that I seated myself on the stump of an old elm tree, gazing
on the splendour of the heavens and the beauties of the earth;
thinking of the mysterious period when there was no sun, or moon,
or stars; when there was no material universe or created beings;
that I unconsciously fell into the following train of reflection.
Here I am; but how came I here? Am I the child of chance, or the
offspring of a wise and beneficent Creator? When I see a machine,
I feel conscious that it was constructed by an artist; and can I
suppose that the more curious mechanism of my body was formed by
chance? Was it chance that placed my eye in the only proper position
in the body to guide the motion of my hands and my feet; that
stationed around it so many guards to keep it from injury; that
has given it a mysterious power to travel over a wide and extended
surface without fatigue; and to receive the exact form and colour
of external objects on the dark canvas spread out behind the lens,
without intermixture or confusion? Was it chance that constructed
my ear for the nice discrimination of sounds; that let fall the
ray of intelligence on my understanding; and gave to my fancy its
capabilities to adorn the conceptions of my mind with the drapery
of a beauteous imagery? And was it chance that gave to my tongue
the sense of taste and the gift of speech? Impossible! I trace
contrivance in all these astonishing arrangements and endowments,
which demonstrates the existence of a God who made me. Was it chance
that placed the sun in the centre of the planetary system; that
impressed laws on those unconscious bodies which revolve around it,
which keep them from deviating from their mysterious course; that
set bounds to the sea, which it cannot pass; that gave to the air I
breathe a salubrious and elastic quality; and enriched the earth
with a prolific power? Impossible! In all these mighty works I trace
the operations of intelligence and design. "The heavens declare the
glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork." All nature
is full of God. He shines in the brightness of the sun,
----"Refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees."
And does not the visible creation display the goodness of God? Pain
is not the object of contrivance, which would have been the case
had the Creator been a malevolent being. The eye is formed for the
purpose of vision, not to be injured by the atom floating in the
air; the ear for hearing, not for aching; the hand and the foot to
be active and useful, not to be lacerated by instruments of torture.
The sun was now creeping gently down the western horizon; the
sky was clear and bright, as on the eve of the first day of the
creation; no sounds broke in upon my calm serenity, except the
lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep penned in a
neighbouring fold; and, just as I was rising to a more glorious
theme of contemplation, my attention was arrested by the appearance
of a gentleman, who was walking along the bank of a river, gliding
through the vale beneath me. His manner was singular. Now he
advanced with hurried steps the distance of fifty yards, then
suddenly stopped, looked round him, advanced again, again stopped,
stood motionless, then approached the brink of the river, receded,
walked up to the edge again, paused, appeared wrapped in deep
and solemn thought, retraced his steps, abruptly stopped, fixed
his cane in the ground, threw down his gloves, took off his hat,
advanced, and fell. During the whole of these apparently mysterious
movements, my sympathies were excited, and I was making every
necessary preparation to save a soul from death. My feelings were
too violently agitated to allow of cool reflection; but I could not
refrain from paying the tributary sigh to that unknown cause of woe
which appeared to be hurrying an intelligent and accountable being
out of a world on which I had been gazing with so much delight, and
sending him, stained with the blood of his own life, into another
and a changeless economy of existence.
As soon as I saw him fall, I rushed forward; and, as the river was
not more than a few hundred yards distant from me, I felt conscious
that I should be able to reach him in time to save his life; but
just as I was going to leap over the stile that stood midway between
us, I saw him raising himself on his knees. I drew back, and looking
through the hedge, I perceived that he had not fallen into the
river, but among the high rushes that grew on its brink, and that he
was not meditating the destruction of his own life, but the rescue
of a little lamb, that had accidentally slipped into the stream.
The transition of my mind from one of the most awful subjects of
contemplation, to a touching incident of human benevolence, was
not less gratifying to my feelings than the sudden hushing of the
midnight tempest is to the mariner, who, having lost his compass,
can steer his vessel only by the light of the polar star.
Curiosity impelled me to watch the movements of this stranger, and
I beheld him cautiously removing the weeds which were entwined
around the exhausted lamb, and then carrying it to its dam, which,
I imagined from her bleating, instinctively knew the danger from
which her offspring had been delivered. This sight brought to
my recollection the language of the prophet, who represents the
Redeemer as gathering the lambs with his arms, and carrying them in
his bosom.
On perceiving the stranger advancing towards the stile which I
intended to cross, I again seated myself on my former post of
observation, and soon had the gratification of seeing him saunter
up the lane. He was a young man, on whom the God of nature had
bestowed a fine exterior form; and who by an action, which he was
not conscious I had witnessed, had strongly prepossessed me in his
favour. I arose on his coming near me; we exchanged the customary
bow of polite recognition; and, after passing a few cursory remarks
on the varied scenery around us, we moved onwards together, and were
soon engaged in a very interesting and important discussion.
"I have, Sir," he said, "left the bustling city, in which I have
spent the greater part of my life, to survey for myself those rural
beauties and employments which I have been accustomed to view
through the medium of the press."
"No fancy," I observed, "can paint the beauties of nature, in all
their varied forms, and hues, and rich combinations. The landscape
pleases when on the canvas; but there is no life, no motion, no
sound, all which are necessary to make the representation really
correct."
"True, Sir, but we are much indebted to the pencil for introducing
rural scenes and scenery into our crowded cities, by which we are
told, through the medium of the eye, that there are living beauties
in nature which _we may see_. This is my first visit to the country.
I have been wandering about for several weeks, travelling from
village to village, and penetrating into woods and forests; trying
to make myself familiar with the manners and habits, the sentiments
and feelings, of the various orders of rustic life. I have conversed
with the opulent and indigent farmer; with the man who holds the
plough, and the man who drives the team; with the shepherd and the
woodman; I have looked into their houses and their huts, and have
investigated their plans of domestic economy; and I think I shall
now return home with a more correct opinion of the actual state of
things that I once entertained. The beauties of nature are more
beautiful than I anticipated; but I have searched in vain for that
rural simplicity, and innocence, and joy, which ancient and modern
poets have described in such glowing colours. For simplicity, I
have found rudeness; for innocence, low cunning; for contentment,
murmuring dissatisfaction; for sportive playfulness, almost
universal lamentation. To quote the language of a poet who first
introduced scepticism into my unsuspecting breast:--
'I grant, indeed, that fields and flocks have charms
For him that grazes, or for him that farms:
But, when amid such pleasing scenes, I trace
The poor, laborious natives of the place,
And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,
On their bare heads and dewy temples play;
While some, with feeble hands, and fainter hearts,
Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts--
Then, shall I dare these real ills to hide,
In tinsel trappings of poetic pride?'"
"I have often been charmed with the pastoral life of the poets,
but I have never found a counterpart to their descriptions.
_Their_shepherdesses are clothed with the verdant beauty of
paradisaical innocence, and their shepherds are men of genius;
the sky beneath which their ewes lamb and their dogs sleep, knows
nothing of the war of elements; but when I visit the actual spots
from whence they collect their enchanting imagery, I see the
ponderous cloud overhanging the defenceless fold; and am soon
convinced that
'No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse.'"
"The poets have long been practising an illusion on our credulity;
and though, after the deception is discovered, we may continue to
admire their highly-wrought descriptions, yet, the charm of reality
having vanished, we feel dissatisfied."
"It is to be lamented," I replied, "that poets are not the only
writers who try to impose on the credulity of their readers. The
reading world, as it is called, revolves in a fictitious region;
and hence, when its inhabitants come forth amidst the scenes of
real life, they are apt to think, and feel, and talk, and act, like
beings descended from an aerial planet."
"Your observation, Sir, is perfectly correct; but, in my opinion,
no writers are so deserving of severe censure as religious writers.
They represent as fact, what we know is fable; as real, what our
intuitive sense teaches us is imaginary; and, by a dexterity which
belongs exclusively to their order they try to beguile us of our
innocent recreations, which they denounce as impure and pernicious,
and enforce on us exercises at which our generous nature recoils;
and have the effrontery to tell us, that if we wish for happiness we
must seek for it in religion."
"That there has been deception practised by _some_ religious
writers no one can deny; but I cannot subscribe to every part of
your sweeping charge. For if your remarks are to be admitted in
their fullest extent of application, they would go to the entire
banishment of all religion from society, which would be a fearful
calamity--the experience of all ages and countries proves that
no social fabric can be held in order and in harmony, unless its
various parts are compressed together by the force of religious
opinions and sanctions."
"Not, Sir, to the banishment of the religion of nature, which
is simple and pure, but to the banishment of the religion of
revelation, which is mystical and corrupt."
"And pray, my dear Sir, what is this religion of nature, which you
say is so simple and pure? It is something of which I have heard,
but I never saw its form or heard its voice."
"Why, Sir, it is that view of the perfections of the Deity which we
discover in His visible works, and the consequent impressions which
they make on our minds. How vast the power which has sprung yon
azure arch over our revolving globe! What wisdom is displayed in the
adaptation of every part of the creation to accomplish some obvious
design! And it is evident, from the subservience of all things to
the comfort and happiness of living beings, that goodness is an
essential attribute of the Deity. It is in this vast temple, where
he unveils his glory, that I offer up my orisons and my incense; and
not on altars built by human hands, or within temples consecrated by
priestly incantations."
"I agree with you, that power, and wisdom, and goodness, are
displayed in the works of God, and that we may worship him either
in the glen or on the mountain top, beside the running stream or
within the recesses of pathless woods; but, as we are sinners, can
we indulge any hope of mercy, unless he condescend to promise us
forgiveness? And tell me from what part of the _visible creation_
has the sound of mercy ever proceeded?"
"Why, Sir, we may presume that He who has made provision for all our
temporal wants, has made provision also for our moral ones."
"We know, Sir, that the supreme magistrate feeds and clothes the
state prisoner, but are we to presume, from this circumstance, that
he will also remit his sentence of condemnation?"
This question produced a momentary embarrassment; but, after a
short pause, he said, "I grant that a promise of mercy would be a
more substantial basis for hope than a mere presumption resting on
analogical reasoning."
"I thank you for this frank admission; and I think if you will
investigate the subject, free from prejudice, you will find that the
promise has been given."
"I know that the writers of your Scriptures have incorporated the
promise of forgiveness in their scheme of religion; but I can never
bring my mind to believe that they were authorized to do so by the
Deity. I never can believe in the truth of Christianity. It is
impossible."
"But, Sir, you will admit that it may be true, though you do not
believe it?"
"Why, yes; my scepticism does not prove it false, any more than your
faith proves it true."
"Now, let me suppose for a moment that it is true--in what an
awful dilemma are you placed! Be candid. Are you convinced, by
an unbiassed and dispassionate investigation of the evidences of
Christianity, that the system is false?"
"Why, no; I have never examined them; and for this reason, I have
never thought it worth while; because I cannot reconcile your
doctrine of the atonement with the dictates of reason."
"But, suppose the _fact_ of the atonement be established by proper,
_valid evidence_, will your inability to reconcile it with the
dictates of reason be any logical argument against it?"
"Most certainly it will, unless you require me to believe what I
can neither understand nor comprehend; and, allow me to ask, what
practical effect can be produced by the admission of any doctrine or
supposed fact which is incomprehensible?"
"You believe in the existence of God; and that belief induces you
to pay him homage; but can you comprehend the nature of his essence,
or the _modus_ of his existence?"
He was silent; I continued, "We have positive proof that the tides
of the ocean are acted on by the moon. This is a fact, which
nautical science compels us to believe; and the belief does operate
on human conduct; but can you understand how its influence does act?
But, waiving the introduction of other facts, which may be made to
tell with crushing force against your proposition, that what is
incomprehensible cannot put forth any practical power, may I be
permitted to ask, what other specific objections you have to advance
against the doctrine of the atonement, which is so distinctly and
repeatedly brought forward by the writers of the Scriptures?"
"I have several; first, I cannot admit that the death of an innocent
person can be accepted as an atonement for the sins of the guilty,
without a gross violation of the laws of immutable justice. If I
take for granted, what your Scriptures assert to be the case, that
man is a sinner, and consequently under a sentence of condemnation,
does not immutable justice require that he should stand responsible
for his actions; how, then, can he transfer this responsibility to
another, without disturbing the established law of moral order?"
"He _does not make the transfer_, he _merely accepts it_; the
transfer is made in his behalf, by the authority of the supreme
legislator; and Jesus Christ, to whom the transfer is made,
willingly takes upon himself the moral responsibility of human crime
and guilt."
"This certainly obviates one part of my objection, but still
immutable justice seems to require, to quote from your own standard
of authority, that _the soul that sinneth shall die_, that is, I
suppose, shall endure the penalty of his own crimes."
"Yes, unless some intervening act of grace be performed, which
acquits the culprit, without setting aside the authority of the
law by which he is condemned. You recollect what is reported of
Zaleucus, a king of Greece, at a crisis when the paternal affections
beat in harmony with the claims of justice."
"It has escaped my memory."
"The case was this--he passed a law which doomed an adulterer to
the loss of his eyes, as the penalty of his crime. His own son was
accused and condemned; and the question arose amongst the people,
Will the king's son suffer, or will the law be repealed? The king
very soon settled the question--his son suffers the loss of one eye,
and then, to save him from total blindness, he consents to lose one
of his own eyes; thus bowing to the majesty of his own law for the
suppression of this popular crime. Here we see how, by an expedient
devised by paternal benevolence, the authority of the law was
preserved, while the guilty culprit was rescued from the _extreme
severity of_ its infliction. And now permit me to ask, whether the
development of the paternal affections, in conjunction with the
mitigated severity of judicial infliction, had not a necessary
tendency to excite amongst the people a more profound reverence for
the law, while it increased their attachment to their sovereign, and
their confidence in the equity of his administration? What adulterer
could expect to elude the penalty of his crime after witnessing such
a spectacle of justice and of benevolence?"
"Permit me to say, I cannot perceive the bearing of this touching
fact, which you have imported from Greece, on my objection to your
doctrine of the atonement."
"Indeed, I am surprised at that. The Bible tells us that God stands
in the relation of a paternal sovereign, who commands our subjection
to his laws, while he allows us to address him as our Father.
These laws we violate, and the penalty is incurred, and immutable
justice requires its infliction; he provides a substitute in the
person of his only begotten Son, who willingly consents to accept
the appointment, and actually suffers, the just for the unjust;
dying to rescue the guilty from the horrors of the second death.
Here we see the conjunction of justice and mercy, the blending of
the awful majesty of the Sovereign with the tenderness of paternal
benevolence; the law is honoured, while the culprit is pardoned; and
the practical effect of this comprehensive scheme of grace is to
increase our reverence for the authority of God, while it increases
also our gratitude and love to him."
"If I admit, what you take for granted, that the Deity has given us
a code of laws in your Scriptures, and that the violation of any of
them does actually involve man in guilt and condemnation, then, in
that case, your explanation is a fair rescue of the atonement from
the grasp of my objection. But I have now to call your attention
to another objection, which, I think, will give you a little more
trouble. But, before I bring it forward, allow me to ask one
question. According to your theory, unless I misapprehend you, the
atonement is a simple vindication of the Deity's moral government,
enabling him to exercise mercy in conjunction with justice; and thus
uphold the authority of his laws, while he passes a sentence of
acquittal on the culprit who transgresses or disobeys them?"
"Yes, my theory embraces that aspect of the atonement."
"Has it any other bearing?"
"Yes, it has an important bearing on man, in relieving him from the
galling pressure of conscious guilt, and giving him peace of soul,
combined with a hope of final salvation."
"It is this aspect of the atonement," said the stranger, "which
constitutes the germ of my objection. The atonement, if a reality,
is a fact of ancient date; and, like all other historical facts, it
comes transmitted to us on the evidence of testimony; and it must, I
suppose, be believed before it can exert any influence or power on
the mind of man."
"Most certainly."
"This is the problem I want solved; is this supposed moral power
emitted _directly_ FROM the atonement on the human spirit, when
it is in a quiescent state? if so, there can be no necessity for
the exercise of belief; or does the human spirit extract it by the
mysterious action of its own faith? if so, as the virtue itself is
both intangible and imperceptible, and consequently inconceivable,
how can faith, whose object of belief must be something definite,
perform the supposed action?"
"Your question is a very subtle one, but it is not a very perplexing
one, because it relates to a fact of a peculiar order, all of which
are self-evident, while the nature of their influence or power, and
the _modus_ of its operation--i.e., the operation of the influence
of the facts of the peculiar order--are shrouded in a veil of
impenetrable mystery."
"Excuse me; but I don't take the drift of your meaning."
"You object to the atonement, because you cannot conceive how it can
exert any effective influence over the soul of a man oppressed by a
sense of conscious guilt."
"Exactly so."
"Well, I am now going to prove that there is no logical force in
your objection, and I will do this by one analogical fact, which
will explain, and, I think, confirm the correctness of my meaning.
Take, then, human friendship. Is the moral power of human friendship
a fiction or a reality? Take the _look_ of friendship; is there no
moral power in the movement and soft beaming of the eye, especially
in the falling tear? Take the _countenance_ of friendship; is
there no moral power in the bland and bewitching smile? Take the
_bosom_ of friendship; is there no moral power in the suppressed
groan or noiseless sigh? Take the _hand_ of friendship; is there
no moral power in the hearty shake or gentle squeeze? Take the
_tongue_ of friendship; is there no moral power in its expressions
of sympathy, or its promises of fidelity? But, Sir, what _is_ this
mystic power, which is known to act with such efficacy on the
troubled and downcast spirit in the season of its perplexities and
sorrows? Can you tell me _what it is, or how it acts_? It is a
_mighty something_, which, like an invisible spirit of superhuman
benignity, moves without a shape, speaks without a voice, passes
through all resistances of doubt and misgivings without an effort,
laying the throbbing heart of the anxious mourner at rest on its own
impalpable bosom, where it enjoys the solace and the calm of sweet
repose. Thus we have, in the common occurrences of every-day life, a
philosophical defence of the moral efficacy of the power which the
Scriptures ascribe to the atonement, even though we cannot define
its exact nature, or explain the _modus_ of its actual operation. It
is then, like the power of human friendship, a fact which evidence
attests and which uniform experience confirms."
"I am delighted that my scepticism has supplied to you such a
tempting background for the beautiful sketching of the mystic power
of friendship true to life, with which you have now favoured me.
But you have overlooked one important fact, namely, that the human
spirit is dependent on her physical senses for the transmission and
reception of the power of friendship."
"True, but only as the _medium_ of transmission and reception; and
this fact supplies fresh evidence to prove, that while you are
compelled to admit, on the evidence of consciousness and testimony,
the power of friendship, you can neither explain nor conceive the
nature of its influence, or the _modus_ of its operation. And it is
to the same evidence I appeal in confirmation of the moral power
of the atonement on the human spirit, and maintain that you have
no moral, or even logical right to deny it, on the ground of my
inability to give you all the explanations you may ask me for, when
you yourself feel a similar inability to explain how it is that a
self-evident friendship works so powerfully on the heart of sorrow
and of perplexity."
"Well, then, I will admit, and most readily, that you have fairly
silenced my _objection_ against the atonement, on the ground of your
inability to explain, or my inability to conceive the _modus_ of its
moral operation on the human spirit; but still I hesitate to admit
its reality, because I do not feel its absolute necessity, either as
a basis of hope or a source of mental ease and satisfaction."
"I once, Sir, rejected the atonement as you now do, but when I saw
the malignant quality of sin, I could reject it no longer; and you
will allow me to say, that if it be a reality, and you finally
reject it, you will inevitably perish. Permit me, therefore, to
advise you to read the Scriptures attentively, examine the evidences
which they adduce of their divine origin, and implore the Father
of our spirits to aid the perceptions of your judgment and the
tendencies of your will on this important subject of inquiry. If,
after this intellectual and moral process has been adopted, you are
compelled to disbelieve the Scripture doctrine of the atonement, you
will have the show of argument in your favour; but if you reject it
without investigation, your folly will be no less apparent, even if
it be false, than your guilt will be overwhelming, if it should be
true."