Monday, November 23.--I went to Canterbury. Here I met with the Life of Mahomet,
written, I suppose, by the Count de Boulanvilliers. Whoever the author is, he is a very pert,
shallow, self-conceited coxcomb, remarkable for nothing but his immense assurance and
thorough contempt of Christianity. And the book is a dull, ill-digested romance, supported
by no authorities at all; whereas Dean Prideaux (a writer of ten times his sense) cites his
authorities for everything he advances.
The Journal of John Wesley
The Journal of John Wesley
No comments:
Post a Comment