same matter when it becomes inanimate and insensitive, is a mere rearrangement of the same atoms, your premiss is intelligible. (It is a bolder one than any biologists have yet advanced.  The most sceptical of them admits, I believe, that “vitality” is a thing per se. However, that is beside my present scope.) But this premiss is advanced to prove that it is of no “consequence” to kill an animal.  But, granting that the conversion of sensitive into insensitive matter (and of course vice versa) is a mere change of “form,” and therefore of no “consequence”; granting this, we cannot escape the including under this rule all similar cases.  If the power of feeling pain, and the absence of that power, are only a difference of “form,” the conclusion is inevitable that the feeling pain, and the not feeling it, are also only a difference in form, i.e., to convert matter, which is not feeling pain, into matter feeling pain, is only to change its “form,” and, if the process of “changing form” is of no “consequence” in the case of sensitive and insensitive matter, we must admit that it is also of no “consequence” in the case of pain-feeling and not pain-feeling matter.  This conclusion, I imagine, you neither intended nor foresaw.  The premiss, which you use, involves the fallacy called “proving too much.”

The best advice that could be given to you, when you begin to compose sermons, would be what an old friend once gave to a young man who was going out to be an Indian judge (in India, it seems, the judge decides things, without a jury, like our County Court judges).  “Give your decisions boldly and clearly; they will probably be right.  But do not give your reasons:  they will probably be wrong" If your lot in life is to be in a country parish, it will perhaps not matter much whether the reasons given in your sermons do or do not prove your conclusions.  But even there you might meet, and in a town congregation you would be sure to meet, clever sceptics, who know well how to argue, who will detect your fallacies and point them out to those who are not yet troubled with doubts, and thus undermine all their confidence in your teaching.

At Eastbourne, last summer, I heard a preacher advance the astounding argument, “We believe that the Bible is true, because our holy Mother, the Church, tells us it is.”  I pity that unfortunate clergyman if ever he is bold enough to enter any Young Men’s Debating Club where there is some clear-headed sceptic who has heard, or heard of, that sermon.  I can fancy how the young man would rub his hands, in delight, and would say to himself, “Just see me get him into a corner, and convict him of arguing in a circle!”

The bad logic that occurs in many and many a well-meant sermon, is a real danger to