Neither Joseph Barker, nor any other man on the continent can give one good reason for his hatred of the Bible, or desire to ridicule it. Suppose it were all he says of it; superstition or what not; why is he so enraged at it? What is it that exasperates him so? What is it that puts such men to so much trouble? We suppose the stories of witches, ghosts, etc., the signs of the zodiac, the moon, etc., etc., are superstitions, but they do not trouble us, and we do not think it worth while to war upon them. Why do not modern sceptics put the Scriptures down on the same list with these, give them the go-by, and be at no more trouble about them? Ah, why not? Simply because they can not. They have within them spirits that can not rest. The Bible is a book they can not let alone. It will not let them alone. It follows them by day, and thunders in their ears at night. It is before them when they rise up and when they lie down. It is before them in public and in private. It alarms them with the terrible announcement that the dead shall be raised, that the world shall be judged in righteousness, and that the Lord shall render to every man according as his work shall be. It annoys them with terrible threatenings, fearful punishments and righteous retributions. It follows them with the only impartial history the world ever had, spreading out alike the good and the bad, and showing up the entire history of man. Why do they not let the Bible alone? If it is only a fable, a legend, or mere fiction, why trouble about it? “_Let it alone!_” says the sceptic, “how can I let it alone, when it constantly tells me of every sin I ever committed, describes even the thoughts of my heart, and exposes every wicked desire I ever had? I can not let a book alone that describes and publishes me to the world as a sinner.” What of all that, if you do not believe it? There is the trouble. The apprehension that _it may be true_, after all, hangs about men. They may rant, ridicule, defy, scoff and laugh, but the fearful apprehension still rises, thundering, “_It may be true, after all_.” There is no getting rid of the fearful apprehensions, the wonderful forebodings, the consciousness that all scepticism might be a mistake, after all. They know they have nothing settled, nothing established, no fixed principles, no certain knowledge. They know that they are acquiring no substantial knowledge. Their work has not been to settle any thing, to fix any thing. They are drifting about, floating in an uncertain current, not knowing whither they are going. With them, all is in doubt, uncertainty, and obscurity. They are completely unsettled, wandering in the dark, and without a resting place. They are poor and miserable, blind and naked. They have no encouragement, no support, and no promise, and nothing to promise anybody else. Their pursuit is an empty chase, without any promise or hope. There is not a more vain and empty bubble in this world, than that pursued by these men.