U. S. Bot Oard 
 
 THE I • ^» 
 
 7 Cj5 
 
 GREYSON LETTERS: 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE OE R. E. Ho GREYSON, ESQ. f^^ 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HENRY ROGERS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the ECLIPSE OP FAITH," "REASON AND FAITH, 
 THEIR CLAIMS AND CONFLICTS," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 aOULD AND LINCOLN, 
 
 59 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 NEW YORK: SHELDON, BLAKEMAN & CO. 
 
 CINCINNATI : GEORGE S. BLANCHARD. 
 
 1857. 
 

 
 
 Elcctrotyped by 
 Y/ r. DRAPER, ANDOVER, MASS. 
 
 r r fn t e (1 by 
 CXO C. IJAND & AVKUY, BOSTON. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 AMERICAN EDITION 
 
 The title of tliis volume might lead the reader to conclude that 
 Mr. Rogers had performed only a subordinate part in its produc- 
 tion. A further examination of the work, however, would quickly 
 undeceive him. The title is, in fact, only a pleasant fiction ; " Mr. 
 Greyson " and Mr. Rogers are one and the same person. Every 
 letter in the volume is radiant with the genius of the author of " The 
 Eclipse of Faith." 
 
 Whether these letters are part of an actual correspondence — 
 whether they were written under the circumstances indicated and 
 addressed to the persons to whom they purport to be addressed — 
 may give rise to some doubt. A careful consideration of the inter- 
 nal evidence will perhaps convince the reader that this feature of the 
 work, too, is only a fiction — that " Mr. West," and " Dr. Ellis," and 
 the rest, are no more real than " Mr. Greyson." If this be so, it fur- 
 nishes fresh ground for admiring the author's genius, so fine is the 
 
 (III) 
 
IV ADVERTISEMENT. " 
 
 simulation of the actual, so naturally conceived are the imaginary 
 situations. 
 
 At this late day, no encomium on the writings of Henry Rogers 
 can be needed. Those who have read " The Eclipse of Faith " will 
 agree with the London Quarterly Revieto in feeling little doubt that 
 " his name will share with those of Butler and of Pascal in the 
 gratitude of posterity." But it may be remarked that this new 
 work presents its author in a new light. While it shows him to be 
 the peer of Bishop Butler as a reasoner, it also shows him to be not 
 the inferior of Charles Lamb as a humorist. The great charm of 
 the work is that it sets forth a melange of the " grave and gay, 
 the lively and severe," mingled in admirable proportions. Wit and 
 humor alternate with profound argument on some of the gravest 
 questions that concern mankind. 
 
 For the convenience of those not versed in any other than the 
 English language, translations of all foreign words and phrases 
 occurring in the volume have been inserted at the end in the form 
 of notes. 
 
 It may be proi:)er to say here, that the American edition is printed 
 from early sheets for which the Publishers have already paid to the 
 Author the amount for which he offered them the work. 
 
 Boston, Sept. 1, 1857. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 From a large mass of Mr. Greyson's "Letters" the following 
 have been selected for publication. It may be inferred that the 
 Editor thought them worthy of it ; whether the public will think 
 so, the public only can determine. 
 
 That all readers should concur in approving the whole, can 
 hardly be anticipated. Some will think the volume contains an 
 excess of grave matter — some, an excess of light. It is fortunate 
 for an editor when objections are diametrically opposed, as it may 
 be hoped they will neutralize one another. At all events, each 
 reader, finding something he likes, may forgive something else he 
 may wish away. 
 
 It may be permitted me, however, to say that one principal 
 reason for admitting so many of the lighter letters, has been to 
 relieve and diversify graver matter, and allure to its perusal. 
 Their specific levity^ it is hoped, may assist in buoying up and keep- 
 ing afloat those more ponderous letters which might otherwise have 
 gone at once to the bottom. 
 
 By many in all ages, and by as many in this age as in any, 
 
 Truth is regarded as a medicine which should be disjmised in 
 
 honeyed vehicles ; or, if regarded as wholesome food, is thought 
 
 much more nutritious when made palatable by pleasant condiments. 
 
 With the materials, so conveniently at hand, for complying with this 
 1* (V) 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 general humor, the Editor thought it -would be wisdom to use 
 them; since he might thereby entice young persons to read JNlr, 
 Grey son's letters on subjects which, whatever may be thought of 
 his mode of treating them, are at least as grave and momentous as 
 can well occupy the human mind. 
 
 At the same time, should it be thought that the lighter letters are 
 sufficiently instructive or amusing to repay perusal for their own 
 sake, the Editor begs to assure the reader that there are plenty 
 more very much at his service. 
 
 The letters on graver subjects may be thought now and then a 
 little longer than private letters generally are, or ought to be, — 
 though brief enough in relation to the extent and importance of 
 the topics treated. The reader must be informed that Mr. Greyson 
 was much, perhaps unduly, impressed with the benefit that might 
 accrue from private correspondence : he was in the habit of saying 
 that "Affection, if it but spoke the Truth, was Truth's best 
 pleader ; " and that " if any man would submit to so odious a task 
 as writing a long letter, — provided love plainly dictated it, — for the 
 special behoof of some one person, it was hardly in human nature 
 that that one should not read it with grateful attention , and that 
 thus a little tract in the shape of a letter, might do more good than 
 a treatise intended for everybody in general, and nobody in partic- 
 ular." 
 
 I know he greatly admired an amiable and very accomplished 
 friend, (since deceased,) who, secluded from other and more public 
 methods of being useful, spent much of his time on a large corres- 
 pondence ; actuated, in a great measure, by the hope of obliquely 
 benefiting his friends, especially the young. I say obliquely ; for, 
 like a wise man, he did it without seeming to do it : there was 
 
PREFACE. VII 
 
 ncitlier assumption, nor formality, nor dogmatism, in liis letters, 
 wliile there was j^lenty of vivacity. Mr. Greyson used to say of 
 this friend, that he acted " as gratuitous chamber-counsel ; " and 
 that " he deserved as much praise for his quiet benevolence as a 
 preacher who should prepare a discourse though he knew he should 
 have but a single auditor for his congregation, or a writer who 
 should write a book with little hope of more than a solitary reader." 
 
 Some traces of haste, here and there, will be found in these let- 
 ters, and need not be apologized for ; for when were private letters 
 free from them ? Some repetitions, also, of fact or sentiment (and, 
 now and then, almost of expression) will as naturally be expected ; 
 for this, too, is an unfailing characteristic of all collections hke the 
 present. 
 
 I think I have observed that such compilations often retain details 
 so minute as to be uninteresting to the reader ; or allusions to pri- 
 vate aifairs so obscure as to be quite unintelligible. I have, there- 
 fore, for the most part, left out all such matters. 
 
 The chronological order in the arrangement has been generally 
 adopted ; — a little dislocated, however, in the latter part of the 
 volume, for the purpose of bringing letters, on related subjects, 
 into proximity. Some of them are without dates ; and these have 
 been inserted where they seemed most appropriate. In some of 
 the more serious letters the reader will here and there find a 
 vein of persiflage^ which, perhaps, he would hardly approve in a 
 grave treatise : he must recollect that he is not reading a grave 
 treatise, but familiar letters, where a little innocent gayety is natural 
 and welcome, and perfectly understood by the correspondent. Mr. 
 Greyson, however, does not often need apology in any such matter ; 
 he may say, as Cowper said, " My readers will hardly have begun 
 
VIII PREFACE. 
 
 to laugh, before they "will be called upon to correct that levity, and 
 peruse me with a more serious air." 
 
 Another class of readers may object that expressions are often 
 too colloquial, or the pleasantry too trivial ; they must be content 
 with similar criticism, and remember they are reading familiar let- 
 ters. Fireside prattle, — table-talk, — the sheet of gossip with a 
 friend, — who could endure in the style of a hook ? If this will not 
 satisfy the more formal reader, I must leave Mr. Greyson to his 
 fate. 
 
 One thing more I must in justice tell the public. It Is impossible, 
 I think, that the reader should not discern certain similarities in 
 sentiment and style between this volume and some parts of the 
 " Eclipse of Faith." I beg to say — on the principle ofsuum cidque 
 — that I am largely indebte(i to Mr. Greyson for his contributions 
 to that work. Indeed, I willingly ascribe to him the far larger 
 share of whatever merit an indulgent public has been pleased to 
 see in it, and take all its faults to myself. 
 
 Should any inquisitive reader ask to know a little more of Mr. 
 Greyson's history than is disclosed in his own correspondence, I 
 answer that his biography, if ever written, — and he took infinite 
 pains to prevent any one's having the materials for the purpose, — 
 must be written by one who knew him, in his younger days, much 
 better than I did. I apprehend, however, that there would be but 
 little to tell. Few men ever led a more recluse life, or one more 
 barren of incidents that could at all interest the public. 
 
 July 6, 1857. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Lettek. Page. 
 
 I. To Alfred "West, Esq. — On his Recovery from Illness ; Anec- 
 dotes of Convalescents, - - - - - - 15 
 
 11. To THE Same. — On a Law of Association, - - - 19 
 
 III. To THE Same — A Novel Expedient, - - - - 22 
 
 IV. To TifE Same. — Extemporaneous Cookeiy; 'JSTe Sutor,' - 25 
 V. To THE Same. — On Death-bed Consolations, - - - 29 
 
 VI To Mrs. C R . — On the Loss of an Infant, - - 34 
 
 VII. To C. Mason, Esq. — Query — Condolence or Congratulation? 
 
 Anecdote of a Miser, - - - - - - 38 
 
 VIII To THE Same. — Speculations on Avarice ; Anecdote, - - 42 
 
 IX. To HIS Sister, Mrs. Evans, in India. — A Letter of Home 
 
 Gossip; Early Experiences, - - - - - 45 
 
 X. To C. Mason, Esq. — Old Age sometimes Beautiful, - - 52 
 
 XL To THE Same. — An Amateur Physician, - - - 55 
 
 XXL To the Rev. Charles Ellis, B.D. — Solutions that are none, 57 
 
 XIIL To C. Mason, Esq. — On the Penny Postage, - - - C2 
 
 XIV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Description of a " bustling " Man, G4 
 
 XV. To THE Sasie. — On the Language of Emotions, - - 67 
 
 XVI. To M. . — A Letter of Expostulation, - - - 75 
 
 XVII. To THE Rev. C. Ellis, B.D. — "Mysteries " of Providence 
 
 often none, - - - - - - - 77 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 XVIII. To C. Mason, Esq., ... - - - 82 
 
 XIX. To Captain Evans in India. — English God Manufac- 
 turers; Effects of Civilization, - - - - - 84 
 
 XX. To . — The Delights of Reconciliation; Anec- 
 dote, 88 
 
 XXI. To Edwin Gretson, Esq., - - - - - 92 
 
 XXII. To T. Greyson. — Letter of Counsels to a Youth, - 93 
 
 XXIII. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Freaks of Association, 96 
 
 XXIV. To THE Same. — " Societies " and " Branches," - 99 
 
 XXV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Speculations on compulsory 
 " Virtue," - - 102 
 
 XXVI. To THE Same. — " Strikes : " Estimate of " Knowledge," 107 
 
 XXVII. To THE Same. — Anecdote of Robert Hall; Human Pug- 
 nacity, *-....-- 110 
 
 XXVIII. To THE Same. — On unjust Suspicions; Job and his 
 
 Friends, 113 
 
 XXIX. To THE Same. — Antediluvian Friendships ; Immortality, 118 
 
 XXX. To A Friend who had narrowly escaped spending 
 a Night in St. Alban's Abbey. — On the Power of Imag- 
 ination, - - - - - -- - 122 
 
 XXXI. To Alfred West, Esq. — What are the best Punish- 
 ments of Hypocrisy ?------ 128 
 
 XXXII. To the Sa3ie. — Parental Long-suffering; the Second 
 
 Schooling for Vice, - - - - - -131 
 
 XXXIII. To the Rev. C. Ellis, B.D. — " Christian Evidences," 135 
 
 XXXIV. To the Rev. S. W . — On Pulpit Style, - - 145 
 
 XXXV. To C. Mason, Esq., — Habitual Actions — Automatic or 
 
 Not? 149 
 
 XXXVI. To THE Same. — Early Rising — Preaching and Practice, 154 
 
CONTENTS . XI 
 
 Lbtteb. Page. 
 
 XXXVII. To THE Same. — A Dialogue " between Myself and Me/' 158 
 
 XXXYIII. To Miss Mart Greyson. — The First of Four Letters on 
 
 Novel Reading, - - - - - . - 163 
 
 XXXIX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -170 
 
 XL. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -173 
 
 XLI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, • - - 176 
 
 XLII. To the Same. — On " Yes " and " No," - - - 182 
 
 XLin. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Treatment of Crimi- 
 nals, - - . . - - 189 
 
 XLIV, To C. Mason, Esq. — The Madman and the Devil, - 194 
 
 XLV. To . — First of Five Letters to an incipient Neol- 
 
 ogist, ...-..,. 199 
 
 XLVI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -202 
 
 XLVII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - 206 
 
 XLVIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -211 
 
 XLIX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -215 
 
 L. To . —Letter on " Prayer," - - - 218 
 
 LI. To THE Same. —Letter on " Prayer," - - - 223 
 
 Ln. To . — Fu-st of Three Letters on the " Atonement," 230 
 
 LIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - - 231 
 
 LIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, .... 237 
 
 LV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Symptoms of imperfect Virtue, 242 
 
 LVL To THE Same. — Unconscious Profundity, - - 245 
 
 LVII. To C. Mason, Esq. — On Human Inconsistencies, - - 253 
 
 LVin. To Alfred West, Esq. — A Dream, - . - 256 
 
 LIX. To Alfred West, Esq. —Thoughts on Emigration, - 261 
 
 LX. To the Rev. J S , Missionary in India, - - 264 
 
XII CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Paob. 
 
 LXI. To Alfred West, Esq. — On a Pedantic Author, - 268 
 
 LXII. To Mrs. L. B., in New Zealand. — To a Friend in New 
 Zealand, - - - - - - - - 271 
 
 LXni. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Essentials of Friend- 
 ship, 277 
 
 LXIV. To THE Same. — On the Love of Contradiction, - - 282 
 
 LXV. To C. Mason, Esq. — Mountains versus Books, - - 287 
 
 LXVI. To , Esq. — Counsels to a Dyspeptic Friend, - 291 
 
 LXVII. To R S . — A question on " Conscience " answered, 294 
 
 LXVIII. To . — On a Sophism of " Secularism," - - - 298 
 
 LXIX. To A HoMCEOPATHic Friend. — First of Three Letters to 
 
 a Homoeopathist, -----.- 300 
 
 LXX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - . 30G 
 
 LXXI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -310 
 
 LXXII. To Alfred West, Esq. — Feats of the Electric Tele- 
 graph, -..---.. 31G 
 
 LXXIII. To A Mesmeric Enthusiast. — First of Three Letters to 
 
 a Mesmeric Enthusiast, ------ 320 
 
 LXXIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, - - - 323 
 
 LXXV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - - 327 
 
 LXXVI. To the Rev. C. Ellis. — " Contre-temps," - - 331 
 
 LXXVn. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -336 
 
 LXXVIII. To C. Mason, Esq. — On the " Memoirs of a Stomach," - 338 
 
 LXXIX. To R D , A Quaker . — On the Peace Principles, - 341 
 
 LXXX. To Alfred West, Esq, — On the Peace Principles, - 345 
 
 LXXXL To the Rev. Charles Ellis, B.D,— On the Arguments 
 
 for Immortjvlitj', - - - - - - - 352 
 
 LXXXII. To THE Same. — On Comini/ to the Use of Spectacles, - 357 
 
CONTENTS. XIII 
 
 Letter. .Page, 
 
 LXXXIII. To . — On Behalf of a Young Offender; Visit to 
 
 the Zoological Gardens, ---... 352 
 
 LXXXIV. To THE Rev. C. Ellis. — " Reformatories," - 365 
 
 LXXXV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Anglo-Saxon Criminal 
 
 Code, - . - - • - - -371 
 
 LXXXVI. To THE Same. — " Sedatives of Anger; " Youthful 
 
 Hopes, - - - . - - - .374 
 
 LXXXVII. To THE Same. — On the "Plurality of "Worlds" Contro- 
 versy, - - - . - - - - 376 
 
 LXXXVIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -383 
 
 LXXXIX. To THE Rev. C. Ellis. — A Double Defeat and no Vic- 
 tory. — Dispute between an Atheist and Deist, - - 386 
 XC. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -391 
 
 XCI. To A Friend who had become a Deist. — First of 
 Eight Letters to a Deist, - - - - - - 400 
 
 XCII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -405 
 
 XCIII, To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -409 
 
 XCIV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - 415 
 
 XCV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -417 
 
 XCVI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - r -423 
 
 XCVII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -430 
 
 XC VIII. To the Same —Subject continued, - - -432 
 
 XCIX. To C. Mason, Esq. — On the Discoveries of Dr. Hassall's 
 Microscope, --.-... 435 
 
 C. To Alfred West, Esq. — True Catholicism, - . 442 
 
 CI. To C. Mason, Esq. — On Beards, - - . . 445 
 
 CII. To a Gentleman who would be a Christian — 
 
 YET rejected ALL THE PECULIAR FaCTS AND DOCTRINES 
 OF " HISTORICAL " CHRISTIANITY, . . - . 449 
 
 2 
 
Xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter. Page. 
 
 CIII. To A Young Friend disposed to make the " Discrep- 
 ancies" IN Scripture a reason for renouncing 
 Christianity, ..--.-- 455 
 
 CIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, ... - 4G1 
 
 CV. To Alfred "West, Esq. — " Transmutation " and " Develop- 
 ment" Theories, ------- 4(:7 
 
 CVL To the Same. — Subject continued, - - - -470 
 
 CVII. To the Same. — Subject continued, .... 475 
 
 CVIII. To his Nephew T G , Student in the University 
 
 OF Edinburgh. The " Prima Philosophia," - - 481 
 
 CIX. To the Same. — Hints for an " Encomium Atheismi," - 489 
 
 ex. To THE Same — Notice of certain Atlieistical Sopliisms, - 496 
 
 CXI. To THE Same — Brief Answers to Three Queries, - - 505 
 
GEEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 London, Dec. 10, 1838. 
 My dear West, 
 
 I congratulate you on having passed that painful, though 
 hopeful, stage of convalescence, in Avhich, with a lion of an 
 api^etite within, you are allowed only panada, taj^ioca, sago, 
 and that entire genus of insipidities, of which we may say, 
 as did Job of the "white of an egg,^^ "Is there any taste in 
 it ? " To give such things as these to a convalescent aj^pe- 
 tite is like feeding the full-grown Hercules with pap. 
 
 There is nothing to me more amusing or gratifying, than 
 to see a patient, who, after an exhausting illness, has at 
 length been pronounced beyond the chances of a relapse, 
 fairly dismissed by his physician, to what is to him the great 
 business of life — the re-edification of the dilapidated outer 
 man. Lean and gaunt as a wolf, ye gods ! what an insati- 
 able maw the man has! How does all thought, feeling, 
 affection, centre in that one thing of satisfying — which yet 
 is an impossibility — the appetite : it is as if brain, and 
 heart, and soul, had all gone to reside in the stomach. 
 With what gusto and infinite relish does he accept the small 
 hourly prelibations of broth, an oyster, even an egg^ which 
 break that seeming eternity, (his impatient fancy counts it 
 
 no seeming)^ between the great events of the day, breakfast 
 (15) 
 
16 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 and dinner! What an infinite absurdity appears to him 
 that languid " coy toying with food," which the mad people 
 in health waste their time in ; and what an equal folly that 
 ceremonious leaving of the last piece on the dish, appropri- 
 ated of old time to " Colonel Manners ! " How spotlessly 
 clean is the condition of every platter and cup brought away 
 from him, and how superfluous the scullion's ablutions ! 
 How is every stray crumb picked up and appropriated with 
 a gratitude which says as plainly as any voracious "philan- 
 thropic society," " The smallest contributions thankfully 
 received ! " How, in the eager impatience of his expectancy 
 of a first meal of roast^ does it seem to him that the sun and 
 all the clocks in the universe are standing still, and that the 
 stupendous blessing of a mutton chop will never come. 
 
 Ah me ! I fear that this very description will make your 
 mouth water in an unlawful manner, unless you happen to 
 take it in hand in that brief post-prandiimi of half an hour 
 or so, which is all the repose, doubtless, that the wolf within 
 you allows 
 
 Yet I once knew a philosophic convalescent who delighted 
 in the agreeable torments of imagination. He was pro- 
 nounced out of danger, but not out of danger of a relapse^ 
 and was still confined to the nauseating things called 
 " slops." At this stage his favorite reading was the " Cook- 
 ery Book," which he insisted on having to bed with him ; 
 and after making up all the choicest dishes, and compound- 
 ing the most savory receipts, he devoured them — in fancy. 
 To most men, I imagine, the employment would have been 
 torture, not i^leasure ; as exasperating as the mirage of the 
 desert to the traveller famishing with thirst. 
 
 Far different was the case of another friend of mine. He 
 had just recovered from an attack of fever, and at length, 
 after centuries of delay as seemed to him, the great auspi- 
 cious day dawned (an epoch in his life, not to say of the 
 
TO A CONVALESCENT. 17 
 
 universe) when he was to smell roast in his chamber again, 
 and taste a delicate slice of a shoulder of mutton ! His 
 wife, his faithful nurse all through, brought up at the ap- 
 pointed hour to the ravening man the dainty dish — the 
 odor of which steamed towards him- more fragrant than all 
 the spices of " Araby the blest." But she had unfortunately 
 forgotten the knife and fork, and hastened, after depositing 
 the dish in the remotest corner of the room, wdiither she 
 thought his drooping, wasted limbs could never drag them- 
 selves, to fetch the implement wherewith to cut off that 
 delicate transparent sliver, which was all the medical Tan- 
 talus had, in his cruel wisdom, permitted. She was gone 
 but a moment, but to great minds moments suffice for great 
 deeds ; and when she returned, she found, to her horror, 
 that her supposed helpless patient, made heroically strong 
 by appetite and the scent of burnt flesh, had dragged him- 
 self from his bed to his prize, and greatly scorning all the 
 precautionary wisdom of doctor and nurse, and all the re- 
 finements of a shallow civilization, had seized the whole 
 joint with both hands, and, in night-cap and with beard of 
 a fortnight's growth, sat tearmg the flesh from the bones 
 like a famished wolf. She told me that, what between ter- 
 ror of the consequences and the grotesqueness of the spec- 
 tacle, she did not know whether to faint or to laugh. As 
 to wheedling it away from him, she might as well have come 
 between a lion and his prey. 
 
 I think it is Marryat who tells us, in one of his novels, 
 speaking of shipwrecked folks and the Thyestes' feasts to 
 Avhich hunger compels them, that " no man knows what 
 hunger really is till he is willing to eat his own brother." 
 Certainly I do not know, if that be the case. I have some- 
 times thought — though perhaps you^ with your present 
 experience, will rebuke the fond presumptuous confidence — 
 that I would sooner be the meat than the guest at such a 
 
 2* 
 
18 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 feast. Yet the uniformity with whicli the phenomenon 
 presents itself, when that extremity of hunger presses, 
 makes me doubt ; at all events, it is one of those cases in 
 which one w^ould prefer presumptuous ignorance to the 
 ghastly wisdom of experience. 
 
 Well, my friend, be thankful that you are not likely to 
 be cast on such alternatives. Don't look on your nurse or 
 your wife with longing eyes, I beseech you. Remember 
 there are still beeves and sheep and corn in store, and be 
 thankful. 
 
 I have read that, at some siege — of Rochelle, I think — 
 the inhabitants were driven to such extremity, that after 
 having cleared off the w^hole race of cats, rats, mice, and all 
 other unclean beasts, and doubtless even stewed down cast- 
 off buckskins, and perhaps old boots ("unco tough," as 
 those of Major Bellenden) for a piece de resistance, they 
 were driven even to tui'n their parchment title-deeds into a 
 costly, though, I apprehend, thin j^otage. Tliink of snipj^ing 
 up three or four hundred a year for a basin of mock vermi- 
 celli, or to make one poor cup of thin gelatine ! What an 
 appropriate punishment for an old miser ! Nay, methinks 
 even the genuine, frank-hearted, hospitable man, who had 
 called his friends together to partake of this costly, yet 
 delicate refection, w^ould press them, with a somewhat rue- 
 ful complaisance, to take a cut of that delicious parchment 
 fricassee, or try another spoonful of the strong vellum soup ! 
 
 Thrice happy you ! who are not driven to such Apician 
 luxuries, — Apician at least in point of expense, if not of so 
 l^alatable a quality. " But go thy way, eat the fat and drink 
 the sweet ; " but ah ! forget not the latter part of that ex- 
 quisite verse, which so beautifully harmonizes permitted 
 selfish enjoyment with benevolence towards others — "And 
 send portions to them for whom nothing is provided!'''' 
 Methinks now I hear you grumble out, with your mouth 
 
A LA^y OF ASSOCIATION. ID 
 
 full and your spoon going, that you have not enough for 
 yourself! Well, well, a week or two hence will do ; eat 
 away just now ; but I promise you I shall be surprised and 
 disappointed if other people's stomachs are not the better 
 for your lone: fist. You are not the man to foracet a thank- 
 offering to Ilim who can so easily disjoin our blessings, and 
 give us food without appetite, or appetite without food. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dec. 27, 1838. 
 
 My deak "West, 
 
 There is a peculiarity about our mental constitution 
 as respects " association," which is worthy, I think, of more 
 notice than metaphysicians have generally bestowed upon it. 
 They have said much, and judiciously, on the principles and 
 laws of suggestion in general, and many of the more remark- 
 able facts which prove them. But I do not recollect that 
 the fact, of which I have to-day had experience most painful, 
 yet not unpleasing, has received the attention it deserves, 
 though it has been sometimes touched upon. Such facts 
 seem very instructive, both as affording an indication of the 
 beneficence with which our mental constitution is construct- 
 ed, and a presumption of the indestructible vitality which 
 probably belongs to every thought and emotion that has 
 once been present to us, — " being graven as with a pen of 
 iron" on the tablets of memory " forever." 
 
 The fact to which I refer is this : — that while, from habit^ 
 those objects become in<:lifferent to us which in themselves 
 are most likely to excite vivid associations with any of the 
 
20 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 great events of our past life, and which immediatel}' after 
 the occurrence of such events, did so to a pitch of rapture 
 or agony, the most trivial of such objects that happens to 
 have lain concealed, and is suddenly discovered after a lajDse 
 of years, shall prove to us that the whole power of associa- 
 tion is unimpaired. Unlocking the cells of memory which 
 had been closed perhaps for a quarter of a century, it shall 
 set the soul deeply musing, and seem to chide it for being 
 so stolidly forgetful in the daily presence of objects much 
 more intimately connected Avith our feelings of that distant 
 date ; and finally perhaps, (as has been the case with me 
 this day), dissolve us in emotions which we vainly thought 
 we had ceased to feel for ever ! Thus, for example, on 
 losing one very dear to us, every object is a Medusa's head ; 
 the sight, the presence of mere trifles wall excite profound 
 melancholy, or melt us into tears. But as day after day 
 passes, new associations deposit themselves, so to speak, 
 around these objects ; or rather, if I may change the meta- 
 phor, cover the exposed and exquisite nerves of the bleeding 
 soul with a new cuticle, and thus mercifully blunt its sensi- 
 bility. Thus we can still linger in the dwelling wdiich the 
 death of those we love has for ever darkened, and read the 
 books again we once read together ; touch the piano, over 
 which those loved fingers strayed ; sleep in the very cham- 
 ber where they looked the last look of love ; pass the very 
 path w^liich leads straight by the sepulchre where we laid 
 them in such agony of sorrow, and often, yes, often never 
 think of them at all ! But meantime, in turning out the 
 contents of an old drawer, in setting to rights a desk or 
 wardrobe, let but the eye rest on some memorial of the past, 
 never seen since those happy days, — trivial enough it may 
 be, — and it seems to come straight to us from the distant 
 land wdiere they dwell, to upbraid us with our forgetfulness. 
 It may be a little note, utterly valueless in its contents, but 
 
A LAW OF ASSOCIATION. 21 
 
 in that sweet hand ^ve remember so well ; a faded ribbon, 
 love's gift in those yonthful days ; an old broken pencil case ; 
 a little book, redolent still of the dying fragrance in which 
 love had embalmed its gift ; and swift ! — the past is pres- 
 ent, the distant near ; solemn shapes beckon to ns from the 
 depths of time ; the voices of memory mnrmur in our ears, 
 and the soul lives all its sorrows over again vividly as ever. 
 It has been so with me to-day. It was a trifle, such as the 
 above mentioned ; a flower, pale and faded, emblematic of 
 the joys it told of, carefully smoothed and folded, m a little 
 book. And so it told me when it was given, and to whom, 
 and for what ; and how it had been taken great care of 
 when it was first given, and that the book had been faithful 
 to its trust. I am (shall I confess it ?) half ashamed to say 
 that I sat down, and looked and mused at the poor symbol 
 till memory overwhelmed me with the past, and I shed 
 some of the most bitter and j^assionate tears I have shed 
 since childhood. 
 
 ISTo wonder that the classifications of the laws of sugges- 
 tion, Hume's three, or Brown's four, or somebody else's 
 dozen for aught I know, are insufiicient to comprehend all 
 possible cases of association. Resemblance, contrast, con- 
 tiguity in time or place, cause and efiect, do not exhaust 
 them : for to these must be added any relation whatsoever 
 between any two or more things whatsoever ; and I hope 
 that is comprehensive enough! Anything may suggest 
 anything, according to the momentary mood of the individ- 
 ual mind, as well as according to the laws of mind in general. 
 
 But, assuredly, the things now adverted to are presump^ 
 tion of both the fiicts I set out with : — that the past but 
 " sleeps " and is not " dead " within us ; and that it is a 
 proof of the beneficence with Avhich the mind has been 
 constructed, that we become blind and deaf to objects far 
 more fit to awaken memory than are the rarely seen trifles 
 
22 THE GRFA'SON LETTERS. 
 
 that often do what the former cannot. If it were otherwise, 
 it would be impossible to live in the Avorld at all after any 
 great trouble. Everything would Avear perpetual mourning 
 to us. I know no reason why it should not be so : why 
 everything should not continue to aifect us as strongly as at" 
 first, or as strongly as these insignificant things which if not 
 seen for a time possess this strange power ; for to say it is 
 habit is but to repeat the fact that we are so constituted. 
 We know no reason ; we can only say that such is our con- 
 stitution ; and like the other laws of mind, it affords a prj3- 
 sumption of a beneficent Creator who knew that we must 
 not remember the ^:)as^ every day, or we could not live the 
 present day to any purpose : nor wholly forget the past^ but 
 be held to it by invisible ties, else the discipline of sorrow 
 and the schooling of life would be for us in vain. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. — I rejoice to infer from your letter that you are 
 quite yourself again, and have had no relapse. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO THE SA:JrE. 
 
 London, March 22, 1839. 
 My dear "West, 
 
 I gave the poor man, as you requested, a few shillings, 
 because lie came from you ; and if he had been without any 
 such recommendation, I would gladly have given him as 
 much to get rid of him. What a terrible hore he is ! He 
 is, I doubt not (as you say), a sensible man : but there are 
 people whose sense is worse than other people's nonsense ; 
 and as you listen to the solid, unimpeachable, prolix, slowly- 
 pronounced common-place, you feel almost made a convert 
 
A MORAL PROPOSED. 23 
 
 to paradox, and are ready to deny everything that the good 
 soul utters. The truest and the grandest things in the 
 world suifer inexpressibly from such doleful commentators. 
 
 I almost think there ought to be a tax imposed on every 
 dull good man who ventures to open his lips in the way of 
 moral prosing, considering the injury he does truth and 
 goodness ; he ought to be forbidden to preach to his fellow 
 creatures, except by what is infinitely more persuasive than 
 any eloquence — good deeds and an attractive example. 
 It is melancholy to think of the havoc which a dull speaker 
 will soon make in a crowded audience. The preaching of 
 some good parsons is like reading the Riot Act, or reminds 
 one of that ingenious method by which it is said the magis- 
 trates of St. Petersburg sometimes cool the zeal of a mob in 
 that genial climate, — that is, by playing on them with a 
 fire-engine. 
 
 I cannot conceive of what use this poor clergyman can be, 
 unless indeed our churches and chapels were crowded to 
 suffocation ; then one or two like him might be employed 
 to itinerate about the country and bring down crowded con- 
 gregations to par. A very few, however, would be sufii- 
 cient ; the efifects of the sermon, and consequently its length, 
 might be regulated by a thermometer. But great care 
 would be necessary in the ajopUcation : for a little excess in 
 the duration of the humdrum might end in the extinction 
 of the audience altogether. In any case, I think, it should 
 be provided by law that no such enthusiasm-extinguisher 
 should be permitted to play more than an hour, lest the 
 congregation should be annihilated. One might then read 
 such announcements as these : " The church of that lively 
 preacher, the Rev. , was on Sunday sen'night so exces- 
 sively crowded, even to the aisles and pulpit-stairs, that it 
 was found necessary to send for the most ' distinguished ' of 
 the ' extinguishing' preachers, to counteract the efiJects of 
 
24 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 his oratory last Sunday night. So effectual was the elo- 
 quence of this gentleman, that in twenty minutes the ther- 
 mometer fell ten degrees in the gallery, and the air of the 
 church before the benediction became delightfully cool and 
 salubrious !" 
 
 But our dull acquaintance told me one thing I was glad 
 to hear. So young W is really applying to his pro- 
 fession in earnest. As it was said of some pope (Leo. X., 
 if I recollect), that he would have been an excellent man 
 if he had had but the slightest tincture of reUgioii^ and of 
 another pope, that he was a very good man for a pope, — 
 so I am ready to say of our young friend, that he has been 
 a good student for a young man of expectations, and that 
 he would make an excellent lawyer, if he had but the 
 slightest tincture of "law." He certainly has, and emi- 
 nently, all the qualities of mind which would make an ex- 
 cellent lawyer: great logical acuteness; ingenuity in the 
 " invention" of arguments, — I use the word in its rheto- 
 rical, not in any invidious sense, — and much subtlety and 
 quickness of apprehension. And so I hope I shall yet hear 
 of him shining at the bar. If not, — at least if some seri- 
 ous occupation of life does not engross him, — all his money 
 will not save him. He is of too lively a temperament, and 
 too excitable passions, to live a life of fat indolence. " Mo- 
 ney answereth all things," saith Solomon ; and so it doea 
 in one sense. It can " answer the purpose " of all things 
 that it will exchange for, or that will exchange for it ; it 
 can purchase other people's time, industry, learning, if we 
 have none of our own, and can even pick up a sort of 
 second-hand faded beauty and reputation ; but it cannot, 
 amongst other things, buy the advantages which attend the 
 very process of producing the things it buys. These advan- 
 tages of our possessions come in the getting of them, and 
 are usually far more valuable than the possessions them- 
 
EXTEMPORANEOUS COOKERY. 25 
 
 selves ; — I mean freedom from eymui / a mind habitually 
 preoccupied, and thus shut against many temptations, " not 
 at home " when Satan knocks at the door ; imagination and 
 passions in the busy school and under the ferula of the prac- 
 tical reason, and without leisure to go gaping out into the 
 streets in search of idleness, mischief, vain hopes, and moral 
 chuck-farthing; a contented, because a busy mind; the 
 consciousness of useful exertion at the day's end ; the 
 healthful weariness which brings healthful repose; all of 
 which are amongst the guards, if not the rewards of 
 
 virtue. 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 LoxDON, July, 1839. 
 
 Eupr/Ka ! Evpi^Ktt ! Congratulate me, my dear friend. I 
 am made, for life. If every other resource fail, I find I can 
 turn cook. 
 
 Yesterday was a broiling day with us. I am speaking of 
 the weather, and you see how naturally I fall into metaphors 
 congruous to my new occupation. Thermometer at 86 in 
 the shade. 
 
 But to my business ; only follow me to the cuisine^ and 
 I promise you shall all but die with envy at the thought of 
 my accompUshments. 
 
 My little household yesterday consisted of my sister and 
 two servants. An old acquaintance of my sister's was 
 expected to a family dinner. I wanted a little business done 
 in two different directions, and wished the two servants to 
 go. " But the dinner ! " said my housekeeper. I looked 
 
 3 
 
26 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 despairingly through the Venetian blinds at the blazing sky. 
 A bright thought struck me. " It is better to roast than 
 be roasted, any way," said I ; "7" will cook the dinner." 
 She laughed, and asked " Who would eat it ? " This saucy 
 challenge confirmed me. " Away with them," said I ; 
 " put me in possession of the kitchen. What is to be 
 cooked ? " " Oh, it is only to roast a leg of lamb ; and as 
 to the pudding, anything you Z/A'e," said she maliciously ; 
 *' but whether anybody else will like it, I have my doubts." 
 No sooner said than done. I shut and barred the kitchen 
 door and went to work. I cudgelled my brains to remem- 
 ber what I had seen in that region of fiery but pleasing 
 mysteries when I was a child, and used to Avatch with won- 
 der and delight, and keen presaging appetite, the progress 
 of the " neat-handed Phillis." Faint were the " antiquse 
 vestigia flannnse." However, I made short work with the 
 fiery part of the process. I looked at the joint — had dim 
 recollections of having seen it well sprinkled with flour and 
 then put to the fire : I sprinkled it accordingly, and com- 
 mended it to Vulcan. " Let him look after it noAv," said 
 I; "it is his business, and not mine." Then came the 
 grand arcanum — the pudding. " Simplicity," said I, 
 " after all, is the great secret of cookery, as of every other 
 fine art." I resolved on a primitive form, — a pudding 
 under the meat. That is soon made, I thought. A couple 
 of handfuls of flour, with a little water, were mixed up in a 
 bowl ; it was too soft y more flom-, too dry / more water, 
 too soft ; more flour, too dry ; more water, — and so it 
 went on, and I began to despair of the fji-q ayav, the 7ie 
 nimis — tha juste milieu — the — what word can express 
 the happy mean of solid and fluid, wherein the law of 
 cohesion only just reigns? Meantime my ugly pudding 
 was assuming alarmingly voluminous dimensions. At last 
 I got it of the required consistence, rolled it out into a huge 
 
NE SUTOR. 27 
 
 plane that half covered the dripping-pan, and chucked it in 
 to let it take its chance. I then sat down, complacently 
 enough, at the further extremity of the cool kitchen with 
 a book ; occasionally glancing with a curious yet admiring 
 eye, at the twirling joint, and hearing with much satisfac- 
 tion the click of the jack as it reversed the motion ; now 
 and then alarmed, however, lest the whirligig should stop 
 and involve in catastrophe my entire planetary system. At 
 length the servants returned, near dinner-time. I abdicated 
 with secret joy and outward solemnity, and left the kitchen 
 to their undisputed occupancy. I heard the jades giggling, 
 as I went up stairs, doubtless at that huge, ill-conditioned, 
 hapless puddmg that was lying sprawling and seething in 
 the dripping-pan. 
 
 Well, dinner came at last, and was brought in amidst 
 suppressed titters by Anne, and not sujopressed laughter 
 from my sister and her friend. I was as grave as a judge, 
 and felt that, having now provided so elegant a repast, it 
 became me to do the honors of my table with due ein- 
 pressement. I played the assiduous Amphitryon accordingly. 
 As to the pudding, it was a phenomenon. On the south 
 side, (towards the fire, that is,) scorched to a cinder; on 
 the north, unknown regions of flabby, ill-looking dough: 
 the east and west exhibited delicate tints of every shade 
 between black and white. In the centre a Mediterranean 
 puddle of dripping. I make no doubt that it was exquisite 
 in taste, but unhappily I could not get any one to partake 
 of it. I attributed this, of course, to their wish that I 
 should have this delicacy, which was the chef (Vceiivre of 
 my art, all to myself. It was in vain that I assured them 
 that there was enough and to spare ; they would not hear 
 of such a thing as depriving me of a j^article of it. Not to 
 be outdone in politeness, and determined that I would not 
 greedily appropriate so rare a delicacy to myself, I, with 
 
28 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 much moderation of mind, contented myself with taking on 
 the tip of my fork the merest morsel, which, I assure you, 
 I found rich beyond description ; then, rather than seem 
 selfish, I waived the incomparable dish away. I doubt not, 
 after all, that my sister and her friend saw it go away with 
 secret remorse and misgivings ; or were they, after all, so 
 envious of my skill that they were determined not to be 
 able to^ bear witness, by an experimentmn gustus^ to my 
 superiority ? If so, envy, as usual, was its own punishment ; 
 for, rely upon it, they would never taste any thing like that 
 pudding again as long as they lived. 
 
 " But what as to the leg of Iamb ? " you will say. My 
 dear friend, it was roasted on the most philosophical prin- 
 ciples, just as the earth is roasted by the sun ; quite after 
 the planetary model ; and what more would you have ? 
 There was the north and south pole, where the arctic and 
 antarctic fat still lay in primitive whiteness. There w^as the 
 torrid zone, just opposite the equatorial fire, utterly scorched 
 up, and unendurable, as the ancients assure us we ought to 
 find the tropics. But let me tell you, there was on each 
 side of this a happy strip of a tem2)erate zone, extending a 
 full inch each way, from w^hich I cut some delicious slices, 
 and which, if there had but been another parallel or two 
 of latitude, would have sufficed for the whole household. 
 You may say, perhaps, that this was not an economic way 
 of cooking a leg of lamb. But can there be a better ^\^J 
 than that adopted by the sun Aerself, as our Saxon fathers 
 would say, — " that fair, hot wench in the flame-colored 
 tafieta ? " The only improvement I can suggest, and cer- 
 tainly I shall try it next time, — that is, if I can ever get 
 admittance into the ciiisme for a second experiment, — is 
 this ; not to let the axis of revolution be perpendicular to 
 the plane of the dripping pan, but exactly adjusted to an 
 angle of 23° 30': in this way I doubt not I shall have a 
 
DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 29 
 
 larger temperate region, and shall be able to get dinner 
 
 enough for a moderate household out of a couple of legs of 
 
 mutton or so. Give me your felicitations, I beseech you, 
 
 on this happy occurrence in the history of your friend, and 
 
 believe me 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. — Should you be giving any large parties durmg the 
 coming winter, I shall be most happy, as Counsellor Pley- 
 dell said, in reference to the " sauce for the wild ducks," 
 to give you " my poor thoughts " on any of the more diffi- 
 cult entrees or entreinets you may be ambitious of trying. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Auff. 1839. 
 
 My Dear "West, 
 
 I have often wondered what an Atheist can have to say 
 at a death-bed : though I suppose he is seldom present at 
 any — except his own. It must surely be an awkward place 
 for hira. A man who thinks this w^orld all, must find it hard 
 to say anything consolatory to one who feels that all fleet- 
 ing away from him. How consoling it must be for a wife 
 to be told by her husband — " We are about, my dear crea- 
 ture, to part, — and to part forever ; but let not that disturb 
 you ; let me remind you that it is a universal law. You 
 are nothing but a chance-composition of organic molecules, 
 nor am I anything more ; we shall never have individual 
 consciousness again. But let me tell you, for your unspeak- 
 able consolation, that you will pass into new forms, and 
 sublimely, though unconsciously, last forever I " The conso- 
 lation is "unspeakable." 
 
 3* 
 
30 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 On the other hand, the Christian at a death-bed has often 
 just as Uttle to say ; not because nothing can be said — but 
 because Uttle need be. I will give you an example. 
 
 I was recently asked one summer evening by a friend (a 
 medical man in the country, with whom I was staying) to 
 visit the cottage of a poor fellow whose wife was dying of 
 consumption. It was just one of the common cases ; the 
 germs of our national j^lague were in her constitution from 
 the beginning. She had married ; she had borne one child. 
 Soon after her confinement, the symptoms of consumption 
 rai^idly develoj^ed themselves ; and she bore up bravely 
 against the malady as long as she could. Her husband had 
 obtained for her all the comforts he could command ; and 
 my benevolent friend, the practitioner aforesaid, bestowed 
 all his skill gratis. He had, on the like charitable terms, 
 obtained the opinion of a physician, because he thought it 
 would be an additional satisfaction to his poor patient to 
 know that no meaps had been left untried. The physician 
 saw at a glance that nothing was to be done — except the 
 painful task of saying so ; a task, however, which he shrank 
 from performing. The usual jDalliatives in the early and 
 later stages had all been tried with the customary fruitless- 
 ness ; and all that, as usual, was left for the physician, Avas 
 to " indorse " the customary declaration respecting his 
 brother-practitioner's most judicious and most useless treat- 
 ment, and certify that the patient was dying in the very 
 best way possible under the conduct of much human wisdom 
 and skill, — which means, in all such cases, human ignorance 
 and impotence. 
 
 I told her as gently as I could — what I supposed not only 
 her own fears had told her already, but my medical friend also 
 — that human art could do no more and that she must prepare 
 to die. The husband was sitting by her bed-side. I saw a 
 shudder pass through his frame, and that hope had only that 
 
DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 31 
 
 moment been dislodged from his heart ; he looked at me with 
 a peculiar expression of mingled stupefaction and hon-or. But 
 he broke out into no womanly complaints, for he was a strong 
 minded man. After a moment, he turned a fixed look of pecu- 
 liarly solemn tenderness on his wife, and gently laid his hand 
 in hers, as if he w^ould arrest her as she was setting out on the 
 dark passage. On the other hand, to my surprise, she w^as far 
 less aifected than he. She received the tidino-s wdth calm 
 and silent acquiescence ; then said simply, " I am j^repared 
 for it; I have sometimes felt it must be so." She glanced 
 at the opened Bible which her husband had been reading to 
 her, and turning to him, said — " We shall meet again ; I 
 know Whom I have believed ; and you know Him too. 
 In our Father's house are many mansions, and He has gone 
 to prepare a place for us." She quoted some of the pas- 
 sages which glow with the poetry of heaven and immor- 
 tality ; and as he listened, his sorrow seemed to catch 
 bright gleams from the reflection of her ow^n calm enthu- 
 siasm ; like a dark cloud at the close of a wintry day, which 
 the setting sun suddenly lights up with a glow of transient 
 splendor. I sat gazing upon them in speechless sympathy. 
 They did not seem sensible of my presence ; for they were 
 absorbed in those all-unutterable thoughts which make the 
 presence of all the world just the same as solitude. Keither 
 did they say much ; they were talking with their eyes, and 
 were speaking volumes in moments of time. 
 
 Here was a strange thing ! Here was something, then, 
 that had reversed the natural position of these two crea- 
 tures. The peace was hers, w^ho w^as about to die — the 
 perturbation and the sorrow chiefly his, wdio w^as to live : 
 nay, whatever softened gleam of lustre relieved his sorrow 
 was the brigl^t reflection of her setting glory. " Let it be 
 all a grand delusion," thought I ; " yet since Death is, for 
 all of us, the great event of life — in the transaction of 
 
32 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 which we live more than a life, while those who survive 
 have the whole of after-life affected by it, — how priceless 
 must be that, whatever it is, which gives hopes like these !" 
 
 The cottage window was open ; the setting sun shone in 
 with a flood of radiance ; the evening zephyr, laden with 
 the fi-agrant breath of jasmine and honeysuckle, gently 
 stirred the window-curtains to and fro, as though minister- 
 ing spirits were stealing in and out of that peaceful room. 
 At any other moment I should have regarded all this as a 
 horrible incongruity. I can recollect that qjice or twice in 
 my life, in the chamber of the dying, I have lifted the win- 
 dow-curtain in the weary morning watch, and, as I looked 
 into the cold gray dawn, and saw the last pale stars so peace- 
 fully shining and heard the faint preluding twitter of the birds 
 beginning their matin carol ; or, more incongruous still ! — 
 caught a glimpse of the broad sun lifting up his jocund 
 face from the horizon, and calling a busy, thoughtless world 
 to renewed activity and care, — I have thought it almost a 
 sin in nature to be so deeply peaceful while humanity lay 
 wrestling there in its last agony. But I had no such 
 thoughts on this occasion. The setting sun, which shone 
 through and through the clouds which lay on the horizon, 
 and turned them to molten gold, seemed to me a fitting 
 emblem of a Hope which thus converted the darkest sor- 
 rows of life into a diadem of glory. The living world it 
 was which now looked so cold and dreary. It was we — the 
 living — who seemed to have our faces towards the bleak 
 north, and to be journeying from the sun. To him, to me 
 also, from sympathy — she seemed the enviable. She was 
 about to be born — born into Immortality ; while we, the liv- 
 ing, were but ensepulchred in a world on which the shad- 
 ows of night and death lay so heavy ^ 
 
 Who shall estimate the value, in such an hour, of that 
 hope and faith which thus lead the parting soul to enter on 
 
DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 33 
 
 its lonely journey with tranqnillity ? which enables the ear 
 (as it were) already to catch, as we descend the dim -pas- 
 sage between this world and the next, the sound of the key 
 turning in the lock which shuts out from us eternal sunshine ; 
 the key of " Him who opens and no man shuts, who shuts 
 and no man opens ; " of Him who Himself passed through 
 the same " via dolorosa," but who, as His faithful disciples 
 enter it, lovingly shows Himself at the gate which opens 
 into Paradise, lets in on the ravished soul the streaming 
 light of the everlasting day, and suffers it to catch glimpses 
 of the ever-vernal scenes beyond ? 
 
 "It is all a dream," says the Atheist. Then let me 
 dream on, you fool. The dream is better than reality — 
 this falsehood than the truth ! 
 
 For what is your truth worth, most truth-loving Atheist, 
 in that hour to which these poor souls had come, and to 
 which all must come in a few short years of troubled joys, 
 j^erhaps of hardly any joys at all ? 
 
 Let us hold fast to our lie, my friend, if it be one ; for it 
 is infinitely better than an Atheist's verities. The time 
 must come at last when the value of his theories must be 
 tried ; the one hour, when only to have lived in happiness, 
 if there be nothing further to hope, will inflict a pang for 
 which that happiness is no compensation ; hoAV much less if 
 there be not only nothing to hope, but everything to fear ! 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
34 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER YI. 
 
 TO MES. C 11 . 
 
 London, 1839 
 JMy Sweet Cousin, 
 
 I liave in vain tried to tell a lie for your sake, and say, — 
 I condole with you. 
 
 But it is impossible. Plow can I, with my deep convic- 
 tions that your little floweret, and every other so fading, is 
 but transplanted into the more congenial soil of Paradise, 
 and shall there bloom and be fragrant forever ? How can I 
 lament for one who has so cheaply become an " heir of im- 
 mortality ? " who will never remember his native home of 
 earth, nor the transient pang by which he was born into 
 heaven ! who will never even know that he has suffered ex- 
 cept by being told so ! Shall we lament that he has not 
 shared our fatal privilege of an experience of guilt and 
 sorrow ? Is this so precious that we can wish him partaker 
 of it ? My cousin, those who die in childhood are to be 
 envied and felicitated, not dej^lored ; so soon, so happily 
 have they escaped all that we must wish never to have 
 known. 
 
 " Innocent souls, thus set so early free 
 From sin, and sorrow, and mortality." 
 
 who can weep for them^ as he thinks of the fearful hazards 
 that all must run who have gro^vTi up to a personal acquaint- 
 ance with sin and misery ? 
 
 An ancient Greek historian tells us it was a custom among 
 a people of Scythia to celebrate the birth of a child with 
 the same mournful solemnities with which the rest of the 
 world celebrate a funeral. So intensely dark, yet so true 
 (apart from the gospel), was the view they took of what 
 awaits man in life ! The custom was fully justified, in my 
 
ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT. 35 
 
 judgment, by a heathen view of thhigs ; and if it would be 
 unseemly among us, it is only because Christianity has 
 brought " life and immortality to light," and assures us that 
 this world may become, for all of us, the vestibule of a 
 better. 
 
 " You are very philosophical," you will say ; " you talk 
 very fine — but you do not feel as you talk." Excuse me, 
 my dear, I talk just as I have always felt ever since I came to a 
 knowledge of Christianity and of human life ; and often — yes, 
 often in the course of my own, (and let the thought be con- 
 solation to you, for how do you know that your little one 
 might not have tasted the same bitter experience ?) — often 
 in the course of my life, as I have looked back and seen how 
 much of it has been blurred and wasted ; what perils I have 
 run of spiritual shipwreck ; what clouds of doubt still often 
 descend and envelop the soul ; what agonies of sorrow I 
 have passed through, — often have I cried, with hands smit- 
 ing each other and a broken voice, " Oh ! that I had been 
 thus privileged early to depart ! " — But you cannot imag- 
 ine a mother echoing such feelings in relation to her own 
 child ! Can you not ? Come, let us see. 
 
 There was once a mother, kneeling by the bedside of the 
 little one whom she hourly expected to lose. With what 
 eyes of passionate love had she watched every change in 
 that beautiful face ! How had her eyes pierced the heart of 
 the physician, at his last visit, when they glared rather than 
 asked the question whether there yet was hope ! How had 
 she wearied heaven with vows that if it would but grant — 
 " Ah ! " you say, " you can imagine all that without any 
 difficulty at all." 
 
 Imagine this too. Overwearied with watching, she fell 
 into a doze beside the couch of her infant, and she dreamt 
 in a few moments (as we are wont to do) the seeming his- 
 tory of long years. She thought she heard a voice from 
 
36 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 heaven say to her, as to Ilezeldah, " I have seen thy tears, 
 I have heard tliy prayers ; he shall live ; and yourself shall 
 have the roll of his history presented to you." " Ah ! " 
 you say, " you can imagine all that too." 
 
 And straightway she thought she saw her sweet child in 
 the bloom of health, innocent and playful as her fond heart 
 could wish. 
 
 Yet a little while, and she saw him in the flush of open- 
 ing youth ; beautiful as ever, but beautiful as a young 
 panther, from whose eyes wild flashes and fitful passion ever 
 and anon gleamed; and she thought how beautiful he 
 looked, even in those moods, for she was a mother. But 
 she also thought how many tears and sorrows may be need- 
 ful to temper or quench those fires ! 
 
 And she seemed to follow him through a rapid succession 
 of scenes — now of troubled sunshine, now^ of deep gather- 
 ing gloom. His sorrows were all of a common lot, but 
 mvolved a sum of agony far greater than that which she 
 would have felt from his early loss : yes, greater even to 
 her — and how much greater to him ! She saw him more 
 than once wrestling with pangs more agonizing than those 
 which now threatened his infancy ; she saw him involved in 
 error, and with difiiculty extricating himself; betrayed into 
 youthful sins, and repenting with scalding tears; she saw 
 him half ruined by transient prosperity, and scourged into 
 tardy wisdom only by long adversity ; she saw him worn 
 and haggard with care — his spirit crushed, and his early 
 beauty all wan and blasted ; worse still, she saw him thrice 
 stricken with that very shaft which she had so dreaded 
 to feel but once, and mourned to think that her prayers had 
 prevailed to prevent her ow^n sorrows only to multiply his ; 
 worst of all, she saw him, as she thought, in a darkened 
 chamber, kneeling beside a cofiin in which Youth and 
 Beauty slept their last sleep ; and, as it seemed, her own 
 
ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT. 87 
 
 image stood beside hira, and uttered unheeded love to a 
 sorrow that " refused to be comforted ; " and as she gazed 
 on that face of stony despair, she seemed to hear a voice 
 which said, " If thou icilt have thy floweret of earth unfold 
 on earth, thou must not wonder at bleak winters and inclem- 
 ent skies. Z would have transplanted it to a more genial 
 clime ; but thou wouldest not." And with a cry of terror 
 she awoke. 
 
 She turned to the sleeping figure before her, and, sob- 
 bing, hoped it was sleeping its last sleep. She listened for 
 his breathing — she heard none ; she lifted the taper to his 
 lips — the flame wavered not ; he had indeed passed away 
 while she dreamed that he lived ; and she rose from her 
 knees, — and was comfokted. 
 
 " Ah ! " you will say, — " These sorrows could 7iever have 
 been the lot of my sweet child ! " It is hard to set one's 
 logic against a mother's love : I can only remind you, my 
 dear cousin, that it has been the lot of thousands, whose 
 mothers, as their little ones crowed and laughed in their 
 arms in childish happiness, would have sworn to the same 
 impossibility. But for you^ — you know what they could 
 only believe ; — that it is and impossibility. Nay, I might 
 hint at yet profounder consolation, if indeed, there ever ex- 
 isted a mother who could fancy that, in the case of her oicn 
 child, it could never be needed. Yet facts sufliciently show 
 us, that what the dreaming mother saw, — errors re- 
 trieved, sins committed but repented of, and sorrows that 
 taught wisdom, — are not always seen, and that children 
 may, in spite of all, persist in exploring the path of evil — 
 " deeper and deeper still ! " With the shadow of uncer- 
 tainty whether it may not be so with any child, is there no 
 consolation in thinking that even that shadow has passed 
 away ? For ought we know, many and many a mother 
 may hereafter hear her lost darling say — " Sweet mother, I 
 
 4 
 
38 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 was taken from you a little while, only that I might abide 
 with you forever ! " 
 
 Remember Coleridge's " Epitaph on an Infant," and let 
 it console you : 
 
 " Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade. 
 Death came with friendly care, 
 The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
 And bade it blossom there." 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER YII. 
 
 T o c. maso:n-, esq. 
 
 London, 1839. 
 
 My dear Mason, 
 
 I have been writing to our charming cousin Mrs. R 
 
 a letter — of condolence I can hardly call it ; of congratula- 
 tion, it ought rather to be called — on the death of her little 
 one. And why should it not ? Now do not think me 
 another Herod — for I do not wish sucklings to be sent out 
 of the world in his fashion ; but I never could understand 
 the extreme sorrow which mothers in general evince at the 
 death of very young infants ; " Rachel weeping for her chil- 
 dren, and refusing to be comforted." The absolute uncer- 
 tainty of a child's lot, if spared, and the certainty (as I take 
 it) that all dying in their cradles are nurselings of heaven ; 
 not only snatched from much suffering and temptation, but 
 made happy in Him who has '' redeemed them " to himself, 
 who on earth so expressly challenged them for his own, and 
 who, I doubt not, will welcome them to Paradise, is suffi- 
 cient to reconcile my mind to their death. Why should 
 we grudge them their early rest, or wish to postpone it ; 
 
QUERY — CONDOLENCE OB CONGRATULATION? 89 
 
 nay, as far as we can see, endanger it, by keeping tliera 
 here ? When our Saviour was on earth, mothers pressed 
 with their infants to let them be encircled in those lovino: 
 arms, and have His hand rest upon their little heads one 
 moment. Why should they repine that He takes them from 
 their unsafe guardianship, and folds them in the " everlast- 
 ing arms " for ever ? that they are gone where they are to 
 know only good without evil, and joy, but never sorrow ? 
 
 But it is hard to get any mother to subscribe to this 
 sound doctrine ; they won't believe that a little one of theirs 
 has aught but a bright life before him ; and I dare say 
 Madam Eve never for a moment dreamt that little Master 
 Cain could come to any ill. 
 
 It may be morbid, — I dare say it is, — but I never could 
 look on childhood's green leaf without thinking of the sear 
 of autumn, and mourning that it should live to reach it. 
 " Time that spoils all things, " says Cowper, " will turn my 
 kitten into a cat ; " or as Bishop Earle says of the young 
 child — " The older he is, he is a stair lower from God, and, 
 like his first father, much worse in his breeches. " I feel 
 with the good old humorist — " Could the child put off his 
 body with his child's coat, he had got eternity without a 
 burden, and exchanged but one heaven for another." 
 
 For my part, I fancy I should not grieve if the whole 
 race of mankind died in its fourth year. " If that were the 
 case, " you will say, " the human race would die out in the 
 next generation." Very true ; and as far as loe can see, I 
 do not know that it would be a thing much to be lamented ; 
 but since it is not His will, who permits this world of sin 
 and sorrow to continue, it becomes us to beheve, though we 
 cannot see, that it is for the best. 
 
 I have often thought that if (as I think the ISTew Testa- 
 ment and reason equally teach us, maugre the opinion of 
 some uncharitable fethers who thought the contrary,) all, 
 
40 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 wlio die infants, are young denizens of heaven, we may look 
 with somewhat mitigated horror even on one of the worst 
 practices of the heathen, — though, as usual, the undesign- 
 ed consequences do not make their actions the less atrocious. 
 Infimticide, we may well hope, has peopled heaven with 
 myriads upon myriads of happy immortals, who, if they had 
 grown up, would have worn scalps at their girdles, and 
 been devout worshippers of the great ''Tonguataboo," or 
 some such divine monster. The Arch-enemy has in this 
 case outwitted himself; he has been rendering heaven more 
 populous, much against his will; hounding into the ever- 
 lasting fold the young lambs of the flock, who would other- 
 w^ise have lost themselves on the " dark mountains. " "The 
 tender mercies of the wicked are cruel ; " it is well that 
 sometimes his cruelties should undesignedly turn out merciful. 
 
 In serious earnest, however, I think that of all calamities 
 Providence visits us with, that of the loss of an infant a few 
 days old is, with the New Testament in our hands, about 
 the most tolerable. That cup has but a very slight tincture 
 of the waters of Marah ; others require skilful infusion of all 
 the mgredients of the Gospel to turn them into a cup of 
 thanksgiving, — or even overcome their mtense bitterness. 
 But do not tell Charlotte this, — or she will certainly think 
 me hard-hearted. 
 
 I rejoice that you have got fifty pounds for your "Dis- 
 pensary " from so unexpected a source. I can hardly be- 
 lieve that you are not jesting with me. Surely you must 
 have had the old miser at some advantage, given you by 
 your art ; perhaps he thought himself at death's door, — 
 and you secretly threatened, — if he did not do the hand- 
 some thing, — to let him die unaided by professional skill. 
 Would that be an evil ? some calumniators of your art 
 might say. 
 
 I can assure you I feel much as Fontenelle did, when 
 
ANECDOTE OF A MISER. 41 
 
 Regnier, secretary of the French Academy, was collectmg 
 subscriptions of the members for some common object, and 
 inadvertently applied to the President Roses (who was an 
 old miser) a second time. He said he had paid. " I be- 
 lieve yon, " politely said Regnier, " though I did not see it ; 
 "and I," said Fontenelle, "though I saw it, do not believe it." 
 
 Your miserly patient, in the complacency with which he 
 gloats on his successful speculations, and recounts his acts 
 of saving as if they were highly virtuous, — reminds me of 
 an old Lancashire gentleman who lived and died under a 
 similar delusion. " Yes " — said he, with much gravity, to 
 a worthy clergyman who was visiting him, and enlarging 
 on the use of the talents committed to us, — "yes, — sir, 
 very true ; God has given all of us our talents^ which must 
 be diligently em^^loyed. I trust it has been my own case ; 
 he has given me, I know, a talent for business, and I have a 
 humble hope that I have not hidden it in a napkin. " " A 
 word spoken in season, how good is it ! " " So let your 
 light shine before men ! " 
 
 The utter unconsciousness of the old miser that he had 
 said anything ridiculous, must have put the gravity of the 
 spiritual adviser to a severe test. 
 
 I remember reading a clever epigram, I think . of Herder, 
 on the man who " had hidden the single talent, " and " re- 
 turned his lord's money;" it is very happy; but I cannot 
 recall it. I only remember that it felicitously hits off the 
 sordid temper of the man, and his rigorous sense of meum 
 and tuum / for he takes care in unwrapping the talent to 
 reclaim the — handkerchief! 
 
 " Take that Is — thine, 
 The handkerchief is — mine." 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 K. E. II G. 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER YIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 LONDON, Aug. 1839. 
 
 My dear Mason, 
 
 I am rejoiced to find that the fifty pounds' donation was 
 a " spontaneous " act, and that your art had nothing to do 
 with it. Wonders will never cease ; at least let us hoj)e so : 
 this, the first of the series, is at all events a staggerer. But 
 He who made the rock pour forth water to cheer the desert 
 withal, can no doubt make even the heart of a miser, — the 
 nether mill-stone is pumice-stone to it, — soft and tender. 
 
 Certainly there is no one passion of man so enthralling as 
 the love of money ; nor was it without a profound knowl- 
 edge of the depths of the human heart, that those ominous 
 words were spoken. " How hardly shall they that have 
 riches ! " I have often endeavored to account to my- 
 self, speculatively, for the peculiar intensity of this so child- 
 ish a passion ; for money is really of no use the moment the 
 miser gets hold of it. This curious idolater is content to 
 deprive his god of the only attribute it possesses, and to live 
 without the very things, the power of purchasing which is 
 its solitary prerogative ! I have often, I say, speculated 
 upon the folly, but I have never been able fully to satisfy 
 myself. It is worse than the worship of the dead ^ there, 
 in theory at least, the incense is offered not to the deserted 
 shrine of the departed spirit, but to the spirit itself, ad 
 mtliera latum / here it is to the mere mortal cerement of 
 gold, which has been stripped of its only use, robbed of its 
 only power ; it has been voluntarily thus divested, so that 
 the fool actually kills his god, and then falls down and 
 adores it. 
 
 Is it that, as the love of gold itself is what moralists call 
 
ANECDOTE. 43 
 
 a " secondary " passion, — a passion transferred from the 
 object symbolized to the symbol itself, — men are permitted, 
 as the instances of perverted desires and unnatural appe- 
 tite, to punish themselves by more miserable dotage than 
 ever the natural passion or appetite is likely to fall into ? 
 Is it that, as all acquired tastes are stronger than natural 
 ones, this follows the same law ? Is it that, as it is usually 
 of slow growth, but of life-long continuance, the strength 
 of habit is simply proportioned to the length of indulgence 
 and the frequency of impression ? Is it that, as it gets 
 stronger and stronger as other passions decay, it engrosses 
 and monopolizes all the remaining energies of our nature to 
 itself? Is it that, as it usually obtains its full dominion as 
 our minds get feebler, there is less power in the declining 
 faculties to resist and control it, and so the whole soul falls 
 into a childish, all but idiotic, submission to it ? Or is its 
 ascendency due to all or several of these things combined ? 
 I know not ; but certainly of all the mysteries of our pitia- 
 ble huihanity, none is more profound than is presented in 
 the spectacle of a miser clothed in rags, dwelling m squalid 
 want, depriving himself of the ordinary comforts of life, 
 yet gloating with insane delight over that worthless gold, 
 which he has first divested of all its activity, and then gives it 
 its apotheosis ? Such a worshipper certainly makes a great 
 sacrifice ; for he sacrifices himself and his god too, to the 
 fervor of his adoration. 
 
 I heard of a sad " night-scene " the other day, which 
 would do as an accompaniment to your " morning-scene ! " 
 Your old acquaintance's soul is, I hope, opening to the 
 dawn, though it will be a late wintry morning, and a brief 
 day at best. The soul of the unhappy mortal of whom I 
 speak closed to the light in mid-day ; that is, he closed his 
 own shutters, by which any man may make night when he 
 pleases. It is a striking example of the power of riches, or 
 
 2* 
 
44 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 fancied riches ; for here everything is by comparison. He 
 was a young man in the receipt of a decent salary in some 
 merchant's office, — just enough to provide him with every 
 comfort and some luxuries ; but nothing to spare " worth 
 saving," as we say. He was liberal to tlie full measure of 
 his ability, and brought out his guinea to religious and 
 benevolent objects as freely as any. He had a bequest from 
 a distant relative, (some three or four thousand pounds, I 
 believe,) suddenly left him. Now mark the sequel, and see 
 what a fool human nature can make of itself My infor- 
 mant tells me that a gentleman who had been in the habit 
 of receiving this man's annual contribution to some phi- 
 lanthroj^ic society, congratulated himself that, on his next 
 visit to the happy legatee, he should probably get " first 
 fruits," " thank offerings," and heaven knows what, besides 
 the annual guinea ! A few months after the bequest he 
 called, and to his surprise found the metamorphosed man 
 would not give him a farthing. No representations of the 
 astonished visitor could make the slightest impression. At 
 
 last he said, " Why, Mr. , you always used to be most 
 
 liberal, and I cannot account for your present mood at all. 
 I thought that having, as I hear, come in for a considerable 
 legacy, you would probably have doubled your subscription. 
 " That," said the unhappy man, " is the very reason why I 
 can give you nothing. While I was in the receipt merely 
 of my salary, I could save nothing. But now that I have a 
 larger sum, which I am not compelled to touch, and which 
 will go on accumulating, every little I can add to it will 
 telV* And from this he could not be beaten off. It is a 
 very instructive anecdote, and might almost make one pray — 
 only that it is, in most cases so very superfluous — that no 
 wealthy friend may mention us in his will, lest he should be 
 unwittingly consigning to us the poisoned robe of Nessus ! 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
TO A RELATIVE IN INDLV, 45 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO HIS SISTEE, MES. EVANS, IN INDIA. 
 
 London, Dec. 1838. 
 My Dear Kate, 
 
 At length comes a letter of gossip, that " savory " food, 
 which, like Isaac's venison, every lady " loveth." I have 
 at last, at your request, been down to our native village 
 and traversed the " old scenes ; " nay, old no longer ; 
 for had I been transported to some spot m your India, or 
 woke up like Rip Van Winkle after a thirty years' sleep, I 
 could hardly have been more bewildered. You talk of the 
 " dear familiar spots so bright in memory ; " but I fancy 
 you would hardly recognize them if you saw them. As to 
 your request that I would send you a sketch or two, it is 
 out of the question ; any chance picture in a book of travels, 
 of some new " Troy " or " Jericho " rising in the far west, 
 would be quite as Hke. 
 
 If, then, as you say, the transcripts in your memory are 
 vivid and bright, be pleased to keep them so, for that is all 
 you are likely to get. You speak as if everything in " Old 
 England " were exempt from the law of change ; as if its 
 houses were fossil remains, its men and women petrifactions (a 
 good many of them may be) ; its scenery stereotyped. Now, 
 my dear, I want to tell you, that we are passing through a 
 great social revolution which will change the face of this 
 country more in the next fifty than it has been in the last 
 three hundred years. 
 
 It is hard to say what remote villages the huge network 
 of our railways, when completed, will not embrace ; what 
 towns the diversion of traffic may not leave, like stranded 
 vessels, high and dry on the beach, to rot — no more to be 
 touched by the refluent tide ; or what obscure hamlets 
 
46 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 may not be turned into busy marts of a new created 
 commerce. 
 
 Our native hamlet is just going through the process of 
 decomposition / whether it will ever be reconstructed into 
 something better, I know not. The great railway, of which 
 you have heard, between London and Birmingham, and 
 which is expected to be opened through its entire length 
 next summer, passes straight by Berkhampstead, • — sweet 
 Cowper's birthplace, — and steers through that little home- 
 stead a few miles beyond, which is the birthplace of our 
 less celebrated selves. It cuts the quaint garden in two, 
 and has parted for ever the old house, which still stands in 
 rickety desolation, from the summer house, which is tot- 
 tering in still greater decrepitude on the other side of a 
 huge embankment along which the railway passes. So 
 there is an end of your dreams of my tasting once more the 
 fruit of the ancient mulberry-tree, and of my sending you 
 a honeysuckle, or rose or two, from the fragrant wreaths 
 which used to mantle the porch. But I can send you a few 
 cinders that have dropped from one of the " puffing mon- 
 sters " that roar and rush in triumph through this scene of 
 desolation, — if that will be of any solace to you. But I 
 forget ; you can have no conception of these monsters. 
 Well, then, imagine that sons and daughters of Gorgon and 
 Briareus, Gog and Magog, have intermarried for some 
 generations, and that a railway locomotive is a promising 
 scion of the family. 
 
 Just at the end of the little meadow, and by the copse 
 where we used to watch the setting sun, is an interesting 
 collection of staring red brick workmen's cottages, — back 
 to back in admirable uniformity, — with a little interval of 
 cabbage-garden between them, and displaying a charming 
 vista, (but not so pervious to the sun as the old foliage,) 
 of sheets, gowns, and petticoats flaunting in the breeze. 
 
TO A RELATIVE IX INDIA. 47 
 
 At the end of the row, of course, there is a public house 
 wilji an ambitious sign of the " Railway Tavern," whence 
 I smelt fumes as I passed very unlike the scent of jasmine, 
 and heard strains not much like those of your piano, my 
 love, though they recalled it. 
 
 From thence I wandered over the four fields into the 
 village, which, though greatly metamorphosed, and bearing 
 certain equivocal marks of " progress " and " civilization " 
 in the shape of three beer shops and one little methodist 
 chapel, was not so changed as to be beyond recognition. 
 
 The little green pool by Farmer Bloomfield's, — (another 
 occupant now dwells there, and has done so these fifteen 
 years,) — was as verdant as ever ; and in it were dabbling 
 some geese that might, for aught I know, have been lineal 
 descendants of those that furnished forth our Michaelmas 
 dinner thirty years ago : but who shall say ? It is certain 
 they made much the same noise, and looked uncommonly 
 like. 
 
 I thence strolled to the little squab church and its quiet 
 churchyard, which, except that the last looked rather more 
 populous with silent inhabitants than in days of yore, seemed 
 nearly unaltered. The well-remembered grassy mounds in 
 the corner remain untouched, and the loved ones beneath 
 still slumber peacefully there. It is a good thing the great 
 railway did not require to pass through the churchyard, or, 
 sure as fate, the monster would have done so without cere- 
 mony or compunction, and hustled the poor skeletons to the 
 right and left in premature resurrection. 
 
 I spent some time in the churchyard spelling out the 
 names of some of the old inhabitants of our early days, and 
 beholding, with pleased surprise, from the (as usual) truth- 
 ful epitaphs, that many of them were garnished and deco- 
 rated with virtues of which, while they lived, I had not the 
 
48 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 smallest suspicion ; so artfully had Christian humility con- 
 cealed their excellencies ! 
 
 Superstition no longer deifies the dead, but affection an- 
 gelizes them. For my part, I think if I were bedaubed and 
 bedizened with one of the tawdry epitaj^hs I have some- 
 times seen in a country churchyard, it would be enough to 
 make me get up in the night and scratch it out. There was 
 our old acquaintance, farmer Veesey's fat wife, who re- 
 sembled, (as some one said of her like,) " a fillet of veal 
 upon castors," decked out in a suit of virtues which might 
 not have misbecome a seraph. Several others of our old 
 acquaintances I found were such wives, mothers, neighbors, 
 friends ; so charitable, gentle, forgiving! Surely the parson 
 in our time must have had an easy time of it, an absolute 
 sinecure with such a flock. 
 
 It is really odd to see so much wickedness above ground, 
 and so much goodness under it. Ah ! if they could but 
 change places, what a pleasant world it would be ! Or 
 rather, perhaps we ought to say, " Who can wonder, that 
 so much iniquity is left among the living, when such cart- 
 loads of all the cardinal and other virtues are thus yearly 
 shovelled into the earth by the undertaker ? " Any way, 
 however, it is a pleasant thing to find our old friends im- 
 proved by keeping ; and looking better in their winding- 
 sheets than ever they did in silks or satins. 
 
 As I had a fine autumn day before me, I made across the 
 country by Berkhampstead and Boxmoor to Church End, 
 and the common beyond, where I passed so many " bitter- 
 sweet," happy-miserable hours in my first school days, and 
 recognized the very spot where, on a fine May evening, 
 sprawling on the green sward, while my companions were 
 at play at a little distance, I had, at eight or nine years of 
 age, my first notion of — " Love," you will say, like a woman 
 as you are. Pooh ! my dear ; pray do not put such thoughts 
 
TO A RELATIVE IN INDIA. 49 
 
 into a child's head ; no, I was no more thinking of love than 
 you, under the blazing sun of India, are thinking of a Christ- 
 mas dinner of roast beef and plum pudding. I was thinking 
 of something very different and of much more importance ; 
 it was then that I had, if you oniist know, my first notion 
 of the " Infinite." " There," you will say, " that will do ; 
 pray do not trouble me w^ith any of the metaphysical stuff 
 of which you used to be so fond." But, begging your par- 
 don, madam, it will oiot do, for I consider the phenomenon 
 a rather striking one. " And pray, then, what were your 
 thoughts ? I imagine my deej^ly interested sister to ask. 
 "Ah ! it is imagination," you reply, " for I feel no curiosity 
 in the matter." I can hear you, my dear, at this distance, 
 right across the equator, as plain as if you were at my 
 elbow. You are not at all interested, you protest, in any 
 such philosophic gibberish. Well, then, I will be brief. As 
 I lay sprawling on my back, day-dreaming as I too often 
 used to do, and do still, I saw the stars come gleaming out 
 in the deep azure, one after another, and I said to myself, 
 " Suppose I could fly up to that bright star ;" looking at 
 one relatively nearj that is, not more than a few billions 
 of millions of miles or so from me. — " What if I could fly 
 up there ? " I thought within myself again. " Well, what 
 then ? Suppose I could get to the little faint spark beyond 
 that. Well, what then ? And then to the fainter, paler, 
 twinkling light beyond ; still, w^iat then ? Should I here 
 come to the end of the — Goodness gracious ! — end of 
 \chat f If there is anything to end the Avorld, it must be 
 still something which ends it, and therefore there cannot be 
 any end ; " and so, at all events, ended the catechism ; and 
 the notion dawned upon me that there was and must be an 
 Infinite^ and that " Space" was one of its forms. I do not 
 think I have advanced much beyond that point in my phi- 
 losophy to this day ; I fancy all we know is about as much 
 
 5 
 
50 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 as this — that there must be an Infinite — and that it is a 
 contradiction to think otherwise ; that the mind has no pos- 
 itive notion of it, otherwise the finite would not comprehend 
 the Infinite, — a contradiction too ; and lastly, that the 
 mode in which the notion is developed in iis, is by some 
 such process of successive augmentation of magnitudes as 
 that to which my boyish logic was invited on that May 
 evening. So, if you ask, as you doubtless will, for a philos- 
 ophy of the infinite — voila ! and in a form finite enough. 
 
 La pliilosophle 
 
 De I'Infini — 
 
 C'est, dans ces petits mots, tout compris.* 
 
 Have you "perpended" and "prehended" my words. 
 " Not a whit," you will say ; " I really have not time to at- 
 tend to any such nonsense ; I must go and look after the 
 Captain's curry." Well, I acknowledge that I have been 
 too brief, but I Avas obliged not to be " tedious ;'''' to wdiich 
 I can imagine you saying, as the cruel Canning once said to 
 a clerg-yman who gave the same reason for his brevity — 
 " But you ivere tedious." Now do not say that I have put 
 the saucy speech into your mouth ♦ I know beforehand that 
 you will think some such thing ; for in truth, Kate, you are 
 incorrigible. 
 
 Well, then, to leave the Infinite. I saw on the Common 
 the noble tree, a huge arm of which nearly crushed me when 
 about nine years of age, as I was listening to the glorious 
 music of its foliage, and that of its giant fellows on a stormy 
 autumn day ; — the stream in which I was nearly drowned, 
 at about the same aofe, and whence I was dracr^ed insensi- 
 ble to the bank ; - — and the pool in wdiich I broke the ice, 
 
 * For the benefit of the general reader, a translation of the foreign 
 words and phrases oceurring in these pages has been furnished at the end 
 of the volume. 
 
TO A RELATIVE IX INDIA. 51 
 
 and sank in up to my neck — a foot or two further in, and 
 there would have been an end of me, I suppose. As I re- 
 called these narrow escapes, I felt strangely moved, dear 
 Kate, by opposite emotions ; now filled with grateful love 
 to that gracious Being who, unseen, "guided me in the 
 slippery paths of youth," and " led me up to man ; " and 
 now with something like repining, as I looked back on many 
 a blotted, wasted page in my life, that the little history was 
 not cut short with the first chapter. " It had been better," 
 I muttered, " had the tree — the stream — the ice " — but 
 better feelings prevailed, and I ended with very sincerely 
 calling myself an ungrateful dog. " You know," I said to 
 myself, " that like all the rest of your grumbling race, you 
 deserve more kicks than halfpence, and yet you have re- 
 ceived more halfpence than kicks ; be thankful that you have 
 been spared so long, strive that the residue of your years 
 may be more useful than the past, and remember " the bar- 
 ren fig tree ! " And so I hope, dear Kate, that the ramble 
 did me good. 
 
 I wisli I could find a remedy for my lapses into doubt and 
 despondency. They are, I often flatter myself, physical in 
 their origin; so whispers indolence, and so whispers, per- 
 haps, good sense. But it is a consolation I am slow to ap- 
 ply, for it is rather dangerous to administer such opiate 
 cataplasms to an inert will and feeble faith. They may go 
 a great way to make a man contented not to strive against 
 vincible infirmities. By the way, our men of science — a 
 few that is, and a few philanthropists as great fools as they 
 — are providing admirable p/i?/5ic«7 explanations of all moral 
 evil. If a man put his hand into his neighbor's pocket, 
 poor soul ! it is entirely the fault of a peculiar cerebral or- 
 ganization ! So runs the cant. If he commits murder, he 
 is an unfortunate victim of a morbid condition of the ner- 
 vous system ! There is one comfort to be sure, that society 
 
52 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 will hano" him from a similar morbid condition of i7s nervous 
 system ; if the one be necessitated to murder, so will the 
 other be to hang. 
 
 Thank you for the pretty little specimens of Indian coin ; 
 the two or three sicca rupees, however, I should rather have 
 had a " lac " of. But my tastes, my dear, are not so exclu- 
 sively antiquarian or foreign as to be displeased with our 
 own coins ; and if you can conveniently send a bushel or 
 two of English sovereigns, I assure you they will range very 
 well in my cabinet with the Indian specimens. 
 
 Your promise to send your little Kate next year, fills me 
 with delight ; her education shall be well cared for. As for 
 your grave caution that I am not to spoil the little thing, I 
 shall simply say, it is pretty well from a fond mother, and 
 she too an Indian mother ! Why, my dear, I shall be only 
 too thankful if I do not find the thing already done to my 
 hands. Kiss the little pet for me. I long to hear her gab- 
 ble her Hindostanee gibberish, and sing " Ruanah Keesti." 
 My kind regards to the Captain, and tell him I hoj^e he will 
 not forget his promise to send the MS. notes of his journey 
 to the Himalayas. 
 
 Believe me, my ever dear sister. 
 
 Yours afiectionately, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 London, Sept. 4, 1839. 
 My Dear Mason, 
 
 I have just been spending a few days Avitli our old rela- 
 tion, John Wilmot. Although at the age of eighty he is as 
 cheerful as a cricket : and with a voice by the way, nearly 
 
OLD AGE SOMETIMES BEAUTIFUL. 53 
 
 as shrill. He eats heartily, sleeps soundly, is vivacious in 
 manner and expression, and has that most lovely feature of 
 age, sympathy with the young. He bears the " burden " 
 of years cheerfully, and is studiously anxious not to impose 
 a grain's weight on others, if it can be avoided. 
 
 The spectacle of extreme old age is, generally, not pleas- 
 ing, sometimes how supremely pitiable ! To see it hobbling 
 and shuffling along on its three legs (according to the flible,) 
 the third, by the way, the best of the three ; flummocking 
 down, like a sack, into its easy chair of piled cushions — ut- 
 tering the inanity which indicates that intellect is gone, but 
 exhibiting a peevishness and fretfulness, which prove that 
 passion is still alive ; who, as he sees this, with whatever 
 compassion, would wish to be so compassionated ? Who, 
 on such terms, would wish for longevity ? 
 
 But our relation is another sort of person, and makes you 
 feel that old age may be not only venerable but beautiful, 
 and the object of reverence untinctured by compassion. 
 The intellect, the emotions, the affections (the best of them,) 
 all alive, — it is the passions and appetites only that are 
 dead ; and who that is wise and has felt the plague of them, 
 does not, with the aged Cephalus, in Plato's " Republic," 
 account a serene freedom from their clamorous importuni- 
 ties, a compensation for the loss of then* tumultuous plea- 
 sures ? In John Wilmot humanity is not a mere ruin ; its 
 grossness is refined and purged away, but that is all. He 
 looks like some ancient edifice, only the more beautiful for 
 the traces of antiquity. There is to me an indescribable 
 charm in the contrast between his gray locks falling down 
 his shoulders, and his still ruddy cheeks and sparkling eye. 
 His whole face is a commentary on the conservative power 
 of Virtue. How each placid and unfurrowed feature tells 
 of moderate passions, temperance, and habitual self-control, 
 benevolence, and, in a word, all healthful emotions ! The 
 
 5* 
 
54: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 change from youth, indeecT, is perceptible enough, but it is 
 all legitimate — the soft chisellings of Time alone ; none of 
 the rents, scars, and deep furrows which turbulent passions 
 leave behind them. Such features are eloquent of goodness 
 and its rewards. 
 
 I cannot look on him without feeling the exceeding beau- 
 ty of the expression of Solomon about "the hoary head 
 found in the way of righteousness, being a crown of glory." 
 
 You do not expect, perhaps, and hardly wish to be as old 
 as he ; but if you are, may such be your age ! Your death 
 can hardly fail to prove, as I doubt not his will — " Eu- 
 thanasia." 
 
 I was amused with the pertinacity with which he refuses 
 all offers to do for hmi anything he can possibly do for him- 
 self. He cannot bear to give trouble or seem an incumbrance. 
 It may seem to some, an indication of a desire not to appear 
 old. Yet this is not the case, for he talks freely of his be- 
 ing the old man ; and never attempts anything he cannot 
 do. It is a natural dislike to be a child — a baby — again. 
 If you seek to assist him on such occasions, when he thinks 
 he wants it not, there is, I noticed, a little impatience — the 
 only times in which he ever shows it. And on such occa- 
 sions he will have his own way. Your only plan is to busy 
 yourself with something else, and seem not to notice him. 
 He will then fumble for five minutes to2:ether to tie a shoe- 
 string or button his great coat, but do it he will. To assist 
 him is like assisting a stammerer ; Avho, you may observe, 
 will never take your anticipations of the word he tries at 
 but cannot pronounce, or any other you may suggest to 
 him ; but will persist in hammering away at the refractory 
 vocable, till he has mastered it, — at least, if you have pa- 
 tience to wait for him, — if it takes him fortnight. 
 
 My visit has prompted me to read again Cicero's " De 
 Senectute,'.' which I had hardly looked into since I was at 
 
AN AMATEUR rHYSICIAN. 55 
 
 school. How beautiful many parts of it appear now, to 
 what they did then ! How very suj)erior to the greater 
 part of his philosophical writings ! The tedious Tusculan 
 Disputations are not to be compared with it, or with the 
 " De Amicitia. 
 
 Yours, &c., 
 
 R. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 London, Dec. 27, 1839. 
 My Dear Friexd, 
 
 I write to introduce to you my benevolent and intelli- 
 gent friend Dr. S. R , a doctor of physic, but who has 
 
 retired from i3ractice, except as an amateur, if I may be al- 
 lowed so odd an expression. Yet is it very proi:>er ; like 
 Johnson's soap-boiler, who, wearied of the tedium of his 
 suburban " box," and drove into London to give his gratui- 
 tous aid to his successor on " boiling days," Dr. R. has plea- 
 sure in now and then giving his advice to a patient, — advice 
 not the less welcome that it is without a fee. I will not 
 say indeed, for I do not believe, that the benevolent hope 
 of doing some good has no j^art, or even a little, in this 
 promptness to resume his quondam profession. But I am 
 confident that, even without any such stimulus, the effect 
 of long habit, and the gratification of the professional taste^ 
 would impel him to give his advice to any patient that 
 asked it ; though pretty sure that he could do no good. 
 He will gloat on a " beautiful case," and detail its symp- 
 toms with rapture. ^NTow a "beautiful case," in the 
 language of science, is a " case " that illustrates, in the 
 most striking manner, some doctor's theory or some scien- 
 
56 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 tific princii:)le, quite irrespective of the amount of suffering 
 involved, or the disastrous issue. The "beauty" of the 
 case is quite independent of any such accidents, and is not 
 at all impaired by them. 
 
 A case may be much more " beautiful " which has been 
 attended Avith the uttermost amount of anguish, and has 
 terminated fitally, — jH'ovided it illustrates, with more than 
 usual clearness, some pathological jDrinciple, and lias al- 
 lowed the physician, all the way through, to see how Nature 
 has been doing her tragical Avork — than a humdrum case, 
 in which the j^atient has been merely restored to health ; 
 probably by some obscure j^rocess of ignorant Dame Na- 
 ture, which illustrates no " principle," and which that 
 " empirical " lady has carried through without j)aying any 
 attention to the physician's science at all. 
 
 Dr. R gets quite eloquent and enthusiastic on a 
 
 " beautiful case," as he calls it. " But, Doctor," you say, 
 the " patient died ? " " Oh ! of course ; but what has that 
 to do with it ? " says the Doctor. 
 
 I sometimes tell him in jest that he would prefer seeing 
 a patient die, provided he distinctly knew lioio^ than see 
 him recover, and be unable to see the reason of it. He 
 now and then reminds me of another enthusiast in the 
 same profession, who, having j^rescribed an emetic to a pa- 
 tient in bad, but not aj^parently desj)erate circumstances, 
 called the next day and found him dead. The curious 
 doctor solemnly asked if the emetic had oi^erated, just as 
 if it was at all to the i3urpose. He was told it had ; 
 he begged to see the contents of the stomach, if possible ; 
 he Avas gratified ; he pronounced them very abominable, in 
 very learned terms. " Well," said he, " dead or alive, it is 
 a good thing tliat is off his stomach, any Avay." 
 
 But you Avill find my friend full both of useful and en- 
 tertaining knowledge ; and if you Avant advice for any of 
 
SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 57 
 
 your patients, do not hesitate to avail yourself of his obso- 
 lete diploma. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 TO THE EEV. CHARLES ELLIS, B. D. 
 
 London, Dec. 11, 1839. 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 In the last statement of your letter I most entirely agree. 
 Foolish attempts to get over any of the difficulties of that 
 great mystery — the " Origin and Permission of Evil " — 
 by insufficient solutions, are irritating to skepticism, rather 
 than sedative. For example, look at that hypothesis, (not 
 even plausible if Ave go at all below the surface,) which 
 Deists often resort to by way of accounting for the stupen- 
 dous pJiy steal evils of the universe, the " Sad Accident " 
 column of the world's daily journal; — namely, the sup- 
 posed inevitable effi^ct of the establishment of " general 
 laws." It really throws no light whatever on the mystery. 
 " If ' general laws ' be established," say our wise j^hiloso- 
 phers, " it would be unreasonable to demand their suspen- 
 sion in order to avoid occasional aeeidents ; if the 4aw of 
 gravitation ' be in force, a man falling down a precij^ice will 
 break his leg or his neck." To be sure, if he does fall 
 down a precipice ; no one wants him to be suspended, like 
 Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth. Certainly 
 that were as unreasonable as the suspension of the " lav:>r 
 But is the suspension either of the man or the law the only 
 alternative? Miglit not the more "general" laws be so 
 combined with the secondary laws which, as we see in fact, 
 
58 THE GREYSON LETTERS. * 
 
 modify their effects, that they should never be otherwise 
 than beneficial ? ISTay, are they not already so combined 
 as to secure this end in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases 
 out of every thousand ? and will any one pretend that not 
 even Infinite Power and Wisdom could have j)revented 
 the solitary thousandth case of accident also ? Is not the 
 muscular system of animals, for example, so perfect that 
 ten thousand people shall pass by a precijDitous road on a 
 mountain side, and not even one of them fall, though if he 
 does fall, he will doubtless be dashed to atoms ? Are not 
 horses, and dogs, and asses, men, women, and children, 
 wriggling in and out all day through the streets of London, 
 and not half a dozen " accidents " in the four and twenty 
 hours? Are not tens of thousands of fires blazing, and 
 billions of sparks flying about there from morning to night, 
 and yet is not a conflagration a comj^arative rarity? 
 \Yould it be impossible for Omnii^otence, had it so pleased, 
 to combine the general laws and the secondary laws in 
 such a way that tliis infinitesimal residue of exceptional 
 mischief should otot occur, without any suspension or re- 
 moval of the more general laws, — seeing that it would 
 only be doing in every case what is already done in the im- 
 mense majority of cases? One would imagine, to hear 
 some of these philosophers talk, that the said " general 
 laws " can i:>rove their existence and vindicate their dignity 
 only by jiunishing an occasional violation of them or pro- 
 ducing a certain small amount of misery ; as if the law of 
 gravitation could not be sufiiciently valued for its innumer- 
 able beneficial and beautiful results unless the equally 
 admirable and beautiful laws of muscular action failed now 
 and then (though very rarely) to adapt themselve to it, 
 and to counteract the evil consequences thereof; as though 
 it could not be adequately estimated unless it now and 
 
SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 59 
 
 then broke a leg or a neck, or sent a sensitive creature fly- 
 ing though the air ! 
 
 No ; say that the stupendous and varied miseries of our 
 Avorld — stupendous, I mean absolutely considered, but re- 
 ally not so if viewed in comparison with the good — have 
 been allowed to enter it for reasons which we cannot com- 
 l)rehend, but which are especially connected with man's 
 moral condition and education, (and hardly anybody that 
 is not an idiot will refuse to acknowledge, in tlie conscious- 
 ness of his ignorance, that it may be so,) and then Faith, 
 finding that Reason affirms its own valid grounds for be- 
 lieving in the dominion of an Intelligent and Benevolent 
 Ruler quite independent of all such difficulties, is able to 
 confront, though it cannot vanquish them. But it irritates 
 reason and faith too, (at least it does mine,) to be treated 
 with solutions that are worse than none. 
 
 I am the more surprised when I find, as I occasionally 
 do, some Christians using the above argument of "general 
 laws," as an answer to the difficulties in question, since they 
 at least professedly believe in the possibility of a world in 
 which, though there will doubtless be " general laws," those 
 laws will as certainly be combined with such mental, moral, 
 and physical conditions (whatever these last may be) of 
 the inhabitants, that, as the ages of eternity roll round, 
 there will be no " sad accidents " to mar the universal fe- 
 licity. Men ought to conclude, on such principles as those 
 just commented on, that Omnipotence cannot j^repare sucli 
 a place, consequently there will be none ; that heaven itself 
 Avill now and then exhibit a sera]:*!! who has lost his voice, 
 or been lamed in the wing; or a young angel who has 
 strayed into infinite space, and is lost to his disconsolate 
 celestial kinsfolk, or broken his legs or his nose by stumb- 
 ling on the treacherous smoothness of the jasper pavement ! 
 
 Akin to such shallow and inadequate hypotheses as that 
 
60 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 of which I liave been speaking, is anotlier often insisted on 
 by the Deist and the Christian, by way of illustrating the 
 Benevolence of the Deity ! " How bountifully/' say they, 
 " is prey provided for the various species of animals ! 
 How exactly fitted is the entire organization of the lion 
 or the shark for seizing, and killing, and devouiing his 
 food ! How perfectly good is his appetite, and with what 
 gout he swallows his dinner ! How is all about the sweet 
 beast subservient to his happiness!" Yes; but what, in 
 the meantime, is to be said for the Prey f Is that de- 
 voured with as much relish as the other devours it ? 
 Hudibras says — 
 
 • " Surely the pleasure is as great 
 In being cheated as to cheat " — 
 
 but I think he would hardly have said — 
 
 Surely the pleasure is as sweet 
 In being eaten as to eat I 
 
 I doubt not that the thing is all right, but I cannot accept 
 reasoning Avhich thus refutes itself. 
 
 I have even known Deists, and good Christian men, too, 
 go further. 
 
 Even in print., I have seen it stated, by way of diminish- 
 ing the impression of general suffering, that as we know 
 that the chase is a great delight of the beast who takes his 
 prey, so we know not what delight there may be in being 
 hunted down (and truly I think we do not know !) — We 
 are told there may be a delicious excitement in the stag or 
 the hare in the attempts to baffle his i^ursuers ! If so, 
 surely he has the oddest ways of showing it. I shall next 
 expect to hear a sentimental angler exj^atiate on the dear 
 delight the little fishes perchance feel in getting hooked ! 
 " Handle him," says old Isaac Walton, in giving directions 
 
SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 61 
 
 for impaling a frog or worm on the hook, " handle him ten- 
 derly, as though you loved him." " Nay," such a philo- 
 sophic angler Avould reply, " I do love him and am proving 
 it ; he likes to be thus transfixed. His wriggle is but a 
 wriggle of delight." 
 
 No ; I agree mth you that such arguments as these only 
 irritate the mind that listens to them, as all inconclusive 
 arguments are apt to do ; it is but special pleading for God, 
 who, rely on it, does not need any such refinements, if, as 
 Leibnitz says, we but knew all. " Shall we argue wickedly 
 for God, and speak deceitfully for him ? " 
 
 We do not know all, or rather we know next to nothing, 
 and hence the difiiculty ; but we know enough, if we at- 
 tend to it, not to allow ourselves to be baffled by what we do 
 not know. From an immensity of proof, we may understand 
 that intelligence and wisdom, and for the most part good- 
 ness, are j^rodigally disj^layed over the whole of creation, 
 and we may find the last confirmed still further by (what I 
 must confess Z need) Revelation; and here we may rest, 
 leavinof insoluble difficulties unsolved. As for those con- 
 nected with the " Origin of Evil," having studied them 
 enough to know that you cannot master them, leave them 
 alone. As Lord Bacon says, though applying the words to 
 another subject, "Give to Reason the things of Reason, 
 and to Faith the things of Faith." 
 
 If you will continue to revolve this mournful mystery, 
 and to jield to its horrible fascination, you will darken and 
 distress your mind. Experto crecle. And ever remember 
 this, that, however sublime and momentous the theme 
 of our meditations, if it really be beyond us, it is just as 
 much a waste of our energies and our time to meddle with 
 it, as to busy ourselves with the veriest trifle in existence. 
 If you look ever so fixedly into utter darkness, it is but a 
 waste of eyes, and you might as well keep them shut. I 
 
 6 
 
62 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 would remind you of what some plain j^reacher once said : 
 " Infinite," said he, "have been the disputes as to the origin 
 of evil ; but the real question of importance is, not how 
 we got i7ito it, but how we are to get out of it." 
 
 Should we not be surj^rised at a man who, having tum- 
 bled into a ditch, instead of scrambling out as fast as pos- 
 sible, lay still in the mud, resolving in himself the question, 
 
 — "I wonder how I got here ? " About as wise are many 
 
 — be not you of the number — who have sj^ent no incon- 
 siderable portion of their time and energies in resolving 
 the question of the origin of " evil," without a thought 
 of how they may evade its consequences. 
 
 Ever yours^ 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 TO C. MASOX, ESQ. 
 
 London, Thursday night, Jan. 9, 1840. 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 I have nothing in the world to say to you. I write 
 simply because to-morrow is the day on which one may 
 send one's thoughts five hundred miles for a penny ; so 
 that the old saying of " a penny for your thoughts " is 
 likely to be more frequently on our lips than exQw 
 
 This letter is just to say "How d'ye clo?" and "I am 
 well." If you can say "So am I," by way of reply, I shall 
 consider it a cheap pennyworth. 
 
 This Postal revolution is, indeed, glorious, and well worth 
 any fifteen "political" ones. Nor have I the slightest fear 
 of the revenue ultimately suiFering. In twenty years (my 
 life for it !) the postal gains will be greater than ever. 
 
 But will not cheap postage lead, think you, to a revolu- 
 
THE PENNY POSTAGE. 63 
 
 tion in our epistolary style ? Shall we not become Spar- 
 tans, and laconise f Crossed letters, I imagine, are now 
 things of the past, and will henceforth exist only as curios- 
 ities in museums. When one had to tax a friend ninepence 
 or a shilling for a letter, it seemed but decency to let him 
 have something for his money, in quantity at least, what- 
 ever the quality. But now that the whole cost is one 
 penny sterling, and that, too, paid by the writer, there will 
 be a strong tendency to save time and trouble ; and so let- 
 ters will dwindle — except love-letters, perhaps, which al- 
 ways were, and always will be, I suppose, equally volumin- 
 ous and incomprehensible — to the Lilliputian dimensions 
 of the iDostage. 
 
 Pleasant — will it not be ? — should the revolution lead 
 to the imiversal adoption of the cm't commercial style. 
 As thus — 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Received yours of 10th ult., and note contents. Pleased 
 to find that expressions of condolence on your wife's death 
 approved ; would have enclosed some samples of " senti- 
 ment," but that is a mere drug since the penny postage. 
 
 Health here very indifierent ; deaths on the rise ; drugs 
 firm ; doctors and undertakers looking up ; j^alls and j)lumes 
 at a premium. 
 
 But " matrimonial " also active, and produce market tol- 
 erably brisk and lively. Mr. T. just presented with twins. 
 Of " fat " infants, however, and of j)rime quality, a scanty 
 supply at the present sickly season. Measles and scarlatina 
 
 filTQ. 
 
 In the last fortnight a glut of rain ; clouds dull and 
 heavy, and go sloAvly ofl*; no sunshine at any price. Ther- 
 mometer operating for the rise ; barometer for the fall. 
 
 " Politics," a shade easier. During th6 recent election. 
 
64 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 bribes clown as low as five pounds ; plumpers, 23 1 to 25 ; 
 split votes at the usual quotations. 
 
 Yours to command, 
 
 Y. Z. 
 
 Such may j^erhaps be the classic hierogljq^hic in which 
 our wise sons may communicate with their friends, to the 
 great saving, surely, of pens, ink, paper, j)ence, time, 
 thought, feeling, heart, and brains ! 
 Ever believe me, 
 
 My dear friend. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XIV. * 
 
 TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 London, March 10, 1840. 
 My Dear West, 
 
 I went to the office of Messrs. D , and saw the 
 
 younger about your business. What a funny little man he 
 is, — like a pea on a drum ! — I got from him the memo- 
 randum you want, which I inclose ; but I got it with ten 
 times the trouble I need have had. He is what they call a 
 bustling man ; — and a most amusing variety of the species 
 — if you do not happen to be in a huiTy. 
 
 But stay ; I think if Bishop Earle had hai^joened to in- 
 clude it in his quaint sketches, entitled " Microcosmogra- 
 phy," he would have proceeded somewhat as follows : — 
 
 A " bustling " man is, to a man of businessj what a mon- 
 key is to a man. He is the shadoAV of despatch, or rather 
 the echo thereof; for he maketh noise enough for an 
 alarum. The quickness of a true man of business he imi- 
 tateth excellently well : but neither his silence nor his 
 
A BUSTLING MAN. 65 
 
 method, and it is to be noted that he is ever most vehe- 
 ment about matters of no significance. He is always in 
 such headlong haste to overtake the next minute, that he 
 loseth half the minute in hand, and yet is full of indigna- 
 tion and impatience at other people's slowness, and wasteth 
 more time in reiterating his love of despatch than would 
 suffice for doing a great deal of business. He never giveth 
 you his quiet attention with a mind centred on what you 
 are saying, but hears you with a restless eye and a perj^et- 
 ual shifting of posture ; and is so eager to show his quick- 
 ness, that he interrupteth you a dozen times, misunder- 
 stands you as often, and ends by making you and himself 
 lose twice as much time as was necessary. 
 
 He cannot keep his tongue quiet any more than his 
 hands or his feet, which are in perpetual motion ; and you 
 cease to w^onder that he does not concentrate his mind on 
 his business, since it is more than half employed in man- 
 aging the motions and postures of his body. It is to 
 be noted that he always performs the formalities and 
 routine of business (for which only he is fit) with much 
 energy; yet even these things he never does well. He 
 writeth the merest note with an air ; useth the blotting- 
 paper with a thump as if he would crush it ; foldeth it 
 with a flourish; sealeth it with such eagerness that he 
 burnetii his fingers, upsetteth the taper, and, in short, mak- 
 eth noise and wind enough for twenty times the business. 
 In his hurry he is continually mislaying what he wants, and 
 then causeth worse confusion by turning out the whole 
 contents of a drawer or a desk in finding it. If he comes 
 to see you on business, he rusheth into tlie room, throweth 
 down his hat and gloves, as if he had not time to place 
 them anywhere, and, taking out his watch, expresseth his 
 regret that he can give you only two minutes, while you 
 think the two minutes too long. After he is gone, with a 
 
 6* 
 
66 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 slam of the door that goes through you, he steppeth back 
 three tunes to mention some thmgs he liad forgotten. If 
 you go to see liim on business, he placeth you a chair 
 with ostentatious haste, begs you will excuse him while he 
 despatcheth two or three messengers on most urgent busi- 
 ness, calls each of them back once or twice to give fresh 
 instalments of his defective instructions ; and, having at 
 last dismissed them, regretteth, as usual, that he hath only 
 five minutes to spare, whereof he spendeth half in telliug 
 you the distracting number and importance of his engage- 
 ments. If he be to consult a ledger, the book is thrown 
 on the desk with a thump as if he wished to break its back, 
 and the leaves rustle to and fro like a wood in a storm. 
 Meantime he overlooketh, Avhile he gabbles on, the very 
 entries he wants to find, and sj^endeth twice the time he 
 would if he had joroceeded more leisurely. In a word, 
 everything is done with a bounce, and a thump, and an air, 
 and a flourish, and sharp and eager motions, and j^erpetual 
 volubility of tongue. His image is that of a blind beetle 
 in the twilight, which with incessant hum, and drone, and 
 buzz, fiieth blundering into the face of every one it chanc- 
 eth to meet. Your true man of business — with silent des- 
 patch, quickness without hurry, and method without noise 
 — will do as much in an hour as a man of " bustle " will 
 do in the twenty-four, and every bit of it twenty-four times 
 as well. 
 
 Such is a sketch of the peculiar species of the genus 
 " bustling man " whom your letter sent me to consult for 
 you. Consider, I beseech you, the trouble I have taken 
 on your behalf, and either allow me a liberal commission 
 as your agent — Avhich I am sure I well deserve — or re- 
 pay me by a long letter. Recollect I have not heard from 
 you, except the three shabby selfish lines which imposed 
 this task upon me, for these three months. 
 
LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 67 
 
 Pray make my apologies to yom* neighbors (who, I pre- 
 sume, have long since retm-necl from their " honeymoon," 
 and possibly have had time enough by this for two or three 
 little "family jangles "), for not having acknowledged their 
 wedding-cards. The fact is, I get more weary of all such 
 formalities, more and more negligent about them, and in- 
 creasingly grudge the time, postage, and patience expended 
 on them. Well, thank Heaven, in heaven they " neither 
 marry or are given in marriage ; " and so, I suppose, we 
 shall get rid of the nuisance of " wedding-cards " at any 
 rate. As they also " die no more," we shall be free from 
 the yet more odious ceremonial and formalities of funerals. 
 In that world there will be no lawyers, for there will be no 
 wi*ongs to be redressed, and no rights that need to be con- 
 tested ; no physicians, for there will be no diseases to be 
 cured, or aggravated ; no clergy, for all shall be Avell-taught 
 and well-behaved ; and not least, there will be no under- 
 takers ! Happy world, even if known only by negatives ! 
 
 Ever yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTEK XV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 TOTTERIDGE, Herts, May 22, 1840. 
 
 My DEAR West, 
 
 Your friend's wild hysteric laugh of anguish at the immi- 
 nent peril which one so dear to him was threatened, and his 
 burst of joyful tears when it passed away, were both very 
 natural ; and yet how paradoxical ! 
 
 Your description put me on an old si^eculation in which 
 I have sometimes indulged ; — whether if the appropriate 
 
68 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 symbols of joy and grief, pleasure and pain, and so of our 
 other emotions, were all at once to change places ; if, for 
 example, the loss of a dear friend were announced by a 
 simper or a giggle, and a sudden accession of fortune by a 
 groan or a sigh, we should ever learn by habit to regard 
 these as the natural signs of emotion ; as natural as our 
 present. 
 
 You know that there are those who hold that the 
 " beautiful " is icholly factitious ; that consequently the 
 signs which express it are quite arbitrary in themselves, and 
 derive their fancied power from pleasing associations alone ; 
 that is, from associations with what the constitution of our 
 nature makes the sources of happiness to us ; that, conse- 
 quently, these signs have no specific propriety apart from 
 such associations ; that if health and youth were always 
 united with the comj^lexion of a corpse, and disease and 
 pain with ruddy cheeks and sj^arkling eyes, our associations 
 would soon change places ; Ave should grow enamoured of 
 gray hairs and wrinkles, and horrified at vivacious features 
 and blooming complexions. 
 
 One cannot deny that it may be so ; I certainly must 
 admit that association, in many cases, has great power to 
 transform the once indifferent into the beautiful or the ugly ; 
 nay, the beautiful into the ugly, and the ugly into the 
 beautiful. Still, I cannot help fancying that there are limits 
 to this power, and that there is a propriety in the very 
 symbols (even if they might be reversed without j)ermanent 
 confusion in our interpretation of them) by which the vari- 
 ous emotions are, originally, either excited or expressed; 
 a propriety arising out of the entire constitution and organ- 
 ism of our nature. I cannot help fancying that not only 
 are there limits to the magic power of association to alter 
 or reverse them, but that even Avhen it can do it, the effect 
 is never so perfect as when association acts in accordance 
 
LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 69 
 
 with certain signs, and does not counterwork them ; — that 
 is, that the symbols are natural. 
 
 If it be the case with the symbols by which the " beau- 
 tiful" in objects is presented to us, it ought to be also in 
 the symbols by which the emotion is expressed ; and, by 
 parity of reason, with the symbols of all our other emotions. 
 It is next to impossible to imagine, indeed, what w^ould be 
 the effect if the emotions were to play a masquerade, and 
 express themselves by the oj^posite symbols ; whether we 
 could ever learn (not to interpret them, — that we certainly 
 could do), but whether we could ever think them to be 
 as appropriate as those we use now. That we could learn 
 to interpret them is plain ; w^e do^ even the most arbitrary 
 signs of emotion ; — as w^hen an oriental smites his breast, 
 or rends his garments, or throws ashes on his head in deep 
 grief; and, doubtless, if it became the fashion among us, in 
 a similar case, to express our dejection by unbuttonmg one 
 of our braces, taking off our stockings, or sw^allowing a 
 dose of rhubarb, these actions would soon become full of 
 grave significance, and be thought admirably adapted to 
 alleviate calamity ! 
 
 Wbat a pity that we cannot make a few^ experiments in 
 this matter ! Yet it is plainly out of the question ; the 
 above arbitrary signs, — who could attempt to bring into 
 fashion, however admirably conceived ? Who could stand 
 the lauo^hter such ludicrous sorrow would create ? And as 
 to the inversion of the natural signs, it w^ould be still w^orse. 
 The experimental pliilosopher who should laugh at a funeral 
 or groan at a w^edding, w^ould be liable to be kicked out of 
 the company. 
 
 I confess I am sometimes staggered w^hen I see how as- 
 tonishingly easy it often is to acco^nmodate the signs of 
 emotion to the most opposite sources, and how nearly similar 
 in many cases is the language of joy and sorrow, of plea- 
 
70 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 sure and pain, of hope and fear, and how frequent and rapid 
 the interchange of smiles and tears. There are tears of joy, 
 and smiles of sorrow, as well as tears of sorrow and smiles 
 of joy ; — nay, they often both dwell at the same moment 
 on the same face, and so blend in their appropriate, as well 
 as their interchanged, expressions, that it is impossible to 
 tell which is which, under the infinitely subtle combinations 
 of emotion to which the mysterious heart of man is subject. 
 How often, in such moods, do we see gleaming radiance, 
 and passing shadows, and glittering tears, all cliasing each 
 other, and melting into one another, — meeting and breaking, 
 like the shifting sunshine and showers, the shadowy clouds 
 and falling spangles of an April day ! Similarly, to a stranger, 
 it is liard always to distinguish a blush of modesty from a 
 blush of shame ; to say whether paleness be the effect of 
 extreme fear or extreme rage ; whether a sigh, w^hich is 
 equally the utterance of pleasure and pain, and often par- 
 takes of both, come from the '' fountain of sweet water," 
 or " bitter ; " whether a smile be a smile of melancholy or 
 a smile of complacency, or a smile of that j^leasing sadness 
 which is allied to both. Ujwn my word, as I think of these 
 things I am half inclined to fancy that though the book of 
 emotional expression be doubtless a very significant volume, 
 it would be almost as intelligible if read upside down ! 
 
 I was sitting at my solitary breakfast yesterday, when the 
 servant came in with her arm bound uj) ; and, on asking 
 her what was the matter, she told me with a giggle, that 
 she had cut her wrist nearly to the bone, by the slii:»ping of 
 a sharp knife. She ended her account ^Wth something like 
 a laugh, — which at first appeared rather unseemly ; but on 
 reflection, " Poor girl," said I, " the accident has made 
 her hysterical this morning," I told her that she should 
 have every care taken of her, and that her sister should 
 stay with her till she was well. Her face immediately 
 
LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 71 
 
 clouded over, and she began to whimper her thanks. This 
 seemed strange too ; " but," thought I, " the girl has a 
 grateful heart, I see, and she cannot bear much this morn- 
 ing." Yet one could hardly help thinking that her giggle 
 and her whimper might just as well have changed places. 
 
 A good woman, of whom I sometimes buy eggs, and 
 with whom I sometimes have a gossip, came in shortly after, 
 and told me, with a frequent application of her apron to 
 her eyes, that she had just had a loving letter from her son, 
 whom she had given over as one of the crew of the bark 
 " Fair Susan," recently wrecked on the coast of North- 
 umberland. He had, however, been unexpectedly taken 
 up ; and she told me (fairly blubbering now) that she was 
 daily expecting to be blessed with a sight of him. " What 
 a strange thing is a mother's heart ! " said I to myself. " A 
 looker-on might imagine that she Avas greatly disappointed 
 at finding her ' Enfant Perdu ' turning up again. 
 
 On going, further on in the day, to visit a cottage of a 
 peasant in distress, I found things in so much worse case 
 than I had anticipated, — the husband, a great hulking fel- 
 low, out of work, the wife sick, two out of three children 
 very ill with the measles, and the third lying dead, — that 
 I was surprised into a much larger gratuity than I had 
 thought of giving, and promised to send doctor and nurse 
 into the bargain. The poor fellow, who had gazed at all 
 this misery with the stolid eye of desperation, no sooner 
 received the money I put into his hand, than he burst into 
 a passion of tears ! How very odd ! yet in the whole 
 " signal-book " of Nature was there any more natural way 
 of expressing his joy ? 
 
 Still I had my doubts about the feasibility of the meta- 
 physical theory I above referred to, and they were con- 
 firmed by a dream of last night. Hear it, and confess how 
 much better philosophers we are in our sleeping than in our 
 
72 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 walking moments ; tliough, by the way, dreams — sleeping 
 or waking — have always been an unfailing resource with 
 philosophers ; I do not know what they would do without 
 them. 
 
 In my dream, I did actually, somehow, get into a world 
 where all the signs of emotion wo see hero were reversed ; 
 as for the effects — voila ! Methought a dear friend came 
 in to inform me that his daughter was going to be married 
 the next day ; and " very happily," as he said, with a long 
 face and the voice of an undertaker. It seemed to me so 
 ridiculous that I could not help laughing, on which he re- 
 marked that he could not think why his intelligence should 
 have caused me any chagrin ; and giggling himself, told me 
 he was very sorry foi' it, deeply cut to the heart by my be- 
 havior indeed, I immediately i)ut on a lugubrious face of 
 sympathetic joy, and accepted, with as deep a sigh as I 
 could fetch up, the invitation to be present at the wedding. 
 I went accordingly, having put on a black suit, and crape 
 round my hat, to grace the joyful occasion. 
 
 Being too late, I met the merry procession in the streets, 
 — dressed, of course, in deep mourning, looking very grave 
 and solemn, and escorted by a band of music playing a tune 
 about half as airy and quick as the " Old Hundredth," or 
 the " Dead March in Saul." In short, it looked just like a 
 funeral. When we returned home, however, the scene, 
 methought, was not so utterly unlike a merely mortal wed- 
 ding. Several were weeping indeed, and looking very dole- 
 ful ; but then is it not just so in those April scenes in the 
 waking world ? — where festivity is so curiously shadowed 
 and checkered with a sort of " bitter sweet ? " — where 
 handkerchiefs are often put up to fair eyes ; and the parting 
 bride and the disconsolate mother hardly know whether to 
 laugh or weep ? — where there is often, on the part of youn- 
 ger sisters, a burst of sorrow, which calls for that comic 
 
LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 73 
 
 consolation a friend of mine addressed to a broken-hearted 
 fair one on such an occasion, — " Not lost, but gone before !" 
 In short, they are scenes in which a stranger would doubt 
 whether congratulation or condolence was most significantly 
 expressed by those half-radiant, half-tearful faces. 
 
 But there could be no doubt about my theory, on going 
 into a church ! Here I found the whole audience awaiting 
 the commencement of the service with a light and riaoit ex- 
 pression of devout levity, and a pious simper on every flice. 
 The preacher skipped up the pulpit stairs, taking two or 
 three steps at a time, and began the prayers with a down- 
 right giggle, which no doubt proceeded from the dejDths of 
 religious emotion. I laughed outright from a very different 
 cause, — at the oddity of the spectacle, and was doubtless 
 looked upon as a prodigy of pharisaic devotion for my well- 
 timed hilarity. But suddenly, on recollecting where I was, 
 I assumed a very grave countenance, not unmingled with 
 indignation, and was forthwith simperingly reproved for 
 my levity of manner by a scandalized old lady, who said, 
 turning pale, that she was ashamed of my want of decorum 
 in a place of worship ! In some confusion, I escaped from 
 the church ; and was no sooner in the street than I encoun- 
 tered a funeral procession, of which the model seemed to be 
 taken from " David dancing before the Ark ! " The people 
 who carried the coffin came along at a minuet pace, which 
 I thought every moment would have brought the poor 
 swaying corpse to the ground. A band played a lively an- 
 them, which sounded about as funereal as "Begone dull 
 care," or " Life let us cherish." The chief mourners giggled 
 and laughed till tears really dropped down their cheeks 
 (though I had difficulty in imagining them tears of sorrow), 
 and jumped and capered in this new " Dance of Death " like 
 mad. Perhaps you will think that the symbols of emotion 
 might be quite as sincere, and hardly more inverted than 
 
 7 
 
74 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 
 
 those with which decorous hypocrites too often carry a dead 
 friend to his last resting place in this waking world ; that is, 
 with a joyous heart and a mourning countenance; and cer- 
 tainly the farce in my dream would often come easier to our 
 mutes and undertakers than the doleful comic masque in 
 which they now perforin. 
 
 However, the incongruity of the spectacle seemed so 
 laughable that I awoke, and felt that, however association 
 may modify and transform our conceptions of the beautiful, 
 or make the language of the emotions transpose its symbols, 
 there are limits to its power which neither time nor custom 
 can transcend; and that though the constitution of human 
 nature is very amenable to habit, habit can as little recon- 
 cile us to an absolute houleverseinent of certain aboriginal 
 principles of our mental constitution, as it can reconcile 
 " eels " to the process of " skinning," which, according to 
 the benevolent suggestion of the cook, is " nothing when 
 they are used to it." 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 P. S. — I am living here in pleasant lodgings, and shall 
 do so for two or three weeks. I have little to do but to 
 scribble to my old friends, and you, as one of the oldest, are 
 mdulged with a letter proportionably long. 
 
TO A VOLATILE YOUTH. 75 
 
 LETTER XVI, 
 
 TO M . 
 
 ToTTERiDGE, May 29, 1810. 
 
 My dear M , 
 
 Your letter found me here, where I am staying for two 
 or three weeks. I do not like your proposed new plan at 
 all : better to 
 
 . . . . " bear those Ills we have 
 
 Than fly to others that we know not of" 
 
 If you do not take heed, you will be lost to any useful 
 purposes in life ; for the time is fast passing in which you 
 will have either the power or the will to fix yourself to the 
 steady pursuit of any profession. Your habit of volatile 
 change will strengthen by every indulgence, till you will 
 have energy for nothing ; and even if repentance comes, and 
 perseverance as its fruit, it will come too late for successful 
 efibrt. At four and twenty, and after so many changes of 
 plan, your friends begin to look on your case with just 
 anxiety. 
 
 The simple fact is, you are under the dominion of your 
 fancy. It alternately plays the tricks of the microscope and 
 the telescope with you, according as the objects are near or 
 remote. To the present it applies itself as a microscope ; 
 and everything that is disagreeable there is magnified a 
 thousandfold ; to the distant future it applies itself as a tel- 
 escope ; and all the beautiful features of the smiling land- 
 scape, — even the seeming peacefiil 3moke of the distant 
 city does not ofiend you, — are brought mto view, without 
 any of the annoyances, the noise, the turmoil, the ill odors, 
 which, when you get into them, you will experience, — just 
 as you Jiave found in scenes you have already tried. All is 
 
76 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 " silent as a jiicture," and as softened too. Cure yourself, 
 I beseech you, of this boyish folly. 
 
 As to your new project — what earthly reason have you 
 to think you will like it better, or prosecute it with more 
 success, than the old. Remember, you at first attached 
 yourself to these with the same enthusiastic expectations. 
 In addition to your predominant tendency to day-dreaming, 
 you are, let me tell you, too impatient for success. It will 
 not come without toil and perseverance, — let your choice 
 of your profession be what it may. In the present case 
 your entire hopes are built on inexperience ; you are confi- 
 dent because you do not know the difiiculties and irksome- 
 ness of what you fancy you will like so well. Let me teU 
 you a story : the application I will leave to you. 
 
 My sister, Mrs. Evans, once told me of a gallant young 
 fellow, a lieutenant in India, who, in walking into Cal- 
 cutta one evening, was vehemently appealed to by two 
 ladies riding in a carriage. From certain spiral windings 
 of their horses to the right and the left of the road, they 
 suspected, either that the horses were drunk, or that their 
 coachman was ; so, thinking the last the more likely suppo- 
 sition of the two, they with difiiculty got him to stop, and 
 appealed to our pedestrian in uniform as to whether he could 
 undertake to drive them into Calcutta. ISTow ray young 
 soldier knew no more of driving than he did of astrology ; 
 but he was as gallant as he was gallant^ and no more 
 thought of disobeying a lady (even though he should break 
 her neck by compliance) than he would of disobeying his 
 commanding officer, and would face any " breach," except 
 a breach of politeness. So, mounting the box, he took the 
 reins from the suspected coachman, and drove off with an 
 air ; but before he had gone five hundred yards, this Phae- 
 ton overset tJieir phaeton, and laid the ladies, the coachman, 
 and himself, at the bottom of a muddy ditch. 
 
"MYSTERIES" OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 77 
 
 I fear a similar mishap for you, only I doubt whether 
 your bed may be quite so soft. Be no longer the dupe of 
 that faculty, which, in most of us, ought to have a strait- 
 waistcoat on between sixteen and twenty-one, but generally 
 begins to be a little more sober after that period : I mean 
 the imagination. It is the most prodigious fortune-teller^ 
 hut the worst prophet^ in the world. 
 
 You ought now, at four and twenty, to have learned to 
 distrust its promises ; to tone down its bright-colored vis- 
 ions ; not to believe that every mirage in the desert is a de- 
 licious lake, — or every " apple of Sodom " the genuine 
 fruit of Paradise, till it turn to ashes in your mouth. Re- 
 turn to your discarded profession, pursue it energetically, 
 and you will yet do well. You have talent — opportunities 
 — friends, — everything but steadfastness of soul. Get 
 this, and you are made ; without it, you are lost. I wish 
 you well for your father's sake, but no less for your own ; 
 so forgive these words of honest freedom. N^ay, rather 
 thank me, and praise me, for not keeping a treacherous 
 silence. Your conscience must tell you that I can have no 
 other motive for writing than the hope of doing you good. 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XYII. 
 
 TO THE EEV. C. ELLIS, B. D. 
 
 pENTOxriLLE, Nov. 1840. 
 
 My Dear Friexd, 
 
 I do not half like your falling into that little bit of " cant " 
 
 about that good man T. D . " His troubles," you say, 
 
 " are an unaccountable mystery of Providence." There is 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE GR]'.YSON LETTERS. 
 
 nothing more unreasonable tlian the talk of what are often 
 called " mysteries of Providence," if by that be meai^t, that 
 they leave us in any doubt whatever as to the equity and 
 justice of the Divine Government. The sufferings and ca- 
 lamities which are often allowed to gather round excellent 
 persons, are, in truth (as I will show you in five words,) no 
 mysteries at all ; certainly not half so much so as the pros- 
 perity of flaunting and triumphant wickedness. That there 
 are great mysteries connected with the divine Government 
 I admit ; so great, that no tool of reason, however fine its 
 edge or hard its temper, can touch the adamant. Our only 
 way of dealing with the objections thence derived, is by 
 showing that there is yet stronger evidence for the existence 
 of a sui^remely wise and intelUgent Ruler of the universe, 
 than for admitting the conclusion to which such invincible 
 objections would lead us, — that there is no such Kuler at 
 all. These difticulties can only be met obliquely, and by an 
 ad ahsurdicm argumentation. Such are the " origin of 
 evil," and some of its consequences ; such the sufierings and 
 death of the brute creation, and of innocent infancy. These 
 problems, baffled reason in vain strives to solve, except in 
 the way just mentioned ; and for any direct solution, remits 
 us to the logic of faith and hope — not of syllogism or in- 
 duction. 
 
 But what are ordinarily called " mysteries of Providence," 
 and about "which irreligious men, and sometimes religious 
 men too, make such a hubbub, are none at all to me ; nor, 
 I fancy, to you, (if you reflect,) in spite of that little bit of 
 current " cant " for which I have ventured to rebuke you ; 
 nay, I will dare to say, they can be no objection to any 
 Theist in the world ; to none who profess to believe in a 
 Divine Government of the universe at all. As to Atheists, 
 they need not surely wonder at anything ; nor, of course, 
 can they blame anybody for anything that may befall them. 
 
" MYSTERIES " OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 79 
 
 They might, on their theory, as well " bay the moon," or 
 chide the winds for howUng, as profess to find anything un- 
 accountable in blind chance or a blind necessity ; for of 
 what, on any such hy[30thesis, can there be any account ? 
 To them all must be "mystery;" and perhaps the greatest 
 mystery of all ought to be, that the world jogs on as well 
 as it does ! But to Theists, I say such things as you men- 
 tion are no mysteries ; and if you ask for my proof, it is 
 this : that I have never met with the man, nor have you, 
 nor has any one else that I ever heard of, who would de- 
 liberately lay his hand on his heart and say, " The dispen- 
 sations of God have been such to me, that not only I 
 cannot see the goodness and mercy of them all, — which 
 may well be, — but I deny the justice of them. I do not 
 mean that I do not see the connection between this or that 
 trouble and some immediately j)receding conduct, — for 
 this may also happen to anybody, — but I dare to say that, 
 on the whole retrospect of my life, the conduct of God has 
 been wijiist to me ; that I have on the whole suffered more 
 than I deserved." I repeat, I have never knoAvn any man 
 who has been willing to say any such thing ; to affirm, " If 
 I were admitted to plead my own cause with God, I would 
 accuse him of having given me, on the entire balance of 
 my life, more evil than I have merited." Now I say that 
 unless you can find such a man, there is, practically^ an end 
 of " mysteries " in the case. That no man, with even that 
 self-partiality which is the characteristic of us all, will de- 
 liberately venture (I will except, if you like, half a dozen 
 madmen in as many centuries) to accuse God of injustice, 
 shows us that there is really no " mystery " in the matter ; 
 — for where is the mystery, if, Avhatever the sufferings and 
 calamities Avhicli befall us, each "man for himself is ready 
 to affirm, "I have received less of evil than I have de- 
 served ? " 
 
80 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 You may say, perhaps, " Yes, each man may say it for 
 himself 'i but he finds it difiicult to see it in the case of oth- 
 er s^ Exactly ; but that is tlie very source of the fallacy ; 
 it is because we judge of others by the outside^ and of our- 
 selves by the inside ; of them, by our eyes — by the very 
 little — for it is little — that each man knows of his fel- 
 lows' interior and far more important history ; and of our- 
 selves, from our consciousness. 
 
 This last alone must speak, and if it lets judgment go by 
 default, by declining the challenge I have referred to, (as 
 in each man it does,) it is sufficient to answer the objection 
 of " mystery ! " You see in the i:>resent case, it is your 
 friend Thomas ~D you are thinking of, and not your- 
 self, Avhen you exj^ress yourself thus half re2)iningly. For 
 aught I can see, you suffered just as " unaccountable things" 
 ten years ago, and I lately ; and yet you and I were not at 
 all more disj^osed, for ourselves to think our case " hard," as 
 people say, than I dare say T. D is to judge his own so. 
 
 You will say, perhaps, " But is it not rather an uncharita- 
 ble thing, Avlien we see great and strangely accumulated cal- 
 amities befalling any one, to suppose that there is some sj)e- 
 cial concealed iniquity that calls for them ? " It would be, 
 undoubtedly, most uncharitable thus to judge ; but neither is 
 it necessary. It may be, (and I doubt not often is,) some 
 concealed iniquity, of which the world susj^ected nothing, 
 (for such cases do often come to light,) which is at the bot- 
 tom of the matter ; but as the world knows nothing, the 
 world should say nothing, no, nor even surmise anything ; 
 there are plenty of other alternatives. It may be subtle 
 evils, of which man, till better taught by discipline, thinks 
 little, but which, in the estimate of God, may be of great 
 moment, that require correction ; it may be spiritual, and 
 not social or moral vices, which are thus chastised ; it may 
 be, not flagrant acts, but habits of mind and feeling and 
 
"MYSTERIES" OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 81 
 
 temper, for which a man may not be thought much worse 
 by his fellows, but which, unsubdued, may bar heaven's 
 gates against him ; it may be religious apathy, ingratitude, 
 thoughtlessness, which thus need rebuking ; the visitation 
 may be not directly punitive at all, though not inequitable 
 in relation to the man's entire conduct ; it may be designed 
 as corrective of what is still evil in him, or as a means of 
 developing nobler forms of good ; it may be for the mere 
 pruning of a too florid and unfruitful virtue, which runs 
 out into luxuriant foliage of talk and spiritual pride. But 
 still, to return to my first assertion ; as the man himself 
 does not accuse the justice of God, but avows that he be- 
 lieves His proceedings equitable, you, without forming any 
 h}^3othesis of the special reasons for them, ought to have 
 done with " mysteries." It is not uncharitable to the man 
 to suppose there is no injustice, when he declares there is 
 none ; and as it apj^ears that each of us thinks the same in 
 his own case, we are not uncharitable in thus adopting the 
 man's own estimate of himself; for it seems, we think no 
 worse of him than we do of ourselves ; and though we are 
 commanded to " love our neighbors as ourselves," I know 
 not where it is wi'itten that we are to love him better than 
 ourselves. Excuse this long " prelection," on an expression 
 which I am sure, on reflection, you will see the imj3ropriety 
 of. To judge of God's proceedings towards any body on 
 earth besides ourselves (so long as the window in each man's 
 breast remains shut), is just as wise as to criticise the sentence 
 of a judge, without knowing an}i;hing of the law or the 
 evidence, or to pronounce on the prescriptions of a physi- 
 cian without knowing either his science or the symptoms 
 of the j^atient. Each man must judge for himself; and in 
 that case, it seems each man gives a sentence for God ; and 
 till you find a man who does 7iot<i l^t us cease to talk of the 
 mysteries of Providence in such cases as those of T. D . 
 
82 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 If you say you mean nothing more than that the phenomena 
 are unaccountable to you, that is very true ; only then you 
 ought, in strictness, no more to speak about the mysteries 
 
 of Providence than the mysteries of T. D . 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 TO C. MASOX, ESQ. 
 
 Pextonville, London, Jan. 8, 1811. 
 My Dear Mason, 
 
 I am very sorry to hear that my young friend Edward 
 exhibits such a love for the class of amusements you men- 
 tion. Innocent they may be in themselves, as you say, and 
 within certain Hmits they are ; but, pursued with avidity 
 and recommended by indolence (to which they are wel- 
 come and which they tend to feed), they ever lie on the 
 fi'ontiers of vice, and a vacant mind easily crosses the line. 
 Yet I doubt whether it will be wise to attempt to argue 
 with him much, perhaps not at all, on the abstract impro- 
 priety of his course. You, with thirty years more experi- 
 ence of life and human nature on your shoulders, may 
 know, and do know full well, that the very greenest and 
 most innocent looking " by path meadow " in the Avorld, 
 may lead, by little and little, to the most dreadful deflec- 
 tions fi'om the " highroad to virtue and happiness ; while it 
 may be quite impossible to show this to an inexperienced 
 youth, not to say that if he does not see it, argument will 
 but make him, in all probability, more obstinate, besides 
 weakening parental authority. If he were only ten years 
 of age this course might do ; but at eighteen or nineteen it 
 is hardly practicable, and never wise. Take my advice ; 
 
TO C. MASON ESQ. 83 
 
 never seem, at this comparatively harmless point, even to 
 know of his gayety, but have him down into the country, 
 and, as idleness seems to have been his bane, let plenty of 
 emj^loyment be the antidote. As he is fond, you say, of 
 his profession, excite in him emulation to excel, (which is 
 easily done,) by stimulating him to exertion, and then 
 heartily praising him for it. Give him all proper indul- 
 gencies, but of a totally different cast, if possible, from 
 those he has lately been prone to, and thus try what 
 Chalmers calls the " exj^ulsive power of a new affection." 
 You remember the coachman who said to the gentleman 
 on the box, "Do you see that off leader there, sir?" "Yes, 
 — what of him ? " " He always shies, sir, when he comes 
 to that 'ere gate. I must give him something to tliinh 
 on^ No sooner said, than up went the whirling thong, 
 and came down full of its sting on the skittish leader's 
 haunches. He had " something else to think on," no time 
 for panic or affected panic, and flew past the gate like 
 lightning. If we can but give youth, in time, " something 
 else to think on," we may keep out of their minds, by 
 preoccupation, more evil than we can ever directly expel. 
 One of the essential properties of matter may be said to 
 be also one of the essential properties of mincl^ — impen- 
 etrability; it is as impossible that two thoughts can 
 coexist in the same mind at the same time, as that two 
 particles of matter can occupy the same space. I shall be 
 
 anxious to hear again. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
84 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 TO CAPTAIN EVANS, IN INDIA. 
 
 Pentonville, "Wednesday, May 12, 1841. 
 My dear Evans, 
 
 .... So much for home gossip, of which Kate is so un- 
 conscionably greedy. Now for a question I wish you could 
 get answered for me. I have heard, but can hardly believe 
 it, that large quantities of your Indian gods are the genu- 
 ine workmanship of our own Christian manufaturers — 
 and that large " assortments " of these divine deformities 
 are regularly made up for exportation. What a comment 
 on idolatry ! Gods made by the Infidel, and sold to the 
 devout, for worship ! But we^ I think, are the worse of the 
 two. We send out missionaries to reclaim the heathen 
 from superstition, and then (that the missionaries, I pre- 
 sume, may never lack employment), we manufacture deities 
 for the said heathen, of the most approved pattern and the 
 very best materials. If there are " firms " that thus deal in 
 bronze, — metalic and otherwise, — and drive a gainful 
 trade in gods, one would like to have a peep at some of 
 their invoices. How droll they would read ! Fancy some 
 of the items, or imagine advertisements running thus : " To 
 the devout; a bargain! A miscellaneous assortment of 
 gods of various sorts and sizes, — the lot to be disposed of 
 cheap." " A splendid Brahma, best bronze, warranted to 
 stand all weathers." " A Vishnoo, a little cracked in the 
 head, and a flaw in the nose ; a proportionate reduction 
 made." "A Seeva, gilt-lacquered, an extraordinary bar- 
 gain." " A lot of damaged gods, warranted none the worse 
 for worship, at a very low figure. K. B. The above 
 worthy of the attention of any one about to form his god- 
 establishment, or fit for a present to a Temple or Pan- 
 
ENGLISH GOD MANUFACTURERS. 85 
 
 theon." " Messrs. Muck, and Co., agents for a celebrated 
 English god-manufacturer, being about to quit the god-busi- 
 ness, beg to call the attention of their devout customers to 
 their unrivalled stock of Deities, now selling oif at extreme- 
 ly low prices." — Perhaps it would be wise for our god- 
 manufacturing smiths to issue a catalogue and advertise 
 thus : " Messrs. Smith and Co., by si^ecial permission, god- 
 makers to the Deities of India, beg to call the attention of 
 the enlightened public of that religious continent to their 
 catalogue of spick-and-span new divinities, of the most ap- 
 proved patterns and finished workmanship, at the extraord- 
 inarily low prices affixed. Messrs. S. and Co. venture to say 
 that their gods will be found quite equal to any of the native 
 manufacture, and fully as attentive to the prayers of their 
 worshippers. Any gentleman or lady wishing to furnish a 
 house with a proper assortment, will be met on the most lib- 
 eral terms. Whole-sale god-buyers allowed a handsome 
 discount." 
 
 It is hard to imagine that condition of the human intel- 
 lect which can reconcile it to Idolatry at all ; it is quite as 
 hard to imagine how its votaries can accept gods manufac- 
 tured by those who laugh at all such trumpery ! The gods 
 themselves, it seems, graciously favor " free trade," and in- 
 sist on no monopoly for their worship^^ers. Not only their 
 devotees, but their enemies, may create these accommodat- 
 ing deities in all their perfections. But perhaps the thing 
 hardest of all to conceive, is the moral condition, not of 
 the heathen, but of those so-called Christians, who, pro- 
 fessing to laugh at and abhor all such idolatry, can pander 
 to it for a little gain ; and while praying each* Sunday that 
 God would be pleased to " confound all idols," can do their 
 best to perpetuate them for a miserable 10 per cent. 
 
 But it is not a solitary blot on our superior civilization. 
 A few missionaries go to teach Savages purity of morals, 
 
 8 
 
86 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and thousands of profligates go along with them, who by 
 rapacity, cunning, and cruelty, shall make the white man 
 stink in the nostrils of a whole archipelago, and do in a 
 year what an age of missionary instruction and effort can 
 hardly repair. Surely our boasted European civilization 
 has been a strangely inconsistent thing : a " fountain " that 
 sends forth " sweet waters and bitter." A solitary Howard, 
 once in many ages, consecrated his life to the captive and 
 the broken-hearted ; and, contemporaneously, thousands of 
 slove-traders bought and sold their living cargoes, at the 
 price of sorrows millions of millions of times greater than 
 ten thousand Howards ever soothed. A single Bartholo- 
 mew Las Casas devotes himself to the championship of the 
 poor Indians ; and Cortez and Pizarro, and a score of rapa- 
 cious adventurers more, teach them that superior science 
 means only superior wickedness. We boast of carrying to 
 the savage the arts of life, and too often destroy life itself 
 by other arts. The early settlers of America, says Knick- 
 erbocker, taught the natives the use of many admirable 
 medicines, and in order that they might not be blind to 
 their obligations, nor think they had received things noth- 
 ing worth, imj^oited at the same time the diseases for which 
 they had furnished the infallible specifics ! 
 
 Sometimes, when I think of such things, I am almost 
 ready to ask whether our civilization has hitherto been a 
 curse or a blessing to the world at large. To suppose the 
 former, however, would be a false conclusion, I have no 
 doubt. But as to those who abuse it, like our god-makers, 
 one would think they were a sort of Manichaeans, and wor- 
 shipped indifferently the good and evil principles, by turns 
 now gave Ormuzd a lift, and now Arimanes. 
 
 Civilization is, doubtless, a good thing and tends to good ; 
 but not simply as civilization. It must be penetrated and 
 animated by virtue and religion. It is a nonsensical notion 
 
EFFECTS OF CIVILIZATION. 87 
 
 of many m the i)resent day, that civilization, superior 
 knowledge, and science, onust do much, of themselves, to 
 regenerate the world. Every day's experience in private 
 life — where we so often see great knowledge wielded by 
 as great wickedness, — and still more the page of history, 
 ought to con\ince us that, like commerce, j^oetry, eloquence, 
 the press, — CiAdlization (of which these indeed are but 
 some of the forms) is in itself nearly indifferent to moral 
 good and evil ; more naturally (as every thing else worth 
 having), the ally of goodness, provided something else first 
 produces that goodness ; but not necessarily. In itself it 
 has no direct tendency to create virtue, and is as capable 
 of being employed for the devil as for God. 
 
 You will say, j^erhaps, like an old Indian as you are, that 
 in India, whatever injuries abused civilization may have 
 caused, these have been largely overbalanced by the bene- 
 fits of its legitimate influence, and in this I quite agree. 
 ^N'ay — in that country, even our worst oppressions have 
 been tolerable, compared with those inflicted by the native 
 governments. But, though I doubt not you can prove it 
 quite a paradise, pray make haste and come home, and 
 bring Kate with you. I wish you could have, for only six 
 months, the latter AaZ/*of the modest demand of that con- 
 tented East Indian official who said that all he desired was 
 summed up in the old English lamentation — " Alas and 
 
 alack a-day ! " 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 My dear Evans, 
 
 R. E. H, G. 
 
88 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 TO 
 
 London, Nov. 8, 1841. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I heartily congratulate you on the adjustment of your 
 family differences. Jeremy Taylor says that the " returns 
 of kindness are sweet," and never was a truer word. The 
 sensations of "reconciliation" are indeed delicious; and it 
 is well, i^erhaps, that j^eople do not fully appreciate the 
 luxury, or they would be ready to quarrel for the pleasure 
 of — making it up again ! 
 
 I hope that will not be the case between you and your long 
 estranged brother. Pomponius Atticus says, in the funeral 
 oration for his mother, that he had never been reconciled 
 to her — never having quarrelled with her all his days; 
 may you and your brother, in that sense, die "unrecon- 
 ciled," — never having quarrelled again ! 
 
 I can imagine the expansion of heart with which you 
 met after so long an alienation. I dare say each of you 
 l^rotested, in exuberance of candor, (as is customary on 
 such occasions,) that he alone was to blame, and that the 
 other had been a paragon of all that was excellent and 
 virtuous! I have been sometimes amused at the extreme 
 reaction of humility and self oblivion which on these occa- 
 sions is apt to transform our repentant selves into devils, 
 and our opponents into angels. Heaven forgive us ! I fear 
 that Truth in these cases has to pardon something to charity. 
 "I can't think," says one, "howl could be such a fool as to 
 lose my temper, my dear friend," when perhaps he would 
 have been an angel if he had kept it. "It was ???y fault — 
 mine entirely," says the other, with as little regard to truth. 
 " Nay, don't say so," says the first, bent on proving himself 
 
DELIGHT^S OF RECONCILIATION. 89 
 
 a villain, and " refusing to be comforted," if you attempt 
 to show that he is oiot one. In vain ; each, in that mood 
 of gushing tenderness, refuses to "extenuate aught" in 
 himself, or to "set down aught" against the other "in 
 malice." 
 
 I remember once seeing two friends so vehemently pro- 
 testing, in the ardor of returning love after a bitter quarrel, 
 — each that the other was not in the wrong, that I almost 
 began to fear lest they should quarrel again because neither 
 v/ould believe the other to be such a rascal as each pro- 
 claimed himself! 
 
 Ah! well a-day! It is beautiful — it is comical; and for 
 the rarity of the thing one may pardon it, since it is so sel- 
 dom that in this way the heart gets the better of the 
 head. 
 
 In other ways, heaven knows, it has more questionable 
 advantages ; in a thousand cases, it wheedles the poor head 
 out of all its brains, as easily as a \\dfe gets on the blind 
 side of her husband. 
 
 I have often thought there is something very beautiful 
 in the consolation Avhich, in the moment of reconciliation, 
 Joseph addresses to those rapscallions, his brothers. "Now 
 therefore," said he, " be not grieved, nor angry with your- 
 selves, that ye sold me hither ; for God did send me before 
 you to preserve life." Kind heart ! Apart from the fact 
 that his soul " yearned over " his brothers, and that, there- 
 fore, he spoke as he felt, this would have been a most un- 
 conscionable apology for them. 
 
 ' Oh, fie!" I imagine some austere infidel saying, — such 
 a stickler for a precise morality, when he looks into the 
 Bible, and so lax when he examines any other book, — " do 
 not say a word m excuse ; the prevarication of the Patri- 
 arch is quite awful. To think that he should thus have 
 trifled with Truth, and ' nail't wi' ScriptureJJ" But beg- 
 
 8* 
 
90 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ging your pardon, dear Mr. Infidel, it was no trifling with 
 truth at all. Poor Josei^h spohe as he felt ; it were well if 
 you always did. Overwhelmed with adoration at the 
 thought of the all-controlling Wisdom which had thus sud- 
 denly brought good out of evil, yearning with affection for 
 his brethren, and feeling, to agony, their agony of shame 
 and repentance, — he spoke out of the fulness of his heart, 
 and I dare say, hardly " wist " what he said ; as, indeed, is 
 exquisitely indicated in that beautifully natural, yet utterly 
 irrelevant question which precedes, — " Doth my father yet 
 live ? " — a fict of which he could have no doubts after his 
 preceding interview's. And so, instead of an instance of 
 lying, Mr. Infidel, you have what the Bible is everywhere 
 presenting us with, — a profound trait and exact transcript 
 of human nature. 
 
 I have read somewhere, (is it not in one of our Essayists? 
 — the Tattler perhaps, but I am not sure,) — of one who 
 was so delighted to bring about reconciliations, that he 
 used to make no scruple of robbing Truth to enrich Char- 
 ity. If he found two neighbors estranged, and, as usual, 
 sulky, he would go to them separately, and expatiate with 
 mendacious unction on all the kind things which each had 
 said of the other ; how i:>rofoundly each yearned for recon- 
 ciliation, if he could but think the other would accept his 
 advances ! " I am so grieved," he would say to one, " to 
 
 hear that you and Mr. have quarrelled. I should 
 
 never have thought it to hear what he was saying of you 
 the other day ; what respect he felt for you, and how much 
 
 he loved you! " " If I thought so ," of course would 
 
 be the reply to this flattery ; " I am sure it was a very fool- 
 ish misunderstanding; I dare say it was more my own 
 fault than his — I Avish you would tell him so." Back, of 
 course, the loving liar goes to the first, and declares how 
 much his enemy mourns over the quarrel, and what very 
 
ANECDOTE. 91 
 
 handsome things he has said. Their reconciliation, after 
 such reciprocal compliments, becomes an easy task. Truly 
 may it be said in this case that charity " never faileth." 
 
 Your little niece is quite well, and thanks you for the 
 pretty book. She is noAV six, and often amuses me by her 
 na'ive remarks. I was endeavoring, the other day, like a 
 wise moral instructor, to inculcate, from, the sage cat who 
 sat on a chair washing herself with utmost diligence, a les- 
 son of cleanliness; not that Mary particularly needs it, but 
 out of the superfluity of suj^erior Avisdom, anxious to eni- 
 l^loy any incident as a handle for a little moral prosing. 
 " Look at the cat, Mary," said I ; " see how diligent she is 
 to make herself look clean and handsome this morning." 
 But the little i^uss — the human puss, I mean — taught me 
 that parabolical instruction sometimes halts, and that ev- 
 erything may be laid hold of by " two handles." " I don't 
 think it is so very clean of her," said she — " to lick her 
 own feet and then rub them over her face ! " 
 
 She has already decided to her perfect satisfaction the 
 subtle question of an immaterial princij)le in animals, — 
 which has divided so many philosoj^hers ; for Avhen I asked 
 her whether the cat had a " soul," she replied with great 
 gravity — " The cat has a mind., but she has not got a souV^ 
 So that, you see, she promises to be a great philosopher by 
 the time she is out of her teens. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
92 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 TO EDWIN GEEYSON, ESQ. 
 
 Pentonville, London, 
 
 Friday, Feb. 11, 1842. 
 
 My Dear Brother, 
 
 Enclosed, I send young Tom a few lines, as you wished. 
 Be pleased to expand a little those last hints about the use of 
 "Yes," and "ISTo; — for, credit me, I fear the lad's gentle- 
 ness of disposition and bashfulness of tongue more than 
 anything else. ISlow these are in themselves, and rightly 
 managed, admirable things ; and it is dismal beyond ex- 
 pression that they should be used as " handles " whereby 
 the devil may the better catch hold of the soul. It is to 
 aiTest a bird by his wings ; — to imprison him by the very 
 things that should enable him to soar upwards toward 
 heaven. 
 
 The litigious gentleman you inquire after, has lost his 
 cause, after a long trial. The costs are considerable. He 
 will not carry the matter further. He is something like 
 the Jew in the reign of King John, from whom that tyrant 
 demanded ten thousand marks, and for refusing to pay, 
 condemned him to lose a tooth a day till he complied. 
 The usurer held out till he had lost seven teeth, and then 
 gave in. As an old author remarks, if he had given in at 
 once, he would have had his money bags empty, but his 
 jaws full, and if he had persevered, he might have had his 
 money bags full, though his jaws were empty. As it was, 
 both jaws and money bags were empty alike. It is much 
 
 the same with Mr. S . 
 
 Ever your loving Brother, 
 
 R. E. n. G. 
 
COUNSELS TO A YOUTH. 93 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 TO T. GEEYSOX. 
 
 Feb. 11, 1842. 
 
 My Dear Boy, 
 
 You are now fifteen — have been inducted into a tail coat 
 — and are about to " enter on life," — as your father expres- 
 ses it ; and so he wants me to give you a little advice. He 
 evidently feels in a great fright about you, — as most fath- 
 ers do when their sons arrive at your age. And I fear I 
 must add, that the generahty of them seldom feel any 
 fright till then. They seem to think that their lads, till 
 they summon them into the counting-house, or determine on 
 their profession, are exclusively the mother's care ; and pro- 
 vided she looks after them in childhood — keeps their join- 
 afores clean — sends for the doctor if they are ailing — 
 teaches them their catechism on Sunday, and desj^atches 
 them with a correct inventory of their linen to school, the 
 generality of fathers trouble themselves buf little about the 
 matter. When their son's character is really /bn??ef? to all 
 intents and purposes — nay, often so set that nothing can 
 alter it, then these wise fathers begin to think what they 
 are to do towards forming it, and, for the first time in their 
 life, awake to their responsibility. 
 
 But I find I am beginning to lecture fathers rather than 
 children ; and, to speak truth, I should be guilty of a 
 double error if I were to go on in this strain ; for your 
 father is tiot one of these fathers, and if he were, it is you, 
 not he, whom I am called upon to address. 
 
 Yes, my boy, he has done his duty, not less than your 
 mother. Your nurture has been careful throughout. Still 
 he is evidently in no little perturbation about you ; not that 
 he has observed anything ^vrong, or that gives him cause 
 
94 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 to doubt you — he assures me of the contrary ; but because 
 he knows, my dear youth, what you know not — the dan- 
 gers which meet every one who for the first time leaves 
 the nest, — the father's eye, the mother's wing ; because he 
 knows all the perils of a flight into this wide bleak world 
 ■ — the hawks in the air and the nets and the gins on the 
 earth. 
 
 Well, I can but repeat what you have already been 
 taught, till experience give it a deeper meaning, and im- 
 presses it as no other teaching can, — that " the fear of the 
 Lord is the beginning of wisdom," and the '-'•love of the 
 Lord" is the consummation of it. And if you have but 
 these, as taught and exemplified to us by that gracious Sa- 
 viour who came to make known to us the Father, and to 
 lead us to Him, you are safe enough. Let the love and the 
 fear of God be as wings to your soul; and then, to recur to 
 the image which I used just now, you are safe from each 
 " snare of the fowler," and from all the " powers of the air." 
 And remember where the secret of all spiritual force to 
 cope with the world and its temptations lies ; — " They 
 that loctit on the Lord shall renew their strength — mount 
 up as on eagles' wings." They shall dwell rather above the 
 earth than U230n it — alight rather than abide here — soar, 
 when they please, into mid heaven, and at last take their 
 flight into heaven itself. 
 
 How happy for you, if you early make choice of the " bet- 
 ter part which will not be taken from you ! " To think that 
 at fifteen, you will have secured the felicity of two worlds. 
 Yes, — the felicity even of this, — as to all that most essen- 
 tially constitutes it ; for " with a conscience void of oflence 
 towards God and man," and in the hope of a better world 
 when this has passed away, you will have loithin, however 
 the tempest may bluster, and however dark may be the 
 night, without^ the elements of a perpetual content ; you 
 
COUNSELS TO A YOUTH. 95 
 
 "will only have to step within yourself, to find the fire bright 
 and the hearth swept, and all the peaceful enjoyments of an 
 inviolable home. 
 
 On the other hand, — if you go wrong, it will be a tre- 
 mendous aggravation of all your sorrows, that from child- 
 hood you knew the " better way," and would not walk in 
 it ; that you set out with your face to the " heavenly city," 
 yet turned your back on its golden pinnacles, and marched 
 obstinately into the land of shadows. The tears of repent- 
 ance are ever bitter ; — yours, if they ever come when an 
 evil heart has perverted knowledge and seared conscience, 
 will be tears of molten lead ! But I will " hope better 
 things " of you. May you never spend youth in that worst 
 of speculations — laying up sorrows for age. 
 
 As to practical rules of life, in your intercourse with the 
 world, you know, like all the rest of us, more than enough 
 to keep you straight, if you do but practise them. But if 
 I may venture to drop a hint or two, I should, from what I 
 have perceived of a certain tendency to bashful irresolution, 
 lecture you against that. Believe me, it is a most danger- 
 ous quality in youth, — for the devil is an impudent fellow, 
 and he wins a thousand more by false shame than he does 
 by finding them shameless. It has been said, and well said, 
 that the great lesson to be taught youth is how to say 
 " No ; " it is equally important to know how to say, " Yes." 
 If when some tempter says of something he ridicules, but 
 which you hold sacred or serious, — " Surely you do not be- 
 lieve in that nonsense," — you have the boldness to say, 
 " Yes^ I do ; " and if, when he says in the equally cajoling 
 way, — " Come, you will go with us noAV, I know," — you 
 can answer firmly, " No," when conscience bids ; — in short, 
 if you learn when and how to say " Yes " and " No," you 
 will not only have learned one of the most important lessons 
 of life, but will have set up about you such a sturdy, prickly 
 
96 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 quickset hedge against temptations that hardly one of the 
 devil's imps will think it worth while to scratch himself 
 by trying to scramble through. 
 
 Ever your affectionate uncle, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 TO ALFEKD WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Windermere, June, 1842. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 It has been raining here at such a rate for the last four 
 days, that if " Captain Noah," (as he is irreverently called 
 in one of our old " Mysteries,") were on earth, he would 
 certainly tliink it high time to set about the building of 
 another ark. 
 
 Can you procure for me, at a moderate price, Heyne's 
 Homer — the nine volumes, I mean? By the way, this 
 seems an odd question after such an exordium. So I must 
 jnst stop a minute to explain to you the connection between 
 " Captain Noah " and Heyne's Homer ; for though the con- 
 nection maybe obvious to you, it is just possible it may not. 
 
 I had put down my pen for a moment to contemplate the 
 ceaseless down-pour with that despairing look which we 
 generally cast to the heavens in such cases, when the rain 
 itself, together with the mention of Noah, naturally led me 
 back to the deluge — the deluge to the ark of that pnmeval 
 navigator; and so just stepping in, to get out of the rain, I 
 entered the cabin at that critical moment when Noah had 
 oj^ened the cabin window to leeward, and had the raven on 
 his fist, preparing for his flight. The thought of the raven 
 naturally led to the thouglit of the dove, — the dove to 
 those far less fortunate " Columbse " in Deucalion's deluge, 
 whose nest, according to Horace, was so inconveniently vis- 
 
FREAKS OF ASSOCIATION. 97 
 
 ited by the fishes ; this unaccountable freak of imagination 
 entirely disorganized the whole train of my reverie, and 
 sent me rambUng among the Roman classics ; the Roman 
 classics, by what metaphysicians call either a suggestion of 
 " resemblance," or a suggestion of " contrast," — let the 
 metaphysicians, and, in their default, the critics, decide 
 which, — led me to the Greek classics; these to their 
 Coryphaeus, Homer, and to my long-coveted copy of 
 Heyne. Procure it for me if you can, but let it be at a 
 moderate price. 
 
 The above devious course of thought is about as tortuous 
 as that which Hobbes mentions as a proof of the odd freaks 
 of association. He says that in a company which was occu- 
 pied in discussing the tragedy of Charles the First's execu- 
 tion, the good folks were startled by one of their number 
 suddenly asking the value of a Roman denarius. It seems 
 that, while they pursued their topic, this absent man had 
 gone on a ramble of associations. The death of Charles had 
 recalled the idea of the traitors who had a finger in it ; the 
 traitors, Judas Iscariot ; Judas, the thirty pieces of silver ; 
 and that, the value of the coin denarius ! 
 
 On all this I am induced to make the origin3,l remark, 
 that the faculty of association is certainly a very strange 
 one. Like everything else on earth, it has its two handles ; 
 its good and its bad sides ; its uses and abuses. If it be it- 
 self the great auxiliary of memory, it as often puts to fliglit 
 another ally of the same great faculty, attention; if it be 
 able to intensify, often absolutely create, the beautiful, it can 
 as suddenly destroy it by forcing on us some cruel capriccio 
 of whimsical incongruity ; if it can strengthen and fortify 
 virtue, it can perform the same friendly office for vice ; if it 
 often suddenly hands us just what we want, or by an unex- 
 pected turn brings our wearied thoughts to their journey's 
 end, it as often presents us with ten thousand things that 
 
 9 
 
98 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 we want not, or sends us out on an idle tour over three- 
 fourths of the universe. 
 
 The most casual mistake — the most innocent inadver- 
 tence — nay, even the most appropriate illustration — shall 
 send half an orator's audience, especially if it be a Christian 
 congregation^ a million leagues from the subject of his dis- 
 course. I remember a preacher once innocently but irrele- 
 vantly indulging in some " illustrations " derived from " in- 
 ductive and experimental philosophy." Those unlucky il- 
 lustrations ruined the attention of as many hearers — to wit, 
 of three friends and myself. The most amusing thing was 
 to observe, that they had sent us all off by differefit routes 
 of association — such is the activity of this versatile faculty. 
 On comparing notes, we found one of us had no sooner heard 
 the words, than he was transported in imagination to a lec- 
 ture-rooni of the Royal Institution — peeped into two or 
 three jars of chemicals — received a shock or tAvo from a 
 new galvanic apparatus, — saw two or three young gentle- 
 men cut a caper under the influence of the nitrous oxide, — 
 and could not get back till the preacher uttered the words 
 *' thirdly and lastly." The second instantly found himself 
 deep in the first book of Bacon's " Novum Organum," and 
 unconsciously illustrating the idola tribus. The third was 
 sent instantly into the very midst of the mechanism of a new 
 pump for which he was about to take out a patent, and got 
 so entangled amongst levers, pistons, valves, and tubes, that 
 he did not recover hunself till the benediction. For myself, 
 the mention of inductive philosophy sent me to Newton ; 
 Newton sent me on a long ramble through the planetary 
 system — comets rushed by, and I went belter skelter on 
 with them into the very thick of the fixed stars — the fixed 
 stars led me up to heaven — heaven, by a very natural reac- 
 tion, brought me back to my duties on earth; and I found my- 
 self in church at my devotions again, just as the preacher was 
 
FREAKS OF ASSOCIATION. 99 
 
 insisting on the duty of keeping our thoughts from wander- 
 ing during religious ser^dce, 
 
 Perhaps there was not one of the audience an inch nearer 
 heaven for the illustrations. " The preacher's ' experiment ' 
 was a failure," said one of my friends. "It was all naturally 
 ' induced ' by his * inductions,' " said a second. " After all, 
 what has Christianity to do with * exiDcriraental philoso- 
 phy ? ' " said the third. " Quite as much as we had," re- 
 plied I, " or, for the matter of that, the preacher either." 
 
 But is it not mortifying to think that a chance word, a 
 passing absurdity, a little inadvertence, may, like a pebble 
 thrown among a flock of pigeons, send half the minds of 
 the audience lohir — iohirri7ig a thousand different ways ? 
 Surely the faculty of association is one that a public speaker 
 ought to be well acquainted with. 
 
 I begin to think, from that last illustration, that Plato 
 was right when he makes Socrates ludicrously compare the 
 ideas in our minds to a flock of pigeons in a large pigeon- 
 house ; they certainly go flying about with similar volatility, 
 are as easily startled, and as difficult to catch. 
 
 If anybody wants hay this year, he must, should this 
 weather continue, *' fish for it," as Horace Walpole said. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 TO THE S^OIE. 
 
 Windermere, June, 1842. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 * * * * So much in answer to your queries. For- 
 give me that I did not reply yesterday ; but just as I was 
 going to begin, my lodgings were visited by two ladies to 
 
100 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 solicit a subscription to some new " society " (or some 
 " branch " of one) they are going to estabUsh in this neigh- 
 borhood for a local and, no doubt, very humane object, 
 though it appeared to me no more deserving of a separate 
 " organization " than a thousand and one others. Nay, I 
 fancy the end would be answered a thousand times better 
 if every man that really desires it, would use his private 
 influence and example to aid it, instead of ostentatiously 
 setting up an " organization " to work it out secundum ar- 
 tem. The waste of time and energy in canvassing and 
 speechifying, in gadding, and talk, and gossip (to say noth- 
 ing of the provocatives to vanity, etc.), occasioned by the 
 needless multiplication of these modern modes of benevo- 
 lence, is prodigious. A " society " against the formation 
 of any oieedless societies would be an excellent thing, and 
 would be sure to find me a subscriber. The principle of 
 " Division of Labor," in these social forms, is run mad, and 
 ought to be strait-waistcoated. 
 
 Of course, all large objects, which really require confed- 
 eracy, must have such organizations ; who doubts it ? But 
 they should be as few as possible; and confined to objects 
 which are too vast and comprehensive to disj^ense with them. 
 This would economize time, money, agency, everything. 
 But we now see societies formed, not only for all great 
 objects, but for the most trivial local ones ; multiplied far 
 beyond necessity, either by excessive subdivision of objects, 
 or by want of consolidation when the objects are nearly 
 identical ; all the purposes in view might just as well be 
 secured by half the number. It is quite humiliating to 
 think of the loss of time and patience, of breath, money, 
 and oratory that all this entails. No sooner does some 
 benevolent crotchet enter the mind of some philanthropic 
 gentleman or lady, straightway a " committee " must be 
 formed, and meetings — weekly, monthly, and annual — 
 
"SOCIETIES" AND "BRANCHES." 101 
 
 held ; the post actively plied ; placards and reports printed ; 
 circulars issued ; and, in short, all the usual machinery set 
 in motion — to the injfinite plague of quiet souls like myself, 
 and of multitudes who have much more important business to 
 attend to, and cannot find time for it. Nor can it be concealed 
 that the expense of these " organizations," if they multiply at 
 the present rate, will, in due time, swallow up no small por- 
 tion of the capital of benevolence. No wonder so man}^ of 
 these " societies " languish, and that their whole history is 
 little but a continued series of " appeals." 
 
 Inspired by a noble ambition, Z think also of starting my 
 own little association. Pray let me have a " branch " in 
 your part of the country. I am not yet decided as to its 
 object — but no matter ; there is no lack of them, for any 
 one of " the ills flesh is heir to " may furnish a foundation. 
 I think, however, the "wooden-legged" men have been 
 strangely overlooked, and that I shall entitle my " organi- 
 zation," " The poor Wooden-legged Men's Friend's Socie- 
 ty " (it is well to have a long name), for providing them 
 with that supplementary limb gratis. I delight myself 
 with thinking what an imposing appearance my array of 
 " wooden legs " will make at my " annual meeting,'' and 
 with what clatter of emphasis they will knock their applause 
 at eloquent periods by means of the timber toe. An array 
 of the " two wooden-legged " might, methinks, grace the 
 front of the platform — seated on rather high chairs to 
 exhibit to the audience, at a properly conspicuous angle, the 
 good results of the " organization." N. B. Contribu- 
 tions received either in money or timber. 
 
 I please myself also with the droll specimens of philan- 
 thropy which (as is wont in other cases) will garnish my 
 annual Report ; such as " an old bed-post " from one con- 
 tributor, the proceeds of a " gold-headed cane " from 
 another, or "six fathoms of well seasoned oak as a thank- 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 offering for the giver's needing none of it," from a third. 
 However, do not think in such items I intend any satire on 
 any genuine acts of j^hilanthroj^y, however trivial: I am 
 only laughing at the foolish vanity which too often leads 
 men, instead of "giving with simplicity," — as the Apostle 
 so beautifully expresses it — to temj^t the derision of the 
 world by parading their benevolence in the odd forms in 
 which it often greets us in print. . . 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Great Barr, Staffordshire, Aug. 1842. 
 My dear Feiexd, 
 
 I am sorry to find that you are so troubled with indiges- 
 tion, that even the slightest irregularity is punished. Well ; 
 you must comfort yourself with the thought that you are 
 not likely to become a gourmand^ and that you need take 
 no " pledge " to preserve your temperance ; though, as 
 you have no temptations, that I know of, to be either glut- 
 ton or drunkard, the security may seem to you rather super- 
 fluous. I met the other day with an ej^igram in the Greek 
 anthology, to the effect, that it would be a good thing if 
 the " headache came before the drinking-bout instead of 
 after it." Here it is : 
 
 Et Tots ixe^ua-KS/xej/ois ^Kaffrrjs rifi^pas 
 
 Thv oLKparou r]fjL(ai/ oiiSe cts eirivev 6.v ' 
 NDy Se irp6T€p6y yc rod irovov ttju tjSov^v 
 TlpoXafx^duoures iiaTepoufxev Taya^ov. 
 
 Certainly with even less than that we should find the 
 morals of mankind wonderfully improved ; I mean, if retri- 
 
COMPULSORY "VIRTUE." 103 
 
 bution was but simidtaneous with transgression; — if, for 
 example, that thing we call " conscience " were attached 
 to one of the vertebra?, at the same time that it Avarned 
 us, began to tug away at some exquisitely sensitive nerve. 
 What alderman would gloat on venison if, after having 
 taken as much as was good for him, conscience, the moment 
 he sent up his plate for a superfluous slice, admonished him 
 of his folly by a sudden fit of the colic, instead of a sleepy, 
 dozy intimation that ten or twenty years hence, if he lived 
 so long, he would repent it ; or if a liar, the moment his 
 tongue began to wag, found his face blushing with St. An- 
 thony's fire instead of the faint tints of shame ; or if a thief 
 detected the incipient feeling of covetousness by a desperate 
 contemporaneous twinge of gout in his great toe ; or if the 
 hypocrite (as, according to Swedenborg's notion of " spirit- 
 ual correspondencies," he is or ought to be) were told of 
 his fault by a swinging paroxysm of toothache ! . . . 
 
 The forms of nervous disease are endless, — the A'agaries 
 of hypochondriasis infinite. Let me give you a droll in- 
 stance. I have a friend Avho exactly illustrates the beneficial 
 efiTect of that constitution of " conscience " just spoken of. 
 Except that he is odd and hypochondriacal, and therefore 
 perfectly miserable, he is one of the most enviable men I 
 knoAv. He is eminently virtuous, temperate, gentle, com- 
 passionate, kind-hearted, with all his appetites singularly 
 under control. I was complimenting him a little the other 
 day on his happy temperament, when I observed an expres- 
 sion of nausea, as if he had taken a dose of tartar emetic. 
 " My dear friend," said he, " I beg you will not give me 
 pain ; and, in order to avoid it " (dropping his voice to a 
 mysterious whisper, and looking round to see that no one 
 was within hearing), " Know that the Adrtue on which you 
 compliment me is, between ourselves, nothing but selfish- 
 ness ; so never compliment me again, for it makes me 
 
104 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 wretched. My conscience — a morbid one if you will — 
 has, somehow, got entangled with my nervous system, and 
 I cannot think an evil thought without torture. If I see 
 the hungry, and feel disposed to pass them unrelieved, I 
 seem immediately seized with pangs of hunger myself; I 
 liave no peace till I have satisfied my own stomach by fill- 
 ing those of other people, and may thus be said to feed 
 myself by other people's mouths. In the same manner, if 
 an emotion of covetousness obtrudes itself, I have an imme- 
 diate sensation in my throat and cliest just like that we feel 
 when, in company, we have bolted a hot morsel, and sent it 
 hissing down the throat, because we could neither put it out 
 nor keep it in the mouth. If I have any feeling of disingen- 
 uousness, that moment my too physical conscience warns 
 me by a film over my eyes ; and if I were to tell a lie, I do 
 believe she would strike me stone blind at once. If I feel 
 any disposition to exceed the most moderate indulgence at 
 table, I have a twinge in the great toe of the right foot, 
 which would reconcile me to oatmeal porridge and pease- 
 bannocks for a fortnight ; and if I am tempted to vanity^ 
 as I was just now when you flattered me so agreeably, I 
 feel qualms at the stomach as if I had taken an emetic. In 
 short, between ourselves, my virtue, as you call it, is all 
 mere deception, — disguised selfishness. I wonder whether 
 any one has ever been similarly afllicted ! ' 
 
 " Afilicted ! " said I, laughing ; " I wish all mankind were 
 so afilicted. I wish your disease were contagious, and that 
 you could infect the world ; or bite us all round like a mad 
 dog, and inflict on us a moral hydro-phobia I " 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, with a melancholy air, " do not say so ; 
 I am perfectly miserable. For what can be more wretched 
 than involuntary virtue ? — to have seeming benevolence, 
 and feel it is all selfishness ? How I sigh," he continued, 
 whimsically, "for the power to do any one good thing 
 
COMPULSORY "VIRTUE." 105 
 
 imconstrained ! — and, alas! how shall I ever be sure that 
 I am in a condition of confirmed virtue while necessity 
 thus backs conscience!" Was he (for he was a very 
 modest man) laughing at me all this time, and, as usual 
 with such men, depreciating his own excellences, and 
 guarding against unwelcome flatteries ? Or was it really 
 one of the infinite freaks which nerves out of tune v/ill 
 play a hj^DOchondriacal patient ? 
 
 Whether it were so or not, the last observation recon- 
 ciled me to the ordinary condition of our probation. Yes, 
 thought I, as I took my leave, — forcing my features, as well 
 as I could, to sym2:)athize with the expression of his lugubri- 
 ous virtue, — it would be indeed sad, if we were never 
 sure that we should act as we ought, when not under an 
 impossibility of acting otherwise; and this consideration 
 sufficiently vindicates our present condition of proba- 
 tion, if we are to be made really and indefectibly virtuous; 
 self-poised by active vital forces from within, not kept 
 upright by painful bands and ligatures ; by right motives, 
 not by material springs and pulleys ; which last would 
 reduce us to a sort of Punch-and-Judy automata of virtue. 
 
 Nevertheless, something may be learned from ray friend's 
 dix)ll experiences. In a somewhat similar condition ought 
 virtue to end^ though not so to begin ; in a sensitiveness to 
 conscience as keen as sensation, but moral, not mechanical, 
 — and the reward, not the foundation of Adrtue. Happy 
 is it Avhen the Christian has so long practised the pre- 
 cepts of his Master that he feels that the wants of others 
 trouble him nearly as much as his own ; — till he cannot 
 help " weeping with those who weep, and rejoicing mth 
 those who rejoice ;" — " till he cannot say to the hungry and 
 thirsty, the cold and naked, " Be ye warmed and filled," 
 and do nothing more ; — till, like my poor whimsical friend, 
 he must eat by proxy, and till as it were, his stomach by 
 
106 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 Other people's mouths ! Sensation cannot form virtue, but 
 virtue should lead to emotions almost as vivid without 
 being as painful. 
 
 Query ; — seriously and soberly, and without any talk of 
 nervous necessitation, — how much of the virtue of the 
 world is owing to similar non-virtuous motives ? How 
 often is that which seems benevolence, only a form of self- 
 ishness ? " Always," say some of our philosophers ; 
 "charitable folks are uneasy if they refrain, and so they 
 gratify themselves by giving ! " Delightful theory. Master 
 Hobbes ! Then this virtue is on a par with that of my 
 good hyi^ochondriac, whose modesty is kept alive by 
 nausea, and whose comj^assion is generated by the colic ! 
 Perhaps it may be said, " Well ; what is the difference to 
 the world ? Who can distinguish between the most refined 
 selfishness and the most refined benevolence, since the for- 
 mer, if it really calculate its own interests, will produce 
 just the same effects as the latter?" Exactly the same, I 
 believe ; so that a world of truly calculating Ej^icureans 
 would do just the same things as a world of virtuous men. 
 Yet somehow, dear Epicureans, Ave feel that two acts are 
 toto coelo different when the sources of the said acts are 
 different ; — as different as the blush which is called up by 
 modesty from that erubescence which is the effect of a 
 blister. 
 
 I am afraid that all this excellent disquisition will hardly 
 reconcile you to your dyspepsia. Wishing that you may 
 soon be so rid of it that you need not doubt whether your 
 abstinence be involuntary or your prudence comj)ulsory, 
 believe me, 
 
 Ever, my dear Friend, 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 R. E. II. G. 
 
" STRIKES." 107 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Great Bare, Sept. 1S42. 
 My dear West, 
 
 I trust we are at leno-th comiiiQ^ to the end of that for- 
 midable " strike " among the colliers, which has kept this 
 part of the country in such commotion during the past few 
 Aveeks. Poor fellows ! it makes one almost despair of ever 
 rescuing them from the tyranny of their own follies. One 
 would have thought that the experiments already made 
 must have convinced them that " strikes," injurious to all, 
 must be chiefly injurious to themselves; that it is just 
 " cutting off the nose to be revenged on the face," as the 
 proverb says. Here is a million or more of wages lost to 
 themselves and their families; the little hoards which 
 ought to have been a sacred deposit for old age or a day 
 of adversity, exhausted ; the community at large subjected 
 to great loss and anxiety ; the habits of thousands amongst 
 tlie artisans themselves dee2)ly, and in many cases incurably, 
 injured; and nothing in the world to show for it, except a 
 few Aveeks of frenzied excitement and ruinous idleness. The 
 only peojDle benefited are the keepers of beer-shops, and 
 those fools or knaves (for one or other they must be) who 
 seduce the poor creatures into the notion that " strikes " 
 are wise things. As for the leaders, a " strike " is, of course, 
 for a month or two, a fool's paradise; they spout and 
 speechify — they form "committees" — they preside over 
 them — they travel gratis — they assume state — they are 
 agreeably inflated (even next door to bursting) with the 
 fumes of conceit and self-importance. Really, when one 
 considers how, on these occasions, the poor folks are led 
 by the nose ; how plain it is, that come what come will of 
 
108 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 a, strike, and be the j^rovocation to it what it will, the 
 laborers themselves must be the chief losers, and yet how 
 slow they are to learn truth so obvious, it almost makes 
 one despair. But you, I know, do not despair ; neither in 
 truth do I, though I have not the faith which some of our 
 modern savans and reformers profess in that infallible 
 " sj^ecific " — knowledge ! " Knowdedge is power " — they 
 are eternally chanting. Why, aye ; and so is ignorance, — 
 as our strike-demagogues agreeably find ; indeed, I fear, if 
 w^e consult history, that we shall find, so far as mere power 
 goes, that great events have depended for their possibility 
 quite as much on the ignorance of men in general as on the 
 knowledge of those who have j^ractised ujjon it ; not to 
 say that half the great things men have accomplished would 
 have been unattemj^ted, if a happy ignorance had not 
 shrouded, at the commencement, the tremendous obstacles 
 to be encountered. " INTaturalists have observed," says 
 South, " that blindness is a very great help and instigation 
 to boldness. And amongst men, as ignorance is commonly 
 said to be the mother of devotion, so in account of the 
 birth and descent of confidence too ... he who makes 
 ignorance the mother of this also, reckons its pedigree by 
 the surer side." 
 
 Knowledge, I grant, is a more respectable source of 
 power than ignorance ; but still, whether it be a beneficial 
 power depends on a variety of conditions with which it has 
 no essential connection in the world. 3Iere enlightenment 
 is as little capable of subduing a refractory will and selfish 
 passions, as ignorance ; and surely the history of the world, 
 — of unscrupulous ambition and crooked policy, — suftice 
 to show that intellect and knowledge are in themselves in- 
 struments merely, and are just as ready to serve wrong as 
 right — villany as virtue. I should as little hope by mere 
 knowledge to make a man act aright, as to get incendiary 
 
ESTIMATE OF "KNOWLEDGE." 109 
 
 "Hodge" (as some one has said), just as he is about to 
 stick his torcli into a wheat-stack, to forego his enhght- 
 ened j^urpose by reading to him the treatise on " Heat " 
 out of the Library of Useful Knowledge, and showing him 
 that, by the laws of tlie communication of " caloric," the 
 said wheat-stack would first " expand " and then inconven- 
 iently "contract" under the action of that mysterious 
 element. 
 
 Mere " political " knowledge, however sound, will effect 
 the object just as little. Indeed, Hodge, ignorant as he 
 may be, has quite light enough, before kindling his confla- 
 gration, to see by. What is wanted is n t7rdnin(/ that shall 
 operate on habit ; a training^ religious and moral as well 
 as intellectual ; that alone will do the business. 
 
 If it be said that the schooling^ by which knowledge is 
 imparted, will do good, — that I admit most willingly; any 
 decently managed school is, in that point of view, beyond 
 all price ; but then, though the giving of the hioidedge is 
 the avowed object, the great benefit reaped is amoral one; 
 it is the effect produced in the very process itself of acqui- 
 sition that constitutes the chief value of schooling ; it is 
 because industry, perseverance, j^atience, punctuality, ve- 
 racity, honesty, and so on, are practically taught in the 
 course of this school discipline; it is because it involves 
 the right employment of time, and the exclusion of temp- 
 tation. 
 
 When right habits^ indeed, have been formed, then the 
 knowledge imparted during their formation becomes inval- 
 uable, and an instrument fit to be profitably used ; but, in 
 itself, it is as liable to moral abuse as ignorance. If (to 
 use a Socratic figure) you could i^our all this knowledge into 
 a lad's mind " as from a ^-essel," at once, and without the 
 moral process of schooling, it would as little follow tliat it 
 would be rightly used, or prove beneficial (though a " pow- 
 
 10 
 
110 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 er " it would be), as the gifts of genius, which, we know 
 familiarly enough, are no infallible passj^ort to virtue. It 
 is just the same with mere knowledge. Neither capacity 
 nor knowledge have, in themselves, any reference to virtue, 
 any more than anything else that is merely instrumental, 
 and that may be, like these, used or abused. 
 
 In the meantime, it is hard to say how long it will be 
 before our artisans and mechanics will learn j^ractical wis- 
 dom, since exjjerience itself has so often failed to teach it. 
 I fear that thousands of families, in the present case, will 
 find the table of " Dry Measure " in Bonnycastle utterly 
 wrong, and that a " strike " is anything but equal to " two 
 bushels," while, not " twenty strikes," but " one," will prove 
 
 a "load" of intolerable misery ! 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXYII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Leicester, Dec. 19, 1842. 
 My dear West, 
 
 I met last night, at the house of a friend in this place, 
 one who knew the celebrated Robert Hall. Among other 
 things, he told me he had heard that, when a student at 
 Bristol, Robert had been brought before the College au- 
 thorities for being present at a prize-fight ! He defended 
 liimself half in jest and half in earnest, and to the great 
 liorror of the square-toes, confessed the fact, but denied 
 any fault ; on the contrary, contended that a prize-fight 
 was a very instructive sight for a youth to witness ! One 
 can imagine the consternation of the seniors, while perhaps 
 the young scapegrace insisted that it was a fine exhibition 
 
HUMAN PUGNACITY. Ill 
 
 of vigilance, patience, and fortitude ; as such, eminently 
 desirable for a Christian, and most desirable of all for a 
 Christian minister to gaze upon ; that Paul himself had 
 evidently been at many a prize-fight, as shown by his fond- 
 ness for the imagery derived fi-om it ; that it was also a 
 most melancholy exhibition of human depravity and corrup- 
 tion, and therefore full of solemn and tender suggestions 
 to one whose business it would be to rebuke and correct 
 iniquity ; and in short (for Robert was not the lad in those 
 days to halt at a half paradox), that it was a singularly in- 
 structive and monitory spectacle for young ministers of the 
 Gospel ! 
 
 There is certainly something very attractive in a fight of 
 any kind, let us say what we will. It was only the other day 
 that I felt this (shall I confess it ?), when I saw two little 
 imps pitching into one another with much good-will — that 
 is, ill-will — in the street. Out of regard for the pubhc 
 peace, or to prevent some member of the " Peace Society," 
 should any such one come along, from knocking their 
 heads together by way of teaching them to abstain from 
 all violence, I magnanimously " struck up " their swords — 
 I mean, their fists — with my umbrella, looked awful, and 
 said solemnly, "Sirs, ye are brethren ; Avhy do ye wrong one 
 another ? " Yet, methinks, I coitld have stayed and seen a 
 round or two with much comfort and edification. " After 
 all," thought I, as I went along somewhat uplifted and 
 vainglorious, " how do I know that I have not impeded 
 justice, and given indemnity to the wrong doer? How do 
 I know that I have saved weak innocence from tyrannous 
 strength ? Nay, how do I know, (on which ever side lay 
 justice or injustice,) I have really done anj'thing?" And 
 this last, probably, was the coiTcct view; for, as soon as 
 my back was turned, the great suit most likely proceeded 
 to its ordinary arbitration, as if no such potent mediator had 
 
112 THE GREYSON LETTEPwS. 
 
 appeared. It was just like many, more important, actions ; 
 whetlicr our interference does good or hann, we know 
 not ; or, for the matter of that, whether it has any effect at 
 all. 
 
 You remember the feeling, I dare say, with which, at 
 school, the symptoms of a " fight " were hailed. "A ring, a 
 ring," shouted the amiable bystanders, ignorant of the cause 
 of the quarrel, and afraid only of its being too early accom- 
 modated. Certainly the love of a contest, of seeing energy 
 and passion exhibited, must be strong in our pugnacious 
 race ; for whether it be a fight between a matador and his 
 brute antagonist, or of two knights at a tourney, or an in- 
 tellectual combat between acute and accomplished minds, 
 it seems to be witnessed with much the same eagerness by 
 the sjjectators as the fights of our school-days by us. Too 
 often men feel as little regard to the justice of the cause as 
 we did, when we watched, perhajis fomented, the first happy 
 symptoms of a quarrel; trembling lest a little reasonable 
 diplomacy should rob us of our treat ! In that case we felt 
 as much defi'auded as the servant girl whose mistress had 
 given her a holiday — to see an execution. She came back 
 in tears, and her mistress was needlessly afraid that the 
 sorrows of the sj^ectacle had been too much for her sym- 
 pathetic nerves. The lady was never more mistaken. 
 "Oh, ma'am," sobbed the girl, "the man Avas not hung after 
 all!" 
 
 What would you not have given to see the young scape- 
 graces of Athens who assembled round Socrates, and lis- 
 tened to his disputes with the Sophist tribe ? It would have 
 been almost as interestinof to watch their countenances as 
 those of the chief combatants. How few amongst them 
 should we have found fairly and ingenuously awaiting 
 the issue of the investigation ! How few cared an 
 obolus about the truth ! How few were willing to adopt 
 
LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 113 
 
 the practical teaching of the great sage they admired! 
 Yet who can question that the delight with which these 
 subtle youths watched the process by which the redoubted 
 athlete of logic cast to the ground his antagonists, was 
 most intense ? Just as intense, I dare say, as that with 
 wliich many of the hearers of the eloquent preacher with 
 whom I began, listened to his fervid inculcation of the 
 sublimest truths — and then forgot to practise them ! . . . 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Tuesday, June 10, 1S43. 
 My DEAR Feiend, 
 
 The " suspicions," you say, of your friend were unjust 
 and hard to bear. Yes ; unjust suspicion is always the very 
 hardest thing to bear, — except, indeed^ Jitst susj^icion. Do 
 we want proof ? Why, look at Job. There we see a sub- 
 mission, equally magnanimous and sweet, till his friends 
 came to " comfort him." What, by the bye, must be the 
 condition of a man, when his greatest j)lagues are his " con- 
 solations ? " 
 
 Thus was it with the Patriarch. His wife was bad enough, 
 no doubt ; and truly politic was the astute malignity of Sa- 
 tan in letting her remain, whatever else he took away ; ac- 
 cording to Coleridge's epigram : — 
 
 " He took his honors, took liis •wealth, 
 He took his children, took his health, 
 His camels, horses, asses, cows, — ■ 
 And the sly devil did not take his spouse." 
 10* 
 
114 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 But his wife was nothing to \m friends. She was a blas- 
 phemous idiot — unless the translators have done her injus- 
 tice ; and Job gets rid of her, as the Antiquary might have 
 done, by telling her she si3ake as one of the " foolish woman- 
 kind." But only think of the greater folly of the three phi- 
 losophic " Consolers," — who came to see their friend in the 
 extremity of his desolation, and had nothing better to tell 
 him than that they were very sorry to find him a great rep- 
 robate ; hoped that, instead of offensive protestations of in- 
 nocence, he would make a clean breast of it, and gratify 
 them by tellmg them what a hoary old hyjDOcrite he had 
 been ! It is a thousand pities that they broke their long 
 silence of "seven days;" — they would have done much 
 better in their character oimutes^ and might have thus play- 
 ed their parts as decently as our modern friends of the same 
 name, in other funereal scenes. 
 
 It is true that Job spake many things " unadvisedly with 
 his lips ! " but how can we wonder at it, goaded on by such 
 peculiar " consolations ? " 
 
 It would evidently have been better for Job, if he had 
 said at once, "Not at home," on his dunghill, to these 
 " comfortable gentlemen." It is observable that his tone 
 was altered immediately after their appearance. When he 
 spoke, even before they had spoken to him, he seems a 
 changed man. He did not open his mouth to curse his day 
 and to give expression to all those bitter, yet sublime and 
 pathetic lamentations that he " had ever seen the light," till 
 he saw these curious sympathizers before him. I sometimes 
 think there must have been something in their very pres- 
 ence that galled him; that they gazed at him, perhaps even 
 before they S2:)oke, with severe and sanctimonious looks 
 which betrayed unuttered suspicions, or assumed a little of 
 tliat pompous air with which complacent prosperity is apt to 
 regard humiliation and misery. There is something very 
 
JOB AND HIS FRIENDS. 115 
 
 sweet in the reproof given to these unfriendly friends in the 
 " denouement " of the scene. It has always appeared to me 
 as if, in entirely passing by Job's unquestionable folly in 
 some of his passionate utterances, the Divine Benignity 
 made allowance for those harsh speeches as extorted from 
 him in the anguish of his soul under the pressure of his ca- 
 lamities, the most bitter of which was his friends' condo- 
 lence. It is as though God looked on these as involuntary, 
 torn from him under a condition in which moral self-control 
 was lost in physical and mental agony ; and so, thinking 
 only of the substantial truth of Job's declarations of recti- 
 tude, and of the more enlarged views which, on the whole, 
 he took of the divine administration, his condescending 
 Maker refuses to take notice of these escapades of His afflict- 
 ed child, — while He visits with severe rebuke the conduct 
 of Bildad the Shuhite and his t^^o amiable auxiliaries ; be- 
 cause, while uttering many " wise saws " and solemn tru- 
 isms, they had indulged in such uncharitable suspicions, and 
 had been so utterly careless about the anguish they were 
 causing. He was " angry " that they had not spoken the 
 thing that was right, " as His servant Job; " and they were 
 to go to His " servant Job " to be prayed for, and eat hum- 
 ble pie, and a good large slice of it too (I should hke to have 
 seen their faces while they were munching it), else their 
 leisurely and inhuman philosophy would have got them into 
 a scraj)e. 
 
 By the bye, is there not exquisite nature in the gradual 
 way in which the " wordy strife," once begun, goes on in- 
 creasing in harshness and uncharitableness ? The " friends " 
 at first express their suspicions with circumlocution and po- 
 lite ambiguity, and the " ifs " — which however, are no 
 " peacemakers " — are abundant. But as the controversy 
 proceeds, they become as thoughtless of Job's feelings and 
 of the pangs they cause, as a Majendie in dissecting a live 
 
116 THE GREYSON LETTERS- 
 
 jackass ! There is human nature for you ! Once get angry 
 for an hypothesis, even though an ethical one, and our ethi- 
 cal philosopher will trample charity, pity, truth itself, and 
 every cardinal virtue under heaven in the mire, sooner than 
 surrender a tatter of it. 
 
 The pathos of that bitter .cry, — "Have pity on me, oh, 
 my friends ! have pity on me, for the hand of God hath 
 touched me," — extorts nothing from the " Consolations of 
 Philosophy " on this occasion. EHphaz the Temanite is 
 prompt to " answer the multitude of words " with a greater 
 multitude ; and, " full of talk " himself, asks whether " a 
 man full of talk is to be justified ? " Zophar the Naamathite 
 has heard the " copy of his reproach," and hastens to show 
 that he is not going to stand that ; while Bildad the Shu- 
 hite wants to know, in a jDrolix speech, how long it will be 
 before Job " makes an end of words ?" One and all hasten 
 to enter their protest against Job's reasonings, and vindicate 
 their system of dogmatic theology ; bring him in guilty of 
 "uttering lies," "mocking God," "casting off fear," "re- 
 straining prayer ;" of a " crafty tongue," and the " hope of 
 the hypocrite ! " ]N^o wonder at last, after Job's final and 
 most sublime self-vindication, that he intrenches himself in 
 that indignant silence which is yet more touching than his 
 pathos, — and exclaims, " The words of Job are ended." It 
 is a great wonder to me that the good man did not fairly 
 succumb under the weight of his friends' sympathy and con- 
 solation. 
 
 From this unlucky experiment, I think we may infer that 
 when we see any man in trouble, and have nothing better 
 to say to him than that he is probably scourged for sins of 
 which we know nothing, we had better hold our tongues ; 
 but, at all events, let us not wonder that such suspicions 
 embitter the spirit of man far more than the troubles them- 
 selves. 
 
JOB AND HIS FRIENDS. 117 
 
 By the Tray, — and quite apart from this particular and 
 unexampled case of condolence, I should say that it is bet- 
 ter, at least in great trouble, to be at first loithout humian 
 sympathy altogether. A man in his senses, left alone with 
 God and himself, manages, I sometimes think, better than 
 with a host of merely mortal " Consolateurs." In the pres- 
 ence of the Infinite, — like Job before those accursed 
 tongues began to wag, — we fall down prostrate, and hush 
 the heart in silence. But if we begin to talk much with oth- 
 ers, or they with us, — beshrew that confounded tongue 
 (theirs and ours) ! — it somehow reacts on the heart and the 
 understanding, and produces disquiet. Like the clang of a 
 trumpet, it excites emotions that, but for it, might have 
 slumbered. Sometimes, too, the platitudes which a mind 
 at ease utters to a mind in anguish (however true they may 
 be), and the provoking tranquillity with which they are doled 
 out, chafe and irritate us. Sometimes we are told we grieve 
 too much^ and sometimes not in the right w^ay ; sometimes 
 a consolation is hinted which is felt to be none ; sometimes 
 we are told to be cheerful, when we feel we can't ; and more 
 frequently than all, and perhaps worse than all, comes a bit 
 of mortal moral " prosing," which has been anticipated by 
 our own mind a thousand times, and the repetition of which 
 only tends to make us impatient. Perhaps I am peculiarly 
 sensitive in this matter ; but I confess I have never been in 
 profundis (and I have several times been so) without Avish- 
 ing every friend that came to see me, at Jericho. 
 
 I remember, in one of the most sorrow^ful hours of my 
 life, meeting by chance with a relation who had sufiTered a 
 like calamity. I had not seen lier for years ; I have ncA^er 
 seen her since ; I can never see her again, at least in this 
 world. We met, clasped hands, looked into each other's 
 eyes, — read, reciprocally, the Avhole tale of ench other's 
 sorrows there, — exchanged all unutterable thoughts, — 
 
118 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and, without speaking one word, passed on. I will venture 
 to say we said more, and more to the purpose too, than if 
 we had been exchanging common-places of condolence 
 from that day to this. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Great Barr, Aug. 1843. 
 My dear "West, 
 
 I am not ashamed to say that, after you left me, I felt 
 very much like a fish out of water, if indeed you know how 
 that feels. I could settle to nothing. My books seemed 
 uninteresting, — the garden walk, we had so often paced 
 of late, intolerably lonesome, — the silent j^iano a positively 
 disagreeable object. The sun shines as bright over the green 
 fields and hills as when we rambled and talked so merrily 
 there yesterday, and yet it seems to shine with a sombre and 
 melancholy light. Certainly those of us who live almost 
 absolutely in solitude are much to be pitied when we have 
 parted with a friend ; for, if the pleasure of seeing him is 
 keen in proportion to the rarity of the enjoyment, the sep- 
 aration is felt with a far more exquisite sensibility than can 
 ever be experienced by those to whom each day brings a 
 new guest, and whose memories, like the waxen tablet of 
 the ancients, are ready each moment to receive a new im- 
 13ression. 
 
 These partings, — when will they cease ? or cease to be 
 regretted because they can be at pleasure eternally re- 
 newed ? But in this world, and at our age, I cannot help 
 thinking, whenever we part, of what Cowper says so pathet- 
 
ANTEDILUVIAN FRIENDSHIPS. 119 
 
 ically, that " the robin red-breast may be chirping on the 
 grave of one of ns before the winter is over." I sometimes 
 envy the patriarchs their longevity, who could, without ab- 
 surdity, invite a friend to pay a visit, " if all be well," half 
 a century, or, for the matter of that, two centuries hence, 
 and at sixty besj^eak the honor and j^leasure, " if nothing 
 happened," of your company at their three hundred and 
 fiftieth birthday ! — at all events, when they did meet, could 
 speak not only of an ancient friendship of thirty or forty 
 years, as we poor ephemerals so complacently do, but of 
 one of five or six centuries ! Terribly long-winded, though, 
 depend upon it, must have been some of those stories which 
 the old gentlemen told over a winter fire ; I imagine Me- 
 thuselah's youngest son, a stripling of eighty or so, must 
 often have anticipated the maxim of Montaigne, " Les 
 vieillards sont dangereux." No doubt, he often quietly 
 slipped out of the room just as the patriarch began that 
 desperately tough affair of his " first love," when he was a 
 gay youth of just one hundred. Cannot you imagine the 
 ancient, surrounded with his great-great-great-great-grand- 
 children, to the seventh or eighth generation, in a small fam- 
 ily party of seven hundred and forty-five, — all assembled to 
 celebrate his eight hundred and fifty-first birthday ? What 
 prodigious lapses of time, methinks, would the old gentle- 
 man be aj^t to deal with ; — how he remembered sojne- 
 thing four hundred and fifty years ago, " come next fall," 
 as well as if it happened "yesterday;" how he remem- 
 bered it very well, because his eldest daughter's great- 
 grandchild's fifth daughter's son's nephew was then a little 
 lad of forty years of age, and died of the measles ! 
 
 Yet, on second thoughts, it seems irreverent thus to talk 
 of the imagined prosiness of him on whose silver hairs we 
 should have looked as on the snowy summit of Mont Blanc ; 
 whose eyes had gazed on those of Adam ; who could tell 
 
120 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 US traditions of tlie young beauty of Eve, and carry us back 
 to memories of the world's dawn ! 
 
 But would even patriarchal longevity suffice us ? I trow 
 not. Even that must come to an end ; and if we were to 
 live not only as long as Methuselah, but as long as Voltaire's 
 little man of Saturn, whose term w^as 30,000 years, or even 
 as " Micromegas " himself, w^e should still say, " This, you 
 see, is just to be admitted to a glimpse of the world ; we 
 are doomed to die, as one may say, the moment we are 
 born." No question but Methuselah himself often read sage 
 lessons in his nine hundredth year on the extreme brevity 
 and vanity of human life, and told his descendants, when 
 near a thousand, that his days were but " as a shadow," and 
 " as a dream in the night." What then the remedy ? Ah ! 
 my friend, how these partings make one long for that im- 
 mortality in which there shall be none, or none that shall be 
 attended with regrets; because we shall be assured that 
 after a little interval — yes, for even if separation be for a 
 thousand years, it will be little in comparison with eternal 
 duration — w^e shall meet in joy again, and friendship know 
 no death. Strange, glorious issue of things ! when friends 
 shall bid each other farewell, even for five hundred years, 
 witli an unmoistened eye : set out, on a little tour of some 
 small portion of the universe (to visit Cassiopea, for exam- 
 ple, or Orion, for two or three centuries,) and come back, 
 still to find the charmed home-circle unbroken, the " immor- 
 tal amaranth " still mantling the porch with its unfading 
 leaf, and gardens ever verdant, because there " eternal sum- 
 mer dwells." 
 
 Mystery of mysteries ! that human folly should ever fore- 
 go these enchanting hopes, and count itself " unworthy of 
 eternal life : " still greater mystery, that sin should ever in- 
 duce us to do anything to forfeit them ! Yet, in truth, the 
 latter mystery will enable us to comprehend the former ; for 
 
IMMORTALITY. 121 
 
 the fact that man is such a fool as to imperil immortal de- 
 light for momentary gratifications, too well explains his 
 apathy. Apart from the consciousness of demerit, there is 
 not a human being who would not, amidst the sorrows and 
 separations of this world, sooner part with anything than 
 the hopes — even though they be faint — of immortality. 
 Let a future life be only matter of guesses and conjectures, 
 yet, if man thought that the sole alternatives it joresented 
 were Nothing or "eternal happiness," you would see all 
 mankind true to the principles on which they generally act, 
 and believing as the will directed them. Yes, ready to 
 knock anybody on the head Avho but whispered a doubt of 
 that fair reversion which man's hopes would soon teach him 
 to convert into certainty. 
 
 Strange that any one for the sake of a little gain, or a prof 
 i table lie, or the momentary gratification of any passion or 
 appetite whatever, should do anything to cloud such bright 
 hopes, which surely, even if delusive, are, so long as they 
 are believed, by far the most solid and precious of all our 
 j^leasures ! May you and I, my friend, seek, in the only 
 right way, the realization of these hopes, and every day 
 earnestly strive to render ourselves less strange to the scenes 
 which await us, by foregoing every appetite and passion 
 which is inconsistent with them. \Ye shall then at length 
 greet each other, I doubt not, in that world where we shall 
 either part no more, or part and meet, and meet and part 
 without end ; — • meet with ever fresh delight, and part with- 
 out fear or sorrow ; where " farewell " — no empty wish — 
 will always fulfil itself, and " welcome " will be repeated 
 
 for ever. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 11 
 
122 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO HAD ISTAREOWLT ESCAPED SPENDING A 
 NIGHT IN ST. ALBAn's ABBEY.* 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Far from laughing at you for that pit-a-pat at the heart 
 as you saw the gleam of sunlight lessening in the great 
 western door of the Abbey, and thought you were in for 
 an autumnal night in the dreary pile, (standing so isolated, 
 that by no possibility could you have made your voice 
 heard,) I assure you, I quite felt for you, and was conscious 
 of a sympathetic pit-a-pat even at your descrijJtion. 
 
 I think I have as much physical courage as most men, 
 and perhaps more than the average moral courage ; and 
 yet I am so persuaded that mere courage, physical or moral, 
 is imj^otent against the cuinidative effects of imagination 
 when that faculty is subjected to the continuous pressure 
 of influences favorable to its unchecked activity, that 
 I would not answer for myself, or for any man in the cir- 
 cumstances in which you seemed likely to be placed. 
 
 In truth, let the imagination be ever so feeble, let it be 
 with or without culture, still I believe fully that its latent 
 energies may, under the operation of novel, imj^ressive, and 
 sufficiently i^ersistent influences, be roused into such in- 
 tense action, as to overmaster every other faculty ; subdue 
 not only reason and judgment by ideal terrors, but impose 
 laws on sensation itself; make the eyes see, and the ears 
 hear, just what it pleases. 
 
 I dare say you may recollect reading of sentinels during 
 
 * Finding the door open, he had wandered in one autumn afternoon, 
 and, lost in thought, was musing in the ancient pile, when he heard steps 
 near the distant door. He turned, and had just time to call to the vanish- 
 ing figures. A minute later, and he would have been shut in all night. 
 
POWER OF IMAGINATION. 123 
 
 the Peninsular War, who, having been stationed on the 
 outskirts of the field after a day's skirmish, have been 
 known to desert in the night, not from fear of living 
 enemies, but from inability to endure the proximity of 
 the dead ! There lay the foe in the dread silence of his 
 last sleep, and put his living foe to flight ! I can easily 
 imagine such a thing happening even to a brave man. 
 
 I remember, when a lad of sixteen, it used to be some- 
 times my lot to pass a remarkably dreary and isolated 
 churchyard about a mile distant from a very ancient 
 country town. Like some other ancient towns, it has 
 gradually shifted its site and left its churchyard behind it, 
 as if the dead and the living had quarrelled; — no bad 
 separation, by the way. If I were writing now to our 
 worthy friend, the Rector of , I would maliciously sug- 
 gest whether it might not be from antipathy to " sermons " 
 that we thus find old towns sometimes hitching away 
 from the church ! 
 
 At that time of life, an imputation of fear was my 
 greatest fear. So feeling ashamed of a certain uneasy 
 consciousness of gladness when my horse had fairly turned 
 the corner of the road which led into the churchyard, I 
 resolved, one wild-looking, stormy November evening, to 
 face and conquer this indefinite dread. I tied my horse 
 to the gate which led into the charmed ground, and de- 
 termined to walk fairly round it. I did so, — and I need 
 hardly say saw nothing; yet I will own to you that 
 before I had made the circuit, the senses were sufficiently 
 quickened to convince me that it only required sufficient 
 time to make me see and hear any thing that imagination 
 should choose to palm upon me. The melancholy autumn 
 wind sighed and moaned with peculiar solemnity among 
 the branches of the dark trees which edged the wall of 
 the churchyard ; and as it rustled in the long grass of the 
 
124 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 graves over which I stumbled, and made the sear leaves 
 patter on the grave-stones, I could almost fancy I heard 
 the feet of supernatural visitants; the shimmering of 
 a Avhite tomb seen in the distant gloom looked like a 
 " sheeted ghost ; " and as I was just getting round to the 
 point which led straight to the churchyard gate, all at 
 once, and without any reason or warning, I had a sort of 
 vision, as my eyes rested on ^ a large tomb, of a figure 
 lifting its arm with a menacing gesture. It w^as, I doubt 
 not, the fancy-transformed shape of some monumental 
 sculpture ; but it came with such startling suddenness 
 that it left me without power of reasoning upon it. I 
 made a strong effort to walk straight on, though quick- 
 ening my pace, and was glad enough, I am not ashamed 
 to say, to regain my horse's back, — who, happily proof 
 against all imagination, was quietly munching his grass, 
 and, I dare say, wondering in his mind at the unreasonable 
 hour I had chosen for my devotions ! 
 
 I once had a friend who lost his way on one of the 
 mountains of Cumberland one autumn evening ; and fear- 
 ful of walking down some precipice, and equally afraid of 
 going to sleep, he paced out a little walk, before it became 
 quite dark, and resolved to keep in motion to and fro on 
 that sentinel's beat all night. He told me that as he 
 looked at the giant peaks and the shadowy glens by the 
 light of a waning moon, and listened to the distant roar 
 of waters in the still and solemn night, his imagination 
 possessed and terrified him almost to madness ; and I can 
 well believe it. 
 
 Had you been caught, I can easily suppose that you 
 might have been fairly over-mastered before morning, and 
 come out an — idiot! You would have had an endless 
 variety and succession of sights and sounds wherewith 
 fancy might play you tricks, — making you at last see 
 
POWER OF IMAGINATION. 125 
 
 what is invisible, and hear what is inaudible. No doubt 
 you would have spent the hour of fading twilight in 
 pacing up and down the echoing aisles, trying to persuade 
 yourself of the folly of ideal terrors, and that, beyond the 
 absurdity and inconvenience of your situation, there was 
 really nothing to disturb you. But, as you felt chilly 
 with the night wind, and weary and faint with fasting (for 
 an empty stomach has a good deal to do with a haunted 
 brain, yea, a glass of warm negus has a mighty power of 
 laying ghosts), imagination would begin to plague you; 
 and the very echo of your footsteps, as you trod the 
 resounding pavement, would seem to suggest sounds 
 whispering in the roof. A sudden gleam of moonlight, 
 as it broke through a cloud and chased a shadow near 
 some distant pillar, would seem to show your startled eye 
 that some living shape had glided behind the column ; or 
 as it brought out into shimmering light a distant monu- 
 mental figure, would animate the marble with fancied life 
 and motion. The very look of that low black door in the 
 spacious north transept, seen in such vivid contrast with 
 the white walls and columns, and leading down (so tradi- 
 tion says) to the tombs of the old abbots — would, if I 
 am not mistaken, almost seem to you, as you passed it at a 
 distance, half open ; nay, do you not hear some strange 
 sounds within it? There are also, you feel confident, 
 mutterings and whisperings in the long cloistered walk 
 over head among the second tiers of pillars. Hark! what 
 was that sound? Pshaw! it is but a distant turret door 
 slamming to with the night wind. You are but just con- 
 vinced of it, when a rustling sound behind you seems to 
 show that footsteps are pattering near. No, it is but the 
 swaying of the branches of the old yew-tree against a 
 distant window. Another burst of moonlight suddenly 
 calls out of darkness a grotesque and grinning monster near 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 you. Look again ; pish ! it is but a fantastic ornament of 
 tomb or pillar. All at once, the sharp shrill scream of the 
 owlet startles the ear of night ; — how deep, how appalling, 
 is the silence that follows ! Suddenly there is again a sound 
 behind you, and, as you turn, a flickering shadow is seen ; 
 it is certainly some one disappearing behind that j^illar. 
 One — two — the clock tolls midnight ; its vibrations are 
 painfully distinct to the ear . . . and you think there are six 
 long hours of darkness still before you ! 
 
 In short, my friend, I am very glad you ivere not 
 called to face this nocturnal adventure, for I fear that long 
 before you had pished and pshaioed^ and pooh-poohed 
 away the sights and sounds which haunted you, imagi- 
 nation might so have transformed and misinterpreted 
 them, as to make a fool of reason. 
 
 Did you ever stand and watch the dead, alone and 
 steadily for some time — especially by candle-light ? I 
 have, and without a particle of fear ; but as I have con- 
 tinued to gaze, I have seen how easily imagination might 
 be deceived. I could sometimes almost have sworn that 
 I had seen a slight movement of the heavy eyelashes, or a 
 very slow rising and falling of the shroud, as of a perfectly 
 noiseless breathing ! 
 
 Plow exquisitely does Walter Scott depict the effect on 
 the rude Deloraine, as he takes the "mighty book" from 
 the Wizard's " dead hand," in Melrose Abbey ! The 
 flickering light on the face of death will often give just 
 the appearance of that "dread frown." 
 
 " Then Deloraine in terror took 
 From the dead hand the mighty book, 
 AVith iron elapsed, and with iron bound 
 He thought as he took it, the dead man frowned. 
 But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
 Perchance had dazzled the warrior's sight." 
 
POWER OF IMAGINATION. 127 
 
 No doubt habit will reconcile iis to any thing; and 
 people would, in a little while, sleep as sound in a charnel- 
 house or in your abbey, as anywhere else. But place 
 them in totally novel circumstances, and the old suscep- 
 tibilities revive, and imagination asserts its supremacy 
 again. 
 
 It is well, no doubt, to be freed from all superstitious 
 fears ; but the universal tendency of the human mind to 
 people, with ideal shapes, solitude and night, and the 
 abodes of the dead, — a tendency which assumes, in gen- 
 eral, so intense a form in that hour when men draw near 
 the " land of shadows," — does it not seem to indicate, 
 my friend, that there are faculties in our nature Avhich 
 prophesy, fxavTcvovcn, as a Greek would say — presage, 
 give us an " inkling " of, the supernatural ? Do not sus- 
 ceptibilities, which are so easily awakened in almost every 
 bosom, aiford a presumption that we are in affinity with 
 another world, and continually stand on the frontiers of 
 it? I know that this alo?ie would be an inadequate 
 argument for such a conclusion; but supposing it made 
 out by other and more tangible evidence, is not this 
 sensitiveness of the imagination to all the circumstances 
 which insulate us from the world, and seem to bring us in 
 fancy to the confines of the world of spirits, in harmony 
 with this solemn conclusion ? 
 
 I know that it is the custom of many philosophers not 
 only to laugh at ideal terrors — which is very proper — 
 but to laugh also at this universal tendency^ and resolve it 
 all into association ; — even the presaging inquietude of a 
 dying hour. But whether they be philosophical in this is 
 another question. 
 
 They reason thus : that as we are so often beguiled by 
 ideal terrors, therefore this whole tendency of the imagi- 
 nation is illusory, and death and its revelations as little to 
 
128 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 be dreaded as night and silence. Other men, so far as 
 
 they lay any stress on this sensitiveness of imagination at 
 
 all, would argue that it rather indicates that there are 
 
 unseen realities than that there are 7iooie^ though, no 
 
 doubt, it often befools itself; just as shadows indicate a 
 
 substance, or as dreams are the counterpart of realities. 
 
 One thing, at all events, both of us know well enough ; 
 
 that many who are most contemptuously incredulous in all 
 
 such matters prove the greatest cowards when the trial 
 
 comes. Abundance of examples show that those who have 
 
 gathered courage from the illusory character of su23ersti- 
 
 tious fears to j^roclaim, while in health and strength, the 
 
 equally illusory character of the terrors of death itself, are 
 
 ajjt at last to prove arrant cravens. This so frequent failure 
 
 of courage ought to make these Bardolphs and Bobadillas 
 
 of the devil a little more modest ; — they should not, for 
 
 very shame, boast and swagger over their cups, in high 
 
 blood and in broad daylight, since, like so many of their 
 
 fellows, they may be found showing the " white feather " 
 
 when the inevitable hour, which can alone test their courage, 
 
 comes. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Januakt, 1844. 
 
 My dear West, 
 
 So J. S. is unmasked at last. Upon my honor I 
 
 almost pity him ; — not for being unmasked, for on that 
 he ought rather to be congratulated, since it has at least put 
 a term to a course of what must have been unparalleled 
 
FIT PUNISHMENT OF HYPOCRISY. 129 
 
 self-torture, and was a necessary condition of even a chance 
 of reformation ; but I almost pity him to think of the 
 frightful suffering he must have imjjosed on himself in 
 wearing so long that close vizard, which must, one would 
 think, have almost suffocated him. How much more hard, 
 if the hy]^)ocrite did but know it, to seem than to he vir- 
 tuous ! 
 
 As to your question, " what punishment would be a])- 
 propriate for hyj^ocrisy," — it is hard to say ; I only know 
 that as few can be too severe for it, so few can be more 
 so than that which its eternal arts against detection, its 
 shifts and self-constraint, must inflict on itself. I only 
 know of one thing that could make it much worse ; and 
 that would be (if we had the j^ower to manage it), to com- 
 pel hy]:>ocrisy to act the hypocrite perfectly ; that is, not 
 only to give smiles, gestures, words, or tears, in homage to 
 i-eligion and virtue, but acts — though still reluctant acts ; 
 practical hypocrisy, in short, in which virtue should be 
 exactly simulated, and have nothing wanting in the world, 
 except that trifling thing — its essence. Only think of the 
 rueful acquiescence with which a benevolent hypocrite would 
 back his bland spnpathy with distress and misfortune — 
 by a constrained donation of a guinea ; — the too sincere 
 groans and grimaces with which a h^^iocrite in religion 
 would perform the secret devotions to which he felt him- 
 self internally driven by an irresistible impulse, without 
 meaning a word of the long prayers he uttered ; the vexa- 
 tion with which he would find that sleep fled his eyelids 
 till he had punctually performed his two hours of evening 
 meditation and devotion (a genuine penance surely), for 
 which he was taking credit of the world ! How pleasant 
 for the sentimental philanthropist to find himself, perforce, 
 whispering consolation at the bedside of the sick and dying, 
 and adored as a Howard mthout a particle of claim to it! 
 
130 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the "gay Lothario," sore against his will, compelled to 
 make good that "promise of marriage" under which he 
 intended to betray! the concealed toper always finding 
 his secret flagon filled with delightfully transparent and 
 insipid water ! the disguised rake, playing airs of chastity 
 so well, as to frighten every lady of his acquaintance at 
 his austerity, and the masked wanton enacting the j^rude 
 so inimitably as to j^revent every eye from regarding her 
 in any other light than as an angel who had mistaken her 
 way and stepj^ed into a body by mistake ! Plere, you see, 
 we should have every virtue under heaven and not one 
 l^article of it ; all its good effects though itself non-existent ! 
 You will agree with me, I think, that it would be an intol- 
 erable punishment thus to " do the works of God" and be 
 the " servant of the devil," — to take more pains to go to 
 hell than other people to go to heaven. No doubt ; but 
 then the prescribed actions are precisely what such people 
 pretend to be doing, and I would merely turn the pretence 
 into reality. 
 
 But how, by the way, shall we deal with that curious 
 class of hypocrites who affect fliilings which they have not; 
 who acknowledge " sins" of which they were never guilty, 
 for the sake of being rej^uted saints among those who make 
 a merit of " voluntary humility ; " or who parade vices to 
 which they are strangers for the sake of being thought 
 men of ton and spirit ? To i3unish these by comi^elling 
 them to act the vices they dissemble would, I fear, be no 
 j^unishment at all : the " saint " Avould soon qualify him- 
 self thus to be a " sinner;" and the rake do his best, at all 
 events, to justify his boast of profligacy. It is hard to say 
 how these are to be treated on any such plan. Perhaps 
 the best way would be to get the world to resolve, that 
 when the things hypocritically assumed are considered dis- 
 creditable in themselves, those who assume them for the 
 
ESTIMATE OF "KNOWLEDGE." 181 
 
 enhancement of humility, shall always find themselves 
 believed^ and pass for true-spoken, not self-traducers ; those 
 who do so to gain credit among " the men about town," 
 shall be accounted liars ; thus will the " saint " get credit 
 for his " sins," and the rake no credit for his " spirit." 
 
 How little men would like, in the former case, to be sup- 
 posed to speak the truth, we have a notable example in 
 that old story of the monk who heard the confessions of a 
 certain cardinal. " I am the chief of sinners," said the 
 cardinal. " It is too true," said the monk. " I have been 
 guilty of every kind of sin," sighed the cardinal. " It is a 
 solemn fact, my son," said the monk. " I have indulged 
 in pride, ambition, malice, and revenge," pursued his Em- 
 inence. The j^rovoking confessor assented without one 
 pit}dng word of doubt or protest. " Why, you fool," at 
 last said the exasperated cardinal, " you don't imagine I 
 mean all this to the letter." " Ho, ho ! " said the monk, 
 " so you have been a liar too, have you ? " 
 
 Yours faithfully, and " without hyi^ocrisy," 
 
 B. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. If you have an opportunity, please to take an ex- 
 act measure of J. S 's face. If I mistake not, you will 
 
 find it at least one inch and three quarters shorter than it 
 used to be. 
 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Mat, 1844. 
 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 A youth of whom you knew something, though little 
 
 good, young B , has finished a short career of vice and 
 
 folly by going to sea, and left his widowed mother, after 
 all her passionate love and sacrifices, with a broken heart. 
 
132 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 What a dance the young rascal has led his guardian angel, 
 if indeed he ever had any ; though I fancy he has given 
 up his charge long ago in despair. The mother, it seems, 
 has not j but then a mother surely is more than angel. A 
 strange mystery of love — that parental instinct! How it 
 outlives the worth of its object, and sets j^i'vidence, and 
 calculation, and reason itself, all at defiance. When a child 
 is cast off by all the rest of the world, there is one fond 
 heart that still throbs and is breaking for him ; and when 
 every other door is closed, there is still one left ajar. There 
 the foot-fall even of his reeling stej^s at midnight, as he 
 comes from his drunken orgies, is often watched and lis- 
 tened for with intense agony. Such have often been the 
 vigils, i^assed amidst tears and terror, of this broken- 
 hearted widow. Beautiful, no doubt, most beautiful, is 
 this instinct of parental love — and yet strangely akin to 
 folly ; necessary, I suppose, in this evil world, to give effect 
 to the Divine comj)assion which " wills not that any should 
 perish, but that all should come to repentance;" yet, in 
 itself, hardly reconcilable with reason. 
 
 Il^evertheless a time must come, I supj^ose, when even 
 this instinct would be wearied out, if fathers and mothers 
 were unmortal upon earth, though not, perhaps, till the full 
 tale of the " seventy times seven " had been duly told. 
 Still, the time would come at last, when even parental love 
 would tire of the task, "never ending, still beginning," 
 of witnessing alternate disobedience and repentance ; when 
 even a father must say to the ungrateful child — "The ex- 
 periment is over ; never more will I be to thee a father ; 
 never more shalt thou be to me a son." Reason revolts 
 at the absurdity of an eternal series of offences and for- 
 givenesses. 
 
 Must it not also be so with the incorrigible children of 
 the Father of all, — who exercises a like long-suffering ? 
 
PARENTAL LONG-SUFFERING. 133 
 
 However men may dispute about hoio experiment is to 
 end, — whether in ultimate annihilation, or hopeless exile 
 from the all-cheering Presence, the spectacle of a responsible 
 being permitted eternally to transgress and eternally to 
 repent, is an absurdity which the intellect and the moral 
 sense alike rebel against. 
 
 But in this world, at all events, parental love is almost 
 never extinguished. I have met with men whom insulted 
 patience, accompanied with severe self-control, and a sensi- 
 bility feeble by nature or subdued by habit, has armed, to 
 all visible appearance at least, with power to cast off a 
 worthless child. I say to all visible aj^pearance ; for we 
 cannot be quite sure. Sometimes we see that a sudden 
 gush of reviving tenderness sweeps away as with a flood 
 all the barriers which a stoical pride had erected, and shows 
 us that the fountain had been dammed up, not dry. But, 
 however it be with men, I have never yet seen a woman, — 
 not herself criminal, — who has utterly suppressed the 
 yearning love for a child, however worthless. 
 
 And so this poor widow sits and weeps over the cruel 
 flight of this detestable cub, who has robbed her, ruined 
 her, and brought down " her gray hairs with sorrow to the 
 grave ; " as if his making ofi" were not the very best thing 
 that could befall her ! She still persists in calling the young 
 scamp's misdeeds " errors," not " crimes," and talks of his 
 faults being rather those of his head than his heart, — as if 
 the young brute ever had a heart ! But who can contra- 
 dict her, or set his ruthless logic against the fallacies of 
 maternal love? 
 
 For myself, if I were his father, I think I should bless 
 the hour of his departure, and devoutly pray that he might 
 get what it is likely he loill get, — a round dozen before 
 he has been a week on shipboard, I think I should feel 
 so, I say, but I know not. As it is, I thank heaven I am 
 
 12 
 
134 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 not his father, and so I will ease my indignation by wishing 
 him not only the round dozen aforesaid, but a weekly 
 repetition of the dose till he comes to a true repentance. 
 
 And perhaps it may be so. God often suffers vice thus 
 to choose its own hard school, and then at length teaches 
 it wisdom. When the schooling of boyhood is over. He has 
 a second school for a multitude of young fools, and there, 
 by bitter experience, enforces the lessons which milder dis- 
 cipline besought them to con in vain. No university for 
 your young prodigal like that in which " swine " are the 
 " fellow-commoners," and " famine " spreads the cloth, and 
 the " husks," — and those grudged, — are the dainty fare. 
 " The way of transgressors is hard," says the great book, 
 and so it obviously must be if the transgressor is ever to be 
 reclaimed at all. Having in obedience to intense selfishness 
 defied all the allurements of love, it must be first taught, 
 by a salutary severity, the xmprojitableness of selfishness. 
 
 When I think of such cases as that of this graceless lad, 
 whose graduation in vice, for the last four years, has been 
 recklessly prosecuted in sight of the all unutterable sorrows 
 he has inflicted; — w^hen I think that every step in his 
 career has been deliberately taken, though every step sent a 
 pang to his mother's heart — chasing sleep from her couch, 
 and making her gray before the time, — I know not w^hether 
 to laugh or be indignant at the cant of that pseudo-philan- 
 throj^y which persists in regarding hardened crime and fixed 
 vice as still quite amenable to the law of kindness, and pleads 
 for such a relaxation of penal discipline as in fact would 
 render all penal discipline a mockery. All needless and 
 improfitable severity, who would not wish, on all grounds, 
 to avoid? But as to indulgence and kindness, can any 
 system of penal discipline afford to show the thousandth 
 part of the long-suffering which a hardened criminal has 
 generally set at defiance? A likely matter, that honied 
 
"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 135 
 
 words and nursery expostulations will operate on those 
 who have, a thousand times, wrung the fibres of a mother's 
 heart, and set at naught her tears of anguish ; trampled 
 under foot all the sanctities of home, and slept sound, and 
 laughed, and sung, and drunk, sj^ite of the haunting spec- 
 tacle of the comprehensive ruin they have sj^read around 
 them ! This is to imagine that the ice which would not 
 relent to the sun, will melt in the beams of the aurora 
 borealis. Nothing but the *' furnace" of affliction, seven 
 times heated, can usually perform the first part of the 
 process by which the adamant of a selfish heart is to be 
 softened ; and that is the method God's providence generally 
 takes. After that, the " law of kindness " may be under- 
 stood. 
 
 Hardships at sea, Avreck, pinching want, captivity, sick- 
 ness on a foreign shore, and, together with one or other of 
 these, the biting memories of that love he has wronged 
 and that home he has lost, may be the appointed " rod and 
 ferula " to bring this j)oor lad, as they have thousands more, 
 
 to himself. 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 jEl« £• H* G» 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 TO THE KEY. C. ELLIS, B. D. 
 
 January, 1845. 
 
 My dear Fkiekd, 
 
 That the writer of the note you have enclosed should 
 talk of the " dry repellent character " of the discussions 
 involved in the question of the truth of Christianity, and 
 say that they are more likely to make infidels than to re- 
 claim them, is not wonderful j for he is evidently almost 
 
136 THE GREYSON LETTERS. J 
 
 an infidel already — at least inclined to be one; — and I 1 
 never knew any young gentleman so inclined, that could 
 not, like most people whose wills have bribed their under- 
 standings, find arguments to suit them. But that you 
 should seem to give any countenance to the nonsense that 
 is talked on the subject in the present day, does, I confess, 
 surprise me. You fear, you say, that so much " thorny " 
 argument as to the " evidences " — canvassing the historic 
 truth of the miracles, — replying to objections, — harmo- 
 nizing " discrepancies," and so forth, tends rather to nurse 
 scepticism than to cure it ; and that you " half feel " with 
 him on the subject. It is very natural that he should en- 
 deavor to evade the only mode in which, in his present 
 condition, you can reach him ; — I say the only mode ; for 
 try the other arguments on which you, and I, and every 
 other Christian lays so much more stress than on any ex- 
 ternal evidence, — and you will soon see how easily he will 
 turn their edge aside. Meantime there are others he 
 cannot evade ; and he is, of course, for getting rid of them, 
 very naturally, by this coup de main ; and, by the way, if 
 those arguments are thorny and intricate, he and those 
 like him, have, for their own purposes, mainly contributed 
 to render them so. I never knew a sceptic who, in discus- 
 sing the general historic evidences, did not instantly take 
 refuge in minute " objections " and petty " discrepancies ; " 
 Avhich, however little they can affect the main points at 
 issue, necessitate, of course, plenty of wrangling, nay, all 
 the more for their very minuteness ; and the more of such 
 objections your adversary can discover, and the greater 
 the intricacy of the statements which his own pertinacity 
 renders necessary, the better he is pleased. Indeed that 
 plain, broad line of argument derived from the external 
 evidences, which proves the truth of Christianity, (quite 
 apart, I mean, from the more transcendental evidence of a 
 
"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 137 
 
 moral and experimental kind, which you and I should deem 
 the strongest,) is in itself easy enough of apprehension, and 
 may be stated, as it often has been, in a very few words. 
 The things which chiefly render the subject voluminous 
 and intricate have been the handiwork of Infidelity itself; 
 which, ignoring the great decisive facts of evidence that 
 carry the general verdict, hunts up, with exhaustive in- 
 genuity, every little cavil and objection, and demands their 
 discussion and settlement. This, of course, must needs 
 involve a great deal of minute counter-statement, compu- 
 tations of authorities, citations and opposing citations, 
 comparison of dates ; tedious investigations, philological, 
 historical, chronological, and antiquarian, — heaven knows 
 what ; and then, from amidst the thick jungle into which 
 infidelity has voluntarily plunged, and compelled you to 
 plung after it, it turns round with admirable modesty, and 
 complains of the tediousness, aridity, spinosity, and un- 
 23rofitableness of these discussions ! 
 
 It is much the same here as in other historic investiga- 
 tions embracing complicated evidence. The main and 
 decisive facts shall converge to one, and but one, result ; 
 meanwhile there are enough minute points on. which in- 
 genuity may suggest doubts, and on which it will be found 
 impossible to satisfy a disingenuous or sceptical understand- 
 ing. These points, if a man choose not to acquiesce in the 
 evidence which satisfies you and the rest of the world, Ae, 
 not yow, will insist on ; he will pet them ; make much of 
 them ; render, for refuting him, tedious circumstantial ex- 
 amination of irrelevant details necessary; weary himself 
 and every soul about him with alleged trifling oppositions 
 of testimony and discrepancies of statement; and then 
 pleasantly declare that it is impossible to see one's way 
 clearly through all that dust — which himself has raised ! 
 
 Try the thing on any one in the mood of your young 
 
 12* 
 
138 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 acquaintance ; he will desire nothing better than that you 
 should depreciate the " external evidences of Christianity ; " 
 and if, as yoii propose, you should insist on the spiritual 
 beauty and excellence of the religion, and the experimental 
 proof of it from your own intimate feeling of its worth, — 
 my life for it, the " subjective " young philosoj^her will tell 
 you, with a complacent smile, that it 7nay be all this to 
 you y but that it is evidence which can only be yours^ not 
 his / that you, doubtless, sincerely imagine that Christi- 
 anity so speaks within you, but that he is not capable of 
 judging of that ; he has not your experience. If, thus 
 bafiicd, you attempt to find any bridge of words, any via- 
 duct of logic, by which you may reach his mind, and pro- 
 ceed to discuss that which, in such a mood of mind, is the 
 only thing he can discuss, — the historic evidence, — I will 
 answer for it, Ae, not you^ will be the first to make the dis- 
 cussion the thorny thing he complains of; he will plunge 
 with delight into some very minute question ; lie will be 
 profoundly anxious for instant satisfaction in the great 
 afiair of the " two genealogies of Christ ; " he will wish to 
 know, above all things, whether the accounts of the death 
 of Judas can be reconciled ; the cursing the barren fig-tree 
 will be a tremendous moral obstacle ; the question as to 
 whether two blind men were cured, or one only, at the gate 
 of Jericho, and whether it was as our Lord went into the 
 city, or as he came from it, will be of paramount importance 
 with him. Such are the things, I say, which will form his 
 favorite topics with you ; which, if you decline, he will 
 say that you do not fairly discuss the truth of Christianity ; 
 and if you accept his challenge, and go into them with the 
 requisite fulness, he will say, — just as he does say, — that 
 the evidences of Christianity are voluminous, and dry, and 
 thorny, and intricate, and interminable, and intolerable ! — 
 But he has first made them so. 
 
"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 139 
 
 It is plain, of course, that in discussing the question with 
 him it will be your duty as much as possible to recall him 
 constantly to the great leading lines of historic argument, 
 and induce him if you can, to see that it is question of a 
 balance of evidence. You must, if possible, guard yourself 
 and him from playing hide and seek in trivial objections 
 which never have prevented, which never will prevent, the 
 majority of men from acquiescing in the substantial truth 
 of Christianity in spite of such cavils. But if you talk with 
 him at all, you must, in his present mood^ resort to the ex- 
 ternal evidences, because they- are the only ones in which 
 there can be any access of your mind to his, or of his to 
 yours ; it is the bridge between you just now, and the only 
 one ; not the best bridge, perhaps, but the best you have. 
 Therefore, if you would not give in to any pernicious delu- 
 sion, which he would very well like to spread, do not talk 
 in the style of your last letter about the — danger of dis- 
 cussina; the Christian evidences ! 
 
 If you say that it is a pity you cannot immediately assail 
 hhn with that species of evidence, — the spiritual and ex- 
 perimental, — which you feel to be so much more potent, 
 it is so indeed ; for if he were in a condition to appreciate it, 
 you need not insist on it at all ; he would already feel it, 
 and be beyond the need of your logic, because already con- 
 vinced. If you say it is a pity that you should be compelled 
 to argue Christianity on lower ground than you feel it is en- 
 titled to occupy, that also is true ; but then it is your op- 
 ponent's fault, not yours ; if you wish to do him good, you 
 must attempt it in the ways, and the only ways he leaves 
 open to you. You may regret that he will walk with you 
 only in moonlight, when he might do so by sunlight ; but 
 if you wish to aid him in his journey, you must not refuse 
 to go because he chooses an inconvenient hour and an un- 
 certain light. 
 
140 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 If you say that it appears to give him an advantage, to 
 argue the matter on less than what you feel the highest 
 grounds, — it is very true ; but you are to recollect that 
 you may lament, but cannot envy, his tactics ; his victories, 
 like those of Pyrrhus, are victories that may well ruin him. 
 Meantime, you must do battle with him, if you do battle 
 with him at all, on common ground. The one cannot fight 
 in the heavens, and the other on the earth. 
 
 If you say that perhaps it would be better to decline con- 
 troversy with such men altogether, and trust exclusively to 
 the silent persuasion of a lofty, consistent, practical exhibi- 
 tion of a Christian life^ — I assure you that whatever im- 
 portance you attach to this last, I attach just as much ; so 
 much, that if all Christians, or Christians in general, did 
 full justice to this argument, I believe it would produce 
 more eifect than all other arguments put together ; but if 
 you can do your opponents any good by word of mouth, as 
 well as by this silent eloquence too, — especially as this si- 
 lent eloquence is often lacking — pray do not decline doing 
 so ; but then be pleased to recollect that if you attempt it, 
 you must not throw cold water on the only sort of topics 
 which can be argued between you. 
 
 I must once more insist that through our internal experi- 
 mental proof of the truth of Christianity is to us the greatest 
 of all, it is also the one most easily evaded, so far as any 
 mere statement of it goes. If polite the infidel will say, with 
 a smile, — "I dare say you think so. I dare say you are 
 quite sincere in your confident tone;" and if conceited will 
 add, " but in my judgment, it is all enthusiasm — fanati- 
 cism — ' Schioarmerei ' — it is all ' subjective,' I want the 
 ' objective ;'" and so, if you talk with him at all, to the ex- 
 ternal and historic you must perforce both go. However, 
 as I have said, you make the experiment for yourself. 
 
"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 141 
 
 The examples yon allege seem to me utterly beside the 
 13m-pose. You quote the passage of Cowj^er's Cottager, 
 "spinning at her own door," — 
 
 " Who knew, and only knew, the Bible true — 
 A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew," — 
 
 and then ask, " what she could have gained by reading Pa- 
 ley's Evidences ?" Why little or nothing, of course. But 
 what conceivable relation is there between her and those 
 for whom such books are chiefly, and indeed in the last re- 
 sult, solely written? for it is to guard against possible attacks 
 from those who " beUeve not," that they become of any 
 value to those who do. If already convinced by that 
 more intimate knowledge, that sj^iritual illumination, that 
 " peace " which the bible brings to all who truly love it and 
 live according to it (as was the case with Co^q^er's poor spin- 
 ner), every such work as Paley's is utterly useless, excej^t 
 as it is ahvays well not only to have implicit and uncon- 
 scious, but conscious and explicit, reasons of the " hope that 
 is in us." She had, as all such have, a vivid faith, which 
 can dispense with all books of e\adence ; but what has this 
 got to do with the case of infidelity ? What bearing has it 
 on the best method of dealing with one who is averse to 
 Christianity ? Of what use is it to urge that it is not ne- 
 cessary to adopt any such method with those who love it ? 
 I am so far from having any difference with you on this 
 point, that I quite agree in thinking that those j^reachers 
 err, if indeed there are any such, — I cannot think there 
 are many in our day, — who make the "evidences" of 
 Christianity and objections against it the staple of their 
 sermons to their already convinced flocks. Whether, as 
 you think, such " sermons " tend rather to excite doubt 
 than to appease it, I know not ; but assuredly it may Avell 
 make folks impatient to hear that continually iterated which 
 
142 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 they do not dispute, and that proved of which they never 
 doubt ; nor can they get spiritually fat on such a lean Alpine 
 pasturage. In some instances too, it may well be that the 
 very objections which might never have been heard of but 
 for such unwise obtrusion of them, may occasion doubts 
 which the answer would not remove. If I were a preacher, 
 I should certainly take opportunity, now and then, as it 
 fairly offered itself, to give folks a clear and brief statement 
 of the outline of the Christian evidences, and the principal 
 grounds on which a reasonable faith is founded — on the 
 princij^le that they ought to be, like the Bercean converts, 
 intelligent as well as sincere Christians. But I should as 
 little think of descanting frequently or diffusely on infidel 
 objections, as of talking to an aj^ple-woman about the prin- 
 ciples of 23olitical economy, on which, like the rest of the 
 world, she, without knoAving it, bought and sold. But 
 what has all this to do with the mode in which you are to 
 deal with the infidel himself? If the road be thorny, still 
 he chooses it, even while he complains of its ruggedness, 
 and you must needs follow him. 
 
 You say, and say truly, that you cannot but think that 
 the Bible so reflects, as in a mirror, the great facts of man's 
 S23iritual condition and necessities, that if any one will read 
 it with " simj^licity," he must feel how true it is to our na- 
 ture. I quite agree with you ; but, first, a man may admit 
 the vmnts of human nature, yet object to the Bible mode 
 of meeting them ; may admit the disease, and yet reject 
 the remedy. Now the very question is here ; and directly 
 the man comes to that^ the historical problem returns ; for 
 surely as long as he doubts the remedy, he is not likely to 
 take it. What are the facts of Christianity, and on what 
 grounds are they to be accepted as such ? — this question 
 he perforce in such a mood must revolve. A man may ad- 
 mit a vague, or even distinct sense — there are few, that 
 
"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 143 
 
 are not idiots, but will — of man's moral destitution ; his 
 weakness, guilt and fears ; his uncertainty on all the great 
 moral j^roblems which it most imports us to know ; whence 
 we came, and whither we are going ; — but he will not, on 
 that account, take the remedy proposed, unless he believes 
 it to be such. Do not then, since you must deal with such 
 men, fall into the foolish cant which represents it of little 
 use to argue with them on the question of the " Christian 
 evidences " — for though you may think, and think justly, 
 tliat the men defraud themselves of a great benefit when 
 they make the evidences so " long and thorny a path," it is 
 tlie path for the present in which alone you can encounter 
 them. 
 
 And tlien, secondly, as to reading the New Testament 
 with " simplicity," this is, in foct, to suppose the principal 
 work done ; get them to do that, and you need not argue 
 with them long. Meantime, I fancy your " simplicity " is 
 great, if you expect they will do it. For my own part, I 
 think it is but too plain that the generality of such folks 
 read the Bible for no other purjDose than to hunt up objec- 
 tions. They are like the sceptic of whom Fuller says — 
 " He keeps a register of many difficult places of Scripture ; 
 not that he desires satisfaction therein, but delights to puz- 
 zle divines thercAvith ; and counts it a gi-eat conquest wben 
 he hath posed them. Unnecessary questions out of the 
 Bible are his most necessary study ; and he is more curious 
 to know where Lazarus's soul was, the four days he lay in 
 the grave, than careful to provide for his own soul when he 
 shall be dead." 
 
 In a word, your position in reference to such is much 
 like that of the ethical philosopher in relation to some 
 young idiot, — we now and then meet mth one, -^ who pro- 
 tests he can see no distinction between " moral right and 
 \\Tong," — believes that conscience is a bundle of " conven- 
 
144 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tionalitics" and "artificial associations," and the rest of the 
 gibberish proj^er to that theory. You may decHne reason- 
 ing with him, certainly, but if you Jo, it is of no use to in- 
 sist on the transcendental evidence which you have in your 
 own consciousness, of which he denies the experience in 
 himself; — though, by the bye, you may perhaj^s shrewdly 
 suspect the young scamp lies ; — nor can you insist on the 
 " sublimity, and beauty, and grandeur " of Virtue and the 
 " deformity " of Vice, since he denies their very existence. 
 Haj^pily there are not many such people ; but if you rea- 
 son with them at all, you must take the old way of logic 
 and induction, — you must reason fYoro. facts : and assured- 
 ly you will then soon find them comi:)laining of this " dry, 
 logical " treatment of the subject ; they at the same time, 
 by every art of soj^histry, making it ten tunes as " thorny " 
 as it need be ! 
 
 If you do not choose to argue with such a man in the 
 only way his peculiar position allows, you must close the 
 disjDute with Dr. Johnson's concise dilemma, — " Either the 
 man believes what he says, or he does not ; if he does 7iot., 
 he is a liar ; if he does, why, then, let us count our spoons !" 
 
 Most cordially do I agree with you that, to those who 
 will experimentally prove Christianity, there is evidence as 
 far transcending all logical demonstration as the conscious- 
 ness of the happiness of well-doing surpasses a mere intel" 
 lectual conviction that virtue will lead to hapj^iness. 
 
 It is our felicity that we " know whom we have believed ;" 
 -^ — that Ave " speak that we do know, and testify that we 
 have seen," when we say that the Gospel is no " cun- 
 ningly devised fable." I also firmly believe that even he 
 who does not fully yield to it, will do so if he honestly ex- 
 amines with a desire to understand and a willingness to re- 
 ceive it. " He that will do the will of God shall know of 
 the doctrine whether it be of God," But this requires do^ 
 
PULPIT STYLE. 145 
 
 cility and candor : where there are these, the " evidences " 
 in the ordinary sense would be brief enough, and would no 
 longer be " thorny." 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
 P. S. This is a tract rather than a letter ; but the im- 
 mense importance of the subject induced me to express my 
 thoughts very fully. 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 TO THE REV. S. W . 
 
 March, 184r). 
 
 My DEAR Mr. W , 
 
 As a comparative stranger, I have no right to trouble you 
 with advice ; yet as a sincere well-wisher, who admires your 
 talents, and is most anxious that you should do justice to 
 the glorious function you have assumed, permit me to make 
 one or two remarks on a sentiment which I lately heard you 
 express, and which a little alarmed me for your success. 
 
 You said, I recollect, that " as you were going to a re- 
 mote country village, it would be easy to satisfy your rustic 
 congregation ; that you did not apprehend they would make 
 large demands on preparation ; and that simple truth, ex- 
 pressed in simple language, would be quite enough for 
 Mem." 
 
 Enough, I am sure, if the words be rightly understood ; 
 only I fancy that, if that be the case, it will be found that 
 " simple truth, expressed in simple language," must involve 
 very careful preparation. " Simple truth " must not mean 
 common-place, nor " simple language " any plain words that 
 come to hand. If you would produce any lively or durable 
 impression on any audience (rustic or polished matters not), 
 
 13 
 
146 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 you must give them thoughts that strike^ and these must be 
 expressed in apt words ; and to speak in this fashion will re- 
 quire, depend on it, very careful study. Take heed of the 
 fallacies lurking in the terms " simple truth " and " simple 
 language ; " for they are rocks on which many a man has 
 struck. 
 
 *' Simple truth " — the simple truth of the Gospel, — I 
 ti'ust, will ever be the basis of your preaching, as I am sure 
 you desire it to be. Apart from that assemblage of doc- 
 trines and precepts which can alone make Christianity a 
 thing worth listening to by sorrowful and guilty humanity, 
 all pulpit eloquence will be but " sounding brass or a tink- 
 ling cymbal." I hope, too, that these truths (as you pro- 
 pose) will be expressed in " simple language." But Truth 
 
 — the most important truth a preacher can enforce — may 
 be easy of comprehension, and it may be expressed in forms 
 none can misunderstand, and yet its advocate may have ut- 
 terly neglected his entire duty notwithstanding. His busi- 
 ness is, by apt method, arrangement, illustration, imagery, 
 vivacity of language, animation both of style and manner, to 
 render Truth, not simj^ly understood, assented to with a 
 drowsy nod, then slept over^ — but felt ; not only known, 
 which, by the way, it generally is before he opens his lips, 
 
 — but the object of symj^athetic intelligence, and the source 
 of emotion ; to animate it with life, to clothe it with beauty, 
 and make it worthy of" all acceptation." 
 
 Now, to do all this for your rustic audience, will demand, 
 (take my word for it,) not less study and effort than if you 
 were preaching to the most polished audience in the land : 
 in some respects more, for you might legitimately speak to 
 these last (and perhaps more easily to yourself) on many 
 subjects which would be mere Hebrew and Greek to the 
 parishioners of your Ultima Thiile ; and, for similar rea- 
 sons, the range of your diction will also be more limited. 
 
PULPIT STYLE. 147 
 
 On the other hand, rely on it (and I say it after much ob- 
 servation of the effects of public speaking), if the topics are 
 such as your audience can deal with (and let me tell you 
 they can deal with a good deal more than is generally 
 thought), none of the pains you may bestow on your dis- 
 courses — on the arrangement of your thoughts, and on your 
 modes of illustrating and expressing them — will be thrown 
 away. Your audience, however rustic, w^ll show that they 
 appreciate excellence of style, though they may not be con- 
 scious of the lohy^ and perhaps never dream — simple souls ! 
 — that you are eloquent at all. So much the better, my 
 dear sir ; — and better still, if, which is much more difficult, 
 you can forget it too. 
 
 However, though they know nothing of " analytical criti- 
 cism," nothing of the " principles of logic and rhetoric," youb 
 do ; and you will see that if you comply with the genuine 
 " rules of art," by truly adapting your discourse to your au- 
 dience, your audience will show that they naturally obey the 
 laws of criticism, though they do not comprehend them. 
 They will show here, as in other cases, the characters " of 
 the law written on their hearts," though never studied in the 
 codes of rhetoricians. Among your rustic hearers, as well 
 as among the most refined of our species, pathos will exact its 
 tears ; affection and earnestness, sympathy. With them, as 
 with their betters, vivacious imagery and force of diction will 
 light up the eye, and awaken intelligence, attention, and 
 emotion. 
 
 The fact is, that great injustice is often done to plebeian 
 hearers. The praise which is lavished on the critical Athen- 
 ians, as though they were miracles of taste, because they 
 hung with rapture on the lips of Demosthenes, is nearly as 
 applicable to many other crowds. Look at the history of 
 our great political speakers. Take the most famous names 
 of the House of Commons. Was it there only they were 
 
148 THE GPwEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 listened to with rapture? Were not Fox and Burke as 
 welcome at the hustings as ever they were at St. Stephens ? 
 Did not promiscuous crowds Usten as applaudingly as their 
 more select audience of fellow representatives ? Is it not so 
 always ? Take again the greatest preachers. Have not 
 men of all orders of intelligence, and of the widest degrees 
 of culture, formed their congregations ? 
 
 Speaking of the difference between provincial dialects and 
 the national idiom, — the latter of which is understood by 
 those who speak the former, though the former may be un- 
 intelHgible to those who speak the latter, — Dr. Kenrick 
 curiously observes: "The case of languages, or rather 
 speech, is quite contrary to that of science ; in the former, 
 the ignorant understand the learned, better than the learned 
 do the ignorant ; in the latter it is otherwise." Something 
 like it may be said of true eloquence : a common artisan 
 may appreciate the point, force, vivacity, of a discourse, 
 nay, instinctively feel the elegance and music of it, and not 
 be able to speak a single sentence grammatically. You will 
 not, of course, suj^pose that I wish you to attempt a style, 
 whether of thought or expression, ambitiously above your 
 rude flock ; that would be anything but true eloquence in 
 my esteem : all I mean is, that there is to them, as to every 
 one, as great a difference between a commonplace treatment 
 of the very same Christian truth, and one really adapted to 
 awaken attention and kindle emotion, as there is between 
 the style of the dullest retailer of soporific truisms and the 
 style of Demosthenes; and that to attain such a genuine el- 
 oquence, if you have, as I believe you have, a sacred ambi- 
 tion to do good, is well Avorth your utmost diligence and is 
 not to be attained without it. 
 
 Forgive this little exercitation on " Rhetoric," 
 
 And believe me 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 149 
 
 P. S. I intend, next summer, to visit your part of the 
 country ; if so, I shall ensconce myself some Sunday morn- 
 ing in a remote pew, in your old-fashioned church, and see 
 how far you have thought my remarks worth attention ! 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 Sutton, Oct. 1845. 
 
 My dear Mason, 
 
 I know you used to take a lively interest in that old met- 
 a^^hysical dispute, — which, I suppose, like most other met- 
 aphysical disputes, will be always revived and never decid- 
 ed, — as to whether our habitual actions are automatic ; or 
 whether, however rapid they are and however little trace 
 they may leave on our consciousness, the will in each case 
 interposes with a special act. You used, I remember, to 
 take the former view, while I rather inclined to the latter. 
 Last night, a most absurd thing happened to me, which al- 
 most inclines me to take your side. And yet, as you will 
 see, I am not sure that the pleasant ingenuity with which 
 mind is always too subtle for itself when it asks its wise self 
 about its own phenomena, cannot find plenty of arguments 
 against it. But first to my fact. Except to you who know 
 me, it might perhaps seem incredible. 
 
 You are aware of my fidgetiness about ^rey reason good, 
 — since I was once within an ace of being burnt down 
 through a neighbor's negligence. Nevertheless, by the 
 way, I am so wakeful that I almost always, in summer read 
 in bed, undisturbed by any fear lest somnolence should sur- 
 prise me before I have extinguished the light. In winter, I 
 find it hard to leave the fireside and go shivering to those 
 hyperhorean regions above stairs ; and sometimes have sat 
 
 1^ 
 
150 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 up (I am ashamed to say) half the night, musing and read- 
 ing, from sheer rekictance to confront the miseries of those 
 arctic regions. Well, at last, still in a reverie (I should think 
 this absurdity has happened to me some scores of times), I 
 have lighted a chamber candle, gone to bed, and then, when 
 the liglit has been extinguished and I am just beginning to 
 get cosey, I have been perversely unable to recollect whether 
 I have put out the candles below, or not ! After having in 
 vain tried (as usual in such cases) to coax reason and con- 
 science into the belief that all is right, — and sometimes I 
 in vain have debated the matter a good half hour, — I have 
 found that there was no help for it but turning out, groping 
 my way down stairs, and seeing , I was going to say, if all 
 was perspicuously dark ! Strange to say, I never did yet 
 find that the habitual act, of wdiich I should have been so 
 glad, on many a cold night, to catch the faintest reminiscence, 
 had failed me. I always found that the light had been ex- 
 tinguished, though the remembrance of the act had been 
 simultaneously extinguished too. This, in the course of my 
 solitary life of the last twenty years, had occurred to me, as 
 I have said, considerably more than a score of times. " What 
 a fool you must be !" I imagine I hear you say, sotto voce / 
 but it is nothing to my folly of last night — if, indeed, I 
 ought not rather to take it as a jDroof of a profound capacity 
 of abstraction ! For, will you believe it ? after making this 
 unwilling journey, I foundj on regaining my chamber, that 
 in the very act of descending, my mind had been arrested 
 by the subject which had been previously occupying my 
 thoughts, and I had actually come back, unconscious — to- 
 tally unconscious — as to whether the candles had been ex- 
 tinguished or not ! Luckily, I had not got into bed, or else, 
 the night being cold, I almost think I should have preferred 
 the risk of being burned down to going down stairs again. 
 As it was, down I went, and, by due and diligent effort to 
 
HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 151 
 
 keep my mind from wandering, peered into the darkness, 
 and clearly saw that there was nothing to be seen. This is 
 literal fact, 
 
 Now such a thing is almost enough to convince me of 
 what, at other times, opposite arguments have convinced 
 me is false — namely, that our habitual actions may be per- 
 fectly automatic, and that Mistress Mind, having given 
 general orders to the footmen and housemaids of her organ- 
 ism, to do such and such things, said menials proceed to 
 execute them, while Mind retires to her " pineal gland," 
 or wherever else she pleases to go, and troubles herself no 
 more about the matter. It is a very pretty little theory ; 
 but, like most other metaphysical theories, is capable of 
 being confronted and confuted by equally conclusive argu- 
 ments ; Avhile (what is the most provoking thing of all) that 
 very Mind, about whose condition the Avhole dispute is, 
 takes alternately both sides, or stands staring at herself 
 like a dolt, and cannot tell whether she has anything to do 
 with the said acts or not. 
 
 Yet, with due submission, I must think, after all, that, 
 on the whole, the arguments in favor of Mind's having 
 something to do with even the most automatic of our 
 actions preponderate. The principal arguments against it 
 are the inconceivable rapidity of the acts, and the subse- 
 quent unconsciousness of the mind's having had any part in 
 them. As to the last argument, begging Mind's pardon, I 
 do not think it worth a button, considering how deplorably 
 ignorant Mind is of herself and her doings, which, from time 
 immemorial, she has been perpetually disputing about. Her 
 opinion, either way, founded on her knowing nothing about 
 the matter, cannot be of much importance. It is too plain 
 that she is every day, and still more every night, occupied, 
 in her flighty way, with a thousand thoughts of which she 
 retains no traces in the memory ! 
 
152 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 As to the former argument, the mere rapidity of the 
 acts ; — for example, of a rope-dancer's ever-shifting pos- 
 tures, — a conjurer's tricks, — a skilled musician's compli- 
 cated, and all but simultaneous movements, — a public 
 speaker's voluble utterance, — as to these, and the like 
 stock examples, of those who take your side of the question, 
 they do not, I confess, much move me : and that for a 
 reason which I do not recollect having seen insisted on by 
 any metaphysical writer, but which appears to me abso- 
 lutely conclusive on the subject ; for, ought the mere velo- 
 city of material movement, which we see in all these cases 
 is attained, to be any argument against the possibility of 
 equal velocity of thought and volition ? Ought we not, a 
 fortiori^ to judge that if eyes and fingers — mere material 
 organs — can and do perform such inexi^ressibly nimble 
 feats. Mind can more than keep up with them ? And, if 
 so, that very velocity will serve to explain the former diffi- 
 culty, to which I have already given an answer not quite so 
 complimentary to Mind, — that no trace is left in the con- 
 sciousness. That, probably, is due to the very rapidity with 
 which the acts are performed. 
 
 And yet how strange it seems, now I think of it, that 
 Mind, which is urging all this in its own behalf, and using 
 its too notorious obliviousness as an argument in favoc of 
 its activity, should not be able to decide the matter, and is 
 probably only saying what will appear to you the most 
 improbable conjecture ! 
 
 Yet I may further say, in defence of the hypothesis I 
 rather prefer, that some of the strongest instances some- 
 times urged against it are really in its favor. The supposed 
 automatic movements on which its opponents lay so much 
 stress, are often, as appears to me, by no means automatic, 
 but necessarily imply, in many cases, however rapid, an 
 equally rapid succession of distinct and conscious mental 
 
HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 153 
 
 acts. An accomplished master of the piano, for example, 
 will play at sight the most intricate music put into his 
 hands, as well, or nearly as well, as he will play it the fifti- 
 eth time. Now the combinations are, and must be, new 
 to him. The same may be said in the case of the accom- 
 plished extemporaneous speaker. The series of rapid 
 changes are all novel, and yet must be accompanied with 
 distinct intellectual efforts and volitions. I do not wonder, 
 however, at your obstinate defence of your theory ; for as 
 I look at a musician before some grand organ, — see how 
 rapid and complicated are his movements, — how his fingers 
 fly over the keys, — how they strike the most complex har- 
 monies, yet find time to draw out this stop, and shut that, 
 Avhile legs and feet are flinging out right and left at the 
 pedals, — the whole man looking as if he were about to 
 explode into space imder some tremendous internal forces, 
 — I am ready to ask whether it can be that Mind is present 
 at every act, and decrees a distinct volition for it ; and, if 
 so, whether she ought not to be able to give a more dis- 
 tinct account of the matter ? Yet as to the rapidity^ surely 
 I have answered that y and as to the want of consciousness, 
 why, if poor Mind has been thus worried and flustered, is 
 it any wonder that she does not distinctly trace her own 
 acts ? ^Yell, we must leave it there ; but almost anything 
 seems to me more • reasonable than that in those cases of 
 rapid combinations of our habitual acts, which imply novelty 
 at each step, and which seem to involve the highest mental 
 activity. Mind is asleep, and only the body awake ! 
 
 But it is plaguy strange that Mind can give no more in- 
 telligible account of the matter, it being her own affair 
 entirely. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 K, E. 11. G. 
 
154 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sutton Colefield, October, 1845. 
 My deak Feiend, 
 
 Instead of an attentive reconsideration of our old met- 
 aphysical problem, based on the curious experiences I sent 
 you, you have favored me with a lecture on my late hours ; 
 and assure me that if I went to bed earlier, and rose earlier, 
 I should not have any such experiences. On my word, it 
 is sharp practice to make such an exceedingly irrelevant 
 use of my arguments against myself! 
 
 I quite agree with you, my dear friend, in all you can 
 say in praise of early rising ; proho raeliora / and have 
 done so in this matter any time these twenty years. I 
 believe firmly there is scarcely one habit which youth can 
 form so important as that of early rising, — so conducive to 
 health of body, to a vigorous old age, to regularity and 
 method, to success in life, — in short, one might go on to 
 the " nineteenth head '' of discourse on this subject; sol 
 will sj^are you, and say Amen ! 
 
 He who begins late in the morning, and bustles about in 
 a vain eifort to overtake the clock, is in the condition of 
 the good man who said he had lost a quarter of an hour 
 and was afterwards running after it all day and could not 
 catch it. 
 
 " Fine se^itiments ! " you will say. Oh ! if you are for 
 fine sentiment, I can give it far finer, and in the purest 
 Johnsonese, as Mr. Macaulay would say ; — as thus ; " The 
 hours which are wasted in superfluous slumber must be de- 
 ducted from the sum total of mortal existence ; nor is it 
 paradoxical to affirm that the man of eighty who should 
 compute the time which he has thus subtracted from his life, 
 
EARLY RISING — PREACHING AND PRACTICE. 155 
 
 ought not to imagine himself to have passed beyond the 
 hmits of threescore years and ten." 
 
 " Then I am ten years yomiger than I thought myself," 
 I am afraid an incorrigible old sinner in this kind would be 
 apt to say. — But it is easy to preach : the great moralist 
 I have just ventured to mimic for a moment was preaching 
 on this very topic all his days, and never reformed himself. 
 
 Nevertheless all you say is true enough ; and yet — and 
 yet — oh ! the slavery of hahit ! I have been lecturing 
 myself for twenty years, and must say I have ever found 
 myself a most attentive auditor, and still it is in vain. How- 
 ever, I believe I should not be so quiet under self-reproach 
 if I did not believe that I had sufficient excuses. " There," 
 you will say, " that will do ; I have no hope of you." 
 Nay ; strike, but hear me. (Conscience, be quiet, I say ; 
 what a clamor you are making ! — I can't hear myself 
 speak for you ; ahem ! — ) I protest that my example, at 
 least for many years past, has afforded not the shadow of 
 an excuse for any one's following it. I cannot say I have 
 wasted my time in sleep ; I have not for these twenty years 
 had sleep enough ; I rarely get so many as six hours' sleep 
 in the four-and-twenty. 
 
 Next ; I generally go to bed at very late hours, or rather 
 very early — 1, 2, 3, a. m., as the case may be. Aye, you 
 will perhaps say, that is a reason why you sleep so ill. 
 Stop a minute. I have tried both early and late hours ; 
 and, in either case, have often been visited with a sleepless- 
 ness so intense, that I have been obliged to get up, and 
 read during the rest of the night. Many a cold winter's 
 night have I risen and lighted a fire, rather than remain 
 turning from side to side in vivid wakefulness without 
 something to divert thought. To let the mill go round 
 without grist — this is desperate work, let me tell you, for 
 the mental machinery ! But, as a physiologist, you know 
 
15G THE GREYSON LETTERS. ** 
 
 that well enough. Under such circumstances, do not 
 blame me if I take sleep when I. can get it. Lastly, I 
 cannot say that when I have indulged in — what is cer- 
 tainly very luxurious — an hour or two of matin meditation 
 in bed, it has been time wasted, or often sj^ent in unprofita- 
 ble thought. On the contrary, I am conscious, in common 
 with many much greater men, that my mind has never 
 wrought so freely as then, nor presented to me so many 
 thoughts I should wish to retain. Unhappily, they often 
 will not come again, when I have once risen. 
 
 If it be said this is a dangerous apology, I answer that it 
 is no apology at all ; it is a simple fact, of which I am not 
 ashamed. Honi soit. Each man must judge for himself. 
 To me, I say, such late hours are needful, and, waking or 
 sleeping, are not hours of sloth. So that you see, like 
 Daniel O'Rourke, I am a man more to be pitied than blamed 
 among you. I acknowledge that I often find things going 
 so wrong, — such miserable dislocation of the engagements 
 of the day, (owing to breakfast always being a " movable 
 feast " between eight and ten) — that I cannot quite ap- 
 pease conscience ; but then, when the jade has once got the 
 habit of complaining, she will often go on maundering and 
 muttering in the most unreasonable manner. 
 
 I have no doubt you enjoyed your view of the sunrise in 
 your recent journey. And so you would have me suppose 
 that you have often seen it, and are pleased to suppose that 
 I never have ! As to you, — if you had often seen it, you 
 would never have broken out into these raptures; it is 
 the rarity of the spectacle, my fiiend, that has made you 
 so eloquent. From your transports, I am induced to ques- 
 tion whether you ever saw it before in your life. As to me, 
 let me tell you I have seen it several times. Yes, several; 
 once on the top of a coach, in the olden times, when I was 
 travelling all nighty — once on board a steamer in the same 
 
EARLY RISING — PREACHING AND PRACTICE. 157 
 
 predicament^ — once when I slept on Snowclon on purpose, — 
 and once again on the Righi. Pray don't suppose that no 
 one ever saw the rising sun except yourself. But it is too 
 glorious a spectacle to be seen often ; familiarity would 
 breed contempt ; the thing would become too cheap. Let 
 us, my fine fellow, economize, and be chary of, such 
 delights ! 
 
 I had a dear friend, who ingeniously proved that though 
 very late in the morning for many years, ha was always an 
 early riser. He said that, in his youth, he had risen for 
 years much too early — four and half-past four, a. m. ; when 
 I knew him, nine and half-past nine was his hour ; but he 
 contended that, striking " a mean " between his excesses 
 and defects, he still reckoned that he rose about seven reg- 
 ularly. I am not quite sure, if I were to take " the mean " 
 of my own doings in this way, that Z could not prove my- 
 self a regular early riser too. 
 
 I remember once hearing an aged relative expostulate 
 with a youth, his nejohew, on his lying in bed ; he pleaded 
 the difficulty of getting up. " Difficulty ! " the other said ; 
 " there is no difficulty in it. I have risen at five for these 
 forty years, and I could not lie in bed after that." " My 
 dear uncle," said the young scapegrace, "and I cannot 
 get up. If you want to measure my difficulty in getting 
 up, you ought to lie in bed till nine. It is really no credit 
 in you to be an early riser ! " 
 
 However, in spite of all the badinage in this letter, be 
 
 assured that none can be convinced more deeply than I, of 
 
 the excellence of your advice in general, and of its futility 
 
 to me in particular. Now is not that just what all your 
 
 patients tell you ? 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. 11. G. 
 
 14 
 
158 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XXXYIIo 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. 1845. 
 
 My dear MAS0?>r, 
 
 For "auld lang sjTie's" sake, I am again going to dis- 
 course to you of one of our old metaphysical problems ; 
 though I am afraid that, as before, you will prove yourself 
 unworthy of our College aspirations, refuse to deal with 
 any such knotty questions, and treat me with a musty lec- 
 ture on the duty of going to bed early, and, what is harder, 
 rising early. However, I heard the other day as pretty an 
 argument as you could desire to hear, on a summer's day, 
 on that old question, — " Does the mind always think, even 
 in sleep f " 
 
 " Between whom ? " you will say. Well, between my- 
 self and me ; and, strange as it may seem, never were two 
 people of more opposite opinions. " And how did it end ? " 
 In that charming haze, my friend, in which nearly all dis- 
 putes that concern that elaborately self-ignorant thing, the 
 Mind of man, are so apt to end. I assure you, as I listened, 
 I seemed to doubt of, and to acquiesce in, each ingenious 
 argument ; in short, felt tossed to and fro, like a shuttlecock 
 between two battledores — only that i" unluckily was both 
 shuttlecock and the battledoors. What a mystery of mys- 
 teries that same mind is ! That it should ask itself — and, 
 for the life of it, cannot tell itself — whether it is always 
 conscious or not ! That it should be equally ignorant of 
 a thousand other things about its own self ? How humil- 
 iating, that that which maps the heavens, tracks the j^lanets, 
 calculates eclipses, covers the earth with the monuments 
 of its science and art, should thus grope, and stumble, and 
 blunder, when it crosses its own dark threshold ; nay, dis- 
 
DIALOGUE BETWEEN "MYSELF AND ME." 159 
 
 pute everlastingly with itself and others, what it is, and 
 where and how it exists ! Surely we ought to be modest 
 people. To think of one's mind asserting against other 
 minds, and often against itself in different moods, — some- 
 times with ludicrous dubiety, as often with more ludicrous 
 dogmatism, — the most contradictory conclusions respecting 
 its very self! To think that Mind does not know whether 
 it always tliinks ; whether, for half its time, it is conscious 
 or unconscious, busy or idle ! , 
 
 The dialogue began something in this way. I, who felt 
 disposed to think that the mind always thinks, even in the 
 deepest slumber, — that is, dreams even when it does not 
 remember it, — asked myself, — 
 
 "Do you not acknowledge that we know nothing of 
 either matter or mind, except from their properties ; the 
 one made known to us by our sensations, and the other by 
 our consciousness ? " 
 
 " I do," said JVlind, with the confidence of an oracle, 
 though thus avomng its ignorance of itself. 
 
 " If you were asked what Matter was, would you not say, 
 that it is that which possesses solidity, divisibility, impene- 
 trability, and so on ? " enumerating the other essential quaU- 
 ties of matter. 
 
 " I should," said Mind. 
 
 " And in like manner would you not say. Mind is 
 that which possesses the qualities of thought and 
 feeling ? " 
 
 " I should," still said Mind. 
 
 " If, now, you were asked what matter was, when di- 
 vested of those essential properties, — stripped of solidity, 
 and so forth, — what would you say ? Would you not say 
 that if it ceased to have such essential properties, that 
 which you call matter existed no longer — that it was an- 
 nihilated?" 
 
160 THE GREYSON LETTEIiS. 
 
 " I should," Mind said. 
 
 " Then ought you not to say the same of mind, if its es- 
 sential properties — those by which alone you know that 
 it exists at all — were taken away from it ? Ought you 
 not, therefore, to say that mind is anniliilated every time 
 you sleep without thinking ; and created afresh every time 
 you wake from such a state ? " 
 
 I really thought it was a very pretty little dilemma ; 
 l)ut Mind could argue though it could not prove, and was 
 not going to be balked by such a trifle as the loss of its 
 essential properties. "Nay," said Mind, "the poioers of 
 thought remain in me, though not exerted^ 
 
 " Nay," said I ; " you surely are not impudent enough 
 to pretend that you are conscious that you have powers 
 while you say you have absolutely no consciousness ? But 
 let that pass. — Would you say, then, if you could conceive 
 of such a thinsj as matter denuded of what is its essential 
 property of solidity, that the potver of solidity was there, 
 only no longer exercised P Would you not rather say that, 
 for aught you could conceive, matter, which you knew only 
 by such j^roperties as this, existed no longer ? " 
 
 " I certainly should," sighed Mind. 
 
 " Then you ought to say the same of mind." 
 
 Argument the first ; which made me think that the mind 
 always thinks, though Mind itself protested against it. 
 But Mind retorted it very cleverly. It began to illustrate 
 the point, first, from chemical facts Avhich show that heat, 
 for example, is present in bodies, though latent ; and that 
 the same substance may exist in allotrojnc forms ; never- 
 theless the matter did not seem quite plain to me. But it 
 ingeniously proceeded to say, — 
 
 " Do you not think that the mind exists before it acts f 
 The mind in the embryo, for example, — of the ' rational 
 jinimal,' the moment it comes into the world, — must it 
 
A DIALOGUE "BETWEEN MYSELF AND ME." 161 
 
 not already exist before it acts ? and does it not wait to 
 exercise thought and feeling till, by a slow process, the 
 senses aid its development ? If so, does not the mind ex- 
 ist, though its essential powers be dormant ? And if so, 
 may it not be in just such a state in deep sleep ? " 
 
 This seemed a staggerer, I confess ; but I was a bold 
 metaphysician, and I scrupled not to rejoin, — forgetting 
 the rebuke I had administered to Mind for falling into a 
 like blunder, — " If, by saying that the mind of the embryo 
 or of the newly-born infant, cannot thinks you mean that 
 it cannot understand the ' Principia ' of Newton or Mil- 
 ton's ' Paradise Lost,' I gi-ant it ; but I deny that it does 
 not manifest its essential properties^ though not in perfec- 
 tion. Mind feels, and that is one of the forms of con- 
 sciousness ; — it has sensations." 
 
 " Surely," said Mind, slyly, " you have not the impudence 
 to pretend that you are conscious that you had feelings in 
 states of which you are wholly unconscious. But let that 
 pass, as you said to me. — Pray, had you thoughts in that 
 state as well as feelings ? " 
 
 "Yes, and thoughts^'' said I, boldly, — for I was not 
 going to give up my argument for a trifle, — " thoughts, 
 though very rudimentary, of course ; for how can there be 
 sensatio7i without thought f So that though," I continued, 
 with exquisite logical ^^recision, " though, in the order of 
 thought, the existence of the mind is before its action^ yet 
 in fact its existence and its action are synchronous ; and 
 the one begins when the other does." 
 
 Argument second ; — and still I seemed to think that 
 the argument for peii^etual thought had the best of it, 
 though I confess I felt that myself and I were whimsically 
 jierplexed about a matter which ought surely to have been 
 as plain as consciousness could make it ! 
 
 Here we left the dark maze of essences and essential 
 
 14* 
 
162 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 properties, and embryo states, and came out into the open 
 champaign of facts, and the inductive philosophy. " Now," 
 thought I, " we shall be able to see." Xot a whit. Luck- 
 less Mind! Bacon might as well not have written, 
 for any j^ower his j^hilosophy gives of solving such a ques- 
 tion, — which, however, would seem to need no solving at 
 all, but a simj^le reference to every man's own conscious- 
 ness. But now for /acts. 
 
 " If," said I, in a didactic and patronizing way, as though 
 I were not talking to myself and striving to enlighten my 
 own ignorance, " If you take notice. Mind, you will find, on 
 awaking from sleep, that, on instantly reverting to con- 
 sciousness, you have always been thinkmg^ dreaming of 
 something, and will immediately recall it." 
 
 But Mind, after a minute's reflection, protested that it 
 had no such uniform consciousness — that it thought it often 
 recollected having been awakened out of profound sleep, 
 with an utter blank of memory when it sought for what it 
 was last thinking about. Here was a fix ; Mind not know- 
 ing whether it had been thinking the moment before or 
 not ! " Oh ! Mind, Mind," thought I, innocently, " what a 
 fool you are making of yourself ! " '^£\\e first person would 
 have been more j^roper. 
 
 " But again," said Mind, " as to that last argument, sup- 
 posing the fact just as you state, it proves nothing; the 
 mind is so active that long trains of thought, which seem to 
 have occupied hours, may pass through the mind in a min- 
 ute, — which I often experience when I take an afternoon 
 nap ; I seem to have slept for hours, and my watch tells me 
 I have slept but for five minutes ; thus the supposed recol- 
 lected dream might all be manufactured in the very instant 
 between sleeping and waking." I thought again, and could 
 not deny that it might be so. "And yet," retorted I, 
 " though you suppose the mind so active as to crowd ages 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 163 
 
 into moments, you suppose it is actually dormant during the 
 greater part of every night? And again, — granting, as 
 you say, that you can spin, what seems to be six hours' 
 dreaming, in a minute, — you cannot tell, except by the 
 watch^ whether you have been a minute or six hours about 
 it, and often think the last when you have been asleep but 
 for an instant ! Of what value," said I, complacently, as 
 if I were no way concerned in the rebuke, "is the testi- 
 mony of one that is thus caught napping ? In short. Mind, 
 to tell you a bit of my mind, I do not believe you know a 
 word about the matter." 
 
 Mind smiled, and said it knew just as much as I did ; 
 which recalled me to the most paradoxical fact of all — 
 that it is we ourselves who in such controversies ask our- 
 selves what is our own consciousness, and, instead of giving 
 an intelligible answer, can only stare at ourselves idioti- 
 cally. .... 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 TO MISS MAEY GEEYSOIST. 
 
 Sutton, July 7, 1846. 
 My dear Niece, 
 
 I am going to write you a long letter ; but I scarcely 
 think it will be pleasant to you to read it, — for it is to 
 chide you. Yet> as you know I should not chide you ex- 
 cept for your good, or what I believed your good, I hope 
 you will read these lines attentively, for your loving uncle's 
 sake. 
 
 I saw, my dear, with regret, during my recent visit, that 
 you are too fond — far too fond — of novel reading. There ; 
 
164 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 I see your imploring look, and hear the expostulation, " Oh, 
 uncle ! — do you really think so ? " Of course I think so, 
 Mary, or I should not say so, for I never say what I do not 
 think. 
 
 But I certainly do not expect to hear from you, my love, 
 — for you are a girl of sense (be pleased to recollect, again, 
 that I do not say what I do not think, — will not that pro- 
 pitiate you?), — the answer I once received from a young 
 lady to whom I addressed a similar expostulation. " I sup- 
 pose, then," said she, " you would disapprove of all novel 
 reading ? " That, thought I, is an answer perfectly worthy 
 of one whose logic has been fed on novels. " If," said I to 
 her, " I were to blame a lad for eating too much, or too vo- 
 raciously, or filling his stomach with tarts and sugar-j^lums, 
 would you infer that therefore I meant that he was not to 
 eat at all, or that pastry and sweatmeats were absolutely 
 forbidden him ? " 
 
 No, I am far from thinking that novels may not be in- 
 nocently read ; — so far from that, I think they may be 
 heneficially read. But all depends, as in the case of the 
 tarts and sugar-plums, on the quality and quantity. 
 
 The imagination is a faculty given us by God, as much 
 as any other, and if it be not develoj^ed, our minds are 
 maimed. Now, works of fiction, — of a high order, I mean, 
 such as the best of Walter Scott's or Miss Edgeworth's, — 
 healthfully stimulate this faculty ; and in measure, there- 
 fore, they should be read. 
 
 Taste should be cultivated, — and fictitious works, in- 
 spired by real genius, have a beneficial tendency that way. 
 
 Novels may, and often do, inculcate important lessons of 
 life and conduct, in a more j^leasing form than the simply 
 didactic style admits of. 
 
 When based on knowledge of human nature, and devel- 
 oped with dramatic skill, a novel may teach many an im- 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 165 
 
 poi-tant truth of moral philosophy more effectively than an 
 abstruse treatise on it. 
 
 When the style of novels is what it ought to be, — and 
 what it will be, if they are worth reading, — they tend (al- 
 ways an important part of education) to add to our knowl- 
 edge of language, and our command over it. 
 
 Lastly, as we must all have some mental relaxation (and 
 if the greater part of our hours be diligently given to duty, 
 we are both entitled to it and in need of it), such relaxa- 
 tion is easily and legitimately found in the occasional peru- 
 sal of a judicious work of fiction. 
 
 You see how liberal I am, and that it is no old, musty, 
 strait-laced critic that sj^eaks to you : therefore " perpend 
 my words." 
 
 Everything, you observe, depends on quality and quan- 
 tity. These must determine whether the novels you read 
 be mental aliment or mental poison. Now, as to the y?rs^, 
 I have no hesitation in saying that the immense majority 
 of novels have no tendency to fulfil any of the ends I have 
 pointed out ; they are mere rubbish ; and, forgive me, sev- 
 eral of those I recently saw in your hands from your circu- 
 lating library deserve no other character. For my part, I 
 should not care if some Caliph Omar treated all novels — 
 except some three thousand volumes or so — as the original 
 Caliph treated the Alexandrian Library, and made a huge 
 bonfire of them. " Three thousand volumes ! " you will 
 say ; " why that is at the rate of a novel a week for twenty 
 years ! You are liberal, indeed." 
 
 Very true ; but I did not say you would do well to read 
 them all, though as many may be worth reading. And let 
 me tell you, that you may infer something else from my ad- 
 mission. With so many more good novels at command 
 than you can possibly read, will you not be utterly inex- 
 cusable if you indulge in any of the trumpery of which I 
 
166 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 have been just speaking ? Kely upon it, my dear, that the 
 reading of the second and third and fourth-rate class of 
 novels not only does not secure any of the ends of which 
 I have spoken above, but has a directly contrary tendency. 
 These books enfeeble the intellect — impoverish the imag- 
 ination — vulgarize taste and style — give false or distorted 
 views of life and human nature, — and, what is perhaps 
 worst of all, waste that precious time which might be given 
 to sohd mental improvement. I assure you I have often 
 been astonished and grieved at the manner in which young 
 minds, originally capable of better things, have been injured 
 by continual dawdhng over the slip-slop of inferior novels. 
 They sink insensibly to the level of such books ; and, how 
 can it be otherwise ? — for this pernicious appetite, " which 
 grows by what it feeds on," prevents the mind's coming in 
 contact with anything better, and these wretched comi^osi- 
 tions become the standard. Observe that these minds are 
 enfeebled, not only in tone, — for that would result from 
 reading too much of any novels, even the best, just as the 
 stomach would get disordered from eating too much pastry, 
 though the Queen's daintiest cooks might make it; — but I 
 mean enfeebled, degraded in taste, — in the j^ercej^tion of 
 the True and the Beautiful in works of high intellectual art. 
 Such impoverished minds talk with rajDture of the interest- 
 ing " characters " in these volumes of miserable fatuities ; of 
 some " charming young Montague," or some " sweet Emma 
 Montfort " (both more insipid than the " white of an ^^^^ "), 
 who talk reams of soft nonsense, and get involved in absurd 
 adventures which set all probability at defiance. You 
 young ladies often melt into tears at maudlin scenes, which 
 to a just perception or a masculine taste could only pro- 
 duce laughter ; condescend to weigh the merits of slip-slop 
 sentiment or descriptive platitudes beneath all criticism; 
 and sagely compare the power of the three vols, of the inane 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 167 
 
 "Julia Montresor, or the Broken heart," with the equally- 
 inane three vols, of " Pizarro, or the Bandit's Cave ; " when 
 the only question with any reader of sense (if any such 
 reader could wade through the pages of either) is as to 
 which of the two works is most utterly bankrupt in knowl- 
 edge, taste, character, style, and, in fact, every element that 
 can redeem a work of fiction fi-om being utterly contempti- 
 ble and intolerable ! 
 
 And this depravity of taste, believe me, may go on to 
 any extent ; for, as the appetite for reading such works be- 
 comes more and more voracious and indiscriminate, it leaves 
 neither power nor inclination to a23preciate better books. 
 The mind at last becomes so vitiated that it craves and is 
 satisfied with anything in the shape of a story ^ — a series 
 of fictitious adventures, no matter how put together ; no 
 matter whether the events be probably conceived, the char- 
 acters justly drawn, the descriptions true to nature, the dia- 
 logue spirited, or the contrary. So preposterous is the 
 interest that may be taken in a mere tram of fictitious inci- 
 dent, quite apart fi'om the genius which has conceived or 
 adorned it, that many a young lady will, go through nearly 
 the same story a thousand times in a thousand difierent 
 novels, — the names alone being altered ! I assure you it 
 is an inscrutable mystery to me, my dear, how they can 
 
 still endure that charming Miss , whom, under a 
 
 hundred aliases they have already married to that sweet 
 young gentleman with an equal number of names, in spite 
 of the opposition of parents on both sides, dangerous rivals, 
 and the most impossible hair-breadth " 'scapes by flood and 
 field." 
 
 You will, perhaps, say, (what is very true,) that it is pos- 
 sible to get so entangled in a mesh of fictitious incidents, 
 that though you know, or soon suspect, the novel to be un- 
 worthy of perusal, you do not like to lay it down till the 
 
168 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 denouement. Do you ask how you may break the spell, 
 and escaj^e ? Then I will tell you, provided you will prom- 
 ise to act on my advice. Read any such novel, my dear, 
 Hebrew-fashion, that is, backwards ; go at once to the end 
 of the third volume — and marry oif the hero and heroine, 
 or drowTi them, or hang the one, and break the heart of the 
 other, as maybe most meet to you and the writer. If, after 
 having thus secured your catastrophe, you cannot find heart 
 to " plod your weary way " through the intervening desert 
 of words, dejDcnd upon it you will lose nothing by throwing 
 the book aside at once. And, further, you may take this 
 also for a rule ; — if you do not feel, as you read on, that 
 what you read is worth reading for its own sake^ — that you 
 could read it over again with pleasure ; — if you do not feel 
 that the incidents are naturally conceived, the scenes vividly 
 described, the dialogue dramatic and piquant, the characters 
 sharply drawn, be sure the book is not worth sixpence. No 
 fiction is, intellectually^ worth anybody's reading, that has 
 not considerable merit as a work of art ; and such works 
 are ever felt to be worth reading again, often with increas- 
 ed interest. It is indeed the truest test of all the highest 
 efibrts of this kind ; — new beauties steal out upon us on 
 each perusal. Dip anywhere into the " Macbeth " of Shak- 
 speare, or the " Antiquary " of Walter Scott, and you still 
 find that, though you know the whole from beginning to 
 end, the force of painting, the truth, yet originality of the 
 sentiments, — the spirit of the dialogue, — the beauties of 
 imagery and expression, — still lure you to read on, wher- 
 ever you chance to open, with ever renewed delight. 
 
 Now let me add that if, for a little while, you never read 
 any fiction but such as will bear to be often read, you will 
 need no caution against any of an inferior kind. Your taste 
 will soon become pure and elevated, and you will nauseate 
 a bad novel as you would a dose of tartar emetic. 
 
ON NOVEL HEADING. 169 
 
 I shall ever feel grateful to the memory of Walter Scott. 
 I happened to fall in with his best novels when quite a boy ; 
 and I never could endure afterwards the ordinary run of 
 this class of literature. When Laidlaw w'as acting as aman- 
 uensis to Scott in the composition of " Ivanhoe," he could 
 not help congratulating the author on the happy effects 
 which his beautiful fictions w'ould have, by sweeping clean 
 the circulating libraries of infinite rubbish. " Sir Walter 
 Scott's eyes," he tells us, " filled -with tears." And no 
 doubt his fictions had considerable effect in elevatinc: the 
 taste of that novel-reading generation ; but a " new gene- 
 ration, w^hich know not" Walter are being introduced to 
 tons of the ephemeral current nonsense before they have 
 the means of institutmg a comjDarison. Be not you one of 
 them. . . . 
 
 By the way, I may tell you that I fell in with " Ivanhoe," 
 at thirteen, on a bright July morning in my midsummer 
 holidays. I had been sent to the house of a relative, about 
 a mile off, with some message, I forget wdiat ; I found the 
 family out ; but I found " Ivanhoe " at home — it was lying 
 conveniently at hand ; I looked into it, became absorbed, 
 and spent the whole day in the garden reading it, utterly 
 forgetful of dinner, tea, and supper, and never stopped till I 
 had finished it ! There are, among Scott's fictions, several 
 I admire much more now, but none ever did me such ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Ever your loving Uncle, 
 
 R. E. II. G. 
 
 15 
 
170 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 July IG, 1816. 
 
 And now, my dear Mary, I come to the second " head " 
 of my discourse ; so hnagine yourself in church, and that 
 your good clergyman is sending (as I doubt not he often 
 does, you monkey) an admonitory glance towards your pew, 
 as he arrives at the same critical stage in his sermon. My 
 second " head," then, is to show that you may read too 
 many even of the very best novels. " True," you will say 
 " if I read nothing else." Aye, and very far within that 
 limit may you read too many ; let me add that any excess 
 has a tendency to make you relish reading nothing else. 
 
 I have said that, in moderation, they are useful to devel- 
 ope and stimulate the imagination ; but the imagination may 
 be too much stimulated, and too much developed, — " de- 
 veloped " till it at length stunts all the other faculties, and 
 " stimulated " till it is not exhilarated merely, but tipsy. 
 The severer faculties demand a proportionate culture, and 
 a more sedulous one ; for to cultivate the imagination, in 
 whatever degree it is susceptible of it at all, is the easiest 
 thing in nature ; the difficulty is to train it justly. Some 
 hardy flowers will bloom in any soil, and with little or no 
 culture — and so will those of fancy. 
 
 The greater 2:)art of your time should be given to solid 
 studies or practical duties ; this should be your rule. As 
 relaxation, to be of any value, should be moderate, so nov- 
 els must not claim much of your time. They should be the 
 condiments and spices, the confectionary of your ordinary 
 diet; not the substantial joints, not \\\q piece de resistance. 
 You might as well attempt to live on creams and sylla- 
 bubs. 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 171 
 
 But you will say, perhaps, " Is it possible to read a novel 
 by chapter ? Is it in human nature to leave off in the very 
 middle of that critical adventure in which the hero saves the 
 life of the heroine, or close the book just in the middle of 
 his declaration, and without listening to the delicious lov- 
 ers' nonsense which passes on that occasion, or finding out 
 how it all ends ? " To me^ my dear, it would be very easy ; 
 or rather I should find a difiiculty perhaps, in general, in 
 not skipping — pray don't look so cross — all that same de- 
 licious nonsense. But I admit that it is difficult for many 
 young ladies to do so ; or for any novel reader, when the 
 fiction has real merit ; — to most young novel readers the 
 task would be impossible. 
 
 And so, that you may not say I counsel you to perform 
 " impossibilities," my dear, take my advice. Do not tie 
 yourself to any such restriction as a chapter at a time. " O, 
 delightful ! " you will say. Stay a minute. 
 
 I would have you read novels only so moderately that 
 there shall be no occasion for restricting yourself when you 
 do read them. Let them be read now and then as a reward 
 of strenuous exertion, or for having mastered some difficult 
 book ; or let them be reserved for visits and holidays. Do 
 not, — if I may use a metaphor of that vulgar kind I have 
 already so frequently employed, — do not have a novel 
 always in cut. Keep it for an hour of well-earned leisure, 
 or as a relief after arduous duty, and then read it without 
 stint. This occasional full meal will then do you no harm ; 
 and, depend on it, the flare will be doubly delicious, from 
 the keenness of the appetite, the previous fast, and the rari- 
 ty of the indulgence. But you will say, " What shall I do 
 for my daily hour or so of rightful mental relaxation, t.o 
 which you admit I am entitled ? " Well, if you will take 
 my advice, you will ordinarily choose — and oh ! the infinite 
 treasures, which neither you nor I can fully exhaust, litera- 
 
172 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ture spreads before us ! — something, wLicli, while it fully 
 answers the purpose of healthful and innocent mental amuse- 
 ment, will not hold attention too long enthralled, or lead 
 you to turn to other less exciting compositions with a sigh. 
 Take, for example, some beautiful poem ; or a paper of one 
 of our British Essayists ; or an interesting book of travels ; 
 or an article of Macaulay, who, of almost all writers, com- 
 bines, in greatest perfection, instruction and delight. The 
 names of Milton, Gray, Cowper, Addison, Johnson, Crabbe, 
 and a thousand more, show what a boundless field of selec- 
 tion lies before you. 
 
 And now do you want a practical rule as to when you 
 have been reading novels (however good) too much or too 
 long? Here, then, is an infallible one. When ordinary 
 books of a sober and instructive character, are read with 
 disrelish ; Avhen, for example, a work of well-written history 
 seems to you, as compared with the piquant and vivid de- 
 tails of fiction, as if you were looking on the wrong side of a 
 piece of tapestry ; when you cannot away with dull, sober 
 reality ; when you return to practical duties with reluctance 
 and the work-a-day world looks sombre and sad-colored to 
 you, rest assured that you have been lingering too long in 
 fairy-land, and indulging too much in day-dreams. And, 
 further, remember this ; — that as long as you are liable to 
 any such unlucky consciousness, you have not carried the 
 culture of your intellectual powers or your practical habits 
 to the right point ; for the moment that is done, such a re- 
 sult becomes impossible. A mind thus equipped for life and 
 duty, can indulge in fiction only within certain moderate 
 limits ; for purposes of innocent imbending, of legitimate 
 amusement. Beyond that point fiction cloys; and the heal- 
 thy mind, so far from repining that it cannot live longer in 
 the Fool's Paradise, — or, if you like not that harsh term, 
 — among Elysian shadows, is conscious of as strong a desire 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 173 
 
 to come back to the regions of daylight and reality, as the 
 inveterate novel reader feels to dream on in cloud-land. It 
 sighs for a return to the substantial and the real ; and can 
 no more live in fiction than it can bear to be always danc- 
 ing polkas, or playing eternally at back-gammon. Perse- 
 vere for a certain time, — for the next two or three years, 
 — I thmk you are now eighteen (you need not blush to ac- 
 knowledge your age yet), — in disciplining your mind, and 
 you are safe, I will answer for it, from the too dominant sway 
 of any, even the greatest, enchanters of fiction. But my 
 strongest reasons of all for the advice I am giving you, are 
 yet behind, and I must reserve them for another letter. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 July 29, 1816. 
 
 My DEAR Mary, 
 
 I now proceed to those " stronger " reasons to which I 
 alluded in my last. I have reserved them for the close of 
 my " sermon," because they are the most important. 
 
 All inordinate indulgence in works of fiction, then, tends 
 to pervert our views of life instead of enlarging them, 
 which, if judiciously chosen, and read in moderation, they 
 will do ; and to quench benevolence, -which, under similar 
 restrictions, they will tend to cherish. 
 
 The excessive indulgence perverts, I say, views of life. 
 The young mind is but too prone of itself to live in a 
 world of fancy ; indeed, in one sense, it is necessary that 
 the imagination should thus be ever creating the future for 
 us, or we should not act at all ; but then its influence must 
 be well regulated by a due regard to the laws of the prob- 
 
 10* 
 
174 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ahle^ or we shall lase the present and the future too : the 
 present, in dreaming of an irrational future ; and the 
 future, becai^e we have not prepared ourselves for any 
 possible future by the proper employment of the present. 
 If a young gentleman or young lady's mind, of any intel- 
 ligence, could be laid bare, and all the fantastical illusions 
 it has ever indulged exposed to the world, I am afraid it 
 would fairly expire in an agony of shame at the disclosure ; 
 it would be often found, quite apart from novel reading, to 
 have indulged largely in the veriest chimeras of hope and 
 fancy. But then this tendency, difficult to control at the 
 best, is ajit to be fatally strengthened by undue indulgence 
 in fictitious literature. If a too early love-aifair and a cir- 
 culating library should both concur to exasperate the mal- 
 ady, you may look for stark " mid-summer madness." — I 
 fear that anticipations of unlooked-for windfalls of for- 
 tune, — of success achieved without toil, — of fame got for 
 the longing after it, — of brides a few degrees above angels, 
 and husbands in whom Apollo and Adonis are happily com- 
 bined, — are a not uncommon result of dwelling too long 
 in congenial fiction. Nor do I at all doubt that a thousand 
 instances of failure in professional life of sudden and im- 
 prudent engagements, of ridiculous or ill-assorted matches, 
 may be ascribed to the same cause. At all events, this j^er- 
 nicious practice prolongs and intensifies the natural tendency 
 to day-dreaming. Had it not been for this, the spell would 
 have been broken — the imaginative sleep-walker awakened 
 by the rude shocks and jogs of practical life. But the 
 dream and the walk are often continued too long, and the 
 unhappy somnambulist vanishes — over a precipice ! 
 
 But still more pernicious is the effect of this bad habit 
 on benevolence. This may seem strange, but it is very true 
 nevertheless. I grant that sympathy and sensibility depend 
 in a very high degree on the activity of the imagination — 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 175 
 
 on our power of vividly picturing to ourselves the joys and 
 sorrows of others ; but do not hastily conclude tliat excess 
 in reading fiction, provided that fiction be a just jncture of 
 life, (wliich I now assume,) can, whatever harm it may do 
 in other directions, do none in this. It may quicken sym- 
 pathy and strengthen sensibility, — nay, in one sense it will 
 do so, — and yet, I stick to my j^aradox notwithstanding; 
 namely, that it tends to weaken j^ractical benevolence, and 
 may end in quenching it altogether. 
 
 However, I must make the preliminary remark, that, even 
 if the habit did not render benevolence less active, sensi- 
 bility is of no value except as it is under the direction of 
 judgment and reason; Avhich presupposes, therefore, the 
 harmonious culture of all the faculties and susceptibilities 
 of our nature. Apart from a Avell balanced mind, neither 
 prompt sympathy nor acute sensibility are of much value, 
 and often only inspire visionary, whimsical, perhaps very 
 sublime, but also very impracticable, projects. 
 
 But I would not have you ignorant, my dear, that the 
 indulgence in question is liable to be attended with a much 
 more serious evil than this. To be truly benevolent in 
 heart, and strive to show it, even though the mode were so 
 absurd as to prove that the heart had robbed the head of 
 all its brains, would be something; — to be laughed at as 
 an idiotic angel would still have some consolation. But 
 the mischief is, that a morbid indulgence of sympathy and 
 sensibility is but too likely to end in extinguishing benev- 
 olence. I imagine I hear you say, " Sensibility to distress, 
 and sympathy w^ith it, quench benevolence ! this is, indeed, 
 a hard lesson ; who can hear it ? " It is true notwithstand- 
 ing; and as S}Tnpathy with distress, — fictitious distress, 
 you understand, — and sensibility to it, increases, active 
 benevolence may be in precisely inverse ratio. 
 
 If you ask hoio this can be, I answer, that it depends on 
 
176 THE GIIEYSON LETTEliS. 
 
 a curious law of our mental mechanism, wliicli was pointed 
 out by Bishop Butler, — with whose writings, by the bye, 
 I hope you will be better acquainted some time Avithin the 
 next two years, and which will do you a world more good 
 than a whole Bodleian library of novels. Among many 
 other curious facts in man's moral anatomy, which the great 
 philosopher lays bare, are these two, — which by the Avay 
 show distinctly for what God designed us, and what course 
 we ought to take in our own culture, — " That, from our 
 very faculty of habits^ passive im^^ressions, by being repeated^ 
 grow toealcer^ and that practical habits are formed and 
 strengthened by repeated actsP 
 
 But I find my sermon has been so long, that, like other 
 preachers, I must, if I continue, huddle up the last, though 
 most important part, in haste ; therefore, as they sometimes 
 do, I will reserve what I have to say for another discourse, 
 begging you, my fair hearer, to ponder on tlie words I have 
 just transcribed for you — if so be you may spell out their 
 meaning, and jirofit thereby. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLI 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Aug. 6, 1846. 
 
 My DEAR Mary, 
 
 I resume the "thread" of my last discourse by expound- 
 ing the seeming paradox with which it closed. " Who 
 can be more tender-hearted," perhaps you will say, " than 
 heroes and heroines in novels, or more ready to cry than an 
 inveterate novel reader ? " Nevertlieless be pleased to re- 
 member that however prompt the fancy may be to depict 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 177 
 
 distress, or the eye to attest he genuineness of the emotion 
 that distress has awakened, they indicate what may be 
 merely passive states of mind ; and no benevolence is 
 worth a farthing that does not proceed to action. Now, 
 the frequent repetition of that species of emotion which 
 fiction stimulates tends to prevent benevolence, because it 
 is out of proportion to corresponding action ; it is like that 
 frequent " going over the theory of virtue in our own 
 thouglits," which, as Butler says, so far from being auxiliary 
 to it, may be obstructive of it. 
 
 As long as the balance is maintained between the stimu- 
 lus given to imagination with the consequent emotions^ on 
 the one hand, and our practical habits, which those emo- 
 tions are chiefly designed to form and strengthen, on the 
 other, so long, I say, the stimulus of the imagination will 
 not stand in the way of benevolence, but aid it ; and, there- 
 fore, my dear, if you loill read a novel extra now and then, 
 impose upon yourself the coiTcctive of an extra visit or 
 tAVO to the poor, the distressed, and afflicted ! Keep a sort 
 of debtor and creditor account of sentimental indulgence 
 and practical benevolence. I do not care if your pocket- 
 book contains some such memoranda as these : " For the 
 sweet tears I shed over the romantic sorrows of Charlotte 
 Devereux, sent three basins of gruel and a flannel petticoat 
 to poor old Molly BroAvn;" "For sitting up three hours 
 beyond the time over the ' Bandit's Bride,' gave half a 
 crown to Betty Smith;" "My sentimental agonies over 
 the pages of the ' Broken Heart ' cost me three visits to 
 the Orphan Asylum and two extra hours of Dorcas Society 
 work ; " " Two quarts of caudle to poor Johnson's wife 
 and some gaberdines for his ragged children, on account of 
 a good cry over the pathetic story of the "Forsaken 
 One.' " 
 
 But if the luxury — and it is a luxury, and in itself noth- 
 
178 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ing more — of sympathy and mere benevolent feeling be 
 separated from action^ then Butler's paradox becomes a 
 terrible truth, and "the heart is not made better," but 
 worse, by it. 
 
 And the following causes are peculiarly apt to render the 
 species of emotion which fiction excites, not merely dis- 
 proportionate to the habits of benevolence, but unfriendly 
 to tlieir formation. First ; in order to make the represen- 
 tations of fictitious distress pleasant^ — and that is the ob- 
 ject of any fiction which depicts it, for it is a work of art, — 
 there must be a careful exclusion of those repulsive features 
 of distress which shock genuine sensibility and sympathy 
 in real life. Poverty, and misfortune, and sickness are to 
 be " interesting," captivating ; the dirt, the filth, the vul- 
 garity, the ingratitude, which real benevolence encounters 
 in the attemj^t to relieve them, must be removed, not merely 
 from the senses, but as far as possible from the imagination 
 of the reader ; no offensive aura must steal from the sick 
 chamber where tlie faithful heroine suffers or watches, or 
 from the chamber of death itself ; none which even the 
 fancy can detect; chloride of lime, and eau de Colog)ie^ 
 double-distilled of fancy, — must cleanse from the sweet 
 pages every ill odor, lest the delicate reader that lies lan- 
 guidly on the sofa, wrapt in the luxury of woe, (perhaps 
 with streaming eyes and frequent ap})lication of the fine 
 cambric), should feel too acutely; — lest the refined pleas- 
 ure thus cunningly extracted out of the sorrows of the 
 world should turn to pain ! Now the more this feeling is 
 indulged, the more fistidious it becomes ; till at last, if 
 the 2)ract ice of benevolence has not been in full j^roportion, 
 the obstacles encountered by benevolence, when it attempts 
 its proper task, become insurmountable, and its efforts are 
 quenched at once. Accordingly, many a young lady has 
 found, on her first attempt to visit the cabins of the poor, 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 179 
 
 and relieve the wants of the sick, that, as a great general 
 declared " nothing was so unlike a battle as a review," so 
 nothing is so unlike real benevolence as the luxurious sem- 
 blance of it excited by a novel, and acted " with great ap- 
 plause " on the theatre of the imagination. So squeamish 
 may this feeling become, that even novels may depict 
 scenes of sorrow, all too real. Even the reflected light of 
 real life may be too strong for it. The fair reader, in dan- 
 ger of dying of " aromatic pain," cannot tolerate the vivid- 
 ness of this pre-Raphaelite style of literary jiainting ! 
 Perhaps as cu% it ought not to be tolerated ; for art ought 
 to be confined within the limits which secure an overbalance 
 of pleasure. But whether this be a correct canon of art 
 or not, the moral effect of too much novel reading, (let the 
 novels be ever so excellent as works of art,) is just what 
 I say. It is apt to produce a fastidiousness, which cannot 
 bear the real ; no, nor even the faithful delineation of the 
 real. Many a dear novel reader, one would imagine, sup- 
 poses that the '•'■final cause " (but one) of all the misery 
 in the Avorld, is to furnish the elements of the picturesque 
 and the " interesting," the raw material for the fictitious 
 painter, — and the " final cause " itself, the delicious luxury 
 of that sentimental sympathy with which he insj^ires the 
 elegant and fastidious reader ! 
 
 Pleasurable sympathy with fictitious distress and be- 
 nevolent desire to relieve real., differ infinitely. How 
 picturesque some loathsome, squalid cabin, or a gipsies' 
 tent often looks in a picture ! " How prettily," we all say, 
 " that little piece of humanity is introduced there ! " yet 
 how few would relish the thought of entering the reality ! 
 With what reluctance would they do it, even though 
 benevolence bade! See there an illustration of the dif- 
 ference between sentimental emotion and benevolent 
 principle. 
 
180 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 The luxury of mere sympathy and sensibility, (now do 
 not look so shocked,) of the "fine feelings" excited by 
 fiction is, when disjoined from practical benevolence, so 
 great, that it may actually form a notable element in a 
 person's daily felicity, and yet he may be one of the most 
 selfish creatures in the world ! 
 
 How delightful it is to sit still, and play, not only with 
 no trouble, but with the liveliest pleasure, the part of 
 great philanthropists ! What ignorance and sorrow have 
 been relieved — in fancy, by soft enthusiasts! What 
 sums expended — without costing a farthing! What 
 content and felicity diffused everywhere — and the un- 
 grateful world none the better or the wiser for it all! 
 Sentimental philanthropists, who thus revel in secret 
 well-doing, transcend the Gospel maxim of not "letting 
 their left hand know what their right hand doeth," for 
 they let neither their " right " nor their " left hand " know 
 any thing of the matter ! Out upon them ! 
 
 Now, this selfish luxury not only blinds those who 
 surrender themselves to it by the mask of seeming worth 
 it wears, but by daily craving, like any other pleasant 
 emotion, a more unrestrained indulgence, it makes real 
 benevolence, and its hardy tasks, more and more impos- 
 sible. And thus, as Bishop Butler justly says, the heart 
 may be growing all the more selfish for all the heroic 
 sacrifices of an imaginary virtue. 
 
 Pray observe too, — and it is well to remember it in 
 the present tendencies of popular literature, — that similar 
 effects, in the absence of a genuine practical benevolence, 
 may be produced by an opposite class of delineations 
 from those which exhibit fictitious distress : I mean those 
 which exhibit almost exclusively the follies and weak- 
 nesses of mankind. When such descriptions are too 
 often read, — no matter how kindly the vein of the hu- 
 
ON NOVEL READING. 181 
 
 morist, — the man who has not trained his heart to pity- 
 by actual benevolence is soon apt to fall into a cynical 
 contempt of human infirmity, and to think that all the 
 world's absurdities are game for laughter, when at least 
 as often they call for compassion. 
 
 You may perhaps be still j^uzzled a little to reconcile 
 the paradox of the hardening effects of excessive sensi- 
 hillty. — You will find all difficulty removed if you suffi- 
 ciently meditate on the fact so beautifully pointed out by 
 the great moralist I quoted in my last. So little (as he 
 shows) is emotion, — even the best and most refined, — 
 in itself any index of virtue, that emotion may be weak- 
 ened, and indeed is so, by every practical advance in 
 virtue. It is as he says, a great law of our nature, 
 (and nothing can be more beautifully adapted to our 
 condition as creatures who are designed for real practical 
 virtue,) that while our passive emotions decay in vivid- 
 ness by repetition, (though it is true w^e crave them more 
 and more strongly,) our practical habits strengthen by 
 exercise; so that, as this writer observes, a man may be 
 advancing in moral excellence by that very course which 
 deadens his emotions. He, whose sensibility gloats over 
 fictitious scenes of sorrow, as the exciting cause of agree- 
 able passive sensations, is in the oj^posite position ; he 
 craves them more and more, though he feels them less 
 \avidly, just as is the case with the drunkard and his 
 dram — he hankers for it more and enjoys it less. Prac- 
 tical habits, on the other hand, render emotion less vivid, 
 but become more and more easy and pleasant — nay, like 
 all habits, crave their wonted gratification. So true is it, 
 however, that practical habit generally deadens passive 
 impressions, that you i^ay lay it down as a rule, that he 
 who feels poignantly, — I do not say deeply^ but poig- 
 nantly, — the distress he relieves, is a novice in benev- 
 
 16 
 
182 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 olence ; and hence novel-reading young ladies and gen- 
 tlemen often entirely mistake the matter, when they call 
 a man hard-hearted only because he does not dis2:)lay all 
 the sensations and clamorous sentiments of their own 
 impotent benevolence, but just quietly does all that they 
 talk of, and j^erhaps hluhher about. We know that a 
 benevolent medical man may take off a limb as coolly as he 
 would eat his dinner, and yet feel ten times as much real 
 sensibility for the sufferer as a fine lady who would run 
 away, hide her face in her hands, and throw herself on 
 a sofa in the most approved attitude for fainting or hys- 
 terics at the sight of even a drop of blood. 
 
 My dear Mary, take it as a caution through life, quite 
 apart from the subject I have been preaching about; — 
 Suspect, — I do not say condemn and hang, — but suspect 
 all who indulge in superfluous expression of sentiment, all 
 excessive symbols of sensibility. Those who indulge in 
 these are always neophytes in virtue at the best; and, 
 what is worse, they are very often among the most heart- 
 less of mankind. Sterne and Rousseau were types of this 
 class, — perfect incarnations of sensibility without benev- 
 olence, — having, and having in perfection, the "form" of 
 virtue, but " denying the power thereof." 
 
 Your loving uncle, 
 
 K. E H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sutton, Oct. 12, 1846. 
 
 So you hope, my dear niece, that I shall soon send you 
 another lecture on the " proprieties," for that my lectures 
 are very amusing ! Upon my word you pay me a pretty 
 
"YES" AND "NO." 183 
 
 compliment, yon monkey : yon are as bad as the fashion- 
 able lady, who, having heard a very pathetic sermon on a 
 i'cry solemn text, was heard to remark, as she left the 
 chnrch, "Well, really we have had a very entertaining 
 evening ! " 
 
 Well, Mademoiselle, thanks to that little giddy pate of 
 yonrs, I fmcy there will be no lack of subjects whereon 
 to admonish yon. Your Mentor, believe me, will hold no 
 sinecure. However, if I must lecture, hear me, — though 
 speaking lightly, — on a very grave subject. 
 
 It is my purj^ose, my dear, to carry on your gram- 
 matical studies a little, by doing what I humbly venture 
 to think your governess must have left partially undone,. 
 — I must indoctrinate you in the true theory and right 
 use of "yes" and "no." Do not be alarmed; I am not 
 about to trouble you with any tedious inquiry into the 
 etymology or syntax of these important j^articles. These 
 Ave leave to those whom it concerns ; but as to the mean- 
 ing and use of these atoms of speech, depend on it, they 
 are of more importance than the meaning and use of the 
 most centipedal polysyllables that crawl over the pages 
 of Johnson's Dictionary. 
 
 You remember the last pleasant evening in my last 
 visit to Shirley, when I accompanied you to the party at 
 Mrs. Austin's. Something occurred there, which I had no 
 opportunity of improving for your benefit. So as you 
 invite reproof, — an invitation which, who that is mortal 
 and a senior can refuse, — I will enlarge a little. 
 
 The good lady, our hostess, expressed, if you recollect, a 
 fear that the light of the unshaded camphene was too bright, 
 in the position in which you sat, for your eyes. Though I 
 saw you blinking with positive pain, yet, out of a foolish 
 timidity, you protested — " Ko, — oh no, — not at all ! " 
 
184 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Now that was a very unneighborly act of the tongue, thus 
 to set at naught the eye ; the selfish thing must have for- 
 gotten that " if one member suffer, all the others must suffer 
 Avith it." My dear, never sacrifice your eyes to any organ 
 whatever ; at all events not to the tongue, — least of all, 
 when it does not tell the truth. Of the two, you had 
 better be dumb than blind. 
 
 Now, if I had not interposed, and said that you icere suf- 
 fering, whether you knew it or not, you would have played 
 the martyr all the evening to a sort of a — a — what shall 
 I call it ? — it must out, — a sort of fashionable fib ! You 
 may answer, perhaps, that you did not like to make a fuss, 
 or seem squeamish, or discompose the company, and so, 
 from timidity, you said " the thing that was not." Very 
 true ; but this is the very thing I want you to guard against ; 
 I w^ant you to have such presence of mind that the thought 
 of absolute Truth shall so preoccupy you as to defy surprise, 
 and anticipate even the most hurried utterances. 
 
 The incident is very trifling in itself; I have noticed it, 
 because I think I have observed, on other occasions, that 
 from a certain timidity of character, and an amiable desire 
 not to give trouble or " make a fuss," as you call it, (there, 
 now, Mary, I am sure the medicine is nicely mixed — that 
 spoonful of syrup ought to make it go down,) you have 
 evinced a disposition to say, from i^ure want of thinking, 
 what is not precise truth. Weigh well, my dear girl, and 
 ever act on, that precept of the Great Master, which, like 
 all His i^recepts, is of deepest imj^ort, and, in spirit, of the 
 utmost generality of application, " Let your yea be yea, and 
 your nay, nay." 
 
 Let truth — absolute truth — take precedence of every- 
 thing ; let it be more precious to you than anything else. 
 Sacrifice not a particle of it at the bidding of indolence. 
 
"YES" AND "NO." 185 
 
 vanity, interest, cowardice, or shame ; least of all, to those 
 tawdry idols of stuffed straw and feathers, — the idols of 
 fashion and false honor. 
 
 It is often said that the great lesson for a young man or 
 a young woman to learn is how to say " no." It would be 
 better to say that they should learn aright how to use both 
 " yes " and " no," — for both are equally liable to abuse. 
 
 The modes in wliich they are employed often give an 
 infallible criterion of character. 
 
 Some say both so doubtfully and hesitatingly, drawling 
 out each letter, " y-e-s," " n-o," that one might swear to 
 their indecision of character at once. Others repeat them 
 with such facility of assent or dissent, taking their tone 
 from the previous question, that one is equally assured of 
 the same conclusion, or, what is as bad, that they never 
 reflect at all. They are a sort of parrots. 
 
 One very important observation is this, — be pleased to 
 remember, my dear, that " yes " in itself always means 
 " yes," and " no" always means "no." 
 
 I fancy you will smile at such a profound remark ; never- 
 theless many act as if they never knew it, — both in utter- 
 ing these monosyllables themselves, and in inter25reting 
 them as uttered by others. Young ladies, for example, 
 when the question, as it is called, par excellence^ (as if it 
 were more important than the whole catechism together,) 
 is put to them, often say "no," when they really mean 
 " yes." It is a singular happiness for them that the young 
 gentlemen to whom they reply in this contradictory sort of 
 way have a similar incaj^acity of understanding "yes" and 
 " no ; " nay, a greater ; for these last often persist in think- 
 ing " no " means " yes," even when it really means what it 
 says. 
 
 "Pray, my dear," said a mamma lo her daughter of 
 
 16* 
 
186 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 eighteen, " what was your cousin saying to you when I 
 met you, bhishing so, in the garden ? " 
 
 " He told me that he loved me, mamma, and asked if I 
 could love him." 
 
 " Upon my word ! And what did you say to him^ my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " I said, ' Yes,' mamma." 
 
 " My dear, how could you be so " 
 
 " Why, mamma, w^hat else could I say ? it was the — 
 truths 
 
 Now I consider this a model for all love-passages ; and 
 when it comes to your turn, my dear, pray follow this truth- 
 loving young lady's examj)le, and do not trust to your 
 lover's powers of interpretation to translate a seeming 
 " no " into a genuine " yes." He might be one of those 
 simple, worthy folks who are so foolish as to think that a 
 negative is really a negative ! 
 
 I grant that there are a thousand conventional cases in 
 which "yes" means " no," and "no" means "yes;" and 
 they are so ridiculously common, that every one is sup- 
 posed, in politeness, not to mean what he says, or rather is 
 not doubted to mean the contrary of what he says. In fact, 
 quite apart from positive lying, — that is, any intention to 
 deceive, — the honest words are so often interchanged that 
 if " no " were to prosecute " yes," and " yes " " no," for 
 trespass, I know not which would have most causes in 
 court. Have nothing to do with these absurd convention- 
 alisms, my dear. " Let your yea be yea," and your " nay, 
 nay." If you are asked whether you are cold, hungry, 
 tired, — never, for fear of giving trouble, say the contrary 
 of Avhat you feel. Decline giving the trouble, if you like, 
 by all means ; but do not assign any false reason for so 
 doing. These are trifles, you will say, and so they are ; but 
 
"YES" AND "NO." 187 
 
 it is only by austere regard to truth, even in trifles, that 
 we shall keep the love of it spotless and pure. '.' Take care 
 of the pence" of truth, " and the pounds will take care of 
 themselves." 
 
 Not only let your utterance be simple truth, as you ap- 
 prehend it, — but let it be decisive and imambiguous, ac- 
 cording to those apprehensions. Some persons speak as 
 falteringly as if they thought the text I have cited, ran, 
 " Let your yea be nay, and your nay, yea." And so they 
 are apt to assent or dissent, according to the tenor of the 
 last argument : " Yes — no " — " yes — no " — it is just like 
 listening to the pendulum of a clock. 
 
 It is a great aggravation of the misuse of " yes " and 
 " no," that the young are apt to lose all true apprehension 
 of their meaning, and think, in certain cases, that " yes " 
 cannot mean " yes," nor " no," " no." 
 
 I have known a lad, whose mother's " no " had generally 
 ended in " yes," completely ruined because, when his father 
 said " no " in reply to a request for unreasonable aid, and 
 threatened to leave him to his own devices if he persisted 
 in extravagance, could not believe that his father meant 
 what he said, or could prevail on justice to turn nature out 
 of doors. But his father meant " no," and stuck to it ; and 
 the lad was ruined, simply because, you see, he had not 
 noticed that father and mother difiered in their dialects, — 
 that, in his father's, " no " always meant " no," and nothing 
 else. You have read "Rob Roy," and may recollect that 
 that amiable young gentleman, Mr. F. Osbaldestone, with 
 less reason, very nearly made an equally fatal mistake ; for 
 every word his father had ever uttered, and every muscle 
 in his face, every gesture, every step ought to have con- 
 vinced him that his father always meant what he said. 
 
 In fine, my dear niece, learn to apply these little words 
 
188 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 aright and honestly ; and, httle though they be, you -will 
 keep the love of truth pure and unsulhed. 
 
 Ah me ! what words of joy and sorrow — what madden- 
 ing griefs and ecstasies — have these poor monosyllables 
 conveyed ! More than any other words in all the diction- 
 ary have they enraj)tured or saddened the human heart ; 
 rung out the peal of joy, or sounded the knell of hope. 
 And yet not so often as at first sight might appear ; for 
 these blunt and honest words are, both, kindly coy in scenes 
 of agony. There are occasions, — and those the most ter- 
 rible in life, — when the lips are fairly absolved from using 
 them, and when, if the eye cannot express what the muffled 
 tongue refuses to tell, the tongue seeks any stammering, 
 compassionate circimilocution rather than utter the dreaded 
 syllable. " Is there no hope ? " says the mother, hanging 
 over her dying child, to the physician in whose looks are 
 life and death. He dare not say "yes," — but to such a 
 question silence and dejection can alone say " no." 
 
 May there be to you, dear Mary, not many scenes in 
 
 life, — some there will, there must be, — when you cannot 
 
 utter either of these monosyllables ; when truth will not let 
 
 you say the one, and compassion will not let you breathe 
 
 the other. 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 189 
 
 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Sutton, October, 1847. 
 My deak West, 
 
 . . . "The treatment of criminals," — a question on 
 which you ask my opinion — is indeed a puzzling one. As 
 to the plan of keejDing them all in this country, — unless 
 the most absolute necessity comj^els us, — it is the very 
 worst of all ; at least, if the wretches are to be turned 
 loose, after a term of imprisonment, on a dense population 
 and an often glutted labor-market : this is simply the most 
 comprehensive cruelty both to the innocent and the guilty. 
 The criminal thus turned out of jail, enfranchised with a 
 pernicious freedom, cannot but relapse into crime. He 
 cannot compete with honest poverty, unless the door of 
 the counting-house and the factory be shut m its face in 
 flivor of the ticket of leave. Perhaps, here and there, one 
 of our mad philanthrof)ists would sacrifice unblemished 
 worth to an absurd sympathy with guilt ; but not one ui 
 ten thousand would ; and, in nearly every case, the relapse 
 of the criminal is inevitable. 
 
 The difiiculties of the question almost force one on one 
 of two courses ; either a return, under some modifications, 
 to strictly penal settlements — a horrible alternative ! — or 
 (what, in some moods, I have thought the truest mercy, 
 not only to society, but to criminals themselves) the plan 
 of making all the crimes of violence, — murder, highway 
 robbery, burglary, arson, — inexpiable except by enslave- 
 ment for life / the criminal to be employed all his days on 
 public works, under a system of strict military law ; the 
 triangle and the platoon to be the prompt and instant 
 avengers of every serious offence against discipline. Why, 
 
190 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 indeed, at any rate, should the criminal code be milder 
 than that of the camp ? 
 
 I have sometimes fancied that such a chastisement of 
 every deliberate forfeiture (by commission of crimes of vio- 
 lence) of the protection of society, would do more than 
 anything else to prevent them. If every one disposed to 
 invade his neighbor's liberty, saw over every prison door 
 Dante's terrible inscription, — 
 
 "Abandon lioj)c, all ye "vvbo enter here," — 
 
 I am inclined to think few crimes of violence would be de- 
 liberately committed. 
 
 But it is a question of immense difficulty. I remember, 
 some years ago, reading all that Bentham — all that Bec- 
 caria — all that others have said on the treatment of crim- 
 inals, and thought it incomparably the most perplexing 
 problem in political science. 
 
 If we could but give ourselves wholly to one of the two 
 great aims of penal legislation, — the prevention of crime, 
 — and leave the reformation of the criminal quite out of 
 sight ; if we could but make that which is the princij^al, 
 the sole object, and apply to crime remorselessly the maxim, 
 " Experimentum fiat in corpore vili," — I fancy the most 
 awful punishment and the most efiectual deterre^it of crime 
 would be just to let it have its play among those wlio had 
 been tainted by it ; to select for example, some island in 
 the deep recesses of the ocean, — of sufficient fertility, and 
 no more, to yield a scanty subsistence to its inhabitants, if 
 they chose to w^ork the stubborn glebe, — and then put 
 ashore there every one who had committed certain heinous 
 crimes, and let them do their best or worst ; the Govern- 
 ment simply keeping a port, and cruisers Avho should see to 
 it that none ever escaped from that dreadful prison ; but 
 never interfering to prevent any ill consequences of this 
 
TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 191 
 
 concentration of evil ; to stay any tumult, to redress any 
 wrongs, to punish any cruelties in this region of huge mis- 
 rule. 
 
 You will think, perhaps, that sheer necessity, — the 
 necessity which exacts " honor " (such as it is) " among 
 thieves," would lead on to some sort of government ; and 
 it doubtless would, for extermination would be the result 
 if the principles of evil had unchecked sway. "But of all 
 despotisms or republics the world has yet seen, I suppose 
 this would be incomparably the worst ; in which truth and 
 justice would be recognized only so far as they were reluc- 
 tantly felt to be necessary to the very existence of the body 
 politic, — a striking homage, by the way, even that, to the 
 moral constitution of the universe ; for it proves that even 
 when men have discarded virtue itself, they must still wear 
 the semblance of it. But still, what dreadful excesses, 
 within the limits of " thieves' honor " would evil passions 
 oive birth to ! Who can imao'ine the horrors of a commu- 
 nity of lust, cruelty, cunning, greed, blasphemy, — a com- 
 munity in which hope and shame would be dead ; where 
 the heaviest woe of all would be that very tyranny — that 
 " Right of Might " — which yet would be the only thing 
 which could keep such a society from extinction ; where he 
 of the Red Right-hand might be king ; the makers of law 
 those \\h.o had been most famed for breaking it ; in which 
 a murderer might be chancellor, and every judge a felon ! 
 
 But most probably there could be no stable government 
 even of this horrible kind ; a succession of brief anarchies 
 Avould form the crimson annals, diversified only by the mo- 
 mentary pre-eminence of some superior fiend, — " Beelze- 
 bub, the prince of the devils, casting out devils." In short, 
 the picture is too dreadful to dwell on ; humanity shudders 
 at the thought of it ; so we must give \v^ this promising 
 speculation ; we have no business thus to antedate Hell. 
 
192 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 
 
 Yes — Hell. For to be evil, and to be abandoned to evil ; 
 to live in the midst of those whose countenances reflect 
 only evil passions, stamped with cruelty, lust, cunning, 
 malice ; and to feel (most dreadful of all) that their coun- 
 tenances are but the mirrors of our own ; that we are free 
 to " Avork all manner of evil " against one another, wliich 
 the utmost selfishness, armed v^dth cunning, unchecked by 
 conscience, and checked only by fear, can inflict; what, 
 after all, is that but hell ? Did you ever read Sir James 
 Mackintosh's description of the feelings with which he once 
 found himself standing alone amongst the felons of i^ew- 
 gate, on a casual visit of compassion to that prison ? As 
 he saw around him the multi2:)lied images of depravity, — 
 every variety of expression of hatred, malignity, cruelty, 
 lust, cunning, — he confesses to a feehng of the most sick- 
 ening horror and dread. It must have been hardly better 
 than standing alone in the serpents' house in the Zoologi- 
 cal Gardens, without anything between the reptiles and 
 the spectator, and — the doors locked! 
 
 But to return. If, I say, it were not for humanity, such 
 a "habitation of dragons" as I have supjDosed would, 
 surely, be the true thing to deter men from crime, and 
 maintain in them a wholesome fear of coming into such a 
 place of torment. How would its very mystery of veiled 
 hon-ors strike the imagination ; — that land of silence of 
 Avhich no tongue could tell anything, — on which the foot of 
 innocence had never trod, from which that of guilt never 
 returned; — that land for ever divided from the living 
 world, as much as if the gi^ave had already closed on its 
 weary inhabitants ! "VYho can tell what wholesome aifright- 
 ing myths — what salutary appalling tales — would shape 
 themselves out of the hints and whispers of those who had 
 only gazed on the melancholy isle ! How would the voy- 
 agers who but sailed in view of the " unblessed land " trans- 
 
TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 193 
 
 fer even to its physical features the gloomy associations of 
 their fancy, and exaggerate whatever riiggedness nature 
 had given it, tenfold ! How, as they looked at it with 
 hushed breath, would their own feelings deepen its myste- 
 rious silence, and paint it to imagination in darker colors 
 than those of reality ! How would it thrill the mind with 
 horror to find officers of the watchful cruisers reporting that 
 on such a dark night they had heard loud shrieks at Mur- 
 der Cove ; on another, had seen fires blazing far inland as 
 if some bloody raid was going forward ; that sometimes old 
 graybeards and children, with their throats cut, — mere 
 lumber to be got rid of by these thrifty colonists, — came 
 floating by ! 
 
 Ah, by the way, how are Ave to j)rovide for the babies of 
 that horrible community? for babies — some at least — 
 tliere will be ; though I apprehend Mr. Malthus need not 
 be in any alarm about excess of population. Alas ! this 
 argument alone, if there were no other derived from hu- 
 manit}', Avould be enough to frighten us from this hoj^eful 
 scheme ; unless, by the way, men were sent to one island, 
 and women to another, which I fear would but complete 
 the horror of both ; or unless none but ladies well stricken 
 in years and crime were deemed eligible for such select so- 
 ciety; or other equally objectionable preliminaries of citi- 
 zenship were insisted upon. At any rate, to doom inno- 
 cence to be born into such a place as that, would be a fouler 
 crime tlian any the criminals there had committed. That 
 spot would in that case be darker than hell itself; for in 
 hell, doubtless, as in heaven, "they neither marry nor are 
 given in marriage." 
 
 I presume, therefore, we must give u^) all hope of real- 
 izing any such " normal prison." Yet it is not without its 
 use, to let the mind dwell on such a theme, if it but excite 
 
 17 
 
'o 
 
 194: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 one salutary thought of the horror of going into any re- 
 sembUnc: Avorld ! . . . . 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E.. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLIY. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 Inverart, July, 1848. 
 
 My dear Mason, 
 
 I think if you had been with us yesterday, you would 
 have been amused, — not to say instructed, — -by the illu- 
 sions of a harmless sort of madman, who — be not shocked 
 — turned out to be an intimate friend of the " de'il." 
 
 I was seated in comjoany with a young stranger, on a 
 stone bench in front of a little inn on my way here, lazily 
 looking out on the sunny mountains, when a man, decently 
 dressed as to the materials, though rather fantastically as 
 to the colors, sat down beside me ; and the mutter of his 
 lips, his restless air, and the bright but wandering eye, con- 
 vinced me that he was " no just that right in his mind." 
 He was a Scotchman, who, like so many of his country- 
 men, had received in his youth an education much beyond 
 that of a similar class in our own country ; and seemed to 
 have lost none of his native shrewdness under the influence 
 of his malady. After sitting for a few minutes, twitching 
 his features, muttering his "wayward fancies," stealing 
 rapid glances at me, shifting his limbs in incessant restless- 
 ness, he suddenly turned, and, with that mysterious con- 
 fidential undertone in which a maniac loves to utter his 
 absurdities, and which renders them so fearful to the lis- 
 tener, said " Did ye e'er see the de'il, mon ? " 
 
THE MADMAN AND THE DEVIL 195 
 
 " I do not know that I have ever seen him," said I. 
 
 " I have, then," said he, with much such an air of supe- 
 riority as a vulgar tuft-hunter might have assumed in chiim- 
 ing acquaintance with my Lord Duldrum ; (nodding his 
 head and compressing his lips at the same time ,) " I have, 
 then," said he ; " mony's the fine crack we hae had the- 
 gither ; amaist always by night, ye ken," he added, with a 
 mysterious air ; " he dinna bide a blink of the sun, I 'm 
 thinking." 
 
 " Why," said my young stranger-companion, who seemed 
 to know something of the madman, " they say, Dandie, that 
 there Avas never such a thing as the de'il ! " 
 
 "Ah ! are ye there now, mon? " said the madman, in high 
 dudgeon. " He kens yoK, mon, better than ye ken him. 
 He was a gay gude preacher as once said to a daft young 
 fule like you, ' Ye're an undutifu' laddie to deny your ain 
 fiither.' If ye dinna ken him yet, ye will, mon, ye will if 
 ye live; or if you dinna live, ye'U ken him still better, I'm 
 thinking." 
 
 Madman you may be, thought I ; but, like many more 
 of your brotherhood, you have a sharp humor of your own. 
 
 " Well, but," said I, wishing to humor his illusion, and 
 desiring I fear, — Heaven forgive me ! — to derive a little 
 amusement from it ; at the same time anxious to prevent 
 the passion into which it was evident the thoughtlessness 
 of the youth might plunge him by wanton contradiction, — 
 " Well, but Dandie, have you never seen him by day ? " 
 
 " To be sure, I have," said he with an air of suj^eriority ; 
 " though not sae often as by night, — that I canna gainsay. 
 And when I hae seen him by day, it is mostly in the 
 shadow of yon i3ine wood, which you can just see frae this, 
 in a dark glen where the stream comes tumbling down, 
 and sounds awsome in the gloaming. I hae whiles met 
 him there, and had a wee crack wi' him ; but he does na 
 
196 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 seem that cheerful and frankUke as in the bonny star- 
 light." 
 
 " Pooh ! " said the young man, Avho seemed to take a de- 
 light in teasing him; "you've seen some madman wander- 
 ing there, Dandie, and have mistaken him for the de'il ; 
 tliat's all." 
 
 " Begging your pardon, then, Mr. Mac Donald, the de'il 's 
 nae mair wud than I am ; " little thinking of the compli- 
 ment he was paying his patron. 
 
 " Well, but," said I, " did you ever see him in the broad 
 daylight ? " ^ 
 
 " Ance I did," said the maniac, sinking his voice to a con- 
 fidential whisper ; " but, eh ! sirs, it's a sair sight that ; I 
 wadna see it again. Ye maun ken we were walking a wee 
 bit out of the shade of the wood on a stormy day, and just 
 then the sun glinted frae between the clouds in a bright 
 light ; but it wasna to shine on him, or he wadna be shone 
 upon by it ; a dark shadow fell in a ring all about him, and 
 in that shadow I seemed to feel as cauld as I would under 
 the northern peak of Ben Cruachan yonder!" 
 
 " And has he," said I, " the claws and hoof usually given 
 to him ? " 
 
 " Na, na," replied this enlightened gentleman, — " that is 
 just vulgar superstition, mon. He is as weel favored a 
 gentleman, — dressed in black, though, ye ken, like a cler- 
 gyman, for he aye likes seeming, — as Zam." 
 
 " But," said I, soothingly, " did you never use your priv- 
 ilege to tell him that some of the young folks of our ac- 
 quaintance doubt his existence altogether? " 
 
 " That have I," said he ; " and it's amaist the only time 
 I ever saw a giggle on his foce. ' Aye, aye,' says he, * that 
 is just what I tell them mysel, and they sj^eak as I bid 
 them, puir unconscious fules ! It's at times ane o' my de- 
 lights now to hear them saying there is na sic thing as the 
 
THE MADMAN AND THE DEVIL. 197 
 
 de'il, while I am just at their elbows, and hae put that vera 
 lie into their mouths. But it is na aften that I am at the 
 pains ; for the greater part of manldnd are sic fules that 
 they are equally deceived, though they do believe that 
 there is a de'il ! ' Eh ! but," said the madman, " the de'il 
 spak truth there, ony way. Oh ! but it's sad to see that 
 man will throw away life, weal, wife, childer, heaven, and 
 a' for a gill o' whiskey or a bit rag o' painted harlotry. 
 They say the de'il is very busy in tempting men ; but he maun 
 hae an easy time o't, I'm thinking. All of them meet him 
 mair than half-way. Ilk ane seems to gang to him, and 
 say — ' Hae na ye some dainty temptation for me to-day, 
 now, Daddie Satan ? I'm sair wracked for a coaxing temj?- 
 tation.' " 
 
 "Well, but," said I, "Dandie, have you never expos- 
 tulated with him on the cruelty of his conduct, and asked 
 him Avhat pleasure he can have in inflicting tortures on 
 the miserable victims of his arts ? You remember what 
 your countryman Burns says in his address to the de'il — 
 
 " I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gle ye — " 
 
 " Hoot, mon," broke in the madman ; " Rob was a fine 
 poet — puir fellow — nae doot o' that; but I'm thinking 
 he was na always in his right senses ; when the whisky 
 AYas In^ the brains were out^ ye ken; and I'm sure he was 
 never sae weel acquent wi' auld Clootie as I am, puir 
 blinded mon ! " — he continued, as if his intimacy was a 
 singular privilege. 
 
 " But," said I, recalling him, "about his cruelty, now — 
 did ye never expostulate with him ? I really think, that, 
 as a good man, you should. Who knows what you might 
 do with him ? " 
 
 "I kenna," said he, sagely shaking his head; "he's a 
 dour carl to persuade to onything ; and, after a', how does 
 
 17* 
 
198 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 he do waur than mony a king and great captam, who slay, 
 and hang, and burn thousands upon thousands to slake 
 then' j^ride and vain -glory ? " 
 
 " But the cruelty of toraienting men," said I 
 
 "And how do ye ken it is just cruelty?" said this 
 devil's advocate, "ony mair than it's just cruelty that 
 makes kings and captains cut throats, and burn towns and 
 villages. It's, may be, just the luve o^ power ^ — and what 
 for suld na Satan be as fond of a braw kingdom as a 
 man ? " 
 
 Here our curious colloquy closed; for his last answer 
 set me musing. Yes, thought I, this madman has un- 
 wittingly rej^lied to one of the f^ivorite arguments for the 
 devil's non-existence, — the supj^osition of gratuitous and 
 motiveless malignity. Why should there not be, as the 
 solemn intimations of the Scripture seem to show us, a 
 greater than even the greatest of evil men, fighting for 
 empire, for the gratification of pride, ambition, and " im- 
 mortal hate ? " And how is his conduct, on that suppo- 
 sition, more inexplicable than that of the petty conquerors 
 among men, who, with less potent means, do mischief 
 from the same motives? who, as my madman said, burn, 
 and slay, and hang, and cut the throats of thousands — 
 for power ? Can even the devil do more than those who 
 cry " havoc ! " and wantonly " let slip the dogs of war," 
 for ambition's sake ? who know that the burning roof-tree, 
 fathers murdered on their own hearth, and weejjing cap- 
 tives, and smoking harvests, are among the " incidents " of 
 conquest ? 
 
 And if it be said, as sciolists are so apt to say, that God, 
 with His omnipotence, would not let such a being as the 
 devil play such pranks as are attributed to him, in His 
 universe, — alas ! the question returns — May He not, for 
 reasons unknown to u,s, permif.it, — since, for reasons 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 100 
 
 equally unknown, He has suffered so many incarnate 
 
 demons to lay waste and desolate this fair world of 
 
 ours? . . . 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 * E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLY. 
 
 TO 
 
 Near Brodick, Arran, Aug. 1848. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I am living here in absolute solitude, but in the midst 
 of the most delightful mountain scenery you can imagine. 
 I am " located," at a little farm-house of the most prim- 
 itive Highland simplicity, in two tiny rooms about twelve 
 feet by fifteen, and lighted by windows two feet square. 
 I have just sufficient books to fill a little mantel-j^iece ; 
 and on wet days, they and my pen form my only re- 
 sources. But I live on the banks of such a mountain 
 stream, and at the entrance of such a glen, — why, it is 
 like stepping out of an Indian wigwam into Paradise, the 
 moment I cross the threshold. This reconciles me to my 
 lot, and to the absolute loss of society; for I hardly 
 reckon my old host and hostess to be any. We seldom 
 exchange more than five words at a time, and they are 
 not such as to invite more. 
 
 I know not how it is that I have got the character of a 
 very merry, sociable sort of person ; for few j^eople enjoy 
 solitude more than I do, or have had more of it. I sup- 
 pose it is because, going seldom into society, I enjoy it 
 with all the more gusto from my customary hermit's life. 
 Never was there a character, however, worse bestowed ; 
 for I fear there has seldom been a man more sombre, or 
 that, on an average, has smiled or laughed less. 
 
200 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Such is the force of habit, nevertheless, that I caimot 
 recollect that I ever left any com2:>any, however congenial 
 and however merry, and felt solitude irksome; my quiet 
 study, those sij^nt friends, my. books, have never seemed 
 unwelcome. I believe I have spent more hours alone 
 than any man of my acquaintance, or j^erhaps than any 
 man who has not been condemned to solitary imprison- 
 ment for life ; and yet, such is habit, that sometimes, and 
 for many days together, I feel as if I could bear never to 
 see again a " human face divine ; " — certainly could dis- 
 pense with seeing my own. Yet neither philosophy nor 
 religion assent to this morose life : not philosophy, for I 
 should be forced to light my own fire and cook my own 
 mutton; nor religion, for the Allwise himself has said, 
 what all experience confirms, " that it is not good for man 
 to be alone." 
 
 And yet Adam, I sometimes fancy, half doubted this 
 truth by the time Eve had been in Paradise a few days 
 and made the serpent a morning call. I rather think he 
 heartily wished he was munching his solitary peaches 
 again. 
 
 A few days ! why, some of the schoolmen doubted 
 whether Eve remained in Paradise a single day before she 
 committed \\\q faux pas ; and they said so, I fancy, from 
 sheer difficulty of imagining that a lady's frailty could 
 hold out longer. But commentators were always an 
 ungallant and churlish set. For my part, I confidently 
 believe that Eve held out much longer; — three whole 
 days, at the very least. 
 
 One w^onders what would have been the condition of 
 the world, if little Eve had eaten, and Adam had not ; if 
 he had politely handed her ladyship to the side door in 
 the wall of Paradise ; told her that " separate main- 
 tenance " would be her lot on the other side, amongst the 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 201 
 
 " thorns and thistles ; " and so fairly turned the key upon 
 her. If he had been as brutal a husband as a good many 
 of his descendants, I can imagine him returning to his 
 spade and dibble with great scmg froid^ without even 
 throwing the poor creature a few apples over the wall. 
 
 But as it was — alas ! the story reads profoundly nat- 
 ural^ whether in the book of Genesis or Milton's Epic. 
 For Eve, Adam " lost the world, and was content to lose 
 it ; " what an Antony and Cleopatra ! " All for love, and 
 the world well lost ! " 
 
 I fancy I hear some dubious lady say, " Who can doubt 
 that the gentleman had a ' wee bit ' of curiosity as well as 
 Eve, and a sweet tooth of his own in his head ? " 
 
 Well, be it so ; but there is j^rofound nature in the 
 tumult of sympathy with which Milton represents him 
 as actinoj : 
 
 " with thee, 
 
 Certain my resolution is to die ; 
 
 How can I live without thee, how forego 
 
 Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, 
 
 To live again in these icild icoods forlorn ! " 
 
 Well might Eve be ravished by the compliment by 
 which Paradise Avas forfeited and a world undone, — 
 
 " O o-lorious trial of exceeding love." . . . 
 
 N'o doubt, like all of us millions of fools of Adam's sons, 
 who have acted with similar folly to his OAvn when we 
 have yielded to temptation, Adam went as " an ox to 
 the slaughter," — without thinking ; but then that jwt 
 thinking, — alas! it is his and our crime. — Not less pro- 
 foundly true to human nature is Milton's description, a 
 little after, of the recrimination that ensues ; and most of 
 all, that which is given in Genesis. Any thing, it seems, 
 rather than take a fault to ourselves! "The woman 
 
202 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 whom thou gavest me;" — so that Adam upbraids God 
 with His own gifts, as we all do when we have made a 
 bad use of them. " The serpent beguiled me," says Eve ; 
 and I dare say if the serpent had been asked, he, too, 
 would have said, that it was God's own fault for having 
 put the " tree " in his way. 
 
 Any thing, — the woman, — the child, — the devil, — 
 God himselfj rather than man will ingenuously confess 
 himself in the wrong ! 
 
 But I have been running on, and have not ansAvered 
 your question respecting the best way, not out of, but into 
 this Scotch paradise. Tell your nephew to take the 
 steamer from Liverpool, — go up to Greenock, and he 
 will find Clyde steamers hither twice a day i which is to 
 be taken, will de^^end on the time of his arrival in the 
 Clyde. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Arran, Aug. 1848. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I little thought my late hadmage was to elicit from you 
 so serious an expression of doubts^ or I should have shrunk 
 as much from writing in so playful a strain as from light- 
 ing a squib over a barrel of gunpowder. However, I will 
 do my best, as you desire, to reply ; so a truce to all 
 nonsense for the present. 
 
 It seems to me that you have been a little touched with 
 the malaria of " Rationalism " — the neological Epidemic, 
 
TO AX INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 203 
 
 SO widely sj^reacl in our day. You have taken it mildly ; 
 but be assured that the virus is in your constitution, and 
 may lead to more formidable symjrtoms, and a worse type 
 of the disease ; for there is, as I shall try to show you, no 
 consistency — no i^rinciple — in your objections. You 
 might as well carry them a thousand leagues further, and 
 reject not only iGhat you say you are inclined to reject, 
 but every shred of the supernatural in the Bible history ; 
 nor stop there, but go on, if your, logic be but consistent, 
 to Atheism itself. I speak seriously ; and though I am not 
 in the habit of speaking defiantly, I do challenge you to 
 justify yourself against the arguments Avhich I shall 
 employ against you. 
 
 You tell me frankly that you have no difficulty in receiv- 
 ing the Bible, generally^ as a divine revelation ; nor in ad- 
 mitting its history to be, generally^ authentic, and its mira- 
 cles, facts ; but you ask — how can you receive " demon- 
 strable discrepancies " and " grossly improbable legends " 
 as true ? counting among these last, it seems, the literal his- 
 tory of the Temptation and Fall, — the history of. Balaam's 
 ass, — and the history of Jonah. 
 
 Now, at the outset, I must beg you to distinguish between 
 things that differ, and differ toto coelo^ — discrepancies in 
 statement, and seeming improbabilities in the history. You 
 speak of them as if they were to be treated alike. 
 
 As to those discrepcmcies which you say are " demonstra- 
 bly contradictions, " — if there are any such, do as you 
 please — I ask no man to believe "demonstrable contradic- 
 tions ;" only be sm'e they are so : for my part, I hesitate to 
 say it. — I know of none such as yet / and I say so for these 
 reasons: 1. I have seen so many of the alleged " demon- 
 strable contradictions " reconciled, that I am rather chary 
 of belief in them ; and, with regard to those still unresolv- 
 ed, am willing to wait with patience for further light before 
 
204 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 pronouncing absolutely. 2. I know tnat many discrepan- 
 cies " may be expected, without at all touching the original 
 claims of the writers to inspiration, — since, unless God has 
 wrought multitudinous miracles every day on all the tran- 
 scribers' pens and fingers, many must have crept into tlie 
 text. 3. I see that a great part of the remainder, (which 
 cannot be so accounted for,) may be fairly set aside, if we 
 bear in mind that circumstances may be omitted in the nar- 
 rative, which if we but knew them, would prove the alleged 
 discrepancies apparent only ; and indeed, such circumstan- 
 ces in by far the greater number of cases, may be imagined 
 as will reconcile them. I know it is the fashion of a certain 
 sort of critics, as blind as owls, to say that such criticism is 
 conjectural only ; but conjectural or not, they forget, that 
 where a contradiction is asserted between tAvo statements, 
 the mere showing that it ya possible they may both be true, 
 is sufficient, (with anybody who has five grains of logic,) to 
 neutralize ^A«(f. If A swears that he has seen B in Man- 
 chester at twelve o'clock, and C that he saw him walking 
 about the fields forty miles off an hour or so after, it is quite 
 enough to neutralize the apparent discrepancy, if it be shown 
 that B might have got there by an express train within tlie 
 specified time, — though no proof whatever were offered, or 
 to be found, that that is the mode of reconciling the state- 
 ments. 4. Though I admit there may be cases where I can 
 suggest no solution whatever, I prefer waiting for furtlier 
 light before pronouncing them absolutely insoluble ; for it 
 may be that they may turn out errors of transcription, and 
 not of the original documents. However, we are at all 
 events agreed that the discrepancies, which can at all be 
 supposed " contradictions," are, as any candid sifting of 
 them will show, few, turn on trivial points, and are utterly 
 insignificant compared with the weight of evidence which 
 converges to the conclusion that the Bible, as a whole, came 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST 205 
 
 from God J so that even if they be supposed errors of the 
 original writers, — permitted for some unknown reason, 
 perhaps to teach them and us humihty, and committed in 
 momentary obscuration of the i^reternatural light witli 
 which they were generally favored, — the passages in 
 which such errors occur may be rejected with no percepti- 
 ble deduction from the result. " I know not," says Paley, 
 " a more rash or unphilosophical conduct of the understand- 
 ing, than to reject the substance of a story, by reason of 
 some diversity of the circumstances with which it is related. 
 When accounts of a transaction come from the mouths of 
 different witnesses, it is seldom that it is not possible to pick 
 out apparent or real inconsistencies between them. These 
 inconsistencies are studiously displayed by an adverse plea- 
 der, but oftentimes with little impression upon the minds of 
 the judges." 
 
 And I know you will also agree that, if we dismiss the 
 hypothesis of the suj)erhuman origin of the Bible in general, 
 and suppose the Book a collection of merely human records, 
 it is a far more puzzling thing that so few discrepancies 
 should exist than that some should ; it is far more difficult 
 to account for its wonderful harmony, — for the paucity and 
 insignificance of the discrepancies found in it, — than to 
 suppose a few permitted to exist, on the theory of its divine 
 origin, as the result of our ignorance of omitted facts or tlie 
 accidents of transmission ; nay, I can imagine some discre- 
 pancies permitted for many other reasons ; but no causes, 
 known or unknown, will account for the unity of the Bible 
 on the theory of a human origin. Considering that it is 
 a collection of nearly seventy tracts — written by at least 
 thirty authors, — extending over some thousands of years 
 in time, — composed in different languages, — full of the 
 minutest historic details, — it is incomprehensible to me 
 that it should exhibit such an astonishing approach to liar- 
 
 18 
 
206 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 luony, and that the " discrepancies " to which a searching 
 criticism has reduced the objections of infidelity, should be 
 so few, on the supposition that no superhuman wisdom pre- 
 sided over its composition and compilation. 
 
 But these discrepancies, — few or many, (which you are 
 called on, however, to " demonstrate " to be contradictions^ 
 before you can reject the portions of the Bible in which 
 they are found,) — stand on a totally diiferent footing from 
 those " improbabilities " (as you call them) in the history, 
 which, as presumed to be marked by " legendary or mythi- 
 cal " characteristics, you also make a stumbling block. For- 
 give me if I say that here I entirely miss your ordinary 
 good sense, and I am sure that your objections have not a 
 particle of sound logic in them. Why I speak thus strongly, 
 I will tell you in another letter. 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XLVII. 
 
 TO THE SA:&rE. 
 
 Arran, N. B., Aug. 1S48. 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 The reason Avhich induced me to sj^eak so emj^hatically at 
 the close of my last is, that I can discern no one principle^ 
 nor shadow of a principle, on which you accej)t and reject the 
 " preternatural." You say you believe the story of Dan- 
 iel's being thrown into the lions' den, and his getting safe 
 out of it ; but not the story of Jonah being swallowed by 
 the great fish, and getting safe out of that : you believe in 
 Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego being cast into the fiery 
 furnace, and coming forth without the smell of fire upon 
 them ; but 7iot the story of the serpent speaking to Eve : 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 207 
 
 you believe the manifestations of God in human form to 
 Abraham at Mamre, and of His appearance in the form of 
 an angel to Joshua in the plains of Jericho, and are not even 
 disturbed by the phenomenon of the " drawn sword ;" but 
 you do not believe that He ever appeared as an angel 
 " wrestling " with Jacob ! Now, why, in the name of won- 
 der, do you believe and disbelieve thus capriciously ? What 
 lyrlnciple guides you in these seemingly random selections 
 and rejections? I can imagine, indeed, two courses, either 
 of which would be consistent enough, — though not equally 
 justified by the evidence ; but your course is to me utterly 
 imintelligible. 1. I can imagine a man saying, " I reject all 
 miracles, not j^erhaps as impossible^ but as so eminently hn- 
 probable that no strength of external evidence can establish 
 them; and, therefore, I reject all those things just enumer- 
 ated, and everything else like them ; everything that breaks 
 in upon my little jog-trot of familiar ' antecedents and con- 
 sequents.' " This man, as we shall shortly see, ought, in 
 sound logic, to go a little further, — but, so far, he is at 
 least consistent. 2. Another man may say, " I believe not 
 only that supernatural facts may occur, but that they can 
 be proved to have occurred by appropriate evidence ; I be- 
 lieve that evidence to have been given in relation to the 
 Scriptural narratives of that kind ; all of them, therefore, 
 that I see supported by the same degree of external evidence^ 
 I equally believe ; for I atn a judge of the evidence in their 
 support, and of its equality in the different cases ; but, ad- 
 mitting the supernatural to have occurred at all, I am no 
 judge in the world as to the modes in which God may have 
 permitted it to appear. He alone is the adequate judge of 
 the degree and forms in which He shall exhibit it." 
 
 I can imagine, as I have said, the first of these two men 
 (still consistently) going a step further, and saying, " I re- 
 ject all supernatural occurrences as infractions of my little 
 
208 Till-: GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 familiar series of ' antecedents and consequents,' and there- 
 fore reject all of that nature that appears in the Bible ; I 
 cannot conceive, with some halting reasoners, one of these 
 events to be, a i^riorh at all more probable than another ; it 
 seems just as unlikely that Christ should have recalled a lit- 
 tle c-irl of twelve to life the instant after death had done its- 
 work, or turned water into wine, or fed five thousand by 
 five barley loaves and a few fishes, as that Balaam's ass 
 should have rebuked his master, or the young prophet's axe- 
 head float ; — so, further still, — nothing can appear a more 
 startling infraction of my snug little exj^erience than that a 
 Jirst man should ever have sprung ' out of the dust,' or been 
 ' develoj^ed ' out of a * tadpole ; ' or, still more incredible, 
 that there should ever have been a time when my familiar 
 system of ' antecedents and consequents ' Avas non-existent 
 altogether. I therefore come to the conclusion that it 
 7iever began, — that 'men' and 'tadpoles' are, alike, eternal 
 series, — and that the Truth is to be found only in — Athe- 
 ism !" 
 
 But as for yoii^ what can you or any such inconsistent 
 dabbler in Rationalism say ? I know not — except this one 
 thing : " I admit that there is nothing wonderful in mira- 
 cles — for I admit scores ; I admit that it is quite ' natural ' 
 that, in a ' supernatural ' system, the supernatural should be 
 expected^ and that does not trouble me in the least ; but I 
 am a judge, from my a priori conceptions, — my tastes, my 
 fancy (even where the external evidences are just the same), 
 — as to how far God would j^ermit the ' supernatural ' to 
 appear, and in what forms; and therefore I decide, from a 
 certain feeling of intrinsic propriety (a caprice of fancy, / 
 should call it), that God may have let Daniel escape out of 
 the lions' den, but would never have let Jonah slip down 
 the fish's gullet ; that He may have saved Shadrach, Me- 
 shach, and Abednego, though they were thrown into the 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 209 
 
 Sery furnace, but that it is totally inconceivable that He 
 should let Balaam's ass speak good sense ! " My dear friend, 
 you really have nothing to go upon here, but certain a pri- 
 ori conceptions and feelings of what God is likely to do : — 
 of which neither you nor I can judge. 
 
 This is, however, the Trpiarov i/^eGSos — the floating Delos 
 of all Kationalism ; and you see, by experience, that it is 
 utterly unstable. You see a thousand different men arriv- 
 ing at a thousand different conclusions, as to how much 
 they shall admit ! In this impossible w^innowing of the con- 
 tents of Scripture by their a 2^riori winnowing-fan, some 
 admit more than you do, — some less ; — some almost all 
 the Bible, — some hardly any ; all measure it with that one 
 deceitful, variable bushel of theirs. They think that, 
 though the external evidence for supernatural facts may be 
 the same in several cases, they yet are justified neither in 
 rejecting all, nor accepting all, (whereas there is no other 
 way out of the dilemma,) but that they may judge it cer- 
 tain God would do this^ and w^ould not do that. This is a 
 parallel folly with the famous a priori criticism which, in 
 Germany, has led to such ludicrously A^ariable results in 
 profane literature, and results still more ludicrous (if they 
 were not so serious) in sacred. 
 
 If you say, "Well ; must I receive every fable that pro- 
 fesses to be ' supernatural,' because I am no judge of what 
 it is probable that God will do or permit? " — I have abun- 
 dantly answered that. You are not to receive any super- 
 natural history, unless you have appropriate evidence for 
 it ; but if you have it for nine facts you admit, and also for 
 a tenth you reject, you are utterly illogical in rejecting that 
 tenth in virtue of any such fantastical criterion as the a 
 priori human view of the probable in God's administration 
 of the universe : you need omniscience and infallibility to 
 guide you. 
 
 18* 
 
210 . THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 But if you really think you can trust any such discerning 
 " spirit " within you, be pleased at least, to let it sjDeak im- 
 partially. If you do, I rather fancy you will reject more 
 than half the facts in the constitution of the world around 
 you, in spite of the general evidence for Theism ; for how 
 fewof them, viewed in their entire relations, are such as man's 
 a priori wisdom would have conjectured! As I said of 
 the consistent objector to all suj^ernatural facts, that he 
 must, if he carry his principles fairly out, ultimately become 
 an Atheist, so he who rejects certain things because he 
 thinks them unlikely to be done or permitted by the Deity, 
 must reject no inconsiderable part of the most notorious 
 phenomena as having originated with Him or as having 
 any sanction of His. Nay, that such a world as this should 
 have been credited at all, — that so many mysteries of sor- 
 row should have been permitted to overshadow it, — that 
 such a bundle of absurdity and misery as man should ever 
 have been permitted to crawl upon it, — that the develop- 
 ment and education of an immortal spirit should have been 
 involved in all the humiliating and joerilous conditions of 
 such a material existence as ours, (to say nothing of the in- 
 finite anomalies in this world's administration,) — seem, 
 looked at a priori^ as unlikely as any of those things you 
 make such wry faces at swallowing. Nor is there anything 
 that leads the pseudo-philosopher to think otherwise, except 
 that most foolish of all sophisms, which the philosopher 
 above all men ought to be ever on his guard against, — 
 namely, that the things we happen to he accustomed to are 
 to he ruled not at all mysterious^ while everything else is! 
 But, depend on it, that the inhabitants of a differently and 
 more happily constituted world than ours, would, unless 
 they were much better philosophers than Ave are, account 
 the phenomena of this planet (if they Avere faithfully related 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 211 
 
 to them) much more calculated to pose belief and proA^oke 
 
 Bcepticism, than the stories of Jonah's Fish and Balaam's 
 
 Ass! 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. 11. G. 
 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Arran, Aug, 1848. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You will see that I have hitherto said nothing as to the 
 two specific instances which you incidentally gave as speci- 
 mens of what I call your incipient "Rationalism," and 
 which led to the last two letters. I thought it much more 
 important to argue against the general principle, — or 
 rather the want of any-, — which seems to me to lie at the 
 basis of your doubts ; an " ignis fxtuus," Avhich, if you take 
 not the better heed, may lead you a pretty dance before it 
 disappears, — or, more probably, will cause you to disap- 
 pear, before itself vanishes, in some enormous boghole of the 
 great quagmire of Rationalism over which it flickers. 
 
 Of what I have hitherto said, this is the sum ; — Judge 
 imiDartially of evidence, and do not weigh it in " a false 
 balance." If you doubt whether the same external evi- 
 dence does apply to two facts, one of which you reject, and 
 the other you accept, — that is another thing ; fight as long 
 as you will — that is, as long as you rationally can — about 
 that. The authority, for example, of a particular chapter 
 may be disputed ; but if, as you allow, the external evi- 
 dence for the literal truth of Jonah's or Balaam's history, 
 is as strong as that for Daniel's or Pharaoh's, I see not, I 
 confess, anything but caprice, (which may and does assume 
 a thousand different shapes in diflferent minds,) in accepting 
 
212 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the one as historic truth, and rejecting the other as fabulous 
 nonsense ! 
 
 And now a word or two as to your two instances. First, 
 you say the "Temptation," even putting out of sight the 
 'preternatural about the transaction, (the objection to that 
 must depend on the validity of the general j^rinciple already 
 considered,) seems to you incomprehensible; that the 
 " command," which was to constitute the probation of our 
 first parents, was " trivial," " non-moral," and " arbitrary." 
 As to its being " trivial," be pleased to observe that, if so, 
 it was all the more easy to be obeyed ; and that, therefore^ 
 it illustrates rather the moderation than the rigor of the 
 Imposer. Would Adam have been better j^leased if it had 
 been harder ? Would not his jDosterity then have said that 
 the test of obedience was too difficult, as they now say it 
 was too " trivial ? ' 
 
 As to its being " non-moral," you must reflect that any- 
 thing, though in its own nature indifierent, becomes moral 
 in its obligation, if imposed by the rightful authority. 
 Though not a duty in itself, an indifierent action becomes 
 so, if the will of a legitimate Master impose its performance ; 
 yes — though it were only a command to brush the dust 
 ofi" our shoes, never to shave the beard, or always wear a 
 wig. Above all, the will of the Creator is " supreme law " 
 to every rational creature ; and such a creature will make 
 no more objection to fulfil His arbitrary commands, when 
 the idea of His authority is thus suj^erinduced upon them, 
 than those commands, the essential moral character of 
 which is seen to be diffiised through them. 
 
 As to its being " arbitrary," I doubt whether you have 
 ever sufficiently reflected on the real nature of the prob- 
 lem. I think you forget that, in Adam's condition, an " ar- 
 bitrary " command (as you call it) was a more apj^ropriate 
 test of obedience than what you would call a " moral " com- 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 213 
 
 mand. This subject, if I mistake not, is judiciously touched 
 in some part of Butler's " Analogy." At all events, wliat 
 ^ve now ordinarily call a " moral " command would have 
 insufficiently tested the absolute obedience of one whose 
 whole original condition is rejDresented as such, that no 
 moral command could have involved any great temj^tation 
 to disobey. Imagine a being, all whose faculties are as yet 
 in harmony and equilibrium ; — who does not know .what 
 " evil " is ; — in blissful ignorance of the conflict of the Pas- 
 sions and the Reason, the Appetites and the Conscience ; 
 — whose outward condition is that of j^erfect health and 
 exemption from all Avant ; — pray, which of the commands 
 of the Decalogue would seem very formidable to hhn f , 
 
 I remember hearing of an Irish lecturer, who suj^posed 
 these commands addressed by an angel to an Irish Adam. 
 The answers were given, I was told, in a truly Irish man- 
 ner ; yet, I think, very naturally. A s I did not hear the 
 lectm-er myself, I cannot precisely report the Irish Adam's 
 answers ; nor can I imitate the true Paradisaic " brogue ; " 
 but I believe they would very reasonably run something 
 like this : — 
 
 Thou shall have no other gods before me. 
 
 " Arrah, thin, your honor ; I never as much as heard of 
 any other at all at all." 
 
 Thoic shall not make unto thee any graven image., nor 
 the likeness of anything^ to how cloion thereunto., to loor- 
 ship, 
 
 " Why, thin, plase your honor's glory, I cannot say I ever 
 felt the laste taste of a temptation in life for that same. 
 Do ye think I 'd be afther making a bi%te baste of myself? " 
 
 Tlioii shall not take the name of the Lord thy God in 
 vain. 
 
 " And would n't it be mighty quare if I did, your honor ? " 
 
 2%ou shall honor thy father and thy mother. 
 
 " By the Powers, did ye never know that my father and 
 
214 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 mother are not yet born ? and how thin would I dishonor 
 them ? " 
 
 T/ioii sJialt not steal. 
 
 " And is it stealing you'd be afther keeping me from ? 
 HoAV can I steal what is my own entirely ? " (N. B. Adam 
 could not say this, when the " command " about the " tree," 
 ("arbitrary," as you call it,) was given him; so that, you 
 see, he is condemned for " eating," even by the Decalogue. 
 But to go on with his catechism.) 
 
 Thou shalt not comtnit adultery, 
 
 "Sure it would be sthrange if I committed adultery with 
 my own wife; forsorra another woman do I see here; and 
 sh(i's enough, any way." (N. B. Too much, in one sense, 
 Adam soon found her.) 
 
 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods . 
 
 "Covet? and hav'n't I told you it 's all my own, — from 
 a j^each to a porcupine? " 
 
 Thou shalt do no murder. 
 
 " Murder ? and who is there to murder except the mis- 
 thress ? And what for should you think I should murder 
 her? Is it just for a thrifle of j^ace and quietness? and is 
 it she, the sweet crathur, that's part of myself? And faix, 
 would n't that be flat suicide ? Throth, your honor,. I won- 
 der what the angels, — no offince in life, — can be made of; 
 for niver a commandment of the tin has anything to do 
 with Paradise ! " 
 
 I really think this Irish Adam is worth your attention. 
 The command, however, about stealing, you see, is easily 
 evaded on the supposition that your " arbitrary command " 
 is not given : if it b#, arbitrary though you are pleased to 
 deem it, an article of the Decalogue comes in, and Adam 
 is required to make a distinction between " Meum " and 
 " Tuum." 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 215 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Arran, Sept., 1818. 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 The other instance of the presumed " legendary " style 
 you gave, as a si^ecimen of the narratives you feel disposed 
 to reject, is the history of Balaam. I j^ut out of view, as 
 in the previous instance, the miraculous in the affair, inas- 
 much as I have dealt with that on general grounds ; and 
 because, in the abstract, you acknowledge you have no 
 objection to miracle. All your difficulty seems to be about 
 the degree and Jci7id of the miraculous you deem worthy of 
 reception. 
 
 ISTow whether it be more prohaUe that an ass should 
 speak than fire cease to burn, (as in the case of the Three 
 Children,) or hungry lions practise fasting, (as in the case 
 of Daniel,) — both which last you admit to be historic, — 
 is really a question I cannot enter into ; the reception of 
 the fact as miraculous must, as in other cases, be deter- 
 mined by this : — Is the external evidence for this miracu- 
 lous narrative as unexceptionable as for other similar events 
 which we scruple not to admit ? In the present case you 
 must reason in the same way. 
 
 As for the matter of what Balaam's ass says, I am sure 
 you will concede that to have been most excellent sense, 
 and very superior to the talk of Balaam himself; — so 
 superior, indeed, that it is hard to say, on this occasion, 
 which loas the ass, — the ass or the ass's master; or rather 
 it is easy, — for it is very certain that Balaam was far the 
 greater ass of the two. 
 
 And, indeed, this is one of your a priori grounds for 
 believing this history of Balaam to be no history all. You 
 
216 tup: greyson letters. 
 
 cannot, you say, imagine a man so illuminated — so pre- 
 ternaturally privileged with S23iritual knowledge — acting 
 so like a dolt. 
 
 Pardon me, my dear friend ; but this is the weakest rea- 
 soning of all. Depend on it, the pictures of human nature 
 in the Old Testament — even the most Rembrandt-like — 
 are all true to the life, — exact types of what is every day 
 quite as unaccountable in human character and conduct. 
 Nay, if you will but go with sufficient metaphysical depth 
 into the phenomena of a depraved will acting against the 
 clear light of reason and conscience, you will find every 
 act of deliberate sin equally — that is, perfectly — inexpli- 
 cable ! That man — that any man — should, with his eyes 
 perfectly oj^en, do what he knows, what he feels, reason 
 and conscience both condemn, and of which he himself will 
 often even tell you he will bitterly repent, is an intractable 
 paradox ; and every man who so acts — and Avho has not 
 so acted ? — only repeats the " mad prophet's " story. 
 
 Do we not see, every day, instances enough in which the 
 largest, clearest knowledge of duty, the divinest endow- 
 ments of genius, the highest intellectual illumination, are 
 not at all inconsistent with the commission of the coolest, 
 the most enormous wickedness ? Is not history, is not 
 common life, full of illustrations of this mournful truth ? 
 Do we not see men, whose i^revailing and habitual 23roi:)en- 
 sities carry the day against convictions which no revelation 
 could make clearer ? — against ex2)erience which no miracles 
 could make more conclusive ? 
 
 But- as to this question, — whether Balaam's character 
 and conduct hQ psycliologically possible or probable^ — read 
 Butler's wonderful sermon upon it. I think you will doubt 
 no more that the portrait is true to human nature and hu- 
 man nature's j^ower of juggling with itself; and that your 
 philosophy, not that of the Bible, is superficial. Neither 
 
TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 217 
 
 knowledge nor endowments of any kind or degree are any- 
 absolute security against any amount of moral absurdity 
 or obliquity. " But miracles ! " you say, — " immediate 
 consciousness of preternatural communications!" — No, 
 nor even these. The question of " natural" or " preter- 
 natural " has nothing to do with the matter. The thing 
 that constitutes the mystery is the breach of a law which, 
 at the very moment we break it, we confess to be absolutely 
 authoritative; and whether that conviction comes to us 
 "naturally or "preternaturally" makes no diiference. Now 
 of this practical paradox all men, as well as Balaam, show 
 themselves capable enough in every act of deliberate vio- 
 lation of conscience ! As to miracles, I will show you in 
 a moment, that belief in them as little involves any incred- 
 ibility in Balaam's conduct. 
 
 You will acknowledge, I suppose, that it is the belief 
 that miracles are really wrought, — whether really wrought 
 or not, — that can alone be supj^osed to have any moral 
 bearing, or give the conception of them any moral force. 
 Well, among the ancient Jews, — among the ancient 
 heathens, — through the middle ages, was not that belief 
 universal and sincere ? Did that belief that " miracles " 
 were often wrought, — that direct communications Avere 
 still maintained between the natural and sui^ernatural, — 
 that the door of the unseen world was, as it Avere, left 
 ajar, — act in any appreciable degree as a deterrent from 
 crime on man? Was there any lack of crimes in conse* 
 quence ? Were there not as deliberate and flagrant sins 
 committed then as in our more scej^tical age? Were they 
 not wrought in spite of man's being haunted by this very 
 conviction that he lived amidst " miracles, " which might 
 at any moment disclose or avenge his guilt, and though he 
 was often miserable in proportion to that belief? Miracles 
 no doubt have an important function ; a valid intellectual 
 
 19 
 
218 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 bearing ; they are of use, as evidence in given cases, to 
 confirm the message of God to man ; but the most sincere 
 — the most vivid beUef in them has, of itself, no power 
 to oj3erate a moral change on man's depraved will. 
 And it were strange if it could, when he is so often 
 seen acting against a knowledge of duty clear as the sun at 
 mid-day, — clear as the clearest convictions which any evi- 
 dence from earth, heaven, or hell, can produce upon him. 
 So profoundly true is that saying of Christ, — " If they 
 will not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they 
 believe though one rose from the dead." 
 
 Ponder these things a little, and remember the moral 
 phenomena which the history of man in every age presents ; 
 and I fancy you wall be slow to pronounce any of the moral 
 portraits of the Bible incredible, however great the moral 
 j)aradox they may involve. 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Yours faitlifully, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER L. 
 
 TO 
 
 Sutton, Friday Jan. 12, 1849. 
 
 My dear Youth, 
 
 I have heard, — need I say with dismay ? — from your re- 
 lative, and my dear friend, Mr. W , that you have 
 
 become such a "philosopher" as to have discovered the 
 inutility of all " prayer," and that you have resolved to 
 give it up ! 
 
 Pardon me for saying, that it would have been 
 better if you had given up your " pliilosophy " — such 
 philosophy, I mean ; for it is a " philosophy falsely so 
 
"PRAYER." 219 
 
 called." True pliilosopliy demands no such sacrifice ; and 
 I hope, from the regard you have for me, you will at least 
 read with patient attention what I have to say to you. 
 
 Philosophy ! why, my dear youth, one fact^ which, I am 
 told, you acknowledge to be still a puzzle to you, is enough 
 to show that a genuine philoso2:)hy, — the philosophy of Ba- 
 con, — the philosophy you profess so revere so much, — 
 distinctly condemns your conclusion as utterly w?iphilosophi- 
 cal. You confess, it seems, that seeing the clear inutility 
 of prayer, from the impossibility of supposing God to con- 
 travene the " order of antecedents and consequents," or to 
 infringe His oa\ti laws, (of all which babble by and bye,) it is 
 to you a great " puzzle " that the overwhelming majority 
 of the race in all ages, — of j^hilosophers and peasants, — 
 of geniuses and blockheads, — of the refined and the vul- 
 gar, ' — the bulk even of those who plead for the doctrine 
 of " moral necessity " itself, — have contended for the pro- 
 priety, the efficacy, the necessity of prayer ! that man, in 
 trouble, seems naturally to resort to it ! that, for the most 
 part, it is only in prosperity that those who deny its value 
 can afford to do so ; that when they come to a scene of dis- 
 tress, or a deathbed, even they, in the greater number of 
 cases, break out, — if they believe, as you do, in a presiding 
 deity at all, — into cries for helj^, and supplications for 
 mercy ; just as naturally as they weep when sorroAvful, or 
 rejoice when happy ! 
 
 You call these facts a puzzle ; they seem a curious exam- 
 ple of human " inconsistency," — of the tardiness of man 
 to embrace a genuine philosophy ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 I fancy there is another explanation that smacks a little 
 more of a geyiuine philosophy. Surely, if the great bulk 
 of mankind, all their lives long, whimsically admit in theory 
 the propriety and efficacy of prayer, even while they daily 
 neglect it in practice, — if multitudes, who would like very 
 
220 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 well to have a burdensome and unwelcome duty wliicli they 
 neglect, proved to be no duty at all, are still invincibly con- 
 vinced that it is such, — must not a genuine inductive phi- 
 losoj^hy confess that such a concurrence of wise and vulgar, 
 of philosophy and instinct, and all too against seeming inte- 
 rest and strong passions, — is an indication that the coiisti- 
 tution of human nature, itself favors the hypothesis of the 
 efficacy and propriety of prayer ? — and, if so, ought not 
 that to be taken into account in your philosophy? J^ con- 
 tend that it is decisive of the controversy, if you are really 
 to jihilosophize on the matter at all. Meantime it seems, you 
 account it merely a great puzzle^ amidst that clear demon- 
 stration you have, of the inutility and absurdity of prayer ! 
 
 If you say, " I have confessed it is a puzzle ; what does 
 it prove ? " — I answer, " Prove ? my fine fellow ; w^hy it 
 proves this^ — that the fact which ought to determine your 
 philosophy on this question is against you. Yes; — the 
 fact which a Bacon would take i^rincipally into account, ut- 
 terly refutes you. Stick fairly to your induction^ and I 
 will give you leave to infer as long as you will. The facts 
 you call a " puzzle " prove that the normal constitution of 
 human nature pleads, distinctly, both for the propriety and 
 efficacy of j)rayer. Such facts say as plainly of man, he 
 w^as made to do this or that, — it is his nature to do this or 
 that, — as the fire to burn or the sun to shine. 
 
 If you say, as you do say, " But I cannot accoimt for the 
 efficacy of prayer with my belief of ' unvarying laws,' or 
 reconcile the practice with my ijhilosopliy^'' the true Ba- 
 conian answers, " And w^ho asks you to reconcile, in all 
 cases, observed facts with other observed facts, or with sup- 
 posed consequences from them ? The question with 'tne is 
 as to the facts^ and not as to their reconciliation with other 
 facts which I may or may not be able to eflect. There are 
 many observed facts in all departments of science which I 
 
"PRAYER." 221 
 
 know not how to reconcile with others : but I have noth- 
 ing to do with that ; I have to do with the facts, and a just 
 induction from them." So lar from your objection being 
 reasonable, one of the plagues of philosoj^hy is, that men, 
 while they profess reverence for Bacon, will thus perpetu- 
 ally forget his maxims; and, when they do so, never fail 
 to poison science by making their reception of facts depend 
 on their hypotheses for reconciling them ! 
 
 Do you not see, then, that if the facts of the case be, 
 what I contend and you concede them to be, you in ig- 
 noring them and calling them a "puzzle," so far from 
 being the Baconian you boast, are rather imitating the 
 "schoolmen" whom he derides, — pooh poohing and 
 passing by facts because you deem them irreconcilable 
 with other facts or presumed facts ? If facts^ your duty, 
 as a Baconian, is to receive them into your philosophy, 
 even though they be by you utterly irreconcilable. 
 
 And do you not also see that your difficulty may be 
 retorted on you? Ought you not to confess to two 
 " jiuzzles " instead of one ? Is it not irreconcilable with 
 your theory, as a Theist, that an infinitely wise Being 
 should have so constituted human nature that man is 
 prompted to the exercise of prayer, and usually acknowl- 
 edges its duty and propriety even while he neglects it, 
 while yet prayer has no significance in the world, and is a 
 senseless mockery of the Deity, who nevertheless, it seems 
 has necessitated it ? If you will not have any jDhilosophy 
 oi facts (which is Bacon's philosophy) till you can recon- 
 cile them, be j^leased to reconcile this caprice of God 
 in the constitution of human nature with your " unvary- 
 ing laws," which tell you that prayer is mockery and folly. 
 
 Will it not sound odd to say that God has instituted 
 " iinvarying laws," which render all prayer to Him absurd 
 and inefficacious, and yet lins bestowed upon man such a 
 
 19* 
 
222 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 nature that he is normally impelled to offer prayer, and 
 even when he does not^ to acknowledge its propriety and 
 efficacy, while yet it is an essential absurdity ? I beseech 
 you to apply your philosophy of induction impartially. 
 
 If you would but reason in the 2)resent case as you 
 would with the Atheist on the question of Theism, you 
 would see how illogical was your conclusion. Against 
 Mm^ I know you would argue that the normal tendency 
 of man to admit a Deity of some kind, — and to manu- 
 facture a thousand rather than be without one, — is, in 
 your estimation, a strong indication of there being a Deity, 
 and of this religious tendency in our nature being be- 
 stow^ed by Him ; but whether originating Avith Chance or 
 God, you would reasonably argue that it is a j^roof of the 
 religious nature of iiian^ and that, as all your philosophy 
 must be founded on that nature such as it is, and not as it 
 is not^ we must acquiesce in the conclusion that there is a 
 Deity, though there be none. You would also, j^^i'haps, 
 say that, for that very reason, the enterj^rise of Atheism 
 to eradicate this notion from men's minds must be utterly 
 futile; and if asked why, you would say that, Avhether 
 there be a God or not,/ac^ shows that it is the consti- 
 tution of human nature to believe in one, even though 
 there be none. Apply a similar argument to this subject 
 of prayer, and I fancy you will find it tolerably parallel. 
 But you are still more unreasonable in your position than 
 the Atheist in his. The Atheist in the parallel case might 
 still have to utter a little apologetic nonsense, from which 
 you would be debarred. He might say, " Well, admitting 
 it to be a principle of our nature that men will believe in 
 a God, and that therefore I shan't be able to eradicate it, 
 it may have been imj^lanted by that Chance which has 
 already done so many other wonderful things ! " But as 
 to you, — no such doughty tnachina as chance is at your 
 
"PRAYER.' 223 
 
 beck; if you admit that the impulse to "prayer," and 
 belief in its j^roj^riety and necessity, is a normal flxct in 
 the constitution of humanity, — that it is the spontaneous 
 conclusion of unsophisticated reason and feeling, — you, 
 with your views of an Alhvise Fabricator of man's nature, 
 cannot resort to any similar hypothesis. All this I have 
 said, because you admit they^c^ adverted to; and I say 
 that instead of calling it a "puzzle," and sitting down 
 content with that, you are bound to take it into your 
 philosophy. Now if you do so, I think you will have as 
 insoluble a problem as that supposed "incompatibility of 
 prayer with general laws," Avhich induces you to reject all 
 23rayer; — namely, an "unvarying law" within man which 
 prompts him to l^ray, and " unvarying laws " loitlwut., 
 which inform him, it appears, that he will always j^ray to 
 to no purpose ! 
 
 But this letter has grown to a greater length than I 
 intended ; if I conclude it here, do not suppose that I am 
 going to leave your soi-discmt "philosophy" unassailed. 
 I say, indeed, that the general facts I have insisted on, 
 established by induction, ought to induce you to recant 
 your opinion ; but, quite apart from that, I deem it shal- 
 low, and, in another letter, will endeavor to i^rove it so. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LI 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My DEAR tou:n-g Feiend, 
 
 Jan. 15, 1849. 
 
 ") 
 
 I write without waiting for any reply to my last; 
 because, of the two, I would prefer letting you have my 
 views in full without any answer from you whatever. 
 
224 THE GREYSON LETTEllS. 
 
 Supposing that fact true on which I have so much 
 insisted in my last letter, then, even if I were to admit all 
 that your j^hilosophy claims, what would follow ? Why, 
 that you could not, as you say, reconcile the " efficacy of 
 prayer " with the " unvarying laws of nature." Now, as I 
 contend that there are many other things in the coex- 
 istence of which you believe, though you cannot reconcile 
 them, — as, for example, in the absolute prescience of God, 
 and the responsibility of man — His infinite goodness, in 
 sj^ite of the permission of evil — and the connection of 
 body and mind, though there seems to be utter dissimi- 
 larity of substance — (not to mention a hundred more,) — 
 I presume I grant you very little, if I concede in the 
 present case your impotence to reconcile paradoxical 
 truths ; and that you take a great deal more than either I 
 or any one else will give you, when you assume that 
 because you cannot reconcile " j^rayer " with the "immu- 
 tability" of God, and the unvarying oj^eration of His 
 laws, therefore the efficacy of prayer is an illusion. 
 
 But now let me examine your i^hilosophy itself, and see 
 what it is worth. You say, first, that as "general laws" 
 of unvarying uniformity have been enacted by divine 
 wisdom, and the Deity is immutable, prayer can have no 
 efficacy ; it cannot avert the evil nor proj^itiate the good, 
 which, in either case, will and must befall us, whether we 
 pray or not; so that to "pray is to play the fool." 
 
 I wish, when you talk of "general laws," you would 
 not forget that they are perj^etually modified and trav- 
 ersed by laws which have to iis^ all the efiect of special 
 laws ; which produce events to us contingent and fortu- 
 itous, and which may be, for aught you can prove^ infi- 
 nitely varied m operation, relatively to a number of con- 
 ditions of which "prayer" maybe one. A house is burned 
 down : }'ou say it is the law of fire to burn ; very true — 
 
** PRAYER." 225 
 
 but when, of five men in it, one escapes and four perish, 
 what is the general law which produces these opposite 
 results ? A vessel is wrecked, and goes down ; but why 
 seven are saved and twenty-seven drowned, it might, in 
 like manner, be difficult to show by any general law. 
 The results to us are so fortuitous, and so little under the 
 dominion of known lav\ that we never dare to spec- 
 idate on them; and, by the minutest difference in the 
 arrangement of the most trivial circumstances, these re- 
 sults may be endlessly modified. Now it is out of these, 
 to us, " fortuities," in Avhich, as seen by an infinite intellect, 
 there is "law," as everywhere else, though loe can trace 
 none, that God selects the instruments of that discipline 
 which He exercises over each one of us, and which, for 
 aught we can demonstrate^ He may actually vary and 
 modify, but, at all events, may have determined before- 
 hand shall be "varied and modified," with reference to 
 Prayer. Even if one were to sup2:>ose the results mod- 
 ified quite ijro re natd^ in reference to the ever-shifting 
 conditions of the individual mind, it would be impossible 
 for you to disj^rove it, though I deem the notion unphilo- 
 sophical; there would be no impossibility in it. The 
 Infinite Wisdom that Aveaves " the whole web of our life " 
 can, if He pleases, insert a thread or draw out a broken 
 one ; and yet the entire plan, except at the point of such 
 " callida junctura," may remain as it was, and the general 
 result be reached by a slightly varied road. All this 
 would, if He pleased, be as easy to Him as for an old 
 woman to mend a cabbage-net. But not to insist on this. 
 However foreseen and provided for, it is by the aforesaid 
 endless intricacies in the operation of " general laws," — 
 intricacies which we can never reduce to calculation, 
 because they are the result of the intervention of a thou- 
 sand secondary laws, more or less general, and of which 
 
226 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the condition of "i^rayer" may be one, — that God se- 
 cures our absohite dependence on Ilim^ — renders that 
 " Prevision " on which proud science is so fond of counting 
 as its ultimate triumj^li, an impossible vanity, — and 
 ciFectually prevents us, and Avill ever prevent us, with all 
 our wisdom, from knowing " what a day or an hour shall 
 bring forth." And as by these contingent events — I 
 mean contingent to us — He secures our perpetual de- 
 pendence, — so Avithin these limits man instinctively feels 
 is the sphere of prayer. When we have once ascertained 
 a "general law," we never pray that that may cease to 
 act : no sane man prays that gravitation may be sus- 
 l^ended ; that he may never die ; that if his house catch 
 fire, fire may not burn it; but only that things may be 
 granted or averted, which, in millions of ways, he sees, 
 by experie7ice^ admit of either alternative. 
 
 I see your objection here; but, pardon me, I have 
 already anticij)ated both it and the answer to it. You 
 will object^ of course, that though the events to which I 
 have referred are " fortuities " to us^ they are not so to an 
 infinite intellect (which not only I grant, but contend 
 for) ; that they have been " pre-arranged," and will take 
 effect, in due time and order, in the rigid concatenation of 
 "antecedents and consequents." Very well; but not to 
 content myself with what I have already said, I answer 
 thus : — Must you not grant that the phenomena of men's 
 !Minds, as well as all outward events, are among the 
 things which enter into this concatenation of pre-arrange- 
 ments? 3Inst you not grant that they are among the 
 most important " antecedents" of almost all human events? 
 Now, can you show that "Prayer" is not one of these 
 mental " conditions " and " antecedents " of certain effects? 
 
 Let us suppose, and I am confident I may defy you to 
 disprove it, (I indeed believe it is the absolute truth,) that 
 
"PKAYEll." 227 
 
 amongst other " pre-arrangements " of Divine Wisdom, — 
 and to the maintenance of which, therefore, all that " im- 
 mutahiUty," on Avhich you found so much, is pledged, — it 
 has been decreed that " Prayer " shall be one of the indis- 
 pensable conditions of the stable enjoyment of God's favor. 
 Let us suppose He has decreed, that, since it is fit and 
 right, in itself, that the creatures of His power, the subjects 
 of His law, the objects of His bounty, should express their 
 homage ; — that since they can be fully hapj^y (as He wills 
 they should be) only in the continual recognition of their 
 dependence on Him ; — that since, whatever inferior good 
 He may bestow upon them, they cannot (such is their 
 nature) know what permanent and unalloyed felicity is, but 
 in His " favor which is life, and His loving kindness which 
 is better than life," — let us suppose, I say, for these rea- 
 sons, He has decreed that, as an act of fealty, as an expres- 
 sion of gratitude, as a symbol of dependence, as an utterance 
 of want, prayer shall be an unvarying pre-requisite of all 
 real permanent good ; — that though He may often refuse a 
 petition for seeming temporal good, because it is hut seem- 
 ing, or refuse it because He intends yet greater good by 
 denying, — He has decreed, and for ever, that in the end 
 only he shall be truly happy, get what he hopes, and receive 
 what he needs, who "seeks His face," — let us suppose, I 
 say, all this, (and I am very certain you cannot show its 
 improbability or absurdity,) what then ? Why just this, — 
 that if this he a condition of the Divine conduct towards 
 us, if it be one of the " wise pre-arrangements " — one of 
 the " unvarying laws," — your " philosophy," my young 
 friend, is still very true, but unluckily confutes your " con- 
 clusion ! " I have introduced, you see, but another of your 
 pleasant " antecedents," and your little syllogism holds no 
 longer. 
 
 If you say you cannot see the reasonahleness of the con; 
 
228 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 dition itself, as you can of industry being a condition of 
 success in life, or uprightness a condition of possessing the 
 esteem of others, — I answer, that Z neither know nor can 
 conceive of any condition more reasonable than that a 
 creature should express his dependence, a beggar appeal 
 to a benefactor ; nor anything more reasonable than that 
 the Sovereign Beneficence should shed no bounties on those 
 who, though in abject poverty, are too proud or too pre- 
 sumptuous to seek aid of Infinite Affluence ! 
 
 If you say that you see not how prayer should change 
 the purpose of an Immutable Deity, I have replied, on the 
 very scheme of your own philosophy, that prayer may be 
 one of the antecedents fixed by that very Immutability ; 
 and if so, your argument is retorted with interest ; — for 
 then 7iot to i^ray is to expect that He will change His " im- 
 mutable " purj^ose, and nullify His own conditions of our 
 success ! 
 
 If you say, you cannot see a casual connection between 
 prayer and its fulfilment, I reply, that you know it is the 
 boast of modern philosophy to have discovered that we know 
 not the real casual connection between any antecedent and 
 its consequent. I am sure, as I have above said, that this 
 " antecedent and consequent " may be seen to be as rea- 
 sonable as any in the world. 
 
 Finally — I would ask you, why you ever address a prayer 
 for aid to your fellow man ? If you say, as doubtless you 
 will, " Oh, but he is capable of being moved, — • of having 
 his will changed," — I answer, very true ; but go one step 
 further back, and see whether you are not in the same 
 dilemma as before : for these determinations of your neigh- 
 bor's mind are among the " pre-arrangements," elements in 
 the huge complications of " general laws," on which you 
 lay so much stress ! They are " pre-arranged " before you 
 utter a syllabic ; and though whether they shall be in your 
 
"PliAYEK." 229 
 
 favor or not, is unknown to yoii^ it is all known by the 
 Infinite Intellect, and the result has entered into His " pre- 
 arrangements." If you say, as it is certain you will say, — 
 " But my appeal may be among the pre-arranged methods 
 of operating that result, I answer — " Exactly so. Stick 
 to that argument ; only remember that it may equally hold 
 for the necessity and duty of prayer." 
 
 In short, the mere concatenation of antecedents and con- 
 sequents, — even to the admission of the most rigid doctrine 
 of" moral necessity," — will not avail to prove the " ineffi- 
 cacy of prayer ; " as, indeed, the immense majority of those 
 who have advocated that doctrine have never pretended 
 anything of the kind. You can only render your argu- 
 ment conclusive by turning your " general laws " into the 
 Mahometan's " fate ; " and then you may dispense, with 
 equal reason, with all conditions of " predestined " events. 
 " What is to be is to be ; " that will settle everything for 
 you. You may, for that reason, dispense Avith industry as 
 a condition of success in your profession, with prudence in 
 the choice of a house or a wife, just as with " prayer " as a 
 condition of God's blessing. 
 
 If you choose to go thus far, I think you will be consis- 
 tent, — but you will certainly be undone. You may say, 
 if you please (as, I dare say, a metaphysical sophist would, 
 though I hope you would not,) — " Well, my philosophy 
 still holds true; — for it seems the 'laws' are unvarying, 
 and you have but introduced another ; and as all the phe- 
 nomena are concatenated, if I am to pray as an indispensa- 
 ble condition, it is already decreed that I shall ; and if not, 
 I am exempted from further troubling myself about the 
 matter." In that case I shall not think it worth while any 
 longer to argue with you ; only remember that if prayer 
 be an indispensable pre-condition of God's favor, then if 
 you do not pray, you " lose the blessing." If you act on 
 
 20 
 
230 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 such a theory, you may triumph in your soi-disant philo- 
 sophy ; but such a victory, my young Pyrrhus, without 
 waiting for another, will ruin you. 
 
 I have not thought it of moment to reply to the logical 
 refinement sometimes urged — that even if it be granted 
 that prayer is an indispensable pre-condition of the divine 
 favor its iuefficacy as a proper cause may still be main- 
 tained ; — for I am convinced that you would not urge it 
 seriously. As to the events it is all one, and I do not think 
 it worth while to discuss such subtleties. 
 
 If a man were to ofier you an estate on the payment of 
 a peppercorn rent (and our " prayers " are worth not so 
 much to the Deity), it is certain that the man's bounty, 
 and not the peppercorn, would be the cause of your good 
 fortune ; but as without the peppercorn you would be 
 without the estate, I imagine you would have little inclina- 
 tion to chop logic Avith him about its being " casual " or 
 otherwise. 
 
 It is my unfeigned " prayer," my young friend, that you 
 may speedily revise your opinion, and not be " spoiled by 
 philosophy and vain deceit," which by the way, in the 
 present case, are but different terms for the same thing. 
 Ever yours faithfully and affectionately, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LII. 
 
 TO . 
 
 August, 1849. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 So you have really the effrontery to suppose that I 
 shall admit your caricature of the doctrine of the Atone- 
 ment to be a true picture ! I am resolved to be plain with 
 you on this subject, and to tell you, once for all, my mind. 
 I shall first vindicate my own views ; but do not imagine I 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 231 
 
 shall stop there ; gird your sword-belt tight, for, be assured, 
 you shall be j^ut on the defensive before I have done with 
 you. But I cannot write to-day. In a day or two expect 
 to hear from me. I could not delay, however, sending this 
 brief protest against your most odious and unjust car- 
 icature. 
 
 In spite of all, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LIIL 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My DEAR Feiend, 
 
 You have discovered, it seems, that you cannot be- 
 lieve the " mysterious doctrine of the Atonement." I am 
 sure you cannot, neither can jT, if the doctrine of the Atone- 
 ment be what you represent it. You will say, perhaps, 
 that it is the doctrine of the majority of Christians. I am 
 certain it is not ; but if it were, it is not inine, ; and it is 
 mine that I am bound to expound, and you to confute. 
 
 I will talk to you in freedom, as we used to do when we 
 lived nearer ; with love, as our long friendship demands, 
 and with honesty no less claimed by truth. And, my dear 
 friend, bear with me, if, here and there, affection seems 
 urgent ; for I do, in very truth, believe that the essence of 
 the Gospel consists eminently in this one article. And so 
 have thought far greater and better men than I pretend to 
 be — and (which is significant) have thought so more 
 strongly as they grew older, and felt increasmgly, by per- 
 sonal experience, the value of what they held so dear. In 
 this eminently was their Hope. Thus it was with R. Hall, 
 Foster, Chalmers, Dr. Johnson. 
 
232 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 And now for your fancy sketch. You say, that accord- 
 ing to the " current " notions of Christians, " God is repre- 
 sented, in moody inexorable wrath, as averse to save man 
 till, Moloch-like, He was unjustly propitiated by innocent 
 blood ; till Christ's sufferings wrung from Him a sullen and 
 ungracious pardon." Who can believe this, you ask ? 
 Who, indeed ? I caimot, for one ; but then I know of no 
 one else who does. 
 
 I grant that in some bygone ages, and even now, among 
 some uneducated folks, that know not how to think clearly 
 or to speak justly, — perhaps also in some fanatical or in- 
 judicious hymns, of whose authors the same may be said, 
 and, of course, in the select but very limited circle of anti- 
 nomianism, — you may meet with extravagances of state- 
 ment which, more or less, justify your caricature ; but it 
 is certain, nevertheless, that it is a caricature, even of the 
 most injudicious representations ; and the immense majority 
 of Christians would, I am perfectly confident, refuse to ac- 
 cept it as their doctrine of the Atonement just as much as 
 I do. 
 
 At all events, if it is with ^ne you think you are in con- 
 troversy, you are quite mistaken. I reject and abhor your 
 description of the doctrine as much as you can do, and you 
 must therefore give a very different reply to my arguments ; 
 and when I say my arguments, I know I also speak the sen- 
 timents of the vast majority of Christians. But at all events, 
 be pleased to argue with one. 
 
 In the first place, then, so far from believing God averse 
 to save man, I believe that it was the very intensity of His 
 desire to do so, (as the New Testament plainly teaches,) 
 wliich prompted Him to interpose in our behalf: " God so 
 loved the world as to give His only begotten son ; " and as 
 to what you say of " injustice^^'' I belive that whatever was 
 done, was done with Christ's own perfectly voluntary con- 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 233 
 
 currence, as the same book teaches : " No man taketh my 
 Hfe from me ; I lay it down of myself." Kow, if this were 
 done by Christ's volmitary act, where is the injustice ? 
 How, indeed, was it more unjust for God to allow Christ 
 thus to lay down His life, of His oicn free-will^ on my the- 
 ory than on yours ? I shall presently show that it is at least 
 more incomprehensible on yours. For since you admit that 
 Christ did not die for any fault of His own, and contend that 
 He did not die for any fault of ours, for what did He die, 
 and for what reason did God let Him ? On your theory, all 
 this not a little perj)lexes me. But I shall come to that 
 presently. Depend on it, I shall not fail to ask you for a 
 theory of the rationale of Christ's death. 
 
 Well, then, we believe that it was God's intense love for 
 man which led Him to adopt so stupendous a method of 
 evincing it, and that He justly could do so, because Christ 
 was as willing to be " given " for man as God to " give " 
 Him. But you say : — " Why could not God forgive the 
 sin of man without any such intervention? Could He not 
 forgive just as a father can — absolutely and without any 
 compensation to law? Who can believe the contrary?" 
 
 jTcan, for one. I do not mean to say that I should be 
 justified, — apart from what I deem the revealed fxct, that 
 Atonement has been provided, apart from the evidence of 
 Scrij^ture on the matter, — in affirming the contradictory of 
 your proposition, or in pronouncing at all confidently either 
 way. The subject is, in my judgment, " far too high for 
 us " to be dealt with a priori. But in spite of the confi- 
 dence with which this seemingly simple view of yours is 
 often propounded, I do mean to contend that, even by the 
 light of nature, (if we enter into the subject at all profound- 
 ly,) there is quite as much reason to doubt your theory as 
 to affirm it. And the more the subject is investigated, tlie 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE GUEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 less reason I apprehend will there appear for a summary a 
 priori determination of it. 
 
 Nor do I fear lest one of your candor should indulge in 
 the usual talk of " absurdity," " antiquated prejudices," and 
 the like. I know that you will concede that I am as quali- 
 fied by thought and reading to form an opinion as yourself; 
 I know you will admit that many minds of the very first or- 
 der have also arrived at the same conviction, namely, that 
 there may have been, that there may be, a moral impossi- 
 bility in the way of proclaiming a universal amnesty to a 
 guilty world without some homage, like that of the Atone- 
 ment, to the principle of Law. 
 
 To your question, therefore, " Can we conceive that it is 
 not always possible for a father to forgive, as a father, sim- 
 ply and absolutely ? And cannot God do so too ? " I re- 
 ply, it does not follow that even 7nan can forgive his own 
 son, simply and absolutely, if he be a King as well as a 
 Father : and, for a similar reason, it does not follow that God 
 can. And it is precisely here, as I conjecture, that we should 
 find, if we could comprehend the entire problem instead of 
 a very small part of it, — if we knew the great " arcana " of 
 the divine government in all its immensity, — if Ave knew 
 all the relations of this world to other worlds, of our race to 
 other races, and of the bearings of Time on Eternity, — the 
 origin of the real difiiculty in man's salvation, and the ne- 
 cessity for the Atonement. We can only reason a little 
 way ; but as far as we can reason, I do not flinch from say- 
 ing that every fact we know is against the theory of your 
 simple unconditional forgiveness. 
 
 We can but reason in reference to a subject so vast, and 
 in all its bearings so infinitely transcendental to our com- 
 prehension, by analogy. Now it is certain, that in any 
 moral government with which we are acquainted, or of 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 235 
 
 which we can form any conception, — in any government 
 whose subjects are ruled by motives only, and where icill is 
 unconstrained, the principle of the prompt unconditional 
 pardon of crime on profession of repentance, and purpose of 
 amendment, would be most disastrous ; — as we invariably 
 see it is, in a family, in a school, in a political community. 
 Now, have we any reason to believe that in a government 
 most emphatically r)ioral^ — a government of which all the 
 moral governments with which we are acquainted are but 
 imperfect imitations, and which are, indeed, founded on a 
 very partial application of the laws which a jDcrfect moral 
 government implies, similar easy good-natured lenity would 
 be attended with less ruinous effects? If we have none, 
 then, since w^e cannot think that God's government will or 
 can cease to be moral ; or that He ever will physically con- 
 strain His creatures to be happy or holy, — indeed the very 
 notion involves a contradiction in terms, — would not the 
 proposed course of universally pardoning guilt on profession 
 of penitence prove, in all probability, most calamitous ? Let 
 us then suppose (no difficult thing) that God foresaw this ; 
 — that such a procedure would be of pernicious consequen- 
 ces, not to this world only, but for aught we know, to 
 many ; that it would diminish His authority, relax the ties 
 of allegiance, invite His subjects to revolt, make them think 
 disloyalty a trivial matter ? If so, — and I defy you to 
 prove that it may not be so, — then would there not be 
 benignity as Avell as justice, mercy as well as equity, in re- 
 fusing the exercise of a weak compassion which would de- 
 stroy more than it would save ? Let us sui:)pose further, 
 that knowing all this, God knew also that His yearning 
 compassion for lost and guilty man might be safely gratified 
 by such an expedient as the Atonement ; that so far from 
 weakening the bonds of allegiance, such an acceptance of a 
 voluntary propitiation would strengthen them; tliat it 
 
236 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 would flash on all worlds an indelible conviction no less of 
 His justice than of His mercy; — of His justice that He 
 could not pardon without so tremendous a sacrifice, — of 
 His mercy that He would not, to gratify it, refrain even 
 from this ; — that it would crush for ever that subtle soj^h- 
 ism so naturally springing in the heart of man, and which 
 gives to temptation its chief power — that God is too mer- 
 ciful to punish ; I say, if all this be so, — and I fancy you 
 Avill find it difficult to prove that it may not be so, — does 
 not the Atonement assume a new aspect ? Is it any longer 
 chargeable with absurdity or caprice ? May it not be just- 
 ly pronounced a device worthy of divine wisdom and be- 
 nignity ? Is it not calculated to secure that which is its 
 proposed end? — at once to make justice doubly venerable 
 and mercy doubly dear ? — justice more venerable that it 
 could not be lightly assuaged ; mercy more dear that it 
 would be gratified, though at such a cost ? 
 
 Thus (so far from your representation being just) our 
 theory is, that God was intensely desirous, as well as Christ, 
 of man's salvation; and that the mode of achieving it, 
 though we cannot, a priori^ speculate on it, Avas the result 
 of a great moral necessity, which Love was resolved to con- 
 front since it could not evade it. And hence it is that so 
 many millions, won and vanquished by this spectacle, have 
 declared (and this is the only just influence of the doctrine) 
 that it is the "Atonement" which has chieflv furnished 
 them, as with hope and i^eace, so with the strongest mo- 
 tives to revere Justice, to obey Law, to " go and sin no 
 more." If you say that the presumed moral necessity for 
 some such method of salvation, — which should provide a 
 safe amnesty for guilt by securing the law from dishonor, 
 is a mere speculation, — I grant that, apart from Scrip>tiire^ 
 it is so ; but I also contend that if wo. consider what a moral 
 government is, and must ever involve, it is as prohahle^ and 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 237 
 
 as truly philosophical^ as the counter-speculation you would 
 substitute for it. 
 
 And, after all, must not you too imagine some unknown, 
 inscrutable, moral necessity for so astounding a fact as the 
 death of Christ ; for the most cruel and agonizing death of 
 the only human being who, as you believe not less than I, 
 was perfectly innocent, and deserved not to suffer at all ? 
 And here, havmg vindicated my view, as intrinsically not 
 less probable and philosophical than your own, I proceed to 
 show that it is abundantly more so, and to retort upon you, 
 with interest, the charges of " caprice " and absurdity. We^ 
 at all events, assign an adequate cause of Christ's death ; 
 you assign none at all, or none that does not increase the 
 difficulty. Yes, my friend, pardon me for saying it, but 
 that very argument on which you lay so much stress, name- 
 ly, that the Atonement is needless in itself, and presents a 
 " savage '' view of the government of God, may, as I con- 
 ceive, be retorted, on your theory of the death of Christ, 
 with tenfold cogency. But I must reserve the expression 
 of my sentiments for another letter. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Sept. 1&49. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Yes, — I repeat, that on your theory the death of Christ 
 is an utterly incomprehensible enigma ; we cannot assign, 
 we cannot imagine, any reason for a sacrifice at once so cost 
 ly, yet so gratuitous. In Christ we have the only example 
 (yourself being witness) of perfect and faultless innocence 
 
238 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 which has ever been exhibited to the world, and we see 
 Him, through life, involved in the deepest shades of sor- 
 row, and subjected to a death of terrible and mysterious 
 agonies ! perfect holiness, perfect obedience to God, perfect 
 love to man, requited with more scorn and oppressed with 
 more suffering than even the foulest guilt in this world ever 
 was subjected to ! And all for — what ? For nothing, ab- 
 solutely nothing that is intelligible ! You tell me that He 
 suffered as an example to us. As an example? An ex- 
 ample of Avhat ? Was it as an example of this — that the 
 more men obey and love God, the darker may be the divine 
 frown, and the greater the Uahility to suffer imder the in- 
 comprehensible mysteries of the divine administration ? So 
 that if we were to become absolutely j^erfect as Christ was, 
 that moment we might reach the climax of misery ! That 
 as He wiio was alone " without spot " was condemned to the 
 worst doom, so, for aught we can infer from such an exam- 
 ple, innocence and happiness may be in inverse projDortion ! 
 If you say He suffered to show us with what sweetness and 
 patience ice ought to suffer, — you forget that not only 
 would less than such bitterness as His teach that lesson, but 
 that His suffering so much more than we do, with no guilt. 
 His own or ours, to cause it, unteaches the lesson ; it unhin- 
 ges our trust in the divine equity altogether. You forget, 
 it seems to me, that there is a double aspect of these suffer- 
 ings. How do they affect our ajDprehensions of God ? Can 
 we reconcile it with that benignity and equity for which 
 you are so jealous, to visit perfect innocence with more sor- 
 row than guilt, merely to show the guilty how they ought 
 to learn to bear a just j^unishment ? I assure you that, on 
 such a theory of the divine administration, the death of 
 Christ is to me the darkest blot on the divine government, 
 — the most melancholy and perplexing phenomenon of the 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 239 
 
 universe, — the most gratuitous apparent departure from 
 rectitude and equity with Avhich the spectacle of the divine 
 conduct presents us ! • 
 
 And this I feel with double energy and intensity when I 
 recall the agony of that prayer with which the Redeemer 
 prayed that, " if it were possible," the final horrors might 
 be spared Him — " the bitter cup pass away from Him." 
 
 And that this i)rayer did not refer to the transient cloud 
 of Gethsemane, but to the prosj^ective horrors of Calvary, 
 is, I think, evident from the expressive figure used by our 
 Lord at His apprehension, and which is recorded by the 
 evangelist who does not record the j)i'^yer in Gethsemane. 
 "The cup," says He, "which my Father hath given me to 
 drink, shall I not drink it ? " — an expression, Avhich is not 
 only, as Paley says, an instance of undesigned harmony in 
 the narratives of difierent evangelists, but, as I think, also 
 shows, by the character of the metaj^hor, what was the 
 meaning of the prayer in the garden. 
 
 Thrice, then. He ofiered that' prayer; and thrice in vain. 
 Yet, on your theory, where was the necessity? Why was 
 it " imjDossible " that the cup should j)ass from Him ? Im- 
 230ssible ? Nothing would seem more easy ; nay, notliing 
 more impossible than that, having deserved no sorrow at 
 all. His prayer should be uttered in vain ? Is this the way 
 in, which you would give us a more attractive view than 
 the doctrine of the Atonement affords, of the love of God ? 
 Is it by showing us the only being, in human form, who 
 never deserved to feel His justice^ striving in vain to j^ro- 
 pitiate His 'mercy f 
 
 liVe^ at least, assign an adequate cause of all this mys- 
 tery ; loe suppose that it was to rescue a lost world that 
 God "willed" that "the cup should not pass from Him;" 
 and that Christ, who thus prayed, also " willed " to drink 
 it rather than decline it, at such a cost as the fi-ustration of 
 
240 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 His divine compassion and tlie surrender of a world to per- 
 dition. But you, what reason can you assign ? Is it a 
 more conciliating view of the divine justice and love that 
 they tlius afflicted innocence for nothing? or nothing that 
 is intelligible ? and in spite of its own heart-rending cries 
 that if any other expedient remained within the reach of 
 Omnipotence itself, Omnipotence taxed to the uttermost 
 of its resources, that " cu^d might ^^ass away ? " 
 
 So deeply do I feel the dark shadow Avhich this view 
 throws over the divine administration, that even if. the pos- 
 itive texts for the reality of the " Atonement " were less 
 numerous and decisive than I conceive they are, this mys- 
 terious spectacle of Perfect Innocence treated by Divine 
 Justice more severely than guilt, for no imaginable neces- 
 sity, would go far to convince me of the truth of the doc- 
 trine ; but when I further compare all the inferences from 
 the transaction itself with the testimony of Scripture, — 
 when I see how naturally the doctrine harmonizes with the 
 entire strain of Revelation, — with ancient rite and sacri- 
 fice, — with dogmatic statement and casual allusion, — with 
 imagery, type and symbol, — with direct assertion and 
 oblique reference, — I am beyond all doubt that the doc- 
 trine of the Atonement is a genuine doctrine of Chris- 
 tianity. 
 
 Such, my friend, is my view of the Atonement ; not le^is 
 philosophical, I contend, even vicAved, a priori^ than any 
 other which human reason can devise ; more naturally sus- 
 tained by the prevailing language of Scripture ; and neces- 
 sary^ if we Avould not render the death of Christ (so far 
 from being a relief) a terrible aggravation of all the diffi- 
 culties of the divine administration, — an inscrutable mys- 
 tery, far harder than the doctrine of the Atonement itself! 
 Argue against this doctrine, if you like, and I will weigh 
 with scrupulous conscientiousness every syllable on so vital 
 
THE "ATONEMENT." 241 
 
 a tlieme ; but your argument must not be against a j^han- 
 tom of your own creation, wJiich I renounce as much as 
 you ; it must be founded on no supposition of the divine 
 reluctance to save — for it was God's love which provided 
 the sacrifice ; nor on jjresumed injustice in the infliction — 
 for Christ Himself ap23roved it ; nor on the fancy that we 
 hold some base huckstering theory of precisely so many 
 ounces of suffering for so many ounces — parsimoni- 
 ously w^eighed out — of mercy! This is absurd per se, 
 for hoB^ can transient suffering be exactly equal to pangs 
 of eternal duration? — it is derogatory to the divine 
 mercy, for if justice exact a precise quid pro qico, where is 
 the scoj)e for mercy at all? — and it is utterly unnecessary, 
 for the homage to law consists in the principle of the 
 Atonement, not in the amount of suffering. 
 
 You must avoid, therefore, all such abjured views, or you 
 will not touch 07ie ; while your cnmi theory must fairly an- 
 swer those objections to the divine equity, goodness, and 
 love, which, as I have endeavored to show, may be justly 
 retorted on it. And remember that if you insist on the 
 injustice of God's inflicting suffering on Christ for the sins 
 of others, you cannot escape similar difficulty, and greater 
 in degree, on your own system ; for can it be less unjust to 
 inflict such sufferings on Christ for no sins at all f If it 
 be unjust to accept Him as a sacrifice for the guilty, liow 
 much more unjust must it be to insist on the sacrifice for 
 nothing, and when the victim thrice implored in agony that, 
 " if it w^ere possible," the " cuj) might pass fi'om Him ? " 
 
 You are bound to demonstrate the " «w2possibility." How 
 you should do so on your hypothesis is to me utterly in- 
 conceivable ; for you say that God can, wdth utmost ease, 
 pardon guilt without any compensation to His justice ; if 
 so, where could be the difficulty of sparing innocence ? — 
 rather, how w^as it possible to do otherwise? Till you 
 
 21 
 
242 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 answer these things fairly and fully, I shall continue to 
 believe the doctrine of the Atonement not only more con- 
 sonant to Scripture, but a more rational account of Christ's 
 
 Death, that your own. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Friday, May 11, 1849. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 If it be the climax of virtue to have practised it till duty 
 is transformed into j^leasure, — as I am inclined to believe 
 it is, — I am far enough at i:>resent from having attained 
 that j)oint. On the contrary, I find — confess, now, that it 
 is the same with you — that things pleasant enough in 
 themselves, at least not painful, become, the moment they 
 assume the shape of duties, irksome. They j^ut on, as it 
 were, a stiff, starched dress, and lose all their alluring, se- 
 ductive looks. 
 
 I will give you a whimsical illustration of this. In my 
 recent anonymous brochure^ which met with more appro- 
 bation from the public than perhaps it deserved, — cer- 
 tainly more than I expected, — I felt, with my accustomed 
 fastidiousness, when it came out, that a thousand things 
 might be altered for the better. As I impatiently glanced 
 over it, I felt, mingled with mortification, a positive j^lea- 
 sure in mentally making improvements, — adding something 
 here, expunging something there, — gi^dng a phrase a new 
 turn, — illustrating a bare thought by an image or metaj^hor. 
 The task, thus voluntarily prosecuted, was a j^ositive delight. 
 When, a few days ago, it was intimated that a new edition 
 was called for, and I was requested to furnish the j^iiuter 
 
SYMPTOMS OF IMPERFECT VIRTUE. 243 
 
 with any alterations I might be meditating by a fixed day, 
 it is inexpressible Avith what reluctance I tm-ned to the 
 task ; and the thought that it must be done by a certain 
 time has turned a j^leasant amusement into insui3poi'table 
 drudgery. But what perverseness ! The task is the same : 
 and why should the thought that it ought to be done make 
 it less pleasant ? I have therefore set to work with a v:ill^ 
 and am reaj^ing my reward by finding that the task is be- 
 coming less a task as I j^ursue it, though duty has unques- 
 tionably marred the pleasure. 
 
 In the same way I have often found that if it be neces- 
 sary to read a given book on a given day, there is not a 
 book, out of the five thousand I have around me, that I 
 would not rather take up than that ! 
 
 I have somewhere read — and so have you I doubt not — 
 of a petty German despot who, having heard that an old 
 woman of seventy had never been beyond the precincts of 
 her native city, thought he should like to " have it to say " 
 (what is too costly or cruel for a desj^ot if he " would like 
 to have something to say ! ") that one who had lived to be 
 a very old woman had never been beyond the limits of 
 the city, and therefore decreed that she should never be 
 permitted to do so. It is said that the ^ooy old lady so 
 laid to heart the loss of that liberty which she had volun- 
 tarily lived mthout, all her life, that she took to her bed, 
 and died in a few days ! Surely human nature is the very 
 image of that old woman. 
 
 We might at least learn, one would think, to submit 
 without gi'umbling to any necessity, which, so long as it 
 was no necessity, was not only submitted to without com- 
 plaint, but was embraced as a pleasure ! It was a smart 
 saying of Locke, " Let your will go whither necessity would 
 drive, and you will always preserve your liberty." Very 
 true — very sagacious, but rather difficult to practise. Simi- 
 
244: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 larly we may say, make duty your pleasure^ and it will be 
 just the same thing as pleasure; but, like the other, it is 
 more easily said than done. The culmination of virtue — 
 and no doubt, by "perseverance in well doing," we may 
 approximate to it, though in heaven alone we shall fully 
 attain it — is to find pleasure in duty, as such ; to find not 
 only that duty does not — as in my absurd condition, so 
 frankly confessed, it often does, — make pleasure itself 
 irksome, but that, when not absolutely painful, (and in 
 heaven I suppose there will be no painful duties,) it is in 
 itself a distinct source of pleasure. I believe even now, 
 and in our imperfect condition, that the hamng done our 
 duty is a source of greater pleasure than an;yi:hing else ; 
 but then it is the having done it, I fear. We enjoy it by 
 a reflex act, and possibly often linger so long in complacent 
 retrospect, that we forget the next duty in admiring our- 
 selves ! If we could but feel pleasure in duty while it was 
 a-doing, how happy should we be, for we should then be 
 happy all the day long ! And it will be so if we persevere. 
 " At first we cannot serve God," says Jeremy Taylor, " but 
 by doing violence to all our wilder inclinations. The sec- 
 ond days of virtue are 2:>leasant and easy in the midst of 
 all the appendant labors. But when the Christian's last pit is 
 digged, when he is descended to his grave and hath finished 
 his state of sorrows and suffering, then God opens the river 
 of abundance, — the river of life and never ceasing felici- 
 ties." But so different from this is the condition of men 
 in general, that I almost think one of the best ways of 
 teaching some duties would be to enjoin the due and regu- 
 lar abstinence from them. Tell a lazy man that he is never 
 to get out of bed till ten in the day, and, my life for it, he 
 will fall in love with early rising. Tell an irreligious man 
 that he shnll lK'^•er enter a church, and there you will 
 straightway find him. Certainly, in the present amiable 
 
UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 245 
 
 condition of man, the very presence of a law is a great pro- 
 vocative to neglect or violate it — a fact to which the Apos- 
 tle seems to allude in the seventh of Romans ; a passage, by 
 the way, which ought not to have caused all the pother it 
 has among the commentators. 
 
 I was amused by your defending yourself against the 
 charge of negligence in writing, before you were accused. 
 I am sure I said nothing, and, what is more, meant nothing. 
 by my silence. It is a self-betrayal second only to that of 
 the good Athenian in Hierocles. He told his Spartan friend, 
 who had commissioned him to purchase some books, that 
 he had " never received the letter about the books." " Let 
 me tell you," said a West Indian proprietor to his assembled 
 slaves, after some theft of which he wished to detect the 
 perpetrator, " Let me tell you that it is in vain for you to 
 attempt concealment ; for he who has committed the deed 
 will find a tumor sprouting out of the tip of his nose, which 
 will effectually betray him." Up went the finger of the 
 luckless criminal to see whether the threatened i)imple was 
 a-coming — and so he was detected. My remarks on 
 negligent correspondents were quite general ; but you have 
 put your finger to your nose, and stand self-confessed. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Arran, Monday, July 23, 1849. 
 
 My DEAR Feiend, 
 
 I casually met the day before yesterday, on board a 
 Clyde steamer, with one of those rare youths at whom we 
 have so often laughed, who have seduced themselves into 
 the belief that they have obtained a profound knowledge 
 
 21* 
 
246 THE GREYBON LETTERS. 
 
 of philosophy, by muddling their brains with dark transla- 
 tions of German metaphysicians, and the writings of tliose 
 geniuses for obscurity who have so successfully imitated 
 them in this country. Certainly there are minds Avhich, 
 like certain surfaces, absorb all the colors of light, and re- 
 flect you back only an aspect of perfect blackness: and 
 they deserve to be called the Hottentots of Philosophy. 
 What share vanity may have in affecting to know what 
 others cannot pretend to understand, I cannot say ; but 
 these folks will go on using phrases, and terms of art, of 
 marvellous vagueness, and exchanging formulae of pro- 
 digious generality, just as if they had a meaning. Yet 
 let me tell you, from my recent experience, that you can 
 get on with them remarkably well. " By stopping them," 
 you will say, " and requesting a rigid definition of their 
 dark terms of art." Why, in that case, you would not get 
 on at all. Your philosopher would be arrested at once. 
 " How, then ? " you will say. If you have a pretty good 
 memory and a little invention, nothing more easy ; be as 
 profound as himself; assent to what he says, though you 
 do not understand, and reply to it with something which 
 you understand as little, and which he will as little under- 
 stand. Let it be what it will, however, if it be sufficiently 
 dark, he will be afraid not to appear to understand. Go 
 on boldly with the same imposing obscurities 2Ci\^ formulate 
 with the same tremendous sounding phrases, and rely on it, 
 you are as safe as he is. It is a great advantage of this 
 species of philosophy, that you may be profound in it with- 
 out having passed your novitiate, and talk a deal of deep 
 metaphysics Avithout knowing it. 
 
 We began on Kant, and did not absolutely desert day- 
 light as long as we kept by him ; at least we were in twi- 
 liglit ; for he had a meaning, and often a profound one, 
 though expressed in the most uncouth style which Philo- 
 
UNCONSCIOUS TROFUNDITY. 247 
 
 sopliy — not in his case "musical as is Aj)ollo's lute" — 
 ever mumbled in. 
 
 But we soon made a deep plunge into utter midnight, 
 and my young friend and I both frantically laid hold of 
 anything in tlie darkness, — terms and words, that is to 
 say, without any definite meaning, — just to keep ourselves 
 up. I am sure we both did admirably, if anybody could 
 but have comprehended it. 
 
 He said that he did not see anything so very difficult in 
 Hegel's paradox, — which sciolists had made such a pother 
 about, — that " nothing " is equal to " being," and that if 
 "being and nothing be conjoined, you have existence." 
 He asked me what I thought of it ? I told him that noth- 
 ing could in my appreliension be more j^rofound ; and that 
 it became as lucid as profound, if we only remember Hegel's 
 theory of " the evolution of the concrete." According to 
 that theory (he must remember, I was sure,) " the concrete 
 is the idea^ which, as a unity, is variously determined, — 
 having the principle of its activity in itself, while the origin 
 of the activity, the act itself, and the result are one, and 
 constitute the concrete.'^'* " Precisely so," said he ; " the 
 hmate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its de- 
 velopment, and though difierences arise, they at last vanish 
 into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is ' both the 
 movement and repose in the movement. The difference 
 hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues 
 from it a full and concrete unity.' " I was glad to hear it. 
 
 Having thus discussed, though in a somewhat abstract 
 form, the theory of the " concrete," he proceeded to say 
 that all this throws admirable light on the great philoso- 
 pher's statement that the Idea^ concrete and self-developing, 
 is an organical system, — a whole comprehending in itself 
 indefinite treasures of degrees and momenta; while phi- 
 losophy is nothing in the world but the knowledge of this 
 
248 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 evolution, and, so far as it is systematic and self-conscious 
 thought, it is the very evolution itself." To such elemen- 
 tary statement I could not but nod in acquiescence. 
 
 We then got on to the Hegelian "Absolute." " This," said 
 lie, " is nothing but a continual ' process of thinking,' vnth- 
 out beginning and loithoiit endP About this last, too, I 
 made no difficulty ; on the contrary, I firmly believed it ; so 
 that we were still entirely unanimous. " Now," said he, 
 " that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process 
 of all existence — the essence of the Absolute — of a Deity, 
 so that Deify is nothing more than the absolute ever 
 striving to realize itself in human consciousness," — (very 
 imperfectly as yet, thought I, if Hegelian consciousness be 
 the criterion), — "who can doubt?" Without venturing 
 to contest so j^lain a doctrine, I asked him whether, never- 
 theless, there was not a little to be said for Schelling's 
 notion that the rythmical law of all existence is cognizable 
 at the same time by the internal consciousness of the sub- 
 jective self, in the objective operation of Nature ? He said 
 he saw clearly enough its great ingenuity, — which was 
 more than I could, — but thought his " three movements 
 or potencies, — that of ' Reflexion,' whereby the Infinite 
 strives to realize itself in the Finite, — that of ' Subsump- 
 tion,' which is the striving of the Absolute to return from 
 the Finite to the Infinite, — and that of the ' IndiflTerence- 
 point,' or j^oint of junction of the two first, — were not to 
 be admitted ; for," said he, " is it not clear as the day that 
 the poles ever persist in remaining apart — the indifference- 
 point having never been fixed by Schelling." I could not 
 help thinking it would be by his readers; however, I 
 gravely told him I thought it was a very serious objection, 
 and I should duly consider it. 
 
 I said I could not wonder that many, who had not our 
 light, should refuse to allow, with Fichte, that "the ine was 
 
UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 219 
 
 the absolute generating principle of all things," or the 
 great Hegel's theory of the identity of object and subject. 
 To this he shrugged his shoulders ; — as much as to say, 
 the evolution of the process of " eternal thinking," which 
 constitutes God and all philosophy, is uncommonly slow in 
 mankind — that's a fact. But he added that there could 
 " not be the shadow of a doubt that the ' subjective ' and 
 * objective' were really one, and that by their junction is 
 constituted the only reality, which, Avhether we call it the 
 subject-object or object-subject, is of not the slightest con- 
 sequence in the world." I acquiesced entirely in that last 
 observation ; yet I could not but feel, I told him, that the 
 " poles of all existence, though the indifference-j)oint Avas 
 thus found, seemed, after all, to be annihilated by coales- 
 cing ; " and that I still found some little difficulty about tlie 
 " process of thought assuming the objective form it does in 
 nature y " and asked him whether he coincided in Hegel's 
 solution of this difficulty — namely, that there is a " descent 
 of the absolute idea from subject-object into a state of 
 separation ? " He condescended to acknowledge that it 
 was one of the great difficulties of Hegel's system. I asked, 
 Avhether, in the supposed case, the relation^ which was the 
 sole reality, between the subjective and objective would 
 not be altered ? He was pleased to say that that question 
 touched the very quintessence of the whole system, and 
 that it was a good deal to the purpose. Perhaps it was ; 
 and, at any rate, I was very glad to hear that I had spoken 
 so much to the purpose without knowing it. I rather think 
 it staggered him, as I am sure it did me, for I know no 
 more than the dead what was the meaning of it. 
 
 "Again," said I, as if it had something to do with the 
 subject, or at least the subject-object, — and perhaps it 
 had, for I do not clearly see what was the subject, or our 
 object — " since Hegel begins with zero, and evolves the 
 
250 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 universe by a logical process of thought without any realistic 
 stand-point, is there not some difficulty in conceiving how 
 ' the process of thought ' (to use his words) can ever exter- 
 nalize itself into the region of nature ? " " Phenomenally," 
 said he, " it may." " Phenomenally," said I, " no doubt it 
 may ; and so perhaj)s the subjectivity of the mind, subjec- 
 tifying the objective in nature, leaves the subject-object 
 still one." 
 
 In spite of all difficulties of this trivial kind, he expressed 
 himself delighted with the Hegehan philosophy, and espec- 
 ially its simplicity of conception ; it began, he said, avow- 
 edly on the principle that in the analysis of thought, as 
 " identical with existence, we must take the very emptiest, 
 most meaningless, and abstract notions we can find." I ad- 
 mitted that Hegel had in that succeeded admirably. 
 
 We then had some equally interesting conversation on 
 Fichte's system ; but we both thought that it was impossi- 
 ble to acquiesce in his notion — that the me gave its entire 
 reality to the not-me^ — especially as the reality which the 
 me, in that case, transfers to the not-me^ it must get, after 
 all, from the me / so that the me constructs the not-me. 
 Yet every fool imagines the not-me different from the me. 
 On the other hand, according to this theory, the not-me 
 most evidently limits the we — though itself non-existent ex- 
 cept as a limitation of me ! Who could admit this ? — The 
 plausibility of Fichte's theory, however, he conceded, and 
 the clearness with which it was expressed^ to which I, of 
 course, cheerfully assented. 
 
 We now happily drew near Dunoon, where he said he 
 was about to stop. I begged to know Avhat book he had 
 in his hand ? He said it was the " Physio-PhilosoiAy " of 
 Oken, and asked me if I had ever read it ? — as if I could 
 be ignorant of so profound a philosopher ! He remarked 
 that it was one of the greatest contributions to science in 
 
UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 251 
 
 our time, and wondered that shallow folks should have com- 
 plained of its being inserted in the publications of the " Ray 
 Society." I frankly acknowledged there were some few 
 things in it I could not satisfactorily comprehend, on Avliich 
 I thought he looked a little pleased at his own superiority. 
 " For example," said I, opening the book at random, *' I 
 should be obliged if you would explain what is meant by 
 this passage?" — I had no difficulty in pitching on one as 
 dark as Tartarus. 
 
 To any one else, I dare say, it would have been a poser ; 
 but, from what I saw of my young friend's profundity, I 
 have no doubt he would have made it all as clear as he had 
 done the philosophy of Hegel. He reluctantly excused him- 
 self, as the boat was just about to stop. 
 
 He took leave of me with the most flattering expressions 
 of pleasure at having fallen in with one who took a kindred 
 interest in his favorite studies, and hoped we should shortly 
 meet again ; — a hope which I devoutly hope may be dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 I felt exceedingly elated, however, at having been able 
 BO creditably to take my j^lace with a deep philosopher, 
 without my knowing or his knowing a syllable that we had 
 been talking about. And I suspect he parted from me still 
 better pleased. Milton records with innocent vanity, that 
 he reflected with satisfaction that he had not unworthily 
 supported his part in a Latin conversation with some foreign 
 ambassadors, when they did him the honor of dining Avith 
 him, or, as we should now say, when he did them the hon- 
 our of entertaining them ; for thus does the " whirligig of 
 time bring about the revenges " of genius, and the poet 
 takes precedence of all ambassadors. You remember what 
 is told of Leibnitz, that being anxious to gain admission to 
 the society of some alchemical adepts, he took sundry books 
 of their delusive art, and stringing together at random all 
 
252 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the very hardest terms he could find, sent his lucubration to 
 them as a card of introduction. They were astounded at 
 one who could write so profoundly on their favorite sci- 
 ence, and admitted him at once. 
 
 You think, perhaps, that it would require a good memory 
 to recall some of the terms and phrases with which my 
 "profundissimus" and I pelted one another. That is per- 
 haps true ; but you need not always stop for that ; combine 
 the hardest and most general terms, — the more incompre- 
 hensible the better, — and, bandied to and fro, they will 
 seem alive with a vague meaning, like an old scarecrow 
 fluttering: in the wind. That is sufficient. And to convince 
 you, I may tell you that some of the things I said were com- 
 binations a la mode Leibnitz ; and yet I fancy I may defy 
 
 you, or even your ingenious friend T M , to say 
 
 which is lohich. If you try, take heed ; for perhaps you 
 will find I can trap you by citing chapter and verse, where 
 you think I have been extemporizing ! 
 
 Campbell says, and says truly, that we are not to suppose 
 that everything which is unintelligible is absurd, since we 
 cannot pronounce on its truth or falsity; — therefore be 
 l^leased to regard the utterances above with mysterious rev- 
 erence. " When the Teutonic theosopher," says the acute 
 critic, " enounces that ' all the voices of the celestial joyful- 
 ness qualify, commix, and harmonize in the fire which was 
 from eternity in the good quality,' I should think it equally 
 impertinent to aver the falsity as the truth of this enuncia- 
 tion." 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Yours ever truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
HUMAN INCONSISTENCIES 253 
 
 LETTER LVII. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 Arran, July 30, 1849 
 
 My dear Mas ox, 
 
 And so you are really surprised at the inconsistency of 
 your patient's sending for you, and requesting your advice 
 and medicine, while he neglected the one and never took 
 the other ? Well, you can easily take your revenge by mak- 
 ing him pay for both. He, at all events, is not so bad as 
 patients sometimes are who ask whether they may do that 
 they have already done. " Pray, doctor," says a joatient in 
 a wheedling way, " don't you think I might take a glass of 
 wine now ? " " No — not yet — it would not be safe," says 
 the doctor, with a solemn air. " Oh because I did take one 
 yesterday, and it seemed to do me so much good ! " I 
 have heard a medical friend say that this sort of ex post 
 facto justification, (at the doctor's expense too,) is the " un- 
 kindest " of all the cuts a doctor can receive from a patient. 
 
 An inhabitant of this world ought to wonder at nothing ; 
 at all events, pray keep any such emotion for greater rari- 
 ties than human inconsistencies. The schism between the 
 Pope and anti-Pope within us — between the Understand- 
 ing and the Will, — the Head and the Heart, — the Con- 
 science and the Passions, — the thoughts and the lips, is 
 daily manifesting itself, in effects sometimes ludicrous, some- 
 times lamentable. A whole volume might be filled, not only 
 with instances of maxims consciously contradicted by prac- 
 tice, (for if these were all recorded, " the world itself could 
 not contain the books that would be written,") but of utterly 
 unconscious inconsistency ; of sense and wisdom often 
 expressed in the dialects of folly — of vices that fancy them- 
 selves virtues, of religion masquerading itself in every form 
 
 22 
 
254 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 of blind zeal and ferocious cruelty. We laugh at Gold- 
 smith's soldier, expressing, in profane oaths, his fears for 
 the extinction of religion, and at the debtor in jail, telling 
 the said soldier, from behind the grating, that his chief 
 alarm is for public liberty ; but though these are fictitious 
 examples, they maybe matched in the history of human na- 
 ture, and do not go beyond it. Similarly Sheridan's Sir 
 Anthony, who, in a towering passion, asks his son " what 
 the devil good can passion do ? Can't you be cool like one P"* 
 is a picture most of us have seen under some modifications 
 or other. Parson Adams, enchanted with the sentiments 
 of his travelling acquaintance as to that contemptible vice 
 of " vanity," regrets, as he fumbles in his pocket, that he 
 has left behind him the sermon in which he had endeavor- 
 ed to improve the topic, and which he would have felt such 
 jDleasure in reading to him ! It is by no means without a 
 parallel. 
 
 A Scotch friend of mine was recently at a public dinner. 
 A clergyman of the town was requested to "say grace." 
 He did it, with unusual propriety. On sitting down, a 
 young man whispered to my friend, with all the seriousness 
 in the world, "A devilish good grace that !" 
 
 Another, talking to some Scotch " Andrew Fairservice," 
 whose religious " assurance " (in more than one sense) was 
 such that he professed to live without the shadow of a doubt, 
 fear, or perplexity respecting his spiritual condition, asked 
 him whether he really meant what he said ? — " De'il doot 
 it, mon," was the rej^ly. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Defoe had an unfeigned res- 
 pect for morality and religion, and that he sincerely design- 
 ed his Avritings to serve both. Yet how whimsical the 
 practical inconsistency which led him to suppose that the 
 " History of Moll Flanders," of " Roxana, the Fortunate 
 Mistress," of " Colonel Jack," could by any possibility an- 
 
HUMAN IXCOXSISTENCIES. 255 
 
 swer this end! One would as soon expect virtue to be 
 promoted by the " prurient " discussions of certain casuists 
 whose canons for forming a superhuman purity contain, as 
 Fuller wittily expresses it, " the criticisms of all obscenity." 
 I met with a droll instance of practical inconsistency the 
 other day in a sermon of my old favorite Jeremy Taylor. 
 It is that on the " good and evil tongue." He takes occa- 
 sion to illustrate the text, " for every idle word we must 
 give account j " and he does so by indulging in a whole 
 paragraph of as idle words as ever came out of a preacher's 
 mouth. They are full of Latin quotations which must have 
 been utterly unintelligible to his audience, and not a few of 
 them very solemnly impertinent had they been otherwise. 
 He completes a long tesselation from the Fathers by telling 
 his wondering hearers " that St. Gregory calls every word 
 vain or idle, quod aut ratione justa3 necessitatis aut inten- 
 tione pisB utilitatis caret ; and St. Jerome calls it vain, quod 
 sine utilitate et loquentis decitur et audientis — which profits 
 neither the speaker nor the hearer." He then duly con- 
 firms it by Chrysostom and Gregory Nyssen, and says it 
 seems intimated in the word kcvov prjixa or p^/xa apyovl 
 Would that all inconsistencies of men were as trivial as these. 
 But how shall we wonder at any, when we find thousands 
 daily indulging in habits which they themselves are persua- 
 ded will ruin them, body and soul ; and, while professing to 
 desire happiness above all things, nevertheless persisting in 
 walking right on with their eyes open in a path which they 
 know beforehand can end only in misery ? 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
256 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 London, Tuesday, Oct. 18, 1819. 
 My dear West, 
 
 You know my old failing; — always a little behind the 
 clock, five minutes or so; or else the clock is always a lit- 
 tle before me — I sometimes think that is the real secret 
 of my seeming want of punctuality. 
 
 Tliis failing suggested to me the other night a very ab- 
 surd dream. Methought I was striding up Fleet street in 
 the vain hope of overtaking an engagement the exact mo- 
 ment of which had already j^assed, — for I was, as usual, 
 a little behind my time, — when I saw in a window, in large 
 characters, the inscri23tion, " Waste time sold here." This, 
 said I to myself, is the very thing for me ; I will just step 
 in and buy a quarter of an hour or so. But seeing other 
 placards in the window, I stayed for a minute to examine 
 them. " It does not matter," said I to myself, " about the 
 loss of a minute or two which I can now so easily repair." 
 I found the other notices of a jDiece with the first. In one place 
 I read — "Some excellent lotsof time, — consisting of a week 
 and some days each, — to be immediately disposed of on 
 the most advantageous terms," — in another, fifty-two Sun- 
 days to be sold, a bargain," — in a third, " the whole of 
 that eligible month of February in lea]^ year — twent}'- 
 nine days, to be sold ; nothing charged for the odd day ; " 
 " Exchanges effected on the most reasonable terms — com- 
 mission not exceeding five minutes per centr You will 
 l^erhaps think I Avas a little surprised at all this ; perj^lexed 
 Avith sundry impossibilities which might be naturally sup- 
 posed to stand in the way of such bargains and exclianges. 
 You are mistaken; I felt no such suri)rise at all. The 
 
A DUE AM. 257 
 
 only thing that surprised me was, that so admirable and 
 reasonable an arrangement had not been hit upon long 
 before. "In a world," said I to myself, "where money 
 answereth all things, as the wise man saith, — where goods 
 and chattels, houses and lands, character and fame, are all 
 bought and sold, it is very strange that we should never 
 have thought of buying and selling time before." Your 
 only true logician is sleep. It can make you incontinently 
 believe anything, and unsay, in an instant, every fact, max- 
 im, and 2^rinciple which you had held indisputable u]) to 
 the very moment you laid your head upon your pilloAV. It 
 can prove any conclusion it pleases from any premises, or, 
 if need be, without any ^^remises at all. It can do all that 
 logicians say cannot be done, and convince logicians them- 
 selves that their logic is wrong. IsTo wonder then that I 
 was not startled to find that I could, if I pleased, purchase 
 a quarter of an hour at a shop counter, and come away Avith 
 it safe in my pocket. On my waking, I certainly regretted 
 that there was no such office — for I dare say I should 
 often have droj^j^ed in to do a little business. I could not 
 help indulging myself in fancpng some of the odd scenes 
 Ave should witness if the time Avhich hangs upon men's 
 hands, and Avhich they know not Avliat to do Avith, Avere an 
 exchangeable commodity, instead of being simply suffered 
 to run to waste, like the Avater of a stream AA^hen the mill 
 is not at work. 
 
 It would be surely couA'-enient, if those AAdio haA^e more 
 time than they Avant could sell it to those who can employ 
 it, or think they can employ it, to better purpose ; or if we 
 could effect exchanges of time Avith mutual advantage. 
 You have a day you knoAV not what to do Avith — another 
 Avishes for tAvo days in one ; he has one a fortnight hence 
 AAdiich he Avouldbe glad to partAvith — you exchange yours 
 for it ; and thus tedium Avould be prevented on both sides ! 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE GUEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 TliG last metliod, indeed, Avould be a reasonable bargain, 
 and all could understand it, for human life would be none 
 the shorter for it ; longer indeed, if we measure life (as we 
 surely ought) rather by what we do and enjoy, than by the 
 hours which pass in vacant indolence. But it might be 
 imagined at first that none Avould have any time absolutely 
 to sell. Is it credible, we are ready to ask, that beings who 
 are continually complaining of the brevity of human life 
 can be willing to make it shorter? Yet I make no doubt 
 there would be j^lenty of business, even of this kind, for 
 such an office to transact. We know but little of human 
 nature, if we do not know that whatever it may say about 
 the shortness of life, most men are firmly convinced that 
 life is ten times too long ! Half our time is spent in de- 
 vising methods of wasting it, and half the remaining half 
 in putting them into execution. The only hours of life 
 worth much, in the estimation of the giddy and thought- 
 less, are those spent in pleasures which they cannot cheaply 
 and readily make for themselves, but which they must wait 
 for time to bring them ; they know not how to fill up the 
 interval with j^leasures of their own creating, and so can 
 rarely wait with j^atience. The moment they see a lively 
 pleasure in prospect, — be it an hour, a day, or a month 
 hence, — they think the interval between the present in- 
 stant and its arrival, as Avorse than useless and would be 
 glad to have it annihilated on any terms. Nothing would 
 be more common, I dare say, if my imaginary office were 
 in existence, than for a lover to sell whole weeks previous 
 to the wedding, from the sheer impossibility of enduring 
 the tedium ; while an alderman would gladly purchase a 
 blissful oblivion for some hours before a turtle feast, to rid 
 himself of the torment of expectation between the promise 
 and the fulfilment. And as to Sundays, — how many a 
 young scapegrace would sell the whole fifty-two in a bun- 
 
A DllEAM. 259 
 
 die,. — except, perhaps, when Christmas Day falls on one 
 of them ? It is amusing, too, to think that, like all other 
 markets, the time-market would have its fluctuations. 
 There would be time when time would be a drug, and time 
 Avhen time would be dear — according to the season ; as 
 there are times for every thing, so there would be times for 
 " time " itself; for though one hour is as like another as 
 one egg is like another, and intrinsically of equal value, the 
 su})ply and the demand must chiefly determine their price. 
 In a season of pressing business or public merry-making, 
 how Avould hours be at a premium, while Sundays and fast 
 days, I suspect, would go almost for nothing! Many a 
 young rogue, I doubt, would mortgage his whole church- 
 time up to fifty years of age ; while during Lent in Catho- 
 lic countries, and the Ramadan in Mahometan, there Avould 
 be an absolute glut, and the time-broker have more time 
 on his hands than he would know what to do with. 
 
 So much the better, you may say, for those devout souls 
 who would know the true value of time ; who might steal 
 into the market to purchase an additional day or two for 
 spiritual pleasures ; or haggle for a score or two of cheap 
 Sundays to enable them to get through a folio or two of 
 sermons and homilies ! Such customers would be rare. No 
 doubt, however, many would go with a long face, under 
 the pretence of transacting such business, and emj^loy the 
 time which they got in a very diflerent manner, A curious 
 thing is the human heart ; it likes to play the fool under 
 the mask of wisdom, and to practise even vice, if possible, 
 with the credit of virtue. 
 
 I had a droll example of human impatience in my dream. 
 Methought a couple of demure looking persons, one a 
 young man — the other a young woman — came in, and 
 reversed what, I fancy, Avould be the usual pro2')osals. In- 
 stead of wishing to sell the Sunday and buy the Aveek, they 
 
260 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 wished to pass the week in oblivion, and were impatient for 
 the Sunday to come. I was ahnost betrayed into the folly 
 of supposing it was out of sheer devotion. But it turned 
 out that the banns of their marriage were to be pubhshed 
 on that happy day for the last time ! 
 
 One other thing in my dream, I must not forget. I 
 asked if it was possible to sell the hours of sickness and 
 sorrow : " Surely," said I, " they are burdensome enougli." 
 " They are so," was the reply, " but none can part Avith 
 them. There is enough to do — to bear them with ^:>«- 
 tience, and indeed they seldom last long enough to teach 
 that lesson. It is only the hours which you would sj^end 
 in yawning, in indolent vacuity, that it is permitted thus to 
 barter away. Men will not jiart with their hours of plea- 
 sure — they think them too precious for that ; and with 
 their hours of suffering, they cannot ; for Providence justly 
 deems these more precious still. But people often make 
 mistakes, and come to offer what they cannot part with, 
 or to get rid of it under pretences." At this very moment 
 there entered an old fellow, about sixty, Avith a curious 
 twist on his countenance as though he were vainly trying 
 to contort an ex^^ression of acute pain into a yawn oi ennui. 
 But just as he was saying that he had a fortnight of com- 
 plete leisure to dispose of, a sharp twinge effectually 
 banished his assumed expression of apathy, and extorted 
 an exclamation by far too lively for ennui. " You, my 
 friend," said the official at the counter, "have got quite 
 enough to do for the j^resent — you are in no condition to 
 sell ; — let me rather recommend you to buy an additional 
 day or two that you may con the lessons of fortitude and 
 patience a little more effectually." The sexagenarian de- 
 clined this j^roposal. Would not you and I do the same ? 
 
 Yours ever 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
THOUGHTS OX EMIGRATION. • 261 
 
 LETTER LIX. 
 
 TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 London, Friday, Jan. 4, 1850. 
 
 My dear Feiend, 
 
 I have just had a mournful parting. The whole family 
 
 of T W have gone to Australia. I saw them on 
 
 board at Gravesend, and went a few miles down the river 
 with them. 
 
 " England, with all thy faults," — but I think I have seen 
 that quoted once, if not twice, before. Never mind ; the 
 sentiment will be ever young and fresh in our hearts, how- 
 ever hackneyed the j)oet's line; just as there are some 
 strains of music which not all the vilest street hurdygurdies 
 in the Avorld can make you hate, though you feel impatient 
 enough with the poor vagabonds that so desecrate them. 
 
 Not but what imagination is sometimes beaten, and the 
 sentimental fairly yields to the ludicrous ; as when I heard 
 a great raw-boned Scotchman, six feet high, bagpiping the 
 other day to " I 'd be a buttei-fly." It was impossible for 
 even Ovid to imagine such a metamorphosis. If it had 
 been " I 'd be a kangaroo," or " a long-tailed monkey," or 
 any other forest beauty of that kind, it would have been 
 natural. But to return. 
 
 I did not envy the emigrants, and can scarcely imagine 
 the stress of circumstances which would reconcile tne to 
 such a step. Yet they are happy in one point ; they sail 
 en masse. The whole family is uprooted, and gone to make 
 another home at the Antipodes. They leave no near rela- 
 tions behind them. Father, mother, brothers, sisters, every- 
 thing they held dear down to their favorite dog, all are 
 gone ; — all but the two loved ones that they leave alone 
 
2G2 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 in the old familiar churcliyarcl ! Ah . how often, I will an- 
 swer for it, — how often already has the mother visited, in 
 fancy, that lone spot, and heard the whisper of the tall dark 
 trees Avhich edge its border and the rustling of the grass 
 over the graves, even above the long swell of the Atlantic ! 
 
 I was with the voyagers in imagination almost all last 
 evening, and entered so deeply into sympathy with them, 
 that when I slept I was still dreaming that I was on board. 
 
 I know not how I could bear the trial, since (I am half 
 ashamed to say it) the very thought of it dissolved me in 
 tears. Even if one is not about to quit one's country for 
 ever, there is something profoundly melancholy in all the 
 sights and sounds which surround one when parting on a 
 distant voyage. As the sun goes down behind the fading 
 hills, and the solemn stars come out to watch, and the mel- 
 anclioly surge keej^s up its monotonous music, and the land 
 breeze, with its faint smell of earth and flowers, wafts to us 
 the last breath of home, — what a pensive hour is that ! 
 How eagerly does the eye watch the still twinkling lights 
 on the shore, and the melancholy pencil of radiance from 
 the lighthouse which streams fainter and fainter as the 
 waves bear us on ; how eagerly does the ear catch the 
 sound even of a watch-dog on the hills ! What, then, must 
 be the feelings of those who thus gaze and listen for the last 
 time ; — as they lose the last twinkling lights, and drink in 
 the last dying fragrance of their native fields ! What a 
 pang must they feel as vivid memory recalls the home of 
 childhood, and the altars where their fathers worshipped ! 
 Methinks many a mother must feel a pang almost as of re- 
 morse and cruelty in leaving, in un visited solitude, the ashes 
 of those they have loved and lost. 
 
 " Pooh ! " I fancy I hear you say, with your abominable 
 practical sense. " I dare say these worthy folks were too busy 
 
THOUGHTS ON EMIGRATION. 263 
 
 Tvdth pressing cares to suffer half as much as you fancy. 
 Very likely they were all sea-sick ; and who was ever trou- 
 bled with sentimental sorrows then ? " 
 
 Why, no ; I suppose that would be a ready cure. Though 
 I never felt it, I imagine, from what I have heard people 
 say, that a man- enduring that misery, would not care if his 
 whole generation were hanged. However, the tranquillity 
 
 of the night allowed poor W and his family no such 
 
 questionable antidote of sorrow. Neither do I wish them 
 so ill as to hope that they escaped the pangs of parting •. 
 not to have felt them would argue them brutal, and such 
 sorrows have a tendency " to make the heart better," and 
 soothe us while they lacerate. 
 
 And they will, at best, be j^assing shadows. In a few 
 days — ay, in a few hours — the changing scenes, the novel 
 sights, and sounds, and employments; — the returning 
 morning light, and the more cheerful asj^ect of the ocean 
 under its beams, — above all, the obliteration of the last 
 \dsible traces of home ; even the necessities of the body, — 
 nay, by Ceres ! the vulgar thoughts of breakfast and the 
 savory steams from the caboose ; well, well, — it is strange,^ 
 but time. Man, that weeping, sighing, sorrowing, eating, 
 drinking, laughing thing, — is a curious phenomenon; 
 " that's a feet." In one little hour he shall shift his domi- 
 cile from the head to the heart, and from the heart to the 
 stomach, pass through all changes from agony and tears to 
 smiles and mirth, and yet in all may be perfectly sincere. 
 
 NY and his wife afford a noble j^roof of what a father's 
 
 and a mother's love can do. They forswear civilization — 
 for the sake of their young ones. They have looked the 
 thing fairly and bravely in the face — and jDrefer hardships 
 abroad, with rude i^lenty for their children, to straits and 
 precarious prospects at home. They have therefore gath- 
 ered up their little all, and propose to turn farmers on the 
 
2G4 THE GliEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 edge of the wilderness. They voluntarily descend to quasi- 
 barbarism, that their young brood may flourish. They are 
 wise in this, — that they go in time. Their children are 
 too young to feel the change much ; they will not have 
 many habits to unlearn, and will scarcely know that their 
 adopted, is not their native country. A more miserable 
 spectacle can hardly be imagined than a grown uj) emigrant 
 family, born to better j^rospects, resorting to such a life - — 
 the sons embarrassed with a " polite " education, and the 
 daughters with the usual quota of accomplishments ; both 
 the one and the other bemg of about as much use in such 
 a situation as silk stockings and cambric shirts. A father, 
 a mother, may be capable of submitting without a murmur 
 to the sacrifices enforced by such a change, rather than see 
 their children starve. But where else can we find the hero- 
 ism or the patience necessary to face it ? 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 TO THE KEV. J S , MISSION AEY IN INDIA. 
 
 March, 1850. 
 
 My DEAR Sm, 
 
 Thank you very heartily for the gift of the version of the 
 New Testament in the " Pushtoo or Affghan " language. 
 I look on it with great reverence, though, when I open it, 
 I am not quite sure Avhether or not I am looking at it up- 
 side down ! But it will, I hope, speak to others, though it 
 is dumb to me ; at all events it is a cu7'iositi/, as we say. 
 What an uncouth -looking character it is ! 
 
 Though I can no more make use of the volume than a 
 monkey of a watch, I can honor the faith and patience of 
 
TO A MISSIONARY IN INDIA. 265 
 
 those who for so many years, amidst the neglect or con- 
 tempt of the world, have been silently employed in master- 
 ing the Babel of this world's dialects, for the j^urpose of 
 making the Bible the present jjolyglot of one hundred and 
 fifty tongues ! But courage ; this task is in a great mea- 
 sure accomplished ; and it was one of the most arduous 
 and essential of all. It has been a long work, and it will 
 be yet many years before it is perfectly accomj^lished. 
 
 This and all other labors of you and your devoted broth- 
 erhood, have been but the preparation for the great battle 
 between the gospel and heathenism ; it has been the scaf- 
 folding for the building. But, if I mistake not, things will 
 proceed henceforth at a greatly accelerated pace. Not 
 that the results, even now, are such as to disappoint any 
 reasonable expectation, as one decisive fact fully shows. I 
 see by the recent Reports of all our great missionary organ- 
 izations, that a very apj^reciable j^ortion of the funds — in 
 one as much as a fifth — has come from the missionary com- 
 munities themselves ; From Polynesians, Hottentots, Hin- 
 doos, and Caffres ! This fact is most significant, and speaks 
 for itself in lano-uao-e which cannot be mistaken : for men 
 will give their words for nothing, but when they give their 
 money, they are infallibly in earnest. When, in addition 
 to such fiicts as these, I consider that the word of God is 
 in almost every dialect of man ; that the world no longer 
 frowns on your enterprise, but condescends to take an in- 
 terest in it; that the most j^owerful governments, but 
 especially our own, are no longer hostile, but favorable ; 
 when I consider, further, that God seems giving such an 
 immeasurable superiority in powcF, wealth, science, and 
 art to the community of Christian nations as cannot but 
 insure them the moral mastery of the world, — an indirect, 
 but most momentous advantage, as you justly say, it is im- 
 possible not to anticipate a bright futurity for you. 
 
 23 
 
266 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 One of the most hopeful symptoms is the attempt you 
 and other missionaries are making to qualify native converts 
 to be teachers of their countrymen. I wonder that it 
 should not have been made from the very first. This was 
 the primitive, and is the only rational method of evange- 
 lization. Till this be adopted, not only must missionary 
 operations be most expensive, and lavish of life, — for the 
 agents must be supported at a great distance and exposed 
 to unfriendly climates ; — but, for both reasons, the number 
 of such agents will be utterly inadequate. And, at best, 
 tlie agents themselves must ahvays work at an immense 
 disadvantage as compared with native teachers. It is not 
 in human nature to listen attentiA^ely to truth from lips that 
 utter it in stammering accents ; and it must be years before 
 the missionary can speak his adoj^ted language with fluency 
 and accuracy. I sometimes imagine to myself the uncon- 
 scious blunders, — no doubt often ludicrous enough, — nay, 
 the downright though most innocent errors, heresies, and 
 blasphemies, which have flillen from the missionary's lips 
 in his early eftbrts. I am afraid the Gospel, if loe were 
 heathens, Avould stand but a poor chance of being listened 
 to with attention if a foreigner came to preach it to us in 
 broken English, with a foreign pronunciation and a foreign 
 idiom • if one told us, with the Frenchman, " Dat de evan- 
 gile was ^'ome from heaven to be a book of revelation of 
 the will Divine, and to cause to repent a man of all his 
 sins ; " or with the German, " Dat it vos a melancholy 
 ever-by-man-to-be-remembered fact dat we vos all but cu- 
 cumbers of de groimd ! " 
 
 Come now, confess -the truth. Do you not fancy that 
 many a young Christian missionary, with more zeal than 
 knowledge, has thus acquired without inspiration, a gift of 
 speaking unlcnoion tongues ? 
 
 The immense advantage of tne native teacher is that he 
 
TO A MISSIONARY IN INDIA. 267 
 
 has no sucb difficulties ; and if a true convert, and intelli- 
 gently convinced of the essential truths of Christianity, he 
 would in all probability more than make amends for his 
 partial ignorance by his possession of the vehicle of com- 
 munication. Of course there is a period during which a 
 missionary colony, like other colonies, must be supported 
 by the " mother country ; " but it is my sincere belief that 
 in many cases, the system of nursing has been continued 
 too long. In many fields of missionary enterprise, if we 
 may trust Reports (and as to some of the Polynesian islands 
 we know it is so,) the converts have been very numerous 
 for many years. Surely the object of the missionaries should 
 have been to train some of them to teach the Gospel they 
 had received — to dismiss them to their work — to leave 
 just a sufficient staff of missionaries to aid in training other 
 converts, and then at once to break new ground. This, at 
 all events, was the Apostolic method. To supply the 
 Christian colonies, which consist of these converts, with 
 teachers from the other side of the world for thirty or 
 forty years together, seems to me as needless as it is inex- 
 pedient ; likely to keep them always cripples, and to rob 
 still untaught heathen of the benevolence to which these 
 last have equal claims. I am rejoiced therefore to find that 
 you are training, at once, the first converts on whom you 
 can depend for sincerity and sense, to the work of teaching 
 their countrymen ; and, in short, that you are resolved to be, 
 m a modest way, the head of a College as well as a minister 
 of the Gospel. I heartily wish all our great societies would 
 set up a college for this purpose m every considerable field 
 of enterprise. 
 
 Well, go on and prosper ; it is a noble career in which 
 you are engaged : and so it ought to be, when I reflect on 
 the ties it rends asunder, and the sacrifices it involves. 
 Ah ! my friend, I shall never see you more in this world ; 
 
268 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and as I think of the clays never to return — of the walks 
 and talks of our early years — tears involuntarily fill my eyes. 
 How strange it seems that the besotted world was so long 
 in seeing that no man would choose such things as a Mis- 
 sionary encounters, and that such sacrifices as yours are at 
 least entitled to grateful and reverent mention, even if 
 judged to be the effect of an erring enthusiasm. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 Great Barr, Tlmrsday, April 4, 18-[;0. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I have looked into the bulky volumes you were so oblig- 
 ing as to send me — for my amusement, as you fxcetiously 
 say ! I would as soon eat sawdust as read them. Even if 
 it were not a dishonest book, a vain j^arade of erudition ; 
 if the author's learning were as profuse as he would have 
 his quotations imply, its perusal would still be intolerable 
 to a man of sense. Here are two huge volumes of more 
 than five hundred pages each, and nearly half those images 
 contain only some ten lines of text, the rest made up of 
 closely printed notes in double columns, bristling with cita- 
 tions and references ! Each page reminds me of Ichabod 
 Crane, with his diminutive head resting on a pair of stilt- 
 like shanks. I calculate there are at least five thousand 
 references which purport to be the result of independent 
 investigation. Now in looking at a few pages only, I see 
 a great many that must have been merely copied from pre- 
 vious w^riters ; many others that really are nothing to the 
 purpose, and many more which remit us to authors so inac- 
 
ON A PEDANTIC AUTHOR 269 
 
 cessible, obscure or worthless, that they could only have 
 been introduced for ostentation's sake, or because the 
 author was sure they would never be hunted up. But it 
 was enough that they would appear to have weight though 
 they had none, or at least evince the author's learning, 
 when they really show nothing but his pedantic vanity. 
 Those authors who have a simple desire to establish their 
 point, never needlessly accumulate citations or references. 
 When the thesis is such that authority is essential, or auxil- 
 iary to it, they will, even then, content themselves with the 
 tninhnmn of citations that will answer the purpose. They 
 reckon them by weight, not by number, — by the scales, not 
 by the bushel. Indeed Avhen one has cited two or three 
 names, which so far as authority can effect any thing at 
 all, are instar omniiim^ of what use is it to appeal to a 
 score or more of mediocrities ? If we can cite Aristotle 
 why go to Keckermannus — if Bacon, how shall we further 
 confirm the statement by appeal to Kettwigious? Not 
 only is a large part of the citations in these volumes mei-e 
 stuffing ; we cannot but feel assured that a great number 
 are simply pillaged from previous writers. It must be so, 
 if we consider what is implied in their being honestly quoted. 
 Those authors who know their proper business, know that 
 to hunt up a passage, to determine its real relevance, to 
 read for the purpose what goes before^ and what comes 
 after (and not, as many have done, take, by mere haste, an 
 objection the cited author is just going to refute, for his 
 own opinion and a sanction of ours !) requires time ; to 
 transcribe the passage or the reference, to verify it j^roperly 
 in the proof, and see that it is still accurate in the last 
 revise, requires more ; so that we are sure the task which 
 so many learned pedants, in such books as you have sent 
 me, would pretend they had honestly performed, is a task 
 only for a Methuselah. For tliis reason, as well as for the 
 
 9 p. * 
 
270 THE GRKYSOX LETTERS. 
 
 Others already mentioned, an honest author will be as par- 
 simonious of his references and citations as possible — not 
 as profuse. 
 
 Thousands of such books as this, have the pedants among 
 our German neighbors produced ; amongst us they are 
 hapi)ily rare. The folly of ostentatious learning has indeed 
 its day at some period or other, in the development of 
 every national literature ; it had in ours two hundred years 
 ago. But I think it is not likely to revive : at least it is to 
 be hoped so. 
 
 For M'hat at the best is the use of such books ? They are 
 not read : how can they be ? Their only effect is to pro- 
 duce in a sciolist here and there an impression that the 
 autlior of a mere farrago is a very learned man ; and per- 
 haps, where the subject is one of controvei'sy, an impression 
 that the cause he advocates is impregnably fortified. It is 
 so, as far as such books can fortify it ; for who can confute 
 what nobody will read ? 
 
 As to reading them it is out of the question. "What can 
 your progress (every clause cut into two by references) be 
 compared to except bump, — bump, — bumping, in a rough 
 cart, over the frozen furrows of a ploughed field ? What 
 mortal patience is equal to the task of reading page after 
 page constructed on the model of such sentences as this, if 
 I may venture to imitate the inimitable : 
 
 " It is surely a mystery {JamUich. de Mysteriis : Gr. et 
 Lat. Ed. Th. Gcde. Oxon. 1678, passim) that you should 
 give to a friend {Plat: Phileb : 13 c. ; Thecetet. 143 b. 
 JEd. G. Stallbauni ; Arlstot. Ethic. JSficoon. lib. viii. Cap. 1 
 — 13 Ed. Im. JBekker ; or indeed even to an acquaintance 
 {CiceroJiis de Amicitid. pp. 1 — 4:% Ed. Joh. Giddens- 
 chaff ; Theophrast. frag, -n-epl <^tA.tas) a book that is incom- 
 prehensible (dKaraXryTrrov, ^;zWe Philonis de Somn. pp. 360 
 — 369; Prodi in Theologiam Plat : Yih.w. ptassim ;) even 
 
TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 271 
 
 in its elements, (o-roixeta); the perusal of which, {vide Fac- 
 ciolati in voc. perUgere) : must involve pure waste of time 
 (Kettwigii de Usu Temporis^ vol. x. fol. p. 1 — 1098 : Test. 
 Vet. et. JVov. passim) and make us angry (vide Schelhorn 
 in Ammnitat. Litt. torn. ii. pp. 1 — 532) rather than pleased 
 with the lender." 
 
 Pray, my dear friend, study this last sentence, carefully 
 looking up all the references and ascertaining their rele- 
 vance ; and remember in your next loan of books that life 
 is but short ; and that as of the writing of many books, so 
 sometimes of the reading even of one., ''there is no end." 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 TO MRS. L. B., IN NEW ZEALAND. 
 
 London, Jan. 1851 
 My dear Louise, 
 
 I was amazed by the unusual length of your last letter re- 
 ceived last week, crossed, absolutely crossed, — a thing, I 
 think, in these penny-post days, I have hardly seen these 
 ten years. I dare say it may be discovered in the letters 
 of lovers, possibly also (as in our case) between very dear 
 friends who chatter to each other across the equinoctial 
 line, or endeavor to keep their love from starving by a 
 yearly letter, like the " Friends' Annual Ej^istle," between 
 the St. Lawrence and the Cape of Good Hope, or " Auld 
 Reekie " and Canton. 
 
 Many thanks to you for it. I assure you I accept it as a 
 greater proof of affection than if you had sent the choicest 
 curiosities of your adopted country. It pleased me better 
 than a genuine war-club, wielded by the redoubtable ai*m of 
 
272 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Waliitabahaoo, (wliicli jneans, my dear, " the Son of a Gun,'- 
 as you may see by consulting any of the native lexicons ;) 
 or a sheaf of arrows tipped with fish-bone ; or a pickled 
 head of some renowned captive, which the New Zealand gen- 
 try had preserved as a trophy ; or a grotesque plumed head- 
 dress by which some diabolical-looking war-chief vainly tried 
 to add to the horrors of his visage, furrowed with the tattoo 
 and the deeper signature of demoniacal passions. Nay, I 
 value your handwriting even more than if you had sent 
 (what I rather aifect than any such grim souve7iirs) a j^ot 
 or two of the most tempting preserved fruits, or a barrel of 
 the finest New Zealand pippins. Yet, if your afiection, my 
 dear Louise, so seeks to express itself, pray do not balk it. 
 The language of symbols is always expressive ; and if the 
 language of flowers be edifying, what must that of fruits 
 be ? If a Persian lady, instead of greeting her lover with 
 roses and lilies, were to manoeuvre with dates and guavas, 
 how much deeper the impression she would make on her in- 
 amorato. — Your letter, notwithstanding all its intersec- 
 tions, and, forgive me, my dear, its occasional meanderings 
 and waving deflections from absolute parallelism, Avas all 
 duly read ; though I deny not that some parts required 
 careful and frequent adjustment of my spectacles. I despair 
 of emulating your copiousness, but I am sure I return your 
 afl*ection. 
 
 The truth is, the mere toil of writing is becoming increas- 
 ingly burdensome, and therefore odious to me, every day. 
 I sometimes wish that all the world wrote and read short- 
 hand. It would be at least a prodigious saving of time and 
 labor. And why, by the way, should it not be a univer- 
 sal accomj^lishment ? Nay, I believe it will, some day. It 
 were easy to superadd this little trifle to the dozen other 
 things, which children, with that wonderful plasticity and 
 activity of the imitative fixculties Avliich God, for wisest pur- 
 
TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 273 
 
 poses, has given to their age, so easily acquire. It is really 
 nothing compared with learning to walk, or to talk, or to 
 read (since that art, once learned, is itself auxiliary to learn- 
 ing short-hand), or to play on the piano. An intelligent 
 child of eight would master its chief difficulties in twenty 
 lessons, and at that age, would have time to become skilled 
 in the art of reading it, — which, by the way, is to adults 
 the chief difficulty. Nay, ordinary lesson books might soon 
 be printed in it. 
 
 What an economy of time, patience, paper, and ink, the 
 revolution Avould effect ! Methinks I see the results. What 
 sweet little hillet-doux which no dove need be employed to 
 carry, but which might be wafted on the wing of a butter- 
 fly! What delicious little note-paj^er should we see, 160mo, 
 and envelopes of the size of a peascod ! Farewell ail lum- 
 bering books and huge collections ; we should literally have 
 " pocket libraries ; " a gentleman might carry half the plays 
 of Shakspeare in one waistcoat pocket, and all Milton in 
 the other ; while a whole Bodleian almost would go into his 
 great-coat. Your good husband might have put the huge 
 Encyclopaedia, about which he Avas so terribly anxious, into 
 his portmanteau. Prithee set about learning and reading it 
 without delay. 
 
 To be sure we must expect, should this great revolution 
 be effected, to hear something about " vested rights," as in 
 all such cases ; of printers and paper makers perishing of 
 starvation, just as the old stage-coachmen Avere to do when 
 railroads were opened ! Petitions wdll perhaps be presented 
 for the taxing of all short-hand books. If any such tax 
 be imposed, let us hope that it Avill be in the ratio of their 
 cubical contents ; in that case the impost will not be ruin- 
 ous. 
 
 Shall we have the penny ocean-postage? I think we can 
 scarcely expect it ; nor as a financial measure would it be 
 
274 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 
 
 wise. Twopence or threepence, however, would do well, 
 and that is surely little enough to pay for sending a missive 
 to the Antipodes. I have not the shadow of a doubt that 
 such a rate as that would pay its expenses, and, after a time, 
 even yield a fair revenue ; for we are but at the beginning 
 of the immense intercourse which will soon bring all islands 
 and continents into close neighborhood; everybody will 
 soon have friends and relatives everywhere, and the facili- 
 ties of communication will jog memory. In a little lime, 
 more thoughts will be exchanged, more love breathed fi'om 
 one end of the earth to the other in a month, than formerly 
 travelled between London and Edinburgh in a whole cen- 
 tury. It is no doubt sweet thus to converse, but I still 
 hanker for an improvement. I long for an occasional peep 
 at you by an " Electric-Telegraph Trip-train," and above 
 all, I want the Electric Telegraph itself to the other world, 
 and have a message now and then from those dear ones w^e 
 have loved and lost. Oh ! what a luxury would that be. 
 But it cannot be. I can talk to you on the other side of 
 the equator, but from that dread land of silence, divided 
 only by the " narrow stream of death," on the frontiers of 
 w^hich we ever stand, and into which we may any moment 
 glide, we can hear no tidings, and can send none thither. 
 You see the old wound still rankles. 
 
 And yet I am both presumptuous and ungrateful in talk- 
 ing thus. I am presutnptuoiis in saying " I can talk to you 
 at the Antipodes; " for at this very moment, my heart whis- 
 pers that you (and the thought chills as I write it) may al- 
 ready have passed into the Avorld of shadows, or /may be 
 a shadow before you read this ; and I am ungrateful^ for if 
 our hearts are where they ought to be, a.nd where our pro- 
 fessed " treasure " is, there will be no lack of sympathy and 
 communion between us and heaven ; if we cannot hold in- 
 tercourse with departed friends, we can with Ilim " in whom 
 
TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 275 
 
 tliey abide," and who will not forget either them or us, as 
 long as we forget not Him. And when we can truly feel 
 thus, we need no celestial " telegraph " any longer ; at least 
 I can truly say, and nothing can wrest this experience from 
 me, that quicker than steam, than light, than electricity — 
 even as quick as thought^ God is present with us when, in 
 the full repose of a child's love and faith, we desire to be 
 present with Him. 
 
 Thus may you and I, dear Louise, often hold intercourse 
 with Him, and through Him, with one another ; thus may 
 we often see the patriarch's vision, " of angels ascending and 
 descending," busy in the ministries of love to us in this the 
 land of our pilgrimage ; and, at last, when we go hence to 
 the world beyond, may we see those " shining ones " who 
 have preceded us thither, coming down to the margin of the 
 " dark river " to welcome us with harp and song, as in the 
 immortal allegory of old John Bunyan. And now for a 
 little family gossip before I close. 
 
 .... Your old friend, Matilda M , is about to be mar- 
 ried. After living so many years, Avithout doing any exe- 
 cution in the world, it is odd that she should thus transfix 
 a heart at the age of forty-two. Yet I find I have been 
 guilty of two impro2:)rieties in a breath ; for how do I know 
 but she may have, in her desk, half a dozen tributes from 
 admiring swains twenty years ago ; and, in truth, if she at- 
 tracted none in her bloom, I am sure Cupid must be (as he 
 is represented) blind ; for, I fancy, few women could have 
 been more agreeable, and if never handsome, she must have 
 had pleasing features. You will doubtless tliink it a yet 
 more deadly sin against courtesy, that I should talk thus at 
 random about a lady's age. But, indeed, my dear, I still 
 spoke discreetly ; I said forty-two, and I judged so Uj lady's 
 measure ; for, to my certain knowledge, she was forty-five, 
 more than a year ago, according to the reckonimr of man's 
 
276 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 more fleeting years. But ladies' measure of time is by a 
 wand which is truly an enchanter's wand. A year is a va- 
 riable quantity, and increases as they advance. Up to 
 twenty-five I do not observe any difference between a lady's 
 year and a gentleman's. It is a just annual revolution of 
 the sun from the first point of Aries to the same again, 
 neither more nor less. From twenty-five to thirty, it is, as 
 near as I can guess, about a year and a-half, as w^e men 
 count years ; from thirty to forty the dear creatures seldom 
 advance a year under three of ours ; and from forty to five 
 and forty, they have a natal day about once in every five 
 years ; after that time, each year is an immense lapse of du- 
 ration, and, in point of fact, I suppose that there are very 
 few ladies that ever do get beyond fifty. Dej^end upon it, 
 that Methuselah's wdfe was but fifty when he was in his nine 
 hundredth year ! 
 
 Nay, I have known cases, where ladies, like the planets, 
 have not only had their stationary points, but their retro- 
 gradations ; they have to all appearance travelled back 
 from five and thirty to thirty, and then started forward 
 again. 
 
 Ask your friend Mrs. Dawson, who went out to New 
 Zealand at nineteen, and who ought now, therefore, to be 
 just thirty-eight. Rely on it, you will find that she is but 
 twenty-nine or thirty at most ; and if she appears older, it 
 is all the climate, my dear — that horrid climate 
 
 With kindest regards to your husband. 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 277 
 
 LETTER LXIII. 
 
 to alfeed west, esq. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I thank you for your note, introducing Mr. L ; for 
 
 it is always pleasant to hear from you, though in the 
 present case I should have been better pleased had the 
 letter come by her Majesty's servant in the red coat. 
 
 I assure you that, for your sake, I did my best to do 
 the civil thing by your friend, and, I hope, not unsuccess- 
 fully. But, in short, we did not take ; you take me. By 
 the way, there is a double idiom for a despairing foreigner 
 to gape at ! 
 
 You will say, perhaps, it might be owing to an inop- 
 portune hour for his visit, or some other casual circum- 
 stance. Perhaps so, in part. He did happen to drop in 
 when I was very busy ; and, what is worse, he stayed an 
 hour and a half, which I could ill spare. We talked for 
 some time on the proverbial platitudes which form the 
 usual introductions among Englishmen, — the weather — 
 the prospects of the harvest — the public health, and half 
 a dozen other topics, which, though very important, no 
 one cares a doit about, and which do not tend to make 
 our comj^any less irksome ; and then, when we got to 
 others, your friend seemed to me a little crotchety^ and of 
 the two, — crotchets or platitudes, — you know I de- 
 cidedly prefer the latter, dreadful as I admit the dilemma 
 to be. Something then, I allow, may be due to all this ; 
 but not alL Your friend is a decided gentleman, affable, 
 intelligent; but if you ask me further, why, — especially 
 as backed by so potent an introduction, — I did not take 
 to him more warmly, I can make you no other answer 
 
 24 
 
278 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tlian Je ne sais pas ; or quote those old lines of our school 
 days which seein to me to contain a good deal of latent 
 philosoj^hy : — 
 
 " I do not like you, Dr. Fell, 
 The reason wliy, I cannot tell ; 
 But this I know, and know fuU well, 
 I do not like you, Dr. Fell." 
 
 " Stuff! prejudice ! " methinks I hear you say ; " and so 
 you permit your heart to harbor unkind thoughts towards 
 a stranger, on account of such silly prepossessions as 
 these ! " Stop a minute, Mr. Lecturer. Who said a word 
 of unkindness, or even of prejudice, if that is to imply any 
 degree of ill-will? Can you not imagine such a thing as 
 a purely intellectual antipathy? a want of some corres- 
 i:>ondencies of taste, of sentiments, of association, which 
 shall render intimacy as impossible as though the parties 
 spoke different languages ? N^ay, more so, for minds may 
 be congenial — the eyes and features may show it, actions 
 may confirm it, when the tongue cannot. Cannot you, I 
 say, imagine all this ? can you not imagine that two men 
 may respect each other very much, and yet wish one 
 another at Jericho? I am sure I can; nay, I am con- 
 scious of sometimes feeling it. There is your friend, 
 now. I would as soon do him a kind turn, if I had it in 
 my power, as any one else of my species, (not reckoning, 
 of course, my intimate friends,) but if we two were the 
 only inhabitants in the world, I should wish — except 
 when we might be of substantial use to one another — 
 that we might see as little of each other as possible; 
 showing ourselves once a month, say, on the opposite sides 
 of a broad river, or two opposite mountain-peaks, and 
 making each other a profound salaam, by aid of a tele- 
 
ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 279 
 
 scope, in token of our continued existence, respect, and 
 good will. 
 
 There are cases where all genial intercourse, and so all 
 the essential pre-requisites of friendship, are out of the 
 question ; and this even where you believe another, in 
 whom you find them not, much better than yourself; nay, 
 Aviiom it would require but a very little mending and 
 darning of a few holes in their humanity to clotlie in a 
 suit which a decent sort of angels might not be absolutely 
 ashamed of. 
 
 Friendship, my friend, is as some one has said, — or if 
 he has not said, I will say it for him ; — no, now I think of 
 it, I believe it was said of Matrimony (which, by the way, 
 is friendship, plus a circumstance or two) — friendship, I 
 say, is like a plum pudding, a conglomerate of a highly 
 complex and artificial character. Benevolence, indeed, 
 must be its basis, like plums in the pudding; but there 
 may be benevolence without friendship, though there 
 cannot be friendship without benevolence (see Aristotle's 
 Ethics, Cicero de Amicitia, and, in short, every other 
 moralist, which I think about as useM a reference as 
 many that the learned are in the habit of giving), and so, 
 in addition to these plums, there are a score of other 
 ingredients to be mingled in due proportion; to say 
 nothing of a very long concoction, and even the pudding' 
 hag of proximity, or at least oft-renewed presence (see 
 Aristotle again, and 7iot all authors this time, for the 
 remark is original), without which friendship becomes a 
 very wishy-washy thing; — like that plum-soup which a 
 Turkish ambassador, ambitious of giving his English 
 guests an English dish, presented in a tureen ; in Avhich 
 indeed all the ingredients of a plum-pudding — or rather 
 the disbanded " molecules " of one — were floating, and in 
 exact proportions too. The ambassador had unhappily 
 
280 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 forgotten in his orders to the cook the insignificant, but 
 indispensable bag. 
 
 However, the presence of many ingredients, though they 
 are not all equally essential, is necessary for the j)udding; 
 and it is even so also with friendshij^ ; and I maintain that 
 there may be, and often is, an innate antipathy of mind, 
 sentiment or taste, without any ill-will or prejudice in the 
 world, which makes it imj^ossible that two men should 
 ever be friends ; no, not even by the most prolonged 
 concoction — or the very best pudding-bags in existence. 
 
 Well, well, you say, it will be different in heaven, at all 
 events. There, all intellectual as well as all moral an- 
 tipathies will be done away with, and everybody will be 
 everybody's friend. " I am no sae sure o' that," as that 
 deaf old Scotchman said, who was so fond of disputation 
 that he used to launch this formula of obstinacy, if he only 
 saw any one of the company making a strong affirmation, 
 and whether he heard it or not. That nobody Avill be 
 anybody's enemy in heaven, I grant ; that " love un - 
 feigned," true benevolence (glorious world!) will be con- 
 stant and universal, I have no manner of doubt; — that 
 there will also be all the amenities of social life, — such 
 tvwQ 2')oUtesse that even a Frenchman shall acknowledge, 
 without any hypocrisy of compliment, that the inhabitants 
 of heaven are "les gentilshommes les plus polls dans tout 
 le monde," — not excepting even Paris, — all this I be- 
 lieve ; but whether there will not be the same intellectual 
 sympathies necessary for the formation of close friendships, 
 I have my doubts ; — in other words, I doubt whether the 
 manufacture of moral plum-puddings may not go on in that 
 world as well as this, and whether, while plums shall be 
 still the basis, concoction and pudding-bags may not be 
 needed just as much as now. I don't know how it may 
 be with you, but I can fancy a man saying even in heaven : 
 
ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 281 
 
 "Do you know angel So and So? He is really a most 
 worthy, excellent, estimable angel, but somehow we can't 
 get on well together ; he is a fine tall creature ; of a noble 
 presence ; has beautiful wings ; flies well ; but, to speak 
 the truth, he is a shade too musical for me ; is too fond of 
 his singing; will sing you through the 119th Psalm with- 
 out stopping, and then begin again; or — he is a little too 
 light and airy, will come flying through my oj^en window 
 when I would rather be alone, or alight, like some swallow 
 in our old world, upon my roof, and twitter and chirp 
 there, of course most divinely, for the hour together ; or — 
 he is a thought too j^rosy, and bores me a little with 
 philosophy ; or — he is too knowing, and has been here 
 too long to enable me to understand him fully; he is 
 always recurring to that little tour he made of the uni- 
 verse fifty thousand years ago; or — he is too much of a 
 virtuoso for my taste, and is full of that inimitable collec- 
 tion of cockleshells, flies, and the sixty thousand species of 
 amaranth which he has gathered from two thousand dif- 
 ferent worlds ; or — he is too much of a Public Angel for 
 me. He is always for dragging me to great ' assemblies ' 
 and ^N'ew Jerusalem 'gatherings,' when I would rather 
 spend half of my time in some quiet nook of the ' ever- 
 lasting hills,' and muse alone." All this I say I can 
 imagine; I can imagine that even in heaven "tastes 
 differ;" but the beauty of the place will be, that tastes 
 shall give no offence, for no one will be offended with you 
 for not sympathizing with them. Yes — will you, can 
 you believe it ? — you may actually stop angel A in his 
 singing, at the hundredth stanza, and he won't take any 
 offence at it. You may say that you do not altogether 
 sympathize with angel B's dearest friend, and he won't 
 think the Avorse of you for it. Pray take the hint. 
 
 Yes ! my dear friend ; perfect congeniality in all moral 
 
 24* 
 
282 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tastes, perfect sincerity, and j^erfect superiority to offence, 
 will be heaven itself; but depend on it there will be varie- 
 ties of other tastes, and therefore degrees of sympathy, and 
 therefore degrees of intimacy, there as here ; and so, (which 
 is not least to be prized,) I shall have the precious privi- 
 lege of my solitary, but no longer morose, humors ; of 
 sometimes being for whole days quite alone ; and not as 
 you, with your more jovial and musical tastes, imagine, al- 
 ways in a crowd, chirping, singing, twanging harp-strings, 
 clapping wings, and performing celestial " sonatas." But 
 I grant all will be good — whether in company or solitude — 
 and that will be heaven ; it is not flat uniformity, identity 
 of feeling, monotony of employment. There is truth, I 
 firmly believe, in the conceptions of our great bard as to 
 unexpected analogies between heaven and earth. Nay, is 
 it not Raphael himself who speaks in the divine j^oem ? 
 Milton is but his " Reporter." .... 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 July 29, 1849. 
 
 My DEAR Friend, 
 
 I little thought when I wrote to you last that x shoula 
 so soon see the counterpart of the litigious deaf Scotch- 
 man I mentioned. Surely, however possessed with the 
 spirit of controversy and contradiction, he could hardly 
 surpass a travelling companion I met with the other day 
 on the top of a coach — there are few such now — between 
 Grantham and Melton Mowbray. My positive friend broke 
 in with doubt or flat contradiction, no matter what was 
 said, — not exactly like the Scotchman, without hearing^ 
 
LOVE OF CONTRADICTION. 283 
 
 but, what comes to much the same thing, whether lie 
 understood what was said or not. What an odd humor it 
 is, and yet a not unfrequent trait of character. 
 
 On finding how egregiously this humor of opposition 
 possessed him, and that nothing coukl be started but he 
 threw himself into a pugiUstic attitude, I coukl not resist 
 the temptation to play a little on his foible by gently giv- 
 ing the conversation a curve when he had made some strong 
 assertion, and so coming round to an aj^pearance of agree- 
 ing with him ; no sooner done, than I immediately found 
 he was quite as ready to maintain nearly the opposite of 
 his former position. In short, his tongue, like the point of 
 a weathercock, boldly veered round, and faced the pre- 
 vailing wind, no matter what quarter it might blow from. 
 
 It was some time before I discovered this ingenious me- 
 thod of making him agree with himself and me too, and 
 so relieving our journey of that annoyance which a perpet- 
 ual wrangle between two people who cannot run away 
 from one another must needs occasion. 
 
 We talked of the weather (of course), of the crops (of 
 course too), of the Russian interference in the affairs of 
 Hungary, of the Queen's projected visit to Ireland and 
 Scotland, of the cholera ; but I found that whatever I said 
 I must necessarily be in the wrong. ^ 
 
 In very weariness I thought it advisable sometimes to 
 nod a seeming acquiescence in what he said ; and I almost 
 think he would have quarrelled with my 7iod^ if he could ; 
 but whenever I attempted to modify his statements into 
 something near what I could agree with, I was favored with 
 a defen-ce (not very valid, I admit) of my own formerly 
 expressed oj^inions. Among other things, I happened to 
 remark that I thought it curious that after such immense 
 researches, in all parts of the world and among the most 
 sagacious of the medical j^rofession, into the nature and 
 
284 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 causes of the cliolcra, so little light had been thrown on 
 the subject, lie, of course, did not think it at all strange ; 
 and said (what was true enough) that the real causes of 
 almost all diseases are difficult to ascertain. I admitted 
 tlie justice of the remark ; and said that, perhaps, consider- 
 ing tJiat<t we ought to wonder rather that medicine had 
 made so much progress than that it had made no more ; he 
 was disposed to douht that observation, and thought that 
 " considering their long and patient researches " (just what 
 I had started with in relation to a particular case !) much 
 more might have been done by the unlucky doctors. 
 
 I said that it must be very difficult to form a correct 
 diagnosis of disease, considering the complex and evanes- 
 cent phenomena to be observed, and remarked that the 
 very representations of the patient himself might often 
 mislead. I have heard, said I, laughing, physicians affirm 
 that they would rather attend a baby that could not si^eak, 
 than an adult — whose very absorption in his own sensa- 
 tions, and his exaggeration of them, might put medical 
 sagacity on a false scent ! I told him, (what was true 
 enough,) that I had seen a Latin Essay, written by a young 
 physician on taking his diploma, which expressly main- 
 tained this paradoxical thesis. He thought at once that a 
 j^hysician must be a hloclchead to say so ; for surely it must 
 be of great advantage to be able to get an articulate an- 
 swer to his questions — instead of listening only to inarti- 
 culate cries. I admitted it, and said that doubtless, on the 
 whole, a patient must be allowed to be a pretty good judge 
 of his own sensations, and in general would give a tolera- 
 bly accurate account of his symptoms. He was not so 
 sure of that, and declared that a Avise physician should 
 trust very little to his j^atient's information, and treat him 
 much as if he was a child! 
 
 Now there is a sense, no doubt, in which all these obser- 
 
LOVE OF CONTRADICTION. 285 
 
 vations may be true enough under certain limitations and 
 modifications. They are among the " antitheta " (as Ba- 
 con would say) which will furnish rhetorical common-places 
 on both sides. The drollery was to see how eagerly my 
 acquaintance always took the opposite. 
 
 Thus delightfully, my dear friend, did we go on in this 
 pleasant game of conversational see-saw. I cannot give 
 you any idea of the manner of Mr. Positive ; it was prompt 
 and absolute — " decisive and clear, without one if or but" — 
 as if his speeches had been expressly framed on this prin- 
 ciple : " Whatever you say now, I will contradict it ; and if 
 you agree with me, I will condradict myself! Only let me 
 hear you say anything that I will not contradict ! " and ex- 
 cept you had told him that he was a very wise man, in 
 which case you would have told a great fib, I scarcely think 
 you could have found the proposition in which he would 
 have agreed with you. His very image was the Irishman, 
 who, despairing of a shmdi/ at a fair, — everything threat- 
 ening to end in unwelcome and unwonted tranquillity, — 
 took off his coat, and trailing it in the mud, said, " And 
 by St. Patrick, would'nt I like to see the boy that would 
 tread on that same ! " 
 
 I think I have met with men equally fond of contradic- 
 tion, — of taking the other side, — but they in general won- 
 derfally soften and disguise the humor by polite periphrases 
 and delicate circumlocutions. " Pardon me, but I really 
 think " — "I should agree with you entirely, but " — "I ac- 
 knowledge there is a great deal of force in that observation, 
 only " — "I am surprised to hear a person of your evident 
 
 good sense ." It is astonishing how much better these 
 
 things sound than " I do not think so " — "I am of quite 
 a different opinion " ■ — " that is a mistake." But it is an 
 odd humor at the best ; more odd, though scarcely more 
 agreeable than an oj^posite trait of character — I mean the 
 
286 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 timid vacillation which defers to every opinion. These 
 two sets of characters ought by rights to go always toge- 
 ther, for their reciprocal annoyance, — one subjected to the 
 humiliation of perpetual assent, the other to the equal 
 misery of never encountering an antagonist ! 
 
 I was reminded, in the neighborhood of Muston, of 
 Crabbe. I was anxious, if it might be, to catch a glimpse, 
 as we rode along, of the house he used to live in. I asked 
 the coachman of his " whereabouts." He looked thought- 
 fully for a moment, and then said, " Crabbe — Crabbe — I 
 never heerd on him, sir : I don't know of no such person 
 in these parts." " The poet " — said I, " the poet ! " He 
 shook his head, and then turning to a farmer behind, said, 
 " This gentleman wants to know where one Mr. Crabbe 
 lives." Ye gods ! one Mr. Crabbe, as if there were a dozen ! 
 The farmer was not more enlightened. Only think of it; 
 Crabbe, dead not yet twenty years ; barely thirty since he 
 last lived in that neighborhood; and yet, though his name 
 has traversed England and America, it may be unknown, 
 it seems, at his own threshold. " A prophet is not without 
 honor save in his own country and his own house." 
 
 Much the same answer I got from a worthy farmer of 
 whom I inquired, in a pilgrimage many years ago to Chal- 
 font St. Giles, — « Which was Milton's cottage ? " He re- 
 plied that he did not know of any man of that name there- 
 abouts ; but that he might live in one of the new houses a 
 little further on ; some strangers had come lately ! By 
 the way, I fear the little room over the porch in which the 
 blind poet wrote (it is said) the "Paradise Regained," 
 duriug the plague of London, exists no longer. 
 Yours ever affectionately, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
MOUNTAINS VERSUS BOOKS. 287 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 
 To C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 Isle of Skte, July 26, 1851. 
 
 My dear Mason^, 
 
 Your cousin has just arrived — out with such a load of 
 packages that I hardly know how he will manage to stow 
 them away in the Lilliputian apartment provided for him 
 in my modest lodgings here. Three boxes, two portman- 
 teaus ! — the former almost wholly filled with books ! I 
 tell him I am persuaded it is nothing but ostentation, — 
 the very Pharisaism of scholarship which has made him 
 come ^vith such a retinue of authors at his heels ; for Avho 
 ever did, would, or could study much amidst mountain 
 scenery ? 
 
 But I will be charitable withal ; for I remember well 
 that, in my younger days I made similar vain provision, un- 
 der like circumstances, for that intellectual appetite which 
 never came, or which would only languidly toy with a page 
 or two at a time, and to which a couple of Volumes, and 
 twice as many pamphlets would have been a Bodleian. 
 Yet have I lugged with me into the mountains scores of 
 books never to be read ; — a specimen or two of my favor- 
 ite poets, — three or four volumes of j^hilosophy, — only 
 think of metaphysics under the shadow of Scheliallion or 
 Ben Nevis! — a modest sprinkling of Greek and Latin 
 Classics — a few books of history and romance, — in short, 
 a well selected library in petto. The delusion is some- 
 thing like that of certain provident old ladies going a voy- 
 age for the first time, in the " Margate Hoy " days. What 
 hampers of provender — what choice ham, veal-pie, potted- 
 beef, and bottles of wine and ale ! But ah ! a roll or two 
 
288 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 of the vessel as she got beyond the Nore, — and how su- 
 j^erfluous did all this foresight appear. 
 
 It is much the same with our intellectual provender in 
 such scenes as we have here, though the loss of appetite 
 arises from a pleasanter cause. As long as the weather is 
 fine, who can think of poring over his books, and after an 
 excursion to distant mountain or glen, who is not too Aveary 
 for it ? Yet {horresco ref evens) the books may be of service. 
 I shudderingly recollect — six — ten days of continuous 
 down-pour in this very Elysium, and then, what a treasure 
 were a few books and a gray goose quill ! But a very few 
 will do; and as to writing, — a good deal maybe scribbled 
 on a couple of quires of paper. But this library of your 
 cousin, why it looks, {ahslt omen !) it looks^ I say, as though 
 the fellow had made up his mind that we shall have wet 
 weather. However, let me hojDC that it may rather be an 
 amulet against it. When you go out without an umbrella, 
 the clouds, they say, are certain to take sly advantage of 
 your folly, and drench you to the skin. What perpetual 
 sunshine may we not expect when their malice sees that 
 we are thus fortified within doors against ennui! 
 
 He tells me that on wet days, we can read some of the 
 tougher books together, — another delusion ; I fancy we 
 shall hardly dip into them ; we may perhaps condescend to 
 lounge through a novel or so ; but as to regular study it 
 must be let alone. Two people are sure to converse rather 
 than read, or read only to converse. I remember once sit- 
 ting down with a very dear friend to a pamphlet which had 
 just come out, on a subject in which we both felt an interest. 
 Something in the very first page suggested some doubt on 
 my part ; it was expressed ; the propriety of my doubt was 
 doubted on his ; — the disputed point soon became, under 
 the clearing effects of debate, a certainty with him, — with 
 me palpably false ; and after wrangling the whole morning 
 
MOUNTAINS VERSUS BOOKS. 289 
 
 in that preliminary discussion, we closed the yet uncut 
 pamphlet, and rushed out into the glorious sunshine, wish- 
 ing the jDamphlet, its author, and our discussion at the An- 
 tij^odes. 
 
 " What an intellectual epicure the love of the picturesque 
 has made you," — I fancy I hear you say. Not a whit ; — 
 but I confess I like to spend these little intervals of deli- 
 cious idleness — this " honeymoon " of the Soul and Nature, 
 as little i^estered by either business or literature as may be. 
 So I do not intend to let your cousin study much; 
 though that I fancy, will not give me much trouble, for in 
 three days his books will be as much forgotten as if he had 
 left them at home. As it has been rather a hazy, drizzling 
 morning, however, he has been busy in unpacking and ar- 
 ranging, them, and evidently thinks he has done a clever 
 thing in dragging all this lumbering weight of dead men's 
 brains with him. He has paid handsomely for land car- 
 riage, I promise you. "Books give us no trouble," says 
 Cicero, " they delight us at home and don't hinder us Avhen 
 we go abroad : " — " Delectant domi, non impediunt foris, 
 pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur." 
 
 I am not so sure of that, friend Cicero. I fmcy Master 
 Francis could tell a different story, and that a chest of 
 books — enough to break down a luggage-train — and of 
 a weight, figuratively, beyond all computation, is a very 
 serious addition to a traveller's " impedimenta." 
 
 We shall not, I think, leave this beautiful spot unless it 
 be for a week's run or so across the Kyles to Glen Urquhart 
 and Glen Shiel. But we squat here, as they say in Aus- 
 tralia, and the term is hardly too Australian for our primi- 
 tive lodgings, — the best we can procure however. I love 
 to see a gem of an island like this in perfection ; and the 
 only way to do so, is to locate yourself in a convenient 
 place, and radiate in successive excursions, day by day, to 
 
 25 
 
290 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 all the most channing points of scenery, whether of moun- 
 tain, sea, glen, or stream, — surveying them all from tlieir 
 best aspects in all the glorious variety of light and shadow, 
 cloud and sunshine, morning or evening tints, — and soda- 
 guerreotyping each scene for ever on your memory. I have 
 been to Loch Coriskin, dark under the savage shadows of] 
 those singularly abrupt and gloomy mountains of green 
 granite ; but I hope to go often again. The spot well de- 
 serves all the admiration Scott has bestowed on it, in his 
 "Lord of the Isles," though his description hardly conveys 
 an exact impression. O that you could join us ! But I 
 suppose that is impossible. Your patients, like all other 
 foolish sick people, vnll have the notion that the doctor is 
 essential to them, — Avhen, I dare say, they Avould get on 
 just as well without him, — not to say a great deal better ! 
 However, whether they have any need oiyoii or not, I sup- 
 pose you have need of them / — so I shall say no more 
 about it, except that I heartily wish there might come such 
 a season of public health as would allow the doctors to look 
 after their own. But I forget ; that would be worse than 
 all ; you would doubtless be found bemoaning the general 
 health more than the Great Plague itself 
 
 I remember hearing of a sexton and a doctor condoling 
 with each other at a casual meeting in a churchyard, on 
 the i^erverse salubrity of the season : " I have not dug a 
 grave, sir," said the disconsolate sexton, " for these three 
 week." " And I assure you, John, said the doctor, with an 
 equally lugubrious face, " there has not been a ' serious 
 case ' in the parish for a month i^ast." Perhaps the sexton 
 thought the doctor a little to blame for their being out of 
 work, and that if he had done his j^art, the one might have 
 had patients, and the other a grave or two to dig. 
 
 You will say, perhaps, at this jibe, — "A little learning 
 is a dangerous thing." If so, I shall feel inclined to retort 
 
TO A DYSPEPTIC FRIEND. 291 
 
 on you (but perhaps with more reason) by quoting the per- 
 verse commentary of a Methodist preacher on that cele- 
 brated line. " ' A little learning,' says the poet, ' is a dan- 
 gerous thing.' Ah ! then, dear brethren, what must a great 
 deal of it be ? " Did ever ignorance plead its cause more 
 
 ingeniously ? 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXVI. 
 
 TO , ESQ. 
 
 Edinburgh, Mondaj'-, Aug. 4, 1851. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I am grieved to hear of your dyspepsia, and I have, as 
 
 you wished, spoken to your old physician. Dr. S . I 
 
 heartily wish it were in his power to give you more specific 
 advice than, at this distance, it is possible he should. To 
 prescribe four hundred miles off (or, for that matter, four 
 feet) without seeing the patient, is, in his opinion, the 
 merest quackery. The only cases in which it could be jus- 
 tified are those, — and I apprehend they are not infrequent, 
 — where the patient has nothing the matter with him. In 
 such cases, if the doctor wished to minister " to a mind dis- 
 eased " by amusing it, he might, if an allopathist, send a 
 prescription for colored barley-water in grotesque medical 
 Latin ; or, if a homoeopathist, an infinitesimal globule ; 
 though I am not quite sure that I could easily bring myself 
 to practise this innocent sort of cheat on my patient, even 
 to deceive him into health 
 
 But in any serious case (and any case, truly says Dr. 
 
 S , may become so by being treated injudiciously), this 
 
 mode of cure, by doing nothing under a learned name, is 
 
292 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 out of the question. Though, therefore, it may do for a 
 conjurer, a clairvoyant, or a great "Indian Medicine^^ to 
 prescribe for disease at a distance, it will not do for any 
 genuine son of Esculapius. A physician really sagacious, 
 and prophetic by long experience, may give ever so seem- 
 ingly superficial a glance at a case, — and yet may rapidly 
 combine the sym2)toms and deduce a just conclusion from 
 them ; but he must at all events see his j^atient. There- 
 fore take your old friend's advice and, without delay, go to 
 the nearest physician of repute. 
 
 Symptoms very similar to yours, says S , may follow 
 
 from almost any one of the many species of the many genera 
 of dyspepsia, to which ingenious Nosologists vainly toil to 
 reduce that Protean malady ; a malady of which, notwith- 
 standing all their minute classifications, nature still presents 
 them with inexhaustible varieties. And as the different 
 varieties may and do require corresj^onding delicacy of 
 treatment, it is obviously imj^racticable for one at a distance 
 to prescribe for you. 
 
 To a certain extent, however, both he and I are willing 
 to prescribe for you ; for it requires no great skill and no 
 medicine at all. Comply to the utmost of your power with 
 the general conditions of health, which are equally to be 
 observed by everybody, and which, when diseases can be 
 cured, will generally suffice to cure them — though a wise 
 physician may do much to aid the 2:)rocess. Take all the 
 indications nature itself gives you, and act upon them rig- 
 idly. Be regular in your hours — take plenty of air and 
 exercise — do not rob yourself of the proper (p.iantmn of 
 sleep (wliich I suspect you do) for business, or for any 
 thing — however necessary you may deem it ; for your 
 first necessity is to get well. Above all, be careful to take 
 that diet which you feel by experience best agrees with 
 you. One word as to that deceptive appetite — that illu- 
 
TO A DYSPEPTIC FRIEND. 293 
 
 sive voracity, wliicli you say sometimes i:)lagues you. Dr. 
 
 S says that you are not to listen to this lying oracle 
 
 in the stomach, which often deceives a dyspeptic patient. 
 — When the organ is empty, it assures him that it can and 
 will deal with a full meal ; and then when full, fails to ful- 
 fil its promises. This ^niscalculation^ — either from a mor- 
 bid appetite, which seems at i^resent to be your case, or 
 from a too voracious appetite, which is the case Avith the 
 majority of mankind, — is a frequent cause, as well as symp- 
 tom, of dyspepsia. We almost all eat more than can be 
 fairly assimilated, and hence a chronic faihire in the tone 
 of the organ habitually overAvorked. There is certainly 
 something very provoking in the not uncommon case of a 
 disproportion between a factitious hunger Avhich the empty 
 stomach affects, and its power of performance ; because the 
 clamor it sets up is a false sign-post, and misleads* As to 
 those, who, while the stomach says nothing, or even grum- 
 bles and resents, will overload the j^oor drudge, — they 
 deserve all that they suffer. It is the old story of a per- 
 verted Avill — a moment's present gratification, and a future 
 costly price of torment for it. The Avheedling j^alate says, 
 " another slice, or another cuj) " — and down it goes into 
 the reluctant recej^tacle. Here j^ity is out of the question. 
 
 But there is something very pitiable Avhen a poor mortal 
 is the Adctim of a deceitful lure — a factitiously voracious 
 appetite, — itself the result of disease, not of health. The 
 true way of taming this Avolf, as sometimes other wild 
 beasts, is by letting it fast. 
 
 But Avhether the taking of food beyond what nature re- 
 quires, be the effect of involuntary or voluntary depravity 
 of appetite, your old Mentor and mine is of opinion that, in 
 nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, it is 
 the cause, remote or proximate, of all the infinite forms of 
 tliat comprehensive disease, which lets our consciousnesf=i 
 
 25* 
 
294 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 into a secret which nature intended we should be ignorant 
 of — namely, " that we have stomachs." He affirms, and I 
 rather think with truth, that nearly all the learned talk that 
 is made about the quality of food, as wholesome or other- 
 wise, difficult or easy of digestion, might be spared, if only 
 people sinned not in quantity. He says, men in health 
 might almost take anything that can be digested, provided 
 they took it in no excess. This seems confirmed by the 
 general experience of most who have plenty of vigorous 
 exercise, pure air, and but little to eat. Nay, how soon 
 does the pampered dweller in cities, who, perhaps, at home 
 was complaining from morning to night of a queasy stomach, 
 find this out in a rough tour through a country like this ! 
 What a solvent is the keen mountain air — what a power 
 of dealing Avith anything that comes to hand (short of 
 gravel and oyster-shells) does the stomach attain ; and, if 
 moderate in quantity, how little does it " keck " at the 
 quality thereof! 
 
 Let me know how you are, soon. Dr. S., I should add, 
 (for the opinion of a physician one confides in, is itself one 
 of the very best prescriptions,) predicts that your symp- 
 toms will soon pass away. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXVII. 
 
 Arkan, Aug. 12, 1851. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 If I do not comply with your request so fully as you may 
 wish — for I have time only for a few brief hints — it is, as 
 you will be sure, from no lack of interest in your pupil. As 
 the son of an old friend, his welfare will never be indifFer- 
 
CONSCIENCE. 295 
 
 ent to me. But to the point. He says, " It seems it can 
 never be wrong to follow conscience, let it lead to what it 
 will — and to doit must always be pleasant; that, there- 
 fore, even a conscientious Atheist must be blameless, and 
 may be happy and safe." But suppose there is no con- 
 scientious Atheist! What then? At that supposition 
 he would, no doubt, be indignant. Well, then, let us 
 waive it. 
 
 J. T is Uke many other youths of his age, enamored 
 
 of a half-truth, and, none the less that, seen in that state, it 
 looks like paradox, and moreover seems to promise, what 
 youth so dearly loves, a " Principle " which admits of no 
 modification, no exception. His statement contains a truth 
 indeed, but he must not suppose that there is anything very 
 novel in his discovery. 
 
 It is an undoubted truth, discovered long before J. 
 
 T was born, and clearly enough laid doAvn by a host 
 
 of moralists and casuists, — by Barrow, Jeremy Taylor, 
 Stillingfleet, Chillingworth, — that " a conscience, however 
 erroneous, obliges.'''' But though it is true that a man must 
 follow his conscience loheii made^ the question returns, 
 whether he may not have had a trifle to do with maJcing it. 
 It does not follow that because a man must obey his con- 
 science, he is blameless in so doing. To make him so, we 
 must assume that up to the time he is called on to act in 
 obedience to its authority, he has had nothing to blame in 
 the process by which he has come to have such a conscience ; 
 no prejudice, no indolence, no remissness in investigation, 
 no disingenuousness, no momentary listening to vanity, 
 waywardness, interest, or any other of the ten thousand 
 warping influences which bias our judgments. Only in the 
 case in which a man has impartially dealt with evidence, 
 up to the full measure of his opportunities and abilities, is 
 he blameless ^' and he is blamable, much or little, as he 
 
296 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 has, much or little, deviated from this standard. So far 
 from its being true, therefore, that to follow conscience (no 
 matter whither) is certainly a " safe and pleasant duty," it 
 may be, and often is, the very curse of a man's past unfaith- 
 fulness. In a thousand ways may man contribute to the state 
 of mind in which he at last believes a lie to be the truth ; 
 and in proportion as he has done so, the necessity under 
 which he brings himself to follow the " blind guide " is cer- 
 tainly no matter of congratulation, unless it be any such, 
 " that both shall fall into the ditch." 
 
 It is true, indeed, that however pitiable his condition, it 
 is still blameless, (I fear it is an apology which will rarely 
 avail,) if it was absolutely imj^ossible for the man, be it 
 from the structure of his mind or his inevitable lot in life, 
 to prevent the result or modify it for the better ! 
 
 We cannot doubt, I think, that many a Thug — many a 
 Mahometan fanatic — many a Romish Inquisitor — many 
 millions of Idolaters — have conscientiously j^erformed acts 
 which we call the most detestable crimes. Well, the errone- 
 ous conscience, while they are in that state, coerces them, 
 as much as a more enlightened conscience binds an apostle. 
 Does it, therefore, leave them as blameless ? Are we not 
 only to pardon a Dominick, but to regard him with compla- 
 cency — as we must if your pupil's principle be true? Is 
 it not absurd to say so ? We cannot even pardon him (as 
 I have shown) unless the state of mind into which he has 
 been brought is wholly and absolutely involuntary. If it 
 be, pardon him we must ; but even then we shall, at most, 
 pardon — and pity ; or shall we, like our young philoso- 
 pher, say that a Bonner deserves admiration as much as a 
 Hooper, — for both are conscientious ? 
 
 If J. T shrinks from this, and says " no," for it cannot 
 
 be that any man can conscientiously mistake acts, in them- 
 selves inhuman and cruel, for duty, (though I fancy he has too 
 
CONSCIENCE. 297 
 
 much sense, in the face of history, to affirm that,) we should, 
 of course, say that this is begging the question. If he 
 should say, (what, perhaps, he would say) that his apology 
 for " an erroneous conscience " is not designed to apply to 
 the " practical," but to the " speculative " only, — to 
 " opinions " not to " actions," then the next thing must be, 
 • — and a difficult task he will find it, — 1st, to state the 
 limits within which the apology for an "erroneous con- 
 science " does not apply, by making the requisite distinc- 
 tion between " sjoeculative opinions " and their consequences, 
 involved as these are, especially in all matters of a moral 
 and religious nature, with one another. This complication 
 all superstition too plainly proves, — for as is the belief, so, 
 as a general rule, is the practice ; 2ndly, to prove that man 
 is not responsible for his head as well as for his heart ; for 
 his speculative opinions as well as for his practical prin- 
 ciples ; that while an *' erroneous conscience " does not 
 excuse him for the state of mind in which he conscien- 
 tiously believes that it is his duty to roast heretics, it does 
 excuse him for conscientiously holding the Pope to be 
 infallible, amidst so many j^roofs to the contrary ; or that 
 there is no God in the universe, amidst so many proofs that 
 there is one! And yet who does not see, in these very 
 instances, the impossibility of separating between specula- 
 tive opinions and their practical results ; for he who holds 
 the former of these tenets will naturally obey it, and, like 
 many a Dominick of the Roman Church, end by roasting 
 heretics, if the Pope bids him; while he who holds the 
 latter will not, I think, have much difficulty in coaxing his 
 conscience to any " practical principles " he pleases. 
 
 In accordance Avitli the spurious charity which character- 
 izes our day, J. T is, I perceive, most indignant with 
 
 those who think unfavorably of anybody for conscientiously 
 acting upon his opinions, be they what they may. The 
 
298 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 very argument is self-confuting, find the bulk of mankind 
 
 are absolved from attending to it. For if men conscien- 
 
 tioitsly think, as most men do (and are likely to do, I 
 
 imagine,) that men are deeply censurable for the conditions 
 
 of mind in which they take egregious falsehoods for truth, 
 
 and practise abominable crimes as duty, they are excused 
 
 for conscientious condemnation of such conscientious people, 
 
 by the very terms of J. T 's own arguments ! We, 
 
 surely, are not to be blamed for following co7iscience any 
 
 more than such mad apologists for its eccentricities ! 
 
 Such are a few hints which, if I were near you, I should 
 
 give him. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXYIII. 
 
 TO . 
 
 LoNDOx, Dec. 11, 1851. 
 
 My dear Sie, 
 
 I cannot offer a single word of apology to your " secular " 
 guest for what I said. You know he distinctly affirmed, 
 in consistency with some of the " Secularist " authorities 
 of our time, that he believed it was desirable to get rid of 
 the conception of a presiding Deity under any possible 
 modifications ! — and that the absence of any such notion 
 was more favorable to human virtue and morality than its 
 presence. This opinion is asserted, as in some other Athe- 
 istical works (all obscure enough, to be sure,) so in a little 
 one which proposes it as the " Task of To-day," to anni- 
 hilate the — Deity! No doubt it will be the task of to- 
 morrow also, and, I should think, the day after that. 
 
 You will recollect that when your " secularist " acquaint- 
 ance affirmed the above strange dogmas, I gave him a fair 
 
"SECULARISM." 299 
 
 opportunity of retracting, by saying that if he merely meant 
 that such a God as millions had worshipped, — a Belial, a 
 Moloch, — an obscene and cruel Deity, — even a Yenns or 
 a Bacchus, — might possibly be as bad as none, (or worse,) 
 many might agree with him ; but if he meant sicch a Deity 
 as implied Perfection of Wisdom, Justice, Power, and Good- 
 ness, none but a liar or a madman would. lie positively 
 reaffirmed, however, his opinion that, under cm^ modifica- 
 tion, the idea of a God was pernicious ; that Atheism was 
 better than Theism ; and particularly appealed to those 
 
 great " authorities," M. Comte, Mr. and Miss . 
 
 It was then I said, if you recollect, (what I still say, and am 
 prepared to maintain,) that I hold myself absolved from 
 arguing with any one who can affirm that the idea of a j^er- 
 fectly holy, invisible, ever-present, infallible Governor (sin- 
 cerely entertained), is more unfavorable to virtue than the 
 notion that there is no God at all ; or that, so far as it has 
 any conceivable bearmg on human conduct, it can be other 
 than auxiliary to every imaginable motive to morality ; that 
 I was convinced, so long as the human intellect was consti- 
 tuted as it is, that the man who asserted such a paradox 
 must be regarded by ninety-nine men out of every hundred 
 as a liar, and that the hundredth would only shield him from 
 that by supposing him onacl. 
 
 I still hold to every syllable of that declaration. It is im- 
 possible, constituted as we are, that we can believe any 
 man other than a hypocrite or an idiot, who tells us that, 
 if you add a motive or two motives coincident with ten 
 others, to these last, the whole will be diminished in force : 
 that the supposition of an unseen judge over the thoughts 
 as well as actions^ and who will infallibly reward or punish 
 them, in accordance with what even your "secularist" ac- 
 quaintance himself believes to be true principles of human 
 conduct, will be an impediment to right-doing ! Would 
 
300 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 it not be just as easy to believe that two and two make 
 five?. . . 
 
 I am quite ready to argue with any candid Atheist, if 
 such tliere be, (of which I have my doubts,) as to whether 
 there is a God or not ; I am sure he will not descend to this 
 sort of knavish or idiotic paradox. If sincere, he will say, 
 "AVell, if there be no such God as you have described, so 
 much the worse for the world. I admit that ; one must 
 confess that it is desirable there should be such an one ; but 
 that does not prove that there is one." That is what I 
 should call intelligent and candid ; and the argument might 
 go on. 
 
 As to what he says of my want of charity — but let the 
 man say what he pleases. If he be a liar, who would, and 
 if an idiot, who could, reason with him ? and that he is either 
 one or the other, is beyond doubt with me. . . . 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXIX. 
 
 to a homoeopathic feiend. 
 
 My dear Feiend, 
 
 I thank you for your kind inquiries after my health. I 
 am happy to say that I am much better, without going to 
 consult the homoeopathic doctor whom you so ardently re- 
 commend. But I have, — pray do not be offended — done 
 what is almost the very same thing ; that is, nothing. Dr. 
 E , though not a homoeopathist, is, I believe, as well ac- 
 quainted with his profession as any man in it. Finding the 
 symptoms very obscure, he declined, like a wise man, pok- 
 ing about in the dark, and possibly doing me more harm 
 than good ; and advised me, after giving me a few simple 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. SOI 
 
 directions as to diet and regimen, to put myself under all 
 the natural conditions of health among the mountains. I 
 did so — and voila / I have returned, I do believe, as well 
 as if I had taken — if I could be ever sure I had taken — 
 sundry trecillionths of a grain of that infallible specific you 
 were so kind as to prescribe for me. 
 
 Your zeal on behalf of homoeoi^athy amuses me ; but you 
 quite mistake matters, when you tax me with forgetting the 
 Baconian philosoj^hy. You say it does not become me to 
 reject well-ascertained facts, " because they are mysterious 
 and inexplicable." 
 
 I have no objection in the world to facts, be they ever 
 so mysterious and inexplicable. But I must be sure that 
 they are facts on a just induction. I assure you that if I 
 found, from a report of a " Joint Committee " of Allopatli- 
 ists and Homoeopathists, (and it must be so constituted, else 
 the two factions would have no efiectual check on each 
 other's prepossessions,) that of a thousand patients laboring 
 under a certain complaint, say scarlatina, 80 per cent, were 
 cured under allopathy, 70 per cent, without any treatment 
 at all (though I should not wonder if Dame Nature did just 
 as Avell as any of the faculty), and 90 per cent, under homce- 
 opathy ; and if the experiment, several times repeated, gave 
 each time the same or -approximate results, I should at once 
 become a homoeopathist, — all the mystery and mcompre- 
 hensibility of its " facts " notwithstanding. So that you see 
 I am, after all, a very consistent Baconian. But I cannot 
 receive qicasi " facts " as facts, without just evidence, and 
 certainly cannot take their "mysterious" character as an 
 antecedent presumption of i^robability. As to the general 
 'principle of homoeopathy — "Similia similibus curantur" — 
 I have nothing to say about it ; I am an incompetent judge; 
 as incomj^etent as yourself, who are an excellent lawyer, I be- 
 lieve, but, so far as I know, as little of a physician as I am. 
 
 26 
 
302 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 I must leave the faculty, therefore, to wrangle about this 
 principle. But as to the minute doses, for the jjhysical effi- 
 cacy of which you vouch so manfully, I have a few things to 
 object. You say that it is as well ascertained a fact that the 
 ten thousandth part of a grain of antimony will produce an 
 appreciable effect, as that a scruple will ; or as any flict in 
 the range of inductive science. I doubt it ; I can and must 
 judge, principally, from my own consciousness, though not 
 from that alone. I take your prescribed globule, and can- 
 not find that it produces the slightest effect on me. I have 
 taken, — I am willing to take any of your decillionths of 
 grains, (only bargaining that I may be sure of the necessary 
 dilution or trituration by performing the process for myself, 
 but under your eye if you like,) from one to fifty. I have 
 done so, and I do not find that the effects you assign follow 
 from these minute elements. I have known many other 
 people say the same. What am I to think of the matter ? 
 
 You say that the experience of others is different : that 
 they find the minute doses palpably " potential ; " that the 
 effects of even a decillionth of some substances have been 
 appreciable. No such averments can annul the negative 
 instances I have mentioned ; for your inference, on the pos- 
 itive side, may easily be the fallacy of " ISTon causa j^ro 
 causa." For example, the peristaltic action is often slightly 
 increased by the mere imagination that medicine has been 
 taken, when it has not ; many other processes are similarly 
 quickened by fancy ; in many, again, all that is required, is, 
 instead of taking medicine, to use a little patience ; and na- 
 ture will perform her wonted task without the globules, 
 and will doubtless perform it none the less because of the 
 globules. 
 
 I have known a person, troubled with sleeplessness, take 
 his invaluable " minutissimum " of a soporific, — his narco- 
 tic atom, — and congratulate himself next morning that, 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 303 
 
 after only two hours or so of restlessness, lie fell into a calm 
 sleep, — all owing, of course, to the viaticum of a globule ! 
 I, on the other hand, equally troubled with sleeplessness, 
 2)erform the same feat perpetually — without any globule at 
 all. Two or three hours of sleeplessness are not spent alto- 
 gether in vain. The simple solution is that both parties are 
 wearied out, and at last go to sleep. 
 
 Now I can account for the effects in many such cases, 
 without suj^posing your globule has had anything to do 
 with them ; but I cannot account for the icant of effect in 
 the negative instances; that is, where your globules, to all 
 consciousness, produce none. 
 
 You may reply, perhaps, that there are cases in which 
 large doses fail of their effect. I grant it ; there are no 
 doubt cases in which the effect is intercej^ted by special 
 causes; but we must go by general inductioyi^ and five 
 grains of opium or two scruples of rhubarb will effectually 
 convince nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thou- 
 sand that they have taken something. The difference in 
 the two cases is, that those who venture to say they are 
 conscious of the effects of your decillionths are, so far as I 
 can find, very rare exceptions ; while, of those who take 
 the larger doses, the rare exceptions are those who are 
 not affected ; that is, the general rule and the excejjtions 
 change places. Again, even when the larger doses fail of 
 their general effect, they leave, I fancy, potent signs to con- 
 sciousness that something has been taken ; whereas I can 
 take one or ten of your decillionths of a grain every hour 
 for four-and-twenty hours together without any conscious 
 effects whatever; and other folks have similar obstinate 
 ex^^erience. Once more, then, what am I to think of the 
 matter as a Baconian ? 
 
 You tell me, and truly, but to no purpose, that the most 
 minute elements of nature arc often of the most potent 
 
304 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 character ; that a drop of the Cobra's jioison is fatal ; that 
 in certain locaUties we breathe subtle forms of death, 
 which we cannot detect. But here is still the difference ; 
 we know these agents by their effects, which are the very 
 things which I do not find in the exhibition of your infini- 
 tesimal doses. About the bite of a rattlesnake (or even 
 of a mosquito, for the matter of that) there is no mistake ; 
 and if I could discern by any facts, whether of sense, con- 
 sciousness, or reasoning, that the millionth j^art of a grain 
 of belladonna had j^roduced any appreciable effect on me, 
 I should just as easily credit it. My difficulty is that I 
 cannot find the effects. 
 
 You say that there are some substances so potent, that 
 exceedingly minute doses — as of strychnine — have a sen- 
 sible effect. I admit it ; but still if you keep to the same 
 scale of minute doses, — minute proportionably as the med- 
 icine is potent, — the same objections apply. A fraction 
 of a gi'ain of strychnine is doubtless equal to many grains 
 of nux vomica; but if you give only a quadrillionth or 
 trecillionth of a grain, I shall still have no objection to 
 take it. 
 
 If you say there may be substances so potent that even 
 such a dose may be aj^i^reciable, I should think the wisest 
 way would be to have little to say to such dangerous j^oi- 
 sons, since you cannot, I fear, control them. 
 
 Another doubt I feel as to your infinitesimal doses is 
 this. How can you be sure that you have administered 
 them — that they liave got into the patient's stomach at all? 
 If they have not got there, I admit that they will j^roduce 
 no more effect than — they usually do when they have got 
 there. ]>ut I know not how to be sure that they have 
 reached their destination. They may, like the globule 
 which was arrested in the hollow tooth of Hahnemann's 
 patient (his solitary fatal case !) be waylaid by a million 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATHIST 305 
 
 obstacles, each too much for the poor little atom. Like 
 the elements of natm'e, which you truly say are too subtle 
 for our inspection or control — the contagious air, for in- 
 stance, whence we inhale poison without knowing it — • 
 these infinitesimals are too minute for your manij^ulation. 
 You had better leave them alone. 
 
 Moreover, I cannot comprehend, on such a theory as 
 yours, how it is that we can remain in health for a day, 
 since we must be taking all day long through our lungs 
 and in our food, (especially in these days of adulteration,) 
 your minute doses of the most deleterious substances. If 
 you say, according to the usual assumption, (and it is noth- 
 ing more,) that they will only affect the man in disease, 
 and not in health, then when he is out of health, positively 
 ill, and under treatment, these j^otent, though inapprecia- 
 ble agents, must come into play, and, one would think, 
 must confound your therapeutics. If you say that they 
 all happily neutralize one another, I suppose your little glo- 
 bule will be but another element among them, and must, 
 one would think, get neutralized too ; certainly you know 
 as little what becomes of it as of them. At all events, it is 
 clear that if such a chance-medley of potent " infinitesimals " 
 can thus happily neutralize one another, anything like a 
 calculable administration of your solitary "infinitesimal" 
 is out of the question. One need not be surprised that 
 the homoeopathist, the contents of whose chest his children 
 got hold of, played with, and jumbled together, (all un- 
 known to him,) went on practising with the same success 
 as before ! In short, I cannot away with your hyj)othesis — 
 or rather, I must away with it. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 26* 
 
306 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER LXX. 
 
 to the same. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I begin to suspect the logic of your legal maxim, " De 
 non apj^arentibus et non existeiitibus eadem est ratio ; " 
 so valorously do you content for your infinitesimal doses. 
 I cannot get myself to go further into them, but they shall 
 be very welcome to go into me instead. 
 
 You have far outdone the generality even of the 
 homoeopathists themselves in the defence of Hahnemann's 
 strange theory of " dynamisation," that is, that infinitesimal 
 doses are not only potent, but potent in the ratio of their 
 minuteness ; really I am unable to say one serious word 
 to you. 
 
 According to this, the " second, third, fourth, .... nth 
 orders of infinitesimals " (as mathematicians would say) 
 are progi-essively powerful ; in i^roj^ortion, it seems, as an 
 atom becomes nearer to nothing, it becomes so much more 
 efficacious ! Just as it vanishes, I presume, it must be — 
 omnij^otent ! 
 
 Nothing can exceed your doctrine except Hegel's philo- 
 sophical paradox — Nothing — Being. If your theory be 
 true, I marvel at the usual language of homoeopathists, who 
 speak of the higher dilutions in the order of feebleness, not 
 of potency, and tell a patient not to venture in such and 
 such a case on anything stronger than No. 30 ! They ought 
 rather to enlarge than diminish their doses, when they 
 wish to diminish the effect ! Nay — surely a scruple of 
 strychnine ought to produce less effect than a grain, and a 
 grain than the trecillionth of it ! 
 
 But there is one argument in your last letter I cnnnot 
 let pass. You say that, at least, tlie public is indebted to 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATFIIST. 307 
 
 the theory of minute doses for a modification in tlie prac- 
 tice of allopathists ; that it has abridged that wholesale 
 exhibition of drugs which used to be the fashion, and 
 which turned many a poor patient's stomach into a drug- 
 gist's shop. I am really pleased to believe that the rivalry 
 between the medical .factions has been attended with some 
 such eiFects. At the same time do not flatter yourself that 
 the revolution is greater than it is. 
 
 Too much physic used to be given, that is certain ; but 
 do not suppose that all was physic that was taken. Kely 
 on it, — as many a medical man's confession, if ingenuous, 
 would show us, — that it was not left to the hom(E023athists 
 to find out the art of doing nothing under the appearance 
 of doing something, just to amuse a patient; "vixerunt 
 fortes ante Agamemnona;" millions of bread j^iUs, millions 
 of innocent drauixhts of infusion of roses and a dram of 
 syrup, quite as harmless as your globules, used to travel 
 down the throats of patients, simply because they would 
 have something, and because the doctor must be paid. 
 
 The only difference between the two classes of 23racti- 
 tioners often is, that the one charges in the direct propor- 
 tion of the innocent bulky nothing, and your friends charge 
 in the inverse proportion of the innocent infinitesimal 
 nothing. It was, I grant, a rather absurd j^ractice ; but, 
 on the other hand, it was hard to know what to do, since 
 many patients would not be cured unless they swallowed 
 all this nothing ; and, what is much more important to the 
 doctor, would not pay unless they had, as they thought, 
 "value received" in the shape of the material drugs, in- 
 stead of reckoning their true debt to be his visits and his 
 skill. 
 
 Strangest of all, the law allowed the general j^ractitioner 
 his claims only in the shape of so much medicine from his — 
 shop ! For aught I know, the law remains as it Avas ; but 
 
308 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the sense of the peojole is beginning to see that a j^rofes- 
 sional man is to be paid for his knowledge and his time, 
 and not according to the "weight avoirdupois" of the 
 goods he supplies from his warehouse. But, be assured, 
 the essence of this branch of the art, — of doing nothing 
 under imposing forais, — was understood long before 
 homoeopathy was born, and will be understood as long 
 as the credulity of patients shall demand that something 
 be done when the medical man thinks that notliing 
 need be. 
 
 ISTor can I admit your sarcastic remark, that " if the 
 globules do no good, they at least cannot on iny theory do 
 harm ; and that this is more than can be said of allopathic 
 doses." I fear there are many cases, and I have seen some, 
 where your globules have done much harm by preventing 
 anything good being done ; — where symptoms that re- 
 quired prompt treatment, were dawdled with till disease 
 got strength, and it Avas too late to do anything. I must 
 also express my conviction that your doctors have an in- 
 comparable knack at making hypochondriacs; and, as I 
 must think, very naturally. How should it be otherwise ? 
 Your system teaches a patient to believe that his life is 
 ever at the mercy of infinitesimal elements and infinitesi- 
 mal changes. Can he be other than fidgety about matters 
 which never trouble other people's sleep ? 
 
 Certainly, as far as I have observed, there are no folks in 
 the world who require the doctor or take physic so often 
 as the homoeoi:)athic j^atient ; hardly a day passes without 
 the medicine-chest being opened ; well for him that it con- 
 tains nothing ! Sunilarly, nobody is so sensitive about all 
 sorts of innocent changes of air and diet. For my own 
 part, it would be a torment to live on the terms of some of 
 the votaries of your infinitesimal doses, whom I have 
 known. 
 
TO A PIOMOEOPATIIIST. 309 
 
 However, I freely admit that such people are to be met 
 with often enough among the 2:>atients of allopathists ; 
 though I must think that your system is specially adapted 
 to befool a nervous temj^erament and stimulate a morbid 
 fancy. 
 
 I handsomely concede that there are classes of patients 
 to whom your practice may be beneficial. 1st. I think it 
 is of admirable use for those patients — and there are 
 many — who have nothing in the loorld the matter loith 
 them / for, as they will take physic, but require none, it is 
 better they should take nothing, though they think it 
 something! — at the same time, it must be said that the 
 bread i^ills and the infusion of roses might, on the other 
 system, do the work of nothing just as well. 2dly. For 
 those who suffer from anomalous conditions of the nervous 
 system, amenable, in a measure, to the fancy, (as they 
 often seem to arise from it,) but whose symj^toms baffle all 
 rational treatment. It is often very important that these 
 patients be amused with the apj^earance of something 
 being done, — though here again the more bulky vehicles 
 of nothing may do as well, for aught I can see, as the 
 infinitesimals. 3dly. For those who have, indeed, some- 
 thing the matter with them, but whose symptoms are so 
 obscure that a wise doctor is afraid to do anything lest he 
 do mischief; while yet (the general case) the j^atient 
 insists that something shall be done. Now here the glob- 
 ulets (if I may venture on the double diminutive) are 
 admirable, I admit ; though, again, the more corpulent pill 
 of bread may be just as efficacious. 
 
 I am afraid you Avill consider these large concessions of 
 the utility of your doses rather an insult than a compli- 
 ment ; but if so, you will please to recollect that it is ex- 
 tended with much imi^artiality to the opposite practice. 
 In good earnest, as long as men are so credulous in their 
 
310 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 reliance on medicine, as to insist that when the doctor 
 knows that nothing need be done or can be done, or 
 knows not what is to be done, he yet shall do something. 
 I see no help for it. If it be gravely argued that it is 
 unworthy of a physician to administer a system of delu- 
 sion, and that he had better leave his patient uncured 
 than cheat him into health, it is a pleasant question of 
 casuistry which the doctor may, if he will, discuss in a 
 clinical lecture, and see what his patient says to it. If the 
 system be one of deception, I fear, nevertheless, that the 
 physician must, to some extent, practise it or — starve. 
 
 But, — pardon me for saying so, — excepting the above 
 cases, that is, when disease and its indications do not 
 summon to prompt and decisive treatment, I, for one, had 
 rather not trust to the globules. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXI. 
 
 to the sa]me. 
 
 My dear Feiend, 
 
 It is in vain that you reiterate that you have " seen the 
 good effects" of your darling globules — that you have 
 seen your children recover under their use. I have 
 already told you I have no diiBculty in believing any 
 " facts," merely on account of their " mystery ; " and that 
 if, on a fair induction, more patients were discovered to be 
 cured by your system than by any other, I should believe 
 in it, were it (if that be possible) ten times as mysterious. 
 But a single case or two, or indeed any man's private 
 experience, is not worth a rush in the controversy either 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 311 
 
 way: and for this simple reason — that every system of 
 medicine might be proved equally efficacious on the same 
 ground, inasmuch as it is the general rule that the sick get 
 well, whether you do anything or not. Now, if I found, 
 as I often should, that of three cases of (say) measles, all 
 recovered, though one was treated allopathically, and one 
 homoeopathically, and one not treated at all — (mind, I 
 say not that it is of httle consequence which system, or 
 whether any, be adopted, for Nature may be wisely aided 
 even when she is quite competent to the case) — what 
 right should I have to assign the cure, in the one case, to 
 the infallible globule? You will say, — "As much as the 
 allopathist to assign his cure to the more bulky drugs." 
 1 answer, just as much, — that is, none at all; for the 
 third cure, it seems, is to be attributed to — nothing ! In 
 fact, such individual instances are of no value; nor any- 
 thing less than the wide and patient inductions I men- 
 tioned in the outset. 
 
 A very common fallacy is that of " Non causa pro 
 causa," and esi^ecially in medicine, where a plurality of 
 causes or apparent causes may perpetually mislead. To 
 the generality of men, it is enough if a certain antecedent 
 has preceded a certain consequent, to satisfy them that 
 there is the relation of cause and effect. 
 
 Hence numberless fantastical remedies which differ- 
 ent ages and nations have prescribed as useful in dis- 
 ease, merely because their employment has happened to 
 be nearly coincident with the cure, though they have no 
 more caused it than the cock's crowing causes the sun to 
 rise. This credulous association of a mere antecedent of 
 the cure Avith the cause of it, (which is all but universal 
 with patients,) is, it must be allowed, too much encour- 
 aged by doctors of all kinds. Nothing is more common, in 
 reports of cases, than to find an improvement attributed 
 
312 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 undoubtingly to the administration of such a medicine, 
 when the difficulty really is to establish the connection 
 If a i^atient gets icorse after the medicine, I never find 
 this sequence insisted on; though, for anything that we 
 know, it might be, just as reasonably. "Ah!" says a 
 patient, " it was a good thing I called in the doctor ; he 
 cured me." If he is cured without any doctor at all, he 
 thinks nothing of it ! If a patient recovers, it is always 
 the doctor that cures ; if he dies, ought it not often to be 
 the doctor that kills? But it is then always — Nature. 
 When the j^atient recovers, the doctor gets rid of the 
 disease in spite of Nature ; when the patient dies. Nature 
 gets rid of the patient in spite of the doctor ! How do we 
 know how often the statement ought to be reversed; 
 how often Nature saved the patient in spite of the doctor, 
 and how often the doctor killed the patient in S2>ite of 
 Nature ? 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that I speak like one who is 
 " sceptical " as to the use of medicine altogether ; you will 
 infer falsely then. I do indeed believe that attacks of 
 ordinary disease would in the immense majority of cases, 
 be cured, though every physician in the world were 
 poisoned; and that the great agent of cure is the "vis 
 medicatrix" with which God himself has fenced the 
 human organism, and by which it stoutly resists every 
 incursion of disease. But I believe there is a noble sphere 
 for the physician too ; though I frankly confess my fear, 
 that from the extreme difficulty of a really comprehensive 
 induction, — of establishing the true connection of " ante- 
 cedents " and " consequents," and from the infinitely va- 
 riable, evanescent phenomena the science has to deal 
 with, — it will yet be many ages before it attains much 
 certainty, and will always be, to a great extent, a science 
 of guessiJig, Nevertheless, even now the wise physician 
 
TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 313 
 
 has plenty to do, — especially if he will not promise or 
 attempt too much; if he will but be content to be the 
 cautious '-'-naturm ^ninister^'^ and stand by with the hoj^e 
 of aiding those processes within us, so many of which 
 transcend all his art, and which, if he be rash, he may 
 much more easily hinder than help ; if, in a word, he takes 
 that view of his j^osition to which "old experience does 
 attain," and which, in the language of Dr. Forbes, will 
 lead him to acquiesce "in a mild tentative or expectant 
 mode of 25i*actice;" — certain to appear wise " in old age, 
 Avhatever may have been the vigorous or heroic doings of 
 youth." 
 
 Surely we must allow that even if the physician only 
 alleviates pain, and abridges processes which might other- 
 wise be tedious, he is well worth all his fees. Nor less if 
 he takes charge of us in healthy and, studying its general 
 physiological conditions, endeavors to keep us well. In 
 truth, paradox as it may seem, it is when w^e are in health 
 that we ought chiefly to look to the physician, and to 
 avail ourselves of his skill. We should hear what he says 
 (usually wise enough) about how we are to keep out of 
 his hands ; about regimen, diet, hours, occupation, and so 
 forth: and the next best thing is to consult him, not when 
 we are^ but when we are going to be ill; when we are 
 " getting out of health," as the j^hrase is. Then he has a 
 chance of doing much more for us than in actual disease, 
 and can often ward sickness off*, or break its force. We 
 are told that the Chinese Emperor's j^lan is to pay his 
 physician while he is in health, and stop his i^ay when 
 sick : the j^lan is ingenious, but can hardly be safe ; for if, 
 as the Celestials allege, it will stimulate the doctor's dil- 
 igence, it is equally probable that should his Emperorship 
 be laboring under a chronic or incurable disease, which 
 might keep the doctor starving for a twelvemonth, it 
 
 27 
 
314 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 might stimulate his industry a little too much, and usher 
 in the reign of a younger and a more healthy monarch ! 
 Nevertheless, it is quite true that while the physician 
 keeps us in health he best deserves his fees, and if we 
 knew our own interest, we should then most Avillingly pay 
 them. 
 
 In sickness, as I surmise, his art becomes darker and its 
 success more dubious ; his study of physiology is calculated 
 to do more for us than all his study of pathology. 
 
 I have, you see, kej^t to my word, and said little or noth- 
 ing of your system, except in relation to that point in which 
 you have, to speak honestly, rather bored me, — the infini- 
 tesimal globules. 
 
 As to the " universal principle " of homoeopathy^ I leave 
 it to professional people to fight it out, though I must say, 
 for one, that the assertion of some one " universal princi- 
 l^le," on which all diseases are to be cured, (like " Similia 
 similibus curantur,") has a mighty occult quackish sound, 
 and looks much more worthy of Paracelsus than Bacon. 
 Neither does it seem quite fair of Hahnemann to charge all 
 other practitioners with uniformly j^roceeding on some one 
 opposite principle, as " allopathy or antipathy ; " for neither 
 " homoeopathy " nor " allopathy " was ever heard of till he 
 chose to invent the terms, and taking one himself, gave 
 the other to all the rest of the medical world ; whereas, I 
 suppose, there is hardly any practitioner that would deny 
 there are some cases in which his " similia similibus " would 
 apply well enough, though they would be loath to make it 
 a " universal principle." 
 
 By the way, I perceive with much satisfaction that these 
 infinitesimal doses, which you are so anxious to vindicate, 
 are no longer insisted on as necessary to the system, by 
 your homoeopathic friends, — many of whom are abandon- 
 ing them in practice. Most, I observe, are in open revolt 
 
TO A IIOMCEOPATHIST. 815 
 
 against Hahnemann's principle of "clynamization," which 
 affirms that drugs are ])Otent in proportion to the attenua- 
 tion of the dose ; according to which a pinch of arsenic 
 equally diffused in the Atlantic might prove fatal to all the 
 fish in it ! — The curative property of a medicine is, accord- 
 ing to Hahnemann, developed in a far higher degree by an 
 inconceivably small than by a palpable dose ! 
 
 Will you be angry if I tell you of a curious instance of 
 tlie power of fancy in relation to your globules ? One of 
 the "faithful" on a certain night had taken tico globules 
 instead of one ; — perhaps three ! Alas I what was to be 
 done in a case so imminent ? The unhappy man lived in a 
 small town near Edinburgh, in whose benighted pre- 
 cincts no homoeopathic practitioner was to be found, and 
 in desperation deigned to consult an allopathic doctor, 
 whom, in a tremor, he called up, to know whether he could 
 do anything for him. The mystic tube was placed in the 
 doctor's hands. The ignorant doctor looked at the globules 
 in des2:)air. At length he poured a dozen or two mto his 
 palm, and said, " My friend, I cannot save you, but I can die 
 with you ! " He swallowed them ; and nothing coming of 
 it, the patient took heart of grace, departed in peace, slept 
 soundly, and was cured of his nervous flmcies and his dread 
 of the despotic globules at the same moment. 
 
 Forgive me in conclusion, if I just hint that the bold ex- 
 hibition of your medicines, and the writing of " Defences '' 
 of homoeopathy by utterly unprofessional folks, gives your 
 system an undeniably empirical appearance to the world 
 in generaL It looks as if you thought medicine the only 
 thing that may be understood without study or experience ; 
 that instead of being the most difficult, it is nearly the 
 easiest of the sciences. Here are you, for example, a good 
 lawyer certainly, but ignorant of the very elements of all 
 those sciences which lie at the basis of the successful prac- 
 
31 G THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tice of 3Icdicine, — of Anatomy, Physiology, Botany, 
 Chemistry, — yet becoming quite a homceopathic knight- 
 errant or evangelist ; — prescribing at any distance, and 
 sending your all-saving globules by post ! I think, if I 
 were a homoeopathic doctor, I should say of all such ama- 
 teurs — " Non tali auxilio ." 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXII. 
 
 TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 London, Oct. 18G4. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The recovery of your casket was very remarkable ; and I 
 am sure you ought to reverence hereafter the "Electric 
 Telegra2)h," for without that you might never have seen it 
 again. Certainly it plays the part of Puck to admiration ; 
 and perhaps in time, to the shame of the nimble Ariel him- 
 self, will put a girdle round about the earth, not in five-and- 
 twenty, but in less than five minutes. I remember 
 prophesying to an engineering friend, when the wires were 
 first laid down a few miles out of London, that in all pro- 
 bability some twenty years hence we should be able to 
 transmit a message to Calcutta in seven minutes. He did 
 not shake his head in grave doubt, but shook his sides in 
 laughter of incredulity at the seeming extravagance of the 
 thouijht ; but when the first few miles of submarine tele- 
 graph were completed, he came over to my opinion, and 
 declared his belief that the thing might be. 
 
 Even in that case, however, we shall probably be as 
 much struck with the limitations imposed on man's j^OAver, 
 as with the extent of it; these will still be quite enough to 
 
FEATS OF THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. 317 
 
 keep him humble, if anything could keej) him so. You 
 send home a message, for example, that trooj^s are instantly 
 to be sent to India ; but as they cannot be sent by " Elec- 
 tric Telegraph," they will make their appearance some 
 three months after date, and perhaps as many after the 
 crisis is over in which alone they could be of service. You 
 send word for the " Vulcan " or the " Gorgon," or some 
 other of those great war-steamers with the amiable names, 
 to come home immediately. The mandate reaches them 
 in five minutes ; they instantly obey, as far as the sluggish 
 nature of steam permits (oh ! ye powers ! that ever " steam " 
 should be so spoken of) ; and three months after, the lum- 
 bering old hulks (still by comparison I speak) make them- 
 selves visible at Spithead or the Kore. It is as though you 
 sent a monkey to a sloth, bidding him look about him and 
 be brisk ! The lightning of the " Telegraph " flashes from 
 hence to India, from one end of heaven to the other, in a 
 moment, and the report follows a quarter of a year after- 
 wards. But all is typical of human conditions still ; it is 
 the old contrast between promise and fulfilment — thought 
 and execution — the tongue and the hand — swift imagina- 
 tion and slow-paced reality. The electric flash is quick, 
 but the flash of thought is quicker still ; and yet, with inert 
 matter to deal with and vanquish, what years often elapse 
 between a bright concej^tion like that of Watt, and the 
 tardy realization ! 
 
 Certainly some of the minor achievements of the " Tele- 
 graph" are very amusing, — as in your case. To be sure, 
 you would not call it so ; it was, to you, a grand feat, con- 
 sidering the A^alue of the recovered Avaif Perhaps, too, the 
 fond mother to whom the following happened, would think 
 the like in her own case. She was travelling by express, 
 and her little girl, feverish and thirsty, asked for a little 
 water just as they Avere leaving a certain station. The 
 
318 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 mother threw open the window, and called to the guard to 
 order a glass. But the inexorable train was just starting. 
 " No time, madam," said the guard ; " but I will tell them to 
 telegraph for one at the next station." No sooner said 
 than done ; and at the next station, with due ceremony, 
 out came the glass of water ready for her, though at rather 
 a high price. Yet she thought it cheap enough. 
 
 I remember, a few months ago, leaving by express that 
 great trysting-place of railway trains — Normanton, where 
 sometimes, for a few moments, there is a charming chaos of 
 passengers and luggage to be despatched a thousand differ- 
 ent ways. A lady, who did not know that she was to 
 break her journey there, was suddenly summoned from her 
 trance of satisfaction, and hastily quitting the carriage, left 
 in the nettimx a nice silk umbrella. A few moments after 
 she left, I noticed it, and remarked to a gentleman sitting 
 by me, that we must remember, when we got out, to point 
 it out to the guard, and describe the person who had left it. 
 On getting to my destination, some thirty miles further on, 
 I had no sooner deposited my portmanteau on the platform 
 than I turned to look for some official that I might point 
 out the stray property to him. I saw a guard standing at 
 the door of the carriage I had just left, and told him : "All 
 right, sir," said he, " I have got it. It has been telegraphed 
 for from Normanton." But was it not too bad, to be thus 
 balked in this attempt to do a little bit of kindness and 
 honesty by that thief of a telegraph ? 
 
 But I think the most curious fact, taken altogether, that 
 I ever heard of the electric telegraph was told me by a 
 cashier of the Bank of England. You may have heard of 
 it. It may have been in print. I am sure it deserves to be. 
 " Once upon a time," then, on a certain Saturday night, the 
 folks at the Bank could not make the balance come right, 
 by just 100/. This is a serious matter in that little estab- 
 
FEATS OF THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAni. 319 
 
 lishinent : I do not mean the cash, but the mistake in arith- 
 metic ; for it occasions a world of scrutiny. An error in 
 balancing has been known, I am told, to keep a delegation 
 of clerks from each office at work sometimes throuirh the 
 whole night. A hue and cry was of course made after this 
 100/., as if the old lady in Thread-needle Street would be 
 in the Gazette for want of it. Luckily on the Sunday 
 raormng, a clerk (in the middle of tlie sermon, I dare say, 
 it the truth were known) felt a suspicion of the truth dart 
 thix)ugh his mind quicker than any flash of the telegraj^h 
 itself. He told the chief cashier on Monday morning, that 
 perhaps the mistake might have occurred in packing some 
 boxes of specie for the West Indies, which had been sent 
 to Southampton for shipment. The suggestion was imme- 
 diately acted upon. Here was a race — lightning against 
 steam ! and steam with eight-and-forty hours' start given. 
 Instantly the wires asked, " Whether such a vessel had left 
 the harbor ? " " Just w^eighing anchor," was the answer. 
 *' Sto]) her ! " frantically shouted the electric telegraph. It 
 was done. " Have up on deck certain boxes marked so and 
 so : weigh them carefully." They were weighed ; and one 
 — the delinquent — was found heavier by just one packet 
 of a hundred sovereigns than it ought to be. " Let her go," 
 said the mysterious telegraph. The West Indian folks 
 were debited with just lOOZ. more, and the error was cor- 
 rected without ever looking into the boxes or delaying the 
 voyage by an hour. Now that is what may be called " do- 
 ing business." 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
320 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER LXXIII. 
 
 TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 3Iy DEAR Friend, 
 
 Your " furor mesmericus " amuses me. I quite agree 
 with you that there is no possibiUty of arguing against 
 tacts ; it is their amount and significance alone that I ques- 
 tion in the present case. I have no manner of doubt in the 
 workl that you have witnessed, as you say, the artificial 
 production of some curious phenomena. They seem to me 
 to resemble in many respects those which somnambulism 
 spontaneously presents, and probably depend on similar 
 conditions. I doubt, however, — see my moderation, — the 
 entire phenomena of " clairvoyance, " as you call it ; and 
 also whether even those more limited phenomena, the occur- 
 rence of which I do not doubt, are referrible to any myste- 
 rious influence proceeding from those who profess to 
 exercise the function of mesmerists ; whether there be any 
 " nervous emanation " issuing from them, or any incompre- 
 hensible dominion exerted over the will of their patients, 
 or indeed any other influence whatever than is implied in 
 activity of imagination and susceptibility of nerves in the 
 latter. It seems to me that it is loithin and not yylthout^ 
 that the true causes of the phenomena, so far as they are 
 real, are to be sought ; in the advantage w^hich the condi- 
 tion of the patient gives the operator, not in any power 
 which proceeds from hhn ; not in the pokings and wavings, 
 called " passes, " of the operator's fingers. Of course the 
 stronger the belief in his mystical power the greater will be 
 the operator's chance of success ; but all such 2:)redisposing 
 causes are the patient's contributions to the result, not 
 those of the mesmerist. In a word, I believe the fortress is 
 surrendered, not taken by assault. 
 
TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 321 
 
 And this, I tliink, accounts in part for the capricious 
 character of the phenomena ; that one man is not at all 
 affected, another slightly ; this man soon, another slowly ; — 
 I think, I say, it accounts for the facts more easily than 
 your mysterious talk of " passes, " " mesmeric currents, " 
 " magnetic fluids, " and sympathetic " rapports." 
 
 I have myself been under a somewhat celebrated ope- 
 rator's hands ; and nothing came of it. I am so far, how- 
 ever, from being incredulous on that account, as to the 
 facts of which you speak, that I can the more readily credit 
 them ; for though I do not admit that they are due to some 
 mysterious influence on the operator's part, I am inclined to 
 believe, from my own experience, that there is perha^^s no 
 one who might not be brought into a condition of catalepsy 
 by subjection of the optic nerve, or possibly any other sur- 
 face of sensation, to prolonged and monotonous stimulation. 
 
 Nay, though the mesmerist's operation, (by the influence 
 which the flincy or nervous susceptibility of the patient 
 may give to him,) may facilitate the result, I believe that it 
 might generally be produced without any operation at 
 all ; — the effect being more or less rapidly induced, and 
 more or less marked, according to the constitutional pecu- 
 liarities of the individual. I quite believe that if a man, 
 even by hhnself^ were to fix his eyes intensely on a small 
 bright disk without wnnking, he would after a time find 
 himself (or rather be found) in a state of catalepsy. Some 
 of the familiar experiments we have most of us made, or 
 seen made, with birds, when we w^ere schoolboys, — and 
 the initial sensations which any man, alone, may induce in 
 himself at will, by playing similar scientific pranks, confirm 
 me in this suspicion. I have heard of a man involuntarily 
 playing the mesmerist on himself, while intently watching 
 delayed signals of the electric telegraph ; the intense 
 unbroken gaze at length terminated in a fit of catalepsy ; 
 
322 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and I can easily credit it. Probably there is no man, how 
 ever strong his nerves, who could endure an indefinitely 
 prolonged umoinhbig gaze on a small defined disk without 
 becoming unconscious ; the trial with the human eye is still 
 more difiicult, as boys who attempt the feat of " staring 
 each other out of countenance " soon find. Certainly, when 
 I underAvent my mesmerist's gaze, I felt how easily the 
 condition might be sui^erinduced in men of weak nerves ; 
 and that liahit and j)ower of endurance alone Avould settle 
 the question as to which was the operator and which the 
 patient. It might well happen, I fancy, that the operator, 
 if he chanced to meet with a sturdy customer, might find 
 himself operated upon instead of operating^ — conjugatmg 
 the " passive " instead of the " active " voice. At all 
 events, I doubt whether any man's eye could bear, without 
 being refreshed and brushed each moment (as nature 
 intends it should) by nictation, to gaze for an unlimited 
 time on a small bright disk; and I do not doubt, that if 
 compelled to do so, the phenomena of your mesmeric cata- 
 lepsy — or something resembling it — would supervene. 
 And it is very possible that the same might happen if the 
 auditory nerve, or some limited portion of the tactual sur- 
 face were similarly subjected to an unvarying stimulus. 
 Variety of sensation and variety of thought are essential to 
 us ; and mind and body bear testnnony to the same pecu- 
 liarity of our constitution. The same thought would soon 
 drive us mad ; and continued intense iteration of the same 
 sound, if it did not force poor mind to take refuge in sleep, 
 would, I fancy, force it to take refuge in catalepsy. 
 
 You see, therefore, that so far from denying those ''''facts " 
 of mesmerists about which you make so much noise, I be- 
 lieve them to be more universal than you do ; I also admit 
 them to be very curious and worthy of investigation, 
 though not more so than those of somnambulism ; only I do 
 
TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 323 
 
 not believe that they flow from some mysterious " influ- 
 ence" of your scientific hierophauts, whom I place, pace 
 tud^ on the same footing with fortune-tellers or conjurers. 
 
 Whether it be wise to superuiduce any abnormal state 
 like that of artificial catalepsy, — whether it is always safe 
 to do so, — I have my doubts ; or at least we should not 
 for the sake of mere curiosity. 
 
 Such are my views of ordmary " mesmeric " phenomena ; 
 but as to what you call " clairvoyance," whereby men, it 
 seems, may see with the back of their heads, and read out 
 of their toes, I regard it as unsophisticated nonsense. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 l^ox. 1&51. 
 
 My dear Feiexd, 
 
 I am not a little amused by your putting me on the de- 
 fensive. "When you ask me how, as a disciple of the Induc- 
 tive Philosophy, I can call the alleged facts of " clairvoyance" 
 in question, I answer at once that it is precisely because I 
 amsueli. You say that the incomprehensibility of the facts 
 is no reason for their rejection ; it is quite true, but nothing 
 to the purpose. What I want is the facts ; undoubted, 
 well-authenticated facts. That people can read (or rather 
 divine what is in a book) M'ith their eyes shut ; tell what 
 is doing at a given moment, by people they have never 
 seen, in a house a hundred miles olT; send a person, at an 
 equal distance, to sleep, by means of a pair of mesmerized 
 gloves, — surely I may be excused for asking stringent 
 proof of such things. You say that there is adequate, un- 
 impeachable testimony to such facts, however strange they 
 
324 THE GliEYSO^ LETTEKb. 
 
 may be. I answer, that when I sift the testimony, I do not 
 find it adequate. I find so much that requires to be at 
 once rejected, that it necessarily casts susjjicion on that 
 scanty remainder of quasi facts I cannot account for ; and 
 it is more rational to conchide that they are not to be re- 
 hed upon than that they are. 1st. I see that many of tlie 
 alleged facts I have heard, and some I have had an oppor- 
 tunity of investigating, have turned out to be absolute 
 trickery; neither better nor worse than a common con- 
 jurer's tricks; exactly on a par with the feats of the 
 renowned Sidroj^hel of " Hudibras," or Cadwallader of 
 " Peregrine Pickle ; " and who shall say how many more 
 of your feats of mysterious intelligence are similarly the 
 efiect of concert and collusion ? 2dly. Other wonderful 
 stories of the kind, when unswathed from the voluminous 
 folds of exaggeration in Avhich successive reporters have 
 wrapped them, (nay, the imagination of even two or three 
 will often suffice,) have shrunk into such minikin propor- 
 tions that we can hardly see anything wonderful at all. 
 What B has unconsciously given to the narrative of A, and 
 C to that of B, and D to that of C, has made something 
 jwrtentous in the accuracy of a clairvoyant's responses ; 
 when the real facts, at last got at, show only some vague 
 relation between question and answer, or, it may be, some- 
 thing like a curious coincidence. The glowing imagination 
 of an enthusiast can unconsciously shape these ductile and 
 fluent elements into what it will ; I say, unconsciously — 
 for it may all be done without lying. 3dly. Though most 
 desirous of seeing some of those wonderful things you say 
 you have imdoubtedly Avitnessed, they have somehow 
 always escaped me. I have unluckily seen no phenomena 
 which need, for their solution, any such hypothesis as 
 yours. You say " seeing is believing," and that you have 
 seen; I answer, perhaps so; but I have not seen; and in 
 
TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 325 
 
 such a case, and in such ragged condition of the testimony, 
 " not seeing " is (or ought to be) " not believing." 4thly. 
 I find that another large deduction from the reported facts 
 is to be made on another score, — the credulity of specta- 
 tors. I find that if clairvoyant conjurers find any difficulty 
 in bamboozling their audience, their audience often take 
 the trouble oif their hands by bamboozling themselves ; 
 they like to be duped, and duped they are. A little while 
 ago, a shrewd friend of mine (a medical man,) at an even- 
 ing exhibition of the " phenomena," got near a clairvoyante 
 who Avas conveniently en rapport with the chief exhibitor. 
 She, my friend was told, w^ould and could say nothing 
 except through the exhibitor as the mediiun. My friend, 
 however, kept near, and while Mr. Exhibitor was befooling 
 his gaping audience, threw her off her guard, and got the 
 dumb lady to speak. The meeting broke up in most ad- 
 mired disorder ; but what thanks did my friend get for un- 
 masking the cheat ? Just this — " Confound that Mr. ; 
 
 what right had he to i^ut in his oar ? He has completely 
 spoiled the evening ! " Are not such things almost enough 
 to make one say — ** Populus vult decipi et decipietur ? " 
 5thly. Your experiments are all of the " tentative " charac- 
 ter ; not only do they generally issue in nothing that needs 
 investigation, but they oftener issue in nothing, than not. 
 Pardon me for saying that your enthusiasm wholly runs 
 away with you when you so rashly affirm, that if you reject 
 the phenomena of clairvoyance, you must reject the miracles 
 of the New Testament ! It is impossible to imagine any- 
 thing more ludicrously unlike than the two things. Not 
 only is the testimony for the Scripture miracles utterly dis- 
 similar from that for your pretended wonders, in the several 
 respects I have already mentioned, but in this .last it is 
 diametrically opposite. If I found that Christ and His 
 apostles professed, like the Catholics at the tomb of the 
 
 28 
 
826 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Abbe de Paris, to i^erform miracles only of a " tentative " 
 character ; — if they sometimes tried to heal the .sick, and 
 more frequently failed than not ; to cure epilepsy or bad 
 eyes, and only now and then succeeded, I should know 
 what to think of the matter ; I should think it more proba- 
 ble tliat the precarious success m a few cases was owing to 
 favorable circumstances in the patients — to the conditions 
 of the nervous system, and the character of the disease — 
 than to any supernatural power. I should think the symp- 
 toms yielded to the mfluence of fxith and imagination in 
 the patient, (as in many diseases they often will,) not to 
 the power of the thaumaturge. And even so, when I find 
 that in the greater number of your exhibitions none of the 
 wonderful things promised are done, I naturally attribute a 
 few seeming prodigies to lucky guesses, curious coincidences, 
 accident or fraud, rather than to any mysterious jjowers in 
 your uncertain wonder-workers. 6tlily. I am compelled to 
 argue thus when I find that none of your clairvoyants can 
 or will solve any of the simple riddles proposed to them ; 
 for not a soul of you would even hazard a guess at the 
 number of that bank note in the Dublin Bank, which was 
 promised to tiie happy guesser ; — as I also hereby promise 
 to make you or any of your friends a present of the bank 
 note at which I am now looking, if you will but tell me either 
 the bank, the number, or the date ! In such cases there is 
 at least a chance of success, and yet none of you will seize 
 it. How confounding, again, are the failures in the case of 
 Sir John Franklin ! He ought to have been home long 
 ago, if clairvoyants had not been as blind as buzzards ; for 
 they have again and again hazarded the promise. 
 
 A few years ago some English engineers were employed 
 in raising a sunken vessel at the mo^ith of the Seine, (it had 
 been there many years,) which Avas confidently reported 
 to be the very vessel in which, at the first Revolution, 
 
TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 327 
 
 much of the royal plate and treasure had been wrecked. 
 "When the operation commenced, so heated were the fancies 
 of some who were interested in its successful accompUsh- 
 ment, that they could not help being tickled witli tlie 
 favorable visions of a celebrated clairvoyant^ who plainly 
 saw vases, goblets, salvers of gold and silver, ingots^ — 
 goodness knows what ! Half unbelieving, his hearers were 
 yet half cajoled by their own hopes. Alas ! it turned out 
 to be only a cargo of tallow. 
 
 Though your twitting me with a departure from the 
 caution of the " inductive philosophy," has provoked me to 
 carry the war into the enemies' quarters, and to show that 
 yoit are the party really chargeable with the fault, I shall 
 not scruple to say that these fantastical '-'■ facts " are among 
 the few things that I should think it quite competent to 
 reject on a priori grounds alone. There are two, which I 
 think quite enough to settle the question ; but as this letter 
 is already unconscionably long, I shall reserve them for 
 
 another 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. E. n. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Nov. 1851. 
 
 My dear Feiexd, 
 
 The two things which I deem sufficient to expose your 
 clairvoyant pretensions, are these, — 1. You require me to 
 believe that the laws which so palpably limit and control 
 both the mode and extent of human knowledge are capri- 
 ciously repealed, every time your Experimenters think 
 proper to demand it, for the most trumpery gratifications 
 of their trumpery curiosity ; when, for example, they think 
 proper to see bHndfold, or to tell us what is taking j^lace in 
 
328 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the beck drawing-room of No. 6, Russell Square, — the 
 clairvoyant never having been there, and being, at this 
 present, at ISTewcastle-on-Tyne, or Dublin ! If any one 
 thing is obvious as a general laio^ (and plainly necessary it 
 is for the government of the world,) it is this, — that we 
 are not allowed to look through " stone walls " nor into 
 other people's breasts ; that the heart of our neighbor is to 
 liim an inviolable sanctuary, except so far as the language 
 of his tongue or of his actions discloses his thoughts, and 
 that only the eye of Omniscience can pry there. This I 
 say is plainly the law under which we live, and indeed 
 Avithout it, society would be intolerable. Yet you suppose 
 that Omniscience entrusts the key of this lock to every quid 
 nunc of a clairvoyant ; and, as far as we can judge from 
 the trifling purposes for which the experiments are usually 
 made, and the equally trifling results in which they usually 
 end, for the mere gratification of an idle curiosity ! Nay, 
 you must believe, in efi*ect, that God delegates, for a mo- 
 ment, nothing less than the use of His omniscience to Mr. 
 A. or Mr. B., who is requested to be pleased to tell instan- 
 ter what Mr. Smith is doing at the present moment at any 
 house in London ; Avhat has become of Sir John Franklin 
 at the North Pole ; or what is taking place in the centre 
 of the earth, or the bottom of the ocean ; and all, so far 
 as I can discern, — all — ( proh pudor ! ) that a set of 
 gaping youths and gossiping dowagers may have an 
 idle hour enlivened and a foolish wonder gratified, as 
 they dawdle over a cup of tea in Professor Slowman's 
 drawing-room ! So strongly do I believe that the laws 
 which God has established secure the lock of every man's 
 thoughts from clairvoyant impertinence, that if (which I 
 never had a chance of) I saw any of the wonderful facts 
 to the contrary which you retail, I should certainly believe 
 that God, at least, had nothing to do with them. If after 
 
TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 329 
 
 having provided himself, for example, with such questions 
 as I alone could answer, and yet of the same trumpery 
 character as those which your friends, on the 18th ult., put 
 to their oracle, I found really accurate responses, I acknowl- 
 edge that I should at once agree with you that there was 
 something in it — and a devilish deal too ; but, so strong is 
 my a priori view of the extreme improbability of God's 
 systematically infringing His general laws at the beck of 
 your clairvoyants^ and for their nonsensical purposes, that 
 I should deem it far more probable that, in the particular 
 case, (perhaps to j^unish silly folks for their credulity, curi- 
 osity, and presumption,) he had for once permitted a 
 mischievous imp to play the oracle ; I should be inclined to 
 say — " Monsieur Clairvoyant, or Madame Clairvoyante, 
 (as the case may be,) I am now perfectly convinced that 
 there is something in you ; but being also convinced, as 
 strongly as I can be of anything, that the laws of God are 
 diametrically opposed to this habit of prying into our neigh- 
 bor's bosom, I am inclined to surmise that your power has 
 rather a suspicious origin, and the less I see of you the 
 better ; I beg to decline any further familiarity with your 
 familiar." However, I shall know how to deal with these 
 phenomena, which somehow never come in my way, when 
 I meet with them. 
 
 2. My second reason, wholly unconnected with any ex- 
 periments, is, that I do not find that man makes any appli- 
 cation of these wonderful powers ; Avhich I think he loould 
 do, if there were anything in them. There is one thing 
 which can infallibly be depended on, if nothing else can ; 
 and that is, that men are surprisingly 'cute, as Sam Slick 
 says, in discovering their own interest — " that's a fact." 
 When the steam engine — the railway — the illuminating 
 power of gas — the electric telegraph, are placed at man's 
 disposal, they are not permitted to remain idle toys ; they 
 
 28* 
 
330 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 are instantly welcomed, and applied to the most compre- 
 hensive uses. And yet what are any of these or all of them 
 together, compared with the power, both for good and evil, 
 of the faculty of clairvoyance, if there were any such thing ? 
 Would either man's cupidity or benevolence be blind to 
 such a marvellous agent? What a means of detecting 
 criminals, — of tracing "lost, stolen, and strayed I " What 
 a reinforcement of Bow Street ! What a happy supplement 
 would it afford to evidence when a prisoner does not make 
 confession — or, for the matter of that, how easy to take a 
 peep into his bosom and make the confession for him I What 
 a help to the doctor, — and surely no less to the patient, 
 whose entrails might thus be subjected, not to a lamentable 
 jyost mortejn, but a salutary ante Tiiorteni examination ! 
 What an instrument for diplomatists — what an invaluable 
 picklock to open hostile cabinets ! What a pleasant, painless 
 rack for wormmg out political secrets ! What an instru- 
 ment, above all, in war! How cheaply the newspapers 
 might keep " our own correspondent " in every quarter of 
 the world — who yet need never go beyond the sound of 
 Bow Bells ! How priceless, in all these cases, Avould be a 
 genuine clairvoyant ! 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that there are those who consult 
 this oracle. Well, I believe some credulous persons do so 
 now and then, just as some go to the vulgar fortune-teller : 
 but iiit were found to ansioer^ everybody icoidd. No such 
 discovery will human interest and human cupidity, or even 
 human philanthropy, allow to remain unfruitful. You will 
 say, perhaps, that it would be a dreadful thing if clairvoy- 
 ance loere thus resorted to ; that men would be secretly cir- 
 cumventing one another, to the utter ruin of the world ! 
 That is a very good reason, a priori^ against the existence 
 of such a power, and an excellent reason, if it did exist, why 
 men should not employ it ; but no reason — alas ! why they 
 
'* CONTRE-TEMPS." 331 
 
 would not ; for when was there any lack of men ready to 
 use any instrument, good or evil, that answered their pur- 
 pose ? And in this case, if any did use it and found it effec- 
 tual, all micst, if only in self-defence ; just as, if bad men 
 draw swords, good men must draw them too. 
 
 Till I see the sharp wit of man thus turning your clair- 
 voyance (as everything else that can be so turned) to prac- 
 tical purposes, I shall continue to rank it with so many kin- 
 dred delusions, which in every age, for a few months or 
 years, amuse those whose fancy is stronger than their rea- 
 son, and then pass away for ever. 
 
 I am yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXVI. 
 
 TO KEV. C. ELLIS. 
 
 Dec. 1854. 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 Has it never struck you that many of the events of life 
 occur in such a serio-comic manner (as one may say), invol- 
 ving so much transient vexation, yet so barren, as far as we 
 can see, of any results, that if we did not believe all tilings 
 under the control of a superintending wisdom, one might 
 refer them to that sort of playful, sportive malice which 
 schoolboys certainly have, and fairies were formerly sup- 
 posed to have ; malice, which enjoyed the exquisite momen- 
 tary distress, the comic perplexity of mortals, yet without 
 any serious intention of doing any great mischief? I do 
 not wonder that our forefathers should have resorted to 
 Puck, Robin Goodfcllow, and their company, to account 
 for these contre-tetnjys. 
 
 I have just had a specimen of this sort of practical joke. 
 
332 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 On a recent journey I had had a small box of important 
 docmnents intrusted to me by a friend ; I wiUingly took 
 charge of it, and as it was to . be under my own eye, I 
 scrawled on it in joke, " John Smith, passenger." On en- 
 tering the Babel-like station of one of the great centres of 
 railway traffic, the box intrusted to me was set down for a 
 moment with my portmanteau ; and while I was setthng 
 with the cabman, an officious porter, concluding that it was 
 going by a train just loading, carried it away, and by the 
 time I turned to take it, he and the treasure had vanished. 
 My train, by which I was to go, was within five minutes of 
 starting, and in a state of the greatest possible excitement I 
 raced up and down the chaos of stairs and platforms in 
 search of the box. Almost at the last moment, I found it 
 in a distant corner just opposite a train going in a totally 
 different direction : in five minutes it would have been 
 whirled off, and in three hours snatched half the length of 
 the kingdom from its negligent custodier. I probably 
 should have recovered it, but, possibly also, I should not. 
 Even the telegraph would not have helped me except I had 
 telegraphed to every point of the compass ; and then only 
 think of telegraphing for something belonging to " John 
 Smith, passenger." Ten to one there were a thousand 
 joackages so marked ! Unhappy name ! 
 
 As it was, — nothing came of the matter that I could find, 
 then or since, except five minutes of exquisite panic and 
 vexation, — much such as a mischievous monkey maybe 
 supposed to delight in inflicting. Certainly, if I had be- 
 lieved in Puck I should have thought he had assumed the 
 guise of that " railway porter." 
 
 Yet we never know whether there may not be more than 
 seems in such apparently trivial things, — and my faith, 
 though not my reason, assures me there is. One compre- 
 hensive solution of many such tilings a devout man will 
 
" CONTRE-TEMPS." 333 
 
 thankfully find in his ignorance of what might have occurred 
 had it not been for such diversion. It is obvious that five 
 minutes, nay, one, — nay, a second, may suffice for events 
 of the last importance to us ; to remain on this spot rather 
 than to move ten paces off, may be the difference between 
 death and life ; a change of purpose for a quarter of an hour 
 may lead us out of a great danger or into one ; being pre- 
 vented from going by this ship instead of that, may protect 
 us from shipwreck, or expose us to it ; a few minutes' con- 
 versation in the street with a bore we tremble to see coming 
 may delay us till some unknown peril, which may be cross- 
 ing our path, and which we should else have encountered, 
 has passed and left the way clear : in fact, the most insig- 
 nificant change or obstruction or acceleration of our purposes 
 may be connected, and cannot but be, with the most impor- 
 tant events of life to us all ; and thus they may subserve the 
 most momentous purposes, though we are ignorant of them. 
 The region of the " Media Scientia," as the scholastic divines 
 used to call it — the region of the " possible " — of the 
 things that loould happen if something else did not, — may 
 suggest the key to what often seem to us the most sportive 
 pranks of a purposeless destiny. And on reflecting, we may 
 perhaps see there is also another solution : for may they not 
 be designed to quicken gratitude ? Where transiently vex- 
 atious events have occurred without serious results, ought 
 we not thankfully to remember how easily they might have 
 terminated otherwise ? Shall we perversely desire a catas- 
 trophe because owe fears are disappointed ? 
 
 I remember, when a boy of ten years of age or so, lying, 
 on a tem^^estuous autumn day, at the foot of a huge elm at 
 the head of a noble avenue of like giant trees, and listening 
 with solemn delight to the roar of the wind in the branches ; 
 all at once I heard a sound which sharply rose above the 
 din of the storm ; — a crash — a sweej) — and I felt that 
 
334 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 sometliing was the matter in the upper regions of the tree. 
 I rolled and scrambled away as fast as I could a few paces, 
 and a moment after, down came a heavy branch on the very 
 spot where I had been lying, and which, had I not got out 
 of its way, would have crushed me. Could I look, boy as I 
 was, on the escape, without a gush of gratitude ? And such 
 in every like case, spite of all the metaphysics of fatalism, is 
 the unsoi^histicated feeling of humanity. 
 
 Yet some " contre-temps " are so exquisitely droll that 
 one would almost suppose their chief object was to furnish 
 us, in the retrospect, with a more than compensating amuse- 
 ment for our vexation. *' Ha3c olim meminisse juvabit " — 
 would seem to apply to not a few of our minor distresses. 
 Did I ever tell you of a circumstance which our old friend 
 J. M. used to relate of some friends of his ? Two young 
 ladies in Devonshire one day wished to visit some relatives 
 a dozen miles off. Their brother, — a harum-scantm sort 
 of a fellow, and who rode a horse as Jiarum scarum as him- 
 self, which he had very properly christened " Mad Tom," 
 — offered to drive them. Albeit Mad Tom was very restive 
 in harness, he assured them he could manage the brute. 
 They consented ; but such were the creature's flings, and 
 kicks, and shyings, and deviations to the right and left, that 
 he kept the sisters in a perpetual panic. However, they at 
 last reached their destination in safety ; but nothing could 
 induce them to repeat the experiment, and even young 
 harum-scarum did not seem to relish it. Accordingly, he 
 agreed to return on horseback, while his sisters borrowed 
 their host's little pony-chaise and his old gray pony, which 
 never forgot a becoming gravity either of pace or demea- 
 nor. They set out, on a lovely summer evening, on the 
 journey homeward. My young master stayed for half an 
 houi* or so, to take a parting cup with his host, and then 
 clattered off after his sisters. They, good souls ! w^ere qui-. 
 
" CONTRE-TEMPS." 335 
 
 etly jogging, with the old gray pony, along a narrow lane, 
 fenced by a high hedge on each side, thinking no harm in 
 the world, and congratulating themselves that they had so 
 happily escaped Mad Tom. All at once they heard a terri- 
 ble tramp and shouting behind them, and, turning their 
 heads, saw, horror of horrors ! the ungovernable brute com- 
 ing at a pace which would soon bring him upon them. He 
 had e\idently got the upper hand, and then- brother's shouts 
 were to warn them to get out of the way. They edged and 
 edged towards the ditch — Mad Tom came uj:), just grazed 
 the wheel, but evidently out of malice prepense allowed 
 them as little room as possible — pushed, as he passed, 
 against the honest gray, and in a moment the pony and 
 chaise and the fair sisters were tumbled into the ditch, while 
 Mad Tom, and his equally mad rider, swept away like the 
 whirlwind. 
 
 The young ladies were, happily, uninjured; but they 
 often used to laugh, in after days, at their momentary terror 
 when they saw the demon of a horse aj^parently bent on 
 their destruction ! 
 
 An old friend once told me that, having taken a long jour- 
 ney on horseback, he was musing, during the last stage, with 
 grateful memory, on the immunity from danger he had en- 
 joyed : that his horse had not fallen mth him, nor he fallen 
 from his horse, and so on ; when, unhappily, just in the midst 
 of his devout ejaculations, Dobbin stumbled, threw him on 
 his face, and almost broke his nose ! Was the good man, 
 by his ill-timed meditation, abstracted too much from the 
 outward practical duty of attending to his horse, and Avas 
 he thus to be taught that for " everything there is a season?" 
 or was he too much uplifted with the complacent thought 
 of the special ^Yo\:Q^Q^AO\\. and favor he had enjoyed? — for 
 such is our folly, that even pious gratitude is apt to express 
 itself in forms which look much more like absurd vanity. 
 
336 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Aj^art from some such views, this " contre-temps " look as 
 like a little piece of sportive malice, as one can well imagine^ 
 Well, in spite of all contre-temps^ I hope to sj^end Christ- 
 mas with you; — that is, ?*/* nothing haj^pens to j^rcA^ent it, 
 as it is certain ten millions of things may ; if I am alive 
 and well ; if you are alive and well ; if no other friend has 
 met with any misfortune which shall keep me away ; ifi 
 when I have started, the railway train does not meet with 
 a mishap ; if that awful omnibus for the last five miles 
 does not break down, — no unlikely matter by the way . 
 and if I should survive that last dreary, doleful part of the 
 journey ! As to your giving me a welcome — that is a con- 
 tingency I do not think it worth while to sj^eculate about ; 
 so much more surely, after all, can we calculate on moral 
 than on the combinations of ^^Aysica/ causes; so much more 
 permanent, amidst all man's j^roverbial fluctuations, are the 
 relations which human character establishes, than those of 
 the ever shifting scene of events in which we play our part; 
 events the nearest of which we cannot foresee, and the 
 minutest of which we cannot control, amidst all the boasted 
 
 '•'' prevision " of science ! 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXVII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dec. 11, 1854. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 By way of postscript to my last, I must mention two or 
 
 three other droll incidents of the class referred to in my 
 
 last letter, which have since occurred to remembrance. 
 
 They will, if I mistake not, illustrate the subject rather 
 
 strikingly. 
 
" CONTRE-TEMPS.' 337 
 
 A friend of mine, wlio lived a few miles from London, 
 was going thither in his i^ony-chaise one rainy morning, 
 and could not find his umbrella. He borrowed a silk one 
 of his sister in-law, and lost that on the way. " Well," he 
 thought, " poor girl, she shall have a good one to make up 
 for it." He bought for her one of the very best he could 
 find, and lost that going back! 
 
 Another friend, in the old coaching days, was going, one 
 cold winter's night, by mail from London, and debated in 
 his mind whether he should save the difference of the in- 
 side fare at the expense of his benumbed toes and fingers. 
 He thriftily reasoned that he wanted a new silk umbrella, 
 which the proposed economic dodge would just pay for. 
 But alas ! having fallen into a miserable nap in the morn- 
 ing watch, he found, when he woke, that his umbrella had 
 slipped out of his hand ; and thus he had the satisfaction 
 of travelling outside at inside price ! A third friend, stay- 
 ing for a night in Manchester, debated whether he should 
 take a cab and go to see some friend who lived in the 
 suburbs ; " But," thought he, " it is uncertain if I shall 
 find him at home, and if not, it will be five shillings thrown 
 away." So he thought he would just take a short walk 
 in the town instead. Before he had been out of the hotel 
 five minutes, he found himself minits a new silk handker- 
 chief, for which he had just given the very sum that would 
 have paid for the cab ! To such things as these even the 
 " Hcec olim memmisse juvabit " will hardly apply. 
 
 But the most provoking and serious of all such tragi- 
 comedies I ever heard of occun-ed a short time ago. You 
 may have seen some account of it in the newspapers. A 
 gentleman at Liverpool, about to remove to Oswestry, had 
 some valuable paintings which he thought he could not 
 take too mucli care of Afraid to trust them to the rough 
 handling of the rail, he had them carefully packed in a 
 
 29 
 
338 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 van, and committed tliem to the leisurely transit of the 
 ordinary road. The journey was safely accomplished, all 
 but a poor mile or so j in fact, to within sight of Oswestry. 
 At that point the luckless wain had to cross the rail, and 
 some obstacle occurred, just as it got half across. At this 
 fatal moment, an approaching train was heard, the driver 
 got flurried, and before he could get his precious charge 
 across, the remorseless engine came up — dashed pell-mell 
 into the unlucky van, and sent all the treasures of art to 
 the four winds. A minute later or a minute earlier, and 
 all would have been safe. To have taken such pains to 
 escape the disasters of the railway — so nearly to have 
 accomplished the object and then to be smashed by one of 
 the very accidents against which there had been such covstly 
 securities, made the whole thing a thousand times more 
 provoking. It looked almost as if the genius of the rail, 
 jealous and angry of the implied distrust, had watched its 
 opportunity, and taken, at the last moment, a dire and ef- 
 fectual revenge. To complete the disaster, the poor gen- 
 tleman went to law to recover damages, and was — non- 
 suited ! 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXVIII. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 1855. 
 
 My dear Mason, 
 
 I have just been running through the " Memoirs of a 
 Stomach" you sent me. There is some smartness in it, 
 and a good deal of sense too ; and yet it is impossible to 
 get over the absurdity of thus personifying the respectable 
 viscus, and making it chatter about anatomy, physiology, 
 
ON THE "MEMOIRS OF A STOMACH." 339 
 
 and chemistry ! This sort of allegory will only admit of 
 the briefest j^ossible handling and the lightest touch. Ad- 
 dison might have given a graceful short paj^er on it, after 
 the manner of the fable of " Menenius Agripj^a," which 
 is almost as long as we can permit the separate organs of 
 the body to talk to us or with one another. When the 
 stomach twaddles away on pathology and metaphysics, 
 copies physicians' prescrijDtions, and refines on the effects 
 of " bismuth of lead " and " sesquicarbonate of potash," it 
 is a little de trop. I am speaking of the brochure simply 
 as a work of art — for really the philosoj^hy of it is as sen- 
 sible as if it came out of the brain instead of the stomach. 
 
 If we could suppose this poor patient drudge of an organ 
 a conscious unity, and animated by a separate intelligence 
 (as some j^hilosophers have held opinions quite as absurd), 
 who can express the ire it would feel at the treatment to 
 which it is subjected ? crammed to bursting with the me- 
 lange of an alderman's enormous meal ; tight as a dram ; 
 stuffed like a corj^ulent carpet-bag ; full of turbot, venison, 
 salads, wines, and fruits ; not an inch of free space for the 
 " animal spirits " to move in ! Yet is it expected to reduce 
 the chaos of viands to order, and that, too, with such cruel 
 despatch, that long before its task is half done, it finds the 
 ruthless gullet pouring down more. How may we imagine 
 it looking at its "kitchen," — all the fires put out, — in 
 despair ; sometimes fairly getting into the sulks, and dog- 
 gedly refusing to have anything more to do with the 
 thing; — now, in a fury, ejecting the whole "indigesta 
 moles " in a volcanic eruption, — now setting our old friends, 
 " the animal sjoirits," briskly to work, under the hard pres- 
 sure of necessity. 
 
 But I am not sure that it would not resent quite as much 
 the infatuation of the h5q)ochondriac who is hourly dosing 
 it, and will never leave well alone ! How would it ex- 
 
340 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 plocle, in mingled wrath and astonishment, when, coveting 
 a hot-buttered roll and a cheering aromatic cup of coffee 
 (which it feels itself quite entitled to, and fully capable of 
 dealing with), it finds, as it gapes upwards in delighted ex- 
 pectation, the remorseless sesoi^hagus, without any "by 
 your leave " or " heads below there," sending down a hor- 
 rid potion of "black draught," or still worse, castor oil! 
 One can imagine the hurry with which it would summon 
 its scavengers to clear the streets of the filthy tide, and 
 throw wide the pylorus to let the abomination flow on ! 
 How would it congratulate itself, in such a case, if homceo- 
 pathically treated ! absolutely unable to tell where the 
 poor trecillionth of a grain it was enjoined to take such 
 care of, was got to ! But sui:>pose the search were vain, it 
 would not matter; "Let it lie where it is'' — the stomach 
 might say — "an infinitesimal particle in an infinitesimal fol- 
 licle will do no harm if it lie there for a hundred years ! 
 It is no incommodity to better guests, — it will give no 
 offence, poor thing ! I do not grudge it room ! " 
 
 More than threescore species of the genus Dyspepsia, — 
 so you doctors tell us, — ■ and the varieties of these infinite ! 
 Fifty times as many substances which you doctors send 
 down the throat to cure them, while of not a tenth can 
 you certainly tell what chemical changes the subtle labo- 
 r.itory of the stomach may work ujDon them ! What a "glo- 
 rious uncertainty " in Physic, as well as Law ! How little 
 less than the cruelty of shooting a bullet of lead into the 
 stomach from the outside^ is that of firing a pellet of some 
 more subtle mineral into its inside I And yet, you folks 
 of the Medicis family (always renowned for poisoning) do 
 these things with as little remorse as you would eat the 
 wing of a partridge. Nay, you prescribe half a dozen 
 things at once, though with every ingredient in the pre- 
 scription the uncertainty of the ultimate product of the 
 
ox THE peacp: principles. 341 
 
 vital chemistry may become still more hopelessly compli- 
 cated, and the result more inscrutable. Surely, the way in 
 which your "practice" terminates, must be often like that 
 of the ludicrous "practice" with the Lancaster gun on 
 board the " Arrow " off the Needles lately. The gunners 
 fired — but they could trace nothing of the ball in its flight ; 
 fired again — still nothing came of it. While they were 
 gazing in its presumed direction in stupid wonder, people 
 came running in consternation fi'om a totally different quar- 
 ter, to implore the inimitable marksmen to cease their sport, 
 for that their eccentric fire had been but too effective, only 
 in an unexpected direction, — having nearly knocked to 
 pieces the lighthouse ! 
 
 Long may you have that greatest proof of a stomach, 
 that you know not that you have any! I have long 
 ceased, in this matter, to enjoy that "ignorance" which is 
 " bliss.'- 
 
 Forgive all this idle badinage on your venerable profes- 
 sion, for which none have, after all, a more sincere venera- 
 tion than I, wlien intelligently and cautiously practised — 
 that IS, as you practise it. 
 
 N. B. As I am about to visit you shortly, I think it is 
 as well to add this '•^placebo:'' My kind regards to your 
 " Catherine de Medicis." 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXIX. 
 
 TO E D , A QUAKER. 
 
 October, 1855. 
 
 Dear Friend, 
 
 Thank you, — or if thee be more pleasing, imagine it 
 said, — for the pamphlet on the " Peace Question." I have 
 
 29* 
 
S42 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 read it, and attentively, but remain where I was. Your 
 vieAY^s, in such a world, appear to me not only chimerical, 
 but, if practicable, most dangerous, oj^posed to "the spirit" 
 of Scripture, which you generally profess to revere, and 
 plausible only by a slavish adherence to the " letter " — 
 which, strange inconsistency ! you profess generally to 
 despise. 
 
 You say the words are express, — " Resist not evil ; " 
 " If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the 
 other also." Yes — and the Romanist says the words he 
 pleads for transubstantiation are express : " This is my 
 body." Pray, why don't you and he act consistently, and 
 interpret other passages with the same literality ? For 
 example, you see in the immediate vicinity of your abused 
 text; — "And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and 
 cast it from thee ; — if thy hand offend thee, cut it off and 
 cast it from thee." How is it that I do not see thee blind 
 and maimed, worthy friend ? You will say, " These are 
 strong tropical modes of expressing the duty of self-denial 
 and self-mortification, when our senses would allure us to 
 sin." And, in like manner, say I, the words you abuse, are 
 a strong tropical mode of representing the spirit in which 
 we should receive affronts ; the forbearance and gentleness 
 with which, wherever we can, we should endeavor to disarm 
 malice, the patience with which we should rather suffer any 
 moderate wrongs than hastily resent them, or any wrongs 
 rather than abandon ourselves to a spirit of diabolical 
 revenge. But it is no warrant for our becoming suicides, 
 by letting miscreants kill us "unresisting, " if they please to 
 do so ; nor for quenching, when attacked, that instinct of 
 self-preservation, which as manifestly came from God as any 
 truth of Revelation, and which, in fact, except in the case 
 of a Quaker here and there, always vindicates itself the 
 moment life or safety is threatened, by acting, (as all our 
 
ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 343 
 
 instincts do) independently of our reason. A man is 
 assaulted in the dark, suj^pose ; if he has a weapon he strikes 
 out, asking no questions " for conscience' sake," or for 
 " reason's " sake, or for any other faculty ; any more than 
 he would ask, if thrown into the water, whether he is 
 permitted to swim ; or if starving, whether the roots and 
 wild berries he snatches are precisely the best food for 
 his digestion ; or whether Avhen he '* plucks the ears of 
 corn," he is not invading the " rights of property." 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that you do not forbid passive 
 resistance, of Avhich, indeed, there are singular examples, I 
 am well aware, among the " Friends ; " some of them so 
 singular as to make the difference between " active " and 
 " passive " not a little puzzling to any but a Quaker gram- 
 marian. But I know what you mean ; you will say you are 
 at liberty to struggle with your adversary with a view to 
 disarm him. But this cool calculation in sudden encounters 
 is as im^Dossible as to do nothmg. That same instinct which 
 prompts to resist, without consulting reason, as little trou- 
 bles itself to ask reason hoio it is to resist without doins: 
 any injury. If it has a Aveapon it strikes out, right and 
 left, without any nice questions as to the precise topograj^hy 
 of the blow it may inflict, whether on a vital, or a non-vital 
 part ; without asking whether the head of the patient be 
 thick enough to resist, if it alight there ; whether it will not 
 be best just to dislocate the wrist or shoulder ; or whether 
 just so many ounces of weight, and no more, will not be 
 sufficient for the purpose. You do not scrupulously calcu- 
 late whether you may riot smash the bone and make a 
 " comminuted fracture " of the business instead of simple 
 dislocation. You cannot tell your ruffian to stand still, that 
 you may be pleased to drill or pierce him in a non-vital 
 part, and that if he does not behave well, like a patient 
 under a surgical operation, you may wound an artery and 
 
344 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 do him a miscliief, or that, as you mean him no harm in the 
 world, but a deal of good, he ought to take it patiently ! 
 It is no time for such sang-froid on either side. It would 
 as soon occur to us whether it would not be possible to take 
 the miscreant, like trout, by tickling him. 
 
 And so, instead of attempting to argue against you, I 
 shall try your principle by a case which was put to another 
 of the " Friends," and ask you for a decision thereupon ; — 
 for that friend declmed it. 
 
 An acquaintance of mine was travelling one day with one 
 of your kith and kin, in a railway carriage, and they got on 
 this toj^ic. " Well," said my friend, " I will suppose a case. 
 You are a settler on the borders of the red man ; have 
 got your log hut up, and everything in a fair way of being 
 tidy and comfortable. You come home one evening from 
 the clearings, with your axe in hand and your rifle on your 
 shoulder ; but see with horror that your house is in flames, 
 and that a savage is pursuing your shrieking wife, with his 
 tomahawk in his right hand and his outstretched left within 
 a few feet of her dishevelled hair. There is just a moment 
 to bring your rifle to your shoulder and save her. I simply 
 want to know whether it would be your duty to fire ? " 
 
 The " Friend " hitched on his seat, first to the right and 
 then to the left, as if the shot itself had lodged in him, 
 though not in a vital part, and at last said, "I tell thee 
 what, friend ; thou hast no right to put such cases." 
 
 Which I conceive was a complete surrender. 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that he was inconsistent, as said 
 another " friend of peace, " to whom I put the case. This 
 last declared, 7iot that he would 7iot have fired, for he felt 
 that it was rather too bold to say that^ but that he ought 
 not to fire ! I turned to his wife, who happened to be sit- 
 ting by, and asked her how she relished such doctrine. I 
 promise you she protested most clamorously. I fancy, that 
 
ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 345 
 
 dying thus, she would have declared that her husband, and 
 not the savage, was her true murderer. 
 
 I will be equally merciful with you as with him. I do 
 not ask you whether you icoulcl fire — though the doubt 
 that nature miiversally inspires is a shrewd argument 
 against you ; for what is it but saying that nature is so apt 
 to confute your "principle," that you dare not say when 
 you are sure of being able to act on it ? but I ask you 
 calmly and conscientiously to say, whether you think you 
 ought to fire ? 
 
 However, thou shalt not answer me by letter ; it shall 
 be by thine own fireside, Avhen I next visit thee, and thy 
 pleasant wife shall be by thy side. And thou shalt look 
 into her bright eyes, and say, " I do not think, Martha, I 
 ought to save thy life, thou knowest, Martha." I fancy 
 she will know nothing of the kind. But I declare, before- 
 hand, I will not believe thee till the actual contingency 
 shall occur, and I find thee then acting up to thy princi- 
 ples. But "nature" will confute thee. Meantime, it is 
 easy for thee to say what thou pleasest. 
 Believe me. 
 
 Dear friendly friend, 
 
 Thine ever affectionately, 
 
 E. E H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXX. 
 
 to alfred avest, esq. 
 
 My dear West, 
 
 I have been recently writing to our " Friend " Richard 
 
 D , anent his iJi'tnciples for the encouragement of 
 
 murder and robbery. Till human nature is wholly sub- 
 
346 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 dued to the Gospel, they are impracticable ; when it is so 
 subdued, they will be superfluous; for as no one will 
 "wrong," no one need resist. But when that day comes, 
 — and come it will, for men may be taught not to murder, 
 though they cannot be well taught how to be murdered 
 without strong objections thereunto, we may well guess 
 the earth will be near its great transformation. Your 
 hopes, though you anticipate the speedy reign of universal 
 peace, — at least permanent peace among civiUzed nations, 
 aie less chimerical, and your projects too; and I cannot 
 but wish you God speed. I think you sanguine enough, I 
 own ; and I fear are antedating by a few generations or 
 BO — perhaps a century or two. 
 
 You think, on the contrary, that the world is even now 
 ripe for putting an end to all war by arbitration^ — would 
 to God it were! I cannot hope it while nations are so 
 contrasted by civilization and barbarism, knowledge and 
 ignorance ; while empires dark as midnight in aught else, 
 may yet have sufficient military science to make them 
 ambitious of conquest, the only distinction nations in such 
 stage of their history can attain or appreciate; and be 
 powerful enough to be formidable to the world, not en- 
 lightened enough to be a blessing to it. This is just the 
 condition of Russia at the present moment ; and to con- 
 vince the Czar Nicholas of the superior glory, as well as 
 felicity, of peace to war, is about as hopeful a business as 
 for Baillie Jarvie to induce Rob Roy to let his boys, Rob 
 and Hamish, become "puir spinner bodies in Glasgow." 
 
 But certainly good, only good, can come fi-om the dis- 
 cussion of the subject. Every one must rejoice in the 
 ventilation of your opinions by means of the press, — 
 jprovided you do not think it necessary to show as much 
 pugnacity for peace as other folks for war, nor give your 
 compatriots the notion — as some of you do — that you 
 
ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 347 
 
 are the most bellicose people in the nation. Guarding 
 against that, your efforts, — your speechifyings, your tracts, 
 cannot but do good; any thing that Avill make the nations 
 reflect on the absurdities, atrocities, and (what they are 
 apt to think much more of) the expenses of war, is a gain. 
 
 Certainly war is just as much a mark of the harharis^n 
 of nations tciken collectively^ as the princi23le and j^ractice 
 of jDrivate war are of the barbarism of any one nation, 
 such a period, of course, is found in the history of every 
 savage nation. The maxim then is, " every 'inan his own 
 soldier'''* — to fight his own battles and right his own 
 wrongs; and as long as that continues, the people, of 
 course, are savages. Is there any reason why we should 
 not afiirm the same of a family of nations, as long as they 
 exhibit the same state of things? In the case of a single 
 nation, civilization puts an end to the liberty of private 
 Avar, as it3 very first, its initial achievement, and remits 
 the arbitration of private quarrels to impartial judges. 
 When nations, collectively, are as civilized in this respect 
 as any one of those which deserve to be called so, the 
 same will be done in relation to war ; and till civilization 
 has discovered the means of doing it, they must be con • 
 tent, whatever their individual eminence in science or in 
 art, to be accounted — barbarians ! 
 
 " But quis custodiet ipsos custodes ? " Who are to be 
 the judges, when each nation acknowledges no superior, 
 and the final arbiter is found still in — force ? No doubt, 
 at present^ the thing is impossible; but precisely the same 
 difiiculty must have been once felt in the case of any 
 single nation that has been reclaimed from barbarism at 
 all. When law asserted its supremacy, and put an end to 
 f)rivate feuds, who can doubt the ovitcry made at first by 
 many a " bullet-headed, iron-fisted old baron," who chafed 
 at the limitation of his rights, and clamored for the priv- 
 
348 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ileges of his petty local jurisdiction ? No doubt he would 
 not believe that there could be, in the universe, any im- 
 partial umpire of his rights, but himself. Nevertheless, lie 
 became convinced in time that it was possible to deny 
 him the felicity of his private brawls, and extinguish his 
 absolute independence, without perilling his interests, or 
 rather with great advantage to their security. So will it 
 be with the nations, when they have learned to appreciate 
 the blessings of the higher international cimlization. 
 
 They will say, when any, who belong to their voluntary 
 confederacy, propose to extemporize a little bit of " Donny- 
 brook Fair," anywhere or on any pretence, " It cannot be 
 allowed ; we are quite ready to consider your differences, 
 or to see you considering them in a peaceful way; — but 
 we shall take the mere noise of a ' shindy ' as a casus belli y 
 and we, gentlemen, are five to one; — so put up your 
 swords; cedant arma togoe^ They would say, as Mac- 
 gregor to Rashleigh and Francis Osbaldistone, when those 
 hot-blooded young gentlemen seemed inclined to renew 
 the duel in which he had interrupted them : — " By the 
 heavens above me, I will cleave to the brisket the first 
 man that mints anither stroke ! " 
 
 Meantime, ye political economists ! what a saving to the 
 nations would even such a measure be. The huge arma- 
 ments by which jealous nations now eternally watch each 
 other, might be disbanded for ever; for a very small, 
 though exquisitely disciplined and accoutred contingent 
 from each of these nations, would make together a resist- 
 less army when embattled against any one refractory 
 member. The expense of such a moderate police of the 
 nations would be a mere bagatelle. 
 
 This, probably, will be the first way in which the com- 
 munity of civilized nations, entering into a voluntary com- 
 pact, will attempt to realize your projects; that is, by 
 
ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 349 
 
 preliminarily knocking him on the head, whether right or 
 wrong in his claims, who begins by defying the police of 
 nations, and then giving due consideration to the differ- 
 ences which led to the row, in a congress of negotiators. 
 
 I can imagine — glorious day for the world, should it 
 ever dawn upon it — when civilized nations joyfully giving 
 in, one by one, their adhesion to the principles of this 
 higher international civilization, shall proceed one step 
 further, and solemnly inaugurate officers and functionaries, 
 whose sole business in life shall be to carry them into 
 effect. Methinks I see, in the course of ages, a nobler than 
 the old Amphictyonic Council, representing the fraternity 
 of civilized nations, consulting for the good, not of one 
 people, but of many, and deciding, by common consent, 
 not the petty differences between man and man, but be- 
 tween vast communities ; a council consisting of function- 
 aries, not, as we sometimes see now, extempora,neously 
 cliosen, but consecrated for life, like our OAvn judges, to 
 the study and practice of international law; segregated 
 from every other function; and instructed to put off, as 
 far as may be, the feelings of patriotism itself, and to 
 assume the cosmopolite ! Methinks it would be worth 
 while to assign these judges of the nations a separate 
 abode, — which, belonging to no nation, should be felt to 
 be sacred to all. Surely none would grudge them the most 
 beautiful island ever discovered in the recesses of the 
 ocean, so long as they performed their office Avell; and 
 how worthy of each nation to consecrate to such an office 
 wlioever was most conspicuous in it for probity and 
 wisdom ! What veneration would attach to this cosmop- 
 olite tribunal ! What honor, to belong to this Sacred 
 College of humanity — this Chancery of the Universe ! 
 
 Nor is it visionary to imagine the esiwit de corps of this 
 sublime "College" such, that it would in a little time defy 
 
 30 
 
350 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 all susj^icion of its members being warped by the petty in- 
 fluences oi private patriotism; just as we find may be the 
 case with the judges of a particular nation. Surely, if our 
 judicial functionaries have so clothed themselves with the 
 spirit of honor, that no one has for ages suspected them of 
 corruption, it may well be believed that this highest court 
 would aspire to render itself more aAvfuUy venerable, and 
 pride itself in keeping every particle of its ermine spotless 
 as the snow. 
 
 And even if, in the course of a century or so, they made 
 some wrong decisions, it could hardly be in any very im - 
 portant or flagrant cases ; and as to the rest, — if they gave 
 some rocky islet, which might support three families and 
 twice as many cows, or grow with thrifty management five 
 bushels of potatoes, to France when it ought to go to Eng- 
 land ; or drew the boundary line of a disputed territory on 
 this side of a barren mountain-rancce when it ou2:ht to be 
 on the very ridge thereof, I suppose it would be of little 
 consequence compared with the infinite miseries which 
 have sprung from military arbitration of the like petty 
 claims ; not to say that this too is attended with just as 
 great probability, nay, far greater, of a wrong decision. 
 
 It must be confessed that the i:>retexts which have led 
 to wars, and the folly with which they have been prose • 
 cuted, are not ill satirized in a fable I have somewhere met 
 with. 
 
 A certain king, it is said, sent to another king, saying — 
 
 " Send me a blue pig with a black tail, or else ." The 
 
 other, in high dudgeon, replied — "I have not got one, and 
 
 if I had ," on which weighty cause they went to war 
 
 for many years. After a satiety of glories aud miseries, 
 they bethouglit them that it would be well to consult about 
 the preliminaries of j^cace ; but then a di]ilomatic explana- 
 tion Avas first needed of the expressions which liad formed 
 
ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 351 
 
 the ground of quarrel. ""What could you mean," said the 
 second king, " by saying, ' Send me a blue pig with a black 
 
 tall, or else ? ' " " Why," said the other, " I meant — 
 
 or of some other color. But," retorted he, " what could you 
 
 mean by saying, ' I have not got one, and if I had ? ' " 
 
 " Why, of course, if I had, I should have sent it ; " — an 
 explanation which was i^i'onounced very satisfactory, and 
 peace concluded accordingly. 
 
 But my i^roposed High Court of Equity for the world — 
 my " Amjohictyonic Council " of the nations, is a di'eam, 
 one may say. It is so for the j)resent ; — but it may come 
 true for all that. 
 
 Meantime, — though it seems a very paradoxical remedy, 
 I am not sure but the best immediate security against war 
 is to increase to the very utmost its destructiveness. I, 
 really think it would be worth while for every civilized 
 government to offer the most liberal rewards for every not- 
 able improvement in the art of wholesale butchery. When 
 war shall be to both parties as fital as duels fought 
 across a table, or as the fight between the Kilkenny cats, 
 who " ate each other up all but the tail ; " when ships shall 
 reciprocally blow each other into the air the moment they 
 come within sight of each other across the horizon, and 
 armies like Gorgons, are too terrible to be faced ; when 
 each great commander, at once gloriously victorious and 
 ignominiously defeated, may imitate Cassar's laconic de- 
 spatch, and say, "Vidi — et victus vici — ," we shall hear 
 of war no more. The increasing destructiveness of war, 
 combined with the determination of the " big boys " in the 
 great school of nations to make every " row," under any 
 pretence, a casus belli — a reason for the immediate and 
 general discharge of their preternatural ordnance at the 
 offenders, would positively effect pretty much the same 
 thing as our Amphictyonic Council. 
 
352 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 God grant that wars may " soon cease ; " — and that they 
 sooner may, may they be made more dreadful, till every 
 popgun be even as a revolver, and every revolver as a 
 thunderbolt I 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXXI. 
 
 TO THE KEV. CHARLES ELLIS, B. D. 
 
 October, 1854. 
 My DEAR Friend, 
 
 I have read the little essay on the " Immortality of the 
 Soul," as deduced from the light of nature. It contains 
 nothing but the usual arguments ; nor does the mode of 
 stating them (so far as I can see) add to their force, per- 
 haps I ought rather to say, diminish their feebleness ; — for 
 whatever the presumptions founded on certain facts, — 
 especially the apparent absurdity of man's having faculties 
 so disproportionate to the condition of an ephemeron, I 
 hold that absolute conclusiveness in our reasoning on 
 this subject is beyond us. It is true that ^/'man be merely 
 mortal, his whole nature, as far as we can conjecture, seems 
 to be "made in vain;" and thus the Theist, at least, is jus- 
 tified in deducing a strong probability of a future state. 
 But neither this, nor any of the other arguments usually 
 urged to prove it, ever made me feel more than the proba- 
 bility of the conclusion ; and I believe a fair examination of 
 the wavering decisions of the best heathen j^hilosophers 
 (the truest test we can appeal to — for in their case Ave 
 cannot suspect, as in that of a modern, that they were un- 
 consciously indebted to revelation) will clearly prove to 
 any candid reader, that they never arrived at anything bet- 
 
im:mortality. 353 
 
 ter than a faltering hope. Nothing, I believe, but revela- 
 tion can assure us of a future state ; it is the Gospel alone 
 which can be said to have " brought life and immortality to 
 light," out of the haze of philosophical speculation and the 
 crepusGulum of the Jewish disiDensation. 
 
 Shall I confess to you that one of the strongest proofs of 
 a future state (though it does not strictly touch the ques- 
 tion of immortality) derived from the light of nature — 
 (light of nature ! perhaps we ought, if we would be exact, 
 to call it the darkness of nature), is one that, logically, it is 
 difficult to make much use of with a sturdy gainsayer : — 
 just as with one who says he is without a sense of right 
 and wrong, (though, by the way, you may think the fellow 
 lies, and is a rascal,) ethical argument is impossible. Pray 
 take care how you thread your way through the parenthe- 
 ses above, — for they lie uncommonly thick ; I jn-otest I 
 hardly know where I am myself. — On looking back half a 
 mile, I see I was saying that one of the strongest proofs of 
 a future state was one that we cannot insist on with a gain- 
 sayer. — What I refer to is the feeling^ generally growing 
 stronger, as men apjDroach death, that there is a future state. 
 It has, too, all the criteria, by which we measure the force 
 of an argument from consent. It has been acknowledged 
 by an immense majority of all mankind; — and especially 
 by the most elevated and comprehensive intellects ; it has 
 been the hope and the solace of the good ; it has been the 
 Gorgon of the eminently wicked. As to the former, at Se 
 (3e.XTL(TTaL {j/vKal ixavTCvovrai ravra ovrcos ^X^'-^' ^^ Plato says : 
 The good presage immortality ; not that that is quite the 
 right word for the term ixavrevovTaL, for which we have not 
 an exact equivalent in English ; but it means they have a 
 " divine presentiment " of immortality. As to the wicked, 
 — why, all history, proverbs, fiction, the drama, are full of 
 their presentiments. 
 
 30* 
 
354 tiip: greyson letters. 
 
 I have said that it is not a toi^ic easily urged on a sturdy 
 gainsayer, who with a steady countenance can say that he 
 is unconscious of any such feeling ; but it is of little conse- 
 quence; first, because there are few such gainsayers, 
 and always will be if we may trust the nearly unanimous 
 voice of history. Secondly, because one is j^retty sure the 
 scamps do feel it in their secret soul, and if they do not, (as 
 perhaps is the case, in their youth or their cups,) will in old 
 age and on a death bed. There are few things more beau- 
 tiful in Plato than the perfectly natural manner in which 
 the placid Cephalus, in the enjoyment of a green old age, 
 speaks on this subject. It is, I take it, an echo of an all 
 but universal feeling — a witness to the constitution of hu- 
 manity. When Socrates had asked him whether his con- 
 tentment amidst the infirmities of age, and his freedom 
 from its customary peevishness, might not be attributed by 
 many to his wealth, which had spared him the vexations of 
 l^overty, — " for the rich have many consolations," — Ce- 
 phalus answers him that no doubt " there is something in 
 that; but not so much as is commonly supj^osed;" and 
 when further asked what he imagines the chief use of riches, 
 replies that he deems it one very little thought of by most 
 persons, namely, that of making restitution for any of the 
 wrongs done in one's past life ; for " be assured, Socrates," 
 says he, " that when a man thinks he is going to die, he is 
 filled with fear about things that never entered his head 
 before. Those tales concerning a future state, which tell 
 us that the man who has been unjust here must be pun- 
 ished hereafter, tend, much as he once laughed at them, to 
 disturb his soul at such a moment ; — and the man, either 
 through the infirmities of age, or being now as it were, in 
 closer proximity to the unseen, views the future more at- 
 tentively, consequently becomes full of suspicion and dread, 
 and considers and reflects whether he has in anything done 
 
IMMORTALITY. 355 
 
 any one a wrong ; and he who detects in his own life much 
 of iniquity, resembling children startmg in their sleep, is 
 
 full of terror In conformity with this, I deem the 
 
 possession of riches chiefly valuable as liberating 
 
 ns from the temptation of cheating or deceiving against 
 our will, or departing hence in dread, because we owe 
 either sacrifice to God or money to man." 
 
 To be sure, if the old gentleman attached any idea of 
 raerit to such simple acts of righting wrong, his theology, 
 as might be expected from a heathen, was not altogether 
 " evangelical ; " but the fact he bears witness to, — the in- 
 tense convictions of a future state, which are apt to beset 
 the mind as it nears the brink of the grave, is most signifi- 
 cant, and one is ready to say, " There spoke human nature." 
 
 Of such a feeling — so general — I cannot but make much, 
 though it may be little available with a captious disputant ; 
 and, in truth, in the case of any geiieral feeling, even though 
 reason had less to say for it than she has, it is imj^ossible 
 not to susj^ect that we are listening to an oracle, which 
 issues from a deeper fountain than mere logic can fully 
 explore. 
 
 For what else, after all, can we infer from the prevalence, 
 not to say universality, of such feelings, but that human na- 
 ture is so co7istituted that it cannot but so feel ? 
 
 Hence, at all events, we may conclude, even if the feeling 
 be a delusion, that it is in vain to argue against it ; and that 
 it is true wisdom, if we are to "follow nature," and not 
 spend life in vain attemjDts to stifle her, to act accordingly. 
 We may say to a man who denies or doubts of a " future 
 state " much as we may say to the atheist. To the latter it 
 may be said : Well, supposing there is no God, still if we 
 are to trust at all to induction from the phenomena of all 
 humanity in all ages and nations, mankind will believe there 
 is one : therefore, if wise, you will cease to argue against it ; 
 
356 THE GREYSON LETTEltS. 
 
 for you will only lose your breath. If there bo no God, 
 man has somehow, it seems, been so constituted that he can- 
 not but arrive at the oj^posite conviction. — The like may 
 be said to those adventurous speculators who assure us that 
 all notions of moral differences — of a right and a wrong — 
 are a delusion. If we can trust the philosophy of induction 
 at all, as to what men will generally feel and think, from 
 what they have generally felt and thought, such philoso- 
 phers had better " save their breath to cool their porridge." 
 In short, much the same may be said in reply to any other 
 paradox diametrically opposed to convictions, which, right 
 or wrong, are founded in the constitution of our nature, and 
 which, if men were wise, would bring many a long-winded 
 dispute to a summary termination. Whether they arrive 
 at truth or error, men have nothing else from which to phi- 
 losophize than the constitution of their minds and faculties, 
 and you may as well " bay the moon " as strive to alter the 
 convictions normally founded on them. If wrong, the error 
 arises from the constitution of humanity, and must still be 
 supposed a truth. Hence the practical absurdity of all rea- 
 soning against the convictions of a material world ; or to 
 prove that our primary intuitions are all false. If they are, 
 philosoj^hy cannot mend them. 
 
 Finally, therefore, from the all but universal feeling that 
 there is a future state, I quite think men are constituted 
 thus to feel, and consequently it is at least waste time to 
 argue against it ; and then as to the fact whether there he 
 one, since I do not believe that God who so constituted us 
 is a liar^ I at least believe that there is one. But if you 
 want clear proof I know of no other way than proving 
 Christianity, and sending hopeful, but dubious, Nature to 
 
 the school of Revelation. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 357 
 
 LETTER LXXXII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 ^ Nov. 1854. 
 
 My dear 1kie]st), 
 
 I have just come to the dignity of " spectacles," and am 
 writing with them for the first time. I little thought, a 
 few years ago, Avhen I used to read with such ease the 
 smallest print, that I should ever feel the want of these sup- 
 plementary eyes ; but finding, for some time, that my book 
 was gradually receding from me inch by inch, I began to 
 fear that I should soon have to fix it to the end of a stick, if 
 I went on much longer ; or that it would get away from me 
 altogether. The fact is, the lens has lost a little of its con- 
 vexity, and to spectacles of moderate power I have there- 
 fore reluctantly come. 
 
 On this I am induced to make this profound reflection : 
 How easily might the comfort of life be marred by the mal- 
 construction of a single sense ; and what a 2:)lague would life 
 itself be if all of them were mal-constructed together ! If, 
 for example, such pranks were played with us, as (were 
 Atheism true) we might expect ; if w^e w^ere the victims of 
 'indefinite monstrosity — such lusus natiLrce as to prove that 
 nature was in truth more fond of " play " than " work ; " if 
 we found, as we well might, a ridiculous failure in her 
 " nisus " — her " endeavor " — as our Atheists, with con- 
 tradictory metaphor, call her blind work (faith ! she would 
 need spectacles worse than I do), what a predicament we 
 should all be in ! As to the rubbish, that unintelligent 
 " Law," according to some, — " Chance," according to 
 others, (it does not matter a pin which, both being blind as 
 newborn kittens,) has unconsciously tumbled things into the 
 only possible " conditions of existence," so that if things 
 were othervme^ things could not go on, — why it is rubbish ; 
 
358 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 for even if we could conceive exquisite order and adaptation 
 the result of blind agency, it is still utterly false, so far as 
 we can judge, to say that the conditions of our loell-belng 
 are also the conditions of our being. Man might have been 
 an indefinitely different and very miserable creature, and 
 yet have existed. If any such beings, on such an hypoth- 
 esis, could have appeared at all, they might have been very 
 execrable monsters — varieties of Caliban, — and yet have 
 lived. The so-called " lusus " we do now and then see, 
 might have been strangely multiplied and diversified, and 
 yet the poor beast, Man, have groped, and crawled, and 
 hobbled, and blundered through his threescore years and 
 ten to a most welcome grave. Half mankind might have 
 had the eyes of bats or owls, and the other half the feet of 
 oxen or the paws of kangaroos, or the locomotive powers 
 of the sloth, or the legs of a crane ; and a great many of 
 them might have been without hands or feet at all, — as 
 some few are. Nay, for aught we know, intelligences, 
 essentially like ours, might have been imprisoned under a 
 donkey's hide or a lobster's shell; in which last case, as 
 Sydney Smith said, " It is much to be feared that the mon- 
 keys would have made lobster sauce of us." 
 
 In this matter of eyes, — how easily might the Great 
 Optician who constructed them (or the ?^o optician " Chance," 
 if it had constructed any eyes at all, could have done it too) 
 have plagued us with such convexity of the organ, that, like 
 the Stanhope lens, it would have revealed to us only what 
 was brought into contact with it, and then in such unlucky 
 perfection, as to make our own deformity as hideous as the 
 Brobdingnagians to the microscopic eye of Gulliver ; or, on 
 the other hand, given us such a distant focus, that we should 
 be obliged to recede half a mile in order to read the hour 
 by the parish clock. 
 
 It is melancholy to think that we never duly value our 
 
ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 359 
 
 blessings till they are impaired or taken from us. " Anotlior 
 profound remark," you will say. Yet why is it trivial? 
 only because we are a set of beasts. It loould be profound 
 to an angel — so profound, that he would regard it as incon- 
 ceivable and incredible ! Here have I been served by these 
 good servants, my eyes, for forty years, and at last know 
 their true value only — by looking through my spectacles ! 
 I have often used them unmercifully — have compelled them 
 to play an everlasting game of focus-shiftmg and pupil- 
 changing — enlarging and contracting — compressing and 
 expanding — bobbing about with the axis and fiddling with 
 the iris, according to the distance of objects and the degree 
 of light. I have made them stare at a small '^riwt half 
 through the night, when they have declared that it is time 
 they should draw their curtains and get a little nap; and 
 the poor drudges have never so much as winked rebellion 
 till now ! I never felt how precious they were before. 
 
 And ah! must we not confess to the same sort of 
 thoughtless ingratitude in relation to yet higher blessings ? 
 Amidst " spiritual light," in the blaze of knowledge, and 
 the enjoyment of freedom, how little do we think of the 
 w^ords of Christ to His disciples, — true of us as of them, — 
 " Blessed are your eyes for they see, and your ears for they 
 hear, the things which kings and prophets waited to see 
 and hear," but neither saw nor heard. How differently 
 should we feel, if we had been cast on times of ignorance 
 and persecution ; if, before we dared to peep into the tat- 
 tered fragment of a Bible deposited in the most secret 
 crypt we could find for it, we were forced to draw bar and 
 bolt of our chamber door, not, as our Saviour said (or not 
 for that only), that we might "be alone with God," but 
 that ^\'e might be alone from man ; — and then, carefully 
 shading the treacherous taj^er, and trembling at every 
 sound, as if we were doing a guilty thing, drag from its 
 
360 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 hiding-place the Book of God, filch, as it were, in secret, 
 the promises of eternal life, and, with the semblance of 
 guilt and shame, steal into heaven ! — or if, Uke many of 
 our fore-fathers, we were glad to meet for worship by the 
 pale moon or the safer star-light ; or, safer still, on a stormy 
 night in some mountain glen, or by the woodside or in the 
 forest glade ; and so, amidst the desolations of the present 
 life, listen with a tremulous joy to the promises of a better. 
 I fancy, in such cases, we should more truly estimate the 
 knowledge and freedom we possess. 
 
 But it is the same with everything ; man is least grateful 
 for all that is most precious, for the very reason that ought 
 to endear it most, — because it is most common. What so 
 inestimable as light, air, and water ? They fetch no price 
 in the market ; no one will give anything for them ; for 
 they can be had for nothing. God has given them without 
 measure ; but ought they, from their very cheapness, to be 
 received without even the " peppercorn rent " of grateful 
 thought and love? Ah! if it were possible for human 
 tyranny, to do as it has so often done with mental light, 
 with knowledge, with freedom, — to sequester the sun- 
 beams, — to inclose to individual uses the *' fields of air " — 
 to monopolize and dole out at famine price stream and 
 fountain, — how well should we understand what was meant 
 by such words — " Blessed are your eyes, for they see the 
 light of day ; and your ears, for they hear the sounds of 
 whispering winds and falling waters ! " 
 
 How cautious should we be, lest our ingratitude in higher 
 matters should bring, as it easily may, its own punishment ; 
 lest the very cheapness of our boasted immunities should 
 lead us not only to undervalue, but, as a consequence, to 
 neglect them. It is to be feared that God and holy angels, as 
 they see us walking to heaven in the bright and peaceful 
 sunshine, may judge us, for that very reason, encompassed 
 
ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 361 
 
 with greater perils than those who found their way thither 
 under cloud and tempest. The storms of affliction made 
 our fathers gird that mantle about them which the summer 
 sun may entice us to throw aside. In the Valley of the 
 Shadow of Death and in Vanity Fair, the Christian of 
 honest John Bunyan " played the man : " it was when he 
 trod the " drowsy enchanted ground " that he felt the 
 access of that fatal lethargy. Sad to think that many a 
 poor ignoramus may have made better use of a tattered 
 leaf or two of the Bible, which, perchance, he could hardly 
 spell, than we who can have it not only in every house, but 
 in our memories ; and may more securely have groped his 
 way to heaven by the by-paths of dungeon and martyrdom, 
 than we to whom the portals of God's temple stand invit- 
 ingly open day and night. 
 
 Well really, after making such reflections, I begin to 
 think my spectacles are becoming more useful to me than 
 my eyes were ; and that I see things more clearly than 
 before, as well with the mental as with the bodily vision. 
 If so, I shall find them useful indeed, and shall wish, for all 
 my friends, similar infirmities to mine ; nay, even stark 
 blindness shall be welcome, if, in the words of Milton. 
 
 . ^ . . " celestial light 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate.'* 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 31 
 
362 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER LXXXIII. 
 
 TO 
 
 London. 
 
 My dear Fkiend, 
 
 After the hints you gave me, I coukl have no doubt about 
 the guilt of the young knave, and, taking liim into my 
 study, roundly taxed him with it. He as roundly denied; 
 but it was of no use, for as fast as the false tongue vociferatee\ 
 innocence, the more truthful eye gave the lie to it. I there- 
 fore calmly stuck to my text, urged proofs, and from proofs 
 proceeded to expostulations, and those tender topics of 
 appeal which, in for o conscientice^ avail more than the most 
 subtle argumentations of lawyers. I told him of the ruin 
 he was bringing on himself, the anguish he was causing his 
 mother, till at length the boisterous tongue became silent, 
 and the sympathetic eyes, that had saved him from being 
 wholly lost, began to drop tears over the wicked tongue's 
 prevarications. The tongue itself at last faltered out (it 
 was a good deal less glib than before) its confessions. I 
 hope he is not gone beyond recovery. I account none such 
 so long as there is this schism in the " body corporate ; " 
 so long as conscience can get one organ fairly to contradict 
 another ; when ruddy shame sits on the cheeks, and lurking 
 truth looks out from the eyes, however the tongue may 
 bluster. The saddest of all spectacles is when Truth can 
 get no organ to plead her cause ; Avhen the hardened brow 
 and the unflinching eye, as well as the tongue, are in a league 
 against her. Then, indeed, I give all up for lost. When 
 Truth looks out no longer from the eye, Avhen the light is 
 darkened and the curtains drawn in that windoAV of the 
 soul, I know she lies dead, and is corrupting within. 
 
 It is curious to see with how much more difiiculty the 
 eye can be utterly corrupted than the tongue. And how. 
 
THE EYE AND THE TONGUE. 863 
 
 wlien the latter is asseverating falsehood, with oath upon 
 oath (impudent knave !) to make you believe it, the eye 
 often still calmly does homage to truth, and looks, " yes, 
 yes, yes," as fast as the other says '• no, no, no." 
 
 " Betwixt nose and eyes a strange contest arose," says 
 Cowper, in his amusing little lawsuit resj)ecting the " Spec- 
 tacles." " It is a far more important and less humorous 
 " cause " that is often pleading between the tongue and 
 the eye. If they had a separate consciousness, how mad 
 would the tongue be that the eye is apt to be such a blab 
 and tell-tale, and so inopportunely turns king's evidence ! 
 " What need had you to put in your oar and spoil all ? " 
 one might imagine it saying : " why could you not be 
 quiet ? " 
 
 Wherever the seat of the soul is, I am confident it lies 
 much nearer to the eye than to the tongue. This organ, 
 as Talleyrand wittily but perversely said, (though he was 
 not the first who said it,) was given man to conceal his 
 thoughts ; but that ' cannot be said of the eye. How the 
 soul looks out from it ! Even when the tongue is honest, 
 it cannot utter truth and feeling half so well as the eye ; 
 it is a poor, imperfect, faltering, blundering organ in com- 
 parison. But in the eye the soul beams and kindles, and 
 lightens and flashes the Truth in that light which is Truth's 
 most glorious emblem. 
 
 But to return to the poor lad, who is, metaphorically, 
 just now " in sackcloth and ashes." Take him again, and 
 try him this once ; I say not for his sake only, or for his 
 mother's, or for mine ; but for His whose loving memory is 
 more powerful with you than all these. Remember " the 
 seventy-times seven," and the text about " saving a soul 
 from death and covering a multitude of sins," — and that 
 other about " the thousand talents," and that again about 
 " the merciful gardener " who pleaded " for the barren fig- 
 
364 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tree " — " Let it iilone this year also ; " — and every other 
 of the many hundred texts which may well arm us with 
 love and patience, if we listen to them. Take him to the 
 New Testament, instead of sending him to prison, and to 
 the Saviour instead of to the magistrate ; and I will hope 
 you will never repent it ; nay, whatever betide, I am per- 
 fectly sure you never will. 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. I have been amusmg myself with a couple of visits 
 to the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park : surely the 
 most entertaining place, — next perhaps to the Museum, — 
 of all that this wonderful city invites us to inspect. I cannot 
 be got, as many do, to pity the brutes in this their artificial 
 condition. They pay a certain penalty, just as man does, 
 for their quasi civilization. They give u]^, it is true, that 
 trifle, their liberty ; I mean it is taken from them. Well, 
 at all events, they cannot blame themselves for the loss; 
 and if they are but philosophical beasts, — and surely they 
 have time and leisure enough for meditation, — they must 
 weigh their counterbalancing advantages. Here is the lion, 
 for example, feasting away daily in his West End den on 
 excellent horse-flesh, without the trouble of hunting and 
 killing. Let him poise, if wise, the advantages of his so- 
 called prison against the starving freedom — the precarious 
 pot-luck of his old cave, when his fasts Avere often, I dare 
 say, inconveniently long, and he and his young cubs often 
 never tasted butcher's meat more than once a week. As 
 to the elephant, does he not live in a house good enough 
 for a ten pound householder, and levy tithes of cakes, buns, 
 and biscuits, from half the youth of the metropolis ? The 
 Polar bear, it is true, is more to be pitied, this warm " Yule;" 
 he doubtless feels this Christmas that our climate is too 
 sultry, and fancies the cold bath in which he laves to be 
 
" REFORMATORIES." 365 
 
 always tepid. Our iiortli-easters, at wliich we shiver, are 
 a mere sirocco to him, and he yearns for those times whenj. 
 with the glass far below zero, he used to lie out on the ice- 
 bergs by night, and bask alfresco in the cool beams of the 
 Aurora Borealis. or the genial rays of liis cousin — Ursa 
 major. 
 
 LETTER LXXXIV. 
 
 TO THE EEV. C. ELLIS. 
 
 Dec. 18-J4. 
 My dear Feiend, 
 
 Have you ever been to one of the " Reformatories for 
 Juvenile Criminals" recently established? If you have 
 not, I would advise you to do so. I had paid some atten- 
 tion to the theory of them, and had watched with deep 
 interest the progress, of public opinion on the subject, but 
 never saw the inmates of a Reformatory till last Sunday. 
 I had been requested by a friend to " say a few words " in 
 the CA^ening to the poor little wretches, and truly, as Sam 
 Slick says, " it was a sight to behold ! '* There were about 
 thirty seated round a long deal table, and I must say they 
 behaved very well. They seemed quite under the com- 
 mand of their master, and had evidently been drilled to 
 their devotional exercises with commendable precision. 
 But such faces ! such a variety of " villainous low forehead!" 
 such furtive glances ! such airs of put-on goodness and de- 
 mure cunning ! such sharj) tAvinkling eyes, as they looked 
 up at me ! It reminded me of nothing so much as the 
 devil looking out of his up-stairs Avindows. 
 
 I inquired a little into the mode of government in this 
 little republic of juvenile thieves and vagabonds. I found, 
 somewhat to my surprise, that they were under no very 
 strict surveillance. To them "stonewalls" did 7iot a 
 
 31* 
 
366 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 "prison make." They "were to conform to certain rules 
 and be in at certain hours; but they were not restricted to 
 any bounds of space , and if they chose to abscond from 
 the protection and escape the discii^line of the "school," 
 nothing, as far as I could learn, prevented them. They 
 might ramble about the country, and if they chose, might, 
 at any moment, resume their old vagabond life and knavish 
 ways, and qualify themselves for being sent to "prison." 
 I know not whether the plan be similar in the other Kefor- 
 matories; and, from some escapades of these young gentle- 
 men which have been told me, I should rather doubt the 
 Avisdom of it. The liberty Indulged may be, as the school- 
 master said, " an appeal to theii moral sense ; " but I am 
 afraid the said "moral sense" would often fail to resj^ond. 
 It also afforded, he sagely remarked, a proof that they 
 valued the refuge assigned them; it does so certainly as 
 long as they continue in it. It enabled them, he further 
 argued, to show that they acted not from coercion^ but 
 from a sense of proj^riety — at least from a prudential 
 feeling ; which is again true so long as they comply with 
 the rules of the Reformatory, and duly make their aj^pear- 
 ance without a constable at their heels. Again ; their non- 
 abuse of these privileges showed, as the Reformatory Solon 
 remarked, that they are not destitute of " moral feeling," — 
 which is also true as long as they do not abuse them. Last- 
 ly, and above all, say the advocates of such a jDlan, it 
 allows the young criminals to converse with temptations — 
 temptations which they must meet wath when they return 
 to the world. But whether such converse is likely to be 
 improving to such persons is a question. To prevent their 
 parleying with Madam Vice at all, for a time, would seem 
 to be the wiser policy. Plowever, if the object be to pro- 
 vide them with temptations, there is certainly no lack of 
 that commodity in the neighborhood of the huge town, in 
 
" REf OPwMATORIES," 367 
 
 the dejDraved and crowded suburbs of which this young 
 colony of incij^ient angels is located. "They may thus 
 coj^e with temptations, sir," said the philanthropic school 
 master, " which we can know they are capable of doing only 
 by experiencey Very true, when they do cope with them. 
 But for all that, I should not think it desirable to try an 
 infant virtue, just reclaimed from theft and knavery, Avith 
 too many of those tests. If ordinary boys, however care- 
 fully nurtured, are, at school, strictly kept within bounds ; 
 if it would be deemed dangerous and foolish to let them, 
 unattended by ushers and masters, have the run of the 
 whole neighborhood, I cannot see that it is altogether wise 
 to allow of such license to these less hopeful " hopefuls." 
 Be so kind as to inquire for me how it is with the Refor- 
 matory near you ; and if so, what is the experience of those 
 who have the management of it. One of the things against 
 which the philanthropy of the day has to guard is a too 
 sanguine estimate of the degree in which criminals are still 
 under the control of ordinary motives, and capable of ap- 
 preciating, rather than abusing, the lenity which to a 
 nature unfamiliar with crime is far more potent than 
 severity. 
 
 One of the things that much struck me was the mode in 
 which my congregation of young imj^s was assembled. 
 The Reformatory is situated in a wild and lonely spot, 
 about three miles and a half from the heart of the neisfh- 
 boring town ; it stands in the midst of retired fields, and 
 the access to it is by some deej) and miry lanes. It was a 
 pitch-dark November evening, and when I got there no 
 soul was to be seen in the desolate Reformatory, except the 
 Master and a friend of his who occasionally came up on a 
 Sunday evening, on the same charitable errand which had 
 brought me thither. I wondered whence my flock were to 
 come, and how they were to be gathered together. I was 
 
3G8 THE GREYSON LETT FES. 
 
 not long in suspense. The master took down a large horn, 
 and going to the door, blew two or three loud blasts there- 
 on, and in about ten minutes, in the young scaj^egraces 
 came, tumbling in from the lanes and adjoining fields. It 
 reminded me of nothing so much as Wamba and Gurth 
 calling their herd of swine together ; but I fear it teas the 
 " 5^o^;^e," loith the " demls " in them I It was a most pain- 
 ful, as well as pleasing, spectacle. 
 
 It was 23leasing to think of the good that might be done 
 by this institution : that it insured to these young souls a 
 pause at least in their career of guilt and sorrow — an 
 asylum from some of their worst temptations — a break- 
 water between them and the raging sea without. On the 
 other hand, it was painful, inexpressibly painful, to see the 
 vivid traces of wrong-doing already stamped on their young 
 features — the scars already left of the conflicts with evil in 
 which, all young as they were, they had been engaged, and, 
 alas! in which they had been worsted; and above all to think, 
 that many of them would, in all iDrobability, after this lit- 
 tle lull of passion, be again caught by the tempest of temp- 
 tation, and be wrecked at last ; that after being arrested in 
 their fall, as it were, on a ledge of rock, they Avould roll 
 over into the abyss ! Most j^ainful also was it to reflect 
 that many of these youthful criminalshad probably never had 
 a chance of being otherwise ! How many among them had 
 been the children of vice, and consequently heirs of shame ! 
 How many of them, cast on the world by their abandoned 
 parents, who had all the passions of beasts and none of 
 their kindlier instincts ! Some, perhaps, had been early 
 orphans, and falling into hard or cunning hands, had had a 
 better nature early perverted to evil. Ah ! if those who 
 brought these poor hapless ones into the world, could have 
 been the invisible spectators of their wrongs, it would have 
 been enough to poison heaven itself to them. Some per- 
 
"REFORMATORIES." 369 
 
 liaps there were — most miserable of all — who had been 
 kindly and tenderly nurtured, — had been in their dawn 
 of life the objects of lavish cares and flattering hopes, — 
 of a ]nother's morning and evening j^rayers ; and at last of 
 agonizing doubt and terror, heart-rending sighs and tears, 
 as the enticements of evil companions and the strength of 
 youthful passions gradually fixmiliarized them with sin — 
 vice — crime, — until the very images of home, its love, 
 and its sanctities, the strongest ties that bind the youthful 
 soul to virtue, had faded from the memory, and with them, 
 for the present, the hopes of heaven ! Yet not in vain may 
 tlie poor parents have wej)t and prayed; for hoAV often 
 have the wanderers returned after long years of salutary 
 sorrow — wise at last; perhaps long after those whose fond 
 hearts they have tried and broken, have been safely housed 
 in heaven. " Hope on still," one would say to such, " for 
 not only is 'hope the only tie that keeps the heart from 
 breaking ; ' but, you know, that you are expressly assured 
 that in some way, though unknown, every act of ' faithful 
 love ' and ' loving faith ' shall be recompensed a thousand 
 fold." In thousands of cases besides that so inimitably 
 described by Him who came so far to seek the lost, has the 
 "prodigal" been reclaimed by that very school of vice and 
 suffering Avhich he chose, and which j^romised to qualify 
 him only for j^erdition. 
 
 Yet, yet, in spite of all such mitigations — what a world 
 it is ! When shall we cope with its mysteries of sorrow ? — 
 But it will not do to go on thus. To you and to me, it 
 seems a thousand times better, that this old hulk of a planet 
 should founder for ever in the depths of space. But we 
 onust be wrong, since He keeps it afloat with all its freight 
 of guilt and misery, with its cargo of slaves and convicts 
 cursing, blaspheming, tempting, falling, agonizing beneath 
 
370 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the hatches, through all the horrors of this middle passage i 
 And since He bears with it, who is both chiefly wronged 
 by it, and more offended with the evil in it than we can be, 
 let us learn to do what little we can, simply, faithfully, 
 zealously, to diminish, if only by a grain's weight, the evil 
 around us, and leave the great mystery of that evil, and of 
 (dl evil, to the day when alone, if ever, we shall understand 
 it. The?!, if we understand it not, Ave shall understand Him, 
 who permitted it, too Avell to doubt His wisdom; and, 
 better still, have faith, if not knowledge, equal to the task 
 of accepting the- conviction of His unlimited goodness. 
 
 For the present, we, at least Z, must not meditate much 
 on this theme ; — " that way madness lies.*' — So I say to 
 myself, " Up and be doing ! What are the engagements 
 of the day, you lazy dog?" — and that thought of simj^le 
 trusting duty sets me on my legs again, just as the involun- 
 tary chirruj) which accompanied the self-expostulation has, 
 I see, made poor Carlo, who had likewise been in a deep 
 fit of abstraction on a chair by the Avindow, all life and 
 spirits ! Bless your honest old face, you affectionate beast. 
 I wonder what you have been thinking of; perhaps of the 
 origin of evil to the dog species — or the lamentable num- 
 ber of houseless, half-starved, ill-used hounds there are in the 
 world. Thank you for your cheerful looks, old fellow ! You 
 often teach a lesson or two, better than any Cynic 23hiloso- 
 phei- I know of — Well, well, Ave Avill go out, if you like, 
 but you need not tear my coat all to pieces, you brute ! 
 
 And so, my friend, Avith this little play Avith my dog, uj) 
 go the clouds Avhich I am sorry to say too often descend on 
 my soul Avhen I foolishly think of such things as I but noAV 
 dwelt upon. But the misty curtain is rising noAV under 
 the cheering breeze Avhich has sprung up. Fast up the 
 hill they lift and lift, — and noAV I can see the sunlight 
 
ANGLO-SAXON CRIMINAL CODE. 871 
 
 struggling through a rift here and there ; and so I will out 
 on the hills with Carlo, for the good both of body and 
 mind ; fare thee well. 
 
 But I invite you to resume these edifying speculations 
 when we shall be less likely to be injured by them, and 
 less liable to interruptions; say, ten thousand five hundred 
 and forty-nine years hence, at your pleasant house in 
 "Paradise Street," in the heavenly city — the metro])olis 
 of the *' better country," in full view of the immortal 
 verdure and glorious sunlit summits of the "everlasting 
 hills." There will I wrangle with you with much delight 
 for a thousand years ! — But my dog gets impatient, and 
 has set up such a clamor of barking joy, that I cannot 
 Avrite for him. 
 
 By the way, I hope my "faithful dog may bear me 
 company;" so far I am an Indian. But, then, I do not 
 know anything in Christian theology that absolutely 
 forbids a faint hope of once more meeting with these 
 fond comj^anions, — these four-legged Abdiels — " faithful 
 amonsjst the faithless." 
 
 Ever yours. 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXXV. 
 
 TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 1854. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Have you read Kemble's "Anglo-Saxons? If not, it 
 
 is worth your Avhile. It has led me to rummage again 
 
 into their history, and I found equal instruction and 
 
 amusement in doing so. There Ave see the "incimabula 
 
 gentis nostrae," — the cradle of the great English giant — 
 
372 THE GKEYSON LETIEIIS. 
 
 of that huge Colossus which iiovv bestrides the world. In 
 the Anglo-Saxon genius and institutions, we discern the 
 germs, at all events, of that wonderful constitution, the 
 great merit of which consists in its organic development : 
 that it has assumed its shape and attained its stature by 
 vital forces from within, not been hewn, fashioned, and 
 built up from without. Like an oak, it was not " made," 
 but "grew," and the acorn, whence all its leafy honors 
 and all its wide-spreading foliage, was dropj^ed into the 
 soil more than a thousand years ago. 
 
 Some of the Anglo-Saxon institutions, however, were 
 certainly odd enough; and of all the droll things which 
 human legislation has concocted, their criminal code was 
 surely one of the drollest. The precise money-value which 
 they attached to the life of every man according to his 
 rank, and the precision with which the loss or mutilation 
 of every organ of the human body was api3raised, reminds 
 one rather of a butcher's shop, where Revenge might 
 either purchase the whole carcass or haggle for a partic- 
 ular joint at its good pleasure. You might have a king, 
 it seems, for "thirty thousand thrymsas," or about a 
 hundred and fifty pounds ; a prince for half the money, 
 and a bishop or earl for a third. Only think ! if such laws 
 were in force now, — a millionaire, — some Baron Roths- 
 child, — might take off half the bench of bishops, and 
 never miss the money ! 
 
 As to mutilations, nothing to a Adndictive spirit can be 
 imagined more convenient. Do you want to " break the 
 thigh " of your enemy, or " cut off his ears ? " Twelve 
 shillings is the moderate price for the dainty gratification. 
 If you are contented to " cut off the finger," you may save 
 a shilling; if you simply "cut off his great toe," or tear off 
 "his hair entirely'','* ten shillings will do; while if you are 
 satisfied with merely ''knocking out one of his front 
 
ANGLO-SAXON CRIMINAL CODE. 373 
 
 teeth," you will have.it, surely cheap enough, at six shil- 
 lings ! 
 
 Methinks, in these civilized days, we should soon reduce 
 the system to convenient commercial forms. We should 
 make our revenge, like other luxuries, a question of ex- 
 penditure and income, and j^ut down so much for it, just 
 as for wine or cigars. Ladies, in their marriage settle- 
 ments, might bargain for their spite-inoney^ as now for 
 their pin-money ; while neat little Christmas bills might 
 be sent in, exhibiting the exact debtor and creditor con- 
 dition of the feud betAveen you and your adversary. 
 What jDleasant items ! 
 
 John Smith, Dr., to John Brovm. 
 
 To the loss of my little child's great toe 
 To piercing my wife's nose 
 To knocking out my servant's eye-tooth 
 To breaking my boy's ann 
 
 Creditor, by having lost an arm in the 
 last scuffle 
 
 Balance due to J. B 
 
 £ 
 
 s. 
 
 d. 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 10 
 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 
 
 But I suj^pose our Anglo-Saxon forefathers would have 
 found out admirable reasons for their fantastical system ; 
 equally fantastical, whether we consider its general prin- 
 cij^le, or the capricious rate of valuation of particular inju- 
 ries. Some, perhaps, would even have found out that, 
 however anomalous, the thmg worked icell, and could not be 
 disturbed without the most fatal consequences to the whole 
 common weal ! In the meantime, we can see that in one 
 respect it had a solid recommendation ; for, like most legis- 
 lative expedients of a rude age, it seems to have been a 
 transition from a worse system — that of the unlimited 
 
 32 
 
374 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 prosecution of private revenge. Anything that will put a 
 legal limit to that, must be by comparison a blessing ; 
 otherwise each injury, sacredly consigned to revenge, 
 must lead on to an infinite series of similar acts, or can 
 terminate only w^hen one party to a feud is absolutely 
 exterminated. " I do not see," said some one to a New 
 Zealand chief, " how your wars, once begun, can ever be 
 ended ; for you say revenge is a sacred duty, and each 
 retaliation becomes a new aoisrression." The ISTew Zealand 
 chief, it is said, was rather puzzled at so novel an argu- 
 ment ; but on reflection admitted that it must be so. Of 
 course it must ; as was the case with our Gaelic fore- 
 fathers; among whom injuries w^ere heir-looms, and, pretty 
 often, the chief j^art of the ragged inheritance. A kills B, 
 C kills A, D kills C, and so on, down the wiiole alj^habet, 
 to Z, and then all to begin over again. Pleasant times to 
 live in, uj)on my w^ord ! Thank God, we live in better. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 B. E. H. *G. 
 
 LETTER LXXXYI. 
 
 to the same. 
 My dear West, 
 
 I knew your friend Mr. G. w^as hasty ; from what you 
 say, he seems also to be sulky, which I did not suspect, 
 and can less readily forgive. It is a beneficent arrange- 
 ment of Providence, argues old Thomas Fuller, that a 
 stoi-m and a fog cannot come together ; for if there is a 
 storm, it clears away the fog, and if there is a fog, the 
 wind is calm. Your quondam friend seems to show that 
 that may be possible in the moral world which is impos- 
 
"SEDATIVES OF ANGER." 375 
 
 sible in the natural. The vapors in his soul, like those on 
 a mountain side when the clouds lie low, may roll and 
 tumble, it seems, with the gusts of passion, but do not 
 disjDerse. 
 
 Anybody may be overtaken with sudden anger, and 
 when frankly acknowledged and repented of, it is easily 
 forgiven; nay, I have known some choleric j)ersons so 
 sweetly and ingenuously own their fault, that one can 
 hardly regret that it has been committed. But at all 
 events the temptation is sometimes so swift and sudden — 
 it is so difficult to intercept it by putting the soul into a 
 posture of defence — that one may easily be betrayed into 
 a transient emotion of anger. Many are the prescribed 
 prophylactics, but I know none that is infallibly effectual. 
 Some say, — " When inclined to be angry, bite your thumb 
 or your tongue till the blood comes ; that will operate a 
 diversion, and give you something to think about." Very 
 likely — but whether it will tend to calm our passion may 
 well be doubted. Others say — " Count a million or two, 
 and by the time you get to the end, you will be quite 
 cool." Very true — but the worst of it is, the mind must 
 be cool before it can think of any such remedy. 
 
 But continued resentment has no such excuse. It is a 
 sin of deliberation, and is persisted in by wilfully nursing 
 and petting it. 
 
 Do you remember that eminently beautiful passage in 
 Paley's "Moral Philosophy," — one of the few in which he 
 becomes genial and almost eloquent, — in which he sets 
 down the reflections proper for appeasing anger, and which 
 he calls its sedatives f They are all well-imagined, and 
 many of them very touching, and can scarcely ever be re- 
 volved by a mind in the condition described, without tran- 
 quillizing it. But the real difficulty is to get the mind into 
 the posture of pondering them ; if that be done, the mind 
 
376 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 will already be comparatively calm. — If Paley had been 
 more of a metaphysician, he would have added to his other 
 sedatives of anger the salutary effect of the very attempt to 
 apply these " sedatives ; " for the moment we begin to re- 
 flect upon and analyze our emotion, the emotion is gone. 
 I hope your friend Mr. G. will begin to " analyze " without 
 delay. 
 
 M. L. is going out as cadet to India, with all the san- 
 guine feelings proper, at least natural, at his age, and utterly 
 improper and impossible at any other. Enviable magic of 
 youthful imagination! which thus converts all the future 
 into golden dreams, and presages not a cloud on the hori- 
 zon even as "big as a man's hand." Well, it is best that it 
 should be so ; for if it were otherwise, where were enter- 
 prise — that child of hope and fancy ? A picture brighter 
 in tints than ever artist painted, is the lure which leads all 
 young vigor to action. " Knowledge is power," and so is 
 ignorance, it seems ; and if it were not, the world would 
 stagnate. It is thus that Providence gently imjDels us to 
 take our places in His School, and learn our lessons and en- 
 dure His discipline ; from all which we should resile fast 
 enough, if we knew at the outset what a business it was 
 like to be. Here is this lad already anticipating his return 
 from India, (his mother of course is to be alive,) with no 
 end of rupees in his pocket, and not a touch of liver com- 
 plaint ! In like manner, a young ensign no sooner puts on 
 his uniform, than he becomes lieutenant, captain, major, 
 colonel, in no time ; nobody knows how great a man he is, 
 — which indeed is all very true ; and it is well if he is not 
 soon Commander-in-Chief, and returning home, after another 
 Waterloo, to hear the plaudits of a grateful nation, — all 
 unwitting that he may perish in a ditch before the beard on 
 his chin is fairly established. In like manner, the young 
 lawyer is apt to fancy himself already Lord Chancellor — 
 
YOUTHFUL HOPES. 377 
 
 lias a vision of the woolsack, and of himself sitting upon it 
 almost as clear as in a dream — quite as clear, it ought to 
 be, for it is a dream ; while the young lover — but there is 
 no end to his romances ! What a paragon of excellences 
 and beauties is that young lady ! and what wonderful suc- 
 cess, for her sake, attends him in life ! Yet he can make 
 shift with little but love ; " a cottage of content," covered 
 of course with woodbines and honeysuckles, adorns the 
 waste of the future. If he wants it, he has in imagination 
 ten thousand a year — or if hot, imagination tells him that 
 a hundred or a hundred and fifty will do just as well ; it is 
 absolutely inexhaustible, and, Avith " love and content," can 
 purchase, furnish, and maintain his paradise. Yet out of 
 the dreams of hope, seldom to be fulfilled, are shaped the 
 realities of the stern future. 
 
 Commend me to the moderate ambition of that New 
 Zealand chief, of whom I have somewhere read, who, on 
 the distribution of some captain's gifts, said that " his heart 
 would burst if he did not get a Ao6," as some hai)i)ier com- 
 rade had done. A strange paradox is the human heart, 
 which not even the world can fill, and which yet, it seems, 
 may go to pieces for want of a hoe ! 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. n. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXXVII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Dec. 1854. 
 My DEAR Frtenp, 
 
 I have been reading, with intense interest, that curious 
 
 and ingenious book (have you read it ?) on the " Plurality 
 
 32* 
 
378 THE GRFYSON LETTERS. 
 
 of Worlds, — and also a long article in rej^ly. Like other 
 folks, I of course muse with special eagerness on subjects 
 which, like this, we have no possible means of deciding; and 
 which if they were decided, can in no way concern us. All 
 that is quite natural. Here have I been spending the last 
 two or three mornings in a " Fool's paradise," — debating 
 whether or not other worlds are inhabited, while letters 
 which I had to write, and business which I had to transact 
 in this world (which unluckily is inhabited), were all neg- 
 lected ! But doubtless, it is much the same all over the 
 universe. The philosophers of Venus, — if she be inhabited, 
 and can boast of philosophers, — are, I do not question, 
 much more intent on finding out whether our world is in- 
 habited than in attending to the business of their own 
 proper planet. Meantime, is \i not pleasant to think that 
 our philosophers and their readers have so much leisure 
 time on their hands that they can afford to look after the 
 possible citizens of other worlds, and such expansive benev- 
 olence as to wish them all imaginable felicity ? It is a ques- 
 tion, I remember, in Martinus Scriblerus, whether " a possi- 
 ble angel be not more worthy of the divine regards than an 
 actually existent fly ? " From the keen interest with which 
 a philosopher can sometimes speculate on this question of 
 the " Plurality of Worlds " and the oblivion, in which, mean- 
 time, he may leave the affairs of this, one might certainly 
 imagine that, in his estimate, a possible inhabitant of Venus 
 is more worthy of attention than an actual inhabitant of 
 Earth. 
 
 " These discussions are all very well," I can hear some 
 Utilitarian groAvling out ; " but it would be better if your 
 philosophers would spend their time in promoting the wel- 
 fare of those they know exist and can benefit, and not gad 
 about the universe in search of imaginary ladies and gen- 
 tlemen of inaccessible worlds." 
 
TLURALITY OF WORLDS. 379 
 
 Yet, with due submission to onr Utilitarian, I certainly 
 think the Essay on the " PluraUty of Worlds " may subserve 
 a very useful purpose ; and if it had been a little differently 
 constructed, I think it Avould have read us lessons entirely 
 unexceptionable, — as it even now teaches us many valuable 
 ones. I thought before I dipped into it (judging from 
 report merely), that it was an ironical argument, designed, 
 not seriously to call in question the probability of a " Plu- 
 rality of Worlds," — a conclusion which so many analogies 
 favor, and which will, I suppose, be always adopted by nine- 
 tenths of mankind, — but to show philosophers how little 
 they really hioio about the matter, and how little reason 
 there was for the confidence and doG^matism Avith winch 
 cosmologists have often chattered about such subjects. I 
 say there was ample ground for reading the world such a 
 lesson ; for really the conceit of modern science had been 
 getting on at such a rate with its " fire mists," its "condensa- 
 tions " of " subtle fluid matter," and its theories of " nebulas" 
 consolidating into stars, that thousands began to tlaink it 
 was the easiest thing in the world to make a world ; nay, 
 that they could even see them a-mciking. I almost fancy 
 some of our wise cosmogonists would hardly have blushed 
 to head a chapter in a similar way with one in Knicker- 
 bocker's " History of New York," — "Showing how that 
 the creation of a world is by no means so difficult a matter 
 as has been sometimes imagined." 
 
 On reading the book, however, though I think it does 
 convey some such reproofs very forcibly, I find many pas- 
 sages which look as if the author seriously designed, not 
 merely to challenge proofs of ingenious and plausible hypoth- 
 eses, or rebuke the confidence Avith which they have been 
 maintained, but to show that there is really a preponder- 
 ance of argument in favor of the hypothesis that otlier 
 worlds are not inhabited. On the other hand, his opponent, 
 
380 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the Reviewer, seems to me to speak as much too dogmati- 
 cally on the other side ; he lays much more stress on some 
 Scripture phrases than they will bear; nor does lie suffi- 
 ciently remember, — when he gives his scientific conjectures 
 of what is certainly jyossihle enough, or even probable 
 enough, — that the question which the author of the " Plu- 
 rality " constantly urges, is not what may be^ but what is / 
 not what may possibly be true, but what is hnoimi about 
 the matter. 
 
 That is assuredly little enough. We know but little even 
 " of our next-door neighbor" — the moon ; and Avhat we 
 do know seems to have pretty "svell convmced astronomers 
 that she is not inhabited ; we at the same time know that 
 our earth certainly is. These are the only two worlds of 
 whose condition, relatively to this subject, we are entitled 
 to speak with any measure of confidence; so that the data 
 seem lamentably meagre for a sweeping generalization either 
 way. The problem, in fact, seems to be much like this ; — 
 Given one world which is certainly inhabited, and one other 
 which most probably is not ; to discover whether other 
 worlds are inhabited or not. This sounds to me about as 
 promising as this ; — Given one river which has fish, and 
 another Avhich has none ; to discover wdiether other i-ivers, 
 of which nothing is known, have fish or not ; — a hopeful 
 problem for a priori speculation ! 
 
 Yet, after all, though we Icnoio nothing about the matter, 
 I suppose all the books in the world will not prevent, men 
 from being of a very confident persuasion^ — arguing from 
 general analogy, — that the worlds above us are not all 
 empty solitudes ; but, like our own, either already, or des- 
 tined to be, the abodes of life. 
 
 Nevertheless, to show how little we hnov:! of the matter, 
 the hypothesis of the author of the " Plurality " or that of 
 his opponent may be absolutely true ; and, again, both may 
 
PLURALITY OF WORLDS. 381 
 
 be partially true. It 'inay be that every one of the worlds 
 around us is in the predicament in which the aiithor of tlie 
 " Plurality " so ingeniously argues this world must have 
 been millions of years before life appeared in it. Even if 
 designed to be the abodes of life, they may be only build- 
 ing, not built ; not yet tenantable — the scaffolding all still 
 about them; the carpenter, upholsterer, and painter, not 
 yet admitted ; or, if I may change the figure, the " crust " 
 of these worlds may still be a-baking, or rather cooling^ if 
 that be the approved scientific mode in which the crust of 
 worlds is made. Our world may be the only one tho- 
 roughly fitted up. On the other hand, for aught we know, 
 this may be the last that was finished ; while they all may 
 have rejoiced in the completion of the process myriads of 
 ages ago ! Even the moon herself, on that side of which 
 we know nothing, may be a paradise, and full of happy in- 
 habitants ; and the side which alone we see, may be the 
 rocky foundations of her other glorious hemisphere — an 
 "Arabia Petraea" bordering an " Arabia Fehx." There 
 tnay be in other worlds no life as yet ; there may be only 
 forms of animal life inferior to man ; there may be rational- 
 ity conjoined with the most diverse organization from ours, 
 — mtelligence essentially like ours, but indefinitely superior 
 or indefinitely inferior to it ; there may be beings with only 
 one sense or two, and there may be others like Voltaire's 
 Little Man of Saturn, or like " Micromegas " himself, with 
 fifty senses, and a knowledge of " three hundred essential 
 properties of matter ; " there may be rational creatures, in 
 each of the various planets, adapted by special organization 
 to their physical conditions of light and heat, and local po- 
 sition in the universe, — affording, amidst essential unity of 
 plan conjoined with endless modifications in execution, 
 proofs of the inexhaustible fertility of the Divine invention, 
 the " manifold wisdom of God ; " and there may be, to 
 
382 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 prove that " manifold wisdom" yet more conspicuously, not 
 only rationality like ours, but even a physical organization 
 like ours too, in planets most dissimilarly situated in refer- 
 ence to the sun, and most dissimilarly constituted in them- 
 selves ; — and this by means of a modification of their sec- 
 ondary laws ; of a special physical apparatus, which, for 
 aught we know, may make Mercury as cool, and Saturn as 
 warm, as the Earth. So that, on the one hand, while the 
 planets are differently placed relati^'ely to the centre of the 
 system, they may have inhabitants organized very differ- 
 ently from ourselves, yet exquisitely adapted to them / or 
 they may have inhabitants like ourselves, in virtue of dis- 
 tinct adaptation of their own local laws to such inhabitants ; 
 or, which again is very possible, both these suppositions may 
 be true in different portions of the universe, and thus con- 
 jointly illustrate the infinitude of the divine resources. 
 Here is a " j^lentiful assortment" of conjectures, any one of 
 which may be true ; nay, all of them at the very same time, 
 in different regions of space! But as to what \^ hnoion^ 
 demonstrable — how much is it ? i 
 
 The folks of other -worlds, — supposing those worlds to 
 be inhabited, — w^hat would they say if they knew that we 
 are writing books and waging strenuous controversies as 
 to their possible existence ? I fancy they would be inclined 
 to say of us, " The inhabitants of that little Avorld can have 
 very little to do, since they can find time for the active 
 pursuit of such visionary speculations ! " But what would 
 they say if they found that, in these and in many other 
 equally conjectural inquiries, philosophers could not refrain 
 from vehement objurgation and mutual rej^roaches ? — 
 sometimes even lost their temper, and charged each other 
 with absurdity and stupidity? — nay, with grave tenden- 
 cies to " Atheism, " if others did not " dream the same 
 dream" as they? Methinks our planetary friends would 
 
PLURALITY OF WOKLDS. 383 
 
 say, lliat tlie " Know Thyself," wliich was said so long ago 
 to have " descended from heaven," still remains there ; and 
 that, Avhatever else our ^philosophers have succeeded in 
 fetching from other worlds, they had at least left that be- 
 hind them 
 
 Ever yours, etc. 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER LXXXVIII. 
 
 to the same. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 On recollecting what I wrote the other day, I half re- 
 pent of some of the sentiments I expressed. I laughed a 
 little at the busy idleness which sends us all roaming into 
 other worlds when we have so much to do in this, 
 and so little time to do it in, and perhaps it does look 
 rather whimsical ; yet, in calmly computing not only the 
 pleasure but the benefit of the hours I have spent with my 
 two authors, I am by no means sure that they have not 
 been wisely spent. If they have not given me knowledge, 
 I am not sure that they have not given me what is better. 
 How elevating is even speculation, — if we be at all sober 
 and modest, — on such a theme ! What can so teach us 
 humility, — our insignificance and weakness, — as such a 
 little tour through the universe ! How does even that ig- 
 norance, in Avhich we are at last compelled to acquiesce 
 instruct us yet more profoundly than our limited knoAvl- 
 edge ! How ennobling are those thoughts that ^' wander 
 through infinity," — at least raising us above this world if 
 they cannot reveal to us the condition of other Avorlds ! 
 
 And even if ever so unprofitable, yet how inevitable, is 
 the curiosity which impels man to such speculations ! Who 
 
384 THE GRF.YSON LETTERS. 
 
 can resist them ? Who can look up to the glittering lights 
 which steal out at solemn eventide, or blaze out all over 
 the azure arch on a frosty night, without asking the ques^ 
 tions which these authors strive to solve, or feeling himself 
 the better for meditation on them ? 
 
 And if there be inhabitants of other worlds, depend on 
 it they feel much as we do. If there are folks on the other 
 side of the moon, — my word for it, they have scrambled 
 up to the ridge which divides their hemisphere from that 
 seen by us, and peered (even though they should risk their 
 necks by it) down on the earth ; — to them a glorious lamp, 
 about thirteen times the size of the full moon, hanging mo- 
 tionless in their sky ! Yes, I see it all ; their philosophers 
 are full of conjectures about us, and have absolutely settled 
 it in their minds that so beautiful an orb must be the abode 
 of innocence and happiness ! 
 
 We know they are a little mistaken in this matter ; but 
 then, alas ! may not we be too, when we speculate in a sim- 
 ilar manner about the diffusion of happiness, as well as life, 
 in other worlds ! This, I confess, is one of the most dis- 
 mal thoughts which arrest us in our speculations on the 
 *•' Plurality of Worlds." We are apt to imagine these beau- 
 tiful abodes of light not only full of life, but of felicity also. 
 How far may "distance lend enchantment to the view?'' 
 How far, as in other excursions of fancy, may we be the 
 dupes of the seeming fair and beautiful ? Do the shadows 
 of evil lie as deep on the surface of those shining orbs, in 
 spite of their radiant exterior to us, as we know they do on 
 our world, though the folks in the moon may be felicitat- 
 ing us on our splendor, and the poets of Venus returning 
 the compliments of our own to her, by sonnetteering us as 
 an " island of the blest ? " It will not do to dwell on this 
 side of the speculation; so let us come back, my friend, 
 while we are still only the wiser for our transient flights 
 
PLURALITY OF WORLDS. 385 
 
 through space, to the httle chx-le of j^resent duty, and leave 
 the question of " Evil " to him who has said that " secret 
 things belong to God ; but the things that are revealed, to 
 us and to our children ; " and He has revealed that " He 
 will make all things work together for good to them that 
 
 love Him." 
 
 Yours ever affectionately, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. — On reflection, ichy should this matter of the 
 Plurality of AYorlds be so long and so doubtfully disputed? 
 Why should we have mere conjectures, when "modern 
 science " can so easily give us certainty ? Why does not 
 " clairvoyance " settle the matter for us ? What is the use 
 of it, if it cannot determine such a trifling controversy ? 
 All that a clairvoyant has to do is to put himself en rapport 
 with Mercury or Venus ; and he can tell us all about the 
 thing. As Hopeful says in the " Pilgrim's Progress," " Why 
 should I remain in this dungeon, when I have a key in my 
 bosom M'hich will open all the wards in Giant Despair's 
 castle." So say I ; why should we remain ignorant on 
 this question of the "Phirality of Worlds," while there are 
 clairvoyantes in the Jand? And there is the more induce- 
 ment, surely, for these knowing ones to speak, inasmuch as 
 they must have it all their own way ; none can contradict 
 them, unless, indeed (which is but too probable), they con- 
 tradict one another. If they tell us that the inhabitants of 
 Jupiter have two heads and ten eyes, pray, my dear friend, 
 can you or I deny it? But I forget; the thing is already 
 done ; see the revelations of the " Poughkeepsie Seer," and 
 you will find everything plain. The inhabitants of Jupiter, 
 in particular, are duly described, anatomically, physiologi- 
 cally, mentally, and morally. After this, who but must be 
 surprised that the controversy between our j^hilosophers 
 
 should go on? 
 
 33 
 
386 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 I wish our clairvoyantcs, in the meantime, would just 
 condescend to tell us Avhether Austria is meditatins: treach- 
 ery this coming spring, and how many troops and what 
 munitions are at this moment in Sebastopol. Strange per- 
 verseness of these gifted beings ! They can tell us all sorts 
 of useless things : liow Mr. Brown is employed, in the tAvo 
 pair of stairs' back, No 10, of any street in London ; Avhat 
 Sir John Franklin was doing on such a day at the North 
 Pole ; what sort of creatures inhabit Jupiter ; and yet they 
 won't let us know anything that is of any earthly use to us. 
 How can they wonder that men are sceptical as to their 
 jDOwers, when tliey will not exercise them to any purpose ? 
 And strangely blind must they be to their own interests ! 
 What would not the " Times " give for such a si^ecimen of 
 " Our own Correspondent ! " — what would not govern- 
 ment give for such an agent ! In the name of common 
 
 sense, try and persuade your clairvoyant friend, T. S , 
 
 to do something for us. 
 
 LETTER LXXXIX. 
 
 TO REV. C. ELLIS. 
 
 Akran, July, ISol. 
 My dear Ellis, 
 
 I think you would not easny imagine how a part of last 
 
 evening was spent. Well, I will tell you. At the modest 
 
 little table (V hote at the Brodick Arms (there might have 
 
 been, perhaps, half a dozen of us present), I, with some 
 
 others, was watching the progress of a discussion between 
 
 two of the party, on a subject which I imagine they would 
 
 not have chosen to discuss in such a place, nor, I dare say, 
 
 before an audience of strangers. But they got insensibly 
 
 embroiled, and at last urged each other on to give the most 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 387 
 
 undisguised expression of opinion. The rest of us gradu- 
 ally left our commonplace chat to listen to them, except 
 two, who seemed to think the discourse either not interest- 
 ing or not important enough to detain them. " And what 
 was the subject?" you will ask. Oh! a mere bagatelle, 
 my dear friend, in these enlightened days; — it was simply 
 whether or not there be a God ! or whether man alone, so 
 far as we know, has the privilege of conscious intelligence 
 and personal importance in the universe ! Of the two com- 
 batants, one was an Atheist, and the other a Deist. 
 
 Confess, now, that you would not have guessed that such 
 a subject would have been discussed at a Uible d? hote. I 
 will add that you would not often hear it more acutely dis- 
 cussed in a college. Among the four or five of us who 
 became gradually interested listeners, was a citizen of Glas- 
 gow, — a plain Christian man, who had probably never 
 heard such undisguised impieties so calmly avowed and 
 discussed before. He sat, for the most part, in a sort of 
 fascination of horror, yet a highly interested and intelligent 
 listener; for to many a Scotchman a little bitof "meta- 
 pheesyks " is as dear as " oatmeal parritch." As he listened 
 to the reckless challenging of truths, which seemed to him 
 clear as the light, and infinitely more precious, he reminded 
 me of nothing so much as a bird under the fascination of a 
 serpent. At the close, however, he broke in with a very 
 decisive expression of his opinion, and showed that, how- 
 ever he might have been fixed for a while by the rattle- 
 snake gaze of a live Atheist, he was not going to jump 
 down his throat. 
 
 And what was the general result, you will ask, of the 
 controversy ? Did it not end, as most others end, in con- 
 vincing nobody? 
 
 Perhaps so; — but not in confuting nobody. Each 
 
388 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 was victorious, triumphantly victorious, in defeating his 
 opponent. 
 
 Tlie issue was a little like that which, according to Sully, 
 attended a certain stratagem in the wars of the League. 
 The citizens of the town of Yille-Franche went out at 
 night to surprise the neighboring town of Montj^azier. 
 That very same night, the good folks of Montpazier had 
 taken it into their heads to surprise the town of Yille- 
 Franche ! Each party accoutred a sufficient force, and each 
 took a diffi3rent route; each found the enemy's quarters 
 obligingly vacated for the other's benefit ; and when morn- 
 ing dawned, each party found itself at once successful and 
 unsuccessful — victorious and defeated ! " On pilla, on se 
 gorgea de butin ; tout le monde se crut heureux jusqu'a ce 
 que le jour ayant j^aru, les deux villes connurent leur me- 
 prise." 
 
 Among other things, the Deist affirmed that he had an 
 " intuitional consciousness " of the Infinite and of the Deity. 
 The Atheist denied that he was conscious of anything 
 of the kind. Now, when one finite mind declared that it 
 had consciousness of the infinite, and another finite mind 
 denied it had any such consciousness, it is hard to see how 
 the controversy could go any further in that direction; 
 — unless indeed the Deist had told the Atheist that he 
 lied ; which I suppose Avould not have ended, but rather 
 changed the nature of, the controversy. 
 
 The Deist then got on to the old and, as I believe, irre- 
 fragable argument of the " Marks of Design " in the uni- 
 verse and every thing in it, and which, he contended, prove 
 an " intelligent author." 
 
 The Atheist did not deny that there were plenty of 
 marks of design , that is, just such things as design^ sup- 
 posing the universe the work of an intelligent author, would 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 389 
 
 have exhibited; but he affirmed with the great Comte, 
 that though tlie adaptations of things, one to another, were 
 infinite, they were not really indicative of design at all, but 
 were simply " conditions of existence ; " that if man's eyes 
 were not so and so constituted (surely an undeniable truth), 
 he would not see, and that because they icere so constituted, 
 he did see (equally undeniable) ; and that is all that is to 
 be said ! ^Yho but must be satisfied w ith so clear a state- 
 ment ? 
 
 The misfortune is that it explains nothing, but leaves the 
 whole argument just where it was. I must do my Deist 
 the justice to say that he exposed this sophism admirably; 
 he showed that it still attributed all the adaptations^ which 
 seem to indicate design, to blind chance or blind necessity 
 christened with a " new nothing," an unmeaning name ; — 
 it being still asked, how so many conditions of existence 
 came so happily to conspire ; as before it was asked how 
 so many " marks of design " came to exist without any 
 designer ? He also remarked that manifold adaptations 
 are not " conditions of being " merely, but conditions of 
 well-being ; that man doubtless coidd exist though he had 
 a score of deformities — a hump on his back, or club feet ; 
 — that he coidd put food into his stomach, though he had 
 no palate which made it pleasant to do so, and so forth. 1 
 am sure he handled his argument capitally, and, I thought, 
 M. Comte cut a very sorry figure. 
 
 But he further argued that supposing all these apparent 
 " marks " of design, apparent only, yet the mind of man 
 was so constituted, its " conditions " of logic such, that the 
 immense majority of the race could not help, for the life of 
 them, judging these " adaptations " to be the effects of 
 design ; that this was confirmed by all experience, and that 
 therefore, z/ Atheism Avas t)ie truth, still it would always 
 be rejected, and its advocates in fact might as well keep 
 
390 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 their mouths shut. He affirmed that they must always be, 
 as they ever had been, a vanishing fraction of the race. 
 " Men will still dispute," said he, laughing, " whether there 
 ever was an Atheist or not. Nothing can be plainer from 
 all history than that man, however he got it, has a ' reli- 
 gious faculty ^^ and will be a religious animal." 
 
 This nettled our Atheist, and he retorted very cleverly, 
 — that if induction from the phenomena of the " religious 
 faculty " inferred a God, it equally inferred ten thousand, 
 of the most dissimilar attributes and the most grotesque 
 characteristics ; that the Deist must take the induction from 
 the phenomena of the race generally, and not from two or 
 three Deists in a corner, who were fond of stealing their 
 " Monotheism " from the Bible they abjured, and then 
 setting up as original oracles ; that the indications of reli- 
 gious truth are to be gathered from the phenomena of 
 entire humanity, and the incalculable majority of men in 
 all ages have been gross idolaters ; now if so, as neither 
 Atheist nor Deist know anything of a doctrine of "human 
 corruption," but deny any such, it must be inferred that 
 the " religious faculty," as its general^ that is, normal mani- 
 festation, pointed only to Gods, which, for aught we can 
 see, are little better than none ! From the Deist's " stand- 
 point " it was difficult to reply to this. 
 
 But when the Atheist came to demand the completion 
 of the Deist's system, and to ask how much he could cer- 
 tify of God ; what were His aspects towards man ; what 
 man's position and duties ; what man's origin and destinies ; 
 whether he was immortal or not, and so on : in a word, 
 when he came to press the Deist on points, without a solu- 
 tion of which his theory of a deity, to such a being as man, 
 IS stark naught, ignorance left him in as sorry a plight as 
 his adversary had been. 
 
 " Power and wisdom palpably present in the universe ; 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 391 
 
 goodness, extensively;" — he could get no further than 
 that. To all the questions man feels so intensely interested 
 in, he could answer only by conjectures and assumptions, 
 and these the Atheist twitted him with often filching from 
 the Bible he derided. " You may see," said he, " how 
 little man knows on such subjects by looking at him as ho 
 has been in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of every 
 thousand since history began ; you may see how little he 
 knows, and how blmdly he hopes and fears, on these sub- 
 jects. And you cannot, as the Christian can, talk of deprav- 
 ity, — for you, like me, deny it." 
 
 On the whole, the Scotchman was delighted with the 
 issue of the controversy. " Ye are twa stalwart chiels," 
 said he, — " nae doot o' that ; ye are like twa fighting bulls 
 of Bashan that have got their horns sae fast locked, that it 
 is hard to see how they are to get loose, excej^t by pulling 
 ilk ither's heads aif. Faith, and I dinna ken that it wad 
 muckle matter. But ye hae proved one thing, ony way ; 
 that I canna afibrd to do without my Bible." 
 
 I confess I felt much the same. It, and it alone, so far 
 as I know, supplements the meagre truth of Deism, and 
 enables us to baffle, if we cannot wholly remove, the difii- 
 culties which chiefly provoke to Atheism. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 R. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XC. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My dear Ellis, 
 
 I wish I could gratify you by complying with your re- 
 quest, and give the very words of the entire dialogue to 
 which I referred in my last letter ; for it was very mstruc- 
 
392 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tive and interesting. But it is impossible to recall it ex- 
 actly, nor can I pretend to give you in full even that part 
 of the argument for which you more particularly ask, and 
 in which you seem to be so much interested : I mean that 
 in which the Atheist replied to the Deist's nndeniably 
 strong argument derived from the religious manifestations 
 of human nature in general. The retort would be easily 
 evaded by you or me, or any Christian, but from the stand- 
 point of the Deist who ignored the fact of aught abnormal 
 in the present condition of human nature, it seemed to me, 
 (what the Deist's silence confessed it to be,) quite unan- 
 swerable. But, though I cannot recall all the arguments 
 used, still less the expressions, you will not be far out if you 
 imagine the dialogue proceeding somewhat on this wise : 
 
 The Deist, as I told you, went on triumphantly for some 
 time with his argument from induction^ and I confess I 
 could hardly see how it could be contested ; when his ad- 
 versary said, very quietly, " You believe that the human 
 mind is so constituted as to believe the existence of a 
 God?" 
 
 "Assuredly," said the other. 
 
 *' That is, you believe that man w^as endowed with a 
 mind framed in such a way that he could not but arrive, m 
 the course of its normal development, at the idea of such a 
 being ! " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "And you believe that man is now just what he was when 
 created. You do not believe that he has fallen from an 
 originally higher state ; you reject all the fixbles of the 
 * Golden Age,' the transient ' Paradise ' of Genesis, and all 
 [the other fables by which so-called revelations affect to ac- 
 count for the phenomena of presumed moral deterioration 
 on the part of miserable humanity." 
 
 " I acknowledge that I reject them all. 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 393 
 
 " For you are the disciple of Reason alone, and have 
 nothing to do with Revelations ? " 
 
 '^ Nothing." 
 
 ^' What idea of God does that Reason, thus innate in 
 you, instruct you to form of the Deity ? " 
 
 " That He is One, Infinite, Eternal, Uncaused, Omni- 
 present, Omnipotent, and perfectly Benevolent." 
 
 '' Is that the idea which so many as one out of a million 
 of our race have formed ? Is it not the conception of the 
 very few ? One God ! have not the immense, the over- 
 whelming majority of mankind believed in hundreds? in 
 thousands ? Have they not had ' gods many and lords 
 many ? ' Gods coordinate and gods subordinate ? Gods of 
 different powers in the universe taken jointly, and gods of 
 them taken separately ? Gods of all objects natural, gods 
 of all objects artificial ? Monkey divinities and cat divin- 
 ities, sacred cows and sacred calves ? Divinities hewn with 
 a hatchet out of a block of Avood, and equally divine blocks 
 of wood w^ithout even the hatchet being employed upon 
 them ? Nay, has not man made out of the very same block 
 (as the Hebrew j^rophet said) the billet that kindles his fire, 
 and the fuel that heats his oven, and the God which he 
 bows down to and worships ? Has not the Fetichist pros- 
 trated his senseless soul, in adoring silence, before a bit of 
 tinsel or a glittering pebble ; and has not the Pantheist, with 
 equal sense, called all things — pebbles and tinsel mcluded 
 — the Deity collectively? Though it is sometimes said 
 that man's gods are usually made like himself, I must con- 
 tend that they are far below himself; destitute even of that 
 spark of intelligence which himself boasts of possessing. 
 He generally takes care before he condescends to worship 
 his god that that little spark of reason shall be put out ! 
 Or rather," lie continued sarcastically, " I think it may still 
 be said that man's gods are usually a little above him — 
 
394 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 simply because they, at all events, nave not thought them- 
 selves divine, nor Avorshipped what themselves have made. 
 An Egyptian may adore a cat, a Brahmin a sacred cow ; 
 but the cat and the cow neither believe themselves divine 
 nor worship one another. And if they could but compre- 
 hend the absurdity of wise man's genuflexions and offerings, 
 they would certainly break out into one of the distinguish- 
 ing characteristics of humanity, and indulge in a hearty 
 ' guffaw ' at their human adorers. Some of you talk about 
 the necessary inference that, as man did not create himself, 
 he must owe his existence to a God who is uncaused ; rather, 
 from man's general practice through all races and all ages, 
 you ought to argue in a different way, and say that it is 
 one of the characteristic inferences of man's wise head, 
 that a god must be created before it is to be adored : for 
 man, you see, in the immense majority of cases, devoutly 
 worships the Avork of his own fingers, — generally clumsy 
 enough ! Instead of his gods fabricating him^ and hence, 
 having, as you say, a title to his worship, he creates them^ 
 and then adores them for the attributes he has gratuitously 
 bestowed. You seem to think that it is the normal con- 
 dition of mankind to break out into the poetry, — sublime 
 poetry, I admit, — of the Hebrew bard, as he gazed on the 
 spectacle of the starry heavens : — ' When I behold the 
 heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars 
 which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mind- 
 ful of him, and the son of man that thou visitest him ? ' On 
 the contrary," said he, laughing, as he pursued the contrast 
 of men in general, " man Avhen he has surrounded himself 
 with his artificial divine deformities, the divine monsters he 
 has turned out of his own workshop, his little grotesque 
 images of clay, wood, or stone, and contemplates their ugly 
 perfections — seems to say to the frights — ' When I behold 
 the idols which my fingers have made — what is man in 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 395 
 
 comparison ? ' And sure enough he may well ask the 
 question. Now if you say that the bulk of the species have 
 looked beyond these works of their hands, and have recog- 
 nized a supreme God under these fantastic forms, I deny, 
 1. That many of them have; 2. That of those who have 
 acknowledojed that there are ranks and orders amons: their 
 divinities, very, very few have even apj^roximated to that 
 comprehensive, and I will even add, sublime abstraction by 
 which you have defined the Deity. As to the absolute 
 Monotheists, — they have ever been a most miserable 
 minority. Even those who have looked beyond subordi- 
 nate deities in any sense, and acknowledged a Father of 
 Gods and Men, — such as Jupiter, for example, (by my 
 faith, he was the father of a good many of them, by all ac- 
 counts — the name was not ill-bestowed,) have been com- 
 paratively few. As to Jupiter, as generally conceived, who 
 would not just as soon have worshipped any of the rabble 
 that filled his 01ym23us, as that old roue! The sort of 
 Supreme God recognized by some Polytheists has been far 
 enough from resembling that notion you have given of Him, 
 and which I suspect you have stolen from Moses and the 
 Bible, like the rest of you Deists. But as for the tnass — 
 the idea that these — the myriads of gross idolaters — have 
 risen, in the very midst of their grovelling, crawling super- 
 stitions, to the conception of such a God as you define, is 
 absurd ; the mere circumstance that they are idolaters 
 proves that such conceptions are veiled to them. To tell 
 me that a man has any sublime ideas of an infinite spiritual 
 Creator, an infinite Monarch of the universe, when he is all 
 the while moping and mowing in adoration of a monkey, or 
 a block of his own hewing, is nonsense. I can understand 
 a little what you mean (though I deny its force as argu- 
 ment) when you talk of looking up from Xature to Nature's 
 God : I understand what you mean when you talk of rising 
 
396 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 from ' effects to causes' — though I deny that the one are 
 effects, and that the ' causes ' are any other than imaginary; 
 but that idolaters — who are the bulk of mankind — should 
 ' look up ' from the idols of their own maki7ig^ to Nature's 
 God, — that is, from ' effects ' Avhich they worship as causes 
 to a Sujireme Cause of all things, — is to me quite incredible." 
 
 "Well, and Mdiat is the object of this long tirade?" said 
 the other, quite innocently, and apparently unconscious of 
 the retort preparing for him. 
 
 " Why, that if you have any candor, you must acknowl • 
 edge that the all but universal idea of God is not your idea ; 
 that yours is the idea of a \erjfeic/ that in the ratio of a 
 million to one, the notions of men have been the most 
 enormous and grotesque parodies on what you would call 
 the Deity!" 
 
 " Certainly — I wont, for I can't deny it ; but still they 
 have had the idea of a God ; in harmony with the condi- 
 tions which I have represented as a fundamental law of 
 the human mind." 
 
 " A God ! — an idea of ten thousand you mean. Why 
 did you say you inferred that the formation of such a notion 
 was one of the conditions of the constitution of the human 
 intellect?" 
 
 " Because in the immense majority of mankind, we find 
 some such idea developed. The Atheists are, and ever 
 have been, such a miserable minority." 
 
 " And just so I say of the Monotheists. M-go, if I grant 
 that it is one of the conditions of the human mind that it 
 should form some conception of a God, — because it is the 
 actual condition of the immense majority of mankind that 
 they have it, — you micst, in like manner, grant that it is 
 one of the conditions of the human mind that it should 
 form most various^ hideous^ odd^ grotesque^ imperfect^ de- 
 grading conceptions of a God, for such have been the con- 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 397 
 
 ceptions, such they are still, of the immense majority of the 
 race ; those who have resembled you, my deistical friend, 
 having been ' a most miserable minority.' You say man is 
 as he was created ; you say that he has just as much reason 
 and conscience as he ever had ; and you see what follows 
 from an induction of facts. If man necessarily forms some 
 idea of a God or gods, we must infer by parity of reason 
 from induction^ that he must ever form most unworthy 
 and degrading notions of him." 
 
 I was curious to see how the Deist would reply to this 
 argument ; I considered how I should answer it myself if 
 I were in his place. If I believed, as he did, that just what 
 God had created man, such man is now ; that man still 
 framed his notions of God, and of the worship due to Him, 
 in obedience to that law which God had originally impressed 
 on his nature, and under the conditions of thought origi- 
 nally assigned; it was hard, in the face of such general 
 results, to infer anything else than that either God had 
 made a strange mistake in constituting human nature, 
 if he really designed it to have that just and consistent 
 idea of Him proclaimed by the Deist ; or that he never 
 designed anything of the kind ; — or that, as the Bible says, 
 man is no longer what God made him. This last solution, 
 our Deist's reason had thrown aside contemptuously ; and 
 no outlet to the ravine of rock seemed possible in that 
 direction. I looked every way carefully, but could discern 
 no mode of escaping ; it was a cul de sac to a Deist. 
 
 Thus it seemed indisputable that the Atheist and the 
 Deist were both perfectly right ; successful in confuting 
 one another, without the possibility of escaping counter- 
 confutation. The Deist was right in maintaining that the 
 fundamental laws of the human mind necessitate, and must 
 ever lead to the adoption of, some notions of a Deity ; be- 
 cause from induction we see that in the immensely greater 
 
 34 
 
398 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 number of cases, they have done so ; and the Atheist was 
 right in maintaining that the equally universal fact of man's 
 having formed notions of a Deity utterly degrading, gro- 
 tesque and unworthy, shows that this also, in the majority 
 of cases, is the inevitable condition of the human mind, 
 as i^roved by a similar induction ; so that it seems — strange 
 paradox! — that man is generally necessitated to discover a 
 God, but that ^V^ general He will be such that it hardly 
 matters two buttons whether He be discovered or not! 
 " Therefore," said the disciple of M. Comte, in conclusion, 
 " as you twit me with the uselessness of rtiy mission, and 
 the absurdity of attempting to convert mankind to my 
 vicTVB (which, I frankly acknowledge, have ever been con- 
 fined to a very few), you must permit me to remind yoii 
 that the folly of your efforts for the illumination of man- 
 kind is equally egregious. Indeed, those who haA^e held 
 your sublime views of the Deity, — pure monotheists, — 
 have been scarcely more numerous — except as they have 
 derived their notions from the Bible revelation, which you 
 reject — than the Atheists themselves." 
 
 My deistical friend made one desperate effort to recover 
 his ground ; but it was very slij^pery — and he fell. I had 
 no hope of his maintaining his footing ; but even I was 
 surprised at the little he could reply to the argument. The 
 Atheist pursued his advantage and said, com23lacently 
 enough, " I must, nevertheless, contend that you are charge- 
 able with one absurdity from which I am free. Believing 
 in no God, and that the human mind is merely an assem- 
 blage of " conditions " without a final cause, it is not at all 
 wonderful to me that some of its notions should be strange, 
 odd, and incongruous ; but if, as you say, man was formed 
 by that superior and matchless intelligence you adore ; if 
 he is now what that intelligence framed him, and equipped 
 with laws of thought which necessarily develope a knowl- 
 
A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 399 
 
 edge of the Deity ; how is it that he should every where 
 exhibit the curious phenomena I have insisted on ? It is 
 utterly incomprehensible. That man should fancy there is 
 a God when there is none, may be odd enough ; but that 
 when God has created him so as to know and adore Him, 
 man, being still possessed of all that God had originally 
 endowed him with, should fail to find Him, — is to me an 
 unfathomable mystery." 
 
 " What answer there is," said I, interposing, " or can be, 
 to this taunt, on the deistical hypothesis, I know not. Per- 
 mit me to tell you, however, that it is of no avail against 
 Christianity ; for the theories of Christianity and Deism 
 are antipodal. Man, as you have insisted, does form, in 
 the immense majority of cases, and ever has formed, the 
 most degrading and absurd notions of the Deity; but 
 Christianity is expressly founded on this admission, — on 
 the lamentable reality of all the difficulties, which you have 
 urged ; — it acknowledges as its foundation that while man 
 has a nature which prompts to religious thought and feel- 
 ing, that nature is corrupt — " and that the world by wis- 
 dom knew not God." He was polite enough to acknoAV- 
 ledge that the argument he had used did not affi3ct the 
 theory of Christianity — except as afiecting every other 
 theistical theory ; that is, as ultimately involving the con- 
 sideration of the i^ermission of such a state of things as 
 required the Divine intervention; in other words, as in- 
 volving the problem of "the origin of evil." I told him 
 that that was an abyss which I, for one, had many years 
 ago explored as far as I intended, and was glad to have 
 groped out with my torch still unextinguished ; but that, 
 however deep, it left the arguments against Atheism unim- 
 paired, and being in itself utterly unfathomable, could jus- 
 tify no rejection of those arguments; — unless we are at 
 liberty to argue against what we can comprehend from 
 
400 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 what we cannot. To this he did not reply ; and in truth 
 it was high time to light our candles and go to bed. 
 
 Ever yours. 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER XCI. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BECOME A DEIST. 
 
 1852. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 For, in spite of your doubts, I shall not cease so to ad- 
 dress you. You say that as you are no longer a Christian, 
 — more's the pity, say I, — you suppose I cannot think 
 anything worthy of the name of " friendship " can sincerely 
 subsist between us ; that persons whose sympathies must 
 be so imperfect, whose intercourse, restrained and frigid, 
 while it lasts, must, after a brief interval, be so sadly 
 broken, and broken for ever, can hardly be friends. 
 
 I, on the other hand, shall maintain, in spite of it, that 
 if you haA'e lost all sympathy Avith me, I have lost none 
 for you ; — and that even as a brother who has an infidel 
 brother, or a father Avho has an infidel son, would prove 
 himself a strange Christian brother or father by renounc- 
 ing brother or son, so a Christian friend would prove him- 
 self a very odd Christian and a very odd friend, who 
 should abjure one who has been his friend because he is 
 no longer a Christian. On the contrary, as a Christian 
 father will feel and show a double solicitude and tender- 
 ness towards his erring child, so must a friend discover 
 not a diminished, but a quickened anxiety for the welfare 
 of an erring friend. 
 
 The aspect of his love will be indeed changed, and 
 sorrow will mingle with it — but, believe me, my friend, 
 it will be love still. 
 
TO A DEIST. 401 
 
 Strange doctrine this of yours ! It is as though I were 
 told that a man, fearing a friend had lost his way in a 
 midnight passage of the mountains, might, with a quiet 
 conscience, at once give up all hope of seeing him again, 
 and instead of setting out with light and guides to seek 
 him, coolly sit down in the chimney corner, saying, " Well 
 — no doubt the poor soul is gone to the devil — but it 
 can't be helped ! " 
 
 I have not so learned Christianity; nor was this the 
 exami')le of Him who came " to seek and to save that 
 which was lost ; " who, for that purpose, left safe in the 
 heavenly fold the ninety and nine that were in no danger, 
 and sought in the wilderness the poor wanderers Avhose 
 l^erils quickened, not rej^elled, his sympathies. If He was 
 called, though He was " without sin," the " friend of pub- 
 licans and sinners," I shall not hesitate, who am but a 
 sinner myself, (albeit, I hope, a Christian,) still to call by 
 the name of "friend" one who is a sinner even as I. 
 
 The text you quote so tauntingly, (forgive me for say- 
 ing so, — but it is tauntingly,) " What felloAvship hath 
 Christ with Belial — or what part hath he tliat believeth 
 with an infidel," is nothing to the purj)ose. Tliat text is 
 intended to forbid the voluntary formation of close and 
 ensnaring intimacies with those who are estranged from 
 the Christian life in either sentiment or character. No 
 doubt a Christian father Avould not choose to have an 
 unbelieving son, if he could help it; and in the same 
 manner, neither would a Christian man choose liis special 
 intimates among those who are alienated from his Master. 
 But a parent cannot repudiate his ^^^I'cntal relation be- 
 cause his son becomes an " unbeliever ; " and neither can 
 a friend repudiate a friend. When friendship has been 
 formed previous to the existence of any such disturbing 
 causes, the bond cannot be rudely broken. 
 
 34* 
 
402 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 You would have done well to look into other passages. 
 The New Testament prescribes, with that remarkable 
 freedom from fanaticism, Avliich, if its writers were fanatics, 
 is a very singular characteristic, the terms of intercourse 
 with an unbelieving husband, w^ife, or child, and by parity 
 of reason, with an unbelieving "friend;" and what coun- 
 tenance is there for your taunt ? Nay, with the unbe- 
 lieving world in general, Christianity not only permits the 
 ordinary transactions of life, but enjoins, in all such trans- 
 actions, that uniform courtesy, kindness, and benevolence 
 which, in fact, involve all the offices of friendship, and 
 must of necessity often lead to it. 
 
 So far from the Christian being forbidden to come into 
 contact with the "unbelieving" world, he is told the 
 express contrary ; to forbid this would be to tell " him to 
 go out of the world." It is only to a " brother that walks 
 disorderly " that he is commanded to act thus ; with him 
 "not even to eat," — neither to give or exchange hospi- 
 tality. Now — alas that I should say so! you are no 
 longer " a Christian brother," — but I insist on it that you 
 shall still be a " friend." So you must suffer me to ad- 
 dress you in the old style, and if it Avill at all accommodate 
 your scruples, I will call you one that is "without," and 
 certify to the fact that you are not a Christian. If this 
 will not satisfy you, and I must needs proceed according 
 to the rule Avith which you upbraid me, that of treating 
 our offending brother as " a heathen man and a publican ;" 
 still you will be pleased to recollect that it is after re- 
 peated admonition that that is to be done, — and I have 
 by no means " admonished " you enough yet. 
 
 " Pray do it," I imagine you saying, " without the ad- 
 monition." No — I shall not; I shall persist in bearing 
 with your offences, not only the "seven times," but the 
 " seventy times seven," before I finally release you. 
 
TO A DEIST 403 
 
 So that, in fine, you see I am a "burr,"* and-^liall 
 " stick." 
 
 You let out the secret, I suspect, of your perverse 
 scruples as to the possibility of our continued friendly 
 intercqjarse. I say perverse, for there is seldom any 
 scruj^le with gentlemen in your position — when you say 
 that you hope, if we are to keep up our former corres- 
 pondence, I am not going to trouble you with that " in- 
 tolerable" subject, — the "evidences of Christianity!" 
 This, and perhaps a little disposition to taunt me with the 
 supjDOsed bigoted exclusiveness of the Christian rule, must 
 account for your unusual scruples. 
 
 As to the evidences of Christianity, never fear ; I am so 
 far from intending to trouble you with them, that I am 
 about to show you how you may annihilate Christianity 
 altogether; not by directly attackiyig \\> — that, I regard, 
 as proved by long experience to be useless — but by es- 
 tablishing a better system ! As Leslie entitled his little 
 tract " A short method with the Deists," so, if you choose 
 to adopt the course I shall point out, you may call it, " A 
 short way Avitli Christians," and I shall engage it will be 
 effectual. 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that it is necessary, first, to de- 
 stroy Christianity before you can introduce a better sys- 
 tem. Ah! my friend, do not wait for that. Christianity 
 is so long a dying, that you Deists will all die before you 
 have a chance of establishing your own system. You may 
 say of the Gospel, as the desj^airing husband of his litigious 
 wife : " I am tired of getting the better before she is tired 
 of losing the victory." Take no heed to it, but proceed at 
 once, as if it were non-existent, to show the world "a 
 more excellent way ; " that dazzled world will then say of 
 Deism, as comj)ared with Christianity, what Paul says of 
 
404 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 
 
 Christianity as compared with Judaism: "It hath no 
 glory," being eclii^sed by a " glory that excelleth." 
 
 But I must first, in another letter or two, lay before you 
 briefly some of the reaso9is on which I would advise you 
 to raise the siege of Christianity. I know that ihe at- 
 tacking party often has some advantage over those who 
 act on the defensive, but not always ; and from the length 
 and tediousness of this war, and various other reasons 
 which I shall detail to you, I do not augur well for your 
 success. A defensive war is not always so bad, — es- 
 pecially if the besieged occuj^y a Gibraltar, and the be- 
 siegers wooden fortresses and a fluctuating element ; 
 above all, if it comes to red-hot shot into the bargain. 
 There is something invigorating, I grant, in assault; but 
 none in knocking one's head against stone walls. Now, 
 without implying anything (that I may not ofiend you,) 
 as to the truth of Christianity, I think it may be shown 
 that the assault in this case is of that description. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. — You will perhaps think all the latter part of 
 this letter mere badinage. I assure you I am most serious. 
 Though I am convinced of the truth of Christianity, yet 
 if it be false, I am as deeply anxious that it should be 
 proved so, as you can be. I am persuaded (though I 
 might be puzzled to give a reason for it in that case) that 
 nothing but good can come out of Truth ; and therefore, 
 if she still be at the "bottom of the Avell," let me have the 
 advantage of your (or of any man's) wheel and axle to get 
 the jade out. 
 
 I am also deeply convinced that (f Christianity be false, 
 the best method for proving it so is that I shall hereafter 
 point out. 
 
TO A DEIST. 405 
 
 LETTER XCII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1&52. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I am led to regard the assault on Christianity as hope- 
 less — because I see that it has been continued for so 
 many generations in vain; and esj)ecially that its ene- 
 mies have had, for more than a century, every opportunity 
 of doing their worst, — that is, of saying their worst, and 
 'have achieved nothing. 
 
 Nor can I, on the calmest survey, perceive on what 
 grounds you can promise yourself a chance of success. 
 
 You cannot say, as in other cases, " This religion sprang 
 up in an unhistoric age, and among barbarous people." On 
 the contrary, it entered the world amidst the light of lite- 
 rature and civilization, and immediately began to prop- 
 agate itself amongst the nations most renowned for both, 
 as well as elsewhere. Christ appeared to the world, as he 
 appeared to the aj^ostle on his way to Damascus, with a 
 " light from heaven " at " noonday." 
 
 You cannot say, as in other cases, "This religion is 
 received only by a particular race or nation, and cannot 
 travel out of it ; it is local, and like other similar religions, 
 will die when political changes or military conquest shall 
 try it." On the contrary, it has been adoi3ted by the most 
 diverse races, by the most different nations, by Greeks, 
 Romans, English, French, Germans, — by Barbarian and 
 Civilized alike; by peoj^le distinguished by every con- 
 ceivable variety of culture, laws, manners, climate ; and it 
 has been retained in spite of political and military rev- 
 olutions of the most confounding nature ; revolutions 
 which have shivered into atoms a score of other religions. 
 
406 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 It dwells in every zone — under every forai of polity — 
 its habitat would seem the bosom of humanity. 
 
 You cannot say that " it has been adopted only by vulgar 
 intellects, and without investigation." On the contrary, 
 genius of the highest order among the most lettered and 
 civilized of the nations, has, in ten thousand instances, 
 calmly, after the fullest scrutiny, and w^ith the deepest 
 knowledge of the laws of evidence, declared the proofs of 
 its truth unassailable. The books that the literature of a 
 dozen nations has contributed to its defence would alone 
 make an immense library ! 
 
 You cannot say that " its enemies have had no liberty of 
 l^leading on the other side." On the contrary, from the 
 earliest times downwards, and especially during the last 
 century and a half, antagonists have appeared in all the 
 most polished Christian nations, with the fullest liberty of 
 employing every weapon, whether of ridicule or of argu- 
 ment, against Christianity ; they have written thousands of 
 books, not one in a hundred of which is remembered twenty 
 years after its publication, and have constructed half a dozen 
 theories, — reciprocally contradictory, it must be admitted, 
 
 — of accounting in a natural w^ay for the origination of this 
 troublesome religion. Some of the writers of such books, 
 
 — as Gibbon and Voltaire, for example, — have on other 
 grounds been of enormous popularity, and yet the position 
 of Christianity remains much the same ! 
 
 You cannot say " its enemies " have not a thousand times 
 paraded the " discrepancies and contradictions " which you 
 affirm exist in the Bible : for this they have been doing ever 
 since the time of Porphyry and Celsus till now ; — yet, 
 mortifying to relate ! without getting one in ten thousand 
 to suppose that such discrepancies at all shake the histori- 
 cal authority of the Scriptures. 
 
 You cannot say that " The Book has not given you every 
 
TO A DEIST. 407 
 
 advantage y " for never was there one which more irritates 
 the pride and prejudices of mankind ; which presents greater 
 obstacles to its reception, morally and intellectually ; — so 
 that it is amongst the most unaccountable things to ??2e, not 
 that it should be rejected by some, but that it should be 
 accepted by any. " It is, I grant," said an old Deist, " a 
 very strange thing that Christianity should be embraced; 
 for Zdo not perceive in myself any inclination to receive 
 the New Testament." There spake, not Deism only, but 
 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 You cannot say, that like other religions, " Christianity 
 panders to man's passions or vices, or promises him a sen- 
 sual paradise." On the contrary, its morality is not easy^ 
 its heaven by no means attractive, and its hell — very disa- 
 greeable ! 
 
 Similarly, you cannot say that intellectually, — especially 
 for the last sceptical century or two, — it has not made your 
 task, if it were feasible at all, as easy as possible ; for the 
 wonders of the Old and New Testament, if not true^ are the 
 very wildest of fables and romances ; — they equal — so 
 some of you say — those of ^sop, of the Iliad, the " Ara- 
 bian Nights," Ovid's " Metamorphoses." How mortifying, 
 my friend, that you should have any difficulty in exploding 
 such monstrous follies ! What if your greatest philosophers 
 had in vain striven for twenty — nay, eighteen hundred 
 years to show the world that Ovid's " Metamorphoses " 
 were not to be received as literal facts ! Now it ought to 
 be as easy, if your theory be true, to convince people that 
 Shadrach, Meschech, and Abednego never came safe out of 
 the fiery furnace, and that the " swine " never ran off with 
 the " devils," or rather the " devils " never ran off with the 
 " swine ! " One of two things must be conceded ; either 
 the pressure of historical proof, — the marks of nature and 
 sincerity in the New Testament must be irresistible, thus 
 
408 THE GEEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 to prevent your success with those who, with you, reject 
 all similar things in other cases as mere fables ; or else, if 
 these things he fables, as you assert, — the folly of these 
 capricious folks, — enlightened on all else, dark as midnight 
 here, — must be indomitable, and your attempts to en- 
 lighten them must be hopeless ! 
 
 It is vain to say, " Oh ! but there are millions of men 
 who believe millions of other extravagant fables." It is 
 true ; but I must once more remind you that the way to 
 measure the difficulty of disabusing Christians^ (and I fancy 
 it will be a long time before your friends even attempt to 
 disabuse anybody except Christians ; they leave Hindoos 
 very quietly to themselves,) is to imagine a number of races 
 and nations, as different in origin, culture, and language, 
 and as distant in space, as those which have adopted Chris- 
 tianity, all enamoured of the Vedas, say, — devoutly believ- 
 ing them — ready to die for them — writing endless books 
 to prove all their fables true ; men, among all these people, 
 like Locke, Butler, Pascal, swearing, in the very focus of 
 light and civilization, that the Vedas are all proved true, 
 and accomplished sceptics among their very compatriots 
 assailing them in vain ! Now w^hen you do find such a 
 case, I should say what I say of your assaults on Christian- 
 ity, — " You may as well leave the Vedas alone ; " which, 
 by the way, I dare say the Deist loill do at any rate ; for, 
 it seems, mankind may believe anything in the world, for 
 any pains he will take to enlighten them, — except Chris- 
 tianity ! 
 
 I have just been reading a beautiful book now in course 
 of pubhcation, which has suggested some reflections showing 
 still more strongly (as I conceive) the hopelessness of your 
 enterprise. But I must reserve them for another sheet 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
TO A DEIST. 409 
 
 LETTER XCIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1852. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The book to which I referred in my last is Conybeare 
 and Howson's beautiful work on the " Life and Epistles of 
 Paul." 
 
 The A23ostle Paul wrote, perhaps, nearly as mnch as 
 would fill a volume of the " Traveller's Library," at least, 
 if it were printed in a little larger type : or, to put the 
 matter otlierwise, his compositions would make no less than 
 three or four columns of the " Times' Debates ! " — surely 
 a voluminous author. 
 
 Yet he has had more thought, time, toil, and ingenuity, 
 expended on him, — in the investigation of his history, and 
 of the times in which he is supposed to have lived, — in the 
 correction of his text, — in the criticism of his style, — in 
 the illustration of his beauties — in the elucidation of his 
 difficulties — than Plato, Aristotle, and Bacon, Homer, 
 Virgil, Milton, and Shakspeare, all put together, volumin- 
 ous and zealous as criticism on each of these authors has 
 been. 
 
 Now, I know just what you will say: "that when an 
 author has so much written upon him and about him, it is 
 an argument rather of his worthlessness than of his worth ; 
 that, if his meaning were quite plain, and his merits unam- 
 biguous, he might dispense with commentators." Very 
 good ; but then be pleased to observe the consequence ; it 
 will follow that St. Paul being the very worst, the writers 
 just mentioned must be the next worst of the tribe ; for 
 perhaps after him — though all at a distance immeasurable 
 — the great writers I have named have most attracted the 
 attention and stimulated the zeal of critics. And, furtlier, 
 
 35 
 
410 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 in bar of any such brief solution of the paradox, it may be 
 said that though the most worthless of writers may need 
 most commentary, somehow they do not get it ; mankind 
 go a shorter way to work with them, by quietly suffering 
 them to sink to the bottom. It will be long before Black- 
 more will enlist a Warburton or Malone in his service, or 
 a Muggleton find a commentator in a Locke ! Least of all 
 do men of widely different countries and races thus expend 
 their energies, and, Avorse still, their money, in everlast- 
 ingly translating and elucidating dull common-j^lace or ob- 
 scure nonsense. 
 
 Now, here is St. Paul in more languages than all the best 
 classic authors put together ; and scores of writers in all 
 the more cultivated modern tongues, — that is, among all 
 the most civilized nations, — have been i3oring over the 
 Apostle, and commenting upon him, Avithout end. The 
 tractates and treatises on separate texts, — on single chaj:)- 
 ters, — on single epistles, — on parts of them, — on the 
 whole collectively ; — the commentaries on his life, charac- 
 ter, and history, and on the churches he is supposedXo have 
 founded : these writings, I say, gathered from all the lan- 
 guages of Europe, would constitute an immense library ! 
 An immense library spun out of a few tracts, which would 
 have hardly made as much as a single play of Shaksj^eare 
 or one of the longer of Plato's Dialogues ! tracts which, 
 however, exist in twenty times as many languages as any 
 production of these authors can be found in. \Yhatever 
 may have been the case w^ith his Corinthian converts, the 
 Apostle may certainly nov^ say of all mankind — "that he 
 speaks with more tongues than they all!" 
 
 Such a contrast between his scanty authorship, and his 
 prodigious and enduring popularity — popularity whicli tlie 
 most gigantic and aspiring genius may Aveli look at with 
 despairing envy — is certainly a curious i^henomenon. 
 
TO A DEIST. 411 
 
 These reflections have been forced upon me by Cony- 
 beare and Howson's splendid vohimes. Two portly quar- 
 tos ! While every other author is shrinking into duodeci- 
 mos, Paul can still afford to come out in quarto, illustra- 
 ted by all that the printer's and engraver's arts can do for 
 him — accompanied by a large apparatus of maps and plates 
 and plans, and with profuse impressions of gems and coins 
 ^and statues, and medals, and inscriptions. One author, I 
 see, has expended a whole volume — think of that ! — on 
 the single episode of Paul's last voyage to Rome, — Avhile 
 the press teems with ever new works of critics and com- 
 mentators on this curious tract- writer. 
 
 Now, on the supposition, wdiich, for your sake, I of 
 course take for granted, that the Apostle Paul was as little 
 under the influence of preternatural inspiration as any other 
 man, all this portentous absurdity of mankind is at least 
 very perplexing and unaccountable. " Not at all," I ima- 
 gine I hear you say. " It proves only the infinite folly of 
 man, and the slowness and difticulty with which Truth gains 
 admission to his mind." Very true ; if your theory be 
 right, it proves that, sure enough ; but, as I think, some- 
 thing more; even something like the impossibility of your 
 disabusing the world by any direct means ; for if, at this 
 time of day, in the most enlightened nations of Europe, — 
 at an infinite remove, in point of race, customs, laws, edu- 
 cation, from every thing that can create sympathy with 
 the Jewish fanatic^ — in the midst of learning, knowledge, 
 art, and science, you find men, and among them many of 
 the most acute and comprehensive intellects, the most capa- 
 ble of judging of evidence, still spell-bound by this des- 
 perate delusion, how can you hope that it will be ever 
 dissipated ? 
 
 You will hardly say, I think, that it is only just now that 
 the pretensions of Paul have been disputed. 
 
412 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 If you do, I beg to remind you that Herbert and Boling- 
 broke, and Chubb, and Tindal, and Collins, and a host of 
 Deists, derided and proscribed both Paul and his readers, 
 for a whole century together ; and what was done in our own 
 country was also doing in Holland, Germany, and France. 
 Nothing can be more contemptible, in the estimate of a' 
 number of Deists in all these countries for a century past,! 
 than the " besotted admiration " of the writings of Paul 
 and of Paul himself. Yet the tide of love and veneration' 
 still flows on ; readers and writers go on poring over his 
 alleged "impertinences and extravagances," just as if 
 the great Deistical oracles had never spoken. Indeed, they 
 might as well never have spoken, for no one, (unless it be 
 one in a generation or so, very curious in the history of 
 opinion,) ever deigns to look into them. If Bolingbroke, 
 who declares St. Paul "a vain -glorious boaster," guilty of 
 " great hyj^ocrisy and dissimulation," " obscure and unin- 
 telligible," and where not so, " profane, absurd, and trifling," 
 could rise from the dead, how would he be mortified to 
 find how little he had afiected the conclusions of the world ! 
 How vexed to think that while his own volumes are 
 covered with dust and cobwebs, St. Paul speaks some scores 
 of languages more than when Bolingbroke " sj^at " on his 
 " Jewish gaberdine," and that a few thousand more volumes 
 have been admiringly written about him than existed 
 then! 
 
 You recollect, no doubt, the amusing dream of GeoflE*rey 
 Crayon in the Library at Westminster Abbey ; — how he 
 fancied the books beginning to talk, and one little squab 
 quarto, long buried and forgotten, after rustling its leaves 
 and looking big, asking in a husky voice whether one "Will 
 Shakspeare — a vulgar fellow and vagabond deerstealer, 
 who enjoyed an unaccountable reputation in his time, was 
 still remembered ? " He presumes he " soon sank into ob- 
 
TO A DEIST. 413 
 
 llvion." Lord Bolingbroke might represent that little fat 
 forgotten quarto : but even the popularity of Shakspeare 
 faintly shadoAvs that enjoyed by the Jewish tent-maker. 
 
 " Well," perhaps you will say, " and what of all this ? 
 1 suppose you will next infer that an author whose * opera 
 omnia ' are a few little tracts, — and those too (as many 
 say) so worthless, so crammed with extravagance, nonsense, 
 and obscurities, — must have been inspired^ because he has, 
 in spite of all this, exerted such a prolonged and intense 
 influence on the world." By no means, I mention the fact, 
 indeed, as very curious and inexplicable ; but I have no in- 
 tention of travelling beyond your hypothesis in the aj^- 
 plication of it. On the supposition that Paul was not in- 
 spired, one of two things is, I think, abundantly plain; 
 either he must have been so prodigiously clever that men 
 will never escape the toils in which he has caught them ; 
 or they are such fools that you cannot hope to deliver them. 
 On the latter alternative, you may declaim as much as you 
 will against the infinite folly of man ; but then, I think, 
 the corollary is the extreme difiiculty, not to say impossi- 
 bility, of your ever directly counter-working this delusion ! 
 Praj' make much of it ; let it even be a melancholy solace 
 to the Deist, — Avho, after so long a time and so much 
 labor, has done so little in that enterj^rise to which he has 
 committed himself He has in truth much " need of j^a- 
 tience ; " he must Avait in all probability for many weary 
 ages before this curious insanity of mankind will become 
 extinct. 
 
 The Deist should at least, carefully abstain from insisting 
 that the Apostle Paul has nothing or little in him, — be- 
 cause that only makes matters worse ; the delusion is all 
 the greater and the more hopeless of cure ; he ought 
 rather to insist that the Apostle's grandeur and sublimity 
 of character and sentiment, — his eloquence and genius, 
 
 35* 
 
414 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 his magnanimity and virtue, his benevolence and his 
 pathos, — were inconceivably great, and thus it is that lie 
 has inveigled the world into its sui^erstitious homage. On 
 second thoughts, however, it is dangerous to give the 
 Deist advice on this point ; for it is attended with difficul- 
 ties. It is a delicate topic looked at in any light; for //' 
 Paul was such a man, however it may aj^pear to account 
 for the besotted reverence for the AjDostle felt by the world, 
 it greatly aggravates every difficulty when we come to con- 
 sider how a man thus admirably endowed came to be either 
 so knavish, or so cracked ; so knavish if he i:)ropagated, 
 without believing, that false system of doctrines by which 
 he has deluded men ; so cracked, if he jn-opagated because 
 he believed it! If, on the other hand, he be the profane, 
 absurd, and trivial writer Bolingbroke makes him out, it 
 proves that mankind in general — amongst them multitudes 
 even of the highest genius — must be such fools in having 
 been befooled by such a fool, that you cannot hope they 
 will ever be wiser ! I know what you will say : " Millions 
 upon millions of men have believed other false systems of 
 religion." I grant it ; but what you have got to show is some 
 such thing as this; millions upon millions of men, of the 
 most diverse races and ages, and amongst them men of the 
 acutest intellect and the most liberal culture, — English, 
 Scotch, French, Germans, Dutch, — including men like 
 Bacon, Newton, Locke, Butler, Leibnitz, — madly bent on 
 believing, expounding, embracing, and if necessary dying 
 for, some such books as the Vedas or the Koran ! Take 
 my advice, — leave Christianity alone, and steer on a dif- 
 ferent tack. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
TO A DEIST. 415 
 
 LETTER XCIV. 
 
 to the same. 
 My dear Friexd, 
 
 Before I proceed to my promised counsels, let me offer 
 a remark or two on your recent letter. You say, as if it 
 afforded you hope, that, after all, the gi'eat mass of Chris- 
 tians know but little of the " Evidences of Christianity," 
 and are incapable of entering into them. I must show you 
 that this affords, and can afford, you no hope of success ; 
 rather the contrary, considering that what they are thus 
 content to believe with, it seems, so little knowledge of 
 the v^liy^ goes, as I have remarked, des^Dcrately against the 
 grain of human nature ! 
 
 But further; what you insist on does not affect the fact that 
 many of the most comprehensive minds have deliberately 
 examined the " Evidences," and their authority naturally 
 weighs with men in general who have not ; indeed these 
 men are as impregnably intrenched in their reasons for be- 
 lief, as they would be if they were as learned as Paley or 
 Lardner himself. They may not be always able to analyze 
 their convictions — their logic may want a voice — but if 
 they could speak their feelings, each would say something 
 like this : " You taunt me with jdelding much to authority — 
 well, to some extent I must, by your own argument, do so 
 in relation either to you or those who opj^ose you ? And 
 why should I defer to you rather than your ojiponents ? — 
 To one or other, by your own showing, I must defer. You 
 tell me that I am unable to enter into the Historic Evi- 
 dences for Christianity with any success, or with any pre- 
 tensions to give an independent oj^inion on the subject. I 
 confess it, and for the same reasons I am unable to pro- 
 nounce on the validity of your arguments against it; just 
 
410 ■»>' TUE GEEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 as I am also unabie to pronounce on any one of those me- 
 tajDhysical riddles which are involved in the systems which 
 you present to me for my choice — your half-dozen theories 
 of Deism; as, for example, whether it be true, as some say, 
 that I am immortal, or, as others sny, that I am not; 
 whether there be a Providence that takes cognizance of all 
 my actions, or no such thing. On a score of such questions 
 tny natural light does not enable me to pronounce so as to 
 justify me in wrangling with you about them. On all such 
 points, I am just as impotent to form an indei^endent 
 opinion as on the evidences of Christianity — though I 
 have some shrewd guesses about the contradictions among 
 your theories. I am a plain man ; I have no more time or 
 ability to enter into these subtleties, than into the deep crit- 
 ical questions which you say are involved in the investi- 
 gation of the Truth of the Gospel. I confess that one of 
 my chief arguments, though not the only one, is drawn 
 from authority ; from what they say who have, as I believe, 
 gone thoroughly into all these matters ; and I am puzzled 
 to know why I should rather believe you when you tell me 
 that the Gosj^el is false than them when they tell me it is 
 true. I cannot conceive that the original authors of Chris- 
 tianity had any motives to deceive the world, and as little 
 why these defenders of it should deceive me. As to hnowl- 
 edge and character^ I cannot, for the life of me, say that 
 Bolingbroke is worthier of my attention than Butler ; Tom 
 Paine than Paley; Yoltaire than Pascal; Hobbes than 
 Locke. But pray don't suppose that Authority is my only 
 or chief reason for belief. No, I believe because I cannot hel}^ 
 it : as I read the Gospels and the Epistles, in spite of many 
 things nature does not like, I can't Jieljy belicAdng them 
 true. They are so stamped with honesty and guileless 
 simplicity — with such an inimitable air of truth, that if 
 they lie, Nature herself has lied, and deceived I must be. 
 
TO A DEIST. 417 
 
 As I read Paul, as I see his candor, his pathos, liis mag- 
 nanimity, his noble charity, his loving, burning, earnest 
 Avords, I cannot but believe what he says. Nor is that 
 all ; — I feel that the doctrines are so beyond human inven- 
 tion, and so nnlikely to be invented, if not beyond it — 
 the morality so pure and elevated — the appeals to my 
 spiritual consciousness so jirofound, — that I cannot belicA^e 
 the Gospel false. Nor is that all — myriads of ns will cry, 
 and it is the most resistless argument of all, " You may 
 talk on for ever, but we have seen, have felt^ the transform- 
 ing power of Christianity — * We speak that Ave do know, 
 and testify that Ave haA^e seen.' " 
 
 For the reasons detailed in the last few letters, I, for one, 
 fully belicA^e that the assault on Christianity Avill be lost 
 time. What I think you ought to do, I Avill now slioAV you. 
 As to Christianity, leave it alone, to do its Avorst or its best. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XCV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 My DEAR Feiend, 
 
 And now, leaving Christianity to its own dcA^ices, let ns 
 consider the system of religious truth Avhich you say com- 
 mends itself to your reason at present ; I Avill, then, give 
 you my promised hints for securing its currency in the 
 Avorld. 
 
 You tell me that you are no longer satisfied that Chris- 
 tianity is a preternatural and authoritati\^e revelation ; — 
 rather, that you suspect the contrary, though yon frankly 
 own dissatisfaction with the theories hitherto struck out, to 
 account, by ordinary causes for its origin, characteristics, 
 
418 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and success. You say, at the same time, that you are 
 deeply impressed with the value and importance of " Reli- 
 gion," as the " highest style of man ; " more than ever con- 
 vinced of the great truths of " Natural Religion " (as it is 
 called), and that they ought to exercise a deep practical in- 
 fluence over the life ; that of such truths you account these 
 the chief: — the existence of a Supreme Being, Infinite in 
 all perfections; the necessity and duty of every rational 
 creature's knowing, loving, obeying, and worshipping Him ; 
 the immediate access of every soul of man, without any 
 " figment of mediation," at all times to Him ; the certainty 
 of His forgiveness of any and of all offences against either 
 Himself, the supreme Lawgiver, or any of our fellow-sub- 
 jects, on confession and repentance, and, when possible, 
 restitution ; and the probability (in your opinion, certainty) 
 of a future life, to give these truths effect. In brief, you 
 tell me that these truths, — not to be received simply into 
 the understanding as a mere creed, but to be practical over 
 the whole life of man, as habitual principles of action, — 
 constitute the sum of any rational religious system. Now 
 this system is, in effect, (as you confess,) identical with that of 
 Lord Herbert, — given to the world two centuries and more 
 ago. You seem also to think, Avitli him, that these principles 
 are the undoubted dictates of man's religious nature — "in 
 nate" in Lord Herbert's vocabulary, intuitional in yours; and 
 if not uttered prior to all instruction, yet universally devel- 
 oped, as the mind itself developes, under the action of the 
 ordinary stimulants of the religious faculty, and needing no 
 special Divine intervention either to elicit them or to give 
 them authority ; that these principles, the various religious 
 systems which have prevailed in the world, have more or 
 less distinctly recognized, and have contributed to extricate 
 more or less successfully. You further think that Chris- 
 tianity was the most effectual attempt, till then made, at 
 
TO A DEIST. 419 
 
 tlie coinplete extrication of these truths ; that it may liave 
 been a " necessary stage " in the transition from the more 
 imperfect forms of reUgion, but that now it is necessary no 
 longer ; that the beautiful structure of a " rational " religion, 
 being happily complete, the scaffolding may be thrown 
 down ! This seems, in brief, to be your view. 
 
 And so, I suppose, the Uttle flower-pot of the Gospel, and 
 all the other little flower j^ots of other religions, in which 
 the oak-seedling Avas planted, being but crockery ware, 
 have yielded to the expansive power of the Divine vegeta- 
 tion, have been shivered to pieces, and may now be thrown 
 away ; that as the " law " is said by the " imaginative " 
 Paul to be a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ, so Chris- 
 tianity was a schoolmaster to bring us to Lord Herbert ! — 
 though how it should need Lord Herbert, or anybody else, 
 to teach any man truths which every man intuitively knows, 
 passes my comprehension ; or, if any such teacher is needed, 
 whether may we not need a better ? 
 
 How many questions might I ask, naturally suggested by 
 such a theory ! I miglit ask you how" it came to pass that 
 truths, which you say are the natural dictates of the human 
 mind, came to be so slowly extricated, and to be even now, 
 by the majority of mankind, so obscurely apprehended ; I 
 might ask you how so many of them came to be, and still 
 are, so constantly disputed, doubted, denied, perverted ; I 
 might ask how it was that the infinitely different and gro- 
 tesque systems of religion w^hich have prevailed in the w'orld, 
 heing themselves the product of mail's religious nature^ have 
 exhibited, instead of a bright reflection and image of these 
 " intuitional truths," the grossest caricature of them. I 
 miglit ask you how it is that those " historical " and " tra- 
 ditional " religions, to which you so conveniently attribute 
 man's tardy recognition of these truths, could ever have 
 originated on such a theory as yours ; since the said reli- 
 
420 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 gions, pernicious as they may be, are nothing external to 
 man ; they are, his own work ; he has created — he has 
 wrought them ; though, on your theory, the glorious intui- 
 tions of which you speak, and which, amid the infinite load 
 of lies and fables, are native still to the human heart, must 
 have stared him in the face the while ! I might ask you 
 how it is, that even in the best of these fabrications, — as 
 the religion of Moses and the religion of Christ, — man has 
 exhibited so great a knack of corrupting rather than of im- 
 j)roving them, so that Judaism became buried in Rabbinism, 
 and Christianity in Popery. I might ask you how it is that, 
 when these truths were presented to him, he has not been 
 able even to conserve them, but has deliberately stifled them 
 in a mass of ridiculous fables and superstitions, for which he 
 is not only willing to vouch, but to die ? I might ask you 
 how it was that the abuses of " historical religion " began, 
 
 — that those pernicious customs and practices were sanc- 
 tioned, by the intervention of which you account for the 
 dimming of man's internal light ? — how he came to origi- 
 nate them ? If, as some of your wise men of Gotham say, 
 man began upon all fours, as the very lowest savage, and 
 gradually improved himself into a very gross idolater, — I 
 might ask, in that case, how his internal light could well 
 have been dhmned^ and how I am to reconcile the fact with 
 the universal possession of your intuitional truths which 
 need no revelation ? or whether, if we had seen the abori- 
 ginal savage moping and mowing, and adoring his new- 
 created Deity in the form of a bright stone or a cockle shell 
 
 — we could imagine him to be illuminated with your in- 
 ternal light ? I might ask, if he was so illuminated, how it 
 was that his spiritual faculty did not prevent him from thus 
 playing the fool ? — though, perhaps it may be said that the 
 unutterable debasement in which he was created, — how 
 the Divme benevolence is to be acquitted is quite another 
 
TO A DEIST. 421 
 
 question, — fairly put his "intuitions" to flight, as indeed 
 such a night of tempest as that in which he is supposed to 
 have been born raiglit well have extinguished even a brighter 
 flame than that of his little flickering lamp! If this theory 
 be rejected, (as I think you will not accept it,) then I might 
 ask how it was that man's originally bright mtuitionai can- 
 dle came to burn dim and to want snuffing? How it was 
 that coming fresh from his Creator's hand and just fitted uj) 
 with his spiritual apparatus, he did not, however slowly, de- 
 velope in the order of his faculties, but brutishly turned a 
 deaf ear to them, and fell, — and still falls, under the do- 
 minion of lie and fable ; — that the first act of this perverse 
 dolt should be to kneel down to stocks and stones ; — that 
 he should be, in such infinite ways, and for such weary ages, 
 such a fool and madman ? And lastly, I might surely ask 
 how it is that when " in these last days," the Truth which 
 is so perfectly " congruous," is at length extricated, per- 
 verse man is so reluctant to receive it that, since Lord Her- 
 bert's days, those who have acquiesced in his theory may 
 be reckoned by units, and those who have doubted or re- 
 jected it in favor of historical religions, or none, by millions ; 
 or how it is that amongst those who have, with him and 
 you, rejected Christianity, scarcely half a dozen together 
 receive this system, — which is so perfectly " congruous to 
 man's nature," — but dispute about it eternally ; about the 
 existence of God Hmiself ; about His unity and personality; 
 His nature and perfections ; about the relations of man to 
 Him ; about man's responsibility, desthiies, immortality : 
 I might ask .... but there is no end to the questions that 
 might be asked ; and as I fear there would be little chance 
 of getting an answer, I will ask none of them. 
 
 To content yourself with affirming that you intuitively 
 know all the truths you make the sum of your theology, 
 that they aro all self-emdoit^ would be, in the face of the 
 
 36 
 
422 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 entire religious history of man — oftlie inconceivably tardy 
 process by which your little system has been developed, — 
 the infinitesimal part of mankind that has yet been brought 
 to acquiesce in it, — the infinite disputes about its parts 
 among the few who do, — something perfectly preposterous. 
 I conceive, therefore, you cannot be too grateful to me for 
 waiving all the above questions. 
 
 Neither will it sufiice to tell me that some questions of 
 similar nature can be addressed to me resj^ecting Chris- 
 tianity; I answer, Not so. You may say, That too lias 
 been tardily embraced, — has been disputed about, — has 
 been corrupted. I answer. Yes ; and naturally, for it pro- 
 ceeds upon just the contrary liypothesis to yours ; it assumes 
 that man was incapable of adequately extricating religious 
 truth — that he was " wandering from the way," and needed 
 to be set right ; that he was corrupt, and required to be 
 reformed ; that he " loved darkness rather than light," and 
 therefore recoiled from the light. All this is natural on 
 the hypothesis of Christianity. But the questions I ask of 
 you are unanswerable on yours." 
 
 You must not, therefore, be surprised when you speak so 
 confidently of your religious system, that men should ask 
 you many such troublesome questions as I have indicated. 
 
 But from me fear nothing. I will act on the compact I 
 have made with you, and shall not trouble you with con- 
 troversy. Neither shall I even taunt you with the incon- 
 ceivable difl^cidty with which man seems to be got to 
 embrace any such system as yours. I shall charitably sup- 
 pose that some mysterious obstacles have hitherto stood in 
 the way of man's " natural reception " of perfectly " natural 
 truth" when propounded to liim; — though I confess it 
 seems to me, on your theory, as wonderful as that a hun- 
 gry man should refuse bread, or a thirsty man water. How- 
 ever, I vhU suppose, for your benefit and that of the world, 
 
TO A DEIST. 423 
 
 that now, fit least, the truth has been fully developed, and 
 
 that it is destined to go on, as you say, " conquering and to 
 
 conquer." The next thing is to ask, how it shall be made 
 
 triumphant ? My notions of what will need be done I 
 
 will give you in another letter or two. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. n. G. 
 
 LETTER XCVI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1852. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You cannot but see, I think, the immense advantaire 
 which the dominant religions of the earth, as Mahom- 
 etanism, Hindooism, Christianity, have enjoyed from the 
 230ssession of " Books," — the Koran, the Vedas, the Bible, 
 — in which their doctrines are not only solemnly and 
 permanently recorded, but embodied in forms more or 
 less fitted to impress the fancy and excite emotion. The 
 first suggestion, therefore, which I would offer to you and 
 your co-religionists is just to compile a " Bible " of your 
 own ; a book that shall exactly mirror, neither more nor 
 less, the religious truth which, as some of you say, is in- 
 tuitively known to each man, and which the rest of you 
 admit is, at all events, instantly recognized on j^resentation 
 to the mind. If the former theory be true, you may think 
 you ought to be exempted from any such task, as a work 
 of supererogation. That conclusion, however, would be 
 rash and unwise ; since we see, in fact, the use of external 
 instruments in the disengagement even of our most 
 elementary cognitions; and certainly in all cases, tlie 
 value of such aid in making Truth more vivid, — in giving 
 
424 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 it the empire of association and imagination, — is obvious 
 enough. This we see illustrated in the history of systems 
 of religious err or ^ as you deem them ; and of religious 
 truths as I deem Christianity ; these systems retain their 
 hold in a very great measure from the possession of Sacred 
 Books ; and you, if you do not wish to work at a disad- 
 vantage, will also condescend to compile your Bible. 
 
 And I need hardly say that if the objections of your 
 confraternity be well founded ; — if our Bible be charac- 
 terized by the exceeding want of symmetry, and just 
 develoj^ment, and system which you attribute to it ; if it 
 be so egregiously disfigured by mutilated truth, positive 
 error, foolish and lying legends, puerile and superstitious 
 matter, — you will have a prodigious advantage over it; 
 you may even learn from its A^ery errors. What accuracy 
 of statement, what elevation of sentiment, what ethical 
 purity, what philosophic justness, may we not expect in 
 your new Organum of Keligious Truth ! 
 
 You will say, perha])s, "But the difficulty will be to 
 obtain unanirnity amongst us. We are not less divided, — 
 and on far more imi^ortant points, — than the Christians 
 themselves." 
 
 If I were not aware of it, I should certainly with un- 
 feigned wonder receive the news, and even deny its pos- 
 sibility, considering that your theory i)roclaims religious 
 truth to be but the reflection and echo of the intuitions of 
 universal humanity! But as I do know it, — as I know, 
 from intimate acquaintance with the whole series of your 
 jnincipal writers, — some of whom say that man is im- 
 mortal — some that he is not; some that if he be so, there 
 is no sufficient proof of it ; some that there is a special 
 Providence — some that there is none; some that Avorship 
 is required, some that it is not; some that prayer is a duty, 
 and some that it is even an absurdity ; some that actions 
 
TO A DEIST. 425 
 
 are prohibited which others believe innocent ; some that 
 universal annihilation awaits man at death and some, 
 universal happiness; — as I say I do know all this, I shall 
 express no surprise; nor shall I taunt you with it, for bo 
 the taunt ever so just, it can afford you no help, — which 
 I am so anxious to proffer — to do so. Nor has it, in 
 truth, any bearing on the present topic ; inasmuch as such 
 diversity does not diminish the necessity of the method it 
 will be your wisdom to adopt. You must surely have 
 some — be they many or few, — who sympathize suffi- 
 ciently with your views of what are "the* universal intu- 
 itions of humanity," to enable them to act in unison ; or 
 are you, indeed, my dear friend, in solitary possession of 
 the only exact transcript of our " universal intuitions ? -' 
 But even if this were the case there would be no help for 
 it ; even then you must go forth, — a knight-errant of 
 spiritual chivalry, — alone; but take a few with you, if 
 you can. 
 
 Only remember, that whether you can or not, your 
 system, if you really wish to supplant Christianity, and 
 establish another and better system in its place, must be 
 exhibited in dazzling light beside the New Testament, and 
 compel mankind to feel how great the superiority ! 
 
 And by the way, I would just hint, that though perliaps 
 not absolutely necessary to the Deist's " Bible," it would 
 be eminently desirable (if possible) to give some conjec- 
 tures, not perhaps more certain, but at least more plau- 
 sible, than your writers have generally given, as to the 
 origin and original condition of man ; — such as shall 
 quite throw into the shade, by comparison, the Scripture 
 account of man's primeval rectitude, temptation, and fall. 
 Men feel an intense interest in this problem from the 
 present evil condition of the world ; and I assure you they 
 don't like the "primeval savage" theory at all. That 
 
 30* 
 
426 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 man came from Lis gracious Creator's own hand in tlie 
 guise of something much worse tlian an Australasian or 
 Hottentot; crawled, grubbed, gibbered, and jabbered for 
 nobody knows how long, till by slow degrees he improved 
 himself into an ordinary savage, kindled a fire, boiled his 
 acorns, consecrated a sacred monkey for his God, and 
 found that he could utter other sounds than " Yah Yah," 
 — this theory, I say, gives such a rej^ellent view, not only 
 of your aboriginal man, — but of the God that so fashioned 
 him, and expressly ybr such a most miserable destiny, tliat 
 mankind will never away with it; no, not even if it Avere 
 shown, (thougli both si^eculation and fact confute it,) that 
 utter saA'ages could develope themselves into civilized crea- 
 tures without external teaching! Most desirable is it to 
 renounce this theory, and give a more plausible account of 
 man's original condition (as a key to his present) than 
 Deism has hitherto given. If you could also settle that 
 little matter, (unhappily so questioned among you,) of 
 "man's immortality," it would be as well. But this by 
 the way ; and I proceed to other and more necessary 
 chaiacteristics of your Bible. 
 
 You should, at all events, establish such a compre- 
 hensive, perspicuous, just system of religious and ethical 
 truth, — of the "intuitions of universal humanity," — and 
 so arranged and expressed, as at once to eclij^se that of the 
 New Testament; — which, if your representations of the 
 New Testament be true, initst^ as I say, be the easiest of 
 all tasks. But further; considering the influence of fancy, 
 association, and the very forms of expression in giving 
 vividness and power to man's conceptions of Truth, I 
 think your Bible should exhibit it in forms at least as at- 
 tractive as those of the New Testament; adapted alike to 
 the highest and the lowest intellects, and capable of ready 
 transfusion into all laniiuao-es. 
 
TO A DEIST. 427 
 
 Again; considering the notorious influence which a 
 certain vivid embodiment of a Moral Ideal., exhibited in 
 dramatic action, has exerted, I think it would be well that 
 you should also exhibit such an ideal; — such a delin- 
 eation as wauld at once arrest and fascinate the gaze of 
 humanity more j^erfectly than the One Only Portrait 
 which so many have hitherto pronounced inimitable and 
 divine. I admit, indeed, that in consequence of the tra- 
 ditional veneration which the world already entertains for 
 that picture, your ideal may for a while labor under some 
 disadvantage ; but surely, as so. many of your writers have 
 insisted that there are manifold and manifest blemishes in 
 the earlier one, and have even thought that, after all, it is 
 by no means a perfect, indeed a very defective, repre- 
 sentation of absolute virtue and moral loveliness, you can, 
 by rectifymg the errors and presenting a still more fault- 
 less picture, counterpoise this adventitious advantage, I 
 am so charmed with the idea, that I am quite impatient 
 to see the thing done ! 
 
 It Avill be a foolish modesty of you, — cultivated and 
 able men as you are, — to \vhom all literature is open, and 
 with such a model to improve upon, to decline this task; — 
 nay, it will be ridiculous, considering what Galilean Jews, 
 in your estimation grossly ignorant, have done unaided; 
 and more than once — nay, four several times. To be 
 beaten by the^ii — think of the shame of it ! 1 cannot for 
 a moment imagine that you will have the slightest diffi- 
 culty in the matter, — if your theory of the origin of the 
 Gospel he true! 
 
 There is one thing, however, I would earnestly caution 
 you against; do not let your imaginative forms be so 
 exquisite as to make mankind take them, as they have 
 done tlie "inythical or fictitious element" in the New 
 Testament (your theory supposes it is legendary or licti- 
 
428 THE GREYSON" LETTERS. 
 
 tious,) for genuine history; do not, I warn yon, so tran- 
 scend Homer and Shakspeare (for even their creations 
 were never in danger of being so misinterpreted,) as to 
 make i>eoi)le fancy your fable, fact ; or else, not only will 
 you fail of your object, but will have added unexpectedly 
 another to the many historical religions. On remarking 
 
 to our friend S , the other day, that this would be a 
 
 necessary result of any such fatal mistake, lie said, laughing, 
 that he thought there was not much fear of it, and that 
 my caution was superfluous. " Still," said I, " since the 
 thing has been done (inte^itionally or not) according to 
 the theory of these reformers, it seems but wise and kind 
 to put them on their guard. It would be mortifying to 
 haA'e the world deluded a second time." 
 
 These charms of the imaginative element I think it the 
 more important to insist uj^on, because, as you are aware. 
 Deism has been hitherto at such cruel disadvantage, from 
 the absence of them. Such dreary, pithless, marrowless, 
 old speculators as the elder Deists have seldom been seen ; 
 to look through their systems of " natural religion " is like 
 looking at a hortus siccus y' through the dry crackling 
 leaves no vital succulent- juices circulate. On the other 
 hand, the semblance of " spiritual sentiment and unction " 
 which characterizes the modern Deistical school is such 
 shiftless, hopeless plagiarism from the Bible, that it all 
 reads like imitation. Their books are like a Chinese 
 pagoda stuck over with crosses and saints stolen from a 
 Christian cathedral. 
 
 You can hardly imagine — I find it very difiicult to do 
 so myself — what an effect even a j^oem like Milton's 
 "Paradise Lost," or a book like Bunyan's "Pilgrim's 
 Progi-ess," if conceived and executed on Deistical prin- 
 ciples, would have, though felt to be only works of imag- 
 ination May we not hoj^e for such things at least? 
 
TO A DEIST. 429 
 
 Will you be beaten not only by "fishermen," but by 
 "tinkers?" 
 
 Under what advantages, on the whole, would you 
 construct your system! universally a2:)pealing to nothing 
 less than "intuitions!" philosophically just in method, — 
 adorned by all the lights and beauties of imagination, and 
 relieved from all the errors and absurdities which crowd 
 the New Testament! You would have no adventitious 
 authority, indeed, but then that is precisely what you do 
 not want, and renounce; it would be Truth herself — 
 merely suitably arrayed. Who could fail to be enamoured 
 with her charms ? 
 
 As Mahomet reminded his followers that the style alone 
 of the Koran was enough to 23rove it divine — so the suh- 
 stance of your Koran would be a yet more conclusive 
 argument; — not insj^ired, indeed, in the vulgar sense — 
 but at once recognized, according to your theory, to be the 
 full, fair reflection, the clear echo of the " universal intui- 
 tions of humanity." 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. — If you could also get a few of your poetical 
 friends to give us a trifle or two of Deistical " Hymnology," 
 it might be as well. You see how varied and pathetic are 
 the devotional strains to which the Psalter of the Hebrew 
 Poet-King has given rise. How is it that your whole 
 Deistical literature is so utterly powerless over the imagina- 
 tion and the heart? I long to see a new "Psalter" from 
 some poetic Tindal or Collins. 
 
430 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER XCVII. 
 
 to the same. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I deem it, next, of much moment, if you would deistically 
 evangelize the world, that you should find some method of 
 orp^anizing yourselves into social unities ; this is absolutely 
 necessary if you would accomplish any object in common, 
 or, in such a chilly climate as yours, keep your sympathies 
 for one another from freezing. The world, at present, does 
 not believe in your capacity to fasten on social human na- 
 ture, or to give effect to your hopes of diffusing the bless- 
 ings of a " rational i:)iety." Deism is looked on as a nega- 
 tive, not a positive thing, — an explosive and destructive, not 
 a centripetal or an organizing force. It is precisely here 
 that in all its forms it has hitherto so ignominiously failed ; 
 nevertheless till its advocates cease to live in such dreary 
 isolation as scattered units, — till it can bind together its 
 human atoms, and give them compact shape and coherence, 
 — till it can breathe into men a spark of enthusiasm, and 
 inflame and intensify emotion by inspiring a common sym- 
 pathy in common objects, it will never be a thing of influ- 
 ence at all ; how much less an instrument of regenerating 
 the world ! 
 
 A few trifling and partial achievements, here and there, 
 of the destructive kind, — the cutting off now and then a 
 straggler who has strayed from the camp of "historical 
 religions " — that is all it must expect to accomplish, till it 
 reheves itself from the old and just reproach of being in- 
 capable of insj^iring common sympathies and prompting to 
 united action. 
 
 How happy the change if you succeed in organizing your 
 deistical friends ! Soon shall we see numerous " Churches," 
 
TO A DEIST. 431 
 
 ■ — I beg pardon, "Temples" I mean, — rising in our land ; 
 crowded to hear the new and true evayyiXiov, by wliicli the 
 old fashioned Gospel is to be supplanted and eclipsed ! No 
 doubt they will be in a plain yet majestic style of architec- 
 ture, — befitting the mingled grandeur and simplicity of the 
 new institute ; adorned with everything in their structure 
 and style which can minister to austere beauty. As to the 
 funds, — who can hesitate to believe they will be easily sup- 
 plied by that lavish benevolence which a system so pure 
 and glorious cannot fail to excite ? 
 
 It w^ere a scandal to doubt it. If even the poorest and 
 meanest superstition of the ancient or the modern world ; 
 if Christianity, in its most corrupt forms as well as in its 
 purest, can induce their votaries, according to their means, 
 and " beyond them," to cover the "world with the structures 
 and the apparatus of religious worship, w^hat may we not 
 hope from that more perfect theory of religion with wdiich 
 you and your compeers are about to bless the nations ? A 
 beginning should, I think, be made without delay. Let 
 some edifice, caj^able of holding at least three or four score 
 (that, for a time, may be quite enough,) be built as a model 
 "Fane" of your true deistical worship. 
 
 I am perfectly aware, of course, of the arguments by 
 which such an attempt at organization may be met. But I 
 cannot admit that, if the great achievements you hope for 
 are ever to be realized, those objections are to be listened 
 to. You must move, if you would be successful ; and re- 
 member for your encouragement, that scarcely more than a 
 hundred Christians met in a certain "upper room" at 
 Jerusalem some 1800 years ago ! 
 
 It may be said (and I concede the force of the argument) 
 that it is impossible to make a formidable organization out 
 of a few score of people, appearing, sporadically, in the 
 course of a century or so. I cannot deny the mournful 
 
432 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 tr.uth of the statement ; but since you mnst make a begin- 
 ning, you must not lay any stress on this fact. You must 
 use the elements you have, such as they are, — many or few. 
 The tardy growth, or rather stunted 7io growth of Deism, 
 the paucity of the proselytes it has been capable of making 
 during three centuries, tem2:)ts Christians to taunt it as a 
 thing of nought. Ought you not to infer, with your views 
 of its self-recommending excellence, that its want of success 
 s^irings from the absence of that positive effort and positive 
 machinery, for the necessity of which I plead ? If you 
 doubt, that when exhibited and enforced as it ought to be, 
 it would commend itself to the human heart, — slowly, 
 perhaps, but surely, — you not only give sorry proof of 
 your faith in the doctrine of " Progress," but will e\en lead 
 people to suspect that your truth is not so " congruous " to 
 the human soul after all ; and that the doleful representa- 
 tions of Christians as to the "depravity of human nature," 
 
 are too well founded. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 K. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XCVIII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1852. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Many other suggestions I could offer, but I will content 
 myself with one more. Could you not manage, then, to 
 get uj^, among your Deistical friends, a little missionary 
 " steam," and make a trip or two to the heathen ? It does 
 seem strange to all Christendom that the infinite forms of 
 error and pollution, in which the nations are Avallovring, 
 should always have been viewed by your Deistical friends 
 with such profound apathy ; that not the slightest eflbrt 
 
TO A DEIST. 433 
 
 should liave been made on your part to diffuse among mis- 
 erable Polytlieists the only pure system ; that you should 
 have had no sacred ambition to become reformers and ben- 
 efactors of the world ! If it be said, " We have enough to 
 do to convert Christians " — that is true ; more than enough, 
 I should say ; but then, you perceive, Christians wont be 
 converted ; and so, having preached the truth to these 
 obstinate folks, faithfully, but without effect, you, like the 
 Apostle Paul in relation to the Jews, are absolved from 
 further effort, and should " turn to the Gentiles." Why 
 should they be deprived of the benefit of the univer- 
 sal religion you have to preach, because these Jew-like 
 Christians will not hear it ? If it be said, though I fancy 
 yoit will not say, — " The heathen are very well, — Hindoos 
 and Caffres, — with their idols and absurdities, let them 
 alone," — the same argument surely will do for Christicms^ 
 let them alone ; if a Polynesian, is well off with his gross su- 
 perstitions, surely a Christian must be better off, — at least 
 as well. Why so anxious to subvert Christianity ? On 
 this account, therefore, as well as for the other reasons I 
 have mentioned, leave it alone. 
 
 If you -say, " Why, the fact is, the mission of Deism is 
 simply destructive ; burning down, not building houses, is 
 our vocation — and that is easiest done in the next street ; 
 — why should we go to other lands when we can fling our 
 torches into our neighbors' doors and windows ? " — this, 
 if true, is surrendering the Avhole question. It is confirm- 
 ing the world in its impression that your system Avas never 
 destined to be a ''''poioer " in the world ; while, as I have 
 shown you in previous letters, even your destructive efforts 
 somehow do not succeed ; the incendiary match is always 
 going out — the Deistical gunpowder is always damp. 
 
 Can it be imagined that you will have much difliculty in 
 obtaining funds for a moderate Missionary experiment, 
 
 37 
 
434 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 considering the importance of the object ? Many, I know, 
 are disposed to think it. Prove them in the wrong. It is 
 true one sometimes hears the philanthropic Deist making 
 hglit of any such vulgar modes of manifesting spiritual ac- 
 tivity. " That activity is not to be measured," it is sublimely 
 said, " by any such base estimate. Let the vulgar lay stress 
 on Bible and Missionary societies, and the other caarse 
 machinery of an ordinary Christian philanthrophy, if they 
 will, and parade in Reports, and Platform rhodomontade, 
 the money which they have wheedled out of the pockets 
 of the peojile ; but a pure lover of ' spiritual truth ' will 
 appraise at the true value such odious modes of promoting 
 its diffusion." This is ail very fine, but it will not avail you ; 
 odious as may be the machinery of Christian zeal — vile as 
 may be the talk about " money," and the appeals for it, — 
 still, as long as it is true that the things in question cannot 
 be done icithout money, (as nothing indeed can be done 
 without cost, and the said money is but a part of it, ) — 
 money must be had, and you must be content to remain in- 
 significant if you cannot obtain it. 
 In the next place," vulgar" as money may be, it is, and is gen- 
 erally taken to be, a tolerably just index of the sincerity and 
 strong convictions of those who give it : of the sacrifices they 
 are willing to make for any object, if they cannot make them 
 in the form of personal effort. Men are generally sui:)posed, 
 (I imagine not erroneously,) to love their money as well as 
 most things ; their hankering for that which represents 
 the value of all things besides, is at least as strong as that 
 for any of the things it represents. And so, when it is freely 
 given, men Avill continue to think that the love of that for 
 which it is given is very sincere, and the sense of its value 
 very strong ; and when it is ?iO(f given, or given grudgingly, 
 men will take it as a proof— a very vulgar one, it may be, 
 but still a 2^^^oof — ^^v^X those Avho thus grudge it do not 
 
TO A DEIST. 435 
 
 care about the things they profess to adimre and love, and 
 are not solicitous that they should be victorious in the 
 world. 
 
 Now, if Christians can under the prompting of their lov:i 
 system — low as compared with yours — voluntarily expend 
 year by year, so much of their gains on the propagation of 
 tlie Gospel to the uttermost ends of the earth, it can be no 
 difficult thing for you, and those who think with you, to 
 subscribe a few thousands at least for the commencement of 
 a similar hopeful experiment. Surely the system in wliich 
 are so deeply involved the fortunes of humanity is worth 
 thus much! If not, it must be accounted one of tliose 
 machines Avhich are admirable in model, but which will not 
 loork. 
 
 And here I would humbly suggest, that a method might 
 perhaps be devised of bringing into the enterprise a number 
 of those who do not quite agree, or are even very far from 
 agreeing, with you. You know Christians are often j^raised 
 for uniting in a common cause by merging their minor dii- 
 ferences (would to God they did it more frequently !) ; now 
 how easily could many of your friends do the like ; some of 
 whom deem all the differences of all the religions of the 
 world Qiiinor differences, and hold that the " absolute relig- 
 ion " is latent in them all ! What differences might they 
 not consider minor who think Hindooism and Mahometanism 
 tolerable ! And Avhat a delightful exhibition of charity 
 
 would it be to find Mr. D declaring that, as Christians 
 
 all agreed in subscribing to the Bible Society, though they 
 were not quite unanimous in the interpretation of the Bible, 
 so he was willing to support the great " Parent Deism- Pro- 
 pagation Society," and cheerfully waive his opinions on the 
 trivial points of a future life, and the immortality of the 
 soul, in which he did not coincide with his " brethren " ! 
 Mr, T , humblv hoiiino- that he should never allow his 
 
436 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 heart to be divided from his co-religionists by such a dubious 
 thing as the doctrine of man's resj^onsibility, of which he 
 
 had strong doubts ! Mr. W , nobly giving to the winds 
 
 his peculiar sentiments on the subject of a special Provi- 
 dence ; and Mr. P , in a similar strain, saying that, though 
 
 he thinks all men will be saved at last, yet, conscious of the 
 noble projects of his benevolent friends for the amelioration 
 of the human race, he will cheerfully contribute his annual 
 guinea as a homage to the spirit of Deistical philanthropy ! 
 " Behold, how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell 
 together in unity ! " 
 
 Nay, — I am by no means sure, if you cordially set to 
 work on such a magnanimous project, — carefully and hon- 
 estly excluding the Bible, — that you might not easily get 
 a portion of your funds from Christians themselves. They 
 are so j^rovokingly convinced of their power and of your 
 impotence, that I verily beheve they would absolutely 
 rejoice in what they would regard as a valuable negative 
 experiment^ and would be quite willing to give you the 
 money, if you will but find the system and the men ! I am 
 myself so far a sharer in their confidence, or imj^udence, 
 whichever you may please to consider it, that if you will 
 but make the experiment, (promising to steer clear of all 
 that is characteristic of Cliristianity, and confining your- 
 selves to such a system as that of Lord Herbert,) I ^^'ill, if 
 you can but get the men, promise you my annual guinea for 
 at least ten years to come. 
 
 Now if, while thus partly waging the war at your enemies' 
 cost, you cannot find men to undertake a nice, snug, little 
 experiment of this kind, — w^hen — when, my dear friend, 
 may we expect you to regenerate the world ? 
 
 Let me remind you that there are still many islands in 
 the Pacific quite at the service of the "Deism-Propagation 
 Society." Or what say you to the African tribes ? Plenty 
 
TO A DEIST. 437 
 
 of them still living in a complete state of Troglodytish sim- 
 plicity ; as St. Clair says, " not many notions to eradicate ;" 
 all in a fair condition to receive the new doctrines ! Only 
 think of the trimnph of having to say that the group of the 
 " Taboo " islands, recently inhabited by a set of idolatrous 
 cannibals, or that the tribe of " Quashee Caffres," in a sim- 
 ilar condition, had been converted to a pure Deism, their 
 language analyzed and reduced to alphabetical notation, a 
 grammar and dictionary constructed, and the great Herbei't's 
 writings translated, by the indefatigable and self-denying 
 labors of the agents of the '' Herbert Society ! " Who 
 knows what further efforts this might lead to, if you did 
 not become weary in Avell-doing ? At all events, you are 
 quite welcome to my subscription. 
 
 Finally, if the Deism you have embraced is ever to be 
 worth anything, it must cease to talk so much ; it must 
 cease to be contented with merely writing books ; it must 
 act. You will tell me perhaps that Christians, too, talk 
 more than they act ; God knows the taunt is well deserved. 
 Still Christianity, — the inferior system, — does something 
 at all events ; surely the higher and the better ought to do 
 more. If you tell me, that you cannot agree sufficiently — 
 or that those who do agree are too few, and will ever be 
 too few to undertake the work — or that you are unwilling 
 to do anything, — or that men will not listen to you — will 
 not be converted, — it is tantamount to a confession either 
 that your system is not, practically, the system for this 
 world — or that it is not the truth, — or that it is not truth 
 worth a sacrifice ; or all these together. In any case, it 
 condemns you to the continued insignificance in which you 
 have as yet lingered on in the world. Confute these sur- 
 mises, my dear friend ; and that you may do so, once more 
 I say — " Devise liberal things." 
 
 Such are a fcAV of the hints which I would venture to 
 
 37* 
 
438 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 give you — not for the resuscitation of Deism, (for it has 
 never been fairly awake yet,) but just to give it a chance 
 of becoming so. To these hints I really think you would 
 do well to take heed, as to a " light shining in a dark " — 
 a very dark — *' place." 
 
 You see I have kept my word as to not " boring " you 
 with the old tale of the " Evidences of Christianity." So 
 far from that, I have shown you how to demolish Chris- 
 tianity altogether. All, I am persuaded, that you have to 
 do, is to publish a book which shall ])lainly transcend the 
 Bible ; organize a system of worship which shall command 
 the sympathies and secure the co-operation of men, and 
 successfully com2:)ete with Christianity in its attacks on 
 Paganism 
 
 Yours truh^, 
 
 II. E. II. G. 
 
 LETTER XCIX. 
 
 TO C. MASON, ESQ. 
 
 1853. 
 
 My deah Friend, 
 
 You have heard, as every one else, of Dr. Ilassall's dis- 
 coveries with his great microscope. Who will not wish 
 that he may go on and prosper, in thus unearthing human 
 iniquity from its subtle retreats in infinitesnnal atoms, where 
 it thought to lie perdu as securely as in its own invisible 
 thought? lie has certainly shown that the solar micro- 
 scope takes no heed to the maxim, " J96 non appareiitihus 
 et non existentibiis eadem. est ratio." "There is nothing 
 liidden," by adroit' fnanipulation and cunning intermixture, 
 that " shall not be made known," and the lying labels and 
 quackish advertisements shall " be jjut to silence " by this 
 incorruptible witness. 
 
DR. HASSALLS MICROSCOPE. 439 
 
 I am told that several " Houses " have threatened this 
 " i^eeping Tom " with a i^rosecution for disintegrating their 
 abominations, and revealing in precise proportions the per- 
 centage of villainy in their adulteration. The only answer, 
 it is said, which he condescends to make is, an invitation 
 to come and have a look, gratis^ at their own handiwork 
 through his microscoj^e ! It is also said that none of them 
 Avill accept his challenge ! Wisely, no doubt, for they have 
 the advantage even of Dr. Ilassall ; they know beforehand ; 
 they have anticii^ated all that he can tell them ! Mrs. Ma- 
 cleuchar (in dialogue with the wrathful " Antiquary,") put 
 on her spectacles to discover what she well knew was not 
 to be found, and exclaimed in well-feigned astonishment, — 
 " Saw onie body the like o' that ? " These ingenious artists 
 need no solar microscope to tell them what is to be found, 
 though we may well indulge in the old lady's exclamation 
 when ice have found it, " Saw onie body the like o' that ? " 
 
 This microscope shows the intimate structure and organ- 
 ization of the most carefully manijxdated composites. 
 Though the component j^articles may have been subdivided 
 into the most attenuated forms, or equally strewed through 
 the most deceptive medium, the structure of the foreign 
 intruder, whether laminated, fibrous, or Avhat not, stands 
 unmasked among the heterogeneous particles with which 
 it claims relationship, and confesses its roguery under the 
 glare of this stupendous eye. The minutest j^article of 
 sand, by the side of the minutest particle of sugar, is as 
 plainly distinguished as if each were as big as a mountain ; 
 tlie atom proclaims itself silex, and is seen to be as unlike 
 the speck of saccharine crystal it would fiiin be thought, as 
 a square is unlike a circle. Success to the microscope, say 
 I, and to the exorcist who wields it ; I know not when I 
 have heard of a scientific a^jplication which has so much 
 amused me. 
 
440 THE GREYSON LEFITRS. 
 
 It lias come in good time too ; for to such an extent had 
 fraud 2:one that there seemed some chance of our soon 
 
 CD 
 
 finding the last trace of pei)per, coffee, and sugar disappear- 
 ing from the simulated compounds called by these lying 
 names ; at least, these articles would soon have been ad- 
 ministered only in homceopathic doses. 
 
 At one of Dr. HassalFs discoveries, by the way, (of 
 which I am reminded by those last words,) you must have 
 been much amused. lie declares that he does not find the 
 genuine "Homoeopathic Cocoa" differing at all from the 
 other adulterated specimens of the same article, except by 
 its having less cocoa in it ! But surely the defence is easy ; 
 its venders would say that tliey were acting in accordance 
 with the maxims of Hahnemann, and giving their j^atient 
 customers homoccpathic doses I 
 
 Even drugs, it seems, are not safe from these odious 
 adulterators, and the jihysician hardly knows whether he 
 may not be giving poison, otherwise than seciuidum artem. 
 Must Ave not allow then that here, at least, the homceo- 
 pathist has the best of it ? for avIio would think to adul- 
 terate the millionth of a grain of Belladonna? Yet I 
 know not : let not the homoeopathist be too sure ; for hu- 
 man cupidity, 1 fear, would adulterate even the decillionth 
 of a grain, if the decillionth of a farthing per cent, is to be 
 got by it. " Well," it may be said, " any how in such a 
 case it cannot much matter;" but that is mere allopathic 
 ignorance. The homoeopathist would doubtless be in agony 
 to think that the trecillionth of his grain of aconite might 
 possibly be defrauded of a decilhonth of that fraction. At 
 all events, none will deny that the patient had a right to 
 his fair and full " trecillionth," — if he could but be ever 
 sure that he had cfot it ! 
 
 There is one improvement still required on Dr. Hassall's 
 instrument. One would hke to see a " moral solar micro- 
 
DR. IIASS ALL'S MICROSCOPE. 441 
 
 scope," tliat would lay bare, in similar manner, all the " for- 
 eign ingredients " — the adalterate mixtures — which enter 
 into the composition of spurious virtue. How amusing tlie 
 Report of " Analyses " into these would read ! How should 
 Ave find, on examination, a hundred pound donation to 
 
 Hospital, by Alderman , prompted by only two 
 
 per cent, of charity combined with ninety-eight per cento 
 of vanity and ostentation ; a fine specimen, apparently, of 
 devotion, turning out, on being closely insi^ecterl, little else 
 than chips of rites and ceremonies, and the sawdust of for- 
 mality, wich scarcely one per cent, of genuine devotion in 
 it: a parcel of zeal — of the true vermilion dye to all ap- 
 pearance — plainly consisting, when subjected to a high 
 power, of the vulgar blood-red counterfeit of hatred and 
 intolerance : a huge mass of unctuous religious talk utterly 
 destitute of a single j^article of sincerity, the article being 
 entirely composed of rancid " cant,'' scented with essence 
 of hypocrisy : an eloquent discourse of the Rev. Mr. Blar- 
 ney, discerned to have but five per cent, of genuine emo- 
 tion in it, — the tears and pathos, warranted real, being 
 nothing but old " theatrical properties : " the decorous sor- 
 rows of an undertaker seen at a glance, and witli scarcely 
 a higher power than that of common spectacles, to be noth- 
 ing but downright hilarity painted black ; the deep dejec- 
 tion of an heir to a large estate, discerned to be similarly 
 constituted : the tears of a whole party in a mournhig coach 
 found to exhibit the merest tincture of genuine grief for 
 the deceased ; what other emotion there was being the re- 
 sult of disappointed expectations. 
 
 Such are some of the analyses one might exi>ect to see 
 if we liad but this wonder-working instrument — amoral 
 solar microscope ; but perhaps it is as well for us all that 
 
 there is none. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 R. E. II. G. 
 
442 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER C. 
 
 to alfked west, esq. 
 
 My dear Feiej^'d, 
 
 You have often heard me mention my friend John Ful- 
 ler, — Avho supposed himself to be a lineal descendant of 
 old Thomas Fuller, and felt a little innocent pride in so 
 thinking ; the only pride I ever saw in him. He is dead 
 — and has carried with him out of the world as much true 
 worth, 1 believe, as ever existed in any one heart in it. 
 
 He was a genuine Christian if ever there was one. As 
 to the species^indeed^ I rather think he would have been him- 
 self puzzled to say. " Was he Episcopalian — Presbyterian 
 ■ — Calvinist — Arminian ? " I hear half a thousand zealots 
 say. I hardly know ; but I am sure he was a Christian, 
 for he exhibited in great perfection all the principal " para- 
 doxes " of sentiment imd conduct which Bacon represents 
 as characteristic of one. He exercised an absolute faith 
 " in the merits of Christ for his salvation," and yet was as 
 much impelled to do " good works " as if he thought he 
 could be saved only by his own. " He belicAed Christ 
 could have no need of anything he could do, and yet made 
 account that he relieved Christ in ail his acts of charity ; " 
 " he knew he could do nothing of himself, and yet labored 
 to work out his own salvation." "He prayed and labored 
 for that which he was confident God meant to give^ He 
 was full of gentleness, patience, charity ; and felt an es|)e- 
 cial pleasure in doing a kindness to those who had wronged 
 him, and in giving a benefaction to a Christian who did 
 not wear the outward costume he altogether approved. 
 Now, if all that does not make a Christian, I know not 
 what docs. He had his " Sibboleth," or liis " Shibboleth," 
 I dare say, — for who is without it to some extent? — but 
 
TRUE CATHOLICISM. 443 
 
 he never could prevail on himself to regard a peculiarity 
 of articulation as a different language ; or to see why, if 
 men may speak widely different dialects and yet may all 
 be Englishmen, Christians may not talk in very different 
 dialects, too, without ceasing to be Christians ^ yea, though 
 sometimes the pronunciation be so uncouth, that one may 
 almost doubt whether they be not " barbarians." 
 
 He is stark naught, says the Papist, in spite of all this 
 fiiith and charity, if he did not believe in the infallibility of 
 the Pope and the seven sacraments ! Pardon me, Mr. Ro- 
 manist, you know about as much about the matter as the 
 Biahmin in Marmontel's tale, who, when the young Eng- 
 lish officer has saved his daughter's life at the hazard of his 
 own, exclaims — "Is it possible that so excellent a ])erson 
 should not believe in Yishnoo and his Seven Transmigra- 
 tions ? " 
 
 John Fuller did not deny that minor differences of doc- 
 trine, or even diversities of ritual, were things of some 
 moment ; he thought that every Christian was bound to 
 satisfy his conscience respecting such things, and adhere to 
 those opinions which he thought really nearest the truth ; 
 but while he acted on his own conscientious convictions and 
 preferences, he could not allow the essence of Christianity 
 to consist in trifles, and never hesitated, where lie did see 
 that essence embodied in character, to embrace it with the 
 full sympathies of a Christian. "Many errors," he would 
 say, " will quietly drop away with the progress of truth 
 itself, and many moVe with the progress of charity. Others 
 of little moment (strange as it seems to say so) I hardly 
 wish ever should drop ; for if men were brought to a perfect 
 unanimity, where would be the scope for the exercise of 
 mutual charity ? There is as much — nay, a greater diffi- 
 culty iq. vanquishing antipathies of religious sentiment^ even 
 
444 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 when differences are of little moment, than almost any- 
 other." 
 
 I have said that John had his preferences and his opinions 
 on minor matters ; but never so as to interfere with his 
 love of intercommunion among Christians, of whatever 
 type. But ho did not think it competent to him to break 
 down altogether the sacred enclosure, or diminish by a 
 hair's breadth the Avide interval which still subsists between 
 the most imperfect Christian, if really one, and him who is 
 no Christian at all; and thus, though he was the most 
 catholic, he was also the most rigid of men. Unhappy 
 result of his consistency! He was thought lax by his 
 brethren and bigoted by the world ! But it never troubled 
 John. He could hear with edification a sermon from one 
 of those he called " his great preachers," whether preached 
 in the Cathedral or in a Conventicle, and threw in his 
 modest mite into almost any treasury consecrated to Chris- 
 tian enterprise and philanthropy ; sometimes — how am I 
 ashamed to say it ! — with a peculiar gusto, if his modest 
 tribute was in aid of associations which a little differed from 
 those he most preferred ! 
 
 In short, he was much in the condition of a certain Cana- 
 dian convert of whom I once heard the following^ droll 
 story. He had a dream, he said, one night, that he was 
 translated to heaven, which to his imagination seemed very 
 much like a " large church or meeting-house ; " (I devoutly 
 trust he was mistaken in that.) He said he thought Jesus 
 Christ questioned each one before him as to his ecclesias- 
 tical position. One said he was an Ei^iscopalian. " Then," 
 said Christ, " you can go and sit down in that pew — there 
 all the Episcopalians are gathered together." Another 
 said he was a Baptist ; he was in like manner told to repair 
 to another pew. A third said he was a Presbyterian, and 
 
BEARDS. 445 
 
 a third pew was assigned to him ; and so of the rest. At 
 last it came to the turn of the poor savage to be catechized ; 
 and not being sufficiently iqy to the nice divisions of ecclesi- 
 astical and doctrinal theology, he was afraid that there would 
 be no " pew " found for him. Trembling, he replied when 
 asked what he was — "I am a — Christian, and love the 
 Lord Jesus Christ with all my heart." " Oh, then," said 
 the benignant querist, " you may walk all about heaven, 
 and go hither and thither just as it pleases you." I am 
 afraid that Canadian was a very sly fellow ! 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER CI. 
 
 TO C. MASON", ESQ. 
 
 Glen Shirkag, Aug. 1854. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You will be glad to hear that I have safely reached my 
 old haunt, and have located myself in the family of my 
 worthy farmer, who, as well as his wife, two sons, and three 
 daughters, — to say nothing of the dogs, — are extremely 
 anxious to show me every civility. The weather is splendid 
 — if it does but last. This is one of those brio-ht dazzlino: 
 August mornings of which we have, perhaps, three or four 
 in the course of our English summer; — just enough to 
 enable us to comprehend the sarcasm of the Persian ambas- 
 sador, who, when asked whether it was really true that the 
 Persians worshipped the sun, said, " Yes, and so would the 
 English if they ever saw him ! " 
 
 I was in some doubt the first morning whether I should 
 be able to get my morning cold bath, — to me an essential 
 of life. But I am accommodating — being indifferent 
 
 38 
 
446 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 whether I baptize by " sprinkling,'* " affusion " or " immer- 
 sion," though I prefer the last. On the present occasion, 
 I was accommodated with a washing-tub, and a huge water- 
 pot (without the " rose "), full of water. My host was 
 about to pour its contents into the tub. But seeing the 
 thing so handy, and as it was a growing morning, I asked 
 for the " rose ; " and becoming at once plant and gardener, 
 stood in the tub, and lifting the water-j^ot over my head, 
 shoicer-hathed it to my great satisfaction, and I hope with 
 some benefit to my stature. I infer it may be so from the 
 difficulty I afterwards felt in shaving, which could surely 
 only have been from my beard having grown rapidly. I 
 state the fact with the impartiality of a philosopher, without 
 deciding whether it was due to the watering-pot or a bad 
 razor ; pray choose your hypothesis. 
 
 By the way, talking of shaving, what a prodigious num- 
 ber of fantastical beardlets I have seeninmy recent journey! 
 The other day, on stepping into a railway carriage, I found 
 the opposite seats occupied by three hirsute gentlemen, 
 who, if they had not been so young, would have looked quite 
 venerable, and filled me with the like awe which seized 
 the Gauls when they spied the long-bearded senators in the 
 Roman Capitol. I really begin to fear that the abominable 
 appendage is about to be restored among us. I met a 
 youngster the other day whose beard was just in the worst 
 possible " stage of development ; " that is, he had got a 
 minikin tuft on his chin and a thin crop on his upper lip 
 which simply had the effect of making him look execrably 
 dirty. He held with me a learned argument for the reten- 
 tion of the excrementitious capillaries. Though not old 
 enough to have a beard, he was old enough to be an 
 Atheist, which he owned with that sweet complacency with 
 which so many sucking philosophers of our day, after read- 
 ing Comte or the " Vestiges," do the like. He professed 
 
BEARDS. 447 
 
 to have a reverence for his beard as a gift of Nature, and 
 to think it a sort of profanity to throw it aside. By the 
 way, I dare say, if the beard controversy goes on much 
 longer, we shall have an orthodox and heterodox beard- 
 party, as much attached, and with as much reason, to their 
 respective doctrines, as the Big-endians and Little-endians 
 of Lilliput. — But to return to my youngster. He inno- 
 cently asked, %oliy we should shave away what ''''Nature had 
 given us." " Why," said I, " suppose Nature has made a 
 mistake in giving us such a thing ? Is it not wise to rectify 
 it ? " " Made a mistake ! " said he. " Yes," said I ; 
 " nothing more easy according to your hypothesis, for you 
 confess to Atheism ; why may not the beard be an error of 
 Nature? If unintelligent ' laws of development,' or uncon- 
 scious necessity or blind chance has made the world and 
 beards, I see no reason why you should suppose everytliing 
 for the best : and as you have intelligence, at least think 
 so," I continued, smiling, " and the universe has none^ you 
 and all of us ought to be allowed to reform, alter, and 
 amend at pleasure." It was not easy to see how to defend 
 the orthodoxy of wearing beards as a gift of Nature on such 
 a theory. 
 
 On another occasion, a youth contended that as God had 
 given us beards, He must have intended they should be 
 worn ; and that it was a sort of impiety to get rid of them. 
 But this proved too much; for I asked whether he let his 
 nails and beard grow like Nebuchadnezzar, or as far as 
 nature chose to let them ? " No," he said, " clij) the beard 
 you may, — but that is different from shaving ! " "A subtle 
 distinction," said I; "it is a question of limits, I fear, 
 which none can determine. Are we at liberty to clip within 
 two inches ? — one inch ? — the tenth of an inch ? — the 
 millionth of an inch ? For if so, is not shaving close clip- 
 ping, as clipping indeed is nothing but a sort of slovenly 
 
448 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 shaving ? Or is there some orthodox limit to which the 
 beard may grow, sacred at once from both scissors or 
 razor ? " 
 
 What can be i\iQ final cause of the beard ? Some physi- 
 ologists say that it is to help carry off any spare particles 
 of the system — any " superfluities of naughtiness " — and 
 so serves, with other excretions, to keep up the equilibrium 
 between nutrition and consumption. But, according to 
 this, a glutton's beard ought to grow faster than that of 
 other folks. Be pleased to ask the aldermen of London 
 whether they shave twice a day : also whether this is the 
 reason why artisans need not shave more than once a week ? 
 But, above all, inquire diligently of those who wear a beard, 
 what special gratification they have in so doing, that we 
 may have a proper induction as to the filial cause of this 
 singular appendage, which has ever been to me as great a 
 mystery as a monkey's tail. 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 
 K. E. H. G. 
 
 P. S. I fell in the other day with one of these patient 
 e/bWike anglers, (up to his knees, by the way, in the 
 stream,) who had been at his sport for some hours and 
 caught nothing. I told him I thought it must be miserably 
 dull work. He contended, (I suppose he was bound to 
 make the best of present circumstances,) that the fewer the 
 fish the greater the sport, as more skill was required, and 
 so on. I almost angered him by asking whether, as it was 
 thus a problem of limits, it would not be the greatest sport 
 of all to angle for a single gudgeon turned loose in the 
 Atlantic ? 
 
THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 4,4.9 
 
 LETTER CII. 
 
 to a gentleman who would be a christian yet re- 
 jected all the peculiar facts and doctrines of 
 " historical " christianity. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 You talk of the cumbrous character of the " Christian 
 evidences," — and especially of the "pithless" i:>hilological, 
 critical, and chronological discussions of " historic " difficul- 
 ties. 
 
 To this, I think, I might retort by saying that I find few 
 people so prone as some who have adopted a latitudinarian 
 theology, — except those indeed, who have rejected Chris- 
 tianity even in name, — to dwell on these same difficulties ; 
 not for the purpose of attaining satisfaction about them, but 
 to puzzle and perplex those who are convinced of the sub- 
 stantive truth of Christianity, and are content to leave all 
 such minor problems unsolved till they can obtain further 
 evidence. I am seldom long in company with certain men 
 without finding them busy with the " discrepancies " in our 
 Saviour's " genealogy," or the geological difficulties in the 
 first chapter of Genesis ; or anxious to know whether it was 
 going out of Jericho or into it that our Lord healed the 
 blind man, or whether two w^ere healed or only one. Li 
 short, I find no persons so ready to reduce the evidences of 
 Chritianity to " pithless " discussions, as those who receive 
 a minimum of Christianity ; nor any who so often ask satis- 
 faction of their difficulties as those w-ho hope it may never 
 be found ! 
 
 But with you, I shall not think it worth while thus to 
 retort. I shall carry the war into your own quarters. I 
 shall, without hesitation, affirm that it is theologians of your 
 
 38* 
 
450 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 stamp who, of all men, are most open to the charge of 
 binding " critical" mill-stones about peoj^le's necks, and that 
 it is equally api^licable to your theology as a product^ and 
 to the desperate processes by which your alchemists of 
 criticism distil it from the Scriptures. You tell me that 
 you receive, in some sense, Christianity as a divinely orig- 
 inated system ; and yet you reject all that is miraculous and 
 supernatural in its professed /ac^5, as also all that has seemed 
 to the generality of the readers of the New Testament for 
 eighteen centuries, to be undeniably characteristic of its 
 doctrines. All this you regard either as the product of the 
 l^rejudice and "stand-point" (a convenient thing is that 
 " stand-point ") of those who historically transmitted Chris- 
 tianity to us ; or else, as seemingly on the page of Scripture, 
 indeed, but, in truth, not there. By the resources of a 
 clever exegesis, and a free use of the critical sponge, it may 
 be expelled altogether. In short, it is all the error of inter- 
 pretation ! 
 
 Whichever of these two theories be adopted, I assure you, 
 I find your argument against a " critical theology " irresis- 
 tible, and the New Testament transformed into the most 
 burdensome book in the world. And if I coidd be got to 
 the "point of view" necessary to adopt either, I should 
 infallibly go further, out of sheer inability to deal with so 
 intractable a phenomenon as your Christianity ! If I adopt 
 \h\Q^ first theory, and suppose that the "facts and doctrines" 
 which seem so plainly written in the New Testament, and 
 which are generally admitted to be there, are yet all mis- 
 take, gross ignorance, prejudice, delusion, on the part of 
 the writers, — I know no one reason in the world why I 
 should regard, with any remaining veneration, men who, at 
 every turn, were so full of egregious blunders on the most 
 vital points. If, for example, they meant to maintain the 
 literal reality of their miraculous narratives, and supernat- 
 
THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 451 
 
 urally derived doctrines ; if they meant to assert the Pre- 
 existence, raucli more the Divinity of Christ, — the dogma 
 of atonement by his death, — the divine inspiration and 
 authority of their communications, and other kindred doc- 
 trines, — and yet these were fanatical dehisions, and are to 
 be wholly rejected, I see no sufficient reason why I should 
 regard with even common respect such com2:)rehensive blun- 
 derers ; or what is the residuum, after all, which such large 
 excisions have left for my reception ; or lahy that residuum, 
 which itself differs indefinitely with different interpreters 
 among you — should be regarded with any more rever- 
 ence than the rest. If you say, " because it can be other- 
 wise proved true," — by all means hold it for true then ; 
 but it surely cannot be regarded as any the tnore true for 
 being inculcated by those who do not give it its authority, 
 and who in other things have so egregiously blundered and 
 gone astray! You ought to hold it for true, not at all 
 because Apostles have written, but in spite of their having 
 written ! that is, in spite of the presumptions Avhich their 
 countless and absurd errors would naturally create against 
 it ; and on account of other evidence so strong, that even 
 their extravagances cannot prejudice it! On this theory, I 
 say, your theology is simply a " critical burden," which 
 " neither we nor our fathers have been able to bear ;" and I 
 will add, nor will our children ; and the only consequence 
 of its fair application on my own part, would be that I should 
 summarily rid myself of such troublesome incumbrances as 
 the Apostles altogether ! 
 
 If, on the other hand, it be said that the doctrines which 
 to ninety-nine out of every hundred readers of the New 
 Testament seem to be there, are not there, and that a skil- 
 ful and bold criticism can expel them fi'om the page, then I 
 can only say that I find your " critical burdens " at least 
 equally intolerable. I have sometimes tried to interpret the 
 
452 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ^ew Testament in your fashion ; — but I find in every chap- 
 ter, in ahnost every verse, the natural sense so rebelhng 
 asrainst the critical rack and thumbscrew, such a constant 
 outcry from the tortured language against the violence done 
 to it, that, on my honor, compassion itself cannot stand it. 
 Not only is a non-natural sense, not only is forced construc- 
 tion perpetually necessary, but I am obliged to use the 
 sponge itself so often and so ruthlessly, — nay, to shovel 
 away so many entire chapters bodily, — that I feel that if 
 the writers meant only what your system involves, by all 
 that language I have twisted, and tortured, and j)ared, and 
 cut away, and thrown aside, they were so astoundingly ig- 
 norant of the ordinary use of human language, that A\'hat- 
 ever else they might be, " Hevealers " they were not ; that 
 so far from having the gift of tongues, they could not speak 
 Avith one ; and that they must certainly have believed one 
 dogma of the Romish Church, — that the mysteries of 
 religion are most worthily expressed in a language which 
 the worshippers cannot understand! If your system be 
 indeed Cnristianity, the very construction of the books 
 which contain it is an ignominious failure. 
 
 To arrive at such a Christianity, by thus dealing with the 
 only documents which do or can tell us a syllable about it, 
 implies, as I say, an immeasurably heavier burden of criti- 
 cism than any of those dry controversies on the " Evidences " 
 with which you twit me. 
 
 To me it seems clear as the day, that if such a system as 
 yours he that of the New Testament, — its writers never 
 can, in any sense, have come from God, to tell it to us. If 
 God, in the Scripture, has made known religious truth by 
 human agency, the least we can suppose is that He employ- 
 ed men who could use human language so as to convey, to 
 the majority at least of candid readers, what they really 
 meant* and if what you call the current, but mistaken, 
 
THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 453 
 
 Christianity, he that meaning, there can be no doubt He 
 has done so ; for the style of Scripture, as it is in general 
 wonderfully clear and simple, so it has conveyed this mean- 
 ing to the immense majority of readers in every age. The 
 miraculous and supernatural " facts," and the " doctrines " 
 of the " current theology " have been generally supposed, 
 by learning and ignorance alike, to be naturally conveyed 
 by the language of the N"ew Testament. Plentifully, I 
 admit, have interpreters differed, as regards modes of Church 
 government, and as regards many minor doctrines ; as re- 
 gards also the philosophy of doctrines, which are not minor ; 
 but I repeat, in the immense majority of cases, the facts and 
 doctrines you especially dislike have been supposed to be 
 what the Apostles designed to convey to us. If they did 
 not, the Scripture has failed of its object ; they who wrote 
 it have hopelessly misled, not enlightened, the world; and I 
 should hold this as a conclusive indication that they did not 
 come from God. 
 
 To receive therefore any such system as that you de- 
 fend, necessitates a much more "intolerable" criticism 
 than any I find employed by " current Christianity." 
 When I have applied it, and comj^are the results with 
 the documents from which I have so laboriously extracted 
 it, I cannot bring myself to believe that those who penned 
 the documents can have been half as capable of expressing 
 their meaning as nine-tenths of mankind in general ; while 
 it is little less than blasphemy to imagine that men who 
 have so stupidly misled the world can have been emjjloyed 
 to communicate a system of divine "Revelation," — which, 
 after all, Avas to reveal to the world the contrary of its 
 true import ! 
 
 No; — the "burden" of such an hypotliesis is indeed 
 " intolerable." I could be more easily reconciled to Deism, 
 however unsatisfactory and disputable its meagre doc- 
 
454 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 trines, than while holding little more, bind about my neck 
 such a yoke as that of a " Revelation " which can only be 
 understood by suj^posing its authors did not understand 
 the modes of common speech, by their misuse of which 
 they have actually cajoled the great bulk of their honest 
 and faithful readers, in every age and country, to infer the 
 contrary of what they meant in all then- most momentous 
 utterances ! 
 
 You frankly confessed, in our recent interview, that 
 those who adopt your critical principles have ever been 
 few ; and that, few as you are, you occupied every con- 
 ceivable point between bare Deism and the " current 
 orthodoxy," — a result which must naturally be expected 
 from the impossibility of fixing the limit within which 
 different minds will apply your " cumbrous " apparatus of 
 criticism. 
 
 Forgive me, for saying that, for similar reasons, " few " 
 you will always be. The generality of people will never 
 endure your intolerable processes of criticism, whether 
 you call its products rationalistic^ — on the supposition 
 that the Apostles sincerely delivered a system, nine-tenths 
 of which is to be rejected as fanatical nonsense; or 
 exegetical^ — on the supposition that they did not say 
 what nearly everybody is irresistibly led to believe they 
 meant to say ! The generality of readers Avill recoil from 
 the horrible ordeal of logical and critical torture to which 
 you would subject them; they will go on further than 
 you, or take the "current Christianity." — This last, not 
 stereotyped^ indeed, will still embrace, under some or other 
 modifications, the "supernatural narratives" of the New 
 Testament, and these doctrines at least, — the Pre-exist- 
 ence of Christ, the union of two natures in Him, and the 
 atonement for sin by His death. These things are so 
 entwined with the very texture of the New Testament, 
 
ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 455 
 
 that, like the supernatural in its history, they cannot be 
 rubbed out without making huge holes in it. I do not say, 
 for I do not think, that men Avill all agree in the reception 
 of any one theory of the pliilosopliy of these doctrines ; 
 for, as to this, Scripture itself is silent. But the doctrines 
 themselves, I feel convinced, cannot be evaded by any one 
 who honestly asks "What is Christianity?" and when 
 they cease to be received, it will only be by a cost of 
 criticism which will render readers of the New Testament 
 bankrujDts in faith altogether. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 LETTER CIII. 
 
 TO A TOIJNG FEIEND DISPOSED TO MAKE THE "DISCREP- 
 ANCIES " IN SCKIPTUKE A REASON FOR RENOUNCING 
 CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 1853. 
 
 My dear young Friend, 
 
 You tell me you cannot reconcile all the discrepancies 
 which maybe detected in minute portions of the Scripture 
 history, and that you therefore feel compelled to give up 
 the truth of Christianity ! 
 
 What a " therefore " is that ! I pity your logic. Pardon 
 me, but between the premises and the conclusion there is 
 no connection in the world. It is much as if you said, 
 you cannot demonstrate the compatibility of all the phe- 
 nomena of the universe with the divine benevolence, — 
 and therefore., you must become an Atheist; nay, it is 
 really as absurd as if you were to say that you cannot 
 reconcile all the discrepancies of English historians, and 
 therefore give up the History of England: for discrep- 
 
456 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ancies in a history may be numerous and real, and yet 
 every important fact of it be true. 
 
 "You cannot reconcile," you say, "all the discrep- 
 ancies;" and I may retort, "Who asked you?" Cer- 
 tainly, I should not; for I cannot reconcile all those 
 discrepancies either. But as to giving up Christianity as 
 divine — or the New Testament, as the "Word of God on 
 that account, — I should as soon think, as some one said, 
 in a somewhat similar case, " of burning down London to 
 get rid of the bugs." 
 
 "What are you to do?" you ask; "what can you do?" 
 Why, so far from your being compelled to do Avhat you 
 meditate, — there are, as the late Sir Robert Peel used to 
 say, no less than " three courses " open to you, any one of 
 which would be infinitely more logical than the renun- 
 ciation of Christianity. 
 
 I. Even if you were to affirm, — what perhaps you Avill 
 affirm, — not only that you cannot reconcile all these 
 discrepancies, but that they are, and mil for ever be, 
 irreconcilable ; that they are mistakes of the writers, just 
 because "inspiration" did not plenarily protect them 
 against infirmities of intellect, any more than it did against 
 all errors of conduct ; still you would not be justified in 
 such a conclusion, as you seem to think inevitable. And 
 I say that this is proved even by the conduct of the hulh 
 of those who chiefly insist on this view of the discre])- 
 ancies, — who make the most of them, who often per- 
 versely pet them ; for even these do not therefore affirm 
 that the entire evidence on behalf of Christianity as a 
 thing of Divine origin, is naught ; they still affirm that the 
 substantial truth of its facts is incontrovertible ; and that 
 the office of " criticism " is, at best, only to eliminate the 
 minute portions in which "irreconcilable discrepancy " is 
 to be traced. I know, indeed, that some of these " elim-. 
 
ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 457 
 
 inators " proceed in this task at a rare rate, and " elim- 
 inate " nearly the whole book ; " turn the house," as the 
 saying is, " out of the windows ; " but many, notwith- 
 standing, do apply the theory within perfectly insignificant 
 and innocuous limits. Now I say not that this is the best 
 method of dealing with such matters ; — I think either the 
 second or the third (which I shall presently touch) is 
 better. Still if, as is very 2:>ossible, those who hold this 
 theory apply the jDrinciple honestly, and only to the 
 minute and trivial portions of the New Testament History 
 in which alone anything approaching " irreconcilable con- 
 tradiction " can, with a shadow of reason, be pretended, — 
 the result is much the same as if the whole book were 
 accepted as divine. So little is rejected, that it does not 
 appreciably affect the sum of w^hat is retained. To ask 
 the difference is of as little significance as to ask Avhether 
 somebody is richer than you, who has a thousand pounds, 
 when you have the same sum all but a thousandth part of 
 a farthing ! 
 
 I know, indeed, there are those who parade and exag- 
 gerate these diflS^culties for the very purpose of finding 
 excuses for the conclusion you seem in danger of arriving 
 tat. They have accordingly always magnified and mul- 
 tiplied them ; but the bulk of those who insist on them in 
 our day do not insist on them as at all affecting the claim 
 of Christianity to be divinely originated, and they there- 
 fore ^rowe that it is at least possible to hold this theory 
 and yet not give up Christianity. Nor can you in justice 
 do so, unless you have first confuted the immensely varied 
 and convergent proofs of its truth, and the substantial 
 credibihty of its documents; — any more than, in the 
 parallel case, you can set aside the history of England or 
 Greece because you have found variations and contra- 
 dictions in the recital of j)articular facts ! 
 
 39 
 
458 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 But you will, perhaps, say, "Does not this impose upon 
 me the task of eliminating what is false ? And does it not 
 comj^el me to reject the idea of plenary inspiration?" 
 
 R-ecollect what I have said; — I do 7iot affirm that this 
 first way is the hest possible way of confronting the difficul- 
 ties which you say perplex you ; I am only contending that 
 it is consistent and intelligible, though Z prefer another; — 
 of which presently. But as to the above questions, I must 
 answer, on this first theory, in the affirmative. You must, 
 no doubt, diligently and carefully eliminate the fragments 
 of error which you deem such ; you must winnow the 
 wheat. " Am I capable of such an exercise of intellect ? " 
 you will say. I have nothing to do Avith that ; but this I 
 will say, 1. That it makes not the substantive truth of the 
 New Testament less true, nor justifies you in rejecting the 
 whole, because you think a ten thousandth j^art doubtful ; 
 and 2. That if you reject only what you call " demonstrably 
 contradictory^'' I am convinced your task will be light 
 enough, and that the balance which will weigh the difier- 
 ence between your New Testament and mine will be a 
 very delicate one ! Further, your task, even on this theory, 
 will in fact involve no other difficulty than you submit to 
 in dealing with any book of authentic history, — minute 
 portions of which you reject as erroneous ; no other diffi- 
 culty than a judge or juryman is compelled to confront, 
 who, in taking the sum of evidence, rejects in a similar 
 manner what is contradictory or irreconcilable ^vith the 
 main fiacts substantiated, while he yet cleaves to his con- 
 clusion notwithstanding. Now I say this is more consistent 
 and intelligible than the course you propose, which really is 
 much as if a judge were to say, "Gentlemen, there are 
 some minute facts which seem irreconcilable, and therefore 
 I have nothing to say to you ;" or as if the jury were to say, 
 " Till these facts are fully reconciled we can give no verdict." 
 
ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 459 
 
 N'or can it be proved tliat, on such a theory of inspira- 
 tion as that noAV implied, God would have done anything, 
 (however improbable a priori^ out of analogy with His 
 i:)rocedure in other cases ; as God has j^laced us in an anal- 
 ogous difficulty in other cases, so, for aught you know. He 
 may in this. To discriminate — to judge with candor — to 
 hold fist what is j^roven in spite of difficulties — may be 
 required of us as part of that exercise of a docile faith, of 
 an unprejudiced reason, which throughout our whole pro- 
 bation He has provided for us here. Indeed, on any theory 
 of inspiration, He has practically involved us in much the 
 same difficulty : for even on the theory of the plenary 
 insj^iration of Scripture, He has Himself left on the sacred 
 page the traces of appciTent discrepancies that perj^lex and 
 baffle us. Now on the theory that He occasionally allowed 
 human infirmity to introduce error and mistake. He would 
 only have subjected us to much the same discipline. 
 
 As to your second inference, — that you must, at all 
 events, give uj) the plenary inspiration — the absolute infol- 
 lible truth of every syllable of Scripture, — I acknowledge 
 that what you prove to be error cannot be inspired ; only 
 be sure that it is so j^i'oved. That will necessitate your 
 giving u]) those minute portions to which you can say de- 
 monstrated error or paljjable contradiction attaches. 
 
 Now can you believe, perha2>s you will say, that God has 
 commissioned men to declare religious truth to the world — 
 has inspired the«i with the knowledge of it, — has wrought 
 mh'acles and uttered j^roj^hecy to authenticate it, and yet 
 has left the very messengers to be sometimes misled by 
 ignorance ? to misstate fact ? to blunder in the very deUv- 
 ery of their message ? 
 
 Now, (mind once again) I do not deny this difficulty, 
 and, in consequence, prefer another method of dealing with 
 the matter, as I shall presently show you ; but still, I say, 
 
4 GO THE GREY SON LETTEKS. 
 
 that even such a supposition is perfectly intelligible and 
 consistent, compared with the alternative you propose to 
 yourself — the summary rejection of Christianity ! 
 
 For, after all, if we admit this theory, does it leave you 
 in greater difficulty than Theism leaves you ? Does not 
 the constitution of the world jDresent you with analogous 
 facts? While millions of j^henomena attest the divine 
 goodness, do you not every now and then stumble on some 
 which look the other way ? Is the plague or the rattle- 
 snake quite intelligible ? Do you not, when you meet 
 with such unaccountable phenomena, say, " They are dif- 
 ficulties indeed — things quite inexplicable, but they must 
 not be allowed to override the deductions which the im- 
 mense majority out of every million of facts will justify?" 
 Do you not say, " I believe there must be good reasons for 
 these ugly things, though I do not know what they are ? " 
 
 You may perhaps rejoin, "Yes, but after all, a cobra or 
 rattlesnake is God's direct work, and therefore I believe 
 there must be good reasons for it, though I am ignorant of 
 them." I answer, "Very well; and may you not say the 
 same of what is inexplicable in what God permits ? Would 
 it be any more wonderful if God should permit human ig- 
 norance and infirmity to introduce some trivial errors into 
 His word (mind, I say not it is so) than that His power 
 and wisdom should do what you can in no way comprehend 
 in His works ? " 
 
 But if you vnll have a precisely analogous case, I can 
 give it you in the moral government of God. There God, 
 every day and everywhere, permits the remaining follies 
 of the wise and the remaining infirmities of the virtuous 
 to chequer the results of their beneficent action on the 
 world ; to mingle much error with their truth, some evil 
 with their good. And can you prove that it 7nay not have 
 been to some extent thus, even in the construction of ^ 
 
ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 461 
 
 divine revelation ? Would not sucli a course be at least 
 in analogy " with the constitution and course of nature ? " 
 If He permitted, though we know not why, His fair crea- 
 tion to be invaded with evil, and " the enemy by night to 
 sow tares among the wheat ; " would it be inconceivable, 
 if, in like manner. He should have suffered minute errors 
 to enter into the texture of the Bible ? 
 
 KecoUect, however, what I have said; I do not think 
 this method so eligible as the second of the three courses, 
 or as the third ; — but this I say — it is perfectly intelligi- 
 ble and consistent comj^ared with the coarse application of 
 your Gordian shears. 
 
 " What then, is your second theory ? " you will say. 
 But you must wait till to-morrow. I have Avell filled my 
 sheet, and I hate crossing. I conclude by begging you to 
 believe me, 
 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 LETTER CIV. 
 
 TO Tilli: SAME. 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
 My dear Yofth, 
 
 As to my second theory of dealing with the " discre- 
 l^ancies," it is a very simple one, and not less admirable, — 
 namely, to let them alone ; — to postiDone them till further 
 light is thrown upon them ; not to anticipate the true 
 theory of them ; to refrain from j^i'onouncing them either 
 absolutely insoluble or otherwise. 
 
 And the general evidence for the Bible is such as to jus- 
 tify this abstinence from dogmatism. We can afford to 
 wait. A Christian may say with justice — "When I can 
 solve these difficulties, I am glad ; when I cannot, I am 
 willing to suspend my judgment ; they do not, they never 
 
 39* 
 
462 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 can (whatever be the solution), shake the substantive credi- 
 bility of the great facts and main statements of the scrij^tural 
 documents ; adequate evidence against these must be an 
 earthquake which shall subvert the very foundations of the 
 faith, and leave the whole fabric a wreck, not a flash of criti- 
 cal lightning, which grazes, or S23linters, or even dislodges a 
 stone or two in some remote turret or ornamental pinnacle. 
 I can loait — I can afford to wait — no one hurries me; — 
 why should I be so incontinent of my opinion as to pro- 
 nounce before I am sure that I have all the i^ossible data ? 
 Whether the discrepancies are ultimately to be disposed 
 of by supposing something less than indefectible inspira- 
 tion for every particle of canonical Scrij^ture, or by finding 
 that they yield, as so many others have already done^ to 
 mere accurate recensions of the text, or more severe colla- 
 tion of the Scripture with itself or with profane writere, or 
 unexpected recoveries of fragments of ancient history, I 
 leave for awhile ; for, either way, the things which must 
 thus be left are but " dust in the balance ;" subtracted or 
 added, they will not appreciably affect the result ; and so, 
 whether zealous Stephen really confounded the sej^ulchre 
 which Jacob bought of the fother of Shechem with that 
 which Abraham bought of Ephron the Hittite, or not, I 
 shall magnanimously leave to future inquiries, and sleep 
 none the worse for it ! 
 
 I am fully aware that the infidel deems it infinitely im- 
 portant that such weighty points should be instantly set- 
 tled ; and indeed, from the eagerness with which he intro- 
 duces, and the j^ertinacity with which he discusses them, 
 one can hardly helj) fancying that he^ and not Christianity, 
 is the party principally interested in the issue ; and in very 
 truth, it is so ; for it is of immense importance to him that 
 Christianity should seem fiilse ; of little importance to 
 Christianity that such discrepancies should be reconciled. 
 
ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 4G3 
 
 But there is still a third course, in my judgment still 
 better than the second^ and the one to which I myself most 
 incline ; it is that of combining, with that abstinence fi'om 
 all dogmatic decision which the second course requires, a 
 reverential remembrance of the many instances in which 
 discrepancies, once vehemently insisted on, have yielded 
 to further investigation. Hence, a suspicion, at all events 
 founded on induction, that if we will but wait with a little 
 patience, that patience will be rewarded with a satisfactory 
 solution. Just so we act when we meet with phenomena 
 which seem to shock our notions of the divine benevolence, 
 in the department of physical inquiry ; we do not foolishly 
 imagine that every difficulty we meet with that we cannot 
 solve is absolutely insoluble, but we wait with confidence 
 for further lis^ht. 
 
 " But is not this an act of unreasoning faith ? " you will 
 perhaps say. — No, an act of reason y for it is founded on 
 experience of the past. I see that many difficulties Avhich 
 half a century ago were as clamorously proclaimed to be 
 " palpable contradictions " to all history and all probability 
 as those which still j^erplex us, have been removed. What 
 right then, have I to assume that the same will net happen, 
 if I have but patience, with the remainder ? What right 
 have I to suppose that the dogmatism which has been proved 
 so hasty in past times, and in other cases^ is never to be 
 proved so any more? Ought I not, on a fair induction^ 
 (not merely on au a priori conclusion that indefectible truth 
 must belong to all Scripture,) to wait not only with patience, 
 but with hope ? And I can wait, not merely because so 
 many difficulties have yielded, but because I see so plainly 
 that man has more than a trifle yet to learn; that antiquities, 
 history, ethnology, philosophy, "chronology, geology, and 
 half a dozen other sciences, are by no means exhausted ; 
 and that then- progress will, together with the study of the 
 
464 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 sacred books themselves, tend more and more to throw light 
 on these subjects. 
 
 All this of course is just simply saying that I am not en- 
 titled to assume a discrepancy to be absolutely msoluhle, so 
 long as I see that others which were thought so, proclaimed 
 so, and rejoiced in as such by infidels half a century ago, 
 are now allowed to be so no longer. 
 
 We may w^ell believe the truth of what Butler says of 
 the word of God, in his celebrated work : " It is not at all 
 incredible that a book which has been so long in the pos- 
 session of mankind should contain many truths as yet undis- 
 covered, for all the same phenomena and the same faculties 
 of investigation from which such great discoveries in natural 
 knowledge have been made in the present and past age, 
 were equally in the possession of mankind several thousand 
 years before ;" and for a similar reason we may equally well 
 believe that increasing light will be thrown on the difficulties 
 which meet us, and meet us no less in the investigation of 
 the Works than in the study of the Word of God. 
 
 Both the works and the Word of God are indeed inex- 
 haustible both in beauties and in mysteries ; fraught with 
 every element designed to educate the whole man — and 
 amongst the rest, with a few " hard sayings " for a diligent 
 reason to investigate, and a few, harder still, for a docile 
 faith to receive without fully comj)rehending at all. 
 
 However, my dear youth, ponder, I beg you, my words, 
 and see whether cmy one of the three alternatives I have 
 laid before you is not more rational (as I believe it is) than 
 the rash alternative you talk so lightly about. 
 
 You will observe that these remarks apply only to — what 
 I understand you to be troubled with — the apparent " dis- 
 crepancies" which you find in Scripture. If you mean 
 much more than this; — if, when you pretend to see no 
 discrepancy, you choose to refuse credence to a fact because 
 
ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 465 
 
 it is " mysterious," or transcends your comprehension, why, 
 there is, of course, no end to that sort of objection ; and 
 you might as well doubt whether there is such a thing as 
 the union of body and soul; — for that is as much above 
 your comprehension as anything in Scripture ; in short, your 
 creed will be speedily reduced to — zero. 
 
 If you urge that the first theory of the " discrepancies " 
 requires to be cautiously applied, — that it will be apt to 
 yield different results in different hands, — that it seems a 
 somewhat slippery place for a foothold, I grant it ; but you 
 will observe that I do not think it is the most philosophical 
 or modest of the three. Still I am sure that it (and still 
 more the others) is modesty, sense, philosophy itself, com- 
 pared with that Curtius-like leap into the gulf of infidelity 
 which you propose to take ! 
 
 Sure I am that if a man apply even the^jr^^ theory, with 
 honest and rigorous candor, restricting it to the petty 
 details in which the paraded " discrepancies " are found, he 
 will reject only infinitesimal quantities; while millions have 
 acquiesced in the second and third with perfect tranquillity 
 to their faith, ^ay — Christians in general tnust have done 
 so ; since no one pretends to be able to reconcile all these 
 discrepancies. 
 
 And thus if you think that they are ever likely to be of 
 any weight as against Christianity, let facts confute you. 
 Not only, as I have said, do the majority even of those who 
 most vehemently contend for the presence of minute error 
 in the Scriptures, tell you that they do not therefore dream 
 of its being necessary to abandon Christianity itself, and 
 that you are consequently wrong in your conclusion; but 
 the incessant repetition from age to age of the very same 
 class of difficulties does not make the smallest ai^preciable 
 impression on the Christian world at large ! If, therefore, 
 the hope of Infidehty be founded on such " discrepancies," 
 
4G6 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 never, surely, was hope more delusive. As I was recently 
 obliged to remind a young contemporary of yours, (who 
 2:>leads for undisguised Deism,) experience has fully proved 
 that nothing can be expected from the perpetual parade of 
 these " discrepancies." Somehow each generation of Infi- 
 dels imagines it is saying something new and to the purpose 
 when it urges them. They have been tried, over and over 
 again ; and against the vast fabric of Christian evidence, 
 and the general conviction of its truth, they produce no 
 more effect than firing pop-guns against granite. In fact, 
 we find the mass of the people will not heed them. Take, 
 for example, that " discrepancy " on which you lay so much 
 stress in your last. Why, it has been reproduced in every 
 age. It was insisted on by Celsus ; by Porj^hyry, by Col- 
 lins ; by Bolingbroke ; it was again iterated by Voltaire ; 
 it duly reappears in Strauss ; in short, in almost every infidel 
 writer : but it is of no avail whatever against the impres- 
 sion produced by the general evidence. The case is much 
 as in every difiicult trial in a court of justice ; there is sure 
 to be some point — often several — which no man can make 
 anything of, which nobody can clear up ; everybody wants 
 satisfaction thereon, and no one can give it ; meantime every- 
 body is convinced by the general stream and convergency 
 of the evidence; and with the exception of a crotchety 
 " Infidel " here and there, the prisoner is acquitted or hanged 
 with the all but unanimous verdict of the community. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
"TRANSMUTATION" AND " DEVELOPHENT." 467 
 
 LETTER CV. 
 
 TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 
 
 1853. 
 
 My dear West, 
 
 I have had a talk with your young relative, and you may 
 set your mind at rest on one point. He is no Atheist nor 
 Pantheist. He is a great admirer, indeed, of the theory of 
 the "Vestiges;" but then, much as you and I recoil from 
 the theory there propounded, (as everybody else will in a 
 dozen years,) that theory does not necessarily involve Ath- 
 eism — which its author, in fact, expressly disavows. He 
 has been often charged, it is true, with holding views /ayor- 
 ahle to Atheism ; and it must be confessed, that the first 
 editions of his work were greatly calculated to justify the 
 notion ; yet we f annot, and ought not, to doubt, unless he 
 be a very hypocrite of hypocrites, that he means what he 
 says in the successive eclaircissements which he has given 
 to the world of his doctrines , when he tells us, therefore, 
 that he believes in an intelligent and conscious Personality 
 who has "developed" the universe out of the fire-mist. 
 For my own part, after this, I must believe him a Theist ; 
 though as to the " fire mist," I rather think it is all " moon- 
 shine " of the author's fancy. 
 
 Nor indeed, as has been well remarked by several writers, 
 can any such theory really affect the question of Theism 
 at all ; if, indeed, such rare " transformations " and " trans- 
 mutions," and " developments " of organized beings, as it 
 supposes, (were there but any proof of them,) ought not 
 rather to enhance the proofs of divine power and intelli- 
 gence. Surely such transmutations not less require power 
 and intelligence than the received hypothesis of successive 
 creations ; for even if the elements of the material universe, 
 if matter itself, — be supposed eternal, it can never be 
 
468 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 proved that the properties and laws in virtue of which it has 
 been " developed " into such wondrous results inherently 
 belong to it ; or that if some properties did delong to it, a 
 chance-medley combination or blindly necessary application 
 of them would make such a symmetrical and harmonious 
 universe. 
 
 All the usual arguments for Theism, therefore, remain 
 unaffected by any such hypothesis ; the indications of order, 
 of design, — the inferences from effect to cause, which, 
 let hyper-metaphysical brains do w^hat they will to invali- 
 date, men in general, a million out of every million and one, 
 loill cling to and repose in, — are just what they were ; 
 they are no more affected by any such hypothesis as 
 that of the " Vestiges," how^ever irrational and fantastical 
 it may be on other grounds, than is the argument for the 
 intelligent fabrication of our bodies by the fact that w^e all 
 had fathers^ or for that of a butterfly by the fact that it 
 came out of a chrysalis ! The mere number, subtlety, and 
 duration of the phenomena of " transmutation " make no 
 difference in this argument, so long as the several ^:><:^r^5 of 
 the series, one and all, are marked by the same character- 
 istics of " design ; " rather, the inference is (as already said) 
 but strengthened and multiplied at each remove. If A, B, 
 and C be all stamped by their respective signatures of de- 
 sign, it were strange to suppose that that inference is invali- 
 dated because C came from B and B from A. Let the 
 indigree of these phenomena be long or short, the argu- 
 ments from Theism remain just w^here they w^ere. 
 
 Not, of course, that I think the theory on that account 
 harmless; a muddle-headed youth, no doubt, may easily 
 abuse it to Atheism ; for if he can but relegate the phe- 
 nomena in question to a sufliciently remote antiquity — 
 reduce the universe to a very fine " fire-mist," and interpose 
 a sufiicient number of changes and "transformations" 
 
" TRANSMUTATION " AND " DEVELOPMENT." 469 
 
 between the present complexity of the universe and the 
 first touch, next-to-nothing (!), which set all agoing^ and 
 lie is apt to think, not, as he ought, that the wisdom and 
 power which evolved all things from such an infinitesimal 
 germ and pre-arranged the evolution and march of all these 
 stupendous "developments" are the more worthy of ad- 
 miration ; but that he has got rid of the necessity of a 
 Deity altogether, for that truly a Deity must have had next 
 to nothing to do. 
 
 I have no fear, however, that this theory ever will or can 
 make Atheists ; for if it be but understood, that is impos- 
 sible. 
 
 In pomt of philosophy, it is worthless ; because it is a 
 perfectly gratuitous^ fantastical departure, under the mask 
 of philosophizing, from all the cardinal doctrines of Baconian 
 induction. 
 
 It is a species of very bad poetry ; the imagination is 
 allowed absolute license, and we are taught to believe 
 things, not because it is proved they are, but because we 
 don't know but what 2^ossibly they may have been ! Thus 
 we are told, for example, that though instances of the 
 " transmutation " of species cannot be produced, — though 
 all the fillets throughout the entire range of authentic history 
 are against it, — though we never see any indications of 
 monkeys turning into men, or fishes into birds, (though I 
 will not say that we have not sometimes the initial process 
 by which young philosophs promise to "develop" into 
 l^uppies,) — yet that such things may have been fifty millions 
 of years ago ; that the whole term and sphere of our obser- 
 vation are too limited to allow of such spectacles, but that 
 we do not know what twenty or a hundred millions of years 
 might do ! What sort of jDhilosophy is it which tells us 
 that we may infer something, because we do not know that, 
 in fifty millions of years or so, something of which we have 
 
 40 
 
470 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 not the slightest proof that it ever dici occur, might not 
 occur ! How would Bacon have felt abashed and insulted, 
 if he had been told that these his professed disciples, who 
 are ever pleading and profaning his name, would argue that 
 we are to consider such and such conclusions probable, not 
 because we know what is or has been, but precisely because 
 we do not know that it may not have been ! It is to dream, 
 not to philosophize, — to talk in this way. It is just as if a 
 man challenged us to believe that not only is Jupiter inhab- 
 ited, but that it is inhabited by animals with three heads and 
 fifteen hands, inasmuch as none can say that it may not 
 be ; nay, because we do 7iot know that it is 7iot ! Surely 
 any rational creature would reply, " Until you know that it 
 is, do not venture on any hypothesis on the subject. Do 
 not make your very ignorance — this ' you do 7iot know ' — 
 the basis of pretended knowledge." I believe that, in spite 
 of the boasted advance of science in our day, there never 
 has been a period in w^hich more rash hypotheses have been 
 broached; or more at which Bacon would have stood 
 aghast, to hear his name pleaded for them ! But your 
 young friend is an ardent admirer of the hypothesis of " de- 
 velopment ; " and I must tell you in another letter, if I can 
 get time to scribble it to-morrow, the heads of our conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 R. E. 11. G 
 
 LETTER CVI. 
 
 TO THE SA31E. 
 
 1852. 
 My dear "West, 
 
 I promised to let you know of my conversation with your 
 
 young friend, who, after reading the " Vestiges," has so 
 
 violent ^penchant for a simious ancestry. 
 
TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 471 
 
 I found it difficult, I promise you, to treat the subject 
 ■with sufficient gravity. " Why," said he, with a half-deiiaiit 
 air, in reply to a little banter, " why should I not believe 
 that at a remote period I might have had a monkey for my 
 ancestor ? " 
 
 I told him gravely, " That perhaps it might be difficult to 
 say why he should not think so." 
 
 " But now, seriously," said he, " why may not a man have 
 had such an origin ? " 
 
 " Nay," said I, " I think the question is, not why a man 
 may not have had such an origin, but why we are to be- 
 lieve he had ? If any man has a particular predilection for 
 a monkey-ancestry, — as you seem to have at present, — why, 
 as a matter of taste merely, I have no objection in the world. 
 I never quarrel about pedigrees — they are always ticklish 
 subjects for discussion. If I went to see the good Welsh- 
 man Avhose genealogical roll had, half way up it, the mod- 
 est notice, 'About this time Adam was born,' and then went 
 on, nobody knows how far beyond such a poor modern date, 
 I should hardly have contested the point with him, but 
 should have let him revel in his j^re-adamite aps^ as I do 
 you in your pre-adamite apes^ to the utmost bent of his 
 pride of lineage. You merely go a few millions of genera- 
 tions further back — to your great 7rd7nro<s, the monhey^ and 
 your more venerable 7rpo7ra7r7ro9, the tadpole. Pray please 
 yourself, if it is to be a matter of taste ; but if you insist 
 upon it, that it is reasonable for you to affirm such an origin 
 and that I^ too, am a member of your family, I beg to ask v-hy 
 you say so ? You must not tell me that you know no rea- 
 son why man may not have been thus gloriously descended ; 
 you must tell me why you think he was. You acknowl- 
 edge, do you not, that we noio see nothing, — that authentic 
 history records nothing, — of those transmutations of species 
 of which you talk so glibly ? On the contrary, the lines 
 
472 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 of demarcation, so far as we can judge, are strictly kept 
 be'tween species and sj)ecies ; and the one has no more 
 tendency to pass into the other, than ' grapes to grow on 
 thorns ' or ' figs on thistles.' What right have you to as- 
 sume, — nay, even to conjecture, — that the peculiar fruit 
 called ' man ' has grown on your tadpole-tree. 
 
 " Nay," said he, half laughing at this way of representing 
 the matter, and yet half angry too, — " though I grant that 
 ice see no such transformations now, how do Ave know what 
 time, — thirty, or forty, or a hundred millions of years " 
 
 " Pray take your time," said I, smiling, " ad libitxim / — 
 it is all at your disj^osal ; you can suppose as long periods 
 as you 2:)lease; I am quite willing to say I cannot.^ contra- 
 dict you." 
 
 "Well, then, say in a million million hilllon of ages," he 
 went on, rather warmly. " How do we know, in that time, 
 what might not have taken place ? " 
 
 I could not forbear laughing outright. "My dear fel- 
 low," said I, " it is, I fancy, of no use to ask what may not 
 have happened in a period of time which you do not know, 
 under the ojDcration of causes of which you know nothing. 
 Only, if you ask me to receive, as in the remotest degree a 
 iwohahle conclusion, your notion of the transmutation of 
 species, be pleased to give me your reasons. If you dream 
 — dream ; if you philosophize — philosophize. But j^ray 
 don't call this style of inference Baconian ' induction.' You 
 will certainly make the great philosopher cry out against 
 you from his * Novum Organum ' there, on the shelves be- 
 hind you. You have evidently never read a line of him, 
 or to no purj^ose. ' Is it from me^ young gentleman,' he 
 will say, ' that you pretend to have learned to talk in this 
 fashion ? Did I ever teach you to assign as a reason for 
 believing in a fact, or in the faintest prohahility of a fact, 
 that you do not know something ; — that you do not know 
 
TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEOPwY. 473 
 
 what might not have been done in a time you do not know, 
 by causes which, equally, you do oiot know?!- Come, tell 
 me your true reasons for saying, or guessing, or believing 
 anything in the matter ; for this sort of ' reasoning ' really 
 will not do even among plain i^eople like myself, — much 
 less among philosophers." 
 
 " Well," said he, " the theory of ' development,' fully car- 
 ried out, requires it." 
 
 " Aye," said I ; " but what requires your indcjSnite gra- 
 tuitous application of the theory of development ? Why 
 are we to extend it to phenomena of which we can only 
 say, — Who can tell what unhnoion j^rocesses, certain ini- 
 hnown causes may have operated through unknown j^eriods 
 of time ? " 
 
 " Why," he replied, " you surely do not deny that the 
 theory of " develoj^ment ' of the material Avorld out of prior 
 states, and those out of still j^rior ones, is made out pretty 
 Well ; at leasts as regards the successive geological strata 
 which compose the earth's crust ? " 
 
 " Aye," said I ; " now you are coming to something. 
 Yes ; I believe as much as you do in such j^henomena of 
 'development.' But see how much more logically and 
 equitably 7'act in the argument than you." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Ask ??ie," said I, " why I believe in the gradual develop- 
 ment of the geological formations." 
 
 " I ask you," said he. 
 
 " It is not tlien," said I, " that I do 7iot know what un- 
 known agencies, oj)erating during unknown millions of 
 years, may have done ; my conclusion is not something for 
 which I can bring forward no facts ; but because the facts 
 on which I found the opinion are patent and obvious. 
 Physical causes, well known, and in operation now, — 
 though I pretend not to know the varying intensities with 
 
 40* 
 
474 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 wliich they may, perchance, have operated at remote pe- 
 riods, — are slowly producing shnilar results before our 
 eyes ; the stages of the phenomena in the past may be dis- 
 tinctly traced : the geologist tells me of his conclusions, and 
 also of the grounds of them, so far as his science is a science 
 of induction; and, what is more, my eyes, and not my 
 fancy, corroborate his observations. These observations 
 show that there have been successive conditions of the 
 earth's crust ; that in the latter strata there are fossil re- 
 mains of organic life; that the still visible phenomena — 
 the still legible hieroglyphics of their life and its condi- 
 tions — attest a beautiful adaptation of the earth at various 
 periods to its tenants, and a gradual preparation for the 
 appearance of man. Thus much observation tells me ; but 
 what has all that to do with the proofs of 'fire-mist' trans- 
 formed into 'solid matter,' or tadpoles transmuted by 
 various stages into rational bij)eds ? " 
 
 I had a little further conversation with him on a fantas- 
 tical notion he has formed, that there have been no " cat- 
 astrophal changes," as he calls them, in the development 
 of, at least, the "inorganic" world. That development, 
 founding on inferences from some modern writers, he has 
 decreed must have proceeded according to a law of " con- 
 tinuous change." I wrote him a short letter on the sub- 
 ject, a copy of which I will send you to-morrow. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. E. H. G. 
 
TKANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 475 
 
 LETTER CVII. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1852. 
 My dear Fbiend, 
 
 I know not that your young acquaintance could j^oint 
 to any one passage of his favorite writers to justify, totidon 
 verbis^ his theory of " no catastrophes ; " but he can cer- 
 tainly point to many which justify his inference that they 
 ought to hold it. 
 
 He affirmed that whatever became of the theory of " con- 
 tinuous development," as apj^lied to the organic world, he 
 must beHeve it as aj^plied to the inorganic. The letter in 
 reply ran thus : — 
 
 " Even as aj^plied to the inorganic world, — see in what 
 gratuitous conclusions and flagrant contradictions your 
 theory involves you. Gratuitous and contradictory I have 
 already shown the theory cf development of ' species ' to be, 
 if we are at all to trust that on Avhich alone we can frame 
 any philosophy, — I mean ' induction.' All present facts 
 — and all past, so far as history tells us anything — are 
 against it ; and all you can say for it, is — that you do not 
 know what may take place in fifty million of years or so. 
 
 " But I am anxious to show you that your crude notion 
 of ' continuous development,' whether apj^lied to the trans- 
 mutation of sjDecies, — to the evolution of organisms, — or 
 restricted to the processes of inorganic and inanimate na- 
 ture, is also ' gratuitous ' in philosoj^hy, and contradictory 
 to fact. You say you cannot bring yourself to believe that 
 the * catastrophal^ as you call it, has ever characterized the 
 evolutions by which the world has become what it is ; that 
 there has ever been anything abrupt, sudden, discontinuous, 
 in these metamorj^hoses ; but that all has been achieved by 
 infinitesimal changes, and by a law operating with incon- 
 
476 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ceivable slowness, in siicli a way as to elude all observation, 
 except change be measured by centuries, — or, for the mat- 
 ter of that, by thousands of years, — as our units of compu- 
 tation; that as you now find the sea on some shores 
 encroaching on the land, and on others the land gaining 
 from the sea, at the rate of inches in an age, so you think it 
 has always been so ; — and that all ' geological formations ' 
 have been effected in the same manner by a law of con- 
 tinuous change. — A 2yriori^ this may or may not be. If 
 you give it merely as conjecture, I have nothing further to 
 say to it. ' A dream for a dream,' another man may say. 
 If you give it as philosophy^ — I beg to say that it is j^er- 
 fectly gratuitous ; for, as before, what can you hnoio about 
 such matters ? What can you hnoio as to whether or not 
 the present rate or law of change has continued in the uni- 
 verse from ei^ochs which date millions of millions of years 
 back? If you rejoin that in the case of inorganic forma- 
 tions, at all events, you can say what cannot be said in that 
 of the 'transmutation of sj^ecies,' — that such facts as come 
 under your inspection do not contradict such a notion, but 
 rather confirm it, — that all the chamxes vou nova see are 
 of this slow and ' continuous ' character, — I remind you, 
 first, (and shall j^resently show,) that, slow as may be ter- 
 restrial changes in general, facts do not accord with your 
 presumed law of ' absolute continuity.' But, secondly, sup- 
 posing they did — what right have you to infer from your 
 observations, infinitesimal in extent and ephemeral in dura- 
 tion, that you can know the law of change to have been 
 the same through an extent of millions of ages, and as ex- 
 emplified in the history of unnumbered worlds ? Is it not 
 to fall into that very error Avhich, in spite of all Bacon's 
 warnings, has so often beset the philosoi^her, — that of 
 making the measure of his experience tlie measure of all 
 things ; of fancying that things have always been as he has 
 
TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 477 
 
 seen them, — and that an order of things he has never seen, 
 can never have existed? — a notion excusable only in a 
 child, though as often entertained by the sage. In a ques- 
 tion like this, the ' uniformities of antecedents and conse- 
 quents ' which ice can observe, go for as little as those 
 still more limited ' uniformities ' which often mislead the 
 child. Observe, I am not saying that your notion may not 
 be true ; — I am too cautious, apart from superhuman illu- 
 mination, (to which I make no pretensions,) to philoso- 
 phize on such a subject at all. The matter is beyond me. 
 
 " If you say that thQ facts from which alone you deduce 
 your inference show that, if you generalize at all, you must 
 suppose that the organic changes have, as regards rate^ 
 always proceeded on the same law of continuity, — I answer, 
 that even if present facts were as you falsely represent 
 them, altogether as you*state them, still who asks you to 
 generalize for a past eternity, or millions of years ago? 
 Deduce your present law, if you like, and, if deduced Jz/s^Zy 
 from the facts, you have a right to hold that it is now the 
 great law, and will be till you see it changed ; I say, till 
 you see it changed ; for, as we know nothing of the matter 
 except for the present, you really have no more right to 
 indulge in absolute assertions with regard to the unlimited 
 future than with regard to the unlimited past. Act in this 
 case as you do in relation to other laws. You see, for ex- 
 ample, that men now exist, and are born, and die, according 
 to an established ' law ; ' you say, that this is a present law, 
 and you say true ; but you do not therefore infer that it 
 was always so, — that man is an ' eternal series,' or even 
 that he is of very remote introduction into the universe. 
 Do the same in relation to the facts from the observation 
 of which you profess to deduce the supposed imj)ossibility 
 of ' catastrophal changes ' in the evolutions of the universe. 
 
478 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 It is not to philosophize, but to let imagination run riot, to 
 argue as you argue. 
 
 " But I insist that your theory is also contradictory to 
 fact. You say, you deduce the supposed law from the law 
 of contemporaneous changes observed around you. I have 
 shown the fallacious character of the conclusion, even if 
 you had truly represented present facts. But you have 
 not ; the facts we still observe are quite enough to demolish 
 your law of rigorous ' continuous ' change. Do you ask 
 how ? Why, do you not see that there are even in our 
 ej)hemeral history, even in the jog-trot of our present regu- 
 lar long-established system, changes of such varying magni- 
 tude as to be utterly inconsistent with your law of contin- 
 uous change, and quite ' catastrophal ' enough to show that, 
 at remote j^eriods of our earth's history, ' catastrophes ' 
 much more stupendous may have occurred ? Has not the 
 earth's crust been often broken ? Have not cities and 
 towns been swallowed up by earthquakes in a day, in an 
 hour ? ' Catastrophal ' enough, I am sure, they must have 
 been to those who were involved in them. 'Ah ! ' you will 
 say, 'these " catastrophes " are too trivial to be considered 
 as infractions of the general law — they are wfiniteshnal 
 in relation to the entire changes going on on the surface 
 of our planet.' Very well; and would not concussions 
 which shook to j^ieces whole continents be mfinitesimal in 
 reference to the changes going on in the solar system ? 
 And would not the very extinction of our planet and of a 
 dozen more be an infinitesimal change in relation to the 
 whole universe ? You forget that a law of rigorous ' con- 
 tinuity' knows nothing of any abrupt breaks relatively 
 large or small, — nothing of proceeding per saltum. You 
 confound a 'law of continuity ' with something totally differ- 
 ent. You merely mean that no ' catastrophe ' which you 
 
TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 479 
 
 account ' great ' has occurred — the measure being taken 
 from your own experience ; so that here again, Hke so many 
 other philosophers in other directions, you make ' man the 
 measure of all things.' If your law of continuity is not vio- 
 lated, provided the ratio of any change to the sum total of 
 the phenomena unchanged be very small, then it is possible 
 that the most ' catastrophal ' change shall never involve 
 what is discontinuous ; for anything, however large, may 
 be regarded as infinitesimal in relation to another thing, if 
 that other be allowed to be infinitely larger. Thus a * catas- 
 trophe ' which might demolish the whole solar system would 
 be justifiably regarded as infinitesimal in relation to the 
 sphere wdiose radius is the distance of the fixed stars. If 
 you apply your ' law of continuity ' rigorously, you must 
 admit that the ' catastrophes ' which even the present state 
 of things exhibits are incompatible with it. N'ot only so, 
 but I think it would be more plausible to argue, that as 
 such things as vast earthquakes and extensive volcanic 
 eruptions have occurred even in the comparatively stable 
 and quiet condition of our world, similar events, in all 
 probability, have occurred to a much vaster extent in re- 
 mote periods of the past, and may again occur in remote 
 periods of the future. 
 
 " There is this additional absurdity about the thing, — 
 that your supposed ' law of continuity,' if it is not to be 
 considered as broken by an earthquake, may be susceptible 
 of any conceivable discrete variation, not according only to 
 the ratio of the changing phenomena as compared with the 
 unchanged^ but according to the capacities of the observer ! 
 A gentleman who knew only Sicily, would think the ' law 
 of continuity ' and the perfect freedom from ' catastrophes ' 
 oddly enough illustrated, as he saw Catania sinking into 
 the flood, and Herculaneum and Pompeii buried under 
 lava; while a travelled cosmopolite, who had seen in twenty 
 
480 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 places the traces of similar desolating changes, but had also 
 perceived that the general law of geologic change was very 
 slow, could serenely expatiate on the law of ' continuous 
 change ; ' and if he and his whole planet were shot into the 
 air, a worthy inhabitant of the sun, Avho saw the faint spark 
 go out, would have the same pleasant reason to insist on 
 the freedom from ' catastrophes ; ' while an inhabitant of 
 Sirius would hear of the explosion of the sun and all its 
 planets with the like imperturbable composure, as in no 
 wise more than an infinitesimal infraction of the order of 
 the universe and the ' continuity ' of its changes. 
 
 *' In truth, as I have said, any changes j^er saltura are 
 sufficient to overthrow the fantastical a priori theory, that, 
 in the organic evolution of the universe, change has always 
 been so gradual as to be inconsistent with the supposition 
 of events you vaguely denominate ' catastrophal.' ' Catas- 
 trophe ' is a relative terra. The fall of a cottage is catas- 
 trophe enough to those who dwell in it ; the destruction 
 of a world is not, if compared with the universe. 
 
 " Do I then contend for vast i3re-adamite catastrophes ? 
 By the light of philosophy — not at all ; nor against them ; 
 I simply know nothing about them. Nor do you ; and to 
 pretend that we do know anything, and may pronounce on 
 some airy, childish predilection for an imaginary law of 
 'continuous development,' is as really to disregard the 
 dictates of all Baconian induction as Aristotle did, Avhen he 
 contended that the orbits of the planets must be circular, 
 because a circle is the most perfect of figures. When will 
 men cease thus to vault to conclusions ? Certainly philoso- 
 phers often proceed i^er saltum^ whether physical changes 
 ever do or not ; — not per scalas et gradatim — according 
 to Bacon's method. To contend that things which took 
 place, perhaps, millions of ages ago must have taken place 
 in this or that way only, because our philosopher has taken 
 
PRIMA PIIILOSOPHIA. 481 
 
 it into his foolish pate to patronize some abstract principle, 
 is as audacious a violation of all Bacon's rules as can well 
 be conceived. 
 
 "As to what you say, that it is inconceivable to you that 
 the Creator should ever have proceeded per saltum^ excuse 
 rae for saying it is absolutely childish nonsense. It is to 
 avow that mere prejudice and preconception shall stand for 
 proof of the way in which God must have dealt with the 
 tremendous problems involved in the evolution of the uni- 
 verse. You really have no proof whatever that God may 
 not have alternately employed both 'catastrophes' and 
 ' continuous changes ' at different epochs and in different 
 parts of His dominions. The philosopher has nothing in 
 the world to say against it, but that ' it would be quite 
 shocking to him ' to think so. Serious consequence ! Surely 
 if the Deity had anticipated that such ' infractions ' would 
 have been attended with such a ' catastrophe ' as a philoso- 
 pher's having his prejudices ' shocked,' He would have 
 taken care to act only on the principle of a ' strict law of 
 continuity,' and spared that thrice-sacred thing — an idolum 
 trihus.'''' 
 
 Such was the letter. Write to him soon yourself . . , . 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 R. E. H, (i. 
 
 LETTER CVTII. 
 
 TO HIS NEPHEW T G , STUDENT IN THE UNIVER- 
 SITY OF EDINBURGH, 
 
 18.31. 
 
 My dear Tom, 
 
 The "Prima Philosophia, — the Philosophy of First 
 Principles ! " — well, it all sounds very grand, and I have 
 no doubt it will be well for j^ou to study it, as you pro- 
 
 41 
 
482 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 pose, provided it be but in the right spirit and to the right 
 end ; that is, just to sliow you what are tlie limitations of 
 tlie human faculties, and then the necessity of acquiescing 
 in the fundamental beliefs which those faculties impose on 
 us, without further querulous comj^laints that you cannot 
 get the impossible demonstrations or chimerical certitude 
 of some so-called transcendental " science." But if you 
 expect, what so many philosoi^hers who revolve these 
 problems j^erpetually demand, and fancy, in sj^ite of so 
 many failures of the wise, that they will at last attain, — 
 a scientific rationale of truths which constitute reason, but 
 cannot be proved by it ; or again, which are taught us by 
 quite another faculty than reason, and are as incommen- 
 surable with it as a triangle with a sound or an odor, you 
 will be disappointed. When you have got to any such 
 ultimate facts, wdiether communicated by some different 
 princi2:)le of our nature from reason, — as for instance, 
 sense or emotion, — or cognate with reason, as being the 
 fundamental condition of its exercise, though anterior to 
 reasoning, you must rest contented with them, and not go 
 on, still bemoaning your benighted condition, because you 
 cannot demonstrate the absolute identity of " Knowing " 
 and " Being " — or bridge over the chasm between the me 
 and the oiot me^ to use the affected language of a most 
 pedantic philosophy — or understand the essence of either 
 matter or mind, or the mode of their union — or are com- 
 pelled to accept, without at all logically unravelling, the 
 relations of our consciousness to an external world; in 
 short, because you cannot see further into a millstone than 
 other 2:>eople. If you Avill thus accept the ultimate ficts 
 of our nature, Avhether taught you by sense or reason, or 
 any other ultimate constituent thereof, the study of the 
 "Prima Philosophia" will do you good, by letting you see 
 what are the limits of your possible knowledge, and in- 
 
PRIMA PHILOSOPHIA. 483 
 
 ducing an unquestioning rcj^ose in them. Yon will learn, 
 as Locke says, " the length of your line," though there are 
 many " depths of the ocean," you cannot fathom by it. If 
 you pursue this science further, if you Avill try to give the 
 rationale, of principles which transcend reason, or are 
 incommensurable with it, as being of a totally different 
 nature from it, or are the very foundation of reason itself; 
 
 — if you will insist on reason's being its own foundation^ 
 
 — constructing Xho, point dPappui on which itself rests, or 
 by an infinite regression demonstrating, instead of accept- 
 ing, the principles from which it starts, the " Prima Phi- 
 losophia" will but leave you in darkness, — as it has done 
 so many thousands more ; mistify, not enlighten you, and 
 completely muddle you at last as a just punishment for 
 seeking to be wise above the possibilities of your nature. 
 To attempt to reason out principles, which are either 
 transcendental to reason or incommensurable with it, is as 
 vain as the attemj^t to weigh the imponderable — to see 
 the invisible — to square the circle — to make the eye 
 judge of music or the ear discriminate colors. "Ne 
 sutor" may be justly addressed by the senses and the 
 j^assions and the emotions to the reason, when it attempts, 
 as it so often does, tyrannously to bring them under its 
 own jurisdiction in points where Nature has left them free. 
 The only question with a wise man will be, " Are such and 
 such the ultimate principles of my nature, and of human 
 nature in general; if so, I will accept them and trust 
 them ; for whether they be trustworthy or not, I cannot 
 help it ; I cannot go further ; they constitute the laws of 
 my being, and I must philosophize on them, if I philos- 
 ophize at all, for I have nothing else whereon to found a 
 philosophy." 
 
 There are two golden maxims of the old Stagyrite, 
 which he is fond of repeating in more or less distinct forms, 
 
484 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 and which comprise, in- brief, all that can be said on the 
 subject. One is, that the Reason must ultimately repose 
 on principles which cannot be demonstrated ; the other is 
 more general, and includes it ; namely, that the intuitions 
 and faculties of our nature, whether they tell us right or 
 wrong, are all Ave have to trust to, and therefore must be 
 accepted as the groundwork of all jiossible philosophy. 
 _Zj^ wrong they cannot possibly be set right, and must go 
 for what they are worth ; since to fomid a ^^hilosophy on 
 faculties Ave have not^ or on other than we have, is plainly 
 impossible. The main difficulties in this matter, originate 
 in the tyranny of Reason, Avliich would fain, because it is 
 the regent fixculty of our nature, make itself despotic over 
 all ; ^vj into things as completely out of its own sphere, 
 as logic is beyond that of the senses ; pronounce on the 
 validity of eiddence other than its own, and judge of fxcts 
 which in the nature of thincjs cannot be referred to its 
 tribunal. 
 
 I have often thought that if Reason had not accustomed 
 itself to talk just as it pleased, and monopolized the 
 tongue as its peculiar organ; if the other constituents of 
 our nature could have their unrestricted use of it, Ave 
 should often hear a loud outcry against the usurping 
 faculty. Sense and j^assion, emotion and apj^etite, Avould 
 exclaim against the tendency of Reason to obtrude un- 
 laAvfully into their domain, under i^retence of seeking 
 superior evidence of any facts to Avhich they deposed. 
 No doubt these Avorthy folks — the mob of the body cor- 
 porate — Avould often use the tongue unAvisely, as Reason 
 itself often does ; and sometimes speak just as if they had 
 no connection Avith reason in the Avorld. Like frank, 
 blundering, Irishmen, they Avould, I conceive, utter a good 
 deal of crude sense, mixed Avith much nonsense, and Avitli 
 the most sovereign ' contempt doubtless for those logical 
 
PRIMA PIIILO SOPHIA. • 485 
 
 forms for tlie want of which it is evident my lord Reason 
 chiefly contemns them. 
 
 "What is it? " says Reason, earnestly gazing at a piece 
 of chalk. " Is it anything out of me, or is it in me ? Is it 
 part of the me or the oiot me? Objective or merely sub- 
 jective? " 
 
 Now methinks Sense would say, if it had the command 
 of the tongue, — " What a puzzle friend Reason seems to 
 be in ! Hallo ! there ; hav'n't I told you a thousand times 
 that it is out of you — that it is part of your not me^ as 
 you call it in your incomprehensible jargon; — it's chalky 
 man, chalky and nothing else." 
 
 " Sense," Reason w^ould reply, "how often have I told 
 you that you are not competent to decide ." 
 
 " And how often am I to tell you that I alone mn 
 competent to decide this matter, and that it is because 
 you will thrust your reverend head into what does not 
 concern it, instead of receiving my testimony, that all 
 your perplexity arises ? " 
 
 Sense may speak too absolutely, but in what he says I 
 think there is a good deal of " sense " and " reason " too. 
 But Reason would eye him with an " austere smile of re- 
 gard." " How shall I believe you," he would say, " when 
 you have so often deceived me ? How can I trust you ? 
 No — none of you shall deceive ??2e." Perhaps Passion 
 would rejily in a j^assion, "Why, what a wrong-headed, 
 suspicious, unreasonable, pragmatical old fool you are ! — 
 Why should you think we deceive you, at least in a mat- 
 ter wherein we have no interest to do so ? You deceive 
 us at least as often as we do you, and get us into no end 
 of awkward scrapes by your false logic. Faith ! it were 
 well for you, if you were equally cautious when we can 
 and do deceive you. Not deceive you, quotha ! We find 
 it easy enough, I reckon, wlien you want to be deceived ; 
 
486 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 aye — we have deceived you a thousand times, in spite of 
 all your fine philosophy and love of the pure truth. I 
 know nobody more easily deceived than you." And then 
 perhaps impudently winking at Appetite, he might ask, 
 where Reason was at twelve o'clock last night ? Whether 
 he was not completely extinguished, and under the table, 
 babbling no end of incoherent nonsense. 
 
 Keason, so scrupulous about the " pure truth " when he 
 has got his speculative cap on, would hardly think it worth 
 while to pursue this practical topic further, or vaunt his 
 determination never to be deceived with the remembrance 
 of such an ignominious escapade before his eyes. But he 
 assumes a lofty air, and says — 
 
 " Peace, neighbor Passion. You are too loud and boist- 
 erous; you disturb my meditations. This question of a 
 'phenomenal' or 'real' world is entirely an affair of mine." 
 
 " There," Sense cries, " there you are again. It is noth- 
 ing of the kind ; it is an affair of mine ; but you will have 
 everything brought to your standard and measured by 
 your bushel. If not, you are cheated, forsooth, and we 
 are a set of knaves. It is impossible to live in peace and 
 quietness with you ! " 
 
 " Aye, aye," Appetite chimes in, " you are continually 
 spoiling all wholesome digestion with your fantastical fidg- 
 ets and sleepless speculation. It is impossible to hiccup 
 Avithout your asking whether it is a ' real ' or an ' ideal ' 
 hiccup ; I can't eat a mincepie or swallow an oyster with- 
 out your asking whether it is the ' one ' or the ' not one ' 
 that is going down my own throat." 
 
 But it is all in vain — for spite of all, Reason will again 
 fall into his brown study, over his lump of chalk. " I can't 
 bridge the gulf over — I can't grasp it," he mutters ; "is 
 it the ' one ' or the ' not one f ' " 
 
 In vain Sense expostulates with him ; tells him that it is 
 
PRIMA PHILOSOPHIA. 487 
 
 not his province. In vain Sense says, "I don't meddle 
 with your ' syllogisms ' and ' intuitions ; ' do n't you meddle 
 with the intuitions of Sense." — But ten to one Sense, and 
 Aj^i^etite, and Passion, join in a malicious conspiracy to 
 revenge themselves on the overcautious governor. Only 
 Avait till supper time, and they will probably enlighten his 
 High Mightiness as to which is the " me " and the " not 
 me," and as to whether or not he is so very anxious never 
 to be deceived ! Nay, it may even happen that, in an hour 
 or so, friend Reason, after trolling out a song to the con- 
 fusion of all philosophy, and Avashing with a bumper his 
 metaphysical cobwebs out of his brains, will be found fairly 
 on his back, wondering for his life, whether it is the '' he " 
 or the " not he " that lies sprawling there — or whether it 
 is not a " j^hilosopher beside himself ! " 
 
 ISTot a soul in all " Mansoul " would be more respected 
 than Keason, if he would but confine himself to his j^roper 
 2)rovince ; if he would not resolve to j^ry into everything ; 
 if he would but content himself with reo-nlatino; his ser- 
 vants instead of attempting to do their work ; to see that 
 they do not run riot or waste his substance, or idle away 
 their time ; if he would not pretend to be able to perform 
 their duty better than they can. Instead of that, he lets 
 them do pretty much as they like where he can and ought 
 to control them, and meantime runs about, susj^ecting 
 everybody and pretending that no one but himself is to be 
 trusted, even on points on which he cannot judge, and on 
 which he must trust to testimony. All his puzzle is, be- 
 cause he toill try, as the saying is, to get a quart pot into a 
 pint pot — to see if "Reason " cannot be "Sense;" and he 
 might as well try to smell a rose Avith his ears, as decide 
 AAdiether the " not me," as he calls it, is anything else than 
 Sense tells him it is. 
 
 " A fine thing, truly," Sense may well cry, " that a man 
 
488 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 should assume such airs, who does not know chalk when 
 he sees it — does not know whether it is out of him or in 
 him — whether it is part of the ' him ' or the ' not him.' " 
 
 I fancy Reason being so laughed at, would be aj^t to be 
 mistaken for Passion. 
 
 I confess it makes me angry to hear Reason so often in- 
 sisting on the deceptions and illusions practised by those 
 poor, faithful drudges, the senses, — when I consider that 
 his worship is deceived, and deceives himself just as often, 
 or much oftener ; and above all, when I consider that for 
 half their time, they are all " in the same condemnation," 
 and deceived alike ; that is, every night ! I seldom wake 
 without feeling inclined to say to this suspicious, truth- 
 loving gentleman, "Pray, your worship, would you have 
 me think all that nonsense which you nightly amuse or 
 terrify me w^ith, and which at the time you take to be all 
 perfectly sensible, for gospel ? Tales of dead men talking, 
 and fishes flying, and men changed into cats, — and syllo- 
 gisms constructed in defiance of all your boasted logic ? — 
 If all this is a j^art of your one., I think the not me of honest 
 old Sense is just as trustworthy." To this taunt Reason 
 never made me any rational answer. 
 
 By the way, I have been amused when I have sometimes 
 seen the averments of most logical Skepticism that no g\'\- 
 dence could ever induce its well-j^oised judgment to believe 
 in a " miracle," when it has but to lay its head on its pil- 
 low, and in half an hour it will believe in a thousand 
 without any evidence at all ; thinks it is talking quite ra- 
 tionally with a dog, or believes that it is itself transfonned 
 into a winged monkey. 
 
 Such is a brief lucubration, my dear lad, on the " Prima 
 Philosophia," and like most on the same subject is nonsensi- 
 cal enough ; but if it at all more vividly imj^resses on you 
 the great lesson of giving to Reason only the things of 
 
"ENCOMIUM ATHEISML" 489 
 
 Reason, and to Sense the things of Sense, — but above all, 
 to Faith the things of Faith ; and, in a word, to every con- 
 stituent of our nature, the ultimate f^icts of which it is 
 destined to certify us ; if it teaches the duty of resting in 
 these as ultimate facts, which must be accepted whether 
 we like it or not ; — the term and Hmit of all our philoso- 
 2)hy, because right or wrong, the only possible philosophy 
 must be restricted by them and constructed out of them : 
 if it shall prevent you from trying to make things incom- 
 mensurable coincide, — squaring the circle, — measuring a 
 curved surface by a straight rule, — trying the testimony of 
 Sense by Reason, or the intuitions of Reason by Sense, — 
 it may, I think, be as serviceable to you as many a more 
 l^rofound, and much darker, treatise on "x\bsolute Sci- 
 ence," and the relations of the one and the not me. Within 
 its proper province, no more suifer Reason to question 
 the information of Sense, than Sense to question the au- 
 thority of Reason ; and if Reason tells you that the 
 senses often deceive, tell Reason that it deceives just as 
 often, and deceives not only others but itself into the bar- 
 gain. 
 
 Your loving uncle, 
 
 E. E. n. G. 
 
 LETTER CIX. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1851. 
 
 My dear Tom, 
 
 Courage ! If you choose to read a paper in your little 
 " Debating Society," of the kind you describe, for the ben- 
 efit of the three or four sucking Atheists you tell me it 
 contains, I am sure you may find plenty to say. If Erasmus 
 could write in " Praise of Folly," it may not be impo^ sible 
 
490 THE GliEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 to pfinegyrizo Atheism — indeed it is a brancli of the very 
 same subject. There are plenty of topics for yonr irony, 
 and I do not care if I give you two or three brief hints. 
 
 For examj)le : — Atheists, I think, are unjustly accused 
 of liaving no '"''faith; " surely there is no class of men who 
 have so much. In the first plac-c : what transcendent fiiith 
 is required to receive any one of their hypotheses, all of 
 which seem so grotesque and ridiculous to the rest of the 
 world that not one out of a million can be got to believe 
 them, or even to believe that they believe them ! What 
 faith is required to believe that exquisite order is the pro- 
 duct of Chance ; or the exactly opposite hypothesis, that 
 unintelligent Necessity has imposed all-wise law ! What 
 faith to believe that men sprang from nothing — or have 
 been an eternal series ; or, if you dislike that, — that they 
 were " developed " out of monkeys, and all too without in- 
 telligence anywhere at all. It is easy for us unbelievers to 
 ridicule these things ; but who can estimate the faith neces- 
 sary to believe them ? 
 
 I consider that a still more transcendent exercise of faith 
 is implied in the very prosecution of the Atheist's enter- 
 prise. His efforts to convince men of his paradoxes — his 
 truly child-like exj^ectation of success, of a universal Athe- 
 istical millennium at last, — what a gigantic exercise of faith 
 is here ! All " induction " would go to prove the hopeless- 
 ness of his project, if any one fact vms ever estabhshed by 
 induction. Atheists appear, — one or two in an age or so, — 
 and when they do appear, the great bulk of mankind doubt 
 whether they ever have appeared ! The world is so little 
 disposed to listen to them — that it pretends to doubt 
 whether the Atheists are really what they affect to be; 
 nay, many doubt whether there can be, or ever was, such a 
 thing as an Atheist ; you must take your lantern and search 
 as diligently to find him as Diogenes his honest man. No 
 
"ENCOMIUM ATHEISMI." 491 
 
 one affects to doubt whether there be such a thing as a 
 Theist — everybody knows there are millions of them ; but 
 as to the unlucky Atheist, his very existence, like that of 
 the Kraken, is a perpetual problem : and yet, faithful soul ! 
 he does not doubt that all will at last become orthodox 
 Atheists. Seeing that it is so, what but a " Faith " beyond 
 that of the Syrophenician woman can inspire his hopes of 
 success ? Aj^art from that, and if he listened to Reason 
 only, he would argue that whether there be a God or not, 
 mankind have manifested such an all but uniform and 
 obstinate tendency to believe there is, that we may be as 
 sure as of any fact ever established by " induction " that he 
 unll always exhibit it ; that he will be always apt to extend 
 his inferences of design^ from the analogies of his own ac- 
 tions, to whatever is stamped with the same cliaTcicteristlcs 
 in the universe around him, rather than believe in the 
 Atheist's unintelligible " chance " or " necessity," or unin- 
 telligent and unintelligible anything else ! Any one, there- 
 fore, but an Atheist, " full of fliith," would give the thing 
 up as a bad job ; he would say, "It is hopeless to contend 
 against what I see is an incurable defect of my ' fortuitous ' 
 or ' necessitated ' human idiot ; his ' cerebral development ' 
 does not admit of the Teuth being established ; I shan't 
 Avaste my breath on the reprobate, nor ' cast my pearls be- 
 fore swine.' — Though there is no God, (that Zam privileged 
 to know very well,) yet I see that Chance or Necessity has 
 so bungled the matter, (as I might justly expect would be 
 the case,) tliat men will perversely believe in one ; right or 
 wrong in tlieir conclusion, (Z know them WTong,) yet such 
 is the constitution of their faculties that long experience 
 shows tliey must and will abide by it ; why should I make 
 the hopeless attempt to convert them ? " And surely for 
 the reason just assigned, if an Atheist were but as full of 
 " reason " as he is full of " faith," he ought cheerfully to 
 
492 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 acquiesce in tins view, and say, " Could I expect it to be 
 otherwise ? or why not at least as well expect it so, as any 
 way ? If there be no intelligent Cause of all things, ought I 
 not rather to expect that men would think wrong on this sub- 
 ject than right ? — Why should I imagine that the blind 
 cause which has fashioned men, has constituted them rather 
 to see the great truth that there is no God than to be blind 
 to it ? Could I expect that Chance would not err, or that 
 blind Necessity should infallibly see its way ? Plague on 
 the universe ! It has so framed itself and man in it, that 
 man will rather believe that there is a Deity than the 
 contrary ! " 
 
 Now matters being thus hopeless, I say we might nat- 
 urally expect that an Atheist would quietly " put his candle 
 under his bushel," and oiot " let his light shine before men " 
 — regarding his " teaching " as vain, and his " faith " also 
 vain. Yet see the power of " Faith." Every age or so, you 
 get one solitary voice — sometimes perhaps two, " crying 
 in the wilderness," — a wilderness, truly, — and proclaiming 
 the advent of that better age when men will renounce all 
 their puerile ideas of Deity. Even under such desperate 
 circumstances, these faithful souls do not despair of tlie 
 universal conversion of the human race ! I j^rofess to you 
 I do not know anywhere such an instance of simple unrea- 
 soning belief. I am sure it may be said of such men — "Lo, 
 we have not found so great faith — no, not in Israel, nor 
 even among the Hottentots ! " 
 
 Another topic of panegyric is, I think, the great fecund- 
 ity of their theories. Atheists are too often represented as 
 just proj^ounding difficulties and leaving us in difficulties 
 still greater, while they will not readily commit themselves to 
 any positive theory of the universe. On the contrary, I am 
 disposed rather to wonder at the fertility of their hypotheses ; 
 for though, unluckily, very discordant, they are various 
 
" ENCOMIUM ATHEISML" 493 
 
 enough in nil conscience. I am astounded at the ease with 
 whicli a universe can be constructed. If we may trust some 
 of these men, to originate a world is a mere bagatelle. Diffi- 
 cult ! Why, the Universe may have originated in any of a 
 dozen ways, excejyting only from Intelligent Power, or it may 
 never have originated at all ! The most exquisite and elabor- 
 ate appearances of design, and which stuj^id every-day people 
 think are most naturally accounted for in that humdrum 
 way, may be accounted for by anything rather than that. 
 What originality — what fertility of conception is here! 
 Some say that the universe sprang from a " fortuitous con- 
 course of eternal atoms," which having exhausted, in infin- 
 ite ages, infinite combinations, at last most opportunely 
 fell into the present form ; some, that it is the necessary 
 development of the "essential properties of eternal mat- 
 ter ; " one man tells ns that all " organic forms " and all 
 " organic life " are the result of the " plastic powers of 
 nature," whatever that may mean ; another says that man 
 is eternal ; — antecedent men and consequent babies — or 
 antecedent babies and consequent men forever ; though 
 whether babies first came from men, or men from babies, 
 must remain an " eternal " puzzle ; some say that neither is 
 true, but that man came from a monkey, millions of ages 
 ago, and a monkey from a tadpole millions of ages before 
 that, and a tadpole from — a particle of albumen and a 
 spark of electricity, — millions of ages before that ; and 
 these from a " fire-mist " — heaven knows, or rather does not 
 know, how many millions of ages before that, and that all 
 this may have been without any intelligence at all ! Some 
 say, with M. Comte, that all the appearances of " design " 
 are nothing in the world to surprise us, and do not at all 
 infer it ; they are nothing but the " conditions of being," 
 without which things could not exist, and consequently 
 imply only that things are as they are^ for if they were 7iot 
 
 42 
 
494 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 SO, tliey would not be — all which is surely as plain as the 
 nose on your iiice ; some say that birds got wings (nothing 
 easier) by the " appetency " to fly, and dogs stomachs by 
 the " aj3petency " to eat ; others, on the contrary, that dogs 
 got " appetency " to eat because the plastic powers had 
 given them stomachs, and birds the " appetency " to fly 
 because they had wings, — and which is first, " appetencies " 
 or " organs," " organs " or " appetencies," may be a doubt, 
 — but surely either will account for the phenomena ; some 
 say that the various orders of animated beings originated 
 in " prolific matter " running in " internal moulds " or 
 " matrices " (whatever that means); and if you ask why we 
 do not daily see new monsters, I suppose it must be said that 
 the said " matrices " were all long ago exhausted ; or, if 
 you ask why we do not at least see new individuals of ex- 
 isting species originated in this very obvious and natural 
 way by means of such a matrix, I suj^pose it must be said 
 that the original matrices are all broken to pieces ! Some 
 say that the true doctrine is very different, and that one 
 species has been developed out of another, and transmuted 
 into another by a necessary law ; that though no present 
 facts are in favor of such a theory, yet that is no reason why 
 you should not believe (and certainly as little reason why you 
 should) that such things may have happened fifty million 
 years ago ; and that you may even see a trifle or two of the 
 same kind, confirming this obvious hypothesis, if you only 
 live for thirty millions of years to come. Others there are 
 who tell us that the whole universe is an ideal thing; and 
 (• )nipressing the voluminous phenomenon into the one mind 
 that alone thinhs it into being, reduces everything to the 
 solitary *' ego," — of which pleasing theory there are at 
 least half a dozen, modifications. In these and manifold 
 other ways, has Atheism evinced its fertility of invention ; 
 and, instead of being upbraided for its barrenness and want 
 
"ENCOMIUM ATHEISMI." 495 
 
 of originality, should rather be admired for the facility with 
 which it discovered (when poor common sense thouglit it 
 philosophy to assign an obvious and adequate cause of all 
 in Power and Intelligence) a dozen unthonght of methods 
 of doing the same thing, and proved by example as well as 
 precept that it can dispense with all intelligence, even its 
 own, in the manufacture of worlds ! 
 
 But I consider the great triumph of Atheistical genius, 
 and the crowning glory of all its achievements, consists in 
 the ingenious logical securities, of various kinds, which it 
 has taken against the possibility of God's making Himself 
 hiiown; so that if there he a God, He, with all His omnip- 
 otence, cannot manifest Himself. " Xe plaisant Dieu que 
 voila!'^'' one may say with Pascal. First, it is shown that 
 He does not exist ; and then, if He does exist, that it is not 
 possible for him to prove to us that He does. What so 
 easy ? "I see," says the elder Atheist, *' so much confu- 
 sion and irregularity in the universe, that I cannot believe 
 that infinite intelligence and wisdom presides over it." " I 
 see," says a modern Atheist, "nothing in the universe but 
 the presence of uniform and necessary law ; — nothing arbi- 
 trary, and therefore no will, as M. Comte sublimely argues, 
 for will is essentially capricious y" — so that whatever comes 
 of it, you see the Atheist is safe. If he sees apparent con- 
 fusion^ it is a proof that there is no presiding Deity ; if he 
 sees law^ then, with M. Comte, it is a proof that there is no 
 originating will ! One says there is so much chance, that a 
 God is out of the question ; — another says that strict neces- 
 sity reigns over everything, and therefore excludes one. "I 
 see nothing," says another, " in all you call proofs of con- 
 trivance and design in the universe ; if there loere design, 
 it would leave such traces, but these are not its traces ;" 
 and for the same reasons he can argue in the same way, if 
 the apparent traces of design were a thousand fold as great 
 
496 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 (if that be possible) as they are ; hence again the hapless 
 Deity cannot create such a world as can convince the Athe- 
 ist — cannot make Himself known. Once more ; — "If there 
 he an Infinite Being," says another, " a finite mind cannot 
 comprehend Him ; and if there be an infinite Spirit^ a mind 
 that receives its conceptions only through material symbols 
 can never come in contact with Him!" Thus God cannot 
 come out of His prison — for such it is — His prison of in- 
 finite and eternal essence ! Who but must admire the ways 
 in which Atheism can not only prove that there is no God, 
 but that if there be one — it comes to exactly the same thing, 
 for he can never certify us of His existence ? 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 E. E. IIo G, 
 
 LETTER ex. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 KOY. 12, 1851 
 
 My DEAR Tom, 
 
 Your last letter would have been most amusing, had not 
 the subject been so painful. Your description of your young 
 fellow-student's j^aradoxes is very racy, and shows that you 
 have talents far too good to be thrown away on Atheism. 
 Never did I see a more grotesque monster in logic than the 
 fright of a theory you have portrayed. As Stillingfleet said 
 of another theory — " It is like the bird of Athens, all face 
 and feathers ! " 
 
 However, you may thank him for conceding that though 
 the argument for a God from " Design " is, in his sage judg- 
 ment, " worthless," the infinite j^robability from induction^ 
 — from the facts of past experience, — is, that the generality 
 of mankind will never see it to be such ; so that the Athe- 
 ist's "occupation" is "gone," or his work must be ever 
 
NOTICE OF SOME ATPIEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 497 
 
 doing, never done ! Thus Atheists, though doubtless con- 
 stituting, according to his estimate, the intellectual Ulte^ the 
 aristocracy of humanity, must continue to be what they 
 ever have been, a very minute fraction of the s^^ecies. I 
 shall not expatiate on the modesty of the suj^position, that 
 he, at the age of twenty, or thereabouts, has already climbed 
 up to that peerage of wisdom ; nor at the compliment which 
 he pays the vast majority of mankind whom he thus dooms 
 to be plebeian Theists. It is sufficient to have the consola- 
 tion of knowing that his cause is hopeless; that so far as 
 we yet know, or have any ground to surmise, — the Truth, 
 if he have it, cannot be established, and that our Philosophy 
 and Theology, being necessarily the result of the constitu- 
 tion of man (whether God or chance originated that con- 
 stitution,) will still contend for the dogma he denies; so 
 that if there be no God, God will still be acknowledged and 
 worshipped. Impotent indeed must he and the Atheists be, 
 since they cannot get rid of a — Nonentity ! 
 
 But I could not help laughing outright at the magnani- 
 mous declaration, d la Hume, that though it be proved that 
 his "Truth" can never be established as long as human 
 nature remains what it is, — nay, though it were proved 
 that his " Truth " threatened the most pernicious and deso- 
 lating effects, — yet that " Truth " is " Truth," and he must 
 prize it above all things ! — that there is no " possession like 
 it " — that " Truth never in the end did anybody any harm" 
 — " that instinct tells him so !" 
 
 In his case, it must indeed be "Instinct," — for assuredly 
 it cannot be reason. Why, what a mere lump of cotton- 
 wool must this youth's brains be ! It is natural enough for 
 you or for me to indulge this presumption of the infinite 
 value of Truth ; but if notions of Truth and Error be sup- 
 posed the result of the imintelligent construction of our 
 7iature^ — that nature, moreover, being so constructed that 
 
 42* 
 
498 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 the majority, it seems, will contimTe to cling to Error, and 
 not to Truth, — what possible reason can he have to suppose 
 Trutli to he such an invaluable possession ? Practically^ it 
 cannot be ; for it is monopolized, it appears, by half a dozen 
 Atheists in a corner ! According to his theory, nobody 
 constituted the laws of the understanding by which lie says 
 he receives "Truth;" and surely therefore it is an even 
 chance whether Truth or Error be the more valuable pos- 
 session of man, especially as only a few score can ever hope 
 to attain the former ! 
 
 But every other absurdity dwindles beside his fantastical 
 argument that even if the argument from "Design" be 
 established to the full, it will not prove that God is — Infi- 
 nite ; and, therefore, is to go for little ! It will only prove, 
 he says, that God is capable of having " constructed such a 
 miiverse as this ! " That is, it will only l>ave proved that 
 He could foresee all the relations — devise all the expedients 
 — construct all the laws — necessary for the stable existence 
 of some few millions of millions of worlds! That He had 
 "power and wisdom" sufficient for this little business is 
 shown, — but the argument proves no more! Looking to 
 this petty world alone. He has been able to organize the 
 unspeakably diversified forms of animal and vegetable life, 
 • — an exhaustless variety of exquisite structures; He has 
 exactly calculated the relations of these to one another, and 
 to the tremendous physical laws with which they stand con- 
 nected; so exactly that though a very slight error might 
 have involved all in ruin, such error is excluded; — still — 
 still — the argument from design would 07ily prove, so our 
 aspiring young genius assures us, that the Deity is equal to 
 such trivial things as these; and that unless we can prove 
 his power and wisdom "absolutely infinite," it must all go 
 for nothing! 
 
 He must pardon me. I think that, practically^ nothing 
 
NOTICE OF SOME ATHEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 499 
 
 in the world depends on such proof, in the estimate of 
 anybody who does not deserve to be strait-waistcoated 
 and shut up in Bedlam. For — 
 
 / 1st. Supposing the argument (as this theory does) 
 from "Design" just and well founded " as far as it goes;" 
 that there is a God who is possessed of "Power and 
 Wisdom " to the extent in which He has displayed them 
 in His works, — which is indefinitely (to avoid our 
 Atheist's forbidden term, "infinitely") beyond our ade- 
 quate conception ; then, I maintain, that even if it were 
 ^:)?'oy6(f, that these attributes, — as really beyond our ade- 
 quate conception as if they Avere infinite, — nevertheless 
 are not infinite; nothing, in the estimate of a rational 
 creature, would depend on it. Suppose, for example, the 
 Divine power and wisdom, capable, if you will, of being 
 expressed mathematically, by taking as a unit of i^ower 
 and Avisdom, Hercules and N'ewton combined; and that 
 the Divine power and wisdom are to this unit in the ratio 
 of 1000, raised to a poAver expressed by a decimal number 
 Avith as many ciphers as Avould reach from here to Saturn, 
 to 1, — Avould our relations to this tremendous Being be 
 in any conceivable Avay other than they are ? AYould He 
 not still be that Being " in Avliose hand our breath is, and 
 Avhose are all our Avays ? " Should we not, long before Ave 
 had reached a millionth part of the Avay toAvards a con- 
 ception of the meaning of that tremendous " decimal," find 
 all our faculties completely overwhelmed, and all traces of 
 distinction, except in mere Avords, betAveen "indefinite" 
 and " infinite," lost ? Should Ave not be compelled to say, 
 "This is not infinite, because I am told it has hounds — 
 but all idea of the hoio much has already A^anished be- 
 fore I have integrated the trecillionth of those limits?" 
 Woidd not such a God be entitled to our absolute rcA'- 
 erence, homage, Avorship, obedience, simply because, in fin- 
 
500 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 ite or not, He would be wortliy of the uttermost all that 
 the fealty of such creatures as we are could express, even 
 though He were a million times less than I have suj^posed 
 Ilim ? Nay, if He were a million times less, should we 
 have faculties even to discern the difference ? Would He 
 not relatively to us be as absolutely incomprehensible as if 
 He icere infinite? But — 
 
 2dly. I remark, that since, for aught we know, a com- 
 prehension of all the relations of the constituents of an 
 actual universe like the present, may demand an exact 
 knowledge of all possible relations of every particle, how- 
 ever minute, to every other, and that through eternal 
 duration, this may involve the very infinitude which the 
 sophist disputes ; and, if so, the argument from " Design " 
 proves more than he imagines. It proves that the Divine 
 wisdom and knowledge at least may be, even in the 
 present manifestation of these attributes, not unlimited 
 merely, but infinite. But alas ! as before, long before we 
 had comjileted a millionth part of the computation, God 
 would have become practically infinite to us by our utter 
 incapacity of saying whether He was " infinitely " or " in- 
 definitely" endowed with knowledge and wisdom. 
 
 3dly. I must observe that even if God can create, or 
 ever has created, (if such a thing be possible, though I 
 confess it seems otherwise,) an infinite universe, so that if 
 we could but grasp it, there would lie before us an infinite 
 proof of an infinite God, our young logician, who thus 
 plays bo-peep with his "infinities," would be in just the 
 same condition as at j^i'esent ; for long before his concep- 
 tions had got half as far as the limits even of this visible 
 universe, they would be utterly confounded, and he would 
 be obliged to take the demanded proof for granted! 
 Whether the universe, thus looked at Avith his micro- 
 scopic eye, were infinite or not, would be still impossible 
 
NOTICE OF SOME ATHEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 501 
 
 for liim to ascertain. If so, then, though the argument 
 from "Design " (in this case a just induction) would prove 
 God to he infinite, yet as the finite cannot comprehend 
 that infinite induction, the very proof would be incom- 
 prehensible to our Atheistical logician ; nay, he would be 
 compelled to say that he did not know he had got his 
 required proof even when he had it, and Avould be obliged 
 to stop short, as now, at what was " indefinite." That is, 
 our sophist would still have it to say that he could not 
 tell Avhether God was infinite or not ! 
 
 4thly. Relatively to God, all our j)ossible conceptions 
 will be the same, whether God be " unlimited " or truly 
 " infinite ; " and that because, whether He be infinite or 
 not, the ratio of the Creator to us will be in efiect the same 
 as if He were infinite ; it will be so, if not from His abso- 
 lute greatness, yet from our relative littleness, and will be 
 expressed, if justly expressed at all, by the symbols by 
 which we denote our only possible conceptions of the 
 Infinite. The metaphysics of the Calculus may serve to 
 illustrate this matter. It teaches us that it is the ratio 
 between two quantities, not their absolute magnitude, 
 which determines their value, when we compare them; 
 and in this light, man becomes nothing^ — that is, may be 
 thrown aside as an "infinitesimal," long before we get to 
 the conception of such a Being as the Fabricator of the 
 Universe, — to say nothing of His being truly " infinite." 
 Relatively to such a Being, we are nothing, even if He be 
 not infinite ; and zero to unity must still exj^ress i)oor 
 little man's A^anishing sjmibol. 
 
 " Une parcelle de matiere magnetique," says Leibnitz, 
 when expounding his theory of infinitesimals, "qui passe 
 a travers du verre, n'est pas comparable avec un grain du 
 sable, ni ce grain avec le globe de la terrc, ni le globe avec 
 le firmament." 
 
502 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 
 
 Now wliat is tlie ratio of the " parcelle mfignetique " to 
 tlie entire universe? Such is man to Ilim who created 
 both; and. thus, as I have ah-eady said, our '•'• relations'''' to 
 Him are the same, whether He be Himself only unlimited 
 beyond our conceptions, or truly infinite, as you and I 
 believe Him to be. To iis^ the Being who created all 
 things, — conserves them, — can destroy them, — rules us, 
 
 — can annihilate us, — will judge us, — is God to us^ 
 whether He be infinite or not. 
 
 5thly. If it be true that the argument from " Design " 
 must be " barren " unless it proves an infinite God, it fol- 
 lows that if God, though infinite, cannot create an infinite 
 imiverse, which to most intellects will not seem impos- 
 sible, (rather, the contrary will seem a contradiction,) then, 
 according to the ingenious reasoning of our Atheist, little 
 man would always have it in his power to say that it is 
 simply impossible that even Omnipotence, (let it struggle 
 as it will,) can ever evince itself by its works. The same 
 illustrious sophism would still frustrate the poor efibrts of 
 the Almighty; all His works, however His Omnipotence 
 may tax itself, — must be similarly "baiTcn." If a uni- 
 verse were created a million times as big, as beautiful, or 
 A'arious as that we behold ; or a third of a million times more 
 stu})endous than that, what then? "It is but limited 
 stili," the poor fiinte human i^article exclaims. — Tiiily, I 
 think man is ingenious in making capital out of his 
 poverty — his obscure notion of the "Infinite." It serves 
 him in excellent stead; he cannot comprehend the Infinite 
 
 — but, nevertheless, he can, by conjuring with the bare 
 word, overmaster and imprison the Infinite itself! Tlie 
 Infinite, so far from infinite, shrinks to nothing, and 
 cannot manifest itself! All that it does, however vast and 
 glorious, ]uust still \)q finite — and finite man can judge of 
 tliat^ and pronounce it altogether an insufiicient manifes- 
 
NOTICES OF SOME ATIIiaSTICAL SOPHISMS. 503 
 
 tation of an Infinite Deity. So that here again, — as I 
 said in my last letter in reference to other Atheistical 
 arguments, — God is much to be pitied in conflict with the 
 superior astuteness of man ! I remarked, that if the indi- 
 cations of design in the universe do not prove a divine 
 artificer of it, the same may just as well be said of any 
 other marks of apparent wisdom in any other (and imag- 
 inably) greater works of God ; so that, as Paley justly 
 says, the Atheist must in effect afiirm that God cannot in 
 this way make His existence known at all. And now it 
 seems, by a similar refinement, even if it be granted that 
 the argument from d<?«ign he just as far as it goes, nothing 
 effectual is done unless it prove an Infinite God ; and as 
 there ca7i7iot be an infinite universe. His Omnipotence 
 cannot manifest Him at all. Truly, I think the Deity is 
 in evil case. Exist He may, but He cannot make His 
 existence known. Infinite He may be, but He cannot 
 manifest His infinitude. Omnijootent He may be, but 
 practically He is imjDotent. 
 
 The finite may form an obscure notion of the Infinite, 
 but can never comprehend it. Man knows, in the course 
 of the necessary evolution of thought, that the Infinite must 
 be, but the Infinite itself he cannot know ; for that would 
 be a contradiction. Let but the Atheist, therefore, make 
 his admission of a Deity depend on the apprehension of it, 
 and nothing can be more happy than his position. If he 
 were Infinite, he may urge, then he could grasp the Infinite, 
 and would see that God was such ; if he had no inkling of 
 the infinite, then he could not be troubled with any diffi- 
 culty as to whether God was infinite or not, and would say, 
 perhaps, that he was satisfied to worship a Maker of " all 
 things." But now, being finite, and yet having an " ob- 
 scure notion " of the Infinite, he cannot tell whether any- 
 thing corresponds to it or not : and therefore he must ever 
 
504 THE GRKYSON LETTERS. 
 
 be in a happy dubiety whether there be an Infinite God or 
 not, and less than proof of tliis will not satisfy his convenient 
 scrupulosity ! What a treasure, my dear boy, especially 
 in these days, is an obscure idea ! For by it, the ingenious 
 Atheist, let the argument from " Design " be ever so 
 strong, can always grumble, since it can never prove an 
 Infinite God ; — and as for an " unlimited " God. — why 
 that is far too paltry a conclusion to satisfy Jiwi. 
 
 The proper answer to all this metaphysical folly is that I 
 have already given, that if there be a Creator of all things, 
 our relations to Ilim are not altered by these refinements. 
 
 I wish I could add that there had never been any Theists 
 who make a needless parade of these same refinements ; 
 and who, in truth, are little better than the Atheists' meta- 
 physical decoy-ducks ; — who are so wedded to some pedan- 
 tic a priori method of proof that they would sooner be 
 Atheists, than Theists by any other road than their own ; 
 sooner let the greatest of all truths perish than establish it 
 by any arguments but such as are, in their esteem, meta- 
 physically ortJiodox. If they, as they contend, have an 
 immediate " intuition " of the " Infinite," and an immediate 
 co?isciousness of an Infinite Being who corresponds to it, 
 — let them, as Locke says, " enjoy the benefit" of their 
 own perspicacity. I am sure that the very obscurest in- 
 timations, the merest inklings of the Infinite which our 
 consciousness, may give us, are well worth attending to ; 
 but seeing that so many doubt Avhether there are any 
 articulate utterances conveyed by such whispers of our 
 consciousness ; many more, who believe they are but vague 
 presumptions, — auxiliary to other proofs, but proving little 
 apart from them ; and many more to whom any arguments 
 derived from such sources are incomprehensible : — seeing, 
 on the other hand, that the argument from " Design " is 
 that which most strikes and has ever most struck mankind ; 
 
BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 505 
 
 and lastly, that if it be admitted np to the full extent of 
 the inferences which such a universe as this affords, our 
 relations to the Creator are the same, whether He or His 
 work can be proved by us to be infinite, or not, I confess I 
 have not patience to hear the fantastical depreciations of 
 this class of proofs, in which some Theists indulge ; merely 
 because they think they can get to the same truth by a 
 darker and more intricate passage ! Sure I am that their 
 declamation, equally pompous and obscure, on this point, 
 tends to nothing but to confirm Atheists in their absurdity. 
 In conclusion, my dear youth, I would recommend you 
 to warn W. F. that if he ever meet with any Being who 
 has the millionth of a billionth of the power and wisdom 
 which (supposing the argument from design, valid) the 
 Creator and Governor of this universe must be endowed 
 with, he will do well not to stand disi:)uting with him as to 
 the extent and limits of his prerogatives. That Being may 
 not have the patience to listen to his metaphysical imperti- 
 nence, which, happily for him, his Gracious Maker has ! 
 The philosopher was wise who would not dispute with the 
 master of thirty legions ; your friend will be still wiser not 
 to dispute with Him, who, however "limited," is the 
 Master of so many worlds. 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Ever yours faithfully, 
 
 E. E. n. G. 
 
 LETTER CXCXI. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 1852. 
 
 My dear Tom, 
 
 I have but little time to-day, to reply to your three 
 queries ; but a few words will suffice. 
 
 43 
 
506 THE GREYSON LETTERS 
 
 Your remarks on the defects of Paley's Ethical Theory, 
 (which, I was glad to see, never imposed upon you,) are 
 perfectly just. The greatest objection of all, however, you 
 do not touch ; I mean, that the utilitarian hypothesis can 
 by no means account for the peculiar conceptions and terms, 
 universal as thought and language, wdiich imply the ideas 
 of duty — the " ought " and the " ought not." Let an 
 action be ever so generally, ever so universally useful^ it 
 could never carry us beyond the notion of the^:>n«c7e?i^, and 
 the conception of duty would still have to be accounted 
 for. It is perfectly and uniformly 2;)rudent for us not to 
 receive base coin, just as it is perfectly and uniformly pru- 
 dent not to 2)ay our debts in it ; but we should think that 
 a man deserved to be hanged, who applied only the term 
 " prudent " to both. It is j^rudent, indeed, to guard against 
 being cheated, and not to cheat ; but no soj^histry can 
 make us feel that prudence is cdl that is involved in both 
 cases : yet if the utilitarian theory be true, ought w^e not 
 so to reason ? It is always prudent to eat when we are 
 hungry, and cdso always prudent not to put our hands into 
 our neighbor's pockets ; but the moral distinction between 
 these two perfectly prudent things is palj^able enough, and 
 no ingenuity can obliterate it ; yet if Paley's theory be 
 true, I see not how we can get beyond the idea of prudence 
 in either case, or how the peculiar and superinduced idea 
 of duty could ever originate. 
 
 Nothing in my judgment will account for it, except the 
 supposition that w^e are endowed with a " moral sense," or 
 with what is equivalent to it ; that is, either w ith a single 
 faculty, the province and ]3i'ei'ogative of which, is to gene- 
 rate the peculiar class of ideas signified by obligation and 
 duty ; or else a combination of powers, the action and inter- 
 action of which, in the course of our development, as infalli- 
 bly leads to these notions, as if we had a separate faculty. 
 
BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 507 
 
 In the one case, conscience would be a distinct endowment 
 — in the other, a resultant of many forces ; but in either 
 case leading to the formation of those peculiar moral con- 
 ceptions for the existence of which we wish to accomit, and 
 for which Paley's theory does not account. 
 
 And here I would remark, that the theory of " con- 
 science," w^iether it be simple or complex, is not inconsist- 
 ent with those varieties of moral judgment in men which, 
 you observe, form so plausible an objection to this theory ; 
 for it is not inconsistent with our experience that the most 
 undoubted faculties of our nature may exhibit wide devia- 
 tions from their normal condition, — great irregularities 
 and varieties of action in different individuals of the race ; 
 and these, within the limits observed, may be accounted 
 for by custom, association, mal-instruction. But generic 
 conceptions cannot be accounted for, without the distinct 
 faculties adapted to form tliem, Avhether the conceptions 
 themselves be right or wrong. Thus tlie eye may see well 
 or ill, clearly or dimly ; but to see at all^ — to have the 
 conceptions of light and color, — implies the distinct faculty 
 of vision. Similarly, while, on the theory of a moral sense, 
 or something equivalent to it, we can account for its divari- 
 cations from a normal state, we cannot, by Paley's theory, 
 account for the very origination of the fundamental con- 
 ceptions of right and wrong. It can never carry us beyond 
 the idea of prudent or imprudent. Hence, phenomena of 
 human nature, as indisputable and universal as any other, 
 seem to me, on that theory, still to require a solution. 
 
 As to your second query, how far our modern Atheists 
 are justified in pleading Bacon's occasional invectives 
 against inferences from " final causes," as fortifying their 
 doubts of the validity of the " Argument from Design," I 
 answer, that if they would only read Bacon with candor, 
 they would feel that they were not justified at all. Noth- 
 
508 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 
 
 mg can be plainer than that he did not mean to affirm, uni- 
 versally, that "arguments from final causes" must be 
 sophistical ; but merely that as they often rcere so, and 
 philosophers had been, in every age, but too apt to pre- 
 judge the results of an enlarged induction by their narrow 
 a iwiori concei">tions of the purpose of this or that, it well 
 became men of science to be perpetually on their guard 
 against such a source of fallacy. But he who said that " he 
 would sooner believe all the fables of the Talmud than that 
 this universal frame was without a mind " could not be the 
 idiot which some of our modern Atheists would make him ; 
 nor intend to imj^ly that inferences from "final causes" are 
 universally precarious. They are so very often, no doubt ; 
 and this, in laying down the very canons of all philosophiz- 
 ing, was quite sufiicient reason for Bacon's jealousy and 
 caution. If a lioness were to say to a lion, " My dear, what 
 can be the reason that those curious bipeds without hair or 
 feathers, which we find such peculiarly delicate eating, 
 whenever we can get hold of them, come into the world 
 without the rougher integuments which our j^rey in gen- 
 eral exhibit ? " — the lion might j^erhaps rej^ly, " It is noth- 
 ing, love, but a kindly provision of Providence ; man is a 
 delicacy sj^ecially j^rovided for us nobler creatures; our 
 mouths are not filled with bristles or feathers in eating 
 him. This was the 'final cause' why these two legged 
 creautures have such smooth skins." This, it is true, would 
 only ju'ove that the lion was a bad j^hilosopher ; though it 
 is much after the same wise manner that many philosophers 
 have argued from " final causes." But nevertheless, it does 
 not follow that he would be an equally foolish philosopher 
 who argued that if the "final cause" of the telescope is to 
 perform a certain jiurjiose, the eye, with its infinitely more 
 subtle and accurate adaptations to the same purpose, had 
 a similar " final cause." In other words, the argument from 
 
UiilEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 509 
 
 " final causes " may, like most things in the world, be used 
 well or ill ; and it is against its frequent ill use that Bacon 
 would guard us. 
 
 As to your third query. You ask how it is that while it 
 must be admitted as a fact that men almost universally 
 concur in the behef of a God, and that, if Induction can be 
 trusted at all, they always will, there sliould, yet be such 
 differences as to the most cogent modes of j^roving this 
 most cardinal of all trutlis ? and whether there ouscht to be 
 such various estimates formed of the validity of the differ- 
 ent lines of Theistic argument, since those who squabble 
 with each other as to the logic of this or that argument, yet 
 agree in the conclusion ? — I answer, that it is in exact 
 analogy with the condition of human nature in general, and 
 there is no more matter of surprise here than anywhere 
 else. All i\\Q facts which determine human belief and con- 
 duct, are less disputable than the theories of them. Nearly 
 everybody believes in a material world ; but what endless 
 disj^utes arise the moment we take the question into the 
 field of metaphysics ! Almost everybody believes in the 
 great facts of ethics ; yet perhaps you will hardly find five 
 hundred who perfectly agree in any one of the many 
 theories of them. Man is called, and justly, by Aristotle, 
 " a j^olitical animal " ^wov TroXtrtKov, but you would be trou- 
 bled, I fancy, to prove by any one line of argument, or any 
 one class of phenomena, the truth of the assertion ; cer- 
 tainly you would be troubled to prove that he had some 
 " one i^olitical faculty " which led him to construct social 
 and political organizations. You would rather dwell uj^on 
 a variety of phenomena in his nature, (some of which might 
 appear more important to this man, and others to that,) as 
 justifying the conclusion ; you would say that his uniform 
 " political " tendency was the resultant of a great number 
 of forces, the separate directions and magnitudes of which 
 
510 THE G KEY SON LETTERS 
 
 it might be difficult to calculate. Meantime, this fact of 
 man's constitution remains the same, and nobody disputes 
 or doubts it. It is, I fancy, much the same mth the 
 Theistic argument ; the fact of man's general concurrence 
 in the belief of Deity is unshaken ; and, if we may trust in- 
 duction at all, ever will be so. God has so constituted 
 human nature, that the general result of the djeveloiDment 
 and interaction of all his powers and faculties is to bear 
 w^itness to him ; though the elements which constitute that 
 result may be too various to be comprised in one connected 
 chain of argument, or sometimes too subtle to be stated in 
 the forms of syllogism ; sometimes such as rather to be felt 
 than seen ; sometimes in a measure dependent for their 
 cogency on the modifications of the individual mind, so 
 as to be differently aj^preciated by different persons. Thus, 
 we find the argument at one time, fi'om "design," at an- 
 other, from " intuition," chiefly insisted on ; this man thinks 
 the " phenomena of conscience " form the most conclusive 
 proof; this man rests on irresistible " sentiment," without 
 troubling the intellect at all. Nay, these elements may 
 severally appear at different times, of various degrees of 
 cogency to the very same mind. Hence the folly, by the 
 way, of one class of Theists depreciating the lines of argu- 
 ment which are preferred by others. Meanwhile, the great 
 fact, as you say, remains the same, however men may 
 quarrel as to its theory, and so human nature in every age 
 will have it, — " That there is a God." 
 
 I am glad you have derived so much pleasure as well as 
 instruction from Whately's " Logic ; " but let me tell you 
 that his " Rhetoric," especially the chapters on Composition, 
 are equally worth your study. In these days in which the 
 obscure, nay, the unintelligible, both in philosophy and 
 ])oetry, seems to many young minds so ridiculously, so fan- 
 tastically seductive, resolve on keei)ing thought and ex- 
 
BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES, 511 
 
 pression clear, and study all such writers as may set you 
 an example of suj^eriority, to all the nonsense talked about 
 " perfect perspicuity " being inconsistent with " depth." 
 The greatest thinkers and writers the world lias yet seen 
 liave not been obscure ; they may give some trouble some- 
 times, but their meaning for the most j^art is plain enough, 
 and with a little extra diligence even their difficult passa- 
 ges become so. But the j^resent rage for obscurity is a 
 transient absurdity, which the next age will utterly des2:)ise. 
 If anybody then wants the current German philosoj^hy, and 
 much of our own, he will, for the most part, have to fah 
 
 for it. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 R. E. H. G. 
 
 THE END. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Pago 16. Post prand aim. After lunclieon. 
 " 18. Piece de resistance. A round of beef. 
 " 2.'3. EupTj/ca. I have found It 
 " " Cuisine. A kitchen. 
 " 26. AntiqucB vestigia Jiammce. Remains of the ancient flame 
 
 or fire. 
 " " Arcanum. A secret. 
 " " fxT] cuyav. Not too much. 
 " " Ne nimis. Not too much. 
 " " Juste milieu. The true mean. 
 " 27. Nesutor\hc]. Let not the shoemaker [go beyond his 
 
 last]. 
 " " Empressement. Dignity. 
 " " Chef d'oeuvre, A masterpiece. 
 " 28. Experimentum gustus. Trial of tasting. 
 " « Cuisine. (See 25.) 
 " 29. Entrees. First course of dishes. 
 " " Entremets. Side dishes. 
 " 33. Via dolorosa. Dolorous way. 
 " 42. Ad cetJiera latum. Borne to the sky. 
 " 50. VoUa. Behold! 
 " " La pliilosophie De V Injini^ — C'es/, dans ces petits mots 
 
 tout compris. The pliilosophy of the Infinite, — it is all 
 
 comprised in these few words. 
 
 " 54. De Senectute. Concernino^ old ajje. 
 
 " 55. De Amicitid. Concerning friendship. 
 
 (513) 
 
514 NOTES. 
 
 P. GO. Gout. Relish. 
 
 " Gl. Experto crede. Believe one wlio has had experience. 
 
 *' 71. Enfant jJerdu. A lost child. 
 
 " 72. Volla. (See 50.) 
 
 " 74. Bouleversement. Confusion. An overturn. 
 
 " 78. Ad ahsurdum. To an absurdity. 
 
 " 91. Naive. Ingenuous. 
 
 " 9 7. Ccpriccio. A freak. 
 
 " 98. Idola ti'ibus. Idols of the tribe. 
 
 " " Novum Organum. A new method of sclentlfc investiga- 
 tion. 
 
 " 100. Secundum artem. Skilfully. 
 
 " 102. Ei To7s fie^vaKO/xevois eKacTTrfS rjjx4pas 
 
 ^AXyuv (Twefiaive rriv K^(paKi]V irph tov irieiv, 
 Tou 'aKpaTov tijxwv ou5e els eirii/ev &u ' 
 Nvu 8e irpSTcpSu ye tov ttoi/ov t)]V T)5ovr]V 
 UpoAafifiduoyrei vcrTepovfxeu raya^ov. 
 If it were the case that the head of him who gets drunk 
 every day ached before drinking, no one -would drink 
 the strong intoxicating wine. But obtaining the pleas- 
 ure, as Ave now do, before the pain, we derive no bene- 
 fit from our experience. 
 
 " lOG. Tofo ccelo. Heaven-wide. 
 
 " 112. Ohulus. A Greek coin of about the value of 3i cents. 
 
 " 115. Denouement. The unravelling or discovery of a plot. 
 
 *' 117. In jji'ofujidis. In deep trouble. 
 
 " 119. Les vieillards sont dangereux. Old men are troublesome. 
 
 " 136. Coup de main. A bold stroke. 
 
 " 146. Ultima Thule. The utmost stretch or boundary. TJnde 
 was the name given, in early history, to the northern- 
 most part of the habitable world. 
 
 '" 152. A fortiori. Much more. 
 
 " 154. Proho meliora. I approve the better. 
 
 " 156. Honi soit [&c]. Evil to him [who evil thinks]. 
 
 " 168. Denouement. (See 115.) 
 
 " 1 70. Piece de resistance. (See 18.) 
 
 " 1 78. Aura. Breath of air. 
 
p. 
 
 185. 
 
 li 
 
 190. 
 
 a 
 
 200. 
 
 i( 
 
 201. 
 
 (4 
 
 202. 
 
 u 
 
 203. 
 
 ii 
 
 208. 
 
 (( 
 
 209. 
 
 a 
 
 211. 
 
 u 
 
 214. 
 
 li 
 
 IL 
 
 a 
 
 222. 
 
 u 
 
 223. 
 
 (( 
 
 225. 
 
 (( 
 
 u 
 
 (( 
 
 230. 
 
 a 
 
 241. 
 
 u 
 
 a 
 
 u 
 
 242. 
 
 a 
 
 247. 
 
 a 
 
 252. 
 
 u 
 
 253. 
 
 i( 
 
 255. 
 
 a 
 
 li 
 
 a 
 
 261. 
 
 li 
 
 2G9. 
 
 li 
 
 a 
 
 11 
 
 278. 
 
 11 
 
 280. 
 
 li 
 
 281. 
 
 li 
 
 287 
 
 NOTES. 515 
 
 P«r excellence. Eminently, or by Wiiy of eminence. 
 
 Experimentu-m Jiat in corpore v'di. Let the criminal suf- 
 fer the consequence of his crime. 
 
 Faux pas. A false step- 
 
 Sang froid. Indifference. 
 
 Badinage. Sport. Pleasantry. 
 
 Toto ccelo. (See 106.) 
 
 A p)riori. From cause to effect. 
 
 irpcoTou TpevSos. TIic fundamental error. 
 
 Ignis fatuus. A will o' wisp. 
 
 Meum. Mine. 
 
 Tiium. Thine. 
 
 MacJiina. An instrument. 
 
 Soi-disant. Pretended. 
 
 Pro re natd. For the particular case. 
 
 CalUda junctura. Skilful joinings. 
 
 Soi-disant. (See 223.) 
 
 Per se. By itself. 
 
 Quid pro quo. Value for value. 
 
 Brochure. A pamphlet. 
 
 Momenta. Elements. 
 
 A la mode. In the manner of. 
 
 Ex jjost facto. After the fact. 
 
 Quod aut ratione justce necessitatis aut intentione pia; 
 uiilitaiis caret. Which is not absolutely necessary or 
 has a religious use. 
 
 Quod sine utilitate et loquentis decitur et audientis. "Which 
 profits neither speaker nor hearer. 
 
 Kevov priixa. 'Prjiia apyov. An empty word. An idle word. 
 
 En masse. In a mass. 
 
 Instar omnium. An example for all. 
 
 Minimum. Smallest. 
 
 Je ne sais p)as. I do n't know. 
 
 Les gentilsliommes les plus polis dans tout le monde. The 
 most polite gentlemen in all the world. 
 
 Virtuoso. One skilled in the fine arts. 
 
 In jietto. In secret. 
 
a u 
 
 li 
 
 289, 
 
 (( 
 
 301, 
 
 (( 
 
 (( 
 
 a 
 
 u 
 
 a 
 
 302, 
 
 (( 
 
 303, 
 
 u 
 
 30G, 
 
 OIG NOTES. 
 
 P. 288. Horesco ref evens. I shudder at the recollection. 
 Ahsit omen. May the sign fail. 
 289. Delectant domi, non impediunt /oris, pernoctant nohiscum, 
 peregrinanturj rusticantur. They delight us at home, 
 they do not hinder us abroad, they spend the night 
 ■with us, they travel with us, they dweU with us in 
 retirement. 
 Impedimenta. Baggage. 
 VoiVa. (See 50.) 
 Quasi. As if, (used before English words to express 
 
 resemblance.) 
 Similia similibiis curantur. Like cures like. 
 Non causa pro causa. The false for the real reason 
 Viaticum. Provisions for a journey. 
 De non apparentihus et non existentibus eadem est ratio. 
 What does not appear is as if it did not exist. 
 " 307. Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona. Brave men lived 
 
 before Agamemnon. 
 " 311. Non causa pro causa. (See 302.) 
 " 312. Vis medicatrix. The healing power. 
 " 313. Natures minister. Minister of nature. 
 " 314. Similia similihus curantur. (See 301.) 
 " 316. Non tali auxilio. Not with such aid. 
 " 320. Furor mesmericus. Mesmeric enthusiasm. 
 " 323. Tud pace. By your favor. 
 " 325. En rapport. In communication. 
 " " Populus vult decipi et decipietur. The people wish to be 
 
 deceived and are deceived. 
 " 328. Quid nunc. A news-monger. 
 " " Proh pudor ! O shame ! 
 " 330. Post mortem. After death. 
 " " Ante mortem. Before death. 
 " 331. Contre temp)S. An unlucky occurrence. 
 " 334. Hoec olim meminisse juvahit. These things it will please 
 
 us to remember hereafter. 
 " 337. Hcec olim meminisse juvahit. (See 334.) 
 " 339. De trop. Too much. 
 
i( 
 
 (i (( 
 
 NOTES. 517 
 
 r. 339. Broclmre. (See 242.) 
 
 " " Melange. A miscellany. 
 
 " 341. Placebo. Conciliatory message — literally, I shall please. 
 
 " " Badinage. (See 202.) 
 
 " 344. Sang-froid. (See 201.) 
 
 347. Quis custodiet i2)Sos custodes? "Who will keep the keepers 
 themselves ? 
 
 348. Casus belli. Cause of war. 
 Cedant arma togce. Let arms yield to the toga, or the 
 
 military to the civil power. 
 
 349. Esprit de corps. The common spirit or disposition formed 
 by men in association. 
 
 Vidi — et victus vici. I saw — and defeated, conquered. 
 Crepusculum. Twilight. 
 
 At Se fi4\Ti(rTai x^/vxal iiavr^vovraL raura ovtcos exetj/. The 
 noblest minds presage that these things are so; i. e., have 
 a presentiment of immortality. 
 In foro conscieniice. At the bar of conscience. 
 Quasi. (See 301.) 
 Alfresco. In coolness. 
 Incunabula gentis nostrce. The cradle or origin of our 
 
 nation. 
 Quondam. Former. 
 En rapport. (See 325.) 
 
 Table d' hote. A common table for guests at a French 
 hotel. 
 " 388. On pilla, on se gorgea de butin ; tout le monde se crut 
 lieureux jusqu' a ce que le jour ayant paru, les deux, 
 villes connurent leur meprise. They pillaged, they 
 gorged themselves with plunder ; everybody was happy 
 until, when daylight appeared, the two cities found out 
 their mistake. 
 " 395. Roue. A debauchee. 
 " 396. Ergo. Therefore. 
 
 " 397. Cid de sac. an alley with no exit, i. e. a trap. 
 " 404. Badinage. (See 202.) 
 " 406. Habitat. Dwelling place. 
 
 44 
 
 (( 
 
 351. 
 
 (( 
 
 353, 
 
 u 
 
 353. 
 
 (( 
 
 362, 
 
 (( 
 
 364, 
 
 (( 
 
 365. 
 
 (( 
 
 371, 
 
 (( 
 
 374, 
 
 u 
 
 385, 
 
 u 
 
 387, 
 
018 NOTES. 
 
 Ojjcra omnia. Complete works. 
 
 Hortus siccus. A botanical collection of dried specimens. 
 
 Eya77eAtoj/. The gospel. 
 
 Perdu. Hidden. 
 
 De 11011 apparentihus et non existentibus eadem est ratio. 
 (See 306.) 
 
 Secundum artem. (See 100.) 
 
 Eclaircissements. Explanations. 
 
 Ad libitum. At pleasure. 
 
 Totidem verbis. In so many words. 
 
 Per saltum. By a leap. 
 
 Per solium. (See 478.) 
 
 Per scalas et gradatim. By steps and gradually. 
 
 Per saltum. (See 478.) 
 
 Idolum tribus. An idol of the tribe. 
 
 Rationale. Philosophical statement. 
 
 Point d' appui. Point of support. (A military phrase.) 
 
 Ego. I. Myself. 
 
 Le jilcbisant Dieu que voila. An agreeable God is such 
 an one. 
 
 A la. According to. 
 
 Elite. Nobility. 
 501. Une jmixelle de matiere magnetique, qui passe a travers 
 du verre, n'est pas comimrable avec un grain du sable^ 
 ni ce grain avec le globe de la terre^ ni le globe avec le 
 firmament. A particle of magnetic matter which passes 
 through glass cannot be compared with sand, nor this 
 grain with the globe of the earth, nor the globe with 
 the firmanent. 
 
 p 
 
 .413. 
 
 (( 
 
 428. 
 
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 431. 
 
 u 
 
 438. 
 
 (( 
 
 u 
 
 u 
 
 440. 
 
 n 
 
 4G7. 
 
 u 
 
 472. 
 
 a 
 
 475. 
 
 u 
 
 478. 
 
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 480. 
 
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 u 
 
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 481. 
 
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 482. 
 
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 483. 
 
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 494. 
 
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 495. 
 
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 497. 
 
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