had given before the Convention. Again he said, and at length and with
distressing detail, that the Church had wandered away from the Master's
teaching, and that Mammon had been instated in the place of Christ.

And the result was, willy-nilly, that he was led away to a private
sanitarium for mental disease, while in the newspapers appeared
pathetic accounts of his mental breakdown and of the saintliness of
his character. He was held a prisoner in the sanitarium. I called
repeatedly, but was denied access to him; and I was terribly impressed
by the tragedy of a sane, normal, saintly man being crushed by the
brutal will of society. For the Bishop was sane, and pure, and noble. As
Ernest said, all that was the matter with him was that he had incorrect
notions of biology and sociology, and because of his incorrect notions
he had not gone about it in the right way to rectify matters.

What terrified me was the Bishop's helplessness. If he persisted in the
truth as he saw it, he was doomed to an insane ward. And he could do
nothing. His money, his position, his culture, could not save him. His
views were perilous to society, and society could not conceive that such
perilous views could be the product of a sane mind. Or, at least, it
seems to me that such was society's attitude.

But the Bishop, in spite of the gentleness and purity of his spirit, was
possessed of guile. He apprehended clearly his danger. He saw himself
caught in the web, and he tried to escape from it. Denied help from his
friends, such as father and Ernest and I could have given, he was
left to battle for himself alone. And in the enforced solitude of the
sanitarium he recovered. He became again sane. His eyes ceased to see
visions; his brain was purged of the fancy that it was the duty of
society to feed the Master's lambs.