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Now we are stumbling on inbred feelings and secret lights again—or, I beg your pardon, it may be the furbished up face which you choose to give to the argument.
It is a well-known fact, that when we, the people of England, have a son whom we scarcely know what to do with—we make a clergyman of him. When a living is in the gift of a family, a son is brought up to the church; but not always with hopes full of immortality. 'Such sublime principles are not constantly infused into persons of exalted birth;' they sometimes think of 'the paltry pelf of the moment[1]'—and the vulgar care of preaching the gospel, or practising self—denial, is left to the poor curates, who, arguing on your ground, cannot have, from the scanty stipend they receive, 'very high and worthy notions of their function and destination.' This consecration for ever; a word,
- ↑ Page 137.
that
