Reason and dogma, or: Footprints of a soul

Front matter

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Reason and Dogma

OR

Preface

This work may bewailed a religio-philosophical novel; although the matter of the book is fact, not fiction.

Between reason and dogma there has always been waging a most deadly strife, which has never been more universal than to-day. In these pages are set forth truly and fully, with all the attendant circumstances, causes, reasons, and results, the origin and growth of this strife, in the soul of an honest and scholarly clergyman. Henry Merton was a real man among men; and the mental labors, spiritual sufferings, heart bereavements, and whatever else is related in this work, are real experiences, and not the work of imagination.

The incidents and occurrences of the average novel, while they may, or should, be possible, are scarcely ever actual; in other words, while they may not be contrary to human experience, they are hardly, and perhaps never, experienced by one and the same person. But in this work there is nothing made for the occasion. Neither art nor imagination has been allowed to run wild, or frame words not in themselves living realities. With the ex¬ ception of a few fictitious names, every sentence in this work is but the footprint of a human soul, and that too of a soul burning with a love of truth and righteousness.

Here we have portrayed, as they actually occurred, the doubts and fears of an honest mind equipped, as but few are found to be, with abundant means for thorough inil

PREFACE.

vestigation; and possessing, to a very rare degree, a firm resolution to probe these doubts and fears to the very bottom, at whatever costs. First, we see the causes that gave rise to these doubts and fears; secondly, their growth and development; and, thirdly, their reasons and results.

Henry Merton sought the truth as only the few ever seek it, for the great host of mankind follow their leaders; and the latter, sad to say, are in general bound by the three forces, prejudice, custom, and self-interest, to es¬ tablished usages and customs; and what these three forces fail to accomplish, ignorance for the most part perfects.

Thus there is but little opportunity for the birth and growth of Truth. Should Truth happen to be conceived, it is probably blighted in gestation; should it fortunately pass this stage, it will likely perish in infancy for the lack of sufficient nourishment; but should it marvelously reach maturity, then will it be exposed to the-blandishments of ten-thousand false-hearted lovers, or tread Gethsemane alone, drink the bitter cup of persecution prepared by Superstition and Bigotry, and probably finally lay its life down as the reward of its own spotless virtue, and as a sacrifice for the good of humanity.

If the conclusions at which Merton arrived, and which are in this book worked out, are true, then is the religious nature of man grievously burdened with dogmas no less pernicious than unnecessary; and if these conclusions are not true, then is all reason astray, and science deceptive. But if reason be astray, and science deceptive, humanity can believe in nothing, trust in nothing, hope for nothing; for whether wrong or right, we have only the lamp of reason to go by, and the foundation of reason to stand up¬ on; for even if we admit a divine and infallible revelation, we admit it only because we believe it to be reasonable. Nor is there any person to be found in the whole world,

PREFACE.

iii who will admit that his beliefs, however monstrous, are unreasonable in themselves. It is certain to all that, in the words of Locke, “ Reason must be our last judge and guide in everything It is not at all likely, therefore, that any person would be so rash as to assert that the reason of the world, for the last twenty-five hundred years, has been astray; and since science is nothing but objective reason, or reason’s legitimate and necessary results, it can not be that the world of science is deceived.

That the conclusions which Merton arrived at, and which are in this book worked out, are true therefore, we do not in the least doubt; and we are certain that the whole purely scientific world gives us its unqualified support as against the superstitions of the age.

Nor do we doubt but that, if the readers of this work accept the conclusions herein specified, they will be hap¬ pier, more reasonable, more divine, and more god-like, enjoying more of heaven, and living more as Christ would have them live.

From whatever side we look at this book, it must result in a blessing to him who carefully reads and inwardly di¬ gests its contents. While, on the one hand, the incidents and experiences related are full of absorbing interests; on the other hand, the information the work contains on the Scriptures, theological dogmas, creeds, and other matters, is very great; the morals it inculcates are of the very highest order; and its theology is broad, elevating, reasonable, world-embracing.

But he who would derive the full benefit from the read¬ ing of this work, must, in the words of Huxley, “ pluck the blessed fruit from the tree of knowledge, unconcerned whether these conquests trench upon the poetical imagin¬ ation of faith or not ’ ’. This may be hard in certain cases to do; but such fearless love of truth, of God, of humanity, iv

PREFACE.

never fails of its great reward: for above all other encour¬ agements and blessings, is this one truth,

“ Die Unschuld hat im Himmel einen Freund

THE AUTHOR.

Chicago, 1894.

REASON and DOGMA

OR

Chapter I. Childhood And Youth

'T' HE year in which Henry Merton was born, is one well known in England and other parts of Europe. Seed-time and harvest had come and gone; but the sweat of the husbandman had not been rewarded. The sunken eyes and hollow cheeks of wives and children were driving strong men to the brink of madness, tvho knew not how to nourish the mother, or prevent the wail of the infant. Mutterings of discontent were everywhere heard; uprisings were frequent; insurrections threatened the land.

Snow had fallen to a very great depth, thus cutting off from the poor many means of obtaining fuel at a time when their circumstances made it impossible for them to purchase coal, without using the money with which they should purchase bread.

The birth of Merton must have added greatly to the anxiety of his parents, who were already burdened with

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUt.

H

by no means a small family. From early morning till late at night, Merton’s father forever toiled, seeking to supply the wants of his family; which duty, as a rule, he was successful in accomplishing. But those were days of more than usual trial, and men’s courage had almost failed them. It would seem as if Heaven had conspired with earth to aggravate the woes of the unfortunate; and so must have thought the parents of Merton, when first he was ushered into this world; for in his advent a new life had come into the home; but neither mother nor child could be supplied, as they should be, with the nourishment they needed.

Homes were full of wailings, which fathers and mothers were powerless to hush. The countenances of brave men revealed but dire apprehension. Famine was rampant in the land; despair was invading the fireside. And now the evils attending an unusually severe winter were everywhere present, intensifying the misery resulting from the scarcity of bread. Such were the conditions of many in England, at the time of Merton’s birth.

Merton’s father was from a long line of industrious and honest people, whose fair name had never been sullied with the taint of crime. His mother had been raised in wealth and luxury, never knowing, in her maiden life, what it was to ask in vain for those things she thought desirable for her comfort or pleasure. Her marriage with Merton’s father embittered her people, who thenceforth resolved to have no more to do with her, but cut her off as a dead branch. The remembrance now of the luxury in which she had been raised, could but intensify the sufferings of the mother, as .she held the infant to the breast whose springs were all but dry from the lack of nourishing food. Such a condition of things, however, could not long pre¬ vail against the hard and unremittent toil of Mr. Merton; for labor conquers all adversities.

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.

Several years had now passed away, and Merton was beginning his studies; and under his parents’ teaching so rapidly did he advance, that he was able to read the family Bible, in company with' the other members of the family, by the time he was five years of age. Study was a delight to him; and so incessant was he in the pursuit of it, that at eight years of age he became a student of the Grammar School, where he was soon known as one of the most faithful and progressive. The sound of the school-bell was music to him, and the thought of advancement filled his soul with devotion and zeal. In his studies he found constant delight, which day by day increased as his youth¬ ful soul expanded. His was an extremely sensitive nature. A rebuke from his parents would melt him into tears; and from his teacher, would fill him with shame. He was proud of his accomplishments, and most ambitious to excel; and believing that work accomplishes all things, he sought excellence in increasing study.

Though generous, brave, studious, and truthful, Mer¬ ton had one bad fault—he was too impetuous. There are but few who are not obliged to repent of hasty action. A little consideration, a little reflection, would save many a youth from actions injurious to his welfare, and many a man from unpleasant memories, or from deeds that lead to irreparable ruin.

Merton was one day reported by a young man left in charge of the school during the dinner hour, as having been unruly in fighting with a school-mate. On the master’s return, he was called up among others for chastisement. This was the first time he had ever been exposed to shame, and he felt the disgrace most keenly. Nor could he think that he was being justly punished. True enough he had been fighting with another; but he felt he had acted justly, as he had not been the aggressor, having acted only in i6

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUT.

self-defence. But no time was allowed for explanation. “ Mr. Merton,” said the master, “lam surprised, sir, to find you here. For the sake of your past work in the school, I could overlook your conduct, were it not that no favoritism can be shown here. Hold forth your hand, sir. ’ ’ “Never, sir,” replied Merton.

At this the master seized his hand, struck it several times with a hard, flat stick, and said, “ Go, sir, and sin no more. The way of the transgressor is hard. ’ ’

Merton went to his desk, collected his books, left the school, and never again returned. His was a nature that could not stand disgrace, and was at that time not worthy of it. The teacher should beware, lest by chastisement he kill rather than cure.

The time was now fast coming when Merton was to be left without a father’s protection. Hardly yet in middle life, Mr. Merton had by anxiety and excessive labors greatly hastened his approach to the grave. Another cause for Mr. Merton’s rapidly failing health was the death of his son Willie. This was a lovely boy, mild in dis¬ position, large and handsome, and the father’s special delight. At his death the father’s spirits sank, and rose no more to their former height. Often might Mr. Merton be heard saying: “Father’s little man! thou canst not come to me, but I can go to thee. ’ ’

Merton had two sisters in the United States. They had been sending back good reports from their new home; and he determined, his parents consenting, to go to the new country, hoping to better his condition, and help his father in his declining health.

The consciousness that he might be obliged to give up the education he longed for, on account of his father’s failing health, was a severe blow to Merton. The family at home consisted of father, mother, Theodore, and himself; all

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.

the others had married and gone. Theodore was yet but ten years old. Thus, in case of his father’s death, the care of the home would naturally fall on Merton, who was now a little more than seventeen years of age.

Up to this time Merton had used every spare moment in study; and among the boys of his age, he was thought a kind of wonder. To himself, however, he was anything but what he hoped to be. Yet, so superior were his at¬ tainments to those of youths in general, that even young men came to him for instruction at a night-school he had established. But he felt within his soul a burning thirst, an insatiable craving for higher knowledge, and broader information; and the fact that he saw the approaches that led to it closed, made him most unhappy.

The day for parting had come. Merton was to leave the parental roof, never to see it again. Accompanied by his youthful companion, he was taken by his father to the port of departure. The separation was extremely painful, for Merton had much more than common filial love for his father; and the latter had made of his son a kind of idol, so proud of his attainments was he, and so full of expectation for his future.

“Father’s little man,” said Mr. Merton, “you will never see your father again. Farewell, my boy, farewell. ’ ’

“ Nonsense, father,’’ replied Merton; “do not act thus. I shall be back again soon, or have you and mother with me. You will not be more than two or three years with¬ out me. If you grieve like this, I can not leave you.’’

“My son,’’ said the father, “go, and may God Al¬ mighty bless^and protect you; but be not deceived: father will be asleep before Christmas. - When I am gone, do not forget your duty to mother and Theodore. Poor little Theodore: father shall never see him raised; and you are the only one left me now to whom I may intrust him.

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUL.

May the God of Abraham bless thee, my little man. Fare¬ well, my son; farewell, my darling boy.”

Long did Merton watch his father disappearing in the distance. Again and again did the fond parent gaze back¬ ward at the vessel that was to bear his child away. Even the ship itself seemed to share in the sufferings of father and son, as it creaked and groaned on the turbulent waters. But pen must fail to describe their ^feelings. The father’s heart was broken; the son’s life seemed oozing out of him. But great as the agony of the parent is, at seeing his child disappear from his gaze forever; so many are the difficulties of life, that this agony has frequently to be endured. What heart can fail to sympathize with the parent who sees his children leave their home, as birds their nest, never to see it again? What heart can fail to sympathize with the child thus deprived of parental counsel and protection ? They were parted. The father had disappeared over the hills; and from that hour he never saw his child again. The companion of Merton’s youth returned with Mr. Mer¬ ton. He was a good boy, a kind-hearted, cheerful fellow. Some time afterwards he left his widowed mother, and went to Australia; where his body now lies beneath the Australian sands.

The sailors threw off the heavy ropes that bound the Queen to the wharf. Her paddles were turning, the quay receding; and soon Merton was on the briny deep. He proved a very good sailor, suffering but little from sea¬ sickness; but the pain he felt at leaving his parents gave him little opportunity of enjoying the voyage.

Having arrived at his destination, his first work was to seek for .something to do, whereby he might be able to assist his parents. This, by the aid of a friend, he soon obtained. But long before any money was due him, he borrowed fifty dollars, and remitted it to England; and the

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.

pleasure he felt in sending it, can only be appreciated by those who deny themselves for the dear ones they love. The welcome letter had traversed the favorable waters, and was now in the hands of the anxious parents, whose rejoicing was no greater than their surprise at knowing its contents.

The lad had not long to wait for an answer; and when it came, he read it over and over. Then might have been seen alternate waves of pleasure and sadness passing over his countenance: waves of pleasure at the thought of hav¬ ing given comfort to his parents; waves of sadness at read¬ ing words that bespoke his father’s early death. “ Dear son,” wrote the father; “ little did we think that so early you would have sent us such proof of your tender love. I will confess it is a very acceptable present; for just now times are hard with father; and I fear I shall never work again. But it is too much to expect of you; and it grieves me that it should be necessary for you so to exert yourself. We thank you from our very souls; and trust that you may never have cause to regret doing what you have done.

‘ ‘ The house is very lonely since you have gone, dear boy; and mother frequently goes around looking for you. But our nightingale has flown; and I feel a deep presenti¬ ment that I shall never again hear the voice I loved to hear so well. Your father little thought that his boy would be so far away from him. The sea seems wider now; and often as I have sailed its watery bosom, its waters show a darker hue, and make a deadlier sound, since they have borne you away. But father must not repine, my son. Perhaps it is God’s doings; we must submit’. In due time all may be well.

“Let me again say, when father is gone, remember mother and Theodore. I shall be away; they will be with you. My weakness grows upon me; my steps hasten to

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUL.

the final resting-place of all. Do not grieve for father, when you shall know he is no more. The one comfort of my life at present is the thought that mother and Theodore will be taken care of: father is sure you will do your duty to them. She has been a good mother to you, my son; and some day little Theodore will grow up to call you blessed. Out of the many children God has given me, but one remains with us now. The house is cold, my darling boy; the light seems almost gone out. But father must bear a stout heart, and hope for the best: in'some way or other the Lord will provide.

“And now, dear son, father must close. Mother and little Theodore send their love.

“My child! my child! the tears will flow; they but ease the pent-up flood within. Take care what company you choose. Eschew evil companions. Strive after a pure heart, and a high education. Never cease to pray. Strive to be good, and some day we shall surely meet again.

‘ ‘ I feel my days are drawing to a close. Earth is leav¬ ing father; but a better world is nearing.

“With much love and my blessing. Father’s last.”

It was the father’s last; for shortly afterwards Mr. Mer¬ ton ceased to be. His death completely prostrated Henry, who was so entirely bound up in his father, that he seemed as incapable of living without him, as the infant without its mother. Mr. Merton had been a very religious man; most affectionate, wholly unselfish, most assiduous in looking to the welfare of his children, always imparting such instructions as he could, and never ceasing to point them to God. He had brought his children up on their knees. He seemed to have been such a soul as the Divine Spirit must forever delight to dw r ell in. It was this father that Merton now knew had gone from him forever. No

CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH.

more his tender caresses, no more his kind encouragement. The word “father” henceforth had a different meaning for Merton: it brought thoughts of the grave, and sighs for the times that would come no more forever. At the close of the day that had brought him the sad news of his father’s death, Merton kneeled in his wonted place, at the bedside; and there he poured out his soul before God:

“God of my father,” he prayed, “pity me. Have mercy on me in my weakness. Pardon my sins, and guide my footsteps. Thou hast seen fit to take my father from me. To whom can I now go but to Thee. Be Thou my guide, my life, my way. Tead me in the way 'I should go. Give me grace and strength to suffer and do; and grant that I may never depart from the path wherein my father taught me to go. Hear me, most merciful Father, for Thy name’s sake.”

The lad was in a flood of tears; his very heart seemed breaking. At length when he rose from his knees, he felt comforted and strengthened. It seemed to him that his father was near; and that his blessed spirit said, “peace, be still.” Merton soon was fast asleep, dreaming that he was once more in the home of his youth, sitting in his father’s lap, listening to the stories of old. The home was full of happy children, and the fire burned brightly as if partaking of the merriment. He awoke to find it all illusion: strange faces were around him; strange voices fell on his ears. Soon the bitter thought returned that he was all alone in the world, with a mother and brother depending on him. But remembering his father’s words, he took courage, and went forth to battle with the difficul¬ ties of life.

Merton was ever diligent at work, and no less so at his studies when opportunity offered itself. As day by day he besought God for prosperity and strength, he forgot

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUT.

not to pray for means and ability to acquire the education he wished.

Nearly three years had elapsed since Merton had left his native land. He now determined to bring his mother and Theodore to the United States, having sent for his oldest brother two years previously. Thus in two years and eight months after the death of Mr. Merton, Henry had his mother and brother in their new home, in a strange land. It seemed painful to take the wife away so far from the resting-place of the departed husband; but Merton knew full well that he was but doing as his father would have advised, could the sound of the latter’s voice break through the dread silence of the tomb.

There was now left in England but one married sister. All the rest of the family were in the United States. The adopted country began to appear like home. The fireside' was once more bright, the hearthstone blessed with the presence of the mother. One only was missing: that vacancy could never be filled. But even that beloved father, it appeared to Merton, had only gone before; and he hoped some day to meet him, by persevering in doing well.

The father had now been dead nearly seven years, and Theodore was now about as old as Merton was at his father’s death, when leaving his mother in the care of Theodore, he set out for one of the first universities of the land. He passed without difficulty the examinations for admission, and rejoiced to feel that he was on the way to acquiring the education he longed for.

Chapter II. Mental, Culture

The heart that hath understanding, seeketh knowledge.

[Proverbs.)

J T was on Christmas of the first year Merton passed at the university, that he lost by death the best friend he had ever known outside of his own family. Some months be¬ fore Merton had entered the university, he had received a letter from Mr. Uren, requesting an interview. He called on the gentleman, who immediately became so favorably impressed with the young man, that he urged him to pros¬ ecute his studies at once, promising any financial assistance that might be needed.

Mr. Uren was a gentleman of large means, having neither wife nor child. During the interview with Merton, which was a protracted one, he said: “ I thank God I am able to assist a young man so ambitious and worthy; and I hope and believe you will be of great service to your fellowmen. Take this check now. It is a small matter, but sufficient, I presume, for all present needs. When it is done, send to me for more. Write often; let me know all your wants. While I live, you shall not want for any¬ thing. Should I die, I think we can make it all right.”

Thus in Mr. Uren had Merton found a father, a gentle¬ man on whom he might rely. His letters to Merton at the university, were frequent and encouraging: “Do not hesitate, ’ ’ he wrote, ‘ ‘ to ask me for what you want. I am sure I can not use my wealth to a better purpose than in

FOOTPRINTS OF A SOUL.

helping you. It is right, of course, for you to be econom¬ ical; but equally wrong to deny yourself anything that may aid you in your endeavors after a finished education. When I was a boy, I had no opportunity of applying my¬ self to study; and to-day I am bitterly conscious of this grave defect in me. I think of you as my own son; and I wish you to be what, under favorable circumstances, I might have been. But I feel sure you can be very much more than this. Therefore make use of me. Nothing can give me greater pleasure than to supply you with whatever you want to perfect yourself in those studies that may make you a power in the world.”

Thus wrote this noble and generous soul; but now Mr. Uren was no more. His death was sudden and unexpected. Whatever he may have intended doing, by way of securing Merton’s future in the completion of his studies, nothing had been done: the young man was henceforth left to his own resources, and the assistance of his youngest brother.

The expense of his student-life at the university was somewhat lessened, from the fact that he was preparing for the ministry; for all ministerial students had dormitories, in the institution, free of rent. Such rooms were also larger, better situated, and more healthful than those, as a rule, obtained at private houses. Whether productive of good or evil, the young man preparing for the ministry is the recipient of very many favors. It is largely this fact, in all probability, that leads so many young men, weak in character, and of small ability, to choose the min¬ istry as their profession in life. The many favors offered by the churches and educational institutions to young men preparing for the ministry, have undoubtedly a great effect in filling the ranks of that profession with recruits; on the other hand, it is doubtful if young men, of great and noble parts, are likely thus to be attracted. And if they were

MENTAL CULTURE.

attracted, there is generally no call for them; the crowds of less worthy applicants having already more than sup¬ plied the demand.

Among the very many assisted as we have said, there were some, as Merton knew, who were truly worthy in every respect; but the society of the average ministerial student, he soon found, was in no wise calculated either to make him purer in heart, or more polished in mind. Ignoble in conduct, and indolent in studies, many of the biblical students appeared to Merton more fitted to carry the hod than to build the temple. He also saw that the very worst characters among them were frequently the most demonstrative in prayer and profession.

At five o’clock on Sunday mornings, it was the custom for these students, aroused by some of the more active ones, to assemble for prayers. Great excitement would then prevail; much renewal of vows; great profession of faith and trust. At such times a student felt ashamed if he could not weep as much, and pray as loudly, as any other brother. Thus those of excitable temperament would shout, and sing, and pray, until they bordered on the very verge of frenzy.

Merton himself was of a very nervous temperament, and religious disposition; and it was not to be expected that a person of such nature could be long exposed to such and similar forces, without being greatly affected. Thus it was that ’Merton, who had never known a day without praying to God, nor without having faith in him, was greatly influenced by those who made the profession of sanctification; and in due time he made such profession himself, and continued in it for .several years. Still he had every evidence for believing that it was not among those who made the greatest" professions, that the purest characters were found; nor among those who professed to