f East Windsor Seminary, was among this
number. Also, Sergeant J.H. Thompson, son of the late Dr. Joseph P.
Thompson of New York City. President Ward of Franklin College, the
Rev. Dr. Dougherty of Kansas City, and the Rev. Dr. Brand of Oberlin
College, were members of the class, and their portraits appear in the
picture. The valedictorian was Carlos F. Carter, brother of President
Carter of Williams College. He was drowned in the Jordan a few months
after graduation.]

I ought to say, just here, that, in a recent correspondence with
Professor Park upon this matter, I found him more or less unconscious
of having been so generous with his theology to the girls. I am giving
the pupil's impressions, not the teacher's recollections, of that
Bible-class; and I can give no other. Of course, I may be mistaken,
and am liable to correction; but my impressions are, that he gave us
his system of theology pretty straight and very faithfully.

I cannot deny that I enjoyed those stern lessons. Not that I had any
marked predilections towards theology, but I liked the psychology of
it. I experienced my first appreciation of the nature and value of
logic in that class-room, and it did me good, and not evil altogether.
There I learned to reason with more patience than a school-girl may
always care to suffer; and there I observed that the mysteries of time
and eternity, whatever one might personally conclude about them, were
material of reason.

In many a mental upheaval of later life, the basis of that theological
training has made itself felt to me, as one feels rocks or stumps or
solid things underfoot in the sickly swaying of wet sands. I may not
always believe all I was taught, but what I was taught has helped me
to what I believe. I certainly think of those theological lectures
with unqualified gratitude.

The Tuesday evenings grow warm and warmer. The butterflies hover about
in white muslins, and pretty little bows of summer colors glisten on
bright heads as they bend over the doctrines, around the long table.
On the screens of the open windows the June beetles knock their heads,
like theologues who wish they could get in. There is a moon without.
Visions of possible forbidden ecstasies of strolls under the arches of
the Seminary elms with the bravest boy in the Academy melt before the
gentle minds, through which depravity, election, predestination, and
justification are filing sternly. The professor's voice arises:

"A sin is