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there can be no peace with God unless there is no literature. Had a great mind vaguely good-will to man, no escape from fear but in bestirred itself, it would have been of no avail; it the sentiments of love and obedience. A people would have been buried alive in the little village that passed from superstition into crime would community. But hardly could there have been inevitably return-passion-led-back to super- any thing great. Men would never have comstition.

bined but for some quiet domestic purpose, some "If here I do not enlarge on the immense business of the flock and the farmyard. There value of the teaching of Christianity, and would have been no great projects, no great especially how it is tending to bring all man- ideas, no palaces, no temples, and the gods kind into feelings of union and a common inter- themselves would have been dwarfed into mere est, and disposing the wealthy to do whatever household deities, and the patrons of a harvestlies in their power, consistently with the stabi- home. lity of society, for the welfare of the working “How much we owe to war in this province classes—it is because I should be only repeating of religion, has not been generally perceived, what so many others have said far more elo- nor the nature of the debt. The passions of quently than I could say it.”—Pp. 569-571. the combat are so preëminently violent—the

fate of battles so uncertain--the victory so inOne passage in this section, which treats tensely desired—that war could not fail both of the influence of war in favoring-yes, to promote the worship of the god and to degood reader, do not start—in favoring termine the character of the god who was worthe growth and greatness of nations, is of shiped. It intensified religion, which else (exso suggestive a complexion that we must cept under certain occasional circumstances) make room for it. We quote it without might have been little better than a poet's

dream."-Pp. 565. 566. comment:

"The dangers, and the passions, and the On the whole, we accept Mr. Smith's heroism of war, are courted, chanted, applauded volume as a faithful exposition of modern amongst us. And it is right it should be so thought on many grave questions, so far War is still inevitable. The advanced nations of the earth would be trodden under foot by asmuch as the work does not, to our think

as it goes. We say, so far as it goes, inthose less advanced, if they were not as powerful in war as they are skillful in the arts of ing, get to the bottom of its subject, and peace.

does not in consequence embrace all that "Every satirist, every moralist, every preacher is needful as a remedy for the evils which declaims against war. I accept this general it investigates, and which it aims to redenunciation as prophetic that it will one day move. The great malady of our nature, cease. Meanwhile, this most flagrant of our that which theologians understand by the evils, and fiercest of our joys, has been our starting-point and stimulant along every line term sin, is not apprehended as it is. Évanof progress you can mention. To war, as I gelical truth, accordingly, if not openly have said, we owe the Nation, and without this opposed, is quietly ignored. As the result, great union man would have remained intellect changes are expected from causes which ually a mere dwarf. It gave us the city and are not adequate to produce them. But the empire. Had there been no large assem- the mind of our time is, to a large extent, blage of men kept together by the sentiment presented in this book, and presented of a common safety, or a common power, there with much clearness and intelligence. We would have been no great enterprise, and a few great thoughts. The languages of the earth have read the work with interest, and the would have been innumerable. Each tribe extracts we have given will enable the would have spoken its own dialect, and have reader to judge as to the expediency of been shut up within it. There would have been making himself better acquainted with it.

From Colburn's New Monthly.



Come Valor! with thy dauntless, Spartan brow, And ere his honors and his bays
And iron arm, and steadfast mind;

Have reached him in that crimsoned land, Come, Fame ! with drooping wreaths of cypress The sword hath fallen from his hand; now

Powerless the iron, veteran limb, Around thy trumpet twined;

The victory-blazing eye is dim, O Victory! eagle-eyed, exultant-come!

Broken the staff that formed our trust, Cease thy loud shout, and hush thy rolling And India's hero soulless dust.

Turn from the flying horde,

Clive and Cornwallis ! ye were mighty names,
Put up thy crimson sword;

Halo'd with immortality-behold
Reverse the thirsty spear,

As great a hero here: his deathless claims
And mourn a moment here.

Are stained not by Ambition, lust of gold. Religion! gentlest daughter of the skies, Long years he served his country, patient rose Love on thy lip, and heaven within thine eyes, Up the steep ladder of his great renown, And charity o'erflowing thy pure breast,

Gentle, beloved by all, save England's foes : Still looking from vexed Earth to lands of rest, His smile wrought more than other warriors' Come with thy breath of heavenly balm,

frown. Thine every look instilling calm!

Then, too, that loftier secret of success, All bend, all sorrowing bend, above the grave, That source of fortitude, calm trust and Where sleeps, in glory's arms, the good, the


He looked to Heaven, and prayed that Heaven Did ever hero win a laurel crown,

would bless Deserving, without seeking, proud renown;

His country's armies, battling for the right: Did ever hero claim a nation's tear,

He drew his sword, but, with its flash, a prayer A world's lament above his honored bier, For strength, for guidance, mounted on the air. 'Tis he, 'tis he, who greatly sleepeth here!

Spirit of History! rise! Yes, he who had escaped, with charméd life,

Tell to the earth and skies, The fierce assault, the conflict hot,

In everlasting story, The hissing, death-winged cannon-shot,

This war of shame and glory;
Still sharing danger, foremost in the strife;

Seize, seize thy pen and write,
Who stood the fire from Ghuznee's walls, In letters of fixed light,
Unscathed amidst the rain of balls;

As every letter were
Who met, at bloody Sobraon,

A star of radiance there,
The proud-plumed hosts careering on, To shine undimmed, while ages roll
And twice beneath him saw his steed, Their thickening clouds across thy scroll,
At fearful Moodkee, sink and bleed ;* The name of him who lies so lowly here
Who when the rebel-spirit rose, The name we utter with a gushing tear-
And late-sworn friends turned traitor- The name of India's saviour-the great name

Our children's children shall repeat with
And Murder raised her demon yell,

pride, And India seemed a maddening hell, Casting a lustre e'en on Britain's fame, Rushed, like a Cæsar, an avenging flame, The veteran's idol, and the stripling's guide;

Before the few the many doomed to flee; Till Havelock, a household word, be shrined, Till Terror, shade-like, followed his great name, Valor's untarnished gem, in every mind.

His very march a victory!
He who thus kept, through many a bloody fray, Rest warrior ! rest! we need not weep for thee,
Grim, hovering Death, insatiate

Death, at bay, Walking the fields of immortality,

Thy crown is brighter than the laurel here; To that pale specter, Valor's deadliest foe: Thou marvel'st, haply, at our falling tear. And ere his work so well begun,

For iron helm, the amaranth binds thy brow, His glorious mission all was done;

For cannon's roar, rise songs of rapture now; And ere his grateful country's praise,

For plains of blood, heaven's bowers around

thee bloom; In the battle of Moodkee, Havelock had two Rest, warrior! rest! our hearts shall be thy horses shot under him.

tomb !

From the Dublin University Magazine.


We have often thought that a work of is both a philosopher and historian, and no ordinary interest might be written yet not utterly deficient in imagination. upon the historical and biographical asso Still, placing at the highest the influciations which are connected with the ences and associations connected with the world's few great books. Take Aristotle writings of these intellectual monarchs, and Plato, for instance. What a multi- under whose banners it has been said that tude of recollections are entwined with every mind may be ranged, how few and their writings, if we confine ourselves feeble are they compared with the influonly to the revival of European literature ences which cluster round every portion consequent upon the taking of Constanti- of the Inspired Volume! Let us imagine, nople, and the few antecedent and subse- that in the process of science a book should quent centuries. The deep and dense be executed by such marvelous materials, ignorance of the Latin Church - the lite- that on blank leaves inserted for the purrary splendor of Mohammedanism -- the pose, the sunbeam should etch every face philosophy of Aristotle, filtered to Christ that hung over the page until it became a endom through two layers of Arabic and self-illustrated work, a magic gallery of Latin - the Platonic ardor of Marsilio pictured shadows. Something like this is Ficino, founding, under Cosmo de Medici, the Bible read in the light of history and a university of Platonic idealism in Flo- biography. In their radiance, it becomes rence—the lordly philosophic romance of a book from whose every page, and alJohn Pico, of Mirandola, projecting a most every text, the eyes of the great and tournament and festival of philosophers at sainted dead are looking into ours. Here, Rome, in which he was to defend nine then, we find Photographs for our Bibles; hundred Platonic theses against all and we purpose to give illustrations of comers, whose expenses he would pay Scripture by history and biography – to from any distance - the great antagonist adduce texts, or passages of the Bible, of Peripateticism, Peter Ramus, assassin- intertwined by the law of association, with ated, disemboweled, and dragged through historical names and events in the annals the streets of Paris on the night of St. of the Christian Church, Bartholomew, not so much because he The due development of this subject was suspected of being a Huguenot, as would require volumes. It would demand because he was known to be a Platonist a knowledge of ecclesiastical history, for - the pale and visionary brow of Gior- which the acquirements of Mr. Stanley, dano Bruno (the poet of that Pantheistic or our own elegant and learned Dr. Lee, system of absolute unity of which Spinoza would not be more than sufficient. Our is the geometrician)* looking upon us readers will be content, however, if we from the fire in the Champs de Flore, be- group, almost at random, a few of those fore the theater of Pompey—the tall and pictured shapes to which we have alluded erect figure of the elder Scaliger, his-if we point out, and sketch, even with royal and august face, bronzed with the rough and hasty hand, a few of the faces suns and storms of many campaigns, now which history has etched on the margin bent over the words “ sweeter than nec of Sacred Writ. tar, clearer than the sun,” of Aristotle; To begin, then, at once, open the Bible, these, and a thousand other thoughts and at the Fifty-first Psalm. 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. Prison stands out dark and sullen in the We commend our idea to some one who winter morning. The streets that now

barricade it — the thoroughfare through * We borrow M. Cousin's happy expression.

which the cabs and omnibusses, and all

the roaring waves of city life pass on to and go home with thy honest wife and Temple-bar — were then like the strag- little ones; only renounce thy heresy.” gling lines of houses in an overgrown vil- | Patience, stout and godly heart. A few lage. The barred and stanchioned win- minutes more, and the pangs of death will dows were there even then, and a few be over; and the eyes will have opened stragglers were gazing up at them curi- on the land where there are no more tears, ously. Grim old windows, they have shut and the ransomed spirit have received the in many a wild and guilty heart. Many crown of life. Meanwhile, he can leave an eye has looked at them almost all the her nothing but that heart-touching paper long night, until the cold, gray morning found in a dark corner of his cell. "O paled between the bars. A few hours God! be good to this poor and most honmore, and the sea of heads surging under est wife, being a poor stranger; and all my neath, and the fierce uplifted faces of men little souls, hers and my children ; whom, and women, come to see the execution, with all the whole faithful and true Cathand the feet upon the iron platform, and olic congregation of Christ, the Lord of the drop, and the quivering rope, and the life and death, save, keep, and defend in excited whisper among the throng — and all the troubles and assaults of this vain the soul gone out to meet its God. But world, and bring at the last to everlasting on the morning of which we speak, we do salvation, the true and sure inheritance of not pass into the desperado's room, where all crossed Christians. Amen. Amen." the rogue, the highwayman, and murderer But listen. A voice is hushing the noisy are congregated. There were then no throng. It is a psalm which John Rogers jail committees, no kind chaplains and sings as he goes. “Have mercy upon me, lactometers, no prison discipline, no Mr. O God! according to thy loving kindness; Halls and Captain Maconochies, no grad-wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, uated dietary, no ventilation. Through and cleanse me from my sin. Purge me the long passages, strewed with filthy with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash rushes; through stenches, that of bad me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” fish predominating—stenches that feed fat Or, opening the Psalms again, almost the pestilence that walketh in darkness, at hazard, the Thirty-first attracts obserwe pass into a little cell. Pause at the vation. To those who are intimately aciron gate with reverence. There is calm- quainted with the reign of Henry the ly sleeping the first champion of the Re-Eighth, that Psalm may recall the fourth formed Church, the first martyr of English of May, 1535. On that day John HaughProtestantism, John Rogers. A step ton, Prior of the Charter-house, was glides into the room. It is the keeper's brought out to Tyburn to suffer for rewife. The prisoner sleeps soundly, for he fusing to acknowledge the royal supremais at peace with God, and the angels are cy, as then defined. That noble face, of watching over his head. “Awake, baste, almost feminine beauty, was pale, but not prepare yourself for the fire.” “Then,” with terror. The ropes that fastened him says the martyr with a quiet smile, “if it to the dreadful hurdle could not disguise be so, I need not tie my points.” He is the symmetry of his slight and graceful taken from Newgate, first to Bonner for figure. That fair frame was animated by degradation. He meekly beseeches a few a gentle spirit. Haughton was not a words with his wife before the burning, Protestant; but to him, as to More and but is answered with a scowl. Meanwhile, Fisher, every Protestant may afford a the procession is formed for Smithfield. sigh. In an age when the vices of the The sheriffs walk along with their wands Romish priesthood cried to heaven for of office; the gruff halberdiers are there, vengeance; when their most flagitious trampling round the pinioned prisoner; offenses were expiated by a fine of a few priests from the Abbey, apprentices from shillings, or by carrying a taper in a prothe Fleet, yeomen from the Tower, mer- cession; when the monasteries were full chants from the Change, watermen from of men who had exchanged the hair shirt the Strand, mingle with the crowd. But for fine linen, and a diet of bread or there is a sound of sobbing among them. vegetables, with small beer or water, for A mother appears with a babe at her fat capons, and big-bellied tuns of sherry breast, and ten little ones going, and and sack - Haughton set an example of weeping by her side. It is the prisoner's severe virtue in his own person, and inwife. “Come, good John, a free pardon, sisted 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 we have, perhaps, tarried too long the minister of religion must exhibit the beside the stake and gibbet. Take another regularity or pay the penalty of a citizen. scene-other Psalms. The place is VerBut we may regret that, when the storm sailles; the time, the reign of Louis Quacame, it swept away one of the few flowers torze, about the year 1705. All is splenof holiness that yet lingered on the moul- dor, for a magnificent ball is to be given. dering walls of the English monasteries. In the morning the hunters have gone As he knelt down on the scaffold his out, train after train of splendidly-mountclosing words were taken from the Thirty-ed cavaliers, and the horn has wakened first Psalm, verses one to five: with these the echoes of the chase. In the sunny words he made the last sign to the exe- afternoon, the lords and ladies have cutioners.

lounged along the walks, and by the terAnother recollection occurs to us in races, through long arcades of poplars connection with this Psalm. It is nearly and cypress, by jars of exquisite flowers. forty years before the last — the 22d of On they pass, laughing, by the marble May, 1498. This time the scene is not fountain, in those rich and stately dresses, where the bloody arm of Haughton hung which the chinas and fans of the time over the old archway of the Charter- have made familiar to us. The young house; not in London, but in Florence. Duchess of Burgundy is gayest and brightThis May is not over the yellow Thames, est there. But where is her lord, the but by the sunny Arno, under the blue heir-apparent to the throne, and grandson sky of Italy. And the victim is Savona- to the king? He sits away in his private rola. Nine years before, he had been apartment, far from scenes in which he preaching near this spot, in the garden of finds notbing congenial. Our readers the cloister at San Marco, under a shrub- will easily find the sketch of his character, bery of Damascus roses; and his subject as given by St. Simon, or may read it in had been the Revelation of St. John. that exquisite book, Vinet's “ History of Upon the assembled multitude, used to French Literature.” Originally subject to hear scraps of Aristotle and Plato, and transports of passion which made him an the school logic, that pure scriptural ex- object of terror — ungovernable in the position had fallen like spray-drops from pursuit of pleasure, sarcastic and overthe river of God; and as the preacher bearing—between the age of eighteen spoke of the love of Christ, the tears rolled and twenty he had heard that mysterious along his cheeks, and the hardest hearts voice, which speaks in courts as well as melted like snow. Not many years after, elsewhere—which may be muffled, but is Luther himself published Savonarola's not lost in the folds of a corrupt church “Exposition of Several Psalms,” with a and a ceremonial religion. The young prefáce, in which he recognized the Monk prince was withdrawing himself from the of Florence as one like-minded with him- din of pleasures, whose unsatisfying naself. Now the great orator has come ture he had discovered. He could say, forth, not to preach, but to die. He had with one of oldendured long imprisonment; his delicate nerves had felt the tortures of the Inqui

" The heart is restless ever, sition; he had been bound to a pillar by

Until it finds rest in Thee." a cord, and suddenly let fall; hot coals had been burned under his feet; and now, Could we see the little book in his hand, with the iron round his neck, and fastened which Fenelon has given him, we should to a fagot, that he might experience at find that he has been reading and weeping once a double pang, he is quite calm. On over the Seven Psalms which have been what hidden bread has he been feeding I called Penitential.

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