Birton.—You will gratify me very much. I
like to be amused and interested. I hate sophisms.
Metaphysical arguments seem to me like balloons
filled with air used between the disputants. The
bladders burst, and nothing remains.
Freind.—It is possible there may be some obscurity —some bladders—in the deep things of Clarke, the respectable Arian. Perhaps he was deceived on the subject of actual infinity. Perhaps when he took upon himself to comment on God, he follows too closely a commentator of Homer, who attributes ideas to his author which he never entertained.
At the words "infinity," "Homer," "commentators," the worthy Parouba and his daughter, and even a few of the English, seemed disposed to go and take an airing on the deck. But Freind promising to be intelligible, they consented to remain. I explained in a whisper to Parouba scientific expressions, which a native of the Blue Mountains was not likely to understand so well as a doctor of Oxford or Cambridge.
Freind.—It would be sad, indeed, if we could not be sure of the existence of God without being metaphysicians. In all England scarcely a hundred minds would be found capable of fathoming the mysteries of the for and against; and the rest of the world would be enveloped in ignorance; a prey to brutal passions; swayed by instinct alone; and only capable of reasoning on the vulgar no-
