ings, about churches, and their constitution and their government; about arrangements for union, and terms of communion;-the numberless pole. mical notices which he thought himself called upon to take of all the petty and spiteful cavillers of his time;—the hasty productions of an over-officious zeal to set everybody right about every actual or possible thing;-the attenuated, and infinitely multiplex argumentations, in the manner of the schoolmen, about trivial niceties in theological doctrine;—and above all, the ever-renewed and fruitless toils to work out a tertium quid from the impossible combination of two opposite systems of theology;—what, I repeat, would be the use of attempting to find or make a biographical road through this vast chaos? . . . .

CXXVII. TO THE EDITOR.

[On a MS. Translation of Pascal's Thoughts.]

1824.

MY DEAR SIR,-I trust you will excuse the bold liberty I have taken, in making so many exceptions and suggestions. I have done it as a kind of sample of the manner in which (reviews excepted) I have been accustomed to traverse my own matters of composition.

You will perceive, that I would sometimes adhere more exactly than you always do to the turn of expression in the original; but I cannot be at all sure, that a perfect master of both languages would not in some instances pronounce this punctilious and slavish. There is, however, so much of the mind of Pascal often shown in the very cast of his expression, that one would wish to keep as near it as possible. At the same time, there is here and there such a parsimony of words, and, we must even say, such an obscurity, as to make it indispensable for the translator to shape the sentence according to what he can guess of the meaning.

In many of the places which I have noted, you may see cause to retain your expressions as they stand, in preference to what I have ventured to suggest, or to attempt some still different construction. Many such things are matters of individual taste. What is peculiarly to be avoided, in translating Pascal, is, all lengthy formality of phraseology he is an admirable example of the contrary—of a simple, direct, vital manner of expression.

In any future portions, that you may wish me to see, I shall not trouble you with such frequent exceptions. Indeed, self-indulgence dictates to desist, as I find that several whole days hardly suffice for this sort of examination of two or three sheets. I will only trouble you so far as to make, in passing, some slight note of indication where anything strikes me as particularly deserving of another trial of your mind and hand. Yours very truly,

CXXVIII. TO THE REV. JOSIAH HILL.

J. F.

Stapleton, Feb. 25, 1825.

. . . I was pleased that your own acquaintance with Saunders, and

Catherine's with his daughter, contributed to give an interest to what I wrote respecting the latter. My interference in her case did not involve a great deal of what could strictly be called "painful." The varm regard entertained for each other by the preceptor and the pupil, and the pupil's candor, intelligence, and serious intentness on the great object, imparted quite a prevailing character of pleasure to the office, though necessarily it was a pleasure of a pensive quality. As my dear friend Catherine was well acquainted with Miss S., she will, I know, allow me to turn this event into an admonition, by just repeating one of the many things said by the young person, who now can speak no more. Within a short time of her death, she requested her favorite aunt, who was alone attending on her, to enforce it, as from her, on her younger sisters, "that they apply themselves to the great concern while,”—here she was stopped by cough and extreme difficulty of breathing, and her aunt finished the sentence for her by saying, "while in their youth." As soon as she recovered the power of speaking, she said, very pointedly, "No,-while in their health," signifying, that that was a more uncertain, and might be a much more transient thing, than even their youth. To me, this concern and its departed object will be an interesting remembrance as long as I live.

. . . The late grand parliamentary debate,-did you take any considerable interest in that huge contest? It was the most athletic strife that has occurred for many years past, in that St. Stephen's prize-ring. We here read almost the entire of the four nights' debate, as given at vast length in the Times paper. We admired exceedingly the mighty power and promptitude of mind displayed by the great chiefs in the warfare. Plunkett's speech was a fine exhibition of large and commanding intellect; Tierney's, the happiest possible rally of keen exposure and satiric ridicule. For fierce, vengeful, and irresistible assault, Brougham stands forth the foremost man, I take it, in all this world. It is exquisitely gratifying to see how his javelins fly at the time-servers and the scoundrels.

CXXIX. TO THE EDITOR.

1825.

MY DEAR SIR,—If the alternative were to be hanged, I could make you no satisfactory answer. Be thankful that you are not in my shoes. "Work double tides!" I feel at this very hour so unwell that I cannot work at all; so that I have been forced to relinquish a subject that I had thought a little of for Thursday's lecture, and must have recourse to the expedient of vamping up an old sermon for the purpose.

I now feel that it will be totally impossible for me to do anything at all, of any kind, for Pascal; anything that could be completed within less than three months, at the least. I am not more sure that I am writing these lines, than that I should utterly sink under any attempt at forcing

myself to write at the

rate of so much or anything near so much, as one printed page per day. This is no pretence or evasion. I never write as much as one such page of composition, properly so called, without becoming faint and sickly. My knees have literally trembled under me all this day, in consequence of rather a hard effort during part of the preceding day. When I do nothing for a while, I, like a child, forget to anticipate how the case will be when I really shall endeavor to do something. And in such a season I innocently say, I hope to do so and so; and thus I was betrayed to fancy I could do something for Pascal, perhaps by the time of your completion of the undertaking.* But when I do attempt anything, then comes again the old consequence, and my wonder at myself that I could have been so thoughtless, so little taught by experience, as to expect and engage to do anything. I deplore both my imbecility (of body and mind), and my folly in making any kind of engagements in forgetfulness of my past miserable experience. . . . . It is the plain, unfortunate truth that I cannot write, otherwise than a very small paragraph or two, at long intervals; that is, cannot without being made quite ill.

As to Doddridge, after throwing aside two or three several little lots of material, which, in succession, I had meant for that article, I am trying to do something in a different way; and am doing most tamely and inefficiently. ... I had better have proceeded with what I was at first, or at second, about; for then it would have been done long since. But it is of no use even to reproach myself. . . .

CXXX. TO THE REV. JOSIAH HILL.

April, 1825.

MY DEAR SIR,—. . I am sometimes very much disposed to murmur that the little I can do towards any sort of usefulness being entirely in the intellectual way, the doing it should be so slow, and irksome, and painful, and even physically injurious, an operation. Some of the workmen in the thinking-shop can do about their best with a great degree of facility and despatch; can bring thoughts and put them into sentences about twenty times as fast as I ever could. In my case, old practice has not given the smallest advantage in point of facility. Rather, I think, of the two, it has left the business still more slow and laborious than even formerly; so that my aversion to the employment has continually increased. And yet something like a sense of duty to be trying at it has continued to haunt and disturb me. But advancing age, and invincible ill health (a health which suffers peculiarly under this kind of labor), certify me that I can never now accomplish much. I will console myself with hoping that what has been done, with any little more that I may

be

* The translation of Pascal's Thoughts, referred to in this and a preceding letter (p. 42), has since been published, with an Introductory Essay by Mr. Isaac Taylor.

able to do, will not leave me altogether under the censure of having lived in vain.

Notwithstanding the fatiguing employment I have mentioned,* I was tempted, after I saw you last, to impose on myself a little extra task,— that of putting in the shape of a paragraph or two, for my next letter to your worship, the topic of our debate that evening in Mrs. F's parlor; not so much, however, on your account (you are, I verily believe, nearly of the same opinion), but to aid my own wretched memory, by collecting into a narrow space,-into a focus, as it were, the particulars constituting the argument. Partly from having, unfortunately, always declined the hardship of disciplining my thoughts to system and method, and partly from this miserable want of memory, the case is with me, that whenever I attempt to argue a point, I have always to cast about to think of something at the time, always to begin anew, much as if I had never discussed the matter before. To be sure, if there be any question, for the disposal of which there are obvious and plentiful resources at hand anywhere, at any time, independently of such previous adjustment of the materials of argument, it is that respecting your notable Arminian tenet of a sufficient grace and power (I suppose I may so express it), in possession of all men for their conversion. Yet I think, I will, one of these days, try to put in the fewest words, the appeal to fact. And then I shall have nothing to do next time, but to amuse myself in observing the manner in which you play and quirk about, in attempting to maintain a point of the Methodist creed which you do not believe, but dare not disown.

CXXXI. TO THE REV. JOSIAH HILL.

Stapleton, June 10, 1825.

You may chance to have heard or seen some newspaper notice of Dr. Ryland's death. After several months of slow and gradual deterioration, he sank very rapidly during the last two or three weeks. He was sensible to the end; but was so oppressed by debility and laborious breathing during the last few days, that, to the regret of his friends, he was unable to hold any material communications with them. Most of what he said was in the form of pious ejaculation, mingled with the natural expressions of suffering. The funeral was very solemn in effect, as well as show. The public exercise was shared by Hughes, Birt, and Roberts. Hall yielded to the "church's" solicitation, to come to preach the funeral sermon last Sunday. It ended with a long and eloquent eulogium of Dr. R., conceived with great discrimination, and not much exaggerated. He has consented to publish it. Dr. R. was, indeed, a most admirable man in all sorts of goodness. You hope his “creed has been pardoned him." If it needed pardon, it was a sin; and I do not see Essay to Doddridge's Rise and Progress.

*

now we are to hope for the pardon of sin not repented of and renounced. In this predicament was the guilt of Dr. R. as to his creed. I assure you he did not, he really did not, chant, by way of recantation, the pious and humble strain of one of the sweet singers of your Israel,

"Take back my interest in the Lamb,

Unless the Saviour died for all."

I suppose you will be here a week, at least, at the conference time. . . . . . . . . I like you Methodists better, probably, than does any other so sterling a Calvinist.

CXXXII. TO THE EDITOR.

Stapleton, Oct., 1825.

Almost every time I have seen the old enemy in Clare Street, he has expressed his regret at the loss of you. In a similar way to what is sometimes seen in other beasts of prey, he seems to have undergone that queer change of feeling, that instead of regarding you as something to be devoured, he has come to feel all the dispositions of a friend. Myself I fear he regards still in the old natural relation, for latterly he has once and again bitten, and with no gentle and playful use of the fangs. Some notion of the ferocity and violence, and of the painful, and costly, and tedious process of cure (if ever cured), may be formed from the naming of such things as Brunck's Sophocles, Burmann's Ovid, Milton's book, Schleusner's Lexicon (the new 4to. edit.), Lizars's Anatomy, not to mention a number of minor things. I hesitated and demurred, wished myself a hundred leagues out of the way of the temptation, was selfadmonished and self-reproached, but-but-the two fine classics might never offer themselves so favorably again-of the 4to. Schleusner there were but few copies (professedly) printed, and the larger type was very desirable; Milton's book was expressly bespoken before the scandalous exorbitance of the price was known, or could be anticipated; and Lizars's-I was for the moment just simply insane, for the pleasure of having just got out of the Glasgow job, and thinking what a considerable (to me considerable) handful of pence I should get for having done it. But verily, I not only mean to sin no more at any such rate, or anything approaching to it, but believe I never shall. Literally my blood is kept warm by my being mad every day, ten times a day, to see the costly and (to me) useless piles and ranges of them about this room; to think what money has thus for twenty years been swallowed in an unproductive substance; in many parts of it now vastly depreciated; in the finer articles of it constantly subject to injury from damp and sundry other causes; the whole destined, one of these days, to the auctioneer's hammer, with a vast loss; and the whole foolish process of accumulation having actually and literally kept me all the time in a difficulty, not seldom a hard one, of making "both ends meet." This last evil has sometimes