y special relation to the sole object of this
journal. I was glad to escape on the 13th to a quiet church some
miles off; and, after a plain and simple, but earnest, sermon from
a venerable clergyman (of whom I should like to know a little more),
I further refreshed my spirit by a long and solitary ramble of
some hours through the beautiful scenery in the midst of which
Harrington's dwelling is situated. In the course of it, I reviewed
my own early conflicts, and augured from them happier days for
my beloved nephew. I went carefully over all the main points of the
argument for and against the truth of Christianity, which in youth
had so often occupied me, and resolved that on some fair opportunity
I would recount my story to him and Mr. Fellowes. I little thought
then that I should have a larger and very miscellaneous audience to
listen to me. But this will account for my not being to seek (as
they say) when the occasion presented itself.

Three days ago (the 16th) a queer company assembled in Harrington's
quiet house. The conversations and incidents connected with that day
have led me to take refuge for the last two mornings in the solitude
of my own chamber, that I might, undisturbed, recall and record them
with as much accuracy and fulness as possible. Very much, indeed,
that I wished to remember has vanished; but the substance of what
too many said, as well as what I said myself made too deep an
impression to be easily obliterated.

Be it known to you, my dear brother, that I have been not a little
amused, I may even say instructed, by a trick played by your madcap
nephew, for the honor and glory, I suppose, of his scepticism, or for
some other motive, not easily divined. He promised me significantly
an entertainment, in which I should enjoy the "feast of reason and
the flow of soul," by which I little thought that he was going to
collect a rare party of "Rationalists" and "Spiritualists," in fact,
representatives of all the more prominent forms, whether of belief
or unbelief. I may as well call it the

SCEPTIC'S SELECT PARTY.

You remember, I doubt not, the humorous paper in the Spectator, in
which Addison introduces the whimsical nobleman who used to invite to
his table parties of men (strangers to one another) all characterized
by some similar personal defect or infirmity. On one occasion, twelve
wooden-legged men found stumping into his dining-room, one after
another, making, of course, a terrible clatter;