gic as any of the propositions are which they reject because these
cannot be proved thus. Try this scrimp creed by their own standard of
proof, and it shrivels away, until no God,--no soul,--no being remains as
absolutely demonstrated, and there is only a _thing_ faintly conscious of
its own existence. In this watery element of dim, soft fog, or hard cold
ice, there is no rest for the soul.

There are others, again, who, frightened by the hurly-burly, after a
short wild wandering alone, join any group, as a refuge, if it be only
visible, and seek a Church as an asylum for the timid rather than a
fortress for the brave.

But what Church shall give rest, or which of them is even quieter than
the outer din? There is one, indeed, that, long nursed and dozing in the
lap of the State, is now roughly shaken, but is she yet awake? She has
grown in bulk at least, while sleeping. Is she not like an overgrown
child too big to be carried, and too rickety to walk alone?

She is called National but is only Diocesan, with different doctrine and
worship in different dioceses. The bishops meet, and thinking different,
but trying to say the same, they say what is unanimous only when it means
nothing. The clergy meet, but while some of them are true Ministers,
others would be as Presbyters towards their bishops and Popes to their
people. Each parish can wear the ribbons that are badges of its
doctrine. We are crystallizing into congregations, and soon these will
split into families, and so perhaps we shall get back at last to the
simple old shape, when the message was for Nymphas and "the church which
is in his house."

Meantime, my life-borne bark must not founder for lack of a guide. True,
there is a chart, and precepts for the right way are clear, but my
craving is for a living Spirit within which shall point me to the
peaceful shore by an attraction powerful and unerring, though unseen,
and, like that of the needle, incomprehensible.

And was it not the divinest act ever done by God to come down Himself
among men, saying, "I am the Way," "and I will give you rest?"

Now we can safely steer, and will surely reach port.

CHAPTER XIII.

Half-seas over--Thick night--Risky--Reckless--Tied in--Lying-to--Land
ahead--Scottish replies--Sleep.

See the sails are impatiently flapping. Each wave jerks the mast and
canvas with a smart loud crack like that of a whip. The sound is
unspeakably irritating, it seems so use