meleri ( sing Desta u r is as if being That Tousands of Chris

tuns vi ses de difuza vila de ses rues dry as he ios mi voi lng s noch ste sa în de than me when they But then they see clearly the

pärines if meid ni ny the era intuberally they are far And in the man vile dey K Nntented at Live by faith, god foi tha a si dung their mouse a parably one of perfect ben; dhe mori resit i te egerment s s dienlandly satisáron, that the best Dut they hurre truth on their sile.

I have written a ser un rather than a letter, and perhaps hardly made myself milele de C Beds point is, that we cannot and do mi precend on remove the intellect difficulties of religion: we only intend that even intellect unbelief is the more unreasoable of the two, and that practically unbelief is folly, and faith is widz

If I can be of any further assistance to you in your charitable labour, I shall be most happy to do my best.

XLVI. TO THE SAME.

Rugby, March 7, 1832.

I thank you for your last letter, and beg to assure you very sincerely, that I shall have great pleasure in placing myself under your directions with regard to this unhappy man; and as he would probably regard me with suspicion, on account of my profession, I think that you would act with the best judgment in alluding to me only in general terms, as you propose to do, without mentioning my name. But I say this merely with a view to the man's own feelings towards the clergy, and not from the slightest wish to have my name kept back from him, if you think that it would be better for him to be made acquainted with it. With respect to your concluding question, I confess that I believe conscientious atheism not to exist. Weakness of faith is partly constitutional, and partly the result of education, and other circumstances; and this may go intellectually almost as far as scepticism; that is to say, a man may be perfectly unable to acquire a firm and undoubting belief of the great truths of religion, whether natural or revealed. He may be perplexed with doubts all his days; nay, his fears lest the Gospel should not be true, may be stronger than his hopes that it will. And this is a state of great pain, and of most severe trial, to be pitied heartily, but not to be condemned. I am satisfied that a good man can never get further than this; for his goodness will save him from unbelief, though not from the misery of scanty faith. I call it unbelief, when a man deliberately renounces his obedience to God, and his sense of responsibility to Him: and this never can be without something of an evil heart rebelling against a yoke, which it does not like to bear. The man you have been trying to convert, stands in this predicament:-he says that he cannot find out God, and that he does not believe in Him; therefore he renounces His service, and chooses to make a god of himself. Now, the idea of God being no other than a combination of all the highest excellences that we can conceive, it is so delightful to a good and sound mind, that it is misery to part with it; and such a mind, if it cannot discern God clearly, concludes that the fault is in itself—that it cannot yet reach to God, not that God does not exist. You see there must be an assumption in either case, for the thing does not admit of demonstration, and the assumption that God is, or is not, depends on the degree of moral pain, which a man feels in relinquishing the idea

of God. And here, I think, is the moral fault of unbelief:-that a man can bear to make so great a moral sacrifice, as is implied in renouncing God. He makes the greatest moral sacrifice to obtain partial satisfaction to his intellect: a believer ensures the greatest moral perfection, with partial satisfaction to his intellect also; entire satisfaction to the intellect is, and can be, attained by neither. Thus, then, I believe, generally, that he who has rejected God, must be morally faulty, and therefore justly liable to punishment. But of course no man can dare to apply this to any particular case, because our moral faults themselves are so lessened or aggravated by circumstances to be known only by Him who sees the heart, that the judgment of those who see the outward conduct only, must ever be given in ignorance.

XLVII. TO J. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

Rugby, April 5, 1832.

I could still rave about Rydal-it was a period of five weeks of almost awful happiness, absolutely without a cloud; and we all enjoyed it I think equally-mother, father, and fry. Our intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the brightest spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness-and my almost daily walks with him were things not to be forgotten. Once and once only, we had a good fight about the Reform Bill during a walk up Greenhead Ghyll to see "the unfinished sheepfold" recorded in "Michael." But I am sure that our political disagreement did not at all interfere with our enjoyment of each other's society; for I think that in the great principles of things we agreed very entirely —and only differed as to the τὰ καθ ̓ ἕκαστα. We are thinking of buying or renting a place at Grasmere or Rydal, to spend our holidays at constantly; for not only are the Wordsworths and the scenery a very great attraction, but as I had the chapel at Rydal all the time of our last visit, I got acquainted with the poorer people besides, and you cannot tell what a home-like feeling all of us entertain towards the valley of the Rotha. I found that the newspapers so disturbed me, that we have given them up, and only take one once a week; it only vexes me to read, especially when I cannot do anything in the way of writing. But I cannot understand how you, appreciating so fully the dangers of the times, can blame me for doing the little which I can to counteract the evil. No one feels

more than I do the little fruit which I am likely to produce; still I know that the letters have been read and liked by some of the class of men whom I most wish to influence; and, besides, what do I sacrifice, or what do I risk? If things go as we fear, it will make very little difference whether I wrote in the Sheffield Courant or no, whereas, if God yet saves us, I may be abused, as I have been long since, by a certain party; but it is a mistake to suppose that either I or the school suffer by that. I quite think that a great deal will depend on the next three or four years, as to the permanent success of Rugby; we are still living on credit, but of course credit will not last for ever, unless there is something to warrant it. Our general style of composition is still bad, and where the fault is, I cannot say; some of our boys, however, do beautifully; and one copy of Greek verses (Iambics) on Clitumnus, which was sent in to me about a month ago, was one of the most beautiful school copies I ever saw. I should like to show it to you, or even to your brother Edward; for I do not think any of his pupils could write better-τοῦτο δὲ, ὡς εἰκὸς, σπάνιον.

XLVIII. TO REV. G. CORNISH.

Rugby, June 9, 1832.

We are again, I believe, going to the Lakes in the holidays to a great house near the head of Winandermere, Brathay Hall; because our dear old house at Rydal is let for a twelvemonth. We all look with delight to our migration, though the half year has gone on very happily as far as the school is concerned, and I am myself perfectly well; but in these times of excitement the thirst for a "lodge in some vast wilderness," is almost irresistible. We are going to have a dinner here for all the town on passing the Reform Bill:-the thing was to be, and I have been labouring to alter its name, and to divest it of everything political, in order that everybody might join in it; but of all difficult offices, that of a peacemaker seems to me to be one of the hardest. What a delightful man we have in Grenfell-so lively and so warm-hearted. I thought of you and of Bagley Wood, and old times, when I walked with him the other day in the rain to a wood about four miles from here, dug up orchis roots, and then bathed on our way home, hanging our clothes on a stick under a tree, to save them from being wet in the interval. . . . . . . I do not wonder at what you say about

XXXIX. TO W. W. HULL, ESQ.

Rugby, October 26, 1831.

I spear daily, as the Lydians used to play in the famine, that I may at least steal some portion of the day from thought. My family, the school, and, thank God, the town also, are all full of restful and delightful thoughts and images. All there is but the scene of wholesome and happy labour, and as much to refresh the inward man, with as little to disturb him as this earth, since Paradise, could, I believe, ever present to any one individual. But my sense of the evils of the times, and to what prospects I am bringing up my children, is overwhelmingly bitter. All in the moral and physical world appears so exactly to announce the coming of the great day of the Lord," i. e. a period of fearful visitation to terminate the existing state of things, whether to terminate the whole existence of the human race, neither man nor angel knows,— that no entireness of private happiness can possibly close my mind against the sense of it. Meantime it makes me very anxious to do what work I can, more especially as I think the prospect of the cholera makes life even more than ordinarily uncertain; and I am inclined to think, from my own peculiar constitution, that I should be very likely to be attacked by it.

I believe I told you that I am preparing for the press a new volume of Sermons, and I wish a small book on the Evidences" to accompany them; not a book to get up like Paley, but taking the real way in which the difficulties present themselves, half moral, half intellectual, to the mind of an intelligent and well-educated young man; a book which, by God's blessing, may be a real stay in that state of mind when neither an address to the intellect alone, nor one to the moral feelings, is alone most likely to answer. And I wish to make the main point not the truth of Christianity per se, as a theorem to be proved, but the wisdom of our abiding by it, and whether there is anything else for it but the life of beast or of devil. I should like to do this if I could before I die; for I think that times are coming when the Devil will fight his best in good earnest. I must not write any more, for work rises on every side open mouthed upon me.

This he partially accomplished in the 17th Sermon in the second volume, and the 11th and 19th in the third. The work itself was begun, but never finished.