‘What is Revelation’ (I suppose you have the ‘Sequel’ too?) that God’s truth is our truth, and his love is our love, only more perfect and full.  There is no position more utterly defeated in modern philosophy and theology, than Dean Mansel’s attempt to show that God’s justice, love, etc., are different in kind from ours.  Mill and Maurice, from totally alien points of view, have shown up the preposterous nature of the notion.

“(3) A good deal of what you have thought is, I fancy, based on a strange forgetfulness of your former experience.  If you have known Christ (whom to know is eternal life)—­and that you have known him I am certain—­can you really say that a few intellectual difficulties, nay, a few moral difficulties if you will, are able at once to obliterate the testimony of that higher state of being?

“Why, the keynote of all my theology is that Christ is loveable because, and just because, he is the perfection of all that I know to be noble and generous, and loving, and tender, and true.  If an angel from heaven brought me a gospel which contained doctrines that would not stand the test of such perfect loveableness—­doctrines hard, or cruel, or unjust—­I should reject him and his trumpery gospel with scorn, knowing that neither could be Christ’s.

“Know Christ and judge religions by him; don’t judge him by religions, and then complain because you find yourself looking at him through a blood-colored glass....

“I am saturating myself with Maurice, who is the antidote given by God to this age against all dreary doubtings and temptings of the devil to despair.”

On these lines weary strife went on for months, until at last brain and health gave way completely, and for weeks I lay prostrate and helpless, in terrible ceaseless head-pain, unable to find relief in sleep.  The doctor tried every form of relief in vain; he covered my head with ice, he gave me opium—­which only drove me mad—­he used every means his skill could dictate to remove the pain, but all failed.  At last he gave up the attempt to cure physically, and tried mental diversion; he brought me up books on anatomy and persuaded me to study them; I have still an analysis made by me at that time of Luther Holden’s “Human Osteology “.  He was wise enough to see that if I were to be brought back to reasonable life, it could only be by diverting thought from the currents in which it had been running to a dangerous extent.

No one who has not felt it knows the fearful agony caused by doubt to the earnestly religious mind.  There is in this life no other pain so horrible.  The doubt seems to shipwreck everything, to destroy the one steady gleam of happiness “on the other side” that no earthly storm could obscure; to make all life gloomy with a horror of despair, a darkness that may verily be felt.  Fools talk of Atheism as the outcome of foul life and vicious thought.  They, in their shallow heartlessness, their brainless stupidity, cannot even dimly imagine the anguish of the mere penumbra of the eclipse of faith, much less the horror of that great darkness in which the orphaned soul cries out into the infinite emptiness:  “Is it a Devil who has made this world?  Are we the sentient toys of an Almighty Power, who sports with our agony, and whose peals of awful mocking laughter echo the wailings of our despair?”