that?” inquired the missionary; and the Kaffir replied, “The dog will be of no use to me now, because he has eaten the Word of God, and that will make him love his enemies, so that he will be of no good for hunting.” The man supposed that not even a dog could receive the New Testament without being sweetened in temper thereby; that is, in truth, what ought to be the case with all who feed upon the gospel of Christ. I should not hesitate to tell that story after Dr. Moffat, and I should, of course, use it to show that, when a man has received the truth as it is in Jesus, there ought to be a great change in him, and he ought never to be of any use to his old master again.
When the priests were trying to pervert the natives of Tahiti to Romanism, they had a fine picture which they hoped would convince the people of the excellence of the Church of Rome. There were certain dead logs of wood: whom were they to represent? They were the heretics, who were to go into the fire. And who were these small branches of the tree? They were the faithful. Who were the larger ones? They were the priests. And who were the next? They were the cardinals. And who was the trunk of the tree? Oh, that was the pope! And the root, whom did that set forth? Oh, the root was Jesus Christ! So the poor natives said, “Well, we do not know anything about the trunk or the branches; but we have got the root, and we mean to stick to that, and not give it up.” If we have the root, if we have Christ, we may laugh to scorn all the pretensions and delusions of men.
These stories may make us laugh, but they may also smite error right through the heart, and lay it dead; and they may, therefore, lawfully be used as weapons with which we may go forth to fight the Lord’s battles.
Fifthly, another use of anecdotes and illustrations lies in the fact that they help the memory to grasp the truth. There is a story told—though I will not vouch for the truth of it—of a certain countryman, who had been persuaded by someone that all Londoners were thieves; and, therefore, on coming to London for the first time, he tried to secure his watch by putting it into his waistcoat pocket, and then covering it all over with fishhooks. “Now,” he thought, “if any gentleman tries to get my watch, he will remember it.” The story says that, as he was walking along, he desired to know the time himself, and put his own hand into his pocket, forgetting all about the fishhooks. The effect produced upon him can better be imagined than described. Now, it seems to me that a sermon should always be like that countryman’s pocket, full of fishhooks, so that, if anybody comes in to listen to it, he will get some forget-me-not, some remembrancer, fastened in his ear, and, it may be, in his heart and conscience. Let him drop in just at the end of the discourse, there should be something at the close that will strike and stick. As when we walk in our farmer friends’ fields there are certain burrs that are sure to cling to our clothes; and, rush as we may, some of the relics of the fields remain upon our garments; so there ought to be some burr in every sermon that will stick to those who hear it.
What do you remember best in the discourses you heard years ago? I will venture to say that it is some anecdote that the preacher related. It may possibly be some pithy sentence; but it is more probable that it is some striking story which was told in the course of the sermon. Rowland Hill, a little while before he died, was visiting an old friend, who said to him, “Mr. Hill, it is now sixty-five years since I first heard you preach; but I remember your text, and a part of your sermon.” “Well,” asked the preacher, “what part of the sermon do you recollect?” His friend answered, “You said that some people, when they went to hear a sermon, were very squeamish about the delivery of the preacher. Then you said, ‘Supposing you went to hear the will of one of your relatives read, and you
