This is an adaptation of the first chapter of Ichabod Spencer’s “A Pastor’s Sketches Vol 1.” The story was updated from old English to current day English. We have worked hard to keep the story unedited.
A True Account
On a very hot day in July, a boy came to my house with a gentleman’s card, saying that a lady had sent him to ask me to visit a young man who was sick. Both the lady and the young man were strangers to me. I had never heard of either of them. They lived more than three miles away from me, in another city. As I understood it, the lady attended the ministry of another clergyman who was away from home. I couldn’t learn from the boy why she had sent for me. I was very busy, the day was intensely hot, the place was far away, and many other clergymen were closer to it. For these reasons, I felt inclined to excuse myself from going. As I was considering the matter, the boy, as if reading my thoughts, spoke out earnestly: “She said you must come.”
I went, though I felt it was a hardship. Finding the street and the house number from the card that was sent to me, I rang the bell and asked for the young man whose name was on the card. I was shown to his room. He was seated in an easy chair with a book in his hand and appeared somewhat pale and weak, but not very sick. He rose to receive me. I told him who I was and that the boy who brought me his card said he was sick and would be glad to see me. He made no reply except to offer me his hand and ask me to be seated. We had some general conversation in which he took the lead, but he said nothing about sending for me. Aside from his paleness and an occasional cough, I saw nothing in him to indicate the presence of any disease.
He told me something of his history. He was a young Irishman about twenty-six years old, educated in one of the European colleges, had studied law in Ireland, and intending to enter the legal profession in this country, had been engaged in his studies here for about two years. He was a man of dignified appearance, very handsome in manner, fluent in conversation, perfectly at ease, and evidently had a sharp mind. He had seen much of the world and told me he was fond of society. But for the last six months, since his health began to decline, he had been very secluded, according to his physician’s advice. He said, “I’ve been forced to exchange the society of living men for the society of dead men, and was just amusing myself with reading Tacitus’ De Moribus Germanorum when you came in.”
He showed no desire to discuss the subject of my visit. On the contrary, he seemed to avoid it. He changed the subject of conversation so often when I tried to introduce it that I was forced to ask him plainly if he wanted to see me for any particular reason. He was silent for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then replied:
“It would certainly seem very rude of me to say I didn’t wish to see you, since you’ve taken the trouble to come so far through the dust and heat. But I think it would be really rude of me not to tell you exactly the truth. I have an old aunt who is a very religious woman, and she’s been urging me to send for you almost ever since I’ve been secluded here. She thinks I’m not going to live long and has talked to me often about religion. But since she and I couldn’t think alike, she insisted that I ought to talk with some minister of the gospel, and finally became so insistent that I reluctantly agreed. But you’ll allow me to say that I would have had no reluctance at all if I had thought she was going to lead me to form such an agreeable acquaintance.”
“I’m happy to know you,” I said, “and am glad it was in my power to answer your call.”
“It was she that called,” he said. “When I agreed to see a clergyman, I left the selection and all the arrangements entirely to her, and she selected you. I told her the selection was in her area of expertise, since she was religious and I was not, and that I would judge religion very much by the example of the minister she sent to me.”
I answered, “I must take care, then, how I conduct myself, if you’re going to base your opinion of religion on that. And I suppose, in fairness, you’ll allow me to judge the science of law in the same way.”
“Ah!” he said. “I’ll have to object to that point. I’d be sorry to have you form your opinion of the law by such an example of the legal profession as myself.”
“Your objection certainly can’t help you,” I said. “If it applies at all, it’s easy to turn it against you. Since religion is a much higher matter than law, it shouldn’t be demanded that a man should be as good a representative of it as a man should be of law. And if you object to my forming an opinion of law by the impression I have of one of its disciples, much more may I object to your forming an opinion of religion on that basis.”
“Well, indeed,” he said, “I can’t argue with that. You’ve defeated me on the first try. But aren’t you a lawyer? Your argument suggests as much.”
“Not at all. I’m only a very ordinary minister. But since your aunt has done me the honor of sending for me, I’d be happy to meet her. Does she live here?”
“No. She lives a little distance away. I must tell you, she’s very private and lives very secluded, though she spends much of her time with me. I doubt whether she’ll allow you to see her at all. She’s not as young as she used to be. She’s been a beautiful woman—an elegant woman. And I tell her that her pride keeps her away from society now because she’s not as attractive as she once was. But she seems to think that idea is an insult to her religion and wonders that I can think of such a thing and can’t have enough sense and seriousness to rise above such trivial thoughts.”
“Where do you and she differ on the subject of religion?”
“Really, sir, I can hardly answer that question. We never disagree, except in a friendly way. But though she’s a woman of very fine mind, in my opinion, her ideas are too strict for me.”
“Perhaps she’s examined the subject of religion more than you have.”
“I have no doubt,” he said, “that she’s spent more time on it. But my mind isn’t formed to take things on trust. I want knowledge. I’m not prepared to yield to assumptions and dogmatism.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” I said, “but perhaps you and I wouldn’t agree about your aunt yielding to assumptions and dogmatism. We’re not accustomed to do that in religion. I venture to say that your aunt isn’t guilty of it. And I say this because I know that we who embrace the cause of religion are not credulous, assuming, or dogmatic. On the contrary, the rejecters of religion are themselves the most credulous, assuming, and dogmatic people among us.”
“Well, indeed,” he said, “you’ve fairly thrown down the gauntlet to me.”
“Not at all. You threw it down in the name of your aunt, and I, as her champion, pick it up. I’m prepared for the contest the very moment you name any specific matter of disagreement between yourself and her.”
“I must give you credit for considerable gallantry,” he said. “Your chivalry is of high order indeed if you’ll so readily take the side of a lady who’s entirely a stranger to you and are prepared to defend her opinions when you don’t even know them.”
“I risk nothing, however,” I said. “And I’m prepared to contest the point you named, or any other point. You mentioned her taking things on trust—her yielding to dogmatism and assumption.”
“Yes, I did. But I didn’t mean her in particular. I mean religious people in general.”
“So I supposed. And I now ask you what it is that we take on trust, or assume, or how we dogmatize any more than you lawyers dogmatize.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I was referring to what my aunt is constantly saying about God. She seems to me to assume his existence, character, and government over us. I tell her that I want knowledge.”
“Very well,” I said. “That’s a specific point. Let’s get it clearly fixed in mind and then bring it before the bar of our reason. The question is this: Is the existence, is the character, is the government of God known to us? Are these things matters of knowledge? I affirm (on your aunt’s behalf) they are. You deny it.”
“Right,” he said. “That’s the question. And since you’re the plaintiff, you must open the case. Yours is the affirmative. Bring on your witnesses. I only have to deny and show that your proofs are insufficient.”
“Very well,” I said. “We’re agreed so far. I’ll begin the argument. The matter before us concerns knowledge. Therefore, I have a preliminary question to settle first, and I think it can be settled amicably between us without any debate. I now put the question to you: What is knowledge?”
“You’ve taken me by surprise,” he said, a little confused and hesitating.
“Certainly,” I said, “the question is a fair one, and it’s up to you to answer it. It’s you who complain of your aunt that she doesn’t have knowledge on a particular subject to which she urges you to pay attention. We’re going to examine the question, and therefore we ought to know what we’re talking about so we can understand one another. You say you ‘want knowledge,’ and I ask, what do you mean by knowledge? I’m only giving you a fair opportunity to explain your own word.”
“Why, sir,” he said with a forced smile, “I venture to say that you and I use that very common word in the same sense.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “In our profession we don’t allow any assumptions. We take nothing on trust. We never dogmatize.”
He laughed quite heartily at this and replied, “I believe I’ve been away from court too long. My wit isn’t sharp enough for this contest just now. You’ve defeated me again.”
“Oh,” I said, “your wit isn’t at fault, but your assumption, your taking things on trust, your dogmatism.”
“Well,” he said, “since I admit defeat on this point, you’ll do me the favor of answering the question yourself. I’ll agree with the answer if I can without hurting my case.”
“Most willingly,” I said. “But this is a serious and momentous subject. It’s the most momentous of anything on this side of death. Let’s deal with it in a careful and honest manner.”
“I will,” he said, “most certainly.”
I said, “Knowledge is founded on certainty. Something must be certain, or it cannot be known. Knowledge is the awareness that the mind has of realities, of facts, of some certainty or truth. It exists in the mind. The realities may exist outside of the mind or inside of it. But they exist first, and when the mind makes a determination of them, it gains knowledge. That determination is made by what we call proofs or evidences. And these evidences will vary as the subjects of knowledge or the certainties vary. There’s one sort of proof for mathematical knowledge, another sort for legal knowledge, and another for historical knowledge. But each is good in its place and sufficient. You wouldn’t expect me to prove a truth in morals or history by mathematical demonstration, or a truth about the soul by the evidence of eyes that cannot see it, or a truth about the invisible God by the authority of a law book like Blackstone, Starkie, or Vattel. But whatever evidences or proofs do properly and justly convince a reasonable understanding furnish that understanding with knowledge, because they enable it to determine a reality, a certainty, so that the conviction of the mind agrees with the fact. That’s what I call knowledge. Do you agree with the explanation?”
He replied, “I have no fault to find with it. And if the whole of religion was as clear and certain as that, I wouldn’t reject it.”
“The whole of it is as clear and certain as that, whatever you may think about it.”
“But,” he said, “how do you apply your explanation to the existence of God? What are the evidences of his existence?”
“There are numerous evidences, sir, and appropriate ones. Your own existence is one of them, and not a minor one. You are an effect. There’s a cause somewhere adequate to produce such an effect. That cause, whatever it is, is God. You didn’t make yourself. Your parents, your ancestors, however far back you trace them, were not self-created. Your own mind assigns a cause somewhere, an original cause, and that cause is God. And you’re just as certain that there is such a God as you are that you yourself are an effect. You know it just as well—not in the same way, but just as certainly. And you know you’re an effect of an intelligent cause. Your common sense won’t allow you to believe that you and all your ancestors came from accident, from chance. You don’t find chance operating in such a way. You don’t throw dust in the air and find it come down as a man or a monkey. If you should find anywhere a machine, living or dead, that had in it a tenth of the manifestations of intention, power, and skill as your own mortal body, you couldn’t avoid believing that some mind had designed it and some power beyond itself had brought it into existence. You would know it as well as you know anything. The perfect proof is before you. And your own living body and thinking mind are perfect proofs of the existence, power, and wisdom of God. There’s no assumption or dogmatism in this. It’s only cool and certain reasoning that leads to an inevitable conclusion, and the conclusion is knowledge.
“On the same principle, the whole universe and its living inhabitants, rational and irrational—its suns and comets, its whales and butterflies, its specks and mountains—are proofs of the existence and power of God. And every change, every motion in the universe is evidence that speaks for him. Our reason tells us they are not uncaused. The cause is God.”
To all this, the young man listened with the most fixed attention. He seemed to drink in every word. I thought his attention had tired him, but he said not at all—he loved to think. “But,” he said, “you’ve led me into a new world of thinking. Your positions are very bold, and before I come to any conclusion, I must review the matter in my own mind.”
“Shall I call on you tomorrow?” I said.
He answered, “I can hardly ask it or expect it of you, but if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to see you again. You needn’t be afraid of tiring me. I can study or talk all day.”
The next day I called again. He appeared glad to see me and immediately began to speak of our conversation the day before. He said, “Your bold position yesterday startled me. I’ve been thinking of your argument ever since. I can’t overthrow it. That idea about a change or a motion being an effect, and the human mind assigning a cause to it, and our having knowledge on that basis, was new to me. But I find much that men call knowledge rests precisely on that basis. And yet I’m not fully satisfied. I’ve been accustomed to think that the existence of God was at least doubtful, that the proofs of it were very unclear, and when you brought up my own existence as a proof, it startled me. I’ve often said to my aunt that we know very little about spirit—that we can understand matter, but spirit lies very much beyond our knowledge. It’s all a mystery to us. And now, though I don’t dare challenge your position or your arguments, still it does seem to me that I have a degree of knowledge and certainty about physical things that I cannot have about spirit. And I’d like to hear what you can say on that point.”
“I say that it’s a mere impression,” I said, “a common one indeed, but an erroneous one. There may be some faint excuse for it. Most, if not all, of our primary ideas reach our mind through the inlet of the senses. And therefore, when such an idea as that of spirit is presented to us—spirit, a thing we cannot see, cannot hear, cannot touch, cannot bring within the immediate awareness of any of our bodily senses—the idea appears to lie beyond the grasp of the mind, surrounded by a deep, misty, and mysterious obscurity. If eyes could see it or hands could handle it, men would have none of this seeming uncertainty and doubt. But since they cannot, and since the idea of spirit must come to them through some other channel—for example, by comparison, by reasoning, by tracing effect to cause, or some such method—the whole doctrine of spirit takes on for them a kind of dim and misty significance, too much like an airy fantasy or insubstantial dream. That’s just the state of your mind at the present moment. The seeming uncertainty is not a real uncertainty—it’s only an impression. And that’s the reason why you don’t dare challenge my argument from yesterday. Your reason perceives its truth, but your impression and your prejudice are against it.
“And since I’m on this point now, I’ll pursue it a little further, if you please. From the necessity of our nature while here in the body, most of us are more familiar with physical objects than spiritual ones. We use, from morning till night, our sensory system in our ordinary activities. We gain most of our knowledge itself in that way. And so when we turn to ideas of immateriality, we come into a new field where we’re almost strangers and therefore can’t feel as if we’re among the familiar and well-known realities and certainties of home.”
He replied to this, “Do you mean to say, then, that human knowledge about spirit is as clear and certain as it is about material things?”
“Certainly, sir. I mean to say just that. And I maintain that the idea of the imperfection of our knowledge about spirit is all a mere impression and mere prejudice. The mind has taken an untenable position and has embraced a falsehood when men declare, ‘we know little about spirit—we can understand what matter is, but spirit is beyond our comprehension.'”
“Have you been talking with my aunt?” he said.
“No, sir. I haven’t seen her, though I’d like to very much.”
“I thought you had,” he said, “because I’ve made that statement (which you just condemned) to her a thousand times, and I thought she had told you.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “My position is taken, and I can’t retract. Unless you’ll retract your statement, I’ll be forced to show its falsity.”
“I’m not prepared to retract it at all,” he said. “And if you have boldness enough to attempt to show its falsity, I’m sure you don’t lack courage. And if I’m not asking too much of you, I assure you I’d be greatly pleased to hear what you have to say.”
“Well, then,” I said, “we’re at issue, and I have much to say, perhaps more than you have strength to hear.”
He said, “I’m not tired at all. You needn’t fear. I told you I love to think, and you delight me by setting me to thinking.”
“Then,” I said, “I’ll enter upon the matter. And at the outset, I admit that our knowledge about matter comes in such a way that that knowledge has a vividness and often an impressiveness that belongs to no knowledge gained in another way. We have a sensory system that brings us into contact with matter. Our nerves are affected by it. And through that machinery, as sensitive as it is inexplicable, we have impressions as well as knowledge and have an instant certainty that requires no slow and cool processes of reflection or examination of evidences. We see the sun, and that’s enough—the moment we have the sight, we have the knowledge. We hear the thunder, and that’s enough—the moment we hear, that moment we have the knowledge. We don’t need any other examination.
“Now this sensory machinery and the instant speed and suddenness with which it acts give to the knowledge we gain in this way a vividness, an impressiveness and force. But isn’t that all? Do we have any greater certainty about things seen, things heard, and things handled than we have about things reasoned and demonstrated? How is this? Can we trust the mechanism of our nerves any better than we can trust the multiplication table or the mathematical processes of astronomy and accounting? Any easier than we can trust the deep philosophy of law? Indeed, isn’t it more likely that some malfunction should occur in the mechanism of the senses and make us see wrong, hear wrong, or taste wrong than that the sure processes of mathematical calculation should deceive us? In our knowledge derived through the senses, we can only use our own processes—nobody else can use our nerves of sight, hearing, or taste. But in our knowledge derived through mathematics and in some other ways, we use the same processes that others have used before us and are using all around us. And we can therefore strengthen our own conclusions by theirs and confirm our certainty in knowledge (if needed) by a comparison of calculations. Their processes by which they obtained their knowledge, their certainty, we can make our processes. But we cannot use another man’s eyes or ears or the nervous mechanism by which they act. All we can do is take the testimony of the men who do use them, and then our knowledge rests only on testimony, not on the senses. And because we’re confined to our own machinery of sense and cannot use another man’s machine, we don’t have, in this, one of the advantages for certainty that attend knowledge in mathematics and all other matters of reasoning. We can use another man’s reasoning powers for our assurance, but his eyes are his own, and we cannot use them. We can add the testimony of one man to that of another man, and then add another, and make them all help our own for heightening our assurance and certainty in knowledge. But we can do nothing of this in the knowledge derived from the senses—we cannot borrow another man’s nerves. And it follows from all this surely that, instead of there being more basis of certainty in knowledge derived directly through the senses, there is less certainty than in knowledge that comes in some other ways.”
“Why,” he said, interrupting me, “you don’t mean to say that our knowledge is doubtful when we see and hear?”
“Not exactly that,” I said. “But I’m comparing different bases of knowledge. And I admit that sensory knowledge is more impressive by reason, first, of its nervous machinery, and second, of its instant suddenness. It comes to the mind at once. It makes its impression in a flash. We have no time to get calm or stay calm as we have in the slower business of reasoning out our knowledge. But if this superior impressiveness is not all—if it’s thought that there’s really any superior certainty attending what is known by the senses—let any man attempt to tell what that certainty is or where it lies. He cannot tell. He can tell nothing about it. Indeed, he can conceive nothing about it. The thing defies speculation. I can tell why I believe my eyes sooner than I believe the testimony of an unknown witness before me. I’ve known men to testify falsely more often than I’ve known my eyes to testify falsely, and therefore I have more certainty about my eyes. And I wouldn’t have more certainty if I couldn’t tell why. And if my neighbor can’t tell why his knowledge derived through the senses has more certainty about it than knowledge coming in some other way, though he believes it has, then I must beg leave to think him a very imperfect man. And though I might trust his eyes, I wouldn’t trust his powers of reasoning. The truth is, it’s a mere prejudice when men think that they can know by the senses any more certainly than in other ways. There’s a vividness and impressiveness in knowledge gained through the senses, and this freshness and strength is mistaken for an additional degree of certainty. The idea, then, so common among men, that the senses are the surest means of certainty is all false. We can be equally certain on other grounds. It’s not true that while we have clear knowledge of matter, we have only doubtful knowledge of spirit because spirit doesn’t come within the awareness of the senses. That notion has just mistaken vividness of impression for strength of proof and assumes what is not true—that other kinds of evidence are not equal to the evidence of the senses, that we cannot know because we have not seen.”
“Why,” he said, “if my aunt were here now, she would rejoice over me. I’ve silenced her many a time by saying to her, if I could see God I would believe in him.”
“You’re not alone in that,” I answered. “Many have said it. But if it means anything, it’s only a miserable assumption, a pitiful dogmatism. It assumes that there’s a just suspicion resting upon all evidence except that of sense. It assumes too much. How far does this doubt about spirit intend to go? What is precisely its basis? If its basis is at all definable, it’s this: that a degree of uncertainty attaches to all matters not proven to us by our own senses. This is implied in the very language that men use. They say, ‘if my eyes could see it, if my hands could handle it, I would know. But I cannot see or touch spirit.’ Well now, if we can know nothing but physical objects, our knowledge will be extremely limited. Does this man know that he has a soul? He never saw it—he never handled it—he cannot taste it. Does he know that he has reason, or the power of reasoning, or any mind at all? He cannot see his mind or touch it. How, then, on his own principles, can he certainly know that he has any? Where will his doubting end? He’s bound to doubt whether he has a soul, whether he has an imagination, a memory, a faculty of reason. Indeed, he’s bound to doubt whether he has the power of doubting, because he never saw it, touched it, tasted it, or heard it speak. So that his principle of doubting about spirit, if he’ll only be self-consistent, will cut him off from all that he calls certain knowledge, except merely on the field of matter, and indeed that part of the field that lies within the reach of his fingers, his ears, or his eyes. On his own principles, he cannot certainly know anything more. Just in this absurdity lies every man who exclaims, ‘we cannot know much about spirit—we are certain about matter because our senses can reach it.'”
My young friend appeared to be surprised. He said, “You seem to be fond of turning the tables on me. You make out that the sin of assumption is more mine than my aunt’s.”
“So it is,” I said.
“Well,” he said very thoughtfully and seriously, “I believe it is, after all! I think I’ll have to go to her to confess.”
“I hope you’ll confess to God also,” I said, “for your sin of assumption was more offensive to him than to her.”
“But I’m not done with the charge. There’s another item in this count. There’s another false assumption in the idea I’m combating. Your idea is that we can have a certainty of knowledge about matter such as we cannot have about spirit because our senses furnish evidence of matter but not of spirit. This is a mere assumption and a falsehood. Don’t you have any sensory evidences of spirit? When you move your tongue and utter your arguments, aren’t the motion and the arguments any evidences of an unseen mind? They’re sensory evidences of something to me, for I see the motion and I hear the arguments. And will you tell me that the matter of the tongue, the mere material of it, moves of its own accord and weaves the arguments by its own power? If not, then the motion I see and the arguments I hear are sensory evidences of the existence of an unseen spirit that prompts the motion and weaves the arguments. Though my senses don’t directly reach the spirit itself, yet they do reach the effects of that spirit (the motion of the tongue and the audible arguments) which come from the unseen mind. And thus my very senses do furnish me with evidence of the existence of that mind as clear and certain as if my eyes could behold it. They do behold the effects of it—the traces of it—the signals of it—as clearly as they behold anything. The signals, the traces, the effects cannot come from any other source. They must come from mind. A reasonable argument must be a production of reason. And just as certainly as I hear it coming from human lips, just so certainly I have the evidence of two of my senses that a mind exists somewhere, a spirit that has moved the lips and designed the argument. It is, therefore, an assumption and a falsehood when one says he has no sensory evidences of spirit and hence cannot know much about it.”
The attention of my Irish friend was intently fixed on every word I had uttered. And when I paused, he remained silent for some minutes. At length he said to me:
“You’ve convinced me of one thing, at least. I see that I’ve often taken false ground. And yet, though I’m not prepared to challenge your position, and it seems to me that your argument is unassailable, still the way in which you reason from effect to cause may have some error in it. At least it’s so new to me that I’m at a loss, though it all seems perfectly clear. Are we certain, after all, about causes and effects?”
“Yes, just as certain as we are of anything. There may be unfathomable mysteries somewhere in the subject, just as there are in every other subject, but I’ve had nothing to do with them. I’ve only used the plain principle of common sense—that effects, changes, motions must have some cause. Did your question mean to ask whether that principle is certain?”
He sat in silence for a long time. I didn’t think it best to interfere with his thoughts. I took up one of his books and went to the window to wait for the result of his thinking. He paced the floor back and forth for a full half hour, clearly in deep meditation. Finally, stopping before me, he said:
“What is a cause?”
“That which produces the effect,” I said, “an antecedent without which the effect would not exist.”
“Is it certain,” he said, “that there’s a fixed connection between the two?”
“Yes. You’re certain of it, or you wouldn’t ask that question or any other. You speak to me to produce an effect, and speaking, you know you’re the designing cause. You use this principle in every action of your life. You cannot act without it. You never did, and you never will. You cannot utter a word or make a motion on any other principle, if you try.”
He made another long pause. And as he walked the room, I went on reading my book. But finally I laid aside the book and took my hat to leave, saying to him that I wouldn’t have made my visit so long if his residence had been more convenient for me to reach.
“I must see you again,” he said. “Can you give me an hour or two tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” I said, “but I’ll see you the next day, if you please.”
“Well, now don’t disappoint me,” he said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, and I feel more grateful to you than I can express. But I cannot rest our subject here, and I’m afraid I couldn’t manage it alone. I’ve been a skeptic on religion for eight years, and if left alone, I’m afraid my old skeptical ideas would return upon me.”
When I called on him two days later, he immediately told me that there were two points he wanted cleared up. He had been studying the subject ever since I left him and acknowledged that his mind was convinced as far as I had gone. He believed all my positions were “impregnable.”
“But,” he said, “your matter of cause and effect that you brought to bear upon me like a battery—where does the efficient power of the cause lie?”
“In the will that wields it, sir.”
“What! In the will?”
“Yes, sir, just in the will.”
“I’m confounded! What will come next?”
“Your own conviction of truth, sir, will come very soon, and the complete abandonment of your skeptical infidelity.”
“I believe it,” he said very solemnly. “But you surprise me by saying that power lies in will.”
“Just in will, sir,” I said. “Nowhere else. This presides over the whole field of causes and effects. It belongs to the very nature of the human mind to attribute any change we behold to something. That something we call the cause. It may not be itself the cause, only instrumentally, unless it is the will. And when it’s not the will, then we must trace our way back through the instruments until we reach the real seat of power, and we’ll always find that to be the will. My motions, my speech, my walking are changes, and no sane man supposes them to be uncaused. Everybody supposes them, knows them, to proceed from some cause adequate to produce the changes. This is common sense, and on this principle every language on earth is formed. The principle is interwoven with the structure of Greek, Latin, French, Chinese, with every tongue. No man’s mind rejects this principle. If anybody thinks changes to be uncaused, he’s a madman or a fool. Common sense always knows that changes are the effects of some cause that holds power over them. That cause, in respect to my motions, is my spirit. My motions are an effect. My spirit is the cause. The cause of all the changes in the universe is God. All these changes are effects coming from something, and that something (whatever it is) is God. He’s the great first cause of all things. But he has delegated to me a little power (for a time) over a few particles of matter that I call my body. And by the exercise of that power, I can move. My agency is only a subordinate agency, limited and not lasting. It may last until I die, but no longer, and then I must account for my stewardship. It extends only to my own flesh. I cannot make a stone or a clod of earth move by willing it as I can move my material frame. And, dependent creature that I am, I cannot move my material frame except by the mysterious power of my spirit that wills it—a power not my own in the sense of independence, but only in the sense of subordination. But in this subordinate sense, I am the cause of my own actions and accountable for them—sometimes to men and always to God.
“Now, just on this basis of common sense, my motions are all evidences of the existence of my spirit, which has power over them. And the great motions of the universe are all evidences of an unseen Spirit that has power over them. That unseen Spirit is God. These changes of the universe are visible. Our senses take note of them, and therefore our senses, though they cannot directly reach the Divine Being, can reach, and reach everywhere, those changes that are his effects and demonstrations of his existence and mighty power. This argument is rock. There’s no getting away from it. These changes of the universe are effects by the common consent of all mankind. Being so, they must have a cause—they demonstrate the existence of a cause. And whatever that cause is, it is God. Our senses come in contact with the effects. And now, who shall maintain that we don’t have as good evidences about God as if our eyes could behold him? It may be less sudden, less startling, and hence less impressive evidence, but isn’t it as good? May I not be as certain as if I saw him? Don’t I know that a cause of visible changes is operating just as well as I know the effects that I behold? If there’s any uncertainty about my knowledge of God in this way of knowing, let any man attempt to tell where it lies. He cannot tell. The changes? My eyes see them. I therefore know them by evidences of sense. They are effects. I know this by my common sense and the common sense of every man around me. And the cause of these effects, you must either allow to be the Deity, or you must maintain that dumb matter, mere dirt and rock, has reason, will, and power of motion of its own. And coming in contact with these effects constantly as I do, I certainly am unable to see why I don’t positively know there is a God as well as I know there’s a sun that moves or a drop of rain that falls. My knowledge may not be impressive and startling, but isn’t it real—certain—founded on good and legitimate evidences?
“And now, what is power? Or where does it lie? Or what wields it? Where is its seat? Its home? Where does power originate? There’s something that men call power—something that is capable of effecting some change. And the question you put to me is, what is it? Or where is the seat of it? And the answer is, power lies in the spirit—not in matter, but in spirit. The power by which all changes in matter are effected resides immediately in spirit, in mind. The power by which I move a muscle doesn’t belong to the muscle itself. The muscle is only an instrument that obeys that act of my spirit that I call my will. My will is that mysterious thing with which my Maker has invested me and by which I can move. The will is the power. We cannot move a single atom of matter in the universe without it. It has a direct power over our bodies in health and until we die, and an indirect power over a little other matter. Acting indirectly, our will can bring our bodies, or some portion of our material frame, into contact with other matter, and thus we can effect some changes in that other. The stones we lift, the mountains we level, the ships we build are all lifted, leveled, and built by the power of our will. Power resides nowhere but in spirit. You speak of the mechanical powers, and I’m not going to find fault with your language. But don’t let the imperfection of language mislead your understanding—as it certainly does if you suppose these mechanical powers have an item of power of their own. They have none. The power exists only in your will. You use them. You bring your hands, feet, or some other portion of your body into contact with some other matter—the lever, the screw, the pulley—and thus you willingly use these devices to do what you couldn’t do without them. But the lever, the screw, the wedge, the pulley have not an item of power in themselves. Nobody ever saw them doing anything alone. It is will, it is spirit, that uses them. The will first formed the devices themselves and couldn’t form them so as to invest them with power to work alone. And the will, in every instance of their operation since they are formed, must come along with its continued power, or they will do nothing—can do nothing. They have no power because they have no will. You have, then, this great universal lesson: Power resides only in mind. All power exists in spirit, and in spirit only.
“God’s will is his power. He uses his power directly or indirectly as he pleases. He can use instruments or do without them. He has no need of them as you have. The direct power of your own spirit is limited—it’s limited, as I said, to the few particles of matter that make up your mortal body. And if you would move or change anything beyond that, you must devise some way to bring your material body into contact or some connection with it. But God, the unseen, eternal Spirit, is able to bring the power of his will to bear directly upon all things—as directly as the power of your will bears upon the body it moves. He has only to will it, and any conceivable change will instantly take place. The power all lies in the Infinite Spirit. God is Spirit. His will is the effect. Nothing intervenes between his volition and the change that follows it to give any power to the volition itself. The mere volition is all his power. Awesome God! Tremendous Deity! On his simple volition hangs this mighty universe of being! Earth, heaven, hell depend upon it! If he should will it, there would not be an angel in heaven or a devil in hell! Existence would cease! This universe would become a blank! And nothing would be except ‘that high and lofty One who inhabits eternity!’ (Isaiah 57:15). Oh! Who would not have this God for his friend? Oh! Who could endure to have him his enemy? Enemy? Sooner, come annihilation! Let me perish—let my spirit die—let all these thinking faculties, my soul, go out in eternal night, sooner than have this awesome God against me! It need not be. That God who ‘spoke and it was done,’ who ‘commanded and it stood fast’ (Psalm 33:9), who said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light (Genesis 1:3)—this God is love. I hear a voice coming from resurrection lips: ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations… And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age’ (Matthew 28:18-20). ‘Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved’ (Mark 16:16). ‘Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live’ (John 11:25). Blessed words! Blessed Savior! Open your heart, sir, to this message. Take this offer. Poor sinner as you are—weak mortal—being of a day and soon to lie in the dust—cast your immortal soul upon the power of this Christ to save you from eternal death and give you life evermore!”
As I uttered this exhortation with all the force I could give to it, my young friend sank back upon his chair with his eyes fixed immovably upon me and held his breath in a sort of agony of attention. He turned more pale than I had ever seen him. And when I stopped, he drew a long breath, his eyelids dropped over his eyeballs, and he looked like a corpse.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I’ve talked too long. I’ve exhausted your strength.”
“Not at all,” he said, “but you’ve conquered me. I see I’ve been wrong. But I must think of this more.”
I replied, “I hope you will. And I’ll see you again in a few days.”
Since he hadn’t set any time for another visit, and since I wished to leave him some time for reflection, I didn’t call on him again for two days. When I then entered his room, he said to me:
“I’m glad to see you. And I’m glad you’ve come so early in the morning. You’ll be able to make me a long visit, I hope. I would have sent for you, but I know I’m taking up too much of your time.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I said. “But haven’t you gained the victory over your doubts?”
“Partly. I’ll tell you how it is with me. You remember I told you about my difficulty. I thought that nothing about spirit was really certain as we are certain about material things. And still, some of the same difficulty occurs to me and often tempts me and troubles me, though I believe all you’ve said about God’s existence and will and about cause and effect. When I attempt to pray, the idea will come up to me that I don’t have such a certain knowledge about God and about my own spirit as I have about objects of sense. My knowledge about spirit seems to me to be inferior. Can you relieve me from this trouble?”
“Probably not,” I said. “This matter is not a truth but what you’ve just called it—a temptation. And I cannot chain the devil or check the evil suggestions of your own heart. What I’ve already said to you, I did suppose to be sufficient on that point as far as the mind is concerned. If you are tempted, your hope lies in prayer.”
“But yet,” he said, “I do think that material objects affect the mind as mental or spiritual ideas do not. And I think that we have a more extensive knowledge of matter than we can have of spirit. And so I feel that I’m not on as sure ground in the abstract and spiritual matters of religion as I wish to be.”
“We’re at issue again,” I said, “if that’s the case.”
He replied, “I know that very well. And I half know that I’m wrong. But I cannot get my mind clear on these points.”
“I think you can,” I said. “And at the risk of some little repetition (which indeed seems to be necessary for you), I join issue with you again.
“You speak of knowledge. And you want to be as sure in religious knowledge as you feel that you are in other matters, and you want your knowledge to be as extensive. You say that there is, after all, a deficiency on these points. I say there is not.”
“Exactly that,” he replied.
“Then,” I said, “let’s attempt to examine these questions.
“What is it to know? Where does knowledge lie? What is that kind of operation, exercise, or experience that men call knowledge? We don’t need any academic metaphysics on this point. Metaphysical fog is not equal to the noonday clearness of common sense.
“Knowledge is the determination that the mind has of some certainty or reality. It doesn’t make the certainty. That exists before. It’s only a recognition of it. That recognition, or sure perception of mind (call it what you will), is knowledge. Knowledge, then, exists in the mind—not in matter, but in mind—not in the matter of your bones, blood, or muscles, of your eyes that see or your ears that hear. Knowledge exists only in mind. The mind has a sure perception of some reality, and that is knowledge.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically.
“This perception,” I continued, “comes indeed in different ways. I perceive some truths by my eyes, as when I behold the sun or admire a rosebud. I perceive other truths by my ears, as when I leap at the sound of music or tremble at the thunder. I perceive other truths by my reason, as when I know that the half of any substance is not as much as the whole, or that two men are stronger than one if all three are equals. But in all cases, the perception is in the mind. The determination of the certainty, the knowledge, exists in the mind and nowhere else.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Now, therefore, if any man knows he has knowledge, he knows he has mind. And he knows another thing about it—he knows it’s a knowing mind, a spirit capable of knowing, of perceiving truth. And what, then, does the man mean when he pretends he knows little about mind? About spirit? He cannot know anything about matter without knowing something about spirit. It’s his spirit only that knows. He doesn’t know with his hands, feet, or eyes. He knows only with his mind. And if he knows that rock is hard, or night dark, or water fluid, he equally knows that he himself possesses a perceiving, knowing mind—a reasonable spirit within him capable of being affected by a reality.”
“Yes,” he said, as if he would fix it in mind.
“But he’s certain of these things. He says he is. He feels the hard rock—he sees water run—his eyes tell him it’s dark in the night. But where lies his certainty? Why, he’s just certain of his own mind—that’s all. He’s just certain that he has a mind to be certain—that he has a perceiving spirit within him capable of knowing things outside him—knowing that rock is hard, water fluid, and night dark. He’s therefore reduced just to this: he cannot be certain of anything at all without being certain of mind—certain that he possesses a spirit capable of perceiving and knowing.”
“That is true,” he said most emphatically.
“Doesn’t he, then, learn to know spirit as fast as he learns to know matter? Can he stretch out his fingers anywhere upon a tangible universe and take a lesson upon it and not at the same time take a lesson upon the spirit that alone perceives its tangibility? Can he open his eyes amid the flowers of his beautiful garden and admire the sweet colors that delight him and not, at the same moment, just as well know that he himself has a spirit capable of admiration and delight as he knows the hues of beauty that are blending into one another? Can he listen to the wild bird’s song and the forest echo that repeats it and not just as well know that he himself has a spirit within him susceptible of the sweets of music and the soothing of its melting echoes as he knows that his feathered friend upon the wing has a mellow throat and an exultant song? This man, this very man who deplores his uncertainty about spirit, cannot himself take a single step in the knowledge of matter without, at the same moment, taking a step in the knowledge of spirit. Every new lesson he learns about material things that affect his senses is a new lesson about the immaterial spirit that learns it. He cannot know a single quality in matter without knowing a quality in spirit, for mind only has knowledge. He knows with his spirit. And if he’s sure of anything, he must be sure of the spirit that has the surety.”
“Yes,” he said. “I now admit all that. I confess that I cannot have any certainty about matter unattended by an equal certainty about mind. But here is my trouble: the surety in reference to matter comes into the mind through the channel of the senses. The organic structure is affected—the nerves of seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, or smelling. And therefore, isn’t the knowledge about spirit inferior to this because it’s a kind of knowledge that doesn’t affect this organic structure?”
“How can it be inferior?” I said. “Knowledge exists in mind. Does it matter how it got there? If it’s there and is knowledge, what does it matter whether it got in by one channel or another? If our houses are light, isn’t the light that comes through the open doors as trustworthy a reality as that which is transmitted through the glass of the windows? Knowledge is knowledge, no matter how it comes. Certainty is certainty. If it comes through our sensory system, it’s knowledge. If it comes by consciousness or reason, it’s knowledge. And the idea that all knowledge that comes through our sensory system is genuine and sure, while all other must lie under a suspicion of being counterfeit or unsafe, is an idea that would overthrow more than half the science and more than half the jurisprudence of all mankind. Nobody acts upon it. Nobody ever did or ever will, except simply in the matter of religion, when depraved men wish to cast off its obligations. There’s not a human being to be found who ever resorts to this idea of the inferiority of all but sensory knowledge except when error suits his heart better than truth—when he’s blinded by the love of sin—when he dislikes the duties of the gospel, such as prayer and preparation for a future life.
“But more. You spoke of the organic structure and the nerves and the channel of the senses as if one could be more sure when his material body is affected and he learns anything in that way.”
He said, “That’s the very point. Speak to that.”
“Then think a little further,” I said. “Two of our most important senses seem very much like an exception, usually. In our seeing and in our hearing, the organ that sees and the organ that hears are seldom touched so roughly as to make us aware at all that anything has touched it. And yet this seeing and this hearing, the very senses that come nearest to spirituality, the very senses whose system is seldom aware of matter at all—these are the very senses in which every man has most confidence and most uses. Every man seems himself to be assured most when in his bodily organs awareness of impression is least.
“But beyond this, and beyond the fact that it’s the mind that sees and feels, and not the mere organs (which can do nothing alone), it’s not true that matter alone can affect our material system and thus give us more surety about itself. Thought, pure thought, affects it also. You may find a merchant whose mere contemplation of his troubled affairs makes him tremble like an aspen leaf. His mind affects his material body, and his mind alone. He’s not in jail. The sheriff hasn’t seized him. He’s not turned out of his house. His eyes haven’t seen his ships sink or his goods burn. But he trembles, turns pale, loses his appetite, and grows thin—and all this from the mere knowledge he has that he’s an irretrievable bankrupt. And what will you say to him? Will you bring him your sweet doctrine of uncertainties to comfort him and cheeringly assure him that he may be altogether mistaken, that he cannot be quite sure because he hasn’t seen his gold sink or his goods burn or his debtors run away? You may find a criminal whose crimes are known only to himself—you lawyers know nothing about them—and yet under a sense of his guilt he’s shaken like a reed in the wind. His knowledge affects his nerves. ‘A dreadful sound is in his ears’ (Job 15:21). He turns pale and trembles. ‘The sound of a driven leaf shall pursue him’ (Leviticus 26:36). And what will you say of such examples? This knowledge—a knowledge apart from the senses—a knowledge existing only in mind, by reflection and consciousness, as really and powerfully affects the material body itself as any sensory knowledge can do. Yes, more so. ‘The spirit of a man will endure sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?’ (Proverbs 18:14). And what will you say now about the uncertainty of knowledge that doesn’t come by what you called ‘the channel of the senses’ when these men find their nerves shattered, their muscles trembling, the circulation of their blood disturbed, and their whole material frame under the dreadful control of a thought within them—just a thought? If you cannot believe in the reality and sureness of knowledge that doesn’t come by matter, you must at least believe in the reality of a knowledge that makes the whole matter of a man’s frame tremble as if it would shake to pieces. Look at him and answer: do you have certainty only about matter? Don’t you have equal certainty about mind? Don’t you know that it possesses a dreadful power? That it has capabilities of thought, of apprehension, of agony and torture inconceivable? Don’t you know that these are the realities, the certainties, compared with which all the certainties about matter are a mere dream?”
“Yes,” he said, springing upon his feet like a well man. “I do know it. I’ll never call that in question again.”
With a contemplative air, he walked a few times across the floor, and then turning suddenly to me, exclaimed very earnestly:
“But the extent of knowledge, sir, the extent of knowledge! Our knowledge of spirit is limited! We know many things about matter and only a few about spirit! The essence of spirit is unknown to us! We cannot tell what spirit is, sir!”
“I venture to say you can tell what spirit is just as well as you can tell what matter is. You know just as much about the essence of the one as you do about the essence of the other. Be so good as to make a little comparison. Take any example you will. Here’s a rock. It’s matter, not spirit. Well, what do you know about it? You know it’s hard and heavy, has figure or shape, has some kind of color, and it may be some sort of odor. But what of all that? We’re asking about the essence of matter and take the rock for an example. What is the essence of it? It has weight. Is its weight the essence? It has shape. Is its shape the essence? It has color. Is its color the essence? It has hardness. Is its hardness the essence of matter? Everybody says no, no! Then what is its essence? What is that something, that substratum, that real existence in which all these qualities of color, figure, weight, and solidity exist? No man can tell!
“Turn then to a spirit. Here, for example, is your own soul—the thing that now attends to my ideas. What is the essence of it? It’s spirit—no matter at all about it. Well, what do you know of it? You know it perceives, it thinks, it remembers, it reasons, it imagines, it fears, it hopes, it resents, it has joy sometimes and sometimes sorrow. But is joy its essence? Or sorrow? Or hope? Or memory? Or hate? Or love? Or judgment? Or thinking? Everybody says no, no! Then what is its essence? What is that something, that substratum, that real existence in which all these qualities of thought and feeling exist? No man can tell!
“Sum up the whole rock, then, and the whole soul, and just confess, sir, that you know as much about the essence of the one as you do about the essence of the other. Your knowledge about the essence of matter is just equal to your knowledge about the essence of mind. What do you mean, then, when you say you know something surely about matter but you know little about spirit? You know, indeed, some qualities of both, and beyond that your knowledge doesn’t extend.”
My young friend had become by this time exceedingly excited. His excitement, which seemed to have been growing upon him for half an hour, had risen, as it seemed, to the highest pitch. His cheek was flushed, his eye sparkled, his frame rose erect, and he paced the room more with the firm tread of a soldier than the feeble step of a sick man. Fearing his excitement might do him an injury, I proposed to leave him and allow him to rest.
“No, sir,” he said with an accent as if he was angry. “No, sir, you’re not to leave me yet! You’ve asked me to confess! And I do confess! I yield this point! Your argument is unanswerable! But, sir, the victory has been all on one side ever since we began these conversations, and I’m chagrined, I’m deeply humiliated at my defeat! My blood boils in my veins, and all the life there is left in me is aroused when I see you’re pushing me farther and farther into the position of a sinner against God, with all my eternity to cry out against me! Don’t mistake me, sir. My excitement is not against you—it’s against myself! And I have an inch or two of ground left yet. I say that you haven’t answered all my objections. I said that we have a more sure knowledge of material things than we have of our spirits or any spirit because we have a more extensive knowledge. Our knowledge of spirit is limited. What do you say to that?”
“I say that our knowledge of matter is limited also, and the more limited of the two. I say that we have more extensive knowledge of spirit than we have of matter.”
“Is it possible!” he said. “Go on then. Show it to be so. I’ll sit down and listen.”
“Another time perhaps you—”
“Don’t mention another time,” he said, interrupting me. “I may be a dead man before I see you again! Tell me now! Take away, if you can, the last inch of ground I have left and show me to be without excuse in the sight of that God in whom you’ve compelled me to believe and before whom I must soon stand! I’m a dying man. I have no time to lose.”
“Since you want it,” I said, “let me prove to you that we know more things about spirit than we do about matter. We know a few qualities in each. Compare them with one another. Make two chapters—one for the known properties of matter, the other for the known properties of spirit. And then compare the chapters and see of which your knowledge is the most extensive, matter or spirit.
“First chapter: On Matter. You know it has the following qualities, namely: weight, color (sometimes), figure, inactivity, hardness, smell (sometimes), and it’s movable. This is about all you know. All else you can say of it is included in these properties or results from them.
“Second chapter: On Spirit. You know it has the following properties, namely: it perceives, it compares, it judges, it reasons, it remembers, it wills, it fancies, it has conscience, it has imagination, it has consciousness or perception of its own acts, it’s capable of pain and pleasure. That’s enough. You need go no further. Cut the chapter short. You have more knowledge about spirit than you have about matter—more extensive knowledge. You can tell of more properties of spirit than of matter. Your spirit chapter is longer than your matter chapter. In one word, you do positively know a great deal more about spirit than you do about matter. Your knowledge of matter is confined to just a few qualities, but your knowledge of spirit is far more extensive, embracing all kinds of operation, all kinds of thought, all kinds of emotions and passions.”
“All true!” he said. “I confess it. But spirit may have other faculties or properties that we know nothing about.”
“So may matter,” I said. “So may matter. But that’s an idea addressed to our ignorance. We’re talking about knowledge. What we don’t know about spirit or about matter has nothing to do with our subject or with our duty. We need knowledge to act upon and to die upon. A mere ‘perhaps’ about something else doesn’t weigh a feather against known truth. A ‘perhaps’ is bad footing for a dying man. You’d be ashamed of this kind of suggestion in court. Matter and spirit both may have a thousand qualities that we know nothing about. But we act like fools if we won’t breathe the air because it may have some unknown properties. And we act just as much like fools if we won’t repent and believe in Christ because our immortal soul may have some unknown properties. Religion asks us to act upon knowledge, upon certainty. Infidelity must always act upon ignorance if it acts at all. And for that reason, I said to you the first time I saw you that infidels are the most credulous, assuming, and dogmatic men in the world.”
“That is true,” he said, rising suddenly from his seat. “That is all true. I’m done. I have no more to say. I’ve been a fool and have groped in the dark all my days! I’ve spent my life in speculating what might be and neglecting what is and what I now know is.”
Being quite certain that he was exhausting his strength too much, I begged him to rest, proposing to call on him again at any time he should choose.
“Have you seen my aunt today?” he said suddenly.
“No. I haven’t had that pleasure, but I’m beginning to think I have a kind of right to see her.”
“I thought you had seen her. You talk just as she does about my exhausting my strength, and I thought she might have given you a little flattery to have me receive it secondhand since I refused it from her.”
“No, I’ve never seen her.”
“She ought to see you. She’s a noble woman. You’d like her. Her beauty has said goodbye to her long, long ago, but her heart is as green as a shamrock. I love her. My heart will warm toward her after its blood shall be too stiff to move at anything but the thought of her. She has a true Irish heart. There’s no English blood in her.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “some of her excellencies that you admire may be owing quite as much to Palestine as to Ireland. I can very honestly assure you of my high admiration of the Irish character. When I once heard one of the Judges of the Supreme Court warmly say, ‘the most noble living creature in the world is a well-educated Irishman,’ my whole heart agreed with the declaration of that great man, with no other reservation than the idea that religion is the crowning excellence of men, after all. But I suppose he had no reference to religion, and I therefore adopted the sentiment as my own. But now I wish to ask you to distinguish a little between your aunt’s qualities as an Irish woman (which I have no doubt are great) and her qualities as a Christian woman. In my opinion, her Christian excellencies you call Irish excellencies, and what in her helps to bind your heart to the Emerald Isle ought to bind it also to the Savior she adores. Indeed, I have no hesitation in expressing the opinion that however admirable she may be as an Irish woman, she’s far more admirable as a Christian woman. You ought to do justice to her religion and feel the force of her character and example. I’ll venture to say for her that she herself, much as she loves Ireland, will tell you that she’s indebted to the rose of Sharon more than to the green of the shamrock. Love Ireland, sir, as much as you will. I have no quarrel with you on that basis. But do justice in your estimations to a heavenly religion and to what lies nearest to your aunt’s own heart. She, I venture to say, will lay down all the honors you can heap upon her at the foot of the cross. It will grieve her to have you honor her country and not honor her Christ.”
Springing suddenly upon his feet with a look of astonishment and indignation, he stood before me, bending almost over me:
“You have seen her,” he said with an accent of resentment.
“I have not,” I said firmly.
“Do you speak the truth?” he said.
“Sir,” I said, “my word must not be called in question anywhere.”
He said, “I beg your pardon. Excuse me. I was wrong. But it suddenly occurred to me that you and my aunt were playing a game with me. I thought she had been telling you all about me.”
“What gave you such a suspicion?”
“Because you used one of her own thoughts—that I honored her country and her blood when I ought to have given the honor to her Redeemer. She’s said it to me today, sir, and often in past time. But don’t look so stern upon me. I thought she had been telling you. I take back what I said. I beg your pardon. I’m incapable of offering you an insult.”
“Let that pass,” I said. “I play no games upon anybody. I only want your good.”
“I know it. And I thank you for every word you’ve said to me. I could have no claim upon you for so much kindness. You’ve given me much of your time. Your patience hasn’t been worn out with me. You’ve done what few men could do. You’ve seen the heart of me rightly and have indulged me in having my own strange way in talking about religion, as I believe few ministers would have done. And if there’s a God in heaven, he will reward you—I know he will reward you.”
The tears gushed from his eyes, and pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he turned away from me to the window and wept convulsively. After a moment, turning suddenly to me with a clear effort to control his emotions, he said:
“I’m too apt to lead you off from our subject. I’m sorry for it. But you’ve prevailed by yielding to me. I want you to stay a little longer today if you can. I don’t have long to live. This cough and these night sweats will soon wear me out. I’d be an idiot to hope to get well. I have no company now except yours and my aunt’s. Conversation doesn’t hurt me, and it would be no matter, you know, if it did. I’m soon to go. Earth has done with me. The grave lifts up her voice to claim me. I’m preparing to say, yes, I come. But one thing troubles me. My heart is to tell you that difficulty. It’s not easy for me to keep clear from my old infidel thoughts, and I want to tell you how I was led on to be an infidel.”
“I’d like to hear that very much,” I said. “And as to your amount of strength, I leave you to judge of it. I’ll go or stay just as you want, only tell me frankly what your desire is.”
“I thank you,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m unable to tell you how much my very heart thanks you. I know there’s little value in the thanks of a dying man, but they’re all I have to give, and my heart forces them to my tongue.”
“I ought to thank you,” I said, “for these interviews. They gratify me much, and I assure you they profit me too.”
After a short pause and subduing his emotions, he continued:
“For some time I’ve been astonished at myself. My thoughts are full of evil. The old follies will come over me. They torment my mind, and I know they offend God. My infidelity had become interwoven with my strongest feelings. Though I’ve been led to know its deceptions, its old lies still haunt me, as if a host of infernal spirits were sent to thrust them back into my heart. This troubles me. I’m vexed with myself because I don’t have vigor of mind to stand to the truth since I’ve been convinced of it. My wickedness within is too mighty for me. Satan tempts me with his lies. It is Satan. He comes to me suddenly. He comes at midnight sometimes when I would pray if I could, and the horrible idea darts like an arrow into my mind: ‘religion is all a delusion.’ I’ve said that to my aunt very often, and now Satan says it to me. I know it’s a lie, but the thought torments my very soul.”
“You needn’t be troubled about it,” I said. “If you hunted up the idea yourself, or if you welcomed it when it comes, you would have some cause for trouble and alarm. It’s not temptation that can injure us or prove our insincerity. The treatment we give to temptation is the thing to be looked at. Since the temptation comes to you without your bidding, and since you don’t welcome it but reject it and aim to dismiss it as a temptation, the treatment you give it accords with the will of God and shows that you desire and intend to obey him.”
“So I do, sir. But my wicked heart is overflowing with evil. I wanted to tell you how my unbelief became blended with my blood. I’m an Irishman. Early in life my country’s wrongs lay on my heart like a burden. My blood burns at this moment to think of the oppressions of England! Before the suns of a dozen summers had shone upon me, I had learned to say, ‘The English are tyrants and hypocrites. They profess to be a Christian people. But they wrong my country!’ As I grew older I read history. I read the court trials which grew out of what they called ‘the Irish rebellion of ninety-eight.’ I read of Emmet and other men like him, led to a disgraceful execution when they deserved the plaudits of all mankind! I read Curran’s speeches. I read of the infamous informers hired by the government to swear to anything in order to get the blood of an Irishman! The English have oppressed us, sir! They’ve ruined Ireland by the most cruel and heartless injustice! By their tyranny and taxation! And then to crown their barbarity, they call us low and stupid and incapable of improvement, sir! And all this, though their victories have been bought with Irish blood, and no small part of the eloquence of their Parliament itself was the eloquence of Irishmen.”
He was becoming so much excited that I thought it best to interpose, for the purpose of quieting his feelings and leading his thoughts into another channel. I said to him:
“The things you complain of were acts of the government, not of the people. Many of the people didn’t approve of them. None of the Christian people approved of any injustice. It wasn’t religion, but irreligion, which led to any oppression. And you ought not to lay down at the door of Christianity the blame which belongs to her enemies. You attribute to religion what you ought to attribute to the want of it. If all the people and the government had been controlled by the principles of Christianity, there would have been none of those wrongs which so much excite you.”
“I know it, sir. I’m sure of it,” said he. “But I was telling you how I was made an infidel. The English boast of their magnanimity. They talk loftily of ‘English honor’ and of their ‘religion.’ And only a few days since—let me see—it was this day eight days, as I was reading an old paper, I came upon the place where one of your own statesmen calls England ‘the bulwark of our holy religion.’ It’s too much, sir! Oppression, heartless and unrelenting oppression carried on through ages, cannot be justified! There’s no apology for it. And after all this, for the English to speak of their Christianity and call themselves ‘the most religious nation on earth’ and make other people believe it—sir, there never was any impudence equal to this! Look at India, sir! The English have made her red with the blood of her innocent children! They’ve made themselves rich with the gold of which they’ve robbed her! They’ve butchered the half-civilized people by the thousands and hundreds of thousands! With no decent argument of justice, and for no other reason than to gratify their own lordly pride and get riches by the right of their cannon! And when the news of a new victory over the feeble reaches ‘brave England,’ they call themselves a religious people and give thanks to God in their churches for success on another field of butchery! This completes the farce, till the very next year brings round a like occasion! All this is true, sir. You cannot dispute it. It’s history. And when I began in early life to learn such transactions, I couldn’t respect a religion that would allow them. I disbelieved in such a religion. I became an infidel. The true history of England is enough to make a world full of infidels! Ireland and India tell tales of blood about the religion of England. I can respect Mahometanism. It acts according to its principles. I can respect Popery and her Inquisition for the same reason. But Protestant England, as she calls herself, I despise for her mean hypocrisy! Her religion is described in three words—pride, avarice, and oppression. All this became stamped into my heart as I was growing up towards manhood. I know that the established church of England was nothing but a part of her governmental hypocrisy. I knew that her Protestantism was only a political pretense. I felt for my country’s wrongs, and I rejected religion because of the example that I studied so constantly. The example never appeared more base to me than it does this moment. And I’m troubled now because my old system of thought will come back upon me like a torrent and tempt me to disbelieve in Christianity as often as I think of the wrongs of my country.”
Said I, “In my opinion, you can easily get over all that difficulty. You have only to think of that which you know to be true—that is, that Christianity never sanctioned any of the pride, avarice, and oppression you complain of, but that it was abusively made a cloak to cover such sins. In that nation it became linked with the government (which union I dislike as much as you do), and because of that union it became corrupted. As you took the government and its actions for an example of the influence of religion, or for a test of its truth, you looked in the wrong direction. You should rather have looked at the pious in private life. You should have looked where there was some influence of Christianity—not where there was none. You should have looked at the Bible Society, the Missionary Society, the Sunday Schools and Orphan Asylums, and attempts to relieve the oppressed and downtrodden. There was religion in fact, not in mere name. And now, when you perceive that you erred in taking what men falsely called religion as an example of it, surely you needn’t be troubled with your old infidelity.”
“So it seems to me,” said he. “But Satan tempts me, as if I was now embracing a religion which has crushed my country.”
“It never crushed your country. You know it never did. It was a spirit directly the opposite of Christianity which perpetrated the sins you complain of. Christianity would have saved your country. And you ought to welcome it to your heart for your eternal salvation more eagerly than you would ever have welcomed a deliverer to your native land.”
“So I do,” said he. “So I will. I believe in Christianity. I know I need it. I believe Jesus Christ came to save sinners. I trust him to save me. I rely on the Holy Spirit to aid me against the temptations of Satan and the sinfulness of my own heart. You spoke of examples of religion in private life. Let me tell you, the example of my old aunt has been a demonstration to me. Satan cannot shake it.”
I again proposed to leave him for the present and call at another time, lest so long a conversation should injure him.
“Another time!” said he. “Another time! You astonish me, sir! I’m a dying man! I stand on the verge of time now! I feel that the grave-digger is at the side of me! You may talk of time. With your health and prospects, it’s not unnatural. But if I should be talking of time, death would laugh at me and call me fool and liar!”
And then, turning to me and fixing his keen eyes upon my face as he stood before me: “Tell me what to do to be ready to die.”
Said I, “You believe in God, the Infinite, Eternal Spirit.”
“I do,” said he.
“Then pray to him,” said I.
“I have, and I will,” said he.
“You believe you’re a sinner?” said I.
“I know I am,” said he.
“Then repent, and trust in Christ for pardon.”
“Will repentance save me?”
“No,” said I. “Christ Jesus saves sinners. You must not trust to your repentance and faith to save you. That would be self-righteousness. Trust only in the crucified Son of God, your proposed surety.”
After a pause: “What must be done first, before I trust in him?”
“Nothing. Just nothing.”
“How? Is there no preparation to make?”
“No. None at all.”
“But, holiness—” said he.
“Results from faith in Christ,” said I.
“And the Holy Spirit—” said he.
“Is your only hope,” said I. “Without his aid you will neither repent nor believe. It’s his office to take of the things of Christ and show them unto us.”
“Will you pray with me?” said he.
We fell on our knees. I offered a short prayer and left him. I never saw him afterwards.
I called to see him the next day, but his friends wouldn’t allow it because he was so much exhausted. I understood from his nurse that immediately after I left him the day before, he sent for his aunt, told her that he renounced all his infidelity, that he didn’t have a doubt the Bible was from God, and that the atonement of Jesus Christ was all-sufficient for a dying sinner. He continued his conversation and prayer with her till he fainted, and she was obliged to call for aid to lift him from the floor and lay him upon his bed.
I made another attempt to see him, but his aunt sent word to me at the door that she was very grateful for my attentions to him and thanked me much, but she begged me not to come in, for he wasn’t able to see me. He didn’t have strength to utter a sentence.
Just at this time I left home, and on my return after an absence of three weeks, I learned that he was buried the week before my return. I couldn’t find his aunt. I’ve never seen her and don’t know the reason why she sent for me, only as I understood from the lady at whose house he died that she had at some time heard me preach. This same lady told me that “the young man died in peace, with praises for the atonement of Jesus Christ on his lips.”
Reflections
I’ve never had my feelings more deeply interested than they were in this young Irishman. He was a man of uncommon talents. He was frank and candid. He was full of enthusiasm. It’s impossible to convey in writing any just idea of the ardor and eloquence with which he spoke when he became excited. There was a sort of romance, too, in the mystery in which his aunt so constantly shrouded herself. He was an avowed infidel. And what, in my opinion, is a very uncommon thing, he was an honest infidel. The arguments by which he attempted to sustain his infidelity were peculiar. He was evidently in the last stages of life, the subject of a hasty consumption, of which nobody could be more sensible than himself. He was open to conviction. And it was very evident that he entertained a most profound respect for his pious aunt, who had induced him to send for me.
I think it likely that that woman was the real means of his conversion and salvation. She was an example of practical piety which his infidelity couldn’t refute and which his conscience couldn’t but honor. He evidently didn’t say to me all that he felt on that subject. Whenever he alluded to her, after a few words he would seem to check himself and soon change the subject. But occasionally, when he became excited, some expression would come out which showed how powerful her influence had been over him. I can never forget the ardor and depth of emotion with which he uttered the expression: “You spoke of examples of religion in private life. Let me tell you, the example of my old aunt has been a demonstration to me. Satan cannot shake it.”
It’s true that infidelity cannot withstand the force of reason and argument, but true godly example can come nearer the life-spot of religion. It knocks at the door of the heart. If the truths of Christianity were seconded by the devoted and pious lives of all her professed disciples, the unbelief of the world would soon cease. Private example of godliness is what the world most needs.
All men will not think alike in reference to the mode in which this young Irishman was led into infidelity. Perhaps he too much blamed the government of England. Perhaps, also, his feelings towards the people were governed by a very natural prejudice. But it’s much to be deplored that the governments of nations professing to be Christian have been so unjust, so ready for war and conquest, and that the Christian people of such nations have so often sunk their principles amid the waves of some exciting popularity and have shouted over a victory in war when they ought to have shed tears of bitterness over its injustice and cruelty. They little reflect how much their conformity to the world hinders the triumphs of religion. War and conquest, too, may sometimes be inevitable perhaps. The general injustice of mankind may sometimes make deadly conflict necessary for the defense of the good against the wicked. But Christians and Christian nations have much to answer for on account of such things as this young Irishman complained of. Too much of our religion is stained with the pride, and politics, and avarice of the world. “Come out of her, my people.”
I have some reason to believe that no small blame was imputed to me for remaining so long at a time with a sick man and hastening (as they said) his death by my exhausting conversation. But he never blamed me. I venture to affirm his aunt never blamed me. They were quite as good judges of propriety as those who were half-strangers to him in a boarding-house. Moreover, it would have been heartless to leave him and would have tended to make him call in question my sense of the importance and reality of the religion I urged upon him, when he used such language as I’ve here recorded. “No, sir, you’re not to leave me yet. Conversation doesn’t hurt me, and it would be no matter, you know, if it did. I’m a dying man. I stand on the verge of time now. I feel that the grave-digger is at the side of me. Another time! sir, another time! You astonish me! You may talk of time. But if I should be talking of time, death would laugh at me and call me fool and liar. Earth has done with me. The grave lifts up her voice to claim me. I’m preparing to say, yes, I come.”
Some men perhaps might have left a man who talked thus. I couldn’t. I’m sure, if any wise man had been in my place and known him as I did, he would have done as I did.
THE END