Modern Skepticism: A Journey Through the Land of Doubt and Back Again Part 24

Walker, a minister of Mansfield, Ohio. While in America I gave a course of lectures in that town on the Bible. The friend at whose house I was staying took me to see Mr. Walker, who received me with great kindness, invited me to dine with him, and conversed with me in a truly Christian manner. He even came to one of my lectures, in hopes of helping me over the difficulties which blocked my way to the faith of Christ. I did not, however, treat him with the kind and considerate tenderness with which he had treated me. I was under unhappy influences, and I spoke on the Bible in such a manner as to try him past endurance, and he left me that night with very painful feelings, regarding me, probably, as lost past hope. Should he read this work, it may give him satisfaction to know, that his kindness, and his work on Christ as a revelation of the Eternal Father, had a part in helping me back to the religion of Christ.

4. Five years ago last December, Mr. John Mawson, Sheriff of Newcastle-on-Tyne, was killed on the Town Moor by a terrible explosion of nitro-glycerine. I had been acquainted with him more than five-and-twenty years. He joined the church at Newcastle, of which I was a minister, and remained my friend to the last. He had his doubts on certain points of theology, but he never lost his faith in the great principles of Christianity. When I was over from America once, I spent some time in his company, and we had frequent conversations on religion.

"It seems to me," said he, "that we ought to put some trust in our _hearts_. My head has often tempted me to doubt; but my heart has always clung to G.o.d and immortality. It does so still; and I believe it is right. Indeed, I have no doubt of it." I remembered his words. They led me to study the moral and spiritual instincts of my nature more thoroughly than I had done before. They led me to study the subject of instinct and natural affection generally. _My_ instincts, like the instincts of my friend, had always clung to G.o.d and a future life, and to the principles of religion and virtue, even when reason hesitated and doubted most. I had never given up my belief in any of the great doctrines of Christianity without a painful struggle. But I had been led to think it my duty, when there was a conflict between my head and my heart, to take part with my head. My heart, for instance, would say, "Pray;" but reason, or something in the garb of reason, would say, "Don't. If what you desire is good, G.o.d will give it you, whether you pray for it or not; and if it be evil, He will withhold it, pray as you may. Prayer may move a man like yourself; but it cannot move G.o.d." And I hearkened to the seeming reason, and gave up prayer. My heart said, "There is a personal, conscious, all-perfect G.o.d." My head, or my infidel philosophy said, "There cannot be such a G.o.d. A G.o.d all-powerful could prevent evil. A G.o.d all-good _would_ prevent it. G.o.d cannot therefore be a conscious, personal, all-perfect being. He must be a blind, unconscious power; the sum total of natural tendencies, working according to the eternal properties of things, without the possibility of change; and hence the existence of evil, and the prevalence of eternal, unalterable law." And here again my head was permitted to prevail, and my heart, in spite of all its remonstrances, was compelled to give way. And with a personal, conscious, all-perfect G.o.d, went the richest treasures of the human heart,--trust in a Fatherly Providence; the hope of a blessed immortality, and faith in the ultimate triumph of truth and justice, and all a.s.surance of human progress and a good time coming.

Yet I was obliged, in spite of the false philosophical principle I had adopted, to accept the oracles of my heart on many points, and to reject the logic of my head. My heart said, "Speak the truth; to lie is wrong."

But now that it had got rid of a personal G.o.d, logic said, "There can be nothing wrong in a lie that hurts no one. There is something commendable in a useful, serviceable lie. To lie to save a person from danger or destruction is a virtue. The feeling which shrinks from such a lie is a blind, irrational prejudice, and should be plucked up and cast out of the soul. Truth may be proper enough in the _strong_: but _deceit_ is the wisdom of the _weak_." But in this case my heart, my instinctive love of truth, prevailed.

Again, my heart pleaded for justice and mercy; for _justice_ to all; and for _mercy_ to the needy and helpless. But reason, or the heartless and G.o.dless philosophy that usurped its name, said, "Utility is the supreme law; the only law of man. Justice and mercy are right when they are useful; but when they are hurtful they are right no longer. If by destroying the helpless and the needy we can deliver them from their misery, and increase the happiness of the rest of our race, their destruction is a virtue, especially if we dispose of them in a quiet and painless way, so as to spare them the fears and agonies of death!" But here again my heart prevailed. My natural, unreasoning, instinctive horror of injustice and murder rendered the specious pleadings of Atheistic utilitarianism powerless. And so on moral matters generally.

As a rule, Atheists succeed, in course of time, in vanquis.h.i.+ng and destroying their moral as well as their religious instincts, and then they embrace the most revolting doctrines, and reconcile themselves to the most appalling deeds. They look on marriage as irrational, and regard modesty and chast.i.ty as vices. Shame is a weakness in their eyes, and natural affections are irrational prejudices. Scruples against lying, theft and murder, when any great good is to be gained by those practices, are insanity. Grat.i.tude, even to parents, is an absurdity.

Free indulgence, unlimited license, is a virtue. The curse of our race is religion. The one great social evil is a surplus population; and the prevention or destruction of children is the sum of social science and virtue. The extinction of the weaker races, and the destruction of those of every race who cannot contribute their share of wealth and pleasure to the common stock, is the perfection of philosophy. In short, all the old-fas.h.i.+oned principles of virtue, honor, conscience, generosity, self-restraint, self-sacrifice, and natural affection are exploded, and in their place there comes a black and hideous chaos of all indecencies and immoralities, a boundless and bottomless abyss of all imaginable and unspeakable horrors. I shudder when I think how near I came to this h.e.l.l of atheistical philosophy. My inability entirely to extinguish my better instincts and affections, prevented me from plunging headlong into its frightful depths. It was more than I could do to carry out the atheistical principles of mere theoretical reasoning to its last results. I was, thank G.o.d, on some points, always inconsistent, and my inconsistency was my salvation. My heart preserved me in spite of my head.

But if I could not carry out my principle of trusting to mere reasoning to its full extent, why did I act on it at all? When I found that it led to utter degradation and ruin, why did I not renounce it, and trust once more in my native instincts? When I found myself obliged to follow my heart in so many matters, why not follow it in all? I answer, I had not a sufficient understanding of the matter. I wanted more light. But the course of study on which the remarks of my dear good friend Mr. Mawson led me to enter, led to clearer and correcter views on the subject. It led to the conviction that instinct and natural affection are divine inspirations,--that the beliefs and practices to which they constrain us are the perfection of wisdom and goodness,--that to set them aside is inevitable ruin,--that whenever reason says one thing, and our religious and moral affections and instincts say another, we ought to turn a deaf ear to reason, and follow implicitly the dictates of our moral and religious faculties. And to this conviction, resulting in a great measure from the remarks of my faithful and devoted friend, I owe, in part, my present unspeakable happiness as a believer in Christ.

5. I encountered two Christian men in public discussion who left a favorable impression on my mind. One was the Rev. Andrew Loose, of Winchester, Indiana. The subject of discussion between me and Mr. Loose was the divine authority of the Bible. He went through the whole debate, which lasted several days, without uttering one uncharitable, scornful, or angry word, with the exception of a single phrase in his last speech; and even that he meekly and generously recalled, after I had satisfied him of its impropriety. I never forgot the conduct of that dear good man, and his Christian meekness and forbearance had a good effect on my heart.

6. The other gentleman whose conduct left the most favorable impression of all on my mind, was Colonel Shaw, of Bourtree Park, Ayr, Scotland, of whose gentlemanly behavior and great Christian kindness I have already spoken.

7. There were some other persons who, without a.s.sailing me with argument, did me considerable good. After lecturing at Burnley once, a person rose to oppose me, and a great disturbance followed. I was thrown from the platform, and fell backward on the floor, and a crowd of persons fell upon me, and I had a narrow escape from death by violence and suffocation. I was rescued however alive. In the tumult my overcoat, my hat, and my watch disappeared, and my body was somewhat bruised. Next day a gentleman who had heard of the way in which I had been treated, came to my lodgings to see me. He seemed very much distressed on my account, and anxious, if possible, to do something which might minister comfort to my mind. His name was Philips. He was a Methodist, and the son of a Methodist preacher. His kindness and sympathy were so genuine and so earnest, that they made a deep impression on my mind, and they naturally recur to my memory when I think of the friends whose influence helped to reclaim me from the miseries of doubt and unbelief.

8. About thirteen years ago I lectured at Bacup. The Rev. T. Lawson, Congregational minister of Bacup, attended my lectures, and came and spoke to me afterwards, and invited me to call and see him, and dine with him. I went, and we had a lengthened conversation on matters pertaining to religion and the Church. My host exhibited a remarkable amount of Christian charity and true liberality of sentiment. He had been a reader of mine in his earlier days, when I was an advocate of Evangelical reform, and he spoke of himself as my debtor; and he was desirous, if possible, of repaying the debt, by smoothing the way for my return to Christianity. Mrs. Lawson sat and listened to our conversation in silence; but when I rose to take my leave, she bade me good-bye with most unmistakable evidences of interest in my welfare, and said, as she held me by the hand, "I hope we shall meet you in heaven." I had one or two other interviews with Mr. Lawson at a somewhat later period, and all are to be placed among the means by which I was brought to my present happy position.

9. Some nineteen years ago I had a public discussion with the Rev.

Charles Williams, Baptist minister, of Accrington. It was a very unpleasant affair. I was much exhausted at the time with over much work, and with long-continued and painful excitement caused by a very unpleasant piece of business which I had in hand; and I did what I honorably could to avoid the discussion. My friends, however, would have no nay, and I reluctantly, and in anything but an amiable temper, made my appearance at the time appointed on the platform. How far the blame was chargeable on me, or how far it was chargeable on others, I do not know; but the first night's meeting was a very disagreeable one. I thought myself in the right at the time, but I fancy my unhappy state of mind must have rendered me very provoking, and at the same time blinded me to the real character of my proceedings. On the following night the discussion went on more smoothly, and it ended better than it began. I was constrained to regard Mr. Williams as an able and good man. I met him occasionally after my separation from the Secularists, and his behaviour and spirit deepened the favorable impression of his character already made on my mind. While I was at Burnley he delivered a lecture in that town on Bishop Colenso's work on the Pentateuch. I was present.

When he had done, he invited me in the kindest way imaginable to speak.

I had heard next to nothing in the lecture to which I could object, but much that I could heartily approve and applaud. To all that he had said in praise of the Bible I could subscribe most heartily. Indeed I felt that the Bible was worthy of more and higher praise than he had bestowed on it, and I expressed myself to that effect. The meeting altogether was a very pleasant one, except to a number of unbelievers, who were dreadfully vexed at my remarks in commendation of the Bible. I saw Mr.

Williams repeatedly afterwards, and his kind and interesting conversation, and his very gentlemanly and Christian demeanor, had always a beneficial effect on my mind.

10. One of the first to express a conviction that I should become a Christian was an American lady, whom I sometimes saw in London. She had herself been an unbeliever, but had been cured of her skepticism by spiritualism. She was then a Catholic. She gave me a medal of the Virgin Mary, and entreated me to wear it round my neck. To please her I promised to do so. But the medal disappeared before long, and what became of it I never could tell; but my friend had the satisfaction to see her prophecy fulfilled in my happy return to Christianity.

11. An acquaintance which I formed with the Rev. W. Newton, of Newcastle-on-Tyne, must also be reckoned among the things which exerted an influence on my mind favorable to Christianity. Mr. Newton had been a Baptist in his earlier days, but getting into perplexity with regard to certain doctrines, he became a Unitarian. He came to feel however, in course of time, that something more than Unitarianism was necessary to the satisfaction of his soul, and to the salvation of the world; and at the time that I became acquainted with him, he had made up his mind to leave the Unitarians. On my way to the far-off regions of unbelief, I had pa.s.sed through the Unitarian territory; and I pa.s.sed through the same territory, or near to its border, on my return to Christianity; and had it not been for my interviews with Mr. Newton, and a somewhat startling event or two that occurred about that period, I might have lingered for a time in that cold and hungry land. Mr. Newton helped to quicken my steps, and I moved onward, and rested not, till I found my way back to the paradise, or a garden that very much resembled the paradise, of my earlier days.

12. Mr. J. Potts, like Mr. J. Mawson, without following me into the extremes of doubt, retained his friends.h.i.+p for me through all my wanderings, and never neglected any opportunity he had of showing me kindness. And others, whom I cannot take the liberty to name, evinced the same unfailing constancy of esteem and love. And the unbroken connexion that remained between my enduring friends and their amiable families and myself, added to the attractions Christ-ward, and made it easier for my soul to return at last to its home of peace and rest.

13. Between thirteen and fourteen years ago, while living in London, I became acquainted with Mr. W. White. He had been reared a Quaker, but, like most hard thinkers, had had experience of doubt, and was, in consequence, after his faith was re-established, able to strengthen his doubting brethren. He contributed to my conversion, first by his enlightened conversation, and then by a long, kind, Christian letter on the Bible, by which he helped me over a number of difficulties which stood in the way of my faith.

14. But perhaps none of the parties I have named, had a more powerful and beneficial effect on my mind than one whom I have not yet mentioned.

If I had been asked thirteen years ago, whether I supposed there was any minister in the Methodist New Connexion who regarded me with affectionate solicitude, and who was wishful for an opportunity to speak to me words of love and tenderness, I should have answered, "No." If any one had told me that there really was one of my old a.s.sociates, with whom I had formerly had warm controversy, not only on matters theological, but on matters personal, who had been watching my career for years, with the deepest interest, and who for months and years had been earnestly praying for me every day, he would have seemed to me as one amusing himself with fables. Yet such was really the case.

With no one had I come in closer contact perhaps, or in more frequent and violent collision, than with the Rev. W. Cooke, now Dr. Cooke. He had taken the lead in the proceedings against me in the Ashton Conference, on account of my article on _Toleration, Human Creeds, &c._, proceedings which had a most unhappy effect on my mind, and which led, at length, to my separation from the Church, and to my alienation from Christ. He had taken an active part in the violent controversies which followed my expulsion from the ministry. We had, at a later period, spent ten nights in public discussion on the leading doctrines of Christianity. He had, in the performance of what he considered his duty I suppose in my case, said things which had tried me terribly; and I, with ideas of duty differing from his, had made him very liberal returns, in a way not calculated to leave the most favorable or comfortable impressions on his mind towards me. I had never seen him since our long discussion but once, and then he seemed, to my fancy, to be struggling with an inward tempest of very unhappy feeling towards me, which he was hardly able to keep from exploding. I afterwards found though, that I had not interpreted his looks on this occasion correctly.

At the time when I took my leave of the Secularists, my unpleasant feelings towards my old opponent had about subsided; but I had no idea that his unpleasant feelings towards me had pa.s.sed away. Yet such was the case. He had been reading my periodical for some time, and had been pleased to find that both on religion and politics, I was returning, though slowly, to the views of my happier days. Some time in August, 1862, he called at my office in London, with a parcel of books under his arm. He had been praying for me daily for twelve months, when something seemed to say to him, "You should do something more than pray." And now he had come to try what he could do by a personal interview to aid the wanderer's return to Christ. I was from home at the time, but my eldest son was in the office, and he and the Doctor were at once engaged in friendly conversation. "How like you are to what your father was four and thirty years ago, when I first knew him," said the Doctor. "Your father and I were great friends. It was your father that first directed me to the study of Latin and Greek, which have been of great service to me; and I feel indebted to him on that account. We were afterwards separated. But I have observed, as I think, symptoms that your father is returning towards his former views." And many other kind remarks he made. At length he said, "Do you think your father would accept a copy of my works?" My son, who knew the state of his father's mind, answered; "I am sure he would, with great pleasure." The Doctor left copies of his works, kindly inscribed to me with his own hand; and with the books, he left for me a kind and Christian letter. My son lost no time in forwarding me the letter, together with an account of the pleasant and unlooked-for interview which he had had with the writer. I received the letter, and the interesting story with which it was accompanied, with the greatest astonishment and pleasure. I wrote to the Doctor, reciprocating his expressions of kindness, and making the best returns I could for the valuable present of his works. The result was a correspondence, which has continued to the present time. The correspondence led to interviews, in which the Doctor exhibited, in a very striking manner, the graces and virtues that adorn the Christian character. We talked, we read, we sang, we prayed together, and gave G.o.d thanks, with tears of grat.i.tude, for all the blessings of His boundless love.

The effect of this kindness on the part of Dr. Cooke was, not only to free my mind from any remains of hurtful feelings towards him, but to dispose me, and enable me, to review the claims of Christianity and the Bible in a spirit of greater fairness and candor, and so to make it possible for me to become, what I had long believed I never could become, a hearty believer in the religion of Christ.

CHAPTER XIX.

SOME OF THE STEPS BY WHICH I CAME TO FAITH IN CHRIST.

I am not certain that I can state the exact process by which I pa.s.sed from doubt and unbelief to faith in Christ, but the following, I believe, is very near the truth.

1. There was, first, a sense of the cheerlessness of unbelief--the sadness and the sorrow resulting from the loss of trust in G.o.d and hope of immortality, and from the wretched prospect of a return to utter nothingness.

2. Then came the distressing feeling of inability to comfort my afflicted or dying friends--my utter helplessness in the presence of sorrow, grief and agony.

3. And then I found myself unable to account for the wonderful marks of design appearing in nature, and especially in my own body, without the acknowledgment of an intelligent Deity. The wonderful perfection and beauty of a flower or a feather would confound me; while mysterious adaptations in my own frame would fill me with amazement. Darwin's theory of development relieved me for a time; but I soon came to see that some of his explanations of natural phenomena were erroneous, and that none of his facts proved the truth of his theory. Still later I found that Darwin himself acknowledged that the evidences of design in the methods by which certain species of plants were fertilized, were not only overpowering, but startling.

4. Then came dissatisfaction with the theories by which unbelievers sought to account for the existence and order of the universe. They supposed the universe to be eternal, and attributed the production of plants, and animals, and man to the blind unconscious working of lifeless matter. They attributed to dead matter the powers which believers attributed to a living G.o.d. They were obliged to believe that senseless atoms could produce works transcending the powers of the mightiest minds on earth. To reconcile their belief in the eternity of the universe, and in the unchanging properties of matter, with the phenomena of change and progress, they supposed an infinite succession of worlds, or of beginnings and endings of the same world, and imagined the earth running exactly the same course, and having exactly the same history, every time it came into existence. Hence it became with them an article of faith, that we had ourselves lived an infinite number of times, and should live an infinite number of times more in the future, repeating always exactly the same life, with exactly the same results.

It was also an article of faith that we were mere machines, governed by powers over which we had no control; that our ideas of liberty, and our feelings of responsibility, or of good and ill desert, were all delusions; that all the errors, and crimes, and miseries of our race were inevitable, and were to be eternally repeated; and that a change for the better was eternally impossible. But time would fail me to mention all their theories. It is enough to say that the wild and unsatisfactory nature of these dreams helped to drive me back to Christianity.

5. There was, of course, no tendency in unbelief to promote virtue, or to check vice. Its natural tendency was to utter depravity. And Christianity retained such an influence over me, even to the last, that I could never reconcile myself to a vicious life.

6. Then came another trouble. Infidelity could give no guarantee that wrong should not finally triumph, and right be finally crushed. It is belief in G.o.d alone that can give a.s.surance that virtue shall be ultimately rewarded, and vice ultimately punished. The Christian can believe past doubt, that "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap;" that "with what judgment we judge, we shall be judged; and with what measure we mete, it shall be measured to us again." But the infidel has no foundation for such a faith. For anything he knows, a man may sow villany, and reap honor and blessedness. He may live by injustice and cruelty, and meet with no punishment, either here or hereafter; while another may spend his days in doing good, and give his life for the salvation of his fellows, and receive only torture, reproach, and death.

Nor is there any security for the triumph of truth on the infidel principle. For anything infidelity knows, truth may be always in the mire, and its friends be forever reproached and shunned; while error may always be in the ascendant, and its propagators honored and rewarded.

Indeed this is the case at present, if infidelity be true. For infidelity is in the dust, while faith in G.o.d and Christ is in high repute. And infidels are suspected and dreaded, while consistent believers are loved and trusted. Faith smoothes man's way through life, and in some cases raises him to honor and power; while Atheism makes a man's pathway rugged, and prevents his elevation. This state of things is exceedingly unsatisfactory to unbelievers. They ought, if they are the wisest of men, as they suppose, to be everywhere received with honor. They ought to be placed in power. The world should ring with their praise. The universe should enrich them with its treasures. The names of their predecessors in unbelief should be had in the greatest honor. They should stand first on the roll of fame. Their monuments should fill the earth. The sweetest poets should sing their praises; the most eloquent orators should proclaim their greatness; and the nations should delight to celebrate their worth. Their pictures and statues should grace our courts, our temples, and our palaces. Their deeds should form the staple of our pleasant histories, and their writings crowd the shelves of our libraries. Children should be taught to lisp their names with reverence, and the aged should bless them with their parting breath.

On the other hand, if religion be false and foolish, if it be unnatural and mischievous, its friends should be pitied or despised, if not rebuked and punished. Its founders and propagators should be branded as the weakest or the basest of men. Their names should be had in contempt or abhorrence. Their writings should be everywhere decried. Their pictures and statues should fill some chamber of horrors. Historians, poets, and orators should hold them up to reprobation. Christians should be kept from places of trust, and from posts of honor. They should be wretched, and poor, and miserable, and the hearts of men, and the powers of nature, should combine for their destruction, and for the utter extinction of their cause.

Yet the state of things is just the contrary. Christianity triumphs, and Christians are honored; while infidelity languishes, and its disciples are covered with shame. On the Atheist's theory the human race has existed for millions of years, yet it has never produced more than a few individuals who have acknowledged the principle of his creed. The ma.s.s of men, in all ages, have been believers in G.o.d. The civilized as well as the savage, the learned as well as the ignorant, the high as well as the low, alike have adored a Deity. Even the greatest of our race have been believers. The sweetest poets, the profoundest philosophers, the greatest statesmen, the wisest legislators, the most venerable judges, the most devoted philanthropists, have all believed in G.o.d. Two or three tribes have been found, it is said, without an idea of G.o.d; but they were savages of the lowest grade; and it is not yet settled whether the accounts that have been given of those wretched creatures be correct or not.

And Atheism has always been regarded with horror. It is so still. It is believed to be the nurse of vice and crime. Atheists are everywhere looked upon with suspicion and dread. The prevailing impression is that they are bad and dangerous men,--that no reliance is to be placed on their word,--that they are naturally licentious, dishonest, deceitful, cruel,--that they are prepared for any enormity,--that they are enemies to domestic purity and civil order, and that no one is safe in their power. If ever they were regarded by mankind with favor, the time is forgotten. There is not a nation on earth in which they are popular now.

They are everywhere branded as infamous.

If Atheists have always been so bad as to _deserve_ this fate, their principles must be bad. If they have deserved a better fate,--if they have been pure, and just, and true,--if they have been remarkable for generosity, patriotism, and philanthropy,--if they have distinguished themselves as the friends of virtue, and the benefactors of mankind, how sad to think that they have never received their due at the hands of men.

The longer the Atheists look on their condition, the less satisfactory it appears. They have no grand history, no glorious names, to reflect honor on their cause. They have no n.o.ble army of martyrs. They have no great monuments. And they can have no a.s.surance of anything better in days to come. The probability is that their memory will rot, and that their principles will be an offence and loathing to mankind through all succeeding generations.

But look on the other side? The highest name on earth is a religious name; the name of Jesus. The names which stand next in honor are those of His Apostles and followers. The mightiest nations on earth are Christian nations. Christians rule the world. Christian ministers are honored and revered. Christian churches rise to wealth and power. The Church controls the state. It controls it most when it is least ambitious, and most consistent. The Church has a glorious history. It has the grandest array of honorable names. It has the n.o.blest army of martyrs. It has the richest literature. Its sacred books are read in all the leading languages of the earth. The great geniuses are her's. The richest poetry, the grandest eloquence, the divinest philosophy, the n.o.blest courage, the richest generosity, the most devoted philanthropy, are all her's. She has the credit of being the parent and the nurse of our highest civilization. She is the great educator. She builds our schools. She rules our colleges. She controls the press. She plants new nations. She spreads herself and exerts her influence in every land. You cannot destroy the Church. It is immortal. You cannot limit its power.

It is irresistibly expansive and invincible. If at any time it suffers loss, it is through its own unfaithfulness; and a return to duty is a return to dominion.

Even in countries not Christian the religious element is supreme, and the religious men alone are honored. The greatest names in the history of India and China, of Persia and Turkey, are the names of their prophets and religious leaders.

What follows from all this? That if infidelity be true and good, and religion false and mischievous, the world and the human race are wholly wrong. The best and wisest men are everywhere despised, and the weakest and wickedest are everywhere honored. The originators of the greatest delusions are deified; and the revealers of the greatest truths are regarded as monsters. Truth no longer can be said to be mighty, and error can no longer be said to be weak. The right is no longer sure of triumph, nor the wrong of overthrow. Men love darkness and hate the light; and it is not the few that do so, but the many. And there seems no hope of a change for the better. Earth is no place for the great, the good, the wise; but for the ignorant, the deluded, and the base alone.

It is the paradise of fools, and the purgatory of philosophers.

But I asked, "_Is_ infidelity true and good, and religion false and mischievous? Am I not laboring under some monster delusion? Have I not been imposed upon by a vicious logic? Are not mankind right in hating and dreading infidelity, and in loving and honoring religion? There is a tremendous mistake somewhere. Either infidelity is wrong, or mankind and the universe are fearfully perverse."

7. And now I began a reconsideration of the claims of religion and infidelity. As I have said, I re-read the Bible. I reviewed Church history. I examined the character and workings of religious communities.

And I found the Bible a better and a wiser book than I had ever imagined. And I found Christianity, as presented in the teachings and life of Jesus, the fairest and loveliest, the most glorious and beneficent of all systems. I found Jesus Himself to be the most beautiful and exalted of all characters. I saw in Paul a dignity and a glory second only to those of Christ. I found in the New Testament the perfection of wisdom and beneficence. I found in the history of the Church a record of the grandest movement, and of the most glorious and beneficent reformation, the world had ever witnessed. I found in the churches the mightiest agencies and the most manifold operations for the salvation of mankind. "Christianity," said I, "whether supernatural or not, is a wondrous power. It is good, if it is not true. It is glorious.

It _deserves_ to be Divine, whether it be so or not. What a world we should have,--what a heaven on earth--if men could be brought to believe its teachings, to imbibe its spirit, and to obey its precepts. What a heaven of bliss it would be to one's soul if one could see it and feel it to be really true."

It had conquered my heart. It had won my love. And I would gladly have died, or would gladly have lived through ages of hards.h.i.+p and toil, to be satisfied of its divinity. How glad I was when I found men heartily believing it. How sad when I found them doubting, like myself. How delighted I was when I found my objections to its truth slowly fading away, and saw facts in its favor coming gradually into view.

But doubt had become a powerful tyrant, and I had become a slave; and though I _wished_ I could be a Christian, I could indulge no hope of ever experiencing so great a happiness. But I would do Christianity justice, to the best of my ability. I would exhibit its excellencies. I would defend it against false accusations. I would preach it so far as I honestly could. I would practise its precepts so far as I was able. I would cherish its spirit. "If it is not from G.o.d," said I, "it is the best production of the mind of man. If I cannot hold it forth as a divine revelation, I can extol it as the perfection of human wisdom. And some of its teachings are evidently true, and others are easily proved to be so. It is true throughout, so far as I can test it; and it may be true--perhaps I shall some day find it to be true--on points on which I am unable to test it at present. I will wait, and labor meanwhile to promote its beneficent influence!"