tures in comparison with the doctrine of free grace, its demands and consequences. This former dogma, originated by Augustin and Calvin, which it is easy for the natural sense of justice to refute, has its root in the difficulty, hitherto unsolved by the human mind, the uniting of God's omnipotence and man's free will. We talked on this subject, and then—we became silent. It had grown dusk, and, in the quiet evening, no sound was heard but the soft dashing of the waves against the shore on which our inn stood. The windows were open; I leaned against the window-frame, and looked out into the landscape. It was gloomy. Dark clouds hung over the heights, and threw black shadows in the mirror-bright lake. One shadow, in particular, lay there: so black, so profound, that even the brightness of the water was lost in it. And upon this dark object my eye was involuntarily riveted, whilst I listened with a melancholy feeling to waves striking upon the shore. They seemed as impelled by an inward unrest, of which the outward calm knew nothing; and I thought upon the questions always recurring, always dark, which from one century to another, hurl their waves with the same plunge, the same unsolved dissonances, against the human breast, causing its heart to throb with restless bitterness.
“Will it always remain the same, for me, for all?—the same in all times upon the earth?” I asked, dejectedly, and gazed at the dark shadow. All at once arose out of it, the most delicious music and wind-instruments. I could not see those who produced it—the dark shadow was as impenetrable as before-
