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there can be no peace with God unless there is good-will to man, no escape from fear but in the sentiments of love and obedience. A people that passed from superstition into crime would inevitably return-passion-led-back to superstition.

"If here I do not enlarge on the immense value of the teaching of Christianity, and especially how it is tending to bring all mankind into feelings of union and a common interest, and disposing the wealthy to do whatever lies in their power, consistently with the stability of society, for the welfare of the working classes-it is because I should be only repeating what so many others have said far more eloquently than I could say it."-Pp. 569-571.

One passage in this section, which treats of the influence of war in favoring-yes, good reader, do not start-in favoring the growth and greatness of nations, is of so suggestive a complexion that we must make room for it. We quote it without

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"Every satirist, every moralist, every preacher declaims against war. I accept this general denunciation as prophetic that it will one day cease. Meanwhile, this most flagrant of our evils, and fiercest of our joys, has been our starting-point and stimulant along every line of progress you can mention. To war, as I have said, we owe the Nation, and without this great union man would have remained intellect ually a mere dwarf. It gave us the city and the empire. Had there been no large assemblage of men kept together by the sentiment of a common safety, or a common power, there would have been no great enterprise, and a few great thoughts. The languages of the earth would have been innumerable. Each tribe would have spoken its own dialect, and have been shut up within it. There would have been

no literature. Had a great mind vaguely bestirred itself, it would have been of no avail; it would have been buried alive in the little village community. But hardly could there have been any thing great. Men would never have combined but for some quiet domestic purpose, some business of the flock and the farmyard. There would have been no great projects, no great ideas, no palaces, no temples, and the gods themselves would have been dwarfed into mere household deities, and the patrons of a harvesthome.

"How much we owe to war in this province of religion, has not been generally perceived, nor the nature of the debt. The passions of the combat are so preeminently violent-the fate of battles so uncertain-the victory so intensely desired-that war could not fail both to promote the worship of the god and to determine the character of the god who was worshiped. It intensified religion, which else (except under certain occasional circumstances) might have been little better than a poet's dream."-Pp. 565. 566.

On the whole, we accept Mr. Smith's volume as a faithful exposition of modern thought on many grave questions, so far asmuch as the work does not, to our thinkas it goes. We e say, so far as it goes, ining, get to the bottom of its subject, and does not in consequence embrace all that is needful as a remedy for the evils which it investigates, and which it aims to remove. The great malady of our nature, that which theologians understand by the term sin, is not apprehended as it is. Evangelical truth, accordingly, if not openly opposed, is quietly ignored. As the result, changes are expected from causes which are not adequate to produce them. But the mind of our time is, to a large extent, presented in this book, and presented with much clearness and intelligence. We have read the work with interest, and the extracts we have given will enable the reader to judge as to the expediency of making himself better acquainted with it.

From Colburn's New Monthly.

IN MEMORY OF GENERAL HAVE LOCK.

BY

NICHOLAS

COME Valor! with thy dauntless, Spartan brow, And iron arm, and steadfast mind;

Come, Fame! with drooping wreaths of cypress

now

Around thy trumpet twined;

O Victory! eagle-eyed, exultant-come!

Cease thy loud shout, and hush thy rolling
drum!

Turn from the flying horde,
Put up thy crimson sword;
Reverse the thirsty spear,

And mourn a moment here.
Religion! gentlest daughter of the skies,
Love on thy lip, and heaven within thine eyes,
And charity o'erflowing thy pure breast,
Still looking from vexed Earth to lands of rest,
Come with thy breath of heavenly balm,
Thine every look instilling calm!

All bend, all sorrowing bend, above the grave, Where sleeps, in glory's arms, the good, the brave:

Did ever hero win a laurel crown,

Deserving, without seeking, proud renown;
Did ever hero claim a nation's tear,

A world's lament above his honored bier,
'Tis he, 'tis he, who greatly sleepeth here!

Yes, he who had escaped, with charmed life,
The fierce assault, the conflict hot,
The hissing, death-winged cannon-shot,
Still sharing danger, foremost in the strife;

Who stood the fire from Ghuznee's walls,
Unscathed amidst the rain of balls;
Who met, at bloody Sobraon,
The proud-plumed hosts careering on,
And twice beneath him saw his steed,
At fearful Moodkee, sink and bleed ;*
Who when the rebel-spirit rose,
And late-sworn friends turned traitor-
foes,

And Murder raised her demon yell,
And India seemed a maddening hell,
Rushed, like a Cæsar, an avenging flame,
Before the few the many doomed to flee;
Till Terror, shade-like, followed his great name,
His very march a victory!

He who thus kept, through many a bloody fray,
Grim, hovering Death, insatiate Death, at bay,
Hath yielded to disease-hath bowed him low
To that pale specter, Valor's deadliest foe:

And ere his work so well begun,
His glorious mission all was done;
And ere his grateful country's praise,

In the battle of Moodkee, Havelock had two horses shot under him.

MICHELL.

And ere his honors and his bays
Have reached him in that crimsoned land,
The sword hath fallen from his hand;
Powerless the iron, veteran limb,
The victory-blazing eye is dim,
Broken the staff that formed our trust,
And India's hero soulless dust.

Clive and Cornwallis! ye were mighty names,
Halo'd with immortality-behold
As great a hero here: his deathless claims

Are stained not by Ambition, lust of gold.
Long years he served his country, patient rose
Up the steep ladder of his great renown,
Gentle, beloved by all, save England's foes:
His smile wrought more than other warriors'
frown.

Then, too, that loftier secret of success,

That source of fortitude, calm trust and might

He looked to Heaven, and prayed that Heaven would bless

His country's armies, battling for the right: He drew his sword, but, with its flash, a prayer For strength, for guidance, mounted on the air.

Spirit of History! rise!
Tell to the earth and skies,
In everlasting story,

This war of shame and glory;
Seize, seize thy pen and write,
In letters of fixed light,
As every letter were

A star of radiance there,
To shine undimmed, while ages roll
Their thickening clouds across thy scroll,
The name of him who lies so lowly here--
The name we utter with a gushing tear-
The name of India's saviour-the great name
Our children's children shall repeat with
pride,

Casting a lustre e'en on Britain's fame,

The veteran's idol, and the stripling's guide; Till Havelock, a household word, be shrined, Valor's untarnished gem, in every mind.

Rest warrior! rest! we need not weep for thee, Thy crown is brighter than the laurel here; Walking the fields of immortality,

Thou marvel'st, haply, at our falling tear. For iron helm, the amaranth binds thy brow, For cannon's roar, rise songs of rapture now; For plains of blood, heaven's bowers around

thee bloom;

Rest, warrior! rest! our hearts shall be thy tomb!

From the Dublin University Magazine.

PHOTOGRAPHS

FOR

OUR BIBLES.

is both a philosopher and historian, and yet not utterly deficient in imagination.

Still, placing at the highest the influences and associations connected with the writings of these intellectual monarchs, under whose banners it has been said that every mind may be ranged, how few and feeble are they compared with the influences which cluster round every portion of the Inspired Volume! Let us imagine, that in the process of science a book should be executed by such marvelous materials, that on blank leaves inserted for the purpose, the sunbeam should etch every face that hung over the page until it became a self-illustrated work, a magic gallery of pictured shadows. Something like this is the Bible read in the light of history and biography. In their radiance, it becomes a book from whose every page, and almost every text, the eyes of the great and sainted dead are looking into ours. Here, then, we find Photographs for our Bibles; and we purpose to give illustrations of Scripture by history and biography-to adduce texts, or passages of the Bible, intertwined by the law of association, with historical names and events in the annals of the Christian Church.

WE have often thought that a work of no ordinary interest might be written upon the historical and biographical associations which are connected with the world's few great books. Take Aristotle and Plato, for instance. What a multitude of recollections are entwined with their writings, if we confine ourselves only to the revival of European literature consequent upon the taking of Constantinople, and the few antecedent and subsequent centuries. The deep and dense ignorance of the Latin Church - the literary splendor of Mohammedanism - the philosophy of Aristotle, filtered to Christendom through two layers of Arabic and Latin-the Platonic ardor of Marsilio Ficino, founding, under Cosmo de Medici, a university of Platonic idealism in Florence-the lordly philosophic romance of John Pico, of Mirandola, projecting a tournament and festival of philosophers at Rome, in which he was to defend nine hundred Platonic theses against all comers, whose expenses he would pay from any distance the great antagonist of Peripateticism, Peter Ramus, assassinated, disemboweled, and dragged through the streets of Paris on the night of St. Bartholomew, not so much because he was suspected of being a Huguenot, as because he was known to be a Platonist -the pale and visionary brow of Giordano Bruno (the poet of that Pantheistic system of absolute unity of which Spinoza is the geometrician)* looking upon us from the fire in the Champs de Flore, before the theater of Pompey-the tall and erect figure of the elder Scaliger, his royal and august face, bronzed with the suns and storms of many campaigns, now bent over the words "sweeter than nectar, clearer than the sun," of Aristotle; these, and a thousand other thoughts and shadows, arise before him who contem- We may transport ourselves to the plates the "torso-like" volumes of Aris-fourth of February, 1555. Newgate totle, or the immortal pages of Plato. We commend our idea to some one who

*We borrow M. Cousin's happy expression.

The due development of this subject would require volumes. It would demand a knowledge of ecclesiastical history, for which the acquirements of Mr. Stanley, or our own elegant and learned Dr. Lee, would not be more than sufficient. Our readers will be content, however, if we group, almost at random, a few of those pictured shapes to which we have alluded

if we point out, and sketch, even with rough and hasty hand, a few of the faces which history has etched on the margin of Sacred Writ.

To begin, then, at once, open the Bible, at the Fifty-first Psalm.

Prison stands out dark and sullen in the winter morning. The streets that now barricade it the thoroughfare through which the cabs and omnibusses, and all

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the roaring waves of city life pass on to Temple-bar were then like the straggling lines of houses in an overgrown village. The barred and stanchioned windows were there even then, and a few stragglers were gazing up at them curiously. Grim old windows, they have shut in many a wild and guilty heart. Many an eye has looked at them almost all the long night, until the cold, gray morning paled between the bars. A few hours more, and the sea of heads surging underneath, and the fierce uplifted faces of men and women, come to see the execution, and the feet upon the iron platform, and the drop, and the quivering rope, and the excited whisper among the throng- and the soul gone out to meet its God. But on the morning of which we speak, we do not pass into the desperado's room, where the rogue, the highwayman, and murderer are congregated. There were then no jail committees, no kind chaplains and lactometers, no prison discipline, no Mr. Halls and Captain Maconochies, no graduated dietary, no ventilation. Through the long passages, strewed with filthy rushes; through stenches, that of bad fish predominating-stenches that feed fat the pestilence that walketh in darkness, we pass into a little cell. Pause at the iron gate with reverence. There is calmly sleeping the first champion of the Reformed Church, the first martyr of English Protestantism, John Rogers. A step glides into the room. It is the keeper's wife. The prisoner sleeps soundly, for he is at peace with God, and the angels are watching over his head. "Awake, haste, prepare yourself for the fire." "Then," says the martyr with a quiet smile, "if it be so, I need not tie my points." He is taken from Newgate, first to Bonner for degradation. He meekly beseeches a few words with his wife before the burning, but is answered with a scowl. Meanwhile, the procession is formed for Smithfield. The sheriffs walk along with their wands of office; the gruff halberdiers are there, trampling round the pinioned prisoner; priests from the Abbey, apprentices from the Fleet, yeomen from the Tower, merchants from the Change, watermen from the Strand, mingle with the crowd. But there is a sound of sobbing among them. A mother appears with a babe at her breast, and ten little ones going, and weeping by her side. It is the prisoner's wife. Come, good John, a free pardon,

and go home with thy honest wife and
little ones; only renounce thy heresy."
Patience, stout and godly heart. A few
minutes more, and the pangs of death will
be over; and the eyes will have opened
on the land where there are no more tears,
and the ransomed spirit have received the
crown of life. Meanwhile, he can leave
her nothing but that heart-touching paper
found in a dark corner of his cell.
« Ο
God! be good to this poor and most hon-
est wife, being a poor stranger; and all my
little souls, hers and my children; whom,
with all the whole faithful and true Cath-
olic congregation of Christ, the Lord of
life and death, save, keep, and defend in
all the troubles and assaults of this vain
world, and bring at the last to everlasting
salvation, the true and sure inheritance of
all crossed Christians. Amen. Amen."
But listen. A voice is hushing the noisy
throng. It is a psalm which John Rogers
sings as he goes. "Have mercy upon me,
O God! according to thy loving kindness;
wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity,
and cleanse me from my sin. Purge me
with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash
me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

Or, opening the Psalms again, almost at hazard, the Thirty-first attracts observation. To those who are intimately acquainted with the reign of Henry the Eighth, that Psalm may recall the fourth of May, 1535. On that day John Haughton, Prior of the Charter-house, was brought out to Tyburn to suffer for refusing to acknowledge the royal supremacy, as then defined. That noble face, of almost feminine beauty, was pale, but not with terror. The ropes that fastened him to the dreadful hurdle could not disguise the symmetry of his slight and graceful figure. That fair frame was animated by a gentle spirit. Haughton was not a Protestant; but to him, as to More and Fisher, every Protestant may afford a sigh. In an age when the vices of the Romish priesthood cried to heaven for vengeance; when their most flagitious offenses were expiated by a fine of a few shillings, or by carrying a taper in a procession; when the monasteries were full of men who had exchanged the hair shirt for fine linen, and a diet of bread or vegetables, with small beer or water, for fat capons, and big-bellied tuns of sherry and sack-Haughton set an example of severe virtue in his own person, and insisted upon regularity in the house over

which he presided. The most Protestant | his spirit? His last written words were of our historians is the one who has done a meditation on the Thirty-first Psalm. the fullest justice to this Carthusian. His Doubt and joy alternate until the third execution is historically remarkable, be- verse "Thou art my rock and my fortcause it was the first occasion on which ress; therefore, for thy name's sake, lead the dress of a Romish ecclesiastic was ever me and guide me." On this verse he exbrought to the stake. This, one can not presses his perfect peace. But he stops; regret; for it was a sign to the world for at that point his writing materials were that the domination of a foreign priest- rudely taken from him. hood was over in England forever, and that the minister of religion must exhibit the regularity or pay the penalty of a citizen. But we may regret that, when the storm came, it swept away one of the few flowers of holiness that yet lingered on the mouldering walls of the English monasteries. As he knelt down on the scaffold his closing words were taken from the Thirty-ed cavaliers, and the horn has wakened first Psalm, verses one to five: with these words he made the last sign to the executioners.

Another recollection occurs to us in connection with this Psalm. It is nearly forty years before the last - the 22d of May, 1498. This time the scene is not where the bloody arm of Haughton hung over the old archway of the Charterhouse; not in London, but in Florence. This May is not over the yellow Thames, but by the sunny Arno, under the blue sky of Italy. And the victim is Savonarola. Nine years before, he had been preaching near this spot, in the garden of the cloister at San Marco, under a shrubbery of Damascus roses; and his subject had been the Revelation of St. John. Upon the assembled multitude, used to hear scraps of Aristotle and Plato, and the school logic, that pure scriptural exposition had fallen like spray-drops from the river of God; and as the preacher spoke of the love of Christ, the tears rolled along his cheeks, and the hardest hearts melted like snow. Not many years after, Luther himself published Savonarola's "Exposition of Several Psalms," with a preface, in which he recognized the Monk of Florence as one like-minded with himself. Now the great orator has come forth, not to preach, but to die. He had endured long imprisonment; his delicate nerves had felt the tortures of the Inquisition; he had been bound to a pillar by a cord, and suddenly let fall; hot coals had been burned under his feet; and now, with the iron round his neck, and fastened to a fagot, that he might experience at once a double pang, he is quite calm. On what hidden bread has he been feeding

We have, perhaps, tarried too long beside the stake and gibbet. Take another scene-other Psalms. The place is Versailles; the time, the reign of Louis Quatorze, about the year 1705. All is splendor, for a magnificent ball is to be given. In the morning the hunters have gone out, train after train of splendidly-mount

the echoes of the chase. In the sunny
afternoon, the lords and ladies have
lounged along the walks, and by the ter-
races, through long arcades of poplars
and cypress, by jars of exquisite flowers.
On they pass, laughing, by the marble
fountain, in those rich and stately dresses,
which the chinas and fans of the time
have made familiar to us.
The young
Duchess of Burgundy is gayest and bright-
est there. But where is her lord, the
heir-apparent to the throne, and grandson
to the king? He sits away in his private
apartment, far from scenes in which he
finds nothing congenial. Our readers
will easily find the sketch of his character,
as given by St. Simon, or may read it in
that exquisite book, Vinet's "History of
French Literature." Originally subject to
transports of passion which made him an
object of terror- ungovernable in the
pursuit of pleasure, sarcastic and over-
bearing-between the age of eighteen
and twenty he had heard that mysterious
voice, which speaks in courts as well as
elsewhere-which may be muffled, but is
not lost in the folds of a corrupt church
and a ceremonial religion. The young
prince was withdrawing himself from the
din of pleasures, whose unsatisfying na-
ture he had discovered.
He could say,
with one of old-

"The heart is restless ever,
Until it finds rest in Thee."

Could we see the little book in his hand, which Fenelon has given him, we should find that he has been reading and weeping over the Seven Psalms which have been called Penitential.

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