The Contributors' Club

I SAW in The Atlantic, a few months ago, an article with this title: Is God Good? After reading it, I concluded that the writer evidently believed in what are called “final proofs ” of God’s goodness ; but, at the same time, she presented so large an amount of evidence entirely contradictory to any such belief, and this evidence appeared to me so full of error, that I felt obliged to attempt to correct it, to free myself from the responsibility of one who, even by silence, might seem to admit it as truth.

After giving a terrible list of the evils, injuries, miseries, failures, and deprivations of this life, she ends by speaking of the pitiless and inexorable sentence of death.” Inexorable it is, but how can we say “ pitiless,” when we know nothing of what is beyond? Shall the grub complain of the pitiless and inexorable sentence that obliges him to become a winged creature, instead of allowing him to remain forever a grub ?

She does not consider that this was meant to be a happy world, but, in touching lightly upon the beauty of nature and some of the delights of life, she suggests that a Creator who did not intend to be kind to his creatures might yet have resorted to them as a background of pleasure to deeper pain ; holding the color of the lily or the kiss of a child, as what artists call “ values,” against the tornado and the tooth of famine and the grave.

This, in the nature of things, is impossible. The world might have been made luxurious and beautiful in a certain way, but not beautiful in the way it is, because in the beauty of nature is a meaning inconsistent with any such end. The mind that conceived the lily and put the impulse into the child’s heart must have in itself the absolute purity and perfect love they represent. Into that mind no mean or underhand purpose could enter.

The point upon which her argument turns is the question whether or not God intends to give us eternal life. If that were certain, everything might yet be right, because opportunity would then be afforded for all compensation to be made and all completion attained.

She thinks that the best proof we are likely to obtain of his good-will is that, after all that men have suffered, they still believe in his fair intentions toward them. This she calls “an argument of acquired trust.” Acquired from what ? From experience; and this experience is of bad treatment. Men believe that God will treat them well, because he has treated them badly. The divine denial, she asserts, does not obliterate, but creates, the phenomenon of human belief. This does not seem reasonable; but, she says, it is a miracle. A miracle is a deviation from law. To me it seems as if there were in our case no deviation from a universal law, that gives to every creature the knowledge it most needs: tells the bird where to fly in time of need; tells the stem which way the light is, and the root which way is the darkness; tells every human soul that there is a God, to whom it eternally belongs, and that nothing can ever happen that can alter that fact. To say that the belief of man in God, under the circumstances, is a miracle is really the same as to say that a man finds by experience that he has another source of knowledge beside his reason and his senses, and that this source of knowledge is so sure and trustworthy that he must believe it, even when it seems to contradict the evidence of his senses and his reason. This is instinct, the eye of the spirit, that sees God; sees that life cannot end with the death of the body, but must continue till his highest aspiration is reached and his deepest desire fulfilled.

Ole Bull used to say that he liked to be out on the ocean, alone in his little boat, because then he could feel God. Sometimes this consciousness of the reality of God is so prompt and strong as to startle us, as in the young surgeon in San Francisco, who, having performed an operation that proved unsuccessful, went immediately into the next room and shot himself; leaving a note, briefly stating that, as he had killed this woman, he wished to appear with her at the bar of judgment.

A Christian would not consider it inconsistent with his belief in immortality to give a sigh of relief at hearing that his enemy was dead, and could trouble him no more. A pagan Chinaman, at hearing this news, would be roused by it to the highest pitch of excitement and fear. His enemy dead is more powerful than ever. Now, as never before, he must try to appease him, — offer gifts to his relatives, make sacrifices at his grave. This matter-of-fact and most economical man has now no other use for anything that he possesses that can compare in importance with the necessity of conciliating a dead man. What can it mean but that he is ready to accept, with the unquestioning intensity of a child’s faith, the belief that has come down to him from remotest ages, that beyond this life is another? And, however rude his conception of that life may be, he evidently believes that in it a man has increased advantages, so that what he fails in here may there be possible.

I think it was Dr. Channing who said that he had seen a great many prisoners and condemned men, and never among them found one who was afraid to die, unless he had been frightened by others ; every one seeming of himself to believe that, whether he is good or bad, he belongs to God.

She says that “ the benevolence of the Creator was never so thoughtfully questioned by such numbers of human beings as to-day.” It is wonderful that this can be, considering the drift of science, every day giving us new illustrations of the uniformity and harmony of that nature of which we are a part; showing us the varying forms in which the same particles of matter may exist, the appearance only changing, the essence remaining the same; showing us that matter, as far as it can be traced, is imperishable, — that no motion once begun is ever ended, no sound ever dies. How can reason help inferring that the soul is safe, where every atom of matter is so carefully treasured up, and in one form or another is saved ?

One of the truths of science is that everything hastens where it belongs. As the smoke-wreaths curl upward, and the water leaps downward, as crystallizing atom flies to atom, so my soul will find its home.

She speaks of three key-notes in the great discords of life, — the cruelty of nature, the mystery of sex, and the misery of the poor.

In regard to the poor, I should be almost ready to agree with her, that for them this is a state of manifold, mysterious, and unmeasured suffering, if it were not that it is improving. Anything that is in a transition state, and moving in the right direction, cannot be cause for despair. Even within the last quarter of a century, what immense changes have taken place ! — the emancipation of the slaves and of the serfs, the formation of land leagues and labor leagues, the greatly increased interest in the temperance movement, the emigration schemes, the multiplication of free libraries, provision for the care and protection of destitute children ; so many intelligent and resolute men devoting their best thoughts and best energies to the cause of the poor, one movement kindling enthusiasm in another all over the world. When hand clasps hand, one and one make more than two.

It seems as if people were growing a great deal more sensible in regard to the poor, and understand better how to help them, so that there is not so much waste effort as formerly. I read in the papers recently that some of the missionaries in New York, who had been carrying about tracts, had decided to take a cart, and fill it with bread and coffee and bars of soap, and distribute those instead.

Any one who requires material for encouragement in regard to the poor needs only to look back a few years, and see what was their condition in sickness, when there were no free hospitals and dispensaries, no fruit or flower charities, no free excursions to sea-side or country, no free kindergartens or temporary homes, where children are cared for when their parents are unable to attend to them. It seems as if, in our country at least, dire poverty ought to disappear, and give place to the poverty that only obliges a man to lead a simple and strong life, which, though it may deprive him of opportunities of development, is yet not wholly to be deplored.

On the second great discord, the mystery of sex, I hesitate to speak, not understanding fully what is meant. On this subject, as she remarks, words must be few, but impressions deep. That a man’s and a woman’s love for each other should be stronger than a man’s love for a man, or a woman’s love for a woman, seems to me no greater cause for complaint than that electricity is a more powerful force than heat, and more dangerous in its abuse. With regard to the inherent vagrancy of the emotional instinct in man, and the historic constancy of woman, I do not know what is the authority, but it is not according to my observation.

The mystery of womanhood, “ so heavily weighted in the race of life by maternity,” is one expression used. Once, in the twilight, I found myself standing beside a tall white fleur-de-lis, just opening into blossom. I stood breathless. My eyes or my heart seemed for the first time conscious of a great mystery. It might have been always before me, and yet for the first time I knew it. I pressed my lips softly to the flower. Afterwards, when the same great experience became also mine, I remembered it. It seems as if it ought not to be any more painful for a woman to bear a child than it is for a plant to bear a flower. In the great wonder and delight of it, all sense of pain is lost.

The last discord is the cruelty of nature. As evidences of this, she mentions the avalanche, the sirocco, shipwreck, famine, and disease. These are spoken of as manifestations of natural law. Are they not often manifestations of man’s violation of natural law? We cut down the forests on the hill-sides ; the soil becomes loosened and disintegrated. Missing the equalizing influence of the trees in respect to temperature and moisture, the earth grows dry and barren; the streams are changed to torrents ; land-slides follow, and the desert, the home of the sirocco and famine, marshes and swamps, the home of malaria and disease, all from cutting down trees. We did not understand, when we began to clear the land, what we were also doing by disturbing the harmonies of nature, everything being carefully arranged to act in connection with everything else, so that no one could ignorantly interfere without doing harm in every way. Evidence continually accumulates of more and more ancient races of men, so that no one can say when these destructive processes began. At last, forced by necessity and helped by science, we have begun to investigate, and find that what we attributed to wild, ruthless forces of nature is really the result of our ignorance. Places we thought were cursed by God have been made what they are by our hands. We plant forests, drain marshes, turn the courses of streams, and find that, with increasing knowledge, powers before which we trembled become manageable. Even the earthquake, it is claimed in earthquake countries, is no longer feared, where numerous deep openings, as oil wells and artesian wells, allow the escape of inflammable gases. The great net-work of railroads modifies the destructive force of lightning.

Disease, I supposed, was now universally admitted to be the result of disobedience of natural laws, not an inevitable condition of nature. Yet even by disease we learn what we should not otherwise have known, the mysterious property given to plants, and even to the earth itself, to help us, — poisons being also medicines. Beside this power given to rock and herb, nature has planted deep in every part of our physical being a tendency to become right again, whenever its normal condition has been disturbed. In this effort all parts of the body help each other, one organ actually trying to do the work of another that has become disabled. What a curious revelation, — a blind organ, made only of matter, trying to do what it has never done before, out of regard for the general economy. Or is it that an all-seeing and most kindly power has infused into everything that it has made something of its own spirit ?

In deciding the question whether nature means to be kind or cruel, she remarks that she has omitted mentioning “ certain genial aspects.” It seems to me like saying, “ In deciding whether or not this person is guilty, I will omit mentioning anything I happen to know in his favor.” It makes a great difference to us, in all our doubts and discouragements, to see that the earth is still smiling with flowers, the air full of music and fragrance, and the night bright with stars, as a child in fear is comforted by merely seeing the quiet look in its mother’s face, as if all were still well.

High among the Alpine crags is a little flower, similar to the life-everlasting of our fields, but growing differently. The flowerets are clustered together, as in our everlasting; then these little clusters themselves nestle up to each other, and leaflets, that seem to be made of fine thick felt, are drawn closely over them, while they are still immature, and spread in beautiful star-shape around them as they open. Where nothing else can grow, this little flower feels its way up through the snow, and braves the glacier wind, guarded by the power that rends the rock and guides the avalanche. In the driest of dry earth in California, in the crevices of the rock, we found a semblance of a flower. My little girl called it a straw flower. I called it a ghost flower. Its tiny form was made of thin, dry scales. It was a mere little spectre, but what a strong desire it showed to make a flower, — to make one under circumstances so adverse !

I had once a hieroglyphic Bible, in which I read partly by words and partly by pictures. I could read by the pictures just as well as by the words. I think it is so in this world. We can never say God has not told us anything, because he has not told it in words. Some things we can see plainly by only looking about us. Some things have hidden meanings that deeper study reveals, like the truths of science. Some seem still like riddles or mysteries, that may be one day interpreted.

— In the Contributors’ Club of last January it is asked, “ Why is the name Montaigne pronounced montagne? ” It struck me at the time that is in the question ought to be changed to was, but I had only my memory for authority. While looking over Francisque Sarcey’s last Theatrical Chronicle in the Paris Temps, where the celebrated critic sometimes occupies himself with pronunciation, I was confirmed in this opinion. Montaigne used to be pronounced like montagne, and in the sixteenth century the sound of the liquid n (n mouillé), which is now represented by gn, was often figured by ign. This orthography has been gradually eliminated, leaving behind only a few isolated examples. The name Montaigne was, until recently, one of these, but, as Sarcey says, “ at present everybody calls the author of the Essays Montaigne instead of Montagne, which was the old pronunciation.” This change may be explained by the general tendency to pronounce words as they are spelled.

— I wish that there could be a league among summer boarders this season for the preservation of antiquities in small country places. It is most painful to those persons who are fond of relics of the past — of old houses and old furniture, of old stone walls and older trees — to see the furbishing and bedizening that is going on in the most ancient and interesting of our country villages. The summer boarders are as a class to blame for this deplorable rejuvenation. Before they made their appearance and went away again, leaving their money behind them, the country people were contented with their houses, which had one great chimney in the middle, that was like the warm heart of the homelike building. They were satisfied with its square walls, to which the wind and sun and rain had been many years in giving a beautiful shade of gray that no painter’s brush could copy ; they found no fault with the small-paned windowframes, which matched the house itself so much better than the blank-looking four-paned ones with which they have been replaced. The old gray clapboarding has been painted white with cheap paint that looks thin and hard, and the chimney has been pulled down to give place to two smaller ones, and bay windows have been put on in ungainly places. The house has a look of yesterday, and on farther acquaintance it seems like an old woman who has tried to renew her youth by wearing her granddaughter’s clothes. When the children of the family who live at a distance come back to the old homestead, one cannot help wondering if they like it so well. There is nothing pleasanter than one of the larger New England farmhouses, with its doors and windows thrown open late in the summer afternoon. The wind comes blowing toward it across the fields; the lilacs stand beside it, putting their arms of crooked branches round each other; against the gray of the house, beside the door, some bright red hollyhocks stand up straight and tall. The roof has a protecting slope to it; as one looks at the house, it is like a fluffy, feathery old hen which has settled down in the short grass in the sunshine to cover her chickens. It is the very best house that can possibly be set as a trap for the summer guests; if it is well kept and well served its fortune is as good as made.

The “ smarting up ” in which the residents of sea-shore and inland villages take such pride is going to drive away the money-spending people whom they wish to attract. To remodel the quaint last-century churches, and straighten the winding country roads and lanes, and root up the bushes and briers from the wayside; to wage war against poplars as a race, and cut down remorselessly the tall oaks and elms; to clear all the tracts of woodland that are within easy walking distance of the houses, — these are all sad mistakes. It is not necessary to have things like other people’s; the charm of the ancient towns along our coast will be found too late to have been their difference from and not their likeness to, the newer settlements. It is not alone the picturesqueness of the landscape, the nearness of the sea, or the freshness of the air in our old New England coast villages ; there are needed the signs of the presence of men and women who were alive and died and were forgotten many years ago. We suffer from poverty in the matter of ruins, and only one in fifty of our towns has any historical interest; but a place where people have lived for a long time keeps many signs of their habitation, and nature grows into some likeness to humanity and a close association with the human lives that bloomed and faded and were covered with earth. Where there are grass-grown, crowded burying-grounds, with headstones from which the weather has had time to rub out the inscriptions, one likes to find as many relics as possible that the old inhabitants have left behind.

Old houses and pleasant winding ways should be treasured, for it is these very things which have brought prosperity to the neighborhood. It is like killing the goose that laid the golden egg to sweep these things away, and when they are gone the fashion for seeking their companionship will disappear also. Every wreck that is going to pieces by the shore, and the tumble-down warehouses, and thickets of barberry and birch by the roadside, ought from a business point of view, if from no other, to be un-

touched. The old furniture and china is carried away piece by piece to decorate city houses ; it would be much better if most of it could stay where it belongs. The older square houses are better models for the new country dwelling of to-day than the cheap and tawdry, thin-walled, and badly-ornamented little buildings that seem to sprout like mushrooms in the new streets of every town. The plain houses are every way the best. But if the new houses must be built after these patterns, I beg that the old ones may be let alone in the behalf of city people who wish old-fashioned sights and quaint, half-forgotten customs to make a great part of the pleasure and change of their summer holiday. A poor imitation of newer fashions has little dignity and no attractiveness. The summer boarder’s money does this mischief ; cannot his wise precept and admonition direct the spending of it (which is really supposed to be for his continued allurement) into wiser ways ? When he looks aghast at the ravages which are complacently shown him as improvements, cannot he gently teach the true meaning of that misunderstood word ?