Therefore, when I see a man, for conscience towards God, giving up the world, and taking up with reverential worship, with even superstitious veneration for ecclesiastical things, because they are so—­when I see a man, who was careless before, become conscientious and true in all his outward dealings, very particular in his observance of private and public prayer, exercising self-denial, living for others rather than himself, bearing and forbearing in all quietness and meekness—­I cannot do otherwise than admire him.  This, surely, is far more lovely and admirable than the opposite of these things.

Instead of joining in the outcry against such persons, I feel rather in sympathy, and have a desire in my heart to win them to still better things, and to show them “the way of God more perfectly.”  I feel that they are stirred as I was, and are struggling in self-righteousness, not because they wilfully prefer it to God’s righteousness, but because they are yearning for true and spiritual reality.  They are in a transition state, and the more restless they are, the more assured I am that they will never attain real rest and satisfaction to their souls till they have found God, and are found of Him in Christ Jesus.

But the question may be asked, “Is it possible for unsaved people (spiritually dead) to be so good and religious?  Is not such a state an indication of spiritual vitality?” I answer, without hesitation, that it is possible.  Religion by itself, irrespective of the subject-matter of a creed, may have a quieting and controlling effect upon the soul.  The Hindoo, the Moslem, the Jew, the Romanist, as well as the Protestant, may each and all be wonderfully self-possessed, zealous, devout, or teachable, or even all these together, and yet remain dead souls.

As a boy in India, I remember being greatly struck with the calmness of the Hindoos, as contrasted with the impatience and angry spirit of the English.  On one occasion I observed one of the former at his devotions.  He, with others, had been carrying me about in a palankeen all day in the hot sun.  In the evening, he most reverently took from his girdle a piece of mud of the sacred river Ganges, or Gunga, as they call it, and dissolving this in water, he washed a piece of ground, then, having washed his feet and hands, he stepped on this sacred spot, and began to cook his food.  While it was preparing, he was bowed to the ground, with his face between his knees, worshipping towards the setting sun.  A boy who was standing by me said, “If you touch that man he will not eat his dinner.”  In a thoughtless moment I did so with my hand, and immediately he rose from his devotions; but, instead of threatening and swearing at me, as some might have done who belong to another religion, he only looked reproachfully, and said, “Ah, Master William!” and then emptying out the rice which was on the fire, he began his ceremony all over again.  It was quite dark before he had finished his “poojah,” or worship, and his meal.  This man’s religious self-possession made a greater impression on me than if he had abused or even struck me, for hindering his dinner.  I thought to myself, “I will be a Hindoo when I grow up!” And truly I kept my word, though not in the same form; for what else was I in my earnest, religious days!