Evening, was talking nationality with Waud and Miss Winney, lady
boarder, when Mr Hart and Mapother called. Through the wet
muddy streets to the Universalist chapel. Chapin preached. His
text was of John in the Wilderness. He spake of the difference between
Jesus of Nazareth, and all the wise and good men History has spoken of,
perceptible to all of us. Of Socrates, of Plato (closely akin in philo-
sophy to Christianity,) of Confucius. Of the Transcendentalists � that
high and holy as Nature is, more than that is needed for support under
the inflictions and sorrows of life. We need more, and intimatively know
Religion offers more. That Nature cannot console us when all the common-
alities of reason are swept away in the passion of grief consequent in the
death of one we love. That to bid the bereaved mother look up to the
cold clear stars which have for ages gazed on human sorrows would be
but sorry comfort. That, even as Confucius predicted, and Socrates
hope, Deity had sent one this Earth, One resembling him in all things.
That cavel or doubt or compare text as one may, the grand results of
Christianity prove its truth no less that do the silent witness of man�s own
heart. That, at this time of the year it is right to think of this
things, that Familiarity make not our Faith a dead letter with us.
/ I would to God I were a better Christian than I am, now.
If Belief I have, it is inert and torpid.
23. Monday. Down town to the Era Office. Sate there conversing with
Picton, Atwood and Bradbury for half an hour, then called at Park
Place, saw Anderson for a few moments, drank with young Fred,
and incontinently returned home. Newspapers arriving, sate reading
all the gusty, chilly afternoon till Charley came. (A letter also
from George Bolton. Melancholic, Byronized, Carlylish,
cordial and intellecturally affectionate, poor fellow, exaggerated Self.