“Why,” he replied, “I am afraid that, if I had too much reason for the one, I have not faith enough for the other.  That the miracles and prophecies of the Bible may possibly have been true,—­only the effect of mesmerism;—­that things quite as wonderful, or more so, happen every day by this wonderful agent;—­that every phenomenon that takes place does so in virtue a perfectly wise law, without any wise lawgiver;—­that this wise law has, it seems, prearranged that man should generally exhibit an inveterate tendency to religious systems of some kind, though all religions are absurd, and persist in believing in his free will, though free from a downright impossibility;—­that these contradictions and absurdities of man are the result of an irreversible necessity, and yet that Mr. Atkinson may hope to correct them;—­that, by the same necessity, man is in no degree culpable or responsible, and yet that Mr. Atkinson may perpetually blame him; —­that no man can do any thing ‘wrong,’ and yet that till he believes that, man will never cease to do it;—­that people may read without their eyes, and distinguish colors as colors though they are born blind;—­that Bacon was an atheist, and that this may be proved by induction from his own writings;—­these and other paradoxes, which I must believe, if I believe Mr. Atkinson, require a faith which it would really be unreasonable to expect from such a sceptic as I am.”

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July 18.  Till three days ago, nothing since my last date has occurred having any special relation to the sole object of this journal.  I was glad to escape on the 13th to a quiet church some miles off; and, after a plain and simple, but earnest, sermon from a venerable clergyman (of whom I should like to know a little more), I further refreshed my spirit by a long and solitary ramble of some hours through the beautiful scenery in the midst of which Harrington’s dwelling is situated.  In the course of it, I reviewed my own early conflicts, and augured from them happier days for my beloved nephew.  I went carefully over all the main points of the argument for and against the truth of Christianity, which in youth had so often occupied me, and resolved that on some fair opportunity I would recount my story to him and Mr. Fellowes.  I little thought then that I should have a larger and very miscellaneous audience to listen to me.  But this will account for my not being to seek (as they say) when the occasion presented itself.

Three days ago (the 16th) a queer company assembled in Harrington’s quiet house.  The conversations and incidents connected with that day have led me to take refuge for the last two mornings in the solitude of my own chamber, that I might, undisturbed, recall and record them with as much accuracy and fulness as possible.  Very much, indeed, that I wished to remember has vanished; but the substance of what too many said, as well as what I said myself made too deep an impression to be easily obliterated.