And now for the moral conflict. Admitted that his convictions were those of pure rational duty, why should he sacrifice so much to them? Did _others_ around him do so? Did _any one_ live up to his or her high idea of right? On the contrary, _who_ did not silence the voice of conscience every day of their lives? _Who_ in this world was not, in their turn, and in their way, more or less unjust, selfish? And did they not, the best of them, compound for all this by going to church, and confessing themselves “lost and ruined sinners,” and returning with a clean conscience, like a tablet newly sponged over, and prepared to be inscribed all over again with the same sins, to be effaced in the same manner? Now, why could not he also do his pleasure, enjoy his wealth, hold to this world, and secure heaven—all on these easy terms? It was only to make a profession. It would not do. His heart, it is true, had not been touched by the spirit of Christianity, yet his mind was too clear and right to deceive itself so delightfully about this matter. That grace of God which hath appeared unto _all_ men, taught him that Christ was not the minister of sin—not one who gave out patents conferring impunity in sin, and signed with his own life-blood—not one who wiped out the sins of the soul, as men sponge out marks from a note-book, to make room for more of the same sort of matter—not one to make his own righteousness the shield for our wilful unrighteousness. In a word, he felt and knew that Christ was not the minister of sin. This sorely tried and tempted man had made no professions, had used no cant, but he nevertheless possessed a large portion of natural conscientiousness, and he had a frank, light-hearted manner of doing right, bordering on levity and nonchalance—a manner tending to mislead superficial observers into making too shallow an estimate of the depth and earnestness of his convictions and principles.