“I REMEMBER,” said a young man, “being in company with several thoughtless girls. Among them, however, there was one exception—a serious, quiet, and beautiful woman, whose religious opinions were well known, and whose pen had for a long time spoken eloquently in the cause of truth and virtue through the columns of our village paper. Suddenly I conceived the thought of bantering upon religious subjects, and with the foolhardiness of youth and the recklessness of impiety, I launched forth with some stale infidel objections that none but “the fool who said in his heart, There is no God,” would venture to reiterate. The flock of silly goslings about me laughed and tittered, and I, encouraged by their mirth, grew bold, and repeated my innuendoes, occasionally glancing silly towards the principal butt of all my amusement. She did not seem to notice me at all; she did not smile, did not look away, did not look at me.
“Still I continued my impious harangue, thinking that she must refute something, that she would not surely hear her own faith held up to ridicule by a beardless boy. Those around me gradually began to glance towards her. Her face was so quiet, so even solemn in its quietness, that seriousness stole over them, and I stood alone, striving by my own senseless laughter to buoy up my fast sinking courage. Still she never spoke nor smiled—scarcely moved; her immobility grew awful; I began to stutter—to pause—to feel cold and strange—I could not tell how. My courage oozed out; my heart grew faint—I was conquered.
“That night, after I went home, in reflecting over my foolhardy adventure, I could have scourged myself. The sweet angelic countenance of my mute accuser came up before me even in the visions of the night. I could not sleep. Nor did I rest, till, some days after, I went to the home of the lady I had insulted, and asked her pardon. Then she spoke to me—how mild! how Christianly! how sweetly!
“I was subdued, melted down; and it was not long after that I became, I trust, a humble Christian, and looked back to my miserable unbelief with horror.
“Her silence saved me. Had she answered with warmth; with sarcasm, with sneer, or with rebuke, I should have grown stronger in my bantering, and more determined in my opposition. But she was silent, and I felt as if my voice was striving to make itself heard against the mighty words of an omnipotent God. Oh, how often would it be better if, instead of vain argument or hot dispute, the Christian would use the magic of silence—utter silence.”