_11th._—Reading Sherlock’s sermons. In those on the truth of Christianity, and a defence of the mysteries of it, I know none equal; excellent indeed and clear, persuasive, and convincing; but I have some doubts on the vitality of his faith. In the third discourse of the second volume he says: ‘Here is a plain proof of what the work of the Spirit is. It brings proofs to the reason of man, but does not bring the reason of man to the proofs.’ I conceive just the contrary, the proofs themselves are clear, full, and abounding with what ought to produce universal conviction, but men, for want of the Spirit, turn their back, neglect, or despise them. It is the business of the Spirit to take away the heart of stone, and then the proofs are manifest: the heart and reason of man are really brought to the proofs. _12th, Sunday._—The ground white with snow, and the wind cutting. I am up every morn at 4 A.M., and walk to the garden pond; habits will do anything. I do not mind it at all, and sometimes stand in the wind till dry; it is, however, sharp work. A nonsensical letter from Lord Carrington requiring me to go to the Treasury for the 800_l._ for the Essays, which is entirely the treasurer’s business. He is as unfeeling as a log; this is a return for my being at work from 4 A.M. in the morning for ten weeks. I should once have been full of indignation and abhorrence; thank God, I am more calm. I shall go on Friday instead of the Monday following. But I wish he had let me alone. I am vexed, but the world is full of nothing but great miseries or teasing vexations, the more the better; they wean us from it effectually.