share with my friend to a certain extent, I shall ever like to keep some
tenets and some property properly my own. Some day, Manning, when we
meet, substituting Corydon and fair Amaryllis, for Charles Lloyd and
Mary Hayes, we will discuss together this question of moral feeling, "In
what cases and how far sincerity is a virtue?" I do not mean Truth--a
good Olivia-like creature--God bless her, who, meaning no offence, is
always ready to give an answer when she is asked why she did so and so;
but a certain forward-talking half-brother of hers, Sincerity, that
amphibious gentleman, who is so ready to perk up his obnoxious
sentiments unasked into your notice, as Midas would his ears into your
face uncalled for. But I despair of doing anything by a letter in the
way of explaining or coming to explanations. A good wish, or a pun, or a
piece of secret history, may be well enough that way conveyed; nay, it
has been known that intelligence of a turkey hath been conveyed by that
medium without much ambiguity. Godwin I am a good deal pleased with. He
is a very well-behaved, decent man, nothing very brilliant about him, or
imposing, as you may suppose; quite another guess sort of gentleman from
what your Anti-Jacobin Christians imagine him. I was well pleased to
find he has neither horns nor claws; quite a tame creature, I assure
you. A middle-sized man, both in stature and in understanding; whereas,
from his noisy fame, you would expect to find a Briareus Centimanus, or
a Tityus tall enough to pull Jupiter from his heavens.

I begin to think you Atheists not quite so tall a species. Coleridge
inquires after you pretty often. I wish to be the Pandar to bring you
together again once before I die. When we die, you and I must part; the
sheep, you know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. Stripped
of its allegory, you must know, the sheep are _I_ and the Apostles, and
the Martyrs, and the Popes, and Bishop Taylor, and Bishop Horsley, and
Coleridge, &c., &c.; the goats are the Atheists and the Adulterers, and