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It is the same with the mind. So soon, then, as we have duly considered and resolved, the work to be done will be mainly of a negative kind-the imposing of checks on all petty disquietude, inordinate grief, and groundless fear the moment they manifest themselves. And as Brutus says in another matter

'Since the quarrel

Will bear no colour for the thing it is,
Fashion it thus: that what it is, augmented,
Would run to these and these extremities,
And therefore think it is a serpent's egg.

Which, hatch'd, would, as its kind, grow mischievous,
And kill it in the shell.'

To succeed, as I have said, time must be taken by the forelock, and, if successful, the mind will be freed from innumerable tormentors; but if not, it will be like a city without walls, open to the incursion of every enemy. Not that complete happiness can be secured here, or that the highest attainable happiness is to be reached by merely negative or precautionary means; but only that these, when happily selected and resolutely acted out, will save us from much unnecessary, and not only barren but pernicious vexation-worldly vexation, whose fruit is death.'

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summer-flies, does, in effect, question the wisdom of God, and may consistently decline to enjoy full health, drink clear water, or breathe pure air. Abraham drove the fowls away from his sacrifice, but some invite the harpies to every feast which Providence sets before them.

Observe what annoys you, and determine not to be annoyed by it. A half resolution will not do, but a full and firm one will, and, after a time, habit will take the trouble off your hands.

⚫ Gentle handed stroke a nettle,

And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains.'

He who frets under every trivial cross is like a sunk rock in the ocean; every passing wind and tide creates a whirlpool about it.

Misery is not virtue; when found in connection with it, it is accidental not essential; exotic-not indigenous. There is no merit in excessive, any more than in needless sorrow; the excess is needless. Wasting happiness is the worst kind of prodigality; and the most foolish barter is to exchange peace for strife, and pleasure for pain. Why take bad when good food is presented; wherefore sleep among nettles when providence offers straw? It is unwise and impious to make that bitter which God has made sweet; to deform what he has made fair, and to make dark what he has made light. He means us to enunless enjoyed; if we sullenly refuse to enjoy them, neither God nor man will thank us for it. There is neither merit nor ingenuity in running to the cellar when the sun comes to the door; it is skulking God's messengers and casting contempt on his gifts. Penance is not piety, otherwise the pagan often excels the Christian; but many Christians think mental penance meritorious, though it is only putting the soul, instead of the body, upon a pillar or a fraice of spikes. If mere pain were piety, the fallen angels were most pious, and hell the holiest place in the universe, and God a mystery and a contradiction.

Of course, you exclude Christians-Christians really so.' No; many, perhaps the majority of Christians, fail in their duty here from want of consideration, and thereby do injury to themselves and to their religion. Cheerfulness ought to be the concomitant of a steady and enlightened faith. It is a Christian duty, and of much more impor-joy the blessings he has provided—they are not blessings tance than most think. Were it generally observed, it would operate as a powerful persuasive to Christianity. As it is, the conduct of Christians in this respect furnishes a handle to the infi lel, and acts as a repelling power to those without. Faith is meant to give peace and pleasantness-to be profitable for this life as well as the next. Equanimity is the proper result and characteristic of genuine Christianity.'

Mr Smith rose to leave.

Allow me to hold you by the button one moment longer,' solicited Mr Brown. Here are a few of Grant's hints which I wish to show you. I noted them down occasionally, somewhat at random, whilst passing through my novitiate, and I regret that I did not do so regularly; but if all be well, he will be back within the year, and give us the benefit of his knowledge from his own lips.' 'Are they long?' asked Mr Smith.

Here they are; a few minutes will suffice for their reading.'

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Read fast, then,' said Mr Smith.

Mr Brown read as follows:

The means of happiness are more equally distributed than appears at first sight. The chief and necessary blessings are all common. Light, air, water, the beauties of nature, sleep, health, reason, the domestic relations, the joys of friendship, of hope and religion, are open to the peasant as well as to the prince, and in most cases the peasant has the advantage. His sleep, as a rule, is sounder and bis food sweeter. If he want provocatives, he does not need them; and if his diet be sometimes spare, he does not suffer from surfeit. His pallet may be hard, but it is healthy. Habit, in a great measure, equalises the diversities of condition, and renders that agreeable which was at first distasteful. Better want dainties than have artificial appetites-stimulants, than suffer their reaction. The simple delights of nature are lasting, and leave no sting behind them.

There is something more terrible than poverty, desertion, or death-to live after hope dies; but ennui is an approach to this.

Make sure of the next world, and be as happy here as you can. If God did not mean us to look upon and enjoy nature, why has he made it beautiful and drawn the curtain? He could have withheld the flowers and hidden the stars. He who thinks it sinful to indulge in innocent enjoyments, or mean to sympathise with the moods and shows of nature, especially of the lesser sort, as the frolics of lambs, the gambols of children, or the singing of birds, the chirping of grasshoppers, and the dancing of

The man who forgets he has a body as well as a mind, will bring both body and mind into trouble. Cultivate health for its own sake, and as the medium through which every external blessing must pass to become an enjoy ment. Be temperate in all things. Avoid stimulants. Rise early. Study cleanliness. Bathe daily. Ventilate your house well. Keep all sweet about you, and the coarse will become comfortable and the plain pleasant. Take sufficient exercise in the open air. Be fully employed: it conduces both to health and happiness. Mix recreation with labour; avoid excess in either.

Guard against flurry in anything that engages you; it leads to oversight, delay, and exhaustion. Order your affairs well. Do what is right at the right time. Have a place for everything and everything in its place.' Tax not to-morrow with the duties of to-day. Beware of forming an antipathy to any of the duties of your profession. De what you can to forestal contingent evil, and, having done so, leave the event to God, and not give way to useless and hurtful anxieties about the future. Be not too exquisite to cast the fashion of uncertain evils.' When anything unpleasant is to be done, do not brood over it beforehand; but, when the time comes, do it, and not stand shivering with the string of the shower-bath in your hand. wards die many times; the valiant taste of death but once.' Let your heart sit lightly on the things of earth, as a bird in the act of flying away. To trust in God, is a tower of strength at all times-a citadel built on the Rock of Ages— open and accessible at all points.


Refuse your own advice if angry, nervous, or depressed. Thou art nauseous, says Ague to the pine-apple; thou art yellow, says Jaundice to the rose. Turn a deaf ear to memories of the past, which awaken only needless regret. Some seem to think it the prime duty of man to turn the mind into a witch's cauldron.

Dismiss vicious suggestions as enemies under disguise. Maintain a constant vigilance over the passions and appetites; like fire and water, they are good servants but had


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masters. Beware of the tastes you form, the friendships you make, and the habits you establish. Study the nature of habit. It is begotten by frequently repeating the same act. It forms independently of the will of either fool or philosopher. Ignorance and knowledge are alike passive under it. A man may as well say to the stone he has cast into the air, Fall not,' as to habit, Form not,' and yet continue to repeat the act which generates it. A man is what his habits are. Form as many useful and virtuous habits as you can, but no vicious or expensive ones. Expensive habits make us the slaves of circumstance, and lay us open to temptation; but simple ones preserve our inde pendence, and are safeguards to conscience. In striving to break an evil habit, shun the society of those who indulge in it; avoid thoughts about it, for thought revives desire, and desire is temptation. In joy and sorrow be especially on your guard. Elevation and depression dispose to indulgence. Do not think yourself safe after a year's triumph. The habit will occasionally rally its force after that, and make vigorous assaults. If you yield in the slightest you are likely gone. Hold no parley, but up with the drawbridge and to with the gates. An old habit, like charcoal, is easily rekindled. The only safety is absolute and unconditional abandonment in thought as well as in Women form habits sooner, and are more difficult of cure than men. Of all tyrants and monopolists, evil habits are the worst; they narrow in the universe at last to a spot; their hours are night and day.


Let not your peace depend on outward circumstances, nor put the key of your happiness into other men's hands. Have resources within yourself which no one can close against you. The man who trusts solely, or even mainly, to what is outward, will find he has confided his comfort to what is uncertain as wind and unstable as water.

Live peaceably, if possible, with all men, and wish all men well, if from no higher motive yet for your own sake; and think kindly of the meanest creature. It has as good a right to its place in the universe as you have. If you dispute its charter, you impugn your own. It serves an end though you may not see it. Be especially at peace with yourself: better be on good terms with your own heart and conscience than with all the world besides. Keep the springs clear in your own bosom, whatever others may do. Do not withhold your good, nor refuse theirs; but cease to drink at their fountains the moment they become, impure, and fall back upon your own, and invite them to follow you.

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Store the cells of thought in summer, that in winter age may not want. 'As long as you live, seek to learn; do not presume that age brings wisdom.' He is a fool who says, I will be wise to morrow.' The man who reaches old age through a life of folly and vice, is like a left pool in a deserted river-course-a pit of mud, clammy weeds, and noisome creatures. The outwardly gay are often like what the feudal castles were-revelry above and pining captives below. The head may sparkle as a stately palace in the setting sun, while the heart below sits dark and desolate in its dungeon.

Independently of external condition, every mind is its own prison or palace. Our thoughts and feelings forge sceptres or chains out of the same materials, and make us kings or felons, freemen or slaves. A man may inherit rank and fortune, but he must be the architect of his own happiness; it cannot be transferred by parchment or bills of exchange. Opinions are only truly ours when we act them out. The hypocrite lauds religion and the rogue honesty; but they are not therefore honest or religious. The reality of anything is the thing itself, but nothing else is. Counterfeits may pass current, but there is no alchemy in currency to turn pewter into silver or paste into diamond. Nothing spurious passes the gate of heaven: the region around it is heaped and strewn with detected forgeries of all kinds, many of them so well executed that they passed unquestioned among men, and secured immortality for their doers. The exposed cheat lies yonder, while its monument rises on earth, and the uncovered pilgrim kneels before it. Martyrs are singing in heaven, whose bones once rattled

in chains upon earth. the judgment-day! Masks will be torn off and motives seen. The affected will give place to the real; and every one will not only be, but seem what he is.

What revelations will be made on

Be mindful of eternity; it is but a few days' march from any of us. Men are crowding into it, as a fall of locusts do when they approach the sea. It seems far off, like things seen in mist, but is really near. Believe it near and act accordingly. Secure the friendship of God; enter into league with him on his own terms; they are the most liberal in the universe. Do this immediately, to-morrow has cast its millions into hell. Make every place a meeting-spot with God in nature, providence, and grace, and, like the moon at midnight, you will see a sun the wicked see not, and receive light over the back of a benighted world. The man who takes God to his heart becomes like the winter passing away. The sun arises with spring under his wings, and she leaps down here and there as he passes by, and opens the buds and flowers, and sets the birds a singing, and the streams a wimpling, till, at last, the song and the verdure become universal, and summer begins.

The laws of personal happiness are as firmly established as those of the material universe; obey and you enjoy, break and you suffer.

Rule your mind or it will rule you.'

I have an appendix here to these maxims of Grant,' said Mr Brown, looking entreatingly on his friend. What! more last speeches,' said Mr Smith, in a somewhat better humour.

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'Yes, but the very last and best-sweet, short, and comprehensive-not desultory as our conversations have been, or fragmentary as my jottings from Grant; but close as a phalanx and light as a cloud-a burden for an infant's memory-a tiny manual for all, on a subject which deeply concerns all.'

'Well, go on.'

It is a man's proper business.' "Who says so?' 'Locke.'

He who writes on the understanding?' 'Yes.'

That is a man worth hearing-go on.'

'It is a man's proper business to seek happiness and avoid misery. Happiness consists in what delights and contents the mind: misery, in what disturbs, discomposes, or torments it. I will therefore make it my business to seek satisfaction and delight, and avoid uneasiness and disquiet-to have as much of the one and as little of the other as may be. But I must take care that I prefer not a short pleasure to a lasting one. Let me then see wherein consists the most lasting pleasures; and that, as far as I can observe, is in these things. 1. Health. 2. Reputation. 3. Knowledge. 4. Doing good. 5. The expectation of eternal happiness in another world. If, then, I faithfully pursue that happiness which I propose to myself, whatever pleasure offers itself to me, I must carefully look that it cross none of these five great and constant pleasures above mentioned. For example, the fruit I see tempts me with the taste of it that I love, but if it endanger my health, I part with a constant and lasting for a very short and transient pleasure, and so foolishly make myself unhappy, and am not true to my own interest. of the rest. But all innocent diversions and delights, as far as they will contribute to my health, and consist with my improvement, condition, and my other more solid pleasures of knowledge and reputation, I will enjoy, but no farther; and this I will carefully watch and examine, that I may not be deceived by the flattery of a present pleasure to lose a greater.'

And so

Tear off that and give it to me,' said Mr Smith. 'Certainly,' said Mr Brown, there is the lock, and a poor pun along with it; fasten it to the door of your understanding, and find the key for yourself.'

Mr Brown shook hands with his friend, and they parted in considerably better humour than they had done for some time.


THERE are few sentiments, we apprehend, more amiable than a love of the past. It is a sentiment that begins to exercise an influence over the mind as soon as memory comes into operation; and it goes on increasing with every year, for every year adds something to our love of the past. What is so bright aud beautiful in the thoughts of the aged man as his youthful years? what pleasures so exquisite as those which he beholds through the twilight vista of retrospection? Everything beautiful becomes more beautiful in the evening shades of golden nemory; even sorrow becomes sweetened and softened into a happy thought, when refined by resignation and reviewed after a lapse of years. There is nothing that we are so much inclined to dispute as the wisdom of our ancestors, and yet there is nothing that we better love to contemplate and admire than the relics of antiquity. We would demand to be emancipated from the dominion of the ancestral mind, and yet we would love to roam amongst the monuments of former ages. The sentiment is a paternal one, and as such it is one worthy of being cherished; but let us guard against our reason being made subservient to it. We can fondly bend over our hoary-headed grandsire, and feel our souls stirred with love and veneration towards him; but to the edicts of his dotage and senility we may not yield implicit obedience. Stronger and loftier far than the sentiment of veneration, is the principle of justice; the former, enchaining us in an inert admiration, would clog the wheels of progress; the latter, teaching us to regulate our sentiments, guards us against yielding an undue obedience to opinions which have outlived their age and applicability to the wants of society. It was with such feelings as these that we entered the venerable and imposing Cathedral of Westminster.

Westminster, or the Church of St Peter, derives its general appellation from being situated to the west of East Minster, or St Paul's. These majestic piles are the two superior ecclesiastical establishments in London, and, like all things old, have seen and undergone mighty and wonderful changes. St Paul's rears its great black dome over what, in old times, was really, but what is now only termed a hill.

Westminster Abbey stands on what was anciently an island, formed by a branch of the Thames, which, breaking from the main course of the river, near the end of Abingdon Street, and making a detour until it rejoined the river near the south end of Privy Gardens, cut off a small piece of ground from the mainland, which was called Thorny Island, from being originally covered with black clusters of this well armed shrub. Gradually the course of this erratic portion of Old Thames became arched over with brick, and now forms a part of the great subterranean sewer system of London. The insular character of old Thorny Island is completely gone now, and great massive buildings and heavy pavements supersede its rank vegetation and alluvial flats. Old chronicles have striven long and sturdily to invest the spots of ground upon which St Paul's and Westminster Abbey stand with an associative antiquity of a very high character. The Romans, it is said, built a temple to Diana upon the mount on which St Paul's stands; and a temple of Apollo made way for the establishment of a Christian church upon Thorny Island. Old chronicles tell that, in the year 605, Sebert, king of Essex, being converted to the Christian faith, gave token of his sincere piety by founding upon this spot a church to St Peter. The present Westminster Abbey is only the successor of many which have preceded it; and it is certain that Sebert was recognised in old times as the founder of the original structure. Great care was always taken to preserve his remains, which were buried here, and those of his queen Ethelgotha, when the building was reconstructed or repaired, and they were always assigned the most honourable place of sepulture. But the light which history sheds upon the foundation of this old pile is as obscure as it is perplexing. Oue of the most audacious and gratuitous assertions of the old mystery-making,

wonder-loving priests, was their fable concerning the consecration of this abbey, which, according to their testi- ¦ mony, was performed by St Peter in person. This was no mere floating delusion, but a jealously maintained and coolly recorded fiction, for the monks of Westminster in the thirteenth century actually sued the minister of Rotherhithe for a tithe of the salmon caught in his parish, upon the plea that St Peter had given them this grant when he consecrated their church. Some historians contend that the church of Westminster was not founded for a full century after the time of the Saxon king Sebert. but it is generally conceded that to him is attributable its establishment. Upon the death of this chief, his subjects went back to their old worship of the Sun, Moon, Tuisco, Woden, Thor, Friga, and Seater;* and left the church which Sebert had built to fall into desuetude and decay, until Offa, king of Mercia, restored the crumbling ruin once more.


But the red-handed, red-haired Dane, came with his swords and brands, and, in his love of spoil, he tore every article of wealth from the little fane, and almost razed it to the ground. Again its walls and buttresses were repaired. through the exhortations of St Dunstan, by king Edgar, in the year 969, and, for its support, it obtained many privileges and great grants of land. But it was not until nearly a century after this period, that it was raised to its supreme position by Edward the Confessor. the last undisputed scion of the Saxon dynasty determined that he should be buried; and, in order that bis mausoleum might be one worthy of his vanity, he resolved to spare no cost in rebuilding from its foundation this grand old cathedral. To the prosecution of this work he devoted a tenth part of his entire revenues and possessions, in gold, silver, and cattle; and in the year 1065 it was completed. The 28th of December, called the Day of the Holy Innocents in memory of the massacre of the children of Bethlehem by Herod, was appointed for its dedication. Three days previous to this event, however, Edward was seized with the fatal illness which terminated his life on the 4th or 5th of January following, and he was consequently unable to attend this imposing ceremony. On the 12th January, 1066, his body was interred with all the pomp and circumstance of funereal grandeur

* Such were the titles of the principal deities whom our Savon ancestors worshipped, and from these have we derived the names of the days of the week.

Sunday, called by the Saxons Sunan's-daeg, was dedicated to the Sun, which was their chief deity. In the temple consecrated to the sun, was an idol representing the bust of a man set upon a pilar, his face darting bright rays. His arms were extended, and he held a wheel before his breast, typical of the circuit which the sun was supposed to make round the earth.

Monday (Monan's-dary) was devoted to the Moon, which was re presented by a female image standing on a pedestal, dressed in a Dost fantastic style.

Tuesday (Tuis-daeg) was consecrated to Tuisco, who, as legend reports, was father of the Germans and Scythians, from whom the Saxons sprung, and was held in so much estimation by his countrymen, that at his decease they deified him. He was represented by the figure of a venerable old man, with a long white beard, standing upon a pedestal, with a boar's skin upon his shoulders and a sceptre in his right hand.

Wednesday (Woden's-daeg) was consecrated to Woden, or Odin, who was considered by the northeru nations the father of all the

deities, and the god of war, uniting the characters of Jupiter and Mars of the ancients. Woden was represented by the figure of warrior in a martial posture, clad in bright armour. In his right hand was a broad and crooked sword, and in his left a shieli.

Thursday (Thor s-daeg) was consecrated to Thor, the eldest son of Woden. He was considered the supreme governor of the air, lighting, and thunder, in which latter particular he answered to the Roman Jupiter, and was supplicated for fruitful seasons. He was represented as seated on a splendid throne, his head decked with a golden crown, adorned with twelve glittering stars. In Lis right hand was a regal sceptre

of Woden, and mother of all the gods. She had the attributes of Friday (Friga s-darg) was consecrated to Friga or Frea, the wife the Roman Venus, and was represented by a female figure holding a naked sword in the right hand, and in the left a bow. so ne to answer to the Roman Saturnus. He was represented by an Saturday (Seater's-darg) was consecrated to Seater, supposed by idol standing on a pedestal, upon the prickly back of a perch. The figure, whose heal was bare, and the countenance thin, was cind a long coat, confined about the waist and shoulders with a linen s.sh. In his right hand was a pail of water, in which were fruits and flowers.


before the high altar, so shortly was the cathedral completed before it was called upon to fulfil the purpose for which it had been rebuilt. Here now slumber around, in their quaint stately tombs, and beneath the diamond-shaped slabs of the abbey's stone floor, kings, queens, councillors, poets, warriors, philanthropists, and courtiers; and here, in storied urn and animated bust, are seen the chief attractions of this old English Pantheon.

On the Christmas-day following-the anniversary of the Confessor's illness-William the Conqueror was crowned beside his Saxon predecessor's grave; and in the same place, with the single exception of Edward V., have all the English sovereigns been crowned to this day, during a period of eight hundred years. The church built by Edward is supposed to have been the first cruciform one raised in England, and it maintained its entireness and unique appearance until the reign of Henry III., who took down the eastern part of the edifice, which had become dilapidated through time, and determined to restore it in a more magnificent form than it ever wore. Edward I. and succeeding kings continued the work, which was intermitted by the troubles of the times, until Henry VII. ascended the throne, and added the beautiful chapel dedicated to the Virgin, but which bears his own name.

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The history of the Lia Fial is a very curious one, and, as it is not generally known, it may interest our readers. Old chroniclers tell of a people called the Tuatha-daDannan, who, having studied necromancy at Delphos, wandered gradually towards the north-west, until they found themselves in Scandinavia, having brought with them the Stone of Destiny.' Being enriched with a sorcerer's spear and cauldron, they continued their migrations westward, until they reached Scotland, whence they passed over to Ireland, after a sojourn of a few years. The Dalriadan dynasty of Scoto-Irish kings were crowned upon this remarkable stone, which Fergus I. removed from Leinster to Morvern in the year 521. The Scoto-Irish kings continued to be crowned in Argyle upon this stone until 829, when Kenneth M'Alpine removed it to Scone, whence it was taken by Edward I., and placed in Westminster Abbey in 1296, where it now remains, and upon which the British monarchs are still crowned.

If a man would learn the vanity of human ambition, and the shortlived nature of human power, let him go and commune with the tombs of Westminster Abbey. The very echoes that his footfalls awake seem to cry from the hollow tombs of those who in life were proud, and haughty, and great, and honoured, and wealthy, and jealous of their privileges, and of their brother men--All but virtue is vanity.' Antiquity is every day adding to her deep and extensive elements of tuition and warning, and day after day is rendering more venerable and monitory, as well as more transitory, the venerable Abbey of Westminster.




For richness of ornament, elaboration, and preciseness of workmanship, and perfect architectural beauty, this chapel is said to challenge comparison with any other Gothic structure in the world. To the general visiter Westminster Abbey does not present an imposing aspect. St Paul's awes you by its magnitude and grandeur; the Abbey, with its chapels, challenges your admiration. Few places in the world are so full of historical interest as the spot upon which the abbey stands, and the ground immediately circumjacent. It was upon the site of Westminster Hall, now giving place to the Houses of Lords and Commons, that the kings of England built their first metropolitan palace. Edward the Confessor dwelt here, and here the Conqueror kept up the courtly pomp of the feudal system. It was here that the stern, ignorant, fierce WE mentioned at the commencement of our last paper, Normans ejaculated their iron laws, and revelled in all that we conceived John Sterling's progress was typithe stern magnificence of their chivalric dominion. To cal of that of a large and interesting class of intellectual this old palace of the Saxon line, William Rufus added persons in the present day. We proceed now to explain the first Westminster Hall, where the mail-clad barons what we mean. It is an extremely important and serious held high revels and the kings exhibited their lordly aspect of his history at which we must now look. It is state. Rufus's hall fell into decay after three hundred at his religion. years of use, and Richard II. took it down and replaced So far as religion can be called constitutional, John it by one much more splendid, making also such addi- Sterling was constitutionally religious. The union of artions to the palace as obtained for it the distinction of dent temperament, high intellect, and pure morals, geneNew Palace. Here were held Christmas and Easter feasts; rally in this country generates a strong religious appeDr Hare has not here Richard II., before a year after its completion, laid tency, which was manifest in him. down, by compulsion, his regal crown; here have all the traced so minutely and clearly as had been desirable the coronation feasts been held; and here state trials and exe- entire progress of his thoughts and feelings on this mocutions for high treason have taken place. Fire, how-mentous topic. Indeed, there is throughout all his neever, has swept with its devastating element over the palace of Westminster and the hall of St Stephen's, involving them in ruin; but upon their sites the Houses of Parliament are being raised, in even a more splendid style than ever. The House of Lords holds its sittings in Westminster Hall.

moir a shrinking, skulking, and want of plain speaking on the subject, unworthy of such a man writing on such a man, and this, we know, some of Sterling's warmest friends feel; but we think we can map it out with considerable accuracy, and in very few and very plain words. From the early piety of genius, he seems to have passed into the early scepticism of genius. While sounding on his dim and perilous way in those troubled waters, the great beacon-light of Coleridge attracted and seemed to save him. He became in theory, as he had been in feeling, a Christian. Influenced by his marriage and other circumstances, disciplined by various grave events, and not, he trusts, unguided by the Holy Spirit, he entered the work of the Christian ministry, laboured for six months with exem

Westminster Abbey is chiefly attractive from its monuments, and these are so beautiful and numerous that they are worthy of being made the objects of a pilgrimage from a far distant land. To a Scotchman, perhaps, the most interesting object in that venerable pile is the Stone of Destiny (Lia Fial), upon which the ancient Scottish kings were crowned; and those of England and Great Britain, since the time of Edward I., who removed this stone from Scone, in 1296. A vague old Scottish tradi-plary diligence, and was only prevented by illness from tion declares this stone to be the very one on which Jacob pillowed his head, while, on his journey to his uncle Laban, he dreamt his remarkable dream of heaven and earth meeting; and a prophecy connected with it, declares that

prosecuting the calling. Afterwards, a change began gradually to pass over his mind. Loosened from professional ties-burning with a hectic speculation-impatient of the cant, and commonplaces, and bigotry of ordinary theologians-sick of the senseless controversies of his church-and attracted ever more and more by the learning and genius of Germany, his orthodox belief in Christianity Everybody knows that this has been verified since the was shattered, though his childlike love for it remained the same. At last he died, it must be told, more than year 1603.

'Where'er should be that stane,
There would a Scot reign.'


doubtful of the divine origin of Judaism, unsatisfied of the evidences of Christianity, and yet ravished with the unutterable beauty and moral grandeur of the latter; and his almost last words were a request to his sister to hand him the old Bible he was wont to use in Herstmonceux (where he had been curate) among the cottages.

Such is the plain unvarnished tale of Sterling's religious career. It is a very painful, very interesting, and very instructive narrative. We must be permitted to methodise our impressions of it under the following remarks:First, It is not, alas! a singular case. Secondly, Its causes are not very recondite. And, thirdly, It teaches some momentous lessons.

First, the case is not uncommon. Without alluding to innumerable private instances, the process through which Sterling was passing is almost the same with that less fully undergone by Foster and Arnold, and which, in Newman and Parker, in Carlyle and Emerson, may be considered perfected. In Shelley, it was different. In the first place, he unfortunately never enjoyed, we fear, the opportunity of seeing real religion incarnated in living examples: with that noble moral poem, sublimer far than a Paradise Lost,' a meek and humble disciple of Jesus, he seems never to have come in contact. 2dly, He was early repelled from just views of the subject by the savage stupidity of university tests and treatment. And, 3dly, the motion of his mind was accelerated by that morbid heat and misery which made his life an arm of Styx, and rendered his entire character and history anomalous. Shelley is the caricature of the unsatisfied thinker of the times; and while, as a poet, admired by all for his potential achievements, his creed, which creed was none, uniess a feverish flush on the brow be a fixed principle of the soul, has only influenced those who are weak and morbid through nature, or raw and incondite through youth. Sterling, on the other hand, was the express image of such a thinker, in his highest and purest form.

Ere inquiring into the causes of that strange new form of scepticism, which has seized so many of our higher minds, let us more distinctly enunciate what it is not, and does not spring from. It is not, as some imagine, a mere disguise which the scepticism of Hume and Voltaire has assumed, better accommodated to the tastes and the progress of the present age. It is not the same with it, even as Satan towering to the sky was the same with Satan lurking in the toad. It differs from it in many important respects. 1st, It admits much which the unbelief of Paine and Voltaire denied; it grants the beauty, the worth, and the utility of our religion-nay, contends that, in a sense, it is a divine emanation, the divinest ever given to man. It does not sheathe, but tosses away the old poisoned terms imposture, fraud, priesteraft, cunningly devised fable. 2dly, It approaches religion with a different feeling and motive. It desires to find its very highest claims true. It has no interest that they should be false. The life of such an one as we describe is modelled on the life of Christ; his language is steeped in the Bible vocabulary, as in burning gold. Prayer and its cognate duties he practises, and his heart is ever ready to rise to the swells of Christian oratory and feeling, as the war-horse to the sound of the trumpet. He teaches his children to prattle of Christ, and weeps at eventide as they repeat their little hymns. He gives to the cause of the Gospel, and his cheek glows at the recital of the deeds of a Williams or a Waddell. The sceptic of the eighteenth century first hated religion, be cause it scowled on his selfishness-then wished it untrue -and then, generally with the bungling haste of overeagerness, tried to prove it untrue. Thus Paine felt the strong right hand, which, in the Rights of Man' had coped worthily with the giant Burke, shivered to splinters when he stretched it forth, in the Age of Reason,' against the 'ark of the Lord.' The doubter of our day (we speak, of course, of one class) loves religion, wishes it true, reverences every pin and fringe of its tabernacle, tries to convince himself and others of its paramount and peculiar divinity, and if, at last, the shadow of a cloud continues to hang over his head, it fails to disguise the fast-flowing

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tears wrung from his disappointed spirit. proaches religion, not only with a different feeling, but from a different direction. The sceptic of the eighteenth century approached it from the platform of matter-a platform in itself mean, even when including the whole material universe; the doubter now looks at it from the lofty ground of the ideal and the spiritual. It contradicts the laws of matter,' said the one. I cannot, in all its parts,' says the other, reconcile it with the principles of mental truth.' It is something greater than matter,' said the one. It is something less than mind,' says the other. I cannot grasp it,' said the one. I can but too easily account for much of it,' says the other. It surpasses my standard,' said the one. It does not come up to mine,' says the other. Its miracles to me seem monstrous things which I cannot swallow,' said the one. To me,' says the other, they appear petty tricks, not impossible to, but unworthy of a God.' Its prophecies seem to me all written after the event, said the one. To me,' says the other, the objection is that they tell so little that is really valuable. What comparison between the fate of a thousand empires and one burst of pure truth?' 'The whole thing,' said the one, is too supernatural and unearthly for me. To me,' says the other, it bears but too palpable marks of an earthly though unparalleled birth-God's highest, it may be, but not his only or ultimate voice.' 'I wish I could convince everybody that it was an imposture,' said the one. "I wish,' says the other, that I could convince myself that it is what the world professes to believe it.' It is strange, said the one, that, superstition as it is, it wont die.' 'It is far stranger,' says the other, how, if it be par excelence true, it is dying, and has become little else than a caput mortuum.' But, then, it must be confessed,' said the one, that its external evidences are imposing, though not irresistible.' To me,' says the other these seem its weakness, not its strength; and as to its vitals-its internal evidences-is it not, like Cato, day after day, tearing them out with its own suicidal hands-is it not rapidly becoming a worldly and mechanical, if not a carnal, sensual, and devilish thing?'

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Such is a fair statement of the difference between the two scepticisms. As we proceed, we shall have occasion to refute the conclusions of the second variety. We now come to its causes. 1st, We may name the over stress which was long laid by the defenders of Christianity upon its external evidences. The effects of this have been pernicious in various ways. It could not, in the first place. be disguised that many who defended with the most suecess the external evidences were, if not secret sceptics, strangers to the living influence, and disbelievers in the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel. Such were Lardner, Watson, Priestley, Wakefield, and Paley. They first threw away the kernel of Christianity, and then did desperate battle in defence of the empty shell. Never were walls and bulwarks containing nothing more heroically defended. The school of Warburton and Hurd, indeed, were of a more Christian class, but their polemical bitterness and personal arrogance were intolerable. 2dly, Even the successful defence of the evidences seemed a poor exploit, when it was confessedly considered inadequate to impress the vital principles of Christianity upon the mind-stopping, it might be, the mouths, but not opening the hearts of its adversaries, whom it drove away from, instead of drawing into the city of God; and the loud cheers, which followed each victory over a desperate but unconvinced foe, sounded harsh and horrible, as were one to encore the plunge of a lost spirit into the abyss. 3dly, If external evidences were the principal, if not sole proof of Christianity, what became of the belief of the majority of Christians, to whom these evidences were unknown, or who, at least, were quite incapable of estimating the true nature and weight of the argument founded upon them? If their belief was worthless, must not their Christianity be baseless and worthless too? If it was not, what a slur on those elaborate evidences, which in no instance could reach a result which was daily attained by thousands without any external evidence at all! 4thly, What was the utmost

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