It is probable he was afraid I had been too severe and very likely he was correct.  Some years after this, when I, myself, was superintendent of the division I always had a soft spot in my heart for the men then suspended for a time.  I had felt qualms of conscience about my action in this, my first court.  A new judge is very apt to stand so straight as really to lean a little backward.  Only experience teaches the supreme force of gentleness.  Light but certain punishment, when necessary, is most effective.  Severe punishments are not needed and a judicious pardon, for the first offense at least, is often best of all.

As the half-dozen young men who constituted our inner circle grew in knowledge, it was inevitable that the mysteries of life and death, the here and the hereafter, should cross our path and have to be grappled with.  We had all been reared by good, honest, self-respecting parents, members of one or another of the religious sects.  Through the influence of Mrs. McMillan, wife of one of the leading Presbyterian ministers of Pittsburgh, we were drawn into the social circle of her husband’s church. [As I read this on the moors, July 16, 1912, I have before me a note from Mrs. McMillan from London in her eightieth year.  Two of her daughters were married in London last week to university professors, one remains in Britain, the other has accepted an appointment in Boston.  Eminent men both.  So draws our English-speaking race together.] Mr. McMillan was a good strict Calvinist of the old school, his charming wife a born leader of the young.  We were all more at home with her and enjoyed ourselves more at her home gatherings than elsewhere.  This led to some of us occasionally attending her church.

A sermon of the strongest kind upon predestination which Miller heard there brought the subject of theology upon us and it would not down.  Mr. Miller’s people were strong Methodists, and Tom had known little of dogmas.  This doctrine of predestination, including infant damnation—­some born to glory and others to the opposite—­appalled him.  To my astonishment I learned that, going to Mr. McMillan after the sermon to talk over the matter, Tom had blurted out at the finish,

“Mr. McMillan, if your idea were correct, your God would be a perfect devil,” and left the astonished minister to himself.

This formed the subject of our Sunday afternoon conferences for many a week.  Was that true or not, and what was to be the consequence of Tom’s declaration?  Should we no longer be welcome guests of Mrs. McMillan?  We could have spared the minister, perhaps, but none of us relished the idea of banishment from his wife’s delightful reunions.  There was one point clear.  Carlyle’s struggles over these matters had impressed us and we could follow him in his resolve:  “If it be incredible, in God’s name let it be discredited.”  It was only the truth that could make us free, and the truth, the whole truth, we should pursue.