Of the three days which Ben, as we have seen above, had consented to
stay at home, he spent the chiefest part with his father, in his old
candle manufactory. 'Tis true, this happy sire, whose _natural_
affection for Ben as a _son_, was now exalted into the highest
respect for him as a youth of _talents_ and _virtues_; and
_perhaps_ too, looking up to him as a young mountain oak, whose
towering arms would soon protect the parent tree, insisted that Ben
should not stay in _that dirty place_, as he called it. But
knowing that his father could not be spared from his daily labour, Ben
insisted to be with him in the old shop, and to assist in his labours,
reminding his father how sweetly the time passes away when at work and
conversing with those we love. His father at length consented: and
those three days, now spent with Ben, were the happiest days he had
spent for a long time. His aged bosom was now relieved from his six
months' load of fears and anxieties about this beloved child; nor only
so, but this beloved child, shining in a light of his own virtues, was
now with him, and as a volunteer of filial love was mingling in his
toils--eagerly lending his youthful strength to assist him in packing
and boxing his candles and soap; while his sensible conversation,
heightened all the time by the charm of that voice and those eyes that
had ever been so dear to him, touched his heart with a sweetness
inexpressible, and made the happy hours fly away as on angels' wings.
On the afternoon of the third day, as they were returning from dinner,
walking down the garden, at the foot of which the factory stood, the
old gentleman lifting his eyes to the sun, suddenly heaved a deep sigh
and put on a melancholy look.
"High, father!" said Ben, "I see no cloud over the sun that we should
fear a change of weather."
"No, Ben, there is no cloud over the sun, but still his beams throw a
cloud over my spirits. They put me in mind that I shall walk here
to-morrow, but with no son by my side!"
The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look and plaintive
tones in which it was conveyed.--It wrung the heart of Ben, who in
silence glanced his eyes on his father. It was that tender glance of
sorrowing love which quickest reaches the heart and stirs up all its
yearnings. The old gentleman felt the meaning of his son's looks. They
seemed to say to him, "_O my father, must we part to-morrow?_"
"Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet again!"
After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his speech--"Then, O
my son, what a wretch were man without religion? Yes, Ben, without the
hopes of immortality, how much better he had never been born? Without
these, his noblest capacities were but the greater curses. The more
delightful his friendships the more dreadful the thought they may be
extinguished for ever; and the gayer his prospects the deeper his
gloom, that endless darkness may so quickly cover all. We were
yesterday feeding fond hopes, my son; we were yesterday painting bright
castles in the air: you were to be a great man and I a happy father.
But alas! this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each
other again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now be at the
door; when I, instead of hearing of my son's glory in Philadelphia, may
hear that he is cold in his grave. And when you, returning--after years
of virtuous toils, returning laden with riches and honours for your
happy father to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb
that covers his dust."
Seeing the moisture in Ben's eyes, the old gentleman, with a voice
rising to exultation, thus went on. "Yes, Ben, this may soon be the
case with us, my child; the dark curtain of our separation soon may
_drop_, and your cheeks or mine be flooded with sorrows. But
thanks be to God, that curtain will rise again, and open to our view
those scenes of happiness, one glance at which is sufficient to start
the tear of transport into our eyes. Yes, Ben, religion assures us of
all this; religion assures us that this life is but the morning of our
existence--that there is a glorious eternity beyond--and that to the
penitent, death is but the passage to that happy life where they shall
soon meet again to part no more, but to congratulate their mutual
felicities for ever. Then, O my son, lay hold of religion, and secure
an interest in those blessed hopes that contribute so much to the
virtues and the joys of life."
"Father," said Ben with a sigh, "I know that many people here in Boston
think I never had any religion; or, that if I had I have apostatized
from it."
"God forbid! But whence, my son, could these prejudices have arisen?"
"Why, father, I have for some time past discovered that there is no
effect without a cause. These prejudices have been the effect of my
youthful _errors_. You remember father, the old story of the pork,
don't you?"
"No, child; what is it, for I have forgotten it?"
"I thought so, father, I thought you had been so good as to forget it.
But I have not, nor ever shall forget it."
"What is it, Ben?"
"Why, father, when our pork, one fall, lay salted and ready for the
barrel, I begged you to say grace over it all at once; adding that it
would _do as well_ and save _a great deal of time_."
"Pshaw, Ben, such a trifle as that, and in a child too, cannot be
remembered against you now."
"Yes, father, I am afraid it is. All are not so loving, and so
forgetful of my errors as you. It was at the time inserted in the
Boston NEWS LETTER, and is now recollected to the discredit of
my religion. And they have a prejudice against me on another account.
While I lived with you, father, you always took me to meeting with you;
but when I left you and went to live with my brother James, I often
neglected going to meeting; preferring to stay at home and read my
books."
"I am sorry to hear that, Ben; very sorry that you could neglect the
preachings of Christ."
"Father, I never neglected them. I look on the preaching of Christ as
the finest system of morality in the world; and his parables, such as
"The Prodigal Son"--"The Good Samaritan"--"The Lost Sheep," &c. as
models of divine goodness. And if I could only hear a preacher take
these for his texts, and paint them in those rich colours they are
capable of, I would never stay from meeting. But now, father, when I
go, instead of those benevolent preachings and parables which Christ so
delighted in, I hardly ever hear any thing but lean, chaffy discourses
about the TRINITY, and BAPTISMS, and ELECTIONS, and REPROBATIONS, and
FINAL PERSEVERANCES, and COVENANTS, and a thousand other such things
which do not strike my fancy as religion at all, because not in the
least calculated, as I think, to sweeten and ennoble men's natures, and
make them love and do good to one another."
"There is too much truth in your remark, Ben; and I have often been
sorry that our preachers lay such stress on these things, and do not
stick closer to the preachings of Christ."
"Stick closer to them, father! O no, to do them justice, sir, we must
not charge them with not _sticking to the text_, for they never take
Christ for their text, but some dark passage out of the prophets or
apostles, which will better suit their gloomy education. Or if they
should, by some lucky hit, honour Christ for a text, they quickly give
him the _go-by_ and lug in Calvin or some other angry doctor; and then
in place of the soft showers of Gospel pity on sinners, we have nothing
but the dreadful thunderings of eternal hate, with the unavailing
screams of little children in hell not a span long! Now, father, as I
do not look on such preaching as this to be any ways pleasing to the
Deity or profitable to man, I choose to stay at home and read my books;
and this is the reason, I suppose, why my brother James and the
council-men here of Boston think that I have no religion."
"Your strictures on some of our ministers, my son, are in rather a
strong style: but still there is too much truth in them to be denied.
However, as to what your brother James and the council think of you, it
is of little consequence, provided you but possess true religion."
"Aye, TRUE RELIGION, father, is another thing; and I should
like to possess it. But as to such religion as theirs, I must confess,
father, I never had and never wish to have it."
"But what do you mean by _their_ religion, my son?"
"Why, I mean, father, a religion of gloomy forms and notions, that have
no tendency to make men good and happy, either in themselves or to
others."
"So then, my son, you make _man's happiness_ the end of religion."
"Certainly I do, father."
"Our catechisms, Ben, make _God's glory_ the end of religion."
"That amounts to the same thing, father; as the framers of the
catechisms, I suppose, placed God's glory in the happiness of man."
"But why do you suppose that so readily, Ben?"
"Because, father, all wise workmen place their glory in the perfection
of their works. The gunsmith glories in his rifle, when she never
misses her aim; the clockmaker glories in his clock when she tells the
time exactly. They thus glory, because their works answer the ends for
which they were made. Now God, who is wiser than all workmen, had, no
doubt, his ends in making man. But certainly he could not have made him
with a view of getting any thing from him, seeing man has nothing to
give. And as God, from his own infinite riches, has a boundless power
to give; and from his infinite benevolence, must have an equal delight
in giving, I can see no end so likely for his making man as to make him
happy. I think, father, all this looks quite reasonable."
"Why, yes, to be sure, Ben, it does look very reasonable indeed."
"Well then, father, since all wise workmen glory in their works when
they answer the ends for which they designed them, God must glory in
the happiness of man, that being the end for which he made him."
"This seems, indeed, Ben, to be perfectly agreeable to reason."
"Yes, sir, not only to _reason_, but to _nature_ too: for
even nature, I think, father, in all her operations, clearly teaches
that God must take an exceeding glory in our happiness; for what else
could have led him to build for us such a noble world as this; adorned
with so much beauty; stored with such treasures; peopled with so many
fair creatures; and lighted up as it is with such gorgeous luminaries
by day and by night?"
"I am glad, my son, I touched on this subject of religion in the way I
did; your mode of thinking and reasoning on it pleases me greatly. But
now taking all this for granted, what is still your idea of the true
religion?"
"Why, father, if God thus places his glory in the happiness of man,
does it not follow that the most acceptable thing that man can do for
God, or in other words, that the true religion of man consists in his
so living, as to attain the highest possible perfection and happiness
of his nature, that being the chief end and glory of the Deity in
creating him?"
"Well, but how is this to be done?"
"Certainly, father, by imitating the Deity."
"By imitating him, child! but how are we to imitate him?"
"In his goodness, father."
"But why do you pitch on his GOODNESS rather than on any other
of his attributes?"
"Because, father, this seems, evidently, the prince of all his other
attributes, and greater than all."
"Take care child, that you do not blaspheme. How can one of God's
attributes be greater than another, when all are infinite?"
"Why, father, must not that which moves be greater than that which is
moved?"
"What am I to understand by that, Ben?"
"I mean, father, that the power and wisdom of the Deity, though both
unspeakably great, would probably stand still and do nothing for men,
were they not moved to it by his goodness. His goodness then, which
comes and puts his power and wisdom into motion, and thus fills heaven
and earth with happiness, must be the greatest of all his attributes."
"I don't know what to say to that, Ben; certainly his power and wisdom
must be very great too."
"Yes, father, they are very great indeed: but still they seem but
subject to his _greater benevolence_ which enlists them in its
service and constantly gives them its own delightful work to do. For
example, father, the wisdom and power of the Deity can do any thing,
but his benevolence takes care that they shall do nothing but for good.
The power and wisdom of the Deity could have made changes both in the
earth and heavens widely different from their present state. They
could, for instance, have placed the sun a great deal farther off or a
great deal nearer to us. But then in the first case we should have been
frozen to icicles, and in the second scorched to cinders. The power of
the Deity could have given a tenfold force to the winds, but then no
tree could have stood on the land, and no ship could have sailed on the
seas. The power of the Deity could also have made changes as great in
all other parts of nature; it could have made every fish as monstrous
as a whale, every bird dreadful as the condor, every beast as vast as
the elephant, and every tree as big as a mountain. But then it must
strike every one that these changes would all have been utterly for the
worse, rendering these noble parts of nature comparatively useless to
us.--I say the power of the Deity could have done all this, and might
have so done but for his benevolence, which would not allow such
discords, but has, on the contrary, established all things on a scale
of the exactest harmony with the convenience and happiness of man. Now,
for example, father, the sun, though placed at an enormous distance
from us, is placed at the very distance he should be for all the
important purposes of light and heat; so that the earth and waters,
neither frozen nor burnt, enjoy the temperature fittest for life and
vegetation. Now the meadows are covered with grass; the fields with
corn; the trees with leaves and fruits; presenting a spectacle of
universal beauty and plenty, feasting all senses and gladdening all
hearts; while man, the favoured lord of all, looking around him amidst
the mingled singing of birds and skipping of beasts and leaping of
fishes, is struck with wonder at the beauteous scenery, and gratefully
acknowledges that benevolence is the darling attribute of the Deity."
"I thank God, my son, for giving you wisdom to reason in this way. But
what is still your inference from all this, as to true religion?"
"Why, my dear father, my inference is still in confirmation of my first
answer to your question relative to the true religion, that it consists
in our imitating the Deity in his goodness. Every wise parent, wishing
to allure his children to any particular virtue, is careful to set them
the fairest examples of the same, as knowing that example is more
powerful than precept. Now since the Deity, throughout all his works,
so invariably employs his great power and wisdom as the ministers of
his benevolence to make his creatures happy, what can this be for but
an example to us; teaching that if we wish to please him--the true end
of all religion--we must imitate him in his moral goodness, which if we
would but all do as steadily as he does, we should recall the golden
age, and convert this world into Paradise.
"All this looks very fair, Ben; but yet after all what are we to do
without FAITH?"
"Why, father, as to Faith, I cannot say; not knowing much about it. But
this I can say, that I am afraid of any substitutes to the moral
character of the Deity. In short, sir, I don't love the fig-leaf."
"Fig-leaf! I don't understand you, child: what do you mean by the
fig-leaf?"
"Why, father, we read in the Bible that soon as Adam had lost that true
image of the Deity, his MORAL GOODNESS, instead of striving to
recover it again, he went and sewed fig-leaves together to cover
himself with."
"Stick to the point, child."
"I am to the point, father. I mean to say that as Adam sought a vain
fig-leaf covering, rather than the imitation of the Deity in moral
goodness, so his posterity have ever since been fond of running after
fig-leaf substitutes."
"Aye! well I should be glad to hear you explain a little on that head,
Ben."
"Father, I don't pretend to explain a subject I don't understand, but I
find in PLUTARCH'S LIVES and the HEATHEN ANTIQUITIES, which I read in
your old divinity library, and which no doubt give a true account of
religion among the ancients, that when they were troubled on account of
their crimes, they do not seem once to have thought of conciliating the
Deity by _reformation_, and by acts of benevolence and goodness to be
like him. No, they appear to have been too much enamoured of lust, and
pride, and revenge, to relish moral goodness; such lessons were too
much against the grain. But still something must be done to appease the
Deity. Well then, since they could not sum up courage enough to attempt
it by imitating his goodness, they would try it by coaxing his
vanity--they would build him grand temples; and make him mighty
sacrifices; and rich offerings. This I am told, father, was _their_
fig-leaf."
"Why this, I fear, Ben, is a true bill against the poor Heathens."
"Well, I am sure, father, the Jews were equally fond of the fig-leaf;
as their own countrymen, the Prophets, are constantly charging them.
JUSTICE, MERCY, and TRUTH had, it seems, no charms for them. They must
have fig-leaf substitutes, such as tythings of _mint_, _anise_, and
_cummmin_, and making '_long prayers in the streets_,' and deep
groanings with '_disfigured faces in the synagogues_.' If they but did
all this, then surely they must be Abraham's children even though they
devoured widows' houses."
Here good old Josias groaned.
"Yes, father," continued Ben, "and it were well if the rage for the
fig-leaf stopped with the Jews and Heathens; but the Christians are
just as fond of substitutes that may save them the labour of imitating
the Deity in his moral goodness. It is true, the old Jewish hobbies,
mint, anise, and cummin, are not the hobbies of Christians; but still,
father, you are not to suppose that they are to be disheartened for all
that. Oh no. They have got a hobby worth all of them put together--they
have got FAITH."
Here good old Josias began to darken; and looking at Ben with great
solemnity, said, "I am afraid, my son, you do not treat this great
article of our holy religion with sufficient reverence."
"My dear father," replied Ben eagerly, "I mean not the least reflection
on FAITH, but solely on those hypocrites who abuse it to
countenance their vices and crimes."
"O then, if that be your aim, go on, Ben, go on."
"Well, sir, as I was saying, not only the Jews and Heathens, but the
Christians also have their fig-leaf substitutes for _Moral Goodness_.
Because Christ has said that so great is the DIVINE CLEMENCY, that if
even the worst of men will but have faith in it so as to repent and
amend their lives by the golden law of '_love and good works_,' they
should be saved, many lazy Christians are fond of overlooking those
excellent conditions 'LOVE AND GOOD WORKS,' which constitute the moral
image of the Deity, and fix upon the word FAITH for their salvation."
"Well, but child, do you make no account of faith?"
"None, father, as a fig-leaf cloak of immorality."
"But is not faith a great virtue in itself, and a qualification for
heaven?"
"I think not, sir; I look on faith but as a _mean_ to beget that _moral
goodness_, which, to me, appears to be the only qualification for
Heaven."
"I am astonished, child, to hear you say that faith is not a virtue in
itself."
"Why, father, the Bible says for me in a thousand places. The Bible
says that _faith without good works is dead_."
"But does not the Bible, in a thousand places, say that without faith
no man can please God?"
"Yes, father, and for the best reason in the world; for who can ever
hope to please the Deity without his moral image? and who would ever
put himself to the trouble to cultivate the virtues which form that
image, unless he had a belief that they were indispensible to the
perfection and happiness of his nature?"
"So then, you look on faith as no virtue in itself, and good for
nothing unless it exalt men to the likeness of God?"
"Yes, sir, as good for nothing unless it exalt us to the likeness of
God--nay, as worse; as utterly vile and hypocritical."
"And perhaps you view in the same light the IMPUTED RIGHTEOUSNESS, and
the Sacraments of BAPTISM and the LORD'S SUPPER."
"Yes, father, faith, imputed righteousness, sacraments, prayers,
sermons; all, all I consider as mere barren fig-leaves which will yield
no good unless they ripen into the fruits of BENEVOLENCE and GOOD
WORKS."
"Well, Ben, 'tis well that you have taken a turn to the printing
business; for I don't think, child, that if you had studied divinity,
as your uncle Ben and myself once wished, you would ever have got a
_licence_ to preach."
"No, father, I know that well enough; I know that many who think
themselves mighty good Christians, are for getting to heaven on easier
terms than imitating the Deity in his moral goodness. To them, faith
and imputed righteousness, and sacraments, and sour looks, are very
convenient things. With a good stock of these they can easily manage
matters so as to make a little morality go a great way. But I am
thinking they will have to _back out_ of this error, otherwise
they will make as bad a hand of their barren faith, as the poor
Virginia negroes do of their boasted freedom."
"God's mercy, child, what do you mean by that?"
"Why, father, I am told that the Virginia negroes, like our
faith-mongers, fond of ease and glad of soft substitutes to hard
duties, are continually sighing for freedom; '_O if they had but
freedom! if they had but freedom! how happy should they be! They should
not then be obliged to work any more. Freedom would do every thing for
them. Freedom would spread soft beds for them, and heap their tables
with roast pigs, squealing out, 'come and eat me.' Freedom would give
them fine jackets, and rivers of grog, and mountains of segars and
tobacco, without their sweating for it_.' Well, by and by, they get
their freedom; perhaps by running away from their masters. And now see
what great things has freedom done for them. Why, as it is out of the
question to think of _work_ now they are _free_, they must give
themselves up like gentlemen, to visiting, sleeping, and pastime. In a
little time the curses of hunger and nakedness drive them to stealing
and house-breaking, for which their backs are ploughed up at
whipping-posts, or their necks snapped under the gallows! and all this
because they must needs live easier than by honest labour, which would
have crowned their days with character and comfort. So, father, it is,
most exactly so it is, with too many of our FAITH-MONGERS. They have
not courage to practise those exalted virtues that would give them the
moral likeness of the Deity. Oh no: they must get to heaven in some
easier way. They have heard great things of faith. Faith, they are
told, has done wonders for other people; why not for them? Accordingly
they fall to work and after many a hard throe of fanaticism, they
conceit they have got faith sure enough. And now they are happy. Like
the poor Virginia negroes, they are clear of all _moral working now_:
thank God they can get to heaven without it; yes, and may take some
indulgences, by the way, into the bargain. If, as jovial fellows, they
should waste their time and family substance in drinking rum and
smoking tobacco, where's the harm, _an't they sound believers_? If they
should, as _merchants_, sand their sugar, or water their molasses, what
great matter is that? Don't they keep up family prayer? If, as men of
HONOUR, they should accept a challenge, and receive a shot in a duel,
what of that? They have only to send for a priest, and take the
sacrament. Thus, father, as freedom has proved the ruin of many a lazy
Virginian negro, so I am afraid that such faith as this has made many
an hypocritical christian ten times more a child of the devil than he
was before."
Good old Josias, who, while Ben was speaking at this rate, had appeared
much agitated, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling, here replied,
with a deep sigh, "Yes, Ben, this is all too true to be denied: and a
sad thing it is that mankind should be so ready, as you observe, to go
to heaven _in any other way_ than by imitating God in his _moral
likeness_. But I rejoice in hope of you, my son, that painting this
lamentable depravity in such strong colours as you do, you will ever
act on wiser and more magnanimous principles."
"Father, I don't affect to be better than other young men, yet I think
I can safely say, that if I could get to heaven by playing the
hypocrite I would not, while I have it in my choice to go thither by
acquiring the virtues that would give me a resemblance to God. For to
say nothing of the exceeding honour of acquiring even the _faintest
resemblance_ of him, nor yet of the immense happiness which it must
afford hereafter, I find that even here, and young as I am, the least
step towards it, affords a greater pleasure than any thing else; indeed
I find that there is so much more pleasure in getting knowledge to
resemble the Creator, than in living in ignorance to resemble brutes;
so much more pleasure in BENEVOLENCE and DOING GOOD to resemble him,
than in _hate_ and _doing harm_ to resemble demons, that I hope I shall
always have wisdom and fortitude sufficient even for my own sake, to
spend my life in getting all the useful knowledge, and in doing all the
little good I possibly can."
"God Almighty confirm my son in the wise resolutions which his grace
has enabled him thus early to form!"
"Yes, father, and besides all this, when I look towards futurity; when
I consider the nature of that felicity which exists in heaven; that it
is a felicity flowing from the smiles of the Deity on those excellent
spirits whom his own admonitions have adorned with the virtues that
resemble himself; that the more perfect their virtues, the brighter
will be his smiles upon them, with correspondent emanations of bliss
that may, for aught we know, be for ever enlarged with their ever
enlarging understandings and affections; I say, father, when I have it
in my choice to attain to all this in a way so pleasant and honourable
as that of imitating the Deity in WISDOM and GOODNESS, should I not be
worse than mad to decline it on such terms, and prefer substitutes that
would tolerate me in _ignorance_ and _vice_?"
"Yes, child, I think you would be mad indeed."
"Yes, father, especially when it is recollected, that if the ignorant
and vicious could, with all their pains, find out substitutes that
would serve as passports to heaven, they could not rationally expect a
hearty welcome there. For as the Deity delights in the wise and good,
because they resemble him in those qualities which render him so
amiable and happy, and would render all his creatures so too; so he
must proportionably abhor the STUPID and VICIOUS, because deformed with
qualities diametrically opposite to his own, and tending to make both
themselves and others most vile and miserable."
"This is awfully true, Ben; for the Bible tells us, that the _wicked
are an abomination to the Lord; but that the righteous are his
delight_."
"Yes, father, and this is the language not only of the BIBLE, which is,
perhaps, the grand class book of the Deity, but it is also the language
of his first or _horn_ book, I mean REASON, which teaches, that if
'_there be a God, and that there is all nature cries aloud through all
her works, he must delight in virtue_,' because most clearly conducive
to the perfection of mankind; which must be the chief aim and glory of
the Deity in creating them. And for the same reason he must abhor vice,
because tending to the disgrace and destruction of his creatures.
Hence, father, I think it follows as clearly as a demonstration in
mathematics, that if it were possible for bad men, through _faith_,
_imputed righteousness_, or any other leaf-covering, to get to
Paradise, so far from meeting with any thing like cordiality from the
Deity, they would be struck speechless at sight of their horrible
dissimilarity to him. For while he delights above all things in giving
life, and the duellist glories in destroying it; while he delights in
heaping his creatures with good things, and the gambler triumphs in
stripping them; while he delights in seeing love and smiles among
brethren, and the slanderer in promoting strifes and hatreds; while he
delights in exalting the intellectual and moral faculties to the
highest degree of heavenly wisdom and virtue, and the drunkard delights
in polluting and degrading both below the brutes; what cordiality can
ever subsist between such opposite natures? Can infinite purity and
benevolence behold such monsters with complacency, or could they in his
presence otherwise than be filled with intolerable pain and anguish,
and fly away as weak-eyed owls from the blaze of the meridian sun?"
"Well, Ben, as I said before, I am richly rewarded for having drawn you
into this conversation about religion; your language indeed is not
always the language of the scriptures; neither do you rest your hopes,
as I could have wished, on the _Redeemer_; but still your idea in
placing our qualification for heaven in resembling God in _moral
goodness_, is truly evangelical, and I hope you _will one day become_ a
great christian."
"I thank you, father, for your good wishes; but I am afraid I shall
never be the christian you wish me to be."
"What, not a christian!"
"No, father, at least not in the _name_; but in the nature I hope to
become a christian. And now, father, as we part to-morrow, and there is
a strong presentiment on my mind that it may be a long time before we
meet again, I beg you to believe of me that I shall never lose sight of
my great obligations to an active pursuit of knowledge and usefulness.
This, if persevered in, will give me some humble resemblance of the
great Author of my being in loving and doing all the good I can to
mankind. And then, if I live, I hope, my dear father, I shall give you
the joy to see realized some of the fond expectations you have formed
of me. And if I should die, I shall die in hope of meeting you in some
better world, where you will no more be alarmed for my welfare, nor I
grieved to see you conflicting with age and labour and sorrow: but
where we may see in each other all that we can conceive of what we call
ANGELS, and in scenes of undeserved splendour, dwell with those
enlightened and benevolent spirits, whose conversation and perfect
virtues, will for ever delight us. And where, to crown all, we shall
perhaps, at times, be permitted to see that UNUTTERABLE BEING, whose
disinterested goodness was the spring of all these felicities."
Thus ended this curious dialogue, between one of the most amiable
parents, and one of the most acute and sagacious youths that our
country, or perhaps any other has ever produced.