Epilogue

THIS narrative, however, must not be allowed to close with the Son in the foreground of the piece. If it has a value, that value consists in what light it may contrive to throw upon the unique and noble figure of the Father. With the advance of years, the characteristics of this figure became more severely outlined, more rigorously confined within settled limits. In relation to the Son—who presently departed, at a very immature age, for the new life in London—the attitude of the Father continued to be one of extreme solicitude, deepening by degrees into disappointment and disenchantment. He abated no jot or tittle of his demands upon human frailty. He kept the spiritual cord drawn tight; the Biblical bearing-rein was incessantly busy, jerking into position the head of the dejected neophyte. That young soul, removed from the Father's personal inspection, began to blossom forth crudely and irregularly enough, into new provinces of thought, through fresh layers of experience. To the painful mentor at home in the West, the centre of anxiety was still the meek and docile heart, dedicated to the Lord's service, which must, at all hazards and with all defiance of the rules of life, be kept unspotted from the world.

This narrative, however, must not be allowed to end with the Son in the foreground. If it has any value, that value lies in the light it may shed on the unique and noble figure of the Father. As the years passed, the Father’s characteristics became more sharply defined and more strictly confined within settled limits. The Son soon left for a new life in London, while still very immature. The Father remained deeply concerned about him, but his concern gradually deepened into disappointment and disillusionment. He did not lessen his demands on human frailty in the slightest. He kept the spiritual cord tight. The Biblical bearing rein was constantly at work, jerking the dejected young convert’s head back into position. Away from the Father’s personal supervision, that young soul began to blossom, crudely and irregularly enough, into new areas of thought through fresh layers of experience. For his painstaking mentor, at home in the West, the central concern was still the meek and obedient heart dedicated to the Lord’s service. At all costs, and in defiance of all the rules of life, that heart must be kept untainted by the world.

The torment of a postal inquisition began directly I was settled in my London lodgings. To my Father—with his ample leisure, his palpitating apprehension, his ready pen—the flow of correspondence offered no trouble at all; it was a grave but gratifying occupation. To me the almost daily letter of exhortation, with its string of questions about conduct, its series of warnings, grew to be a burden which could hardly be borne, particularly because it involved a reply as punctual and if possible as full as itself. At the age of seventeen, the metaphysics of the soul are shadowy, and it is a dreadful thing to be forced to define the exact outline of what is so undulating and so shapeless. To my Father there seemed no reason why I should hesitate to give answers of full metallic ring to his hard and oft-repeated questions; but to me this correspondence was torture. When I feebly expostulated, when I begged to be left a little to myself, these appeals of mine automatically stimulated, and indeed blew up into fierce flames, the ardour of my Father's alarm.

The torment of a postal interrogation began as soon as I settled into my London lodgings. My Father had plenty of free time, anxious fears, and a ready pen. Writing a steady stream of letters was no trouble at all for him. It was a serious but satisfying occupation. For me, his almost daily letters of encouragement, with their strings of questions about my conduct and their repeated warnings, became an almost unbearable burden. Each letter required a reply just as prompt and, if possible, just as full. At seventeen, the nature of the soul is hazy. It is dreadful to be forced to define the exact outline of something so shifting and shapeless. My Father saw no reason why I should hesitate to give clear, ringing answers to his hard, often repeated questions. But for me, the correspondence was torture. When I weakly protested and begged to be left a little to myself, my appeals only increased my Father's alarm. They fanned it into fierce flames.

The letter, the only too-confidently expected letter, would lie on the table as I descended to breakfast. It would commonly be, of course, my only letter, unless tempered by a cosy and chatty note from my dear and comfortable stepmother, dealing with such perfectly tranquillizing subjects as the harvest of roses in the garden or the state of health of various neighbours. But the other, the solitary letter, in its threatening whiteness, with its exquisitely penned address—there it would lie awaiting me, destroying the taste of the bacon, reducing the flavour of the tea to insipidity. I might fatuously dally with it, I might pretend not to observe it, but there it lay. Before the morning's exercise began, I knew that it had to be read, and what was worse, that it had to be answered. Useless the effort to conceal from myself what it contained. Like all its precursors, like all its followers, it would insist, with every variety of appeal, on a reiterated declaration that I still fully intended, as in the days of my earliest childhood, 'to be on the Lord's side' in everything.

The letter, which I expected with only too much certainty, would be on the table when I came down to breakfast. Usually, of course, it would be my only letter. Sometimes, though, it was softened by a warm, chatty note from my dear, comforting stepmother. She wrote about such perfectly soothing subjects as the roses gathered from the garden or the health of various neighbours. But the other letter, the one that usually came alone, would lie there waiting for me. Its whiteness seemed threatening, and its address was beautifully written. It spoiled the taste of the bacon and made the tea seem flavourless. I might foolishly put off opening the letter or pretend not to notice it, but there it lay. I knew I had to read it before the morning's exercise began. Worse still, I had to answer it. There was no use trying to hide from myself what it contained. Like all the letters before it and all those that followed, it used every kind of appeal. It insisted that I repeat my declaration that I still fully intended 'to be on the Lord's side' in everything, as I had in my earliest childhood.

In my replies, I would sometimes answer precisely as I was desired to answer; sometimes I would evade the queries, and write about other things; sometimes I would turn upon the tormentor, and urge that my tender youth might be let alone. It little mattered what form of weakness I put forth by way of baffling my Father's direct, firm, unflinching strength. To an appeal against the bondage of a correspondence of such unbroken solemnity I would receive—with what a paralysing promptitude!—such a reply as this:—

In my replies, I sometimes answered exactly as I was expected to. Sometimes I dodged the questions and wrote about other things. At other times, I turned on my tormentor and pleaded to be left alone because I was so young. It hardly mattered how I tried, in my weakness, to thwart my Father's direct, firm, unwavering strength. When I appealed to be freed from the burden of such an endlessly solemn correspondence, I would receive a reply like this, and with such paralyzing promptness!:

'Let me say that the 'solemnity' you complain of has only been the expression of tender anxiousness of a father's heart, that his only child, just turned out upon the world, and very far out of his sight and hearing, should be walking in God's way. Recollect that it is not now as it was when you were at school, when we had personal communication with you at intervals of five days—we now know absolutely nothing of you, save from your letters, and if they do not indicate your spiritual prosperity, the deepest solicitudes of our hearts have nothing to feed on. But I will try henceforth to trust you, and lay aside my fears; for you are worthy of my confidence; and your own God and your father's God will hold you with His right hand.'

'Let me say that the 'solemnity' you complain of has only expressed a father's tender concern. His only child has just gone out into the world, far beyond his sight and hearing. He wants his child to walk in God's way. Remember, things are different now from when you were at school. Then we saw or spoke with you every five days. Now we know absolutely nothing about you except what your letters tell us. If your letters do not show that you are prospering spiritually, our deepest concerns have nothing to feed on. But from now on, I will try to trust you and set aside my fears. You are worthy of my confidence, and your own God and your father's God will hold you with his right hand.'

Over such letters as these I am not ashamed to say that I sometimes wept; the old paper I have just been copying shows traces of tears shed upon it more than forty years ago, tears commingled of despair at my own feebleness, distraction, at my want of will, pity for my Father's manifest and pathetic distress. He would 'try henceforth to trust' me, he said. Alas! the effort would be in vain; after a day or two, after a hollow attempt to write of other things, the importunate subject would recur; there would intrude again the inevitable questions about the Atonement and the Means of Grace, the old anxious fears lest I was 'yielding' my intimacy to agreeable companions who were not 'one with me in Christ', fresh passionate entreaties to be assured, in every letter, that I was walking in the clear light of God's presence.

I am not ashamed to say that I sometimes wept over letters like these. The old paper I have just been copying shows traces of tears shed more than forty years ago. Those tears came from despair at my own weakness, distress at my lack of will, and pity for my Father's obvious and heartbreaking distress. He said he would 'try henceforth to trust' me. Alas! His effort would be in vain. After a day or two, after a halfhearted attempt to write about other things, the troubling subject would come up again. Once more, he would ask the inevitable questions about the Atonement and the Means of Grace. He would express his old, anxious fears that I was 'yielding' my intimacy to pleasant companions who were not 'one with me in Christ'. He would again beg me passionately to assure him in every letter that I was walking in the clear light of God's presence.

It seems to me now profoundly strange, although I knew too little of the world to remark it at the time, that these incessant exhortations dealt, not with conduct, but with faith. Earlier in this narrative I have noted how disdainfully, with what an austere pride, my Father refused to entertain the subject of personal shortcomings in my behaviour. There were enough of them to blame, Heaven knows, but he was too lofty-minded a gentleman to dwell upon them, and, though by nature deeply suspicious of the possibility of frequent moral lapses, even in the very elect, he refused to stoop to anything like espionage.

It seems deeply strange to me now that these constant appeals were about faith, not conduct. At the time, though, I knew too little of the world to notice. Earlier in this narrative, I noted how scornfully my Father refused to discuss the flaws in my behaviour. He did so with a stern pride. Heaven knows there were enough flaws to criticize, but he was too honourable a gentleman to dwell on them. By nature, he deeply suspected that even the elect might often fall into sin. Even so, he refused to stoop to anything like spying.

I owe him a deep debt of gratitude for his beautiful faith in me in this respect, and now that I was alone in London, at this tender time of life, 'exposed', as they say, to all sorts of dangers, as defenceless as a fledgling that has been turned out of its nest, yet my Father did not, in his uplifted Quixotism, allow himself to fancy me guilty of any moral misbehaviour, but concentrated his fears entirely upon my faith.

I owe him a deep debt of gratitude for the beautiful faith he had in me in this respect. I was now alone in London at a tender age, 'exposed', as people say, to all sorts of dangers. I was as defenceless as a fledgling pushed out of its nest. Yet my Father, in his lofty, quixotic way, never allowed himself to imagine me guilty of any moral wrongdoing. Instead, all his fears were for my faith.

'Let me know more of your inner light. Does the candle of the Lord shine on your soul?' This would be the ceaseless inquiry. Or, again, 'Do you get any spiritual companionship with young men? You passed over last Sunday without even a word, yet this day is the most interesting to me in your whole week. Do you find the ministry of the Word pleasant, and, above all, profitable? Does it bring your soul into exercise before God? The Coming of Christ draweth nigh. Watch, therefore and pray always, that you may be counted worthy to stand before the Son of Man.'

'Let me know more about your inner light. Does the Lord's candle shine on your soul?' This was the constant question. Or, again, 'Do you find spiritual companionship with other young men? You said nothing at all about last Sunday, yet Sunday is the most interesting day of your week to me. Do you find the preaching of the Word pleasant and, above all, helpful? Does it stir your soul before God? The Coming of Christ is near. So stay alert and pray always, that you may be found worthy to stand before the Son of Man.'

If I quote such passages as this from my Father's letters to me, it is not that I seek entertainment in a contrast between his earnestness and the casuistical inattention and provoked distractedness of a young man to whom the real world now offered its irritating and stimulating scenes of animal and intellectual life, but to call out sympathy, and perhaps wonder, at the spectacle of so blind a Roman firmness as my Father's spiritual attitude displayed.

If I quote passages like this from my Father's letters to me, it is not to make entertainment of the contrast between us. He was earnest, while I was a young man, distracted and inattentive, and ready to make excuses for it. The real world was now offering me its irritating and stimulating scenes of physical and intellectual life. Rather, I quote these passages to call forth sympathy, and perhaps wonder, at the blind, Roman firmness of my Father's spiritual attitude.

His aspirations were individual and metaphysical. At the present hour, so complete is the revolution which has overturned the puritanism of which he was perhaps the latest surviving type, that all classes of religious persons combine in placing philanthropic activity, the objective attitude, in the foreground. It is extraordinary how far-reaching the change has been, so that nowadays a religion which does not combine with its subjective faith a strenuous labour for the good of others is hardly held to possess any religious principle worth proclaiming.

His aspirations were personal and metaphysical. Today, puritanism has been completely overturned. He was perhaps the last surviving example of its kind. As a result, religious people of all kinds now put charitable work and an outward-looking attitude first. The change has been remarkably far-reaching. Nowadays, a religion that does not combine personal faith with strenuous work for the good of others is hardly considered to have any religious principle worth proclaiming.

This propaganda of beneficence, this constant attention to the moral and physical improvement of persons who have been neglected, is quite recent as a leading feature of religion, though indeed it seems to have formed some part of the Saviour's original design. It was unknown to the great preachers of the seventeenth century, whether Catholic or Protestant, and it offered but a shadowy attraction to my Father, who was the last of their disciples. When Bossuet desired his hearers to listen to the cri de misere l'entour de nous, qui devrait nous fondre le coeur, he started a new thing in the world of theology. We may search the famous 'Rule and Exercises of Holy Living' from cover to cover, and not learn that Jeremy Taylor would have thought that any activity of the district-visitor or the Salvation lassie came within the category of saintliness.

This campaign of doing good involves constant attention to the moral and physical improvement of neglected people. As a leading feature of religion, it is quite recent, though it seems to have formed some part of the Saviour's original design. The great seventeenth-century preachers, whether Catholic or Protestant, knew nothing of it. And it held only a faint attraction for my Father, the last of their disciples. When Bossuet asked his listeners to hear the cry of misery around us, which should melt our hearts, he began something new in the world of theology. We may search the famous 'Rule and Exercises of Holy Living' from cover to cover. We will not find that Jeremy Taylor would have considered any work of a district visitor or a Salvation Army lass saintly.

My Father, then, like an old divine, concentrated on thoughts upon the intellectual part of faith. In his obsession about me, he believed that if my brain could be kept unaffected by any of the seductive errors of the age, and my heart centred in the adoring love of God, all would be well with me in perpetuity. He was still convinced that by intensely directing my thoughts, he could compel them to flow in a certain channel, since he had not begun to learn the lesson, so mournful for saintly men of his complexion, that 'virtue would not be virtue, could it be given by one fellow creature to another'. He had recognized, with reluctance, that holiness was not hereditary, but he continued to hope that it might be compulsive. I was still 'the child of many prayers', and it was not to be conceded that these prayers could remain unanswered.

My Father, then, like an old theologian, focused his thoughts on the intellectual side of faith. In his obsession with me, he believed that all would be well with me forever under two conditions. My mind had to be kept free from all the seductive errors of the age, and my heart had to be centered on adoring love of God. He was still convinced that, by directing my thoughts intensely, he could force them into a certain path. He had not yet begun to learn a lesson that was deeply painful for saintly men like him: 'virtue would not be virtue, could it be given by one fellow creature to another'. He had reluctantly recognized that holiness was not inherited, but he still hoped it could be forced on someone. I was still 'the child of many prayers', and he would not accept that those prayers could go unanswered.

The great panacea was now, as always, the study of the Bible, and this my Father never ceased to urge upon me. He presented to me a copy of Dean Alford's edition of the Greek New Testament, in four great volumes, and these he had had so magnificently bound in full morocco that the work shone on my poor shelf of sixpenny poets like a duchess among dairy maids. He extracted from me a written promise that I would translate and meditate upon a portion of the Greek text every morning before I started for business. This promise I presently failed to keep, my good intentions being undermined by an invincible ennui; I concealed the dereliction from him, and the sense that I was deceiving my Father ate into my conscience like a canker. But the dilemma was now before me that I must either deceive my Father in such things or paralyse my own character.

The great cure for everything was now, as always, studying the Bible. My Father never stopped urging me to study it. He gave me Dean Alford's edition of the Greek New Testament, in four large volumes. He had the books magnificently bound in full morocco leather. On my poor shelf of sixpenny poets, they shone like a duchess among dairy maids. He made me promise in writing to translate and reflect on a portion of the Greek text every morning before leaving for work. Before long, I failed to keep my promise. Despite my good intentions, I was overcome by an irresistible boredom. I hid my failure from him, and the knowledge that I was deceiving my Father ate away at my conscience like a canker. But I now faced a dilemma. I had to either deceive my Father in such matters or paralyse my own character.

My growing distaste for the Holy Scriptures began to occupy my thoughts, and to surprise as much as it scandalized me. My desire was to continue to delight in those sacred pages, for which I still had an instinctive veneration. Yet I could not but observe the difference between the zeal with which I snatched at a volume of Carlyle or Ruskin—since these magicians were now first revealing themselves to me—and the increasing languor with which I took up Alford for my daily 'passage'. Of course, although I did not know it, and believed my reluctance to be sinful, the real reason why I now found the Bible so difficult to read was my familiarity with its contents. These had the colourless triteness of a story retold a hundred times. I longed for something new, something that would gratify curiosity and excite surprise. Whether the facts and doctrines contained in the Bible were true or false was not the question that appealed to me; it was rather that they had been presented to me so often and had sunken into me so far that, as someone has said, they 'lay bedridden in the dormitory of the soul', and made no impression of any kind upon me.

My growing dislike of the Holy Scriptures began to occupy my thoughts. It surprised me as much as it shocked me. I wanted to go on enjoying those sacred pages, which I still instinctively revered. Yet I could not help noticing how eagerly I grabbed a volume of Carlyle or Ruskin. These magicians were only just beginning to reveal themselves to me. In contrast, I picked up Alford for my daily 'passage' with growing weariness. Of course, I did not know the real reason I now found the Bible so difficult to read. I believed my reluctance was sinful, but the real reason was my familiarity with its contents. They seemed dull and stale, like a story told a hundred times. I longed for something new, something that would satisfy my curiosity and surprise me. The question that interested me was not whether the facts and doctrines in the Bible were true or false. Rather, they had been presented to me so often and had sunk so deeply into me that, as someone has said, they 'lay bedridden in the dormitory of the soul'. They made no impression on me at all.

It often amazed me, and I am still unable to understand the fact, that my Father, through his long life—or until nearly the close of it—continued to take an eager pleasure in the text of the Bible. As I think I have already said, before he reached middle life, he had committed practically the whole of it to memory, and if started anywhere, even in a Minor Prophet, he could go on without a break as long as ever he was inclined for that exercise. He, therefore, at no time can have been assailed by the satiety of which I have spoken, and that it came so soon to me I must take simply as an indication of difference of temperament. It was not possible, even through the dark glass of correspondence, to deceive his eagle eye in this matter, and his suspicions accordingly took another turn. He conceived me to have become, or to be becoming, a victim of 'the infidelity of the age.'

It often amazed me that my Father continued to take such eager pleasure in the text of the Bible throughout his long life, or until nearly the end of it. I still cannot understand it. As I think I have already said, he had memorized practically the whole Bible before he reached middle age. If he began anywhere, even in a Minor Prophet, he could go on without a break for as long as he wanted. He can therefore never have felt the weariness I have described. I must simply take the fact that it came so soon to me as a sign that our temperaments differed. Even through the obscurity of letters, I could not deceive his eagle eye about my weariness. So his suspicions turned in another direction. He came to believe that I had become, or was becoming, a victim of 'the infidelity of the age.'

In this new difficulty, he appealed to forms of modern literature by the side of which the least attractive pages of Leviticus or Deuteronomy struck me as even thrilling. In particular, he urged upon me a work, then just published, called The Continuity of Scripture by William Page Wood, afterwards Lord Chancellor Hatherley. I do not know why he supposed that the lucubrations of an exemplary lawyer, delivered in a style that was like the trickling of sawdust, would succeed in rousing emotions which the glorious rhetoric of the Orient had failed to awaken; but Page Wood had been a Sunday School teacher for thirty years, and my Father was always unduly impressed by the acumen of pious barristers.

Faced with this new difficulty, he turned to modern literature. Beside these works, even the least appealing pages of Leviticus or Deuteronomy seemed thrilling to me. In particular, he pressed me to read a newly published book, The Continuity of Scripture by William Page Wood, later Lord Chancellor Hatherley. I do not know why he thought the writings of an exemplary lawyer would succeed where the glorious rhetoric of the Orient had failed. Page Wood’s style was like the trickling of sawdust. But he had been a Sunday School teacher for thirty years, and my Father was always too impressed by the insight of pious barristers.

As time went on, and I grew older and more independent in mind, my Father's anxiety about what he called 'the pitfalls and snares which surround on every hand the thoughtless giddy youth of London' became extremely painful to himself. By harping in private upon these 'pitfalls'—which brought to my imagination a funny rough woodcut in an old edition of Bunyan, where a devil was seen capering over a sort of box let neatly into the ground— he worked himself up into a frame of mind which was not a little irritating to his hapless correspondent, who was now 'snared' indeed, limed by the pen like a bird by the feet, and could not by any means escape. To a peck or a flutter from the bird the implacable fowler would reply:

As time passed, I grew older and more independent in my thinking. My Father became deeply troubled by what he called 'the pitfalls and traps that surround the thoughtless, carefree youth of London on every side'. As he brooded privately over these 'pitfalls', he worked himself into a state of mind that was more than a little irritating to his hapless correspondent. The word brought to mind a funny, crude woodcut in an old edition of Bunyan. It showed a devil dancing over a kind of box neatly set into the ground. I was now 'trapped' indeed, caught by his pen like a bird whose feet were stuck in birdlime. There was no way I could escape. If the bird pecked or fluttered, the relentless birdcatcher would reply:

'You charge me with being suspicious, and I fear I cannot deny the charge. But I can appeal to your own sensitive and thoughtful mind for a considerable allowance. My deep and tender love for you; your youth and inexperience; the examples of other young men; your distance from parental counsel; our absolute and painful ignorance of all the details of your daily life, except what you yourself tell us:—try to throw yourself into the standing of a parent, and say if my suspiciousness is unreasonable. I rejoicingly acknowledge that from all I see you are pursuing a virtuous, steady, worthy course. One good thing my suspiciousness does:—ever and anon it brings out from you assurances, which greatly refresh and comfort me. And again, it carries me ever to God's Throne of Grace on your behalf Holy Job suspected that his sons might have sinned, and cursed God in their heart. Was not his suspicion much like mine, grounded on the same reasons and productive of the same results? For it drove him to God in intercession. I have adduced the example of this Patriarch before, and he will endure being looked at again.'

'You accuse me of being suspicious, and I fear I cannot deny it. But I hope your sensitive and thoughtful mind will make considerable allowances for me. Think of my deep and tender love for you, your youth and inexperience, and the examples of other young men. You are far from your parents' counsel. We know absolutely nothing of the details of your daily life except what you tell us. This ignorance is painful to us. Try to put yourself in a parent's position, and say whether my suspicion is unreasonable. I am glad to acknowledge that, from all I see, you are leading a virtuous, steady, worthy life. My suspicion does one good thing. From time to time, it prompts you to reassure me, and your assurances greatly refresh and comfort me. It also constantly brings me to God's Throne of Grace on your behalf. Holy Job suspected that his sons might have sinned and cursed God in their hearts. Was his suspicion not much like mine, based on the same reasons and producing the same results? For it drove him to God to pray on their behalf. I have mentioned the example of this Patriarch before, and it is worth looking at again.'

In fact, Holy Job continued to be frequently looked at, and for this Patriarch I came to experience a hatred which was as venomous as it was undeserved. But what youth of eighteen would willingly be compared with the sons of Job? And indeed, for my part, I felt much more like that justly exasperated character, Elihu the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram.

In fact, we continued to look at Holy Job often. I came to hate that Patriarch with a venom he did not deserve. But what eighteen-year-old would willingly be compared with the sons of Job? For my part, I felt much more like Elihu the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram, who was justly exasperated.

As time went on, the peculiar strain of inquisition was relaxed, and I endured fewer and fewer of the torments of religious correspondence. Nothing abides in one tense projection, and my Father, resolute as he was, had other preoccupations. His orchids, his microscope, his physiological researches, his interpretations of prophecy, filled up the hours of his active and strenuous life, and, out of his sight, I became not indeed out of his mind, but no longer ceaselessly in the painful foreground of it. Yet, although the reiteration of his anxiety might weary him a little as it had wearied me well nigh to groans of despair, there was not the slightest change in his real attitude towards the subject or towards me.

As time went on, the intense questioning eased, and I suffered less and less from the torment of religious letters. Nothing stays at the same pitch forever. My Father was determined, but he had other concerns. His orchids, his microscope, his physiological research, and his interpretations of prophecy filled the hours of his active, strenuous life. When I was out of his sight, I was not out of his mind. But I was no longer constantly at the painful forefront of his thoughts. His repeated expressions of anxiety may have tired him a little, just as they had tired me almost to the point of groaning in despair. Yet his real attitude toward the subject and toward me had not changed in the slightest.

I have already had occasion to say that he had nothing of the mystic or the visionary about him. At certain times and on certain points, he greatly desired that signs and wonders, such as had astonished and encouraged the infancy of the Christian Church, might again be vouchsafed to it, but he did not pretend to see such miracles himself, nor give the slightest credence to others who asserted that they did. He often congratulated himself on the fact that although his mind dwelt so constantly on spiritual matters it was never betrayed into any suspension of the rational functions.

I have already said that he had nothing of the mystic or the visionary about him. At times, and on certain points, he deeply wished for signs and wonders to be granted to the Christian Church again. Such miracles had astonished and encouraged the Church in its infancy. But he did not claim to see miracles himself, and he did not believe others who claimed they did. He often congratulated himself that, although he thought constantly about spiritual matters, he never lost his ability to reason.

Cross-examination by letter slackened, but on occasion of my brief and usually summer visits to Devonshire I suffered acutely from my Father's dialectical appetites. He was surrounded by peasants, on whom the teeth of his arguments could find no purchase. To him, in that intellectual Abdera, even an unwilling youth from London offered opportunities of pleasant contest. He would declare himself ready, nay eager, for argument. With his mental sleeves turned up, he would adopt a fighting attitude, and challenge me to a round on any portion of the Scheme of Grace. His alacrity was dreadful to me, his well-aimed blows fell on what was rather a bladder or a pillow than a vivid antagonist.

His cross-examination by letter became less frequent. But during my brief visits to Devonshire, usually in summer, I suffered terribly from my Father's appetite for debate. He was surrounded by peasants, against whom his arguments could gain no hold. To him, in that intellectual Abdera, even an unwilling young man from London offered a chance for an enjoyable contest. He would declare himself ready, even eager, to argue. Mentally rolling up his sleeves, he would take a fighting stance and challenge me to a round on any part of the Scheme of Grace. His eagerness terrified me. His well-aimed blows fell on someone who was more like an inflated bladder or a pillow than a lively opponent.

He was, indeed, most unfairly handicapped,—I was naked, he in a suit of chain armour,—for he had adopted a method which I thought, and must still think, exceedingly unfair. He assumed that he had private knowledge of the Divine Will, and he would meet my temporizing arguments by asseverations,—'So sure as my God liveth!' or by appeals to a higher authority,—'But what does my Lord tell me in Paul's Letter to the Philippians?' It was the prerogative of his faith to know, and of his character to overpower objection; between these two millstones I was rapidly ground to powder.

He was, indeed, at a great and unfair advantage. I was naked, while he wore chain armour. For he had adopted a method I thought, and still think, exceedingly unfair. He assumed he had private knowledge of God’s will. When I tried to delay or compromise, he would answer with declarations: 'As surely as my God lives!' Or he would appeal to a higher authority: 'But what does my Lord tell me in Paul’s Letter to the Philippians?' His faith gave him the privilege of knowing, and his character enabled him to overpower any objection. Between these two millstones, I was quickly ground to powder.

These 'discussions', as they were rather ironically called, invariably ended for me in disaster. I was driven out of my papier-mache fastnesses, my canvas walls rocked at the first peal from my Father's clarion, and the foe pursued me across the plains of Jericho until I lay down ignominiously and covered my face. I seemed to be pushed with horns of iron, such as those which Zedekiah the son of Chenaanah prepared for the encouragement of Ahab.

These 'discussions', as they were rather ironically called, always ended in disaster for me. I was driven from my papier-mache strongholds. My canvas walls shook at the first blast of my Father's trumpet. The enemy pursued me across the plains of Jericho until I lay down in shame and covered my face. I felt as though I were being pushed by iron horns, like those Zedekiah the son of Chenaanah made to encourage Ahab.

When I acknowledged defeat and cried for quarter, my Father would become radiant, and I still seem to hear the sound of his full voice, so thrilling, so warm, so painful to my over-strained nerves, bursting forth in a sort of benediction at the end of each of these one-sided contentions, with 'I bow my knees unto the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might by His Spirit in the inner man; that Christ may dwell in your heart by faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height, and to know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge, that you might be filled with the fullness of God.'

When I admitted defeat and begged for mercy, my Father would become radiant. Even now, I seem to hear his full voice at the end of each of these one-sided arguments. It was so thrilling and warm, yet so painful to my strained nerves. He would burst into a kind of blessing: 'I kneel before the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. I pray that, out of the riches of his glory, he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your heart through faith. I pray that you, rooted and grounded in love, may be able to understand with all saints the breadth, length, depth, and height of Christ's love, and to know that love, which is beyond knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.'

Thus solemn and thus ceremonious was my Father apt to become, without a moment's warning, on plain and domestic occasions; abruptly brimming over with emotion like a basin which an unseen flow of water has filled and over-filled.

My Father could become solemn and ceremonial without a moment’s warning, even during ordinary moments at home. He would suddenly overflow with emotion, like a basin filled and overflowing from an unseen stream of water.

I earnestly desire that no trace of that absurd self-pity which is apt to taint recollections of this nature should give falsity to mine. My Father, let me say once more, had other interests than those of his religion. In particular, at this time, he took to painting in water-colours in the open air, and he resumed the assiduous study of botany. He was no fanatical monomaniac. Nevertheless, there was, in everything he did and said, the central purpose present. He acknowledged it plainly; 'with me,' he confessed, 'every question assumes a Divine standpoint and is not adequately answered if the judgement-seat of Christ is not kept in sight.'

I earnestly hope that none of the absurd self-pity that often taints memories like these will make mine untrue. Let me say once more that my Father had interests besides religion. In particular, at this time, he began painting watercolours outdoors and returned to the dedicated study of botany. He was not a fanatic obsessed with a single idea. Nevertheless, his central purpose was present in everything he did and said. He acknowledged this plainly: 'For me, every question takes on a divine aspect. No question is adequately answered unless the judgement-seat of Christ is kept in view.'

This was maintained whether the subject under discussion was poetry, or society, or the Prussian war with Austria, or the stamen of a wild flower. Once, at least, he was himself conscious of the fatiguing effect on my temper of this insistency, for, raising his great brown eyes with a flash of laughter in them, he closed the Bible suddenly after a very lengthy disquisition, and quoted his Virgil to startling effect:—

This continued whether the subject was poetry, society, the Prussian war with Austria, or the stamen of a wild flower. At least once, he himself realized how much his insistence was wearing on my temper. After a very long discussion, he raised his great brown eyes, flashing with laughter, and suddenly closed the Bible. Then he quoted Virgil, with startling effect:

Claudite jam rivos, pueri: Sat prata biberunt.

Close the streams now, boys. The meadows have had enough to drink.

The insistency of his religious conversation was, probably, the less incomprehensible to me on account of the evangelical training to which I had been so systematically subjected. It was, however, none the less intolerably irksome, and would have been exasperating, I believe, even to a nature in which a powerful and genuine piety was inherent. To my own, in which a feeble and imitative faith was expiring, it was deeply vexatious. It led, alas! to a great deal of bowing in the house of Rimmon, to much hypocritical ingenuity in drawing my Father's attention away, if possible, as the terrible subject was seen to be looming and approaching. In this my stepmother would aid and abet, sometimes producing incongruous themes, likely to attract my Father aside, with a skill worthy of a parlour conjurer, and much to my admiration. If, however, she was not unwilling to come, in this way, to the support of my feebleness, there was no open collusion between us. She always described my Father, when she was alone with me, admiringly, as one 'whose trumpet gave no uncertain sound'. There was not a tinge of infidelity upon her candid mind, but she was human, and I think that now and then she was extremely bored.

His constant religious talk was probably less incomprehensible to me because of my systematic evangelical training. But it was no less unbearably tiresome. I believe it would have exasperated even someone with a deep and genuine religious devotion. For me, whose weak, imitative faith was dying, it was deeply vexing. Alas, it led me to bow often in the house of Rimmon. Whenever I saw the terrible subject approaching, I used all sorts of hypocritical tricks to distract my Father, if possible. My stepmother helped me in this. She sometimes introduced unlikely topics to draw my Father’s attention away. She did this with a skill worthy of a parlour magician, and I greatly admired her for it. Although she was willing to support me in my weakness, we never openly plotted together. Whenever she spoke to me alone about my Father, she described him admiringly as one ‘whose trumpet gave no uncertain sound’. There was not a trace of unbelief in her honest mind. But she was human, and I think that now and then she was extremely bored.

My Father was entirely devoid of the prudence which turns away its eyes and passes as rapidly as possible in the opposite direction. The peculiar kind of drama in which every sort of social discomfort is welcomed rather than that the characters should be happy when guilty of 'acting a lie', was not invented in those days, and there can hardly be imagined a figure more remote from my Father than Ibsen. Yet when I came, at a far later date, to read The Wild Duck, memories of the embarrassing household of my infancy helped me to realize Gregers Werle, with his determination to pull the veil of illusion away from every compromise that makes life bearable.

My Father had none of the prudence that makes a person look away and hurry in the opposite direction. A particular kind of drama had not yet been invented in those days. In this kind of drama, every sort of social discomfort is welcomed rather than letting characters be happy while 'acting a lie'. And it would be hard to imagine anyone more unlike my Father than Ibsen. Yet much later, when I read The Wild Duck, memories of the embarrassing household of my infancy helped me understand Gregers Werle. He was determined to strip away the veil of illusion from every compromise that makes life bearable.

I was docile, I was plausible, I was anything but combative; if my Father could have persuaded himself to let me alone, if he could merely have been willing to leave my subterfuges and my explanations unanalysed, all would have been well. But he refused to see any difference in temperament between a lad of twenty and a sage of sixty. He had no vital sympathy for youth, which in itself had no charm for him. He had no compassion for the weaknesses of immaturity, and his one and only anxiety was to be at the end of his spiritual journey, safe with me in the house where there are many mansions. The incidents of human life upon the road to glory were less than nothing to him.

I was obedient and good at making excuses, and I was anything but combative. If my Father could have persuaded himself to leave me alone, all would have been well. He only had to be willing to leave my evasions and explanations unexamined. But he refused to see any difference in temperament between a twenty-year-old boy and a wise man of sixty. He had no real sympathy for young people, and youth itself had no charm for him. He had no compassion for the weaknesses of immaturity. His only concern was to reach the end of his spiritual journey, safe with me in the house where there are many mansions. The events of human life along the road to glory meant less than nothing to him.

My Father was very fond of defining what was his own attitude at this time, and he was never tired of urging the same ambition upon me. He regarded himself as the faithful steward of a Master who might return at any moment, and who would require to find everything ready for his convenience. That master was God, with whom my Father seriously believed himself to be in relations much more confidential than those vouchsafed to ordinary pious persons. He awaited, with anxious hope, 'the coming of the Lord', an event which he still frequently believed to be imminent. He would calculate, by reference to prophecies in the Old and New Testament, the exact date of this event; the date would pass, without the expected Advent, and he would be more than disappointed,—he would be incensed. Then he would understand that he must have made some slight error in calculation, and the pleasures of anticipation would recommence.

My Father loved to describe his attitude at this time, and he never tired of urging me to share his ambition. He saw himself as the faithful steward of a Master who might return at any moment. His Master would expect to find everything ready for his convenience. That Master was God. My Father seriously believed that his relationship with God was far more intimate than those granted to ordinary devout people. He waited with anxious hope for 'the coming of the Lord', which he still frequently believed was imminent. He would calculate the exact date of this event using prophecies from the Old and New Testament. The date would pass without the expected Advent, and he would be more than disappointed. He would be furious. Then he would realize that he must have made a small error in his calculations, and the pleasure of anticipation would begin again.

Me in all this he used as a kind of inferior coadjutor, much as a responsible and upper servant might use a footboy. I, also, must be watching; it was not important that I should be seriously engaged in any affairs of my own. I must be ready for the Master's coming; and my Father's incessant cross-examination was made in the spirit of a responsible servant who fidgets lest some humble but essential piece of household work has been neglected.

In all this, he used me as a kind of junior helper, much as a senior servant might use a footboy. I, too, had to keep watch. It did not matter whether I was seriously occupied with anything of my own. I had to be ready for the Master's coming. My Father questioned me constantly, like a responsible servant anxious that some small but essential household task might have been neglected.

My holidays, however, and all my personal relations with my Father were poisoned by this insistency. I was never at my ease in his company; I never knew when I might not be subjected to a series of searching questions which I should not be allowed to evade. Meanwhile, on every other stage of experience I was gaining the reliance upon self and the respect for the opinion of others which come naturally to a young man of sober habits who earns his own living and lives his own life. For this kind of independence my Father had no respect or consideration, when questions of religion were introduced, although he handsomely conceded it on other points. And now first there occurred to me the reflection, which in years to come I was to repeat over and over, with an ever sadder emphasis,—what a charming companion, what a delightful parent, what a courteous and engaging friend my Father would have been, and would pre-eminently have been to me, if it had not been for this stringent piety which ruined it all.

My holidays, however, and all my personal relations with my Father were poisoned by his insistence. I was never at ease with him. I never knew when he might put me through a series of probing questions I would not be allowed to avoid. Meanwhile, in every other part of my life, I was gaining self-reliance and respect for others' opinions. These come naturally to a young man of sober habits who earns his own living and lives his own life. My Father had no respect or consideration for this kind of independence when religion came up, though he readily granted it in other matters. Now, for the first time, a thought occurred to me. In the years ahead, I would return to it again and again, with ever greater sadness. What a charming companion, delightful parent, and courteous and engaging friend my Father would have been, especially to me, if his strict piety had not ruined it all.

Let me speak plainly. After my long experience, after my patience and forbearance, I have surely the right to protest against the untruth (would that I could apply to it any other word!) that evangelical religion, or any religion in a violent form, is a wholesome or valuable or desirable adjunct to human life. It divides heart from heart. It sets up a vain, chimerical ideal, in the barren pursuit of which all the tender, indulgent affections, all the genial play of life, all the exquisite pleasures and soft resignations of the body, all that enlarges and calms the soul are exchanged for what is harsh and void and negative. It encourages a stern and ignorant spirit of condemnation; it throws altogether out of gear the healthy movement of the conscience; it invents virtues which are sterile and cruel; it invents sins which are no sins at all, but which darken the heaven of innocent joy with futile clouds of remorse. There is something horrible, if we will bring ourselves to face it, in the fanaticism that can do nothing with this pathetic and fugitive existence of ours but treat it as if it were the uncomfortable ante-chamber to a palace which no one has explored and of the plan of which we know absolutely nothing. My Father, it is true, believed that he was intimately acquainted with the form and furniture of this habitation, and he wished me to think of nothing else but of the advantages of an eternal residence in it.

Let me speak plainly. After my long experience, and after all my patience and tolerance, I surely have the right to protest against a falsehood. I wish I could call it anything else! The falsehood is that evangelical religion, or any religion in an extreme form, is a healthy, valuable, or desirable addition to human life. It separates heart from heart. It sets up a futile, imaginary ideal. In the fruitless pursuit of that ideal, everything is exchanged for what is harsh, empty, and negative. Gone are all tender and forgiving affections, all the cheerful play of life, and all the exquisite pleasures and gentle surrenders of the body. Gone, too, is everything that broadens and calms the soul. Extreme religion encourages a stern and ignorant habit of condemning others. It completely disrupts the healthy workings of the conscience. It invents virtues that are barren and cruel. It invents sins that are not sins at all, but that darken the sky of innocent joy with pointless clouds of remorse. If we can bring ourselves to face it, there is something horrible about such fanaticism. It can do nothing with our sad and fleeting existence except treat it as an uncomfortable waiting room. The waiting room supposedly leads to a palace that no one has explored and whose layout we know absolutely nothing about. My Father, it is true, believed he knew the layout and furnishings of this dwelling intimately. He wanted me to think of nothing but the advantages of living there forever.

Then came a moment when my self-sufficiency revolted against the police-inspection to which my 'views' were incessantly subjected. There was a morning, in the hot-house at home, among the gorgeous waxen orchids which reminded my Father of the tropics in his youth, when my forbearance or my timidity gave way. The enervated air, soaked with the intoxicating perfumes of all those voluptuous flowers, may have been partly responsible for my outburst. My Father had once more put to me the customary interrogatory. Was I 'walking closely with God'? Was my sense of the efficacy of the Atonement clear and sound? Had the Holy Scriptures still their full authority with me? My replies on this occasion were violent and hysterical. I have no clear recollection what it was that I said,—I desire not to recall the whimpering sentences in which I begged to be let alone, in which I demanded the right to think for myself, in which I repudiated the idea that my Father was responsible to God for my secret thoughts and my most intimate convictions.

Then came a moment when my self-reliance rebelled against the constant police-like scrutiny of my 'views'. It happened one morning in the greenhouse at home, among the magnificent waxy orchids. They reminded my Father of his youth in the tropics. There, my patience or my timidity gave way. The oppressive air was heavy with the intoxicating scents of all those lush flowers. It may have been partly responsible for my outburst. My Father had once again asked me the usual questions. Was I 'walking closely with God'? Was my belief in the power of the Atonement clear and firm? Did I still fully accept the authority of the Holy Scriptures? My replies this time were violent and hysterical. I do not clearly remember what I said. I do not wish to recall the whimpering words in which I begged to be left alone. I demanded the right to think for myself. I rejected the idea that my Father was responsible to God for my secret thoughts and deepest convictions.

He made no answer; I broke from the odorous furnace of the conservatory, and buried my face in the cold grass upon the lawn. My visit to Devonshire, already near its close, was hurried to an end. I had scarcely arrived in London before the following letter, furiously despatched in the track of the fugitive, buried itself like an arrow in my heart:

He did not answer. I rushed out of the hot, fragrant conservatory and buried my face in the cold grass on the lawn. My visit to Devonshire was already nearly over, but it was brought to a hurried end. I had hardly arrived in London when the following letter caught up with me. Sent furiously after the fugitive, it pierced my heart like an arrow:

'When your sainted Mother died, she not only tenderly committed you to God, but left you also as a solemn charge to me, to bring you up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. That responsibility I have sought constantly to keep before me: I can truly aver that it has been ever before me—in my choice of a housekeeper, in my choice of a school, in my ordering of your holidays, in my choice of a second wife, in my choice of an occupation for you, in my choice of a residence for you; and in multitudes of lesser things—I have sought to act for you, not in the light of this present world, but with a view to Eternity.

'When your sainted mother died, she tenderly entrusted you to God. She also gave me the solemn duty of raising you in the Lord’s teachings and guidance. I have always tried to keep that responsibility in mind. I can truly say that it has always been on my mind. It guided my choice of a housekeeper, a school, and how to arrange your holidays. It guided my choice of a second wife, an occupation for you, and a place for you to live. It also guided me in countless smaller matters. In all these things, I have tried to act for your sake, looking beyond this present world to eternity.

'Before your childhood was past, there seemed God's manifest blessing on our care; for you seemed truly converted to Him; you confessed, in solemn baptism, that you had died and had been raised with Christ; and you were received with joy into the bosom of the Church of God, as one alive from the dead.

'Before your childhood was over, God seemed to have clearly blessed our care for you. For you seemed truly converted to him. In solemn baptism, you declared that you had died and been raised with Christ. And you were welcomed with joy into the Church of God, as someone brought back from the dead.

'All this filled my heart with thankfulness and joy, whenever I thought of you:—how could it do otherwise? And when I left you in London, on that dreary winter evening, my heart, full of sorrowing love, found its refuge and its resource in this thought,—that you were one of the lambs of Christ's flock; sealed with the Holy Spirit as His; renewed in heart to holiness, in the image of God.

'Whenever I thought of you, all this filled my heart with thankfulness and joy. How could it be otherwise? And when I left you in London on that dreary winter evening, my heart was full of sorrowing love. I found comfort and strength in the thought that you were one of the lambs in Christ's flock. You were sealed with the Holy Spirit as his own, and your heart was renewed in holiness, in God's image.

'For a while, all appeared to go on fairly well: we yearned, indeed, to discover more of heart in your allusions to religious matters, but your expressions towards us were filial and affectionate; your conduct, so far as we could see, was moral and becoming; you mingled with the people of God, spoke of occasional delight and profit in His ordinances; and employed your talents in service to Him.

'For a while, everything seemed to be going fairly well. We did long to see more heartfelt feeling in your references to religion. But you spoke to us with the affection of a son. As far as we could see, your conduct was moral and proper. You spent time with God's people and spoke of occasionally finding delight and benefit in his ordinances. You also used your talents in his service.

'But of late, and specially during the past year, there has become manifest a rapid progress towards evil. (I must beg you here to pause, and again to look to God for grace to weigh what I am about to say; or else wrath will rise.)

'But lately, especially during the past year, a rapid slide toward evil has become clear. (I must ask you to pause here and again ask God for the grace to weigh what I am about to say. Otherwise, anger will rise.)

'When you came to us in the summer, the heavy blow fell full upon me; and I discovered how very far you had departed from God. It was not that you had yielded to the strong tide of youthful blood, and had fallen a victim to fleshly lusts; in that case, however sad, your enlightened conscience would have spoken loudly, and you would have found your way back to the blood which cleanseth us from all sin, to humble confession and self- abasement, to forgiveness and to recommunion with God. It was not this; it was worse. It was that horrid, insidious infidelity, which had already worked in your mind and heart with terrible energy. Far worse, I say, because this was sapping the very foundations of faith, on which all true godliness, all real religion, must rest.

'When you came to us in the summer, the blow struck me hard. I discovered how very far you had turned away from God. It was not that you had given in to the strong passions of youth and fallen victim to lust. Sad as that would have been, your informed conscience would have spoken loudly. You would have found your way back to the blood that cleanses us from all sin. You would have humbly confessed and humbled yourself, found forgiveness, and returned to communion with God. But that was not what had happened. It was worse. It was that horrible, insidious unbelief, which had already worked with terrible force in your mind and heart. I say it was far worse because it was undermining the very foundations of faith. All true godliness and all real religion must rest on those foundations.

'Nothing seemed left to which I could appeal. We had, I found, no common ground. The Holy Scriptures had no longer any authority: you had taught yourself to evade their inspiration. Any particular Oracle of God which pressed you, you could easily explain away; even the very character of God you weighed in your balance of fallen reason, and fashioned it accordingly. You were thus sailing down the rapid tide of time towards Eternity, without a single authoritative guide (having cast your chart overboard), except what you might fashion and forge on your own anvil,—except what you might guess, in fact.

'There seemed to be nothing left I could appeal to. I found that we had no common ground. The Holy Scriptures no longer had any authority for you. You had taught yourself to evade their divine inspiration. You could easily explain away any particular word of God that challenged you. You even judged God's character by the standards of your fallen reason and shaped it accordingly. So you were sailing down the swift current of time toward Eternity. You had thrown your chart overboard. You had no authoritative guide except what you could make and forge on your own anvil. In fact, you had nothing to guide you except what you might guess.

'Do not think I am speaking in passion, and using unwarrantable strength of words. If the written Word is not absolutely authoritative, what do we know of God? What more than we can infer, that is, guess,—as the thoughtful heathens guessed,— Plato, Socrates, Cicero,—from dim and mute surrounding phenomena? What do we know of Eternity? Of our relations to God? Especially of the relations of a sinner to God? What of reconciliation? What of the capital question—How can a God of perfect spotless rectitude deal with me, a corrupt sinner, who have trampled on those of His laws which were even written on my conscience?…

'Do not think I am speaking in anger or using unjustifiably strong words. If the written Word is not absolutely authoritative, what do we know of God? What more can we do than draw conclusions from the dim, silent things around us? That is, what more can we do than guess, as thoughtful pagans like Plato, Socrates, and Cicero did? What do we know of Eternity? Of our relationship to God? Especially of a sinner’s relationship to God? What do we know of reconciliation? What about the crucial question: How can a God of perfect, spotless righteousness deal with me, a corrupt sinner? I have trampled on even those of his laws that were written on my conscience.…

'This dreadful conduct of yours I had intended, after much prayer, to pass by in entire silence; but your apparently sincere inquiries after the cause of my sorrow have led me to go to the root of the matter, and I could not stop short of the development contained in this letter. It is with pain, not in anger, that I send it; hoping that you may be induced to review the whole course, of which this is only a stage, before God. If this grace were granted to you, oh! how joyfully should I bury all the past, and again have sweet and tender fellowship with my beloved Son, as of old.'

'After much prayer, I had intended to say nothing at all about your dreadful conduct. But your apparently sincere questions about the cause of my sorrow led me to get to the root of the matter. I could not stop short of explaining it fully in this letter. I send this letter with pain, not anger. I hope you may be moved to review before God the whole course of conduct, of which this is only one stage. If God granted you this grace, oh, how gladly I would bury all the past. I would again share sweet and tender fellowship with my beloved Son, as we did before.'

The reader who has done me the favour to follow this record of the clash of two temperaments will not fail to perceive the crowning importance of the letter from which I have just made a long quotation. It sums up, with the closest logic, the whole history of the situation, and I may leave it to form the epigraph of this little book.

Readers who have kindly followed this account of the clash between two temperaments will recognize the supreme importance of the letter I have just quoted at length. The letter sums up the whole history of the situation with the closest logic. I may leave it to serve as the epigraph of this little book.

All that I need further say is to point out that when such defiance is offered to the intelligence of a thoughtful and honest young man with the normal impulses of his twenty-one years, there are but two alternatives. Either he must cease to think for himself; or his individualism must be instantly confirmed, and the necessity of religious independence must be emphasized.

All I need to add is that such a challenge to a young man's intelligence leaves only two alternatives. This is true for a thoughtful, honest young man with the normal impulses of a twenty-one-year-old. Either he must stop thinking for himself, or his individualism must be immediately reinforced, and his need for religious independence made clear.

No compromise, it is seen, was offered; no proposal of a truce would have been acceptable. It was a case of 'Everything or Nothing'; and thus desperately challenged, the young man's conscience threw off once for all the yoke of his 'dedication', and, as respectfully as he could, without parade or remonstrance, he took a human being's privilege to fashion his inner life for himself.

Clearly, no compromise was offered, and no offer of a truce would have been accepted. It was a case of 'Everything or Nothing'. Faced with this desperate challenge, the young man's conscience threw off the burden of his 'dedication' once and for all. As respectfully as he could, without making a show of it or protesting, he claimed a human being's right to shape his own inner life.