Is the Devil a Myth?

by C. F. Wimberly

XIX

THE CONFIDENCE MAN

“In whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine unto them.”—2 Corinthians iv. 4.

History is one long, tragic recital of human sorrow and suffering; but there is far more unwritten history than has ever been recorded on the printed page. Along the march of civilization all that has come down to us are the lives and doings of great men; we know little of the heart agonies of the race—such as cannot be recorded—language is inadequate. Most of history is a record of man’s inhumanity to man, but historians deal with these dark pages only on the higher levels. The greatest suffering, the bitterest cries of anguish, the deepest wails of despair are in the lowlands of human life: down where its pathos can never be known. The darkest tragedies of war are lost by the gallant heroism of some officer; the blood and carnage are overshadowed and forgotten by the heralds of victory. The real pathos of war remains unnoticed by the chroniclers and correspondents; it is found in the heart suffering of the dying in the trenches; the black pall that settles over the homes made desolate by the news from the front.

The saddest stories of life will never be told; they are the voiceless agonies and smothered sobs from victims of human treachery and deceit. Millions are shambling on their weary way, waiting for the end, whose hearts are dead and buried in graves of misplaced confidence. More domestic lights have been extinguished, more love dreams turned from a sweet phantasy to an horrid nightmare, more bodies fished from the river, more shocking tragedies have resulted directly from this cause—misplaced and wrecked confidence—than from all other causes of human wretchedness.

An illustration from actual life will serve to bring the caption of this chapter—the Confidence Man—out in bold relief. An honest old farmer, whose horizon had not extended beyond the obscure Indiana neighbourhood, sold his little home and started for Kansas, hoping to enlarge his possessions and give his sons and daughters a larger sphere of opportunity. That they might see the wonders of a great city, arrangements were secured for a three days’ stop-over at St. Louis. The Confidence Man saw them pass through the iron gate into the lobby. He first noted the train on which they had come to the city. With great enthusiasm he greeted the old gentleman, introduced himself, extending a business card of his “firm.” With cunning palaver, and the guilelessness of the farmer—item after item of information as to name and where they came from were obtained. The man who said he thought he recognized the old gentleman soon became satisfied of it—having an uncle living in the same county—and “I have often heard him speak of you, etc., etc.”

It required only a short time to not only gain the confidence of the whole family, but also to get all the facts concerning their business affairs: how much the little farm brought, and how much they had left to begin life in the west, and actual cash on hand. There was not a hitch in the scheme; the new friend (?) loaded them with kindnesses and courtesies, paid all the bills at lunch and theatre—took the young people into the mysteries of the great wonderland—all so new and strange.

It was the last afternoon; father and Mr. Confidence Man were returning from a tour of sightseeing. They met a man walking in great haste; looking up he saw the two men, and suddenly laid violent hands on the “farmer’s friend,” demanding the payment of a note three days overdue. They quarrelled; all manner of apologies were made, that he was “entertaining an old friend, etc.,” all of which caused the Shylock to grow more enraged and unreasonable; they almost came to blows.

Finally the old man’s benefactor asked to see him for a moment alone. Then meekly humble, and with many regrets, asked for a loan of enough to pay the note. “We will go right down to my office, and I will reimburse you with big interest for the kindness.” The honest old man was only too glad for an opportunity of returning, by such a little act, the kindness that had been shown him. The note was almost one thousand dollars; when the bills were counted out, less than ten dollars remained in his purse—the savings of a lifetime.