very limited fabrications of a similar nature, when evidence is sifted in a court of justice, shows us the impossibility of weaving a plausible texture of this kind.  Many things are sure to have been forgotten which ought to have been remembered.  If this be the case, even where one mind has the fabrication of the whole, how much more would it be the case if many minds were engaged in the conspiracy?  Should we not expect, at the very least, the hesitating, suspicious, self-betraying tone usual in all such cases?  Could we expect that general air of truth which so undeniably prevails throughout the New Testament,—­the inimitable tone of nature, earnestness, and frank sincerity, which, in the case of such extravagant forgeries, would alone be marvellous traits?  But, at all events, could we expect those minute coincidences, which lay too deep for the eye of all ordinary readers, and would never have been discovered had not infidelity provoked Paley and others to excavate those subterranean galleries in which they are found?

And here again I interrupted my narrative to remark, that Professor Newman acknowledges the force of these coincidences, and, as usual, gives no account of them.  He says of the Horae Paulinae, in his “Phases”:  “This book greatly enlarged my mind as to the resources of historical criticism.  Previously my sole idea of criticism was that of the discreet discernment of style; but I now began to understand what powerful argument rose out of combinations; and the very complete establishment which this work gives to the narrative concerning Paul in the latter half of the Acts appeared to me to reflect critical honor on the whole New Testament.” (Phases, p. 23.)

But once more to resume my statement.  Upon mentioning these and such like considerations to my infidel friend, who pleaded, that the New Testament was fiction, he replied.  “As to the harmony in these fictions, —­if they be such,—­you acknowledge that it is not absolute:  that are discrepancies.”

Yes, I said, there are discrepancies, I admit; and I was about to mention that as another difficulty in the way of my reception of his theory:  I refer to the nature and the limits of those discrepancies.  If there had been an absolute harmony, even to the mildest point, I am persuaded that, on the principle of evidence in all such cases, many would have charged collusion on the writers, and have felt that it was a corroboration of the theory of the fictitious origin of these compositions.  But as the case stands, the discrepancies, if the compositions be fictitious indeed, are only a proof that these men attained a still more wonderful skill in aping verisimilitude than if there had been no discrepancies at all.  They have left in the historic portions of their narrative an air of general harmony, with an exquisite congruity in points which lie deep below the surface,—­a congruity which they must be supposed to have known would astonish the world when once discovered; and have at the same time left certain discrepancies on the surface (which criticism would be sure to point out), as if for the very purpose of affording guaranties and vouchers against the suspicion of collusion.  The discords increase the harmony.  Once more, I asked, could I believe Jews, Jews in the reign of Tiberius or Nero, equal to all these wonders?