gering. At least he did not improve his temper, which was suffering.
Most of the party were undergraduates; he (Freeborn) was a Master; it
was too bad of Bateman. He finished in silence his sausage, which had
got quite cold. The conversation flagged; there was a rise in toast and
muffins; coffee-cups were put aside, and tea flowed freely.

CHAPTER VII.

Freeborn did not like to be beaten; he began again. Religion, he said,
was a matter of the heart; no one could interpret Scripture rightly
whose heart was not right. Till our eyes were enlightened, to dispute
about the sense of Scripture, to attempt to deduce from Scripture, was
beating about the bush: it was like the blind disputing about colours.

"If this is true," said Bateman, "no one ought to argue about religion
at all; but you were the first to do so, Freeborn."

"Of course," answered Freeborn, "those who have _found_ the truth are
the very persons to argue, for they have the gift."

"And the very last persons to persuade," said Sheffield; "for they have
the gift all to themselves."

"Therefore true Christians should argue with each other, and with no one
else," said Bateman.

"But those are the very persons who don't want it," said Sheffield;
"reasoning must be for the unconverted, not for the converted. It is the
means of seeking."

Freeborn persisted that the reason of the unconverted was carnal, and
that such could not understand Scripture.

"I have always thought," said Reding, "that reason was a general gift,
though faith is a special and personal one. If faith is really rational,
all ought to see that it is rational; else, from the nature of the case,
it is not rational."

"But St. Paul says," answered Freeborn, "that 'to the natural man the
things of the Spirit are foolishness.'"

"But how are we to arrive at truth at all," said Reding, "except by
reason? It is the appointed method for our guidance. Brutes go by
instinct, men by reason."

They had fallen on a difficult subject; all were somewhat puzzled except
White, who had not been attending, and was simply wearied; he now
interposed. "It would be a dull world," he said, "if men went by reason:
they may think they do, but they don't. Really, they are led by their
feelings, their affections, by the sense of the beautiful, and the good,
and the holy. Religion is the beautiful; the clouds, sun, and sky, the
fields and the woods, are religion."

"This would make all religions true,"