son of Sir John Nobody, and nephew of the above.  To me, I confess, he appears distinguished scarcely more by the splendor of his imagination than by the opulence of his knowledge, and the imperial command which he possesses over it.  But, in truth, the accuracy or otherwise of history, when it is at all remote, is a matter in which I feel less interest than I once did.  I read, indeed, Mr. Macaulay with perpetual renewal of wonder and delight.  But though I believe that his vivid pictures are the result, of a faithful use of his materials, yet, if I must confess the full extent of my scepticism, his work, and every other work which involves a reference to events which transpired only a century or two ago, is poisoned as history by the suspicion that to ascertain the truth is impossible.  I know it must be so, if the principles of your favorite Strauss are to be received; and yet it seems so absurd, that I am sometimes inclined, on that account alone, to laugh at Strauss’s criticisms, just as David Hume did at his own speculative doubts when he got into society and sat down to backgammon with a friend.  At other times, as I say, the whole field of historic investigation seems more or less the territory of scepticism.”

“I know not,” said the other, “how you can justify any such general scepticism from any thing that Strauss has written.”

“Do you not? and yet I think it is a perfectly legitimate inference.  Does not Strauss argue that certain discrepancies are to be observed, certain apparent contradictions and inconsistencies detected, in the New Testament narratives; and that therefore we are to reckon, if not the whole, yet by far the larger part, as utterly fabulous or doubtful, mythic or legendary?  Now, I cannot but feel, on the other hand, that these narratives are as strikingly marked by all the usual indications of historic truthfulness as any historic writings in the world.  The artlessness, simplicity, and speciality of the narrative,—­a certain inimitable tone and air of reality, earnestness, and candor,—­the general harmony of these so-called sacred writers with themselves and with profane authors (quite as general, to say the least, as usually distinguishes other narratives by different hands),—­above all, the long-concealed, and yet most numerous ‘coincidences’ which lie deep beneath the surface and which only a very industrious mind brings to light; coincidences which, if ingenuity had been subtle enough to fabricate, that same ingenuity would have been too sagacious to conceal so deep, and which are too numerous and striking (one would imagine) to be the effect of accident;—­all these things, I say, would seem to argue (if any thing can) the integrity of the narrative.  Yet all these things must necessarily, of course, go for nothing, on Strauss’s hypothesis.  There are, you say, certain discrepancies, and from them you proceed to conclude that the narrative is uncertain, and unworthy of credit; that, if there be a residuum of truth at