Faraday to Edward Barnard   23 July 1826

Niton: July 23, 1826.

My dear Edward, - I intended to have written you a Letter immediately upon the receipt of yours, but delayed it, and perhaps shall not now say what occurred to me then. Why do you write so dully? Your cogitations, your poetry, and everything about your letter, except the thirty pounds, has a melancholy feel. Perhaps things you had scarcely anticipated are gathering about you, and may a little influence your spirits; and I shall think it is so for the present, and trust it is of but little importance, for I can hardly imagine it possible that you are taken unawares in the general picture of life which you have represented to yourself: your natural reflection and good sense would teach you that life must be chequered, long before you would have occasion to experience it. However, I shall hope this will find you in good spirits, and laughing at such thoughts as those in which you were immersed when you wrote me. I have been watching the clouds on these hills for many evenings back: they gather when I do not expect them; they dissolve when, to the best of my judgment, they ought to remain; they throw down rain to my mere inconvenience, but doing good to all around; and they break up and present me with delightful and refreshing views when I expect only a dull walk. However strong and certain the appearances are to me, if I venture an internal judgment, I am always wrong in something; and the only conclusion that I can come to is, that the end is a beneficial as the means of its attainment are beautiful. So it is in life; and though I pretend not to have been much involved in the fogs, mists, and clouds of misfortune, yet I have seen enough to know that many things usually designated as troubles are merely so from our own particular view of them, or else ultimately resolve themselves into blessings. Do not imagine that I cannot feel for the distresses of others, or that I am entirely ignorant of those which seem to threaten friends for whom both you and I are much concerned. I do feel for those who are oppressed either by real or imaginary evils, and I know the one to be as heavy as the other. But I think I derive a certain degree of steadiness and placidity amongst such feelings by a point of mental conviction, for which I take no credit as a piece of knowledge or philosophy, and which has often been blamed as mere apathy. Whether apathy or not, it leaves the mind ready and willing to do all that can be useful, whilst it relieves it a little from the distress dependent upon viewing things in their worst state. The point is this: in all kinds of knowledge I perceive that my views are insufficient, and my judgement imperfect. In experiments I come to conclusions which, if partly right, are sure to be in part wrong; if I correct by other experiments, I advance a step, my old error is in part diminished, but is always left with a tinge of humanity, evidenced by its imperfection. The same happens in judging of the motives of others; though in favourable cases I may see a good deal, I never see the whole. In affairs of life ‘tis the same thing; my views of a thing at a distance and close at hand never correspond, and the way out of a trouble which I desire is never that which really opens before me. Now, when in all these, and in all kinds of knowledge and experience, the course is still the same, ever imperfect to us, but terminating in good, and when all events are evidently at the disposal of a Power which is conferring benefits continually upon us, which, though given by means and in ways we do not comprehend, may always well claim our acknowledgment at last, may we not be induced to suspend our dull spirits and thoughts when things look cloudy, and, providing as well as we can against the shower, actually cheer our spirits by the thoughts of the good things it will bring with it? and will not the experience of our past lives convince us that in doing this we are far more likely to be right than wrong?

Your third page I can hardly understand. You quote Shakespeare¹: the quotation may be answered a thousand times over from a book just as full of poetry, which you may find on your shelf². The uses of the world can never be unprofitable to a reflecting mind, even without the book I refer to; and I am sure can only appear so to you for a few hours together. But enough of this; only, when I get home again, I must have a talk with you. The money and our friends came safe. Give our love to Caroline and the rest of our family.

Sarah’s love to you, of course; she feels a good deal for the dull spirits in which you must have written. Pray pay Mr. Leighton, if he applies, and charge me with interest, &c.

Believe me, my dear Edward, your affectionate brother, | M. Faraday