found that to receive the attempted solutions of philosophy required more faith than Revelation, and my proud soul humbled itself and rested in the Bible. My philosophic experience had taught me that if mankind were to have any knowledge of their origin, their destiny, their God, it must be revealed by that God, for man could never discover aught for himself. There are mysteries in the Bible which I cannot explain; but it bears incontrovertible marks of divine origin, and as such I receive it. I can sooner believe the Mosaic revelation than the doctrine which tells you that you are part of God and capable of penetrating to absolute truth. To quote the expressive language of an acute critic (whose well-known latitudinarianism and disbelief in the verbal inspiration of Scripture give peculiar weight to his opinion on this subject), 'when the advocates of this natural, spontaneous inspiration will come forth from their recesses of thought and deliver prophecies as clear as those of the Hebrew seer; when they shall mold the elements of nature to their will; when they shall speak with the sublime authority of Jesus of Nazareth; and with the same infinite ease, rising beyond all the influence of time, place, and circumstances, explain the past and unfold the future; when they die for the truth they utter, and rise again as witnesses to its divinity; then we may begin to place them on the elevation which they so thoughtlessly claim. But until they either prove these facts to be delusions, or give their parallel in themselves, the world may well laugh at their ambition and trample their spurious inspiration beneath its feet.' There is an infinite, eternal, and loving God; I am a finite creature, unable to comprehend him, and knowing him only through his own revelation. This very revelation is insufficient for our aspiring souls, I grant; but it declares emphatically that here 'we see through a glass darkly.' Better this than the starless night in which you grope, without a promise of the dawn of eternity, where all mystery shall be explained. Are you not weary of fruitless, mocking speculation?" He looked at her anxiously. She raised her colorless face, and said drearily, as she passed her hand over her forehead: "Weary? Ah, yes; weary as the lonely mariner, tempest-tossed on some pathless ocean, without chart or compass. In my sky, even the star of hope is shrouded. Weary? Yes; in body and mind." "Then humble your proud intellect; confess your ignorance and inability, and rest in God and Christianity." She made an impatient gesture, and, turning away, he walked up and down the floor. For some moments neither spoke. Finally he approached her, and continued: