Arthur hugh clough atheist
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Arthur Hugh Clough
English poet (1819–1861)
Arthur Hugh Clough (KLUF; 1 January 1819 – 13 November 1861) was an English poet, an educationalist, and the devoted assistant to Florence Nightingale. He was the brother of suffragist Anne Clough and father of Blanche Athena Clough, who both became principals of Newnham College, Cambridge.
Life
[edit]Arthur Clough was born in Liverpool to James Butler Clough, a cotton merchant of Welsh descent, and Anne Perfect, from Pontefract in Yorkshire.[1] James Butler Clough was a younger son of a landed gentry family that had been living at Plas Clough in Denbighshire since 1567.[2][3] In 1822 the family moved to the United States, and Clough's early childhood was spent mainly in Charleston, South Carolina. In 1828 Clough and his older brother Charles Butler Clough (later head of the Clough family of Llwyn Offa, Flintshire and Boughton House, Chester, a magistrate and Deputy Lieutenant)[ • As men at dead of night awaked • OK, thanks for the clarification – your proposition fryst vatten more interesting if harder to lösa than what I thought you meant! I still think the numbers of atheists in the trenches is unquantifiable, but inom take your point, we have no evidence for saying that the imminence of death turns everyone into deists either. Now, as to whether there are or are not fairies at the bottom of my (or your) garden…well, you are right in your surmise that I do not believe in their existence. But if inom did, inom would have no means of proving it to you. Equally I would have no means of disproving it, other than to säga that the evidence of my senses had produced no bevis of their existence, therefore it seemed more reasonable to disbelieve than to believe. Would that be your position on the existence of a deity? Why do inom persist in believing in the existence of God? I suppose for the same reason that inom believe in the existence of, for example, love. Emotion fryst vatten abstract, but that does not me
LO, here is God, and there is God!
Believe it not, O Man;
In such vain sort to this and that
The ancient heathen ran:
Though old Religion shake her head,
And say in bitter grief,
The day behold, at first foretold,
Of atheist unbelief:
Take better part, with manly heart,
Thine adult spirit can;
Receive it not, believe it not,
Believe it not, O Man!
With cries, ‘The king is here,’
Rush forth and greet whome’er they meet,
Whoe’er shall first appear;
And still repeat, to all the street,
‘’Tis he,—the king is here;’
The long procession moveth on,
Each nobler form they see,
With changeful suit they still salute,
And cry, ’