Part 8 (2/2)

said Wollmar, 'when one finds a spider in it; and why not? In your eyes, to be sure, Nature decks herself out like a rosy-checked maiden on her bridal day. To me she appears an old, withered beldame, with sunken eyes, furrowed cheeks, and artificial ornaments in her hair. How she seems to admire herself in this her Sunday finery! But it is the same worn and ancient garment, put off and on some hundreds of thousands of times.' But how natural is the explanation of all given at the beautiful close of the dialogue! 'Here,' said the jocund Edwin, 'I first met my Juliet.'--'And it was under these linden-trees,'

says Wollmar, 'that I lost my Laura' It was their mood of mind, and not the outward world, that made all the difference. All nature, innocent thing! must consent to take her hue from it. You have, I fear, lost your Laura,”--simply alluding to his early faith; ”or shall I suppose, from your present mood, that you have just met with your Juliet?” I spoke, of course, of his philosophy.

He was looking out of the window; but on my turning my gaze towards him, I saw such a look of peculiar anguish, that I felt I had inadvertently touched a terrible chord indeed. I turned the conversation hastily, by remarking (almost without thinking of what I said) on the beautiful contrast between the light blue of the sky and the green of the lawn and trees; and proceeded to remark on the degree in which the mere organic or sensational pleasures of vision formed an ingredient in the pleasurable a.s.sociations of the complex ”beautiful.”

He gradually resumed conversation; and we discussed the subject of the ”beautiful” for some time. Yet I know not how it was, nor can I trace the steps by which we deviated,--only that Rousseau's summer -day dreams on the Lake of Bienne was a link in the chain,--we somehow soon found ourselves on the brink of the great controversy respecting the ”origin of Evil.” ”I have read many books on that subject,” said I; ”but I intend to read no more; and I should think you have had enough of them.”

”Why, yes,” said he, laughing; ”whatever philosophers may have thought of the origin of evil, it is a great aggravation of it to read their speculations. The best thing I know on the subject--and it exhausts it--is half a dozen lines in 'Robinson Crusoe.'”

”Robinson Crusoe!” said I.

”Certainly,” he replied; ”do you not remember that when he caught his man Friday, the 'intuitional consciousness'--the 'insight'--the 'inward revelation' of that worthy savage not being found quite so perfect as Mr. Parker would fancy, Robinson proceeds to indoctrinate him in the mysteries of theology? Friday is much puzzled, as many more learned savages have been before him, to find that the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of G.o.d had made every thing good, and that good it would have continued had not been for the opposition of the Devil. 'Why G.o.d not kill Debbil?' asks poor Friday. On which says Robinson, 'Though I was a very old man, I found that I was but a young doctor in divinity.' Ah! if all doctors in divinity had been equally candid, the treatises on that dread subject would not have been quite so voluminous; for we close them all alike with the unavailing question, 'Why G.o.d not kill Debbil?'”

Observing this tendency to gravitate towards the abyss, I at last said to him, 'I think, if I were you, having decided that there is no religious truth to be found, I should dismiss the subject from my thoughts altogether. Do as the Indian did, who struggled as long as he could to right his canoe when he found he was in the stream of Niagara; but, finding his efforts unavailing, sat himself down with his arms folded, and went down the falls without stirring a muscle. Let us talk no more on the subject. Why should you perplex yourself, as you apparently do, about a thing so hopeless to be found out as truth? 'What is truth?' said Pilate; and, as Bacon says, 'he would not wait for an answer.' It was a question to which, most probably, he, like you, thought no answer could be given. If I were you, I should do the same. Why perplex yourself to no purpose?”

”I should answer,” said he, ”as Solon did when asked why he grieved for his son, seeing all grief was unavailing.' It is for that very reason that I grieve,' was the reply. And in like manner I dwell on the impossibility of discovering truth because it is impossible.”

I acknowledged that it was a sufficient reason, and that it went to account in some degree for a fact I had remarked in the few sceptics I had come across,--genuine or otherwise,--that they seemed less capable of reposing in their professed convictions than any one else: it is of no avail, they say, to reason on such subjects; and yet they are perpetually reasoning! They will neither rest themselves nor let any one else rest. He confessed it, and said, ”The state of mind is very much as you have described it; and you have described it so exactly, that I almost think you, my dear uncle, must know the heart of a sceptic, and have been one yourself some time or other!”

We wound up the morning, which was beautiful, by taking a ride, in the course of which I was amused with an instance of the sensitiveness with which Harrington's cultivated mind recoiled from the grossness of vulgar and ignorant infidelity. We called at the cottage of a little farmer, a tenant of his, somewhat notorious both for profanity and sensuality.

Presuming, I suppose, on his young landlord's suspected heterodoxy, and thinking, perhaps, to curry favor with him, he ventured (I know not what led to it) to indulge in some stupid joke about the legion and the herd of swine. ”Sir,” said he, scratching his head, ”the Devil, I reckon, must have been a more clever fellow than I thought, to make two thousand hogs go down a steep place into the sea; it is hard enough even to make them go where they will, and almost impossible make them go where they won't.”

”The Devil, my good friend,” said Harrington, very gravely, ”is a very clever fellow; and I hope you do not for a moment intend to compare yourself with him. As to the supposed miracle, it would, no doubt, be hard to say which were most to be pitied, the devils in the swine, or the swine with the devils in them; but has it never struck you that the whole may be an allegorical representation of the miserable and destructive effects of the union of the two vices of sensuality and profanity? They also (if all tales be true) lead to a steep place, but I have never heard that it ends in the water. Now,” he continued, ”I dare say you would laugh at that story which the Roman Catholics tell of St. Antony; namely, that he preached to the pigs'!

--yet it has had a very sound allegorical interpretation; we are told that it meant merely that he preached to country farmers; which, you see, is more than I have been doing.”

It was one of the many things which made me a sceptic as to whether he was one. ”Harrington,” said I, ”at times I find it impossible to believe that you doubt the truth of Christianity.”

”Suppose I were to answer, that at times I doubt whether I doubt it or not, would not that be a thorough sceptic's answer?” I admitted that it would be indeed.

____

July 8. I was already in the library, writing, when Harrington came in to breakfast. ”You seem busy early,” said he. I told him I was merely endeavoring to manifest my love for his future children.

”You know,” said I, ”what Isocrates says, that it is right that children, as they inherit the other possessions, should also inherit the friends.h.i.+ps of their fathers.”

”My children!” said he, very gravely; ”I shall never have any.”

”O, yes, you will, and then these sullen vapors of doubt will roll off before the sunlight of domestic happiness. It will allure you to love Him who has given you so much to love. Yes,” said I, gayly, ”I shall visit you one day in happier moods; when you will wonder how you could have indulged all your present thoughts of G.o.d and the universe. As you gaze into the face of innocent childhood, which shows you what faith in G.o.d is by trust in you, you will say, 'Heaven s.h.i.+eld the boy from being what his father has been?'--you will feel that such thoughts as yours will not do, as the world says; and we shall all go together, you with your wife on your arm, to church there in the in the bright sun and deep quiet of a Sabbath morning, and amidst the music of the Sabbath bells; and as the tranquil scene steals into your very soul, you will say, 'No, scepticism was not made for man.'”

”It is a pleasant romance,” he replied, gloomily, ”and nothing more.

I shall never love, and shall therefore never wed; though, I suppose, that does not logically follow. However, it does with me; and, consequently, I presume the children are also only in posse. However, what is this instance of your kindness to my possible children?”

he added, more cheerfully.

”I was endeavoring,” said I, ”on the bare possibility of your retaining as a father all the feelings you seem to entertain at present, to compile for your children (as they must be taught something, and you would wish them, as you say, to know the truth) a short catechism. I think the questions in Watts's First Catechism might do for the poor little souls. The answers (as usual) might not be wholly intelligible till they got older, but still might awaken some notion which in time might ripen into confirmed scepticism.”

”Well,” said he, laughing, ”let me hear what sort of 'religious'

instruction you have provided.”

”I had only finished one question,” I replied, ”when you came in: but I almost think it may be considered a 'Summa Theologiae' of itself.

It is this:--

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