"Yes. To suppose that he would make such costly sacrifices as the Bible says he did make, to recover such a puny race of beings from their degradation and misery, when, if they were swept out of existence, they would hardly be missed from the great field of the creation—was an objection which struck me with great force; and I long cherished it. It appeared quite insurmountable. But though the eloquent doctor, by weakening the force of a long-cherished opinion, cowed in some degree my sceptical spirit, it was not subdued—I felt more disturbed than gratified. Indeed, I felt so much annoyed, that I resolved I would read no more speculations relative to Christianity. I was determined to banish religion from my thoughts."
"Did you remain for any length of time in this state of mental isolation from all contact with the facts and truths of the Bible?"
"No; I really found it impossible to isolate my mind from them. The more I tried to do so, the closer did they cleave to me. I felt painfully annoyed by the ceaseless action of my thoughts and reflections. They disturbed me in my sleep, my dreams were often painfully exciting, and I often awoke in a tumult of mental emotion."
"Did this severe mental conflict subdue you to the obedience of the Christian faith?"
"No, no: quite the reverse. I felt, if possible, a more haughty indignation against the truths by which I was so painfully annoyed—they followed me as my own shadow. At length, I went so far as to resolve that I would rather avow my scepticism, than keep my rank as a believer."
"Then what led you to embrace the faith which you repudiated with such indignant feelings?"
"A most humiliating sacrifice of my integrity. It came about in this way. Joseph Gurney and a few other Friends met at my father's house to spend the evening; and as I expected there would be a religious service, I feigned indisposition as an excuse for not being present. I withdrew to my own room, and resumed reading Macaulay's Essay on Milton, but could not proceed with it. I took up another book, but soon closed it. I felt painfully restless—vexed that I was by myself, and mortified at what I had done. That night was a restless night to me. I had never before deviated from absolute truth. I was now sunk in my own esteem, and I felt that if my friends knew what I had done, and why I did it, I should sink in their esteem also. I retired to rest; but sleep was gone from me. When musing on what I had done, and what I must do in the morning, to carry on this work of deception, the idea rushed into my mind with terrific force—but God knows what I have done, and what I am now meditating to do to conceal my shame! Then I felt the pang of remorse. I had never felt it before. It was a strange sensation. I felt that I had fallen from my steadfastness."
Miss Chester had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, but on seeing her friend painfully excited, she remarked, "that the first convictions and impressions of conscious guilt have often a very singular effect on the mind. Some degree of perplexity is felt to account for them; but the most perplexing question is, How can relief be obtained?"
"Mine that night," said Miss Osbourne, "were very acute and depressing—almost overwhelming. However, I indulged a vague hope that I should sleep away my disquietudes, and be myself again in the morning, and feel as in former times. I resolved I would never again violate the sanctity of absolute truth."
"And did the morning bring relief?"