I had launched forth on the broad ocean of speculation, and now perceived, when too late, the perils of my situation. Above me were dense and lowering clouds, which no eye could penetrate; around me howling tempests, which no voice could quell; beneath me heaving billows, which no oil could calm. I thought of Plato struggling with his doubts; of Epicurus sinking beneath them; of Socrates swallowing his poison; of Cicero surrendering himself to despair. I remembered how all the great souls of the earth had staggered beneath the burden of the same thought, which weighed like a thousand Cordilleras upon my own; and as I pressed my hand upon my burning brow, I cried again and again--WHITHERWARD! WHITHERWARD! I could find no relief in philosophy; for I knew her maxims by heart from Zeno and the Stagirite down to Berkeley and Cousin. I had followed her into all her hiding-places, and courted her in all her moods. No coquette was ever half so false, so fickle, and so fair. Her robes are woven of the sunbeams, and a star adorns her brow; but she sits impassive upon her icy throne, and wields no scepter but despair. The light she throws around is not the clear gleam of the sunshine, nor the bright twinkle of the star; but glances in fitful glimmerings on the soul, like the aurora on the icebergs of the pole, and lightens up the scene only to show its utter desolation. The Bible lay open before me, but I could find no comfort there. Its lessons were intended only for the meek and humble, and my heart was cased in pride. It reached only to the believing; I was tossed on an ocean of doubt. It required, as a condition to faith, the innocence of an angel and the humility of a child; I had long ago seared my conscience by mingling in the busy scenes of life, and was proud of my mental acquirements. The Bible spoke comfort to the Publican; I was of the straight sect of the Pharisees. Its promises were directed to the poor in spirit, whilst mine panted for renown. At this moment, whilst heedlessly turning over its leaves and scarcely glancing at their contents, my attention was arrested by this remarkable passage in one of Paul's epistles: "That was not _first_ which is spiritual, but that which was natural, and _afterward_ that which is spiritual. Behold, I show you a mystery: _we shall not all sleep_, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump."