be answered, because we have no experience or authentic information
from which to answer it; and that any answer only throws the difficulty
a step further back, since the question immediately presents itself,
"Who made God?" He, at the same time, took care that I should be
acquainted with what had been thought by mankind on these impenetrable
problems. I have mentioned at how early an age he made me a reader of
ecclesiastical history; and he taught me to take the strongest interest
in the Reformation, as the great and decisive contest against priestly
tyranny for liberty of thought.

I am thus one of the very few examples, in this country, of one who has
not thrown off religious belief, but never had it: I grew up in a
negative state with regard to it. I looked upon the modern exactly as
I did upon the ancient religion, as something which in no way concerned
me. It did not seem to me more strange that English people should believe
what I did not, than that the men I read of in Herodotus should have done
so. History had made the variety of opinions among mankind a fact familiar
to me, and this was but a prolongation of that fact. This point in my
early education had, however, incidentally one bad consequence deserving
notice. In giving me an opinion contrary to that of the world, my father
thought it necessary to give it as one which could not prudently be avowed
to the world. This lesson of keeping my thoughts to myself, at that early
age, was attended with some moral disadvantages; though my limited
intercourse with strangers, especially such as were likely to speak to
me on religion, prevented me from being placed in the alternative of
avowal or hypocrisy. I remember two occasions in my boyhood, on which I
felt myself in this alternative, and in both cases I avowed my disbelief
and defended it. My opponents were boys, considerably older than myself:
one of them I certainly staggered at the time, but the subject was never
renewed between us: the other who was surprised and somewhat shocked, did