“Well now, I do” he asseverated loudly.  “There are words here that I believe I understand, and I am not ashamed to own it.  Why, look at it, yourself,” he added, pleadingly.  “That word sathan, twice repeated, can it be anything else than Satan? Yehudas, what is that but Jews? And then homox, how very near to the Latin homo! I think, too, that I have even got a notion of some of the grammatical forms of the language.  That termination of en, as in deluden, salubren, seems to me the sign of the present tense of the plural form of the verb.  That other termination of tar, as in ebuntar, carantar, I suppose to be the sign of the infinitive.  Depend upon it that this language is one of absolute regularity, undeformed by the results of human folly and sorrow, and as perfect as a crystal.”

“But not as clear,” I observed,—­“at least, not to our apprehension.  Well, how was this extraordinary revelation received by the audience?”

“In dumb silence,” said the Doctor.  “Faith was at too low an ebb among us to reach and encircle the amazing fact.  I had to call out the astonished brethren by name; and even then they responded briefly and falteringly.  But the leaven worked.  I went round the next day and talked to all my leading men.  I found faith sprouting like a grain of mustard-seed.  I found my people waking up to the great idea of a continuous, deathless, present miracle-demonstration.  And these dim suspicions, these far-off longings and fearful hopes, were, indeed, precursors of such a movement of spirits, such a shower of supernatural mercies, as the world has not perhaps seen for centuries.  Yes, there have been wonders wrought among us, and there are, I am persuaded, greater wonders still to come.  What do you think must be my feelings when I see my worthiest parishioners rise in public and break out with unknown tongues?”

“I should suppose you would rather see them break out with the small-pox,” I answered.

“Ah, Professor! wait, wait, and soon you will not laugh,” said the Doctor, solemnly.

“Perhaps not.  I am a sincere friend of yours, and a tolerably good-hearted sort of man, I hope.  I shall probably feel more like crying.  But the world may laugh long and loud, Doctor.  All who hate the true revelation may laugh to see it mocked and caricatured by those who profess and mean to honor it.  Just consider, while it is yet time to mend matters, how imprudent you are.  Why, what do you know of the man who has been your Columbus in this sea of wonders?  Are you sure that he is not a sharper, or an impostor, or a lunatic?”

“Impossible!  He brought letters to three of our most respectable families.  His name is Riley, John M. Riley, of New York; and he is son of the wealthy old merchant, James M. Riley, who has been such a generous donor to all good works.  As for his being a lunatic, you shall hear his conversation.”