truths is the impulse of prayer and worship.
It does not touch my argument when a philosopher
of the school of Bolingbroke or Lucretius
says ' that the origin of prayer is in Man's
ignorance of the phenomena of Nature.' That it is
fear or ignorance which, ' when rocked the
mountains or when groaned the ground, taught the
weak to bend, the proud to pray,' my answer is
—the brutes are much more forcibly impressed by
natural phenomena than Man is; the bird and
the beast know before you and I do when the
mountain will rock and the ground groan, and
their instinct leads them to shelter; but it does
not lead them to prayer. If my theory be right
that Soul is to be sought not in the question
whether mental ideas be innate or formed by
experience, by the senses, by association or habit,
but in the inherent capacity to receive ideas,
—then, the capacity bestowed on Man alone, to be
impressed by Nature herself with the idea of a
Power superior to Nature, with which Power he
can establish commune, is a proof that to Man
alone the Maker has made Nature itself proclaim
His existence— that to Man alone the Deity
vouchsafes the communion with Himself which
comes from prayer."

"Even were this so," said I, "is not the
Creator omniscient? if all-wise, all-foreseeing?
if all-foreseeing, all-preordaining? Can the
prayer of His creature alter the ways of His
will?"

"For an answer to that question," returned
Faber, " which is so often asked by the clever men
of the world, I ought to refer you to the skilled
theologians who have so triumphantly carried
the reasoner over that ford of doubt which is
crossed every day by the infant. But as we
have not their books in the wilderness, I am
contented to draw my reply as a necessary and
logical sequence from the propositions I have
sought to ground on the plain observation of
Nature. I can only guess at the Deity's
Omniscience, or His modes of enforcing His power,
by the observation of His general laws; and of
all His laws, I know of none more general than
the impulse which bids men pray— which makes
Nature so act, that all the phenomena of Nature
we can conceive, however startling and inexperienced
do not make the brute pray; but there
is not a trouble that can happen to Man, but
what his impulse is to pray,— always provided,
indeed, that he is not a philosopher. I say this
not in scorn of the philosopher, to whose
wildest guess our obligations are infinite, but
simply because for all which is impulsive to
Man, there is a reason in Nature which no
philosophy can explain away. I do not, then,
bewilder myself by seeking, to bind and limit
the Omniscience of the Deity to my finite ideas.
I content myself with believing that somehow
or other, He has made it quite compatible with
His Omniscience that Man should obey the impulse
that leads him to believe that, in addressing
ing a Deity, he is addressing a tender, compassionate,
benignant Father, and in that obedience
shall obtain beneficial results.  If that impulse
be an illusion, then we must say that Heaven
governs the earth by a lie; and that is impossible
because, reasoning by analogy, all Nature is
truthful— that is, Nature gives to no species
instincts or impulses which are not of service
to it. Should I not be a shallow physician if,
where I find in the human organisation a prin-
ciple or a property so general that I must believe
it normal to the healthful conditions of that
organisation, I should refuse to admit that Nature
intended it for use? Reasoning by all analogy,
must I not say the habitual neglect of its use
must more or less injure the harmonious
well-being of the whole human system? I could
have much to add upon the point in dispute, by
which the creed implied in your question would
enthral the Divine mercy by the necessities of
its Divine wisdom, and substitute for a benignant
Deity a relentless Fate. But here I should ex-
ceed my province. I am no theologian. Enough
for me that in all affliction, all perplexity, an
impulse, that I obey as an instinct, moves me at
once to prayer. Do I find by experience that the
prayer is heard, that the affliction is removed,
the doubt is solved? That, indeed, would be
presumptuous to say. But it is not presumptuous
to think that by the efficacy of prayer
my heart becomes more fortified against the
sorrow, and my reason more serene amidst the
doubt."

I listened, and ceased to argue. I felt as if
in that solitude, and in the pause of my wonted
mental occupations, my intellect was growing
languid, and its old weapons rusting in disuse.
My pride took alarm. I had so from my boyhood
cherished the idea of fame, and so glorified
the search after knowledge, that I recoiled in
dismay from the thought that I had relinquished
knowledge, and cut myself off from fame. I
resolved to resume my once favourite philo-
sophical pursuits, re-examine and complete the
Work to which I had once committed my hopes
of renown; and, simultaneously, a restless desire
seized me to communicate, though but at brief
intervals, with other minds than those immediately
within my reach— minds fresh from the
old world, and reviving the memories of its
vivid civilisation. Emigrants frequently passed
rny doors, but I had hitherto shrunk from tendering
the hospitalities so universally accorded
in the colony. I could not endure to expose to
such rough strangers my Lilian's mournful
affliction, and that thought was not less
intolerable to Mrs. Ashleigh. I now hastily
constructed a log building a few hundred yards
from the house, and near the main track taken
by travellers through the spacious pastures. I
transported to this building my books and
scientific instruments. In an upper storey I
placed my telescopes and lenses, my crucibles
and retorts. I renewed my chemical experiments
—I sought to invigorate my mind by other
branches of science which I had hitherto less
cultured— meditated new theories on Light and
Colour—collected specimens in Natural History
—subjected animalcules to my microscope
—geological fossils to my hammer. With all these
quickened occupations of thought, I strove to