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It is not impossible that time and lenient measures might have conciliated the nation to Episcopacy! But impatient and short-sighted rulers let loose an infuriated soldiery, which made little distinction between friend or foe; till partly in self-defence, partly in the madness of despair, the nation rose against its rulers, and that church, in whose name they perpetrated their enormities.

This is an interesting work, in many points of view, and ought to find its way very generally into the scholar's library.

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ter entreating Morton, in a brief note, never to make any farther enquiries concerning her fate. While matters are in this state of uncertainty, Morton goes to London, where he mixes with the wits of the day; visits Wills' coffeehouse; becomes acquainted with Bolingbroke; and finally discovers his mistress in an obscure lodging in the suburbs, where her father is confined to a sick-bed. The old man, who has been accused of a share in the revolutionary politics of the day, dies; and Morton marries Isora privately. Shortly after, he is summoned to the death-bed of his generous old uncle, with whom he was always the favourite, and whose extensive property it was expected would be bequeathed solely to him. On Sir William's death, however, it is discovered that the will confers the whole estates on Gerald, with the exception of some inferior bequests in money, to Morton and his brother Aubrey. This strengthens his suspicions of Gerald's dishonesty, and he openly accuses him of having forged the instrument. His anger, however, is of no avail; Gerald takes possession of the manor, and soon after Aubrey dies. Morton now publicly solemnizes his marriage. On the morning of the ceremony, a stranger calls upon him, and

By the goddesses! as the author of " Virginius" says, there is metal in Mr Lytton Bulwer. Our readers may perhaps recollect that we reviewed his last work, "The Disowned," at some length, and that we then gave him credit for a good deal of unpruned genius, and vigorous, though by no means very correct, habits of thinking. We now liken him to a mountain stream, running a rapid and turbid course, but gradually becoming smooth-places in his hand a packet, containing a statement of the er and more pellucid as it proceeds on its way. There are many faults, but there are also many beauties, in the novel before us. The faults are principally those of an immature judgment,—the beauties are those of a man of genins. Our readers will be better able to understand any critical remarks we may feel inclined to make, after we have presented them with a short account of the plot and leading incidents of " Devereux." As there is nothing we hate more than the labour of writing out this analysis ourselves, we prefer rather giving it in the words, slightly altered, of one of our London contemporaries who has already executed the task.

whole fraud practised upon him in the false will, but exacts from him a solemn promise that he will not open it for seven days. To this condition Morton accedes, and goes to his bride to relate the new prospect of a change in his affairs. The sequel of this communication, and the scene that follows, which is a striking and powerful one, we give in the author's words :—

"It was past midnight. All was hushed in our bridal chamber. The single lamp, which hung above, burnt still and clear; and through the half-closed curtains of the window, the moonlight looked in upon our couch, quiet, and pure, and holy, as if it were charged with blessings. "Hush!' said Isora, gently; 'do you not hear a noise below?'

"I listened my sense of hearing is naturally duller than my other senses. Not a breath," said I. I hear not a breath, save yours.'

"It was my fancy, then!' said Isora, and it has ceased now;' and she clung closer to my breast and fell asleep. I looked on her peaceful and childish countenance, with that concentrated and full delight, with which we clasp all that the universe holds dear to us, and feel as if the universe held nought beside-and thus sleep also crept upon me.

The hero, Morton, Count Devereux, is his own biographer. He flourished in the age of wits and rakesthe era of Addison, Bolingbroke, and Steele; the Augustan epoch of Pope and Swift. The period is well chosen for the display of the author's reading, which is extensive, although not profound. Sir Arthur Devereux, the grandfather of the hero, was a gentleman allied to several branches of the nobility, and possessing in his own right a princely fortune. His eldest son, William, succeeds to his estates, being more fortunate than his brother, who, after distinguishing himself in the French service, dies a marshal of France, leaving his widow and three sons, of whom Morton Devereux is the eldest, dependent upon Sir William. These three sons are distinguished by different temperaments, Morton being satirical, talented, and contradictory in his habits and tastes; Gerald remarkable for his manliness and beauty; and Aubrey for his early piety and delicacy of frame. The three boys are sent to school by their whimsical and warm-hearted old uncle, where they quickly develope a cordial dislike, amounting almost to a mutual hatred, which is fanned into flame by the cunning arts of a Jesuit, the family confessor, Julian Montreuil, a man secretly mixed up in the intrigues then going forward to restore the exiled race to the throne of England. After he has left school, Morton meets accidentally an old Spanish refugee and his daughter, Isora, who reside in his immediate neighbourhood. He falls in love with the lady, whose tender and affectionate character is beautifully described and sustained throughout. A mystery, however, haunts the Spaniards. A stranger, named Barnard, is a secret visitor at their cottage, and Isora is bound by an oath not to reveal who he is, or to betray the object of his stolen interviews. From some suspicious circumstances which transpire, Morton is led to believe that this Bar-gonist, if less sinewy than myself, had greatly the advantage nard is his brother Gerald, who in that disguise seeks to in weight and size. Now for one moment I was upperpoison the mind, and rob him of the affections, of his first most, but in the next his knee was upon my chest, and his blade gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp and love. Natural aversion turns now into black hate-and moon. I thought I beheld my death-would to God that Morton vows revenge against his supposed enemy. At I had! With a piercing cry, Isora sprang from the bed, length, the Spaniard and his daughter disappear, the lat-flung herself before the lifted blade of the robber, and ar

I

"I awoke suddenly; I felt Isora trembling palpably by my side. Before I could speak to her, I saw, standing at a little distance from the bed, a man wrapt in a long dark cloak, and masked; but his eyes shone through the mask, He stood with his arms and they glared full upon me. folded, and perfectly motionless; but at the other end of the room, before the escritoire in which I had locked the important packet, stood another man, also masked, and wrapped in a disguising cloak of similar hue and fashion. This man, as if alarmed, turned suddenly, and I perceived then that the escritoire was already opened, and that the packet was in his hand. I tore myself from Isora's grasp stretched my hand to the table by my bedside; upon which my sword was always left: it was gone! No matter!-I was young, strong, fierce, and the stake at hazard was great. I sprung from the bed; I precipitated myself upon the man who held the packet. With one hand I grasped at the important document, with the other I strove to tear the mask from the robber's face. He endeavoured rather to shake me off than to attack me; and it was not till I had nearly succeeded in unmasking him, that he drew forth a short poniard, and stabbed me in the side. The blow, gered me, but only for an instant. I renewed my gripe at which seemed purposely aimed to avoid a mortal part, stagthe packet-I tore it from the robber's hand, and collecting my strength, now fast ebbing away, for one effort, I bore my assailant to the ground, and fell, struggling with him. "But my blood flowed fast from my wound, and my anta

rested his arm. This man had, in the whole contest, acted with a singular forbearance-he did so now-he paused for a moment, and dropped his hand. Hitherto, the other man had not stirred from his mute position: he now moved one step towards us, brandishing a poniard like his comrade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly towards him, and cried out-Spare him, spare him!-Oh, mercy, mercy! With one stride the ruffian was by my side: he muttered some words which passion seemed to render inarticulate, and half pushing aside his comrade, his raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim and reeling-I made a vain effort to rise -the blade descended-Isora, unable to arrest it, threw herself before it her blood, her heart's blood, gushed over me -I saw and felt no more.

"When I recovered my senses, my servants were round me-a deep red wet stain upon the sofa on which I was laid, brought the whole scene I had witnessed again before me-terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet, and asked for Isora; a low murmur caught my ear-I turned, and beheld a dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded like myself by gazers and menials. I tottered towards that bed, my bridal bed-I motioned, with a fierce gesture, the crowd away-I heard my name breathed audibly-the next moment I was by Isora's side. All pain-all weaknessall consciousness of my wound-of my very self, were gone -life seemed curdled into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes upon hers; and though there the film was gathering dark and rapidly, I saw, yet visible and unconquered, the deep love of that faithful and warm heart which had lavished its life for mine.

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"I threw my arins round her-I pressed my lips wildly to hers. 'Speak-speak!' I cried, and my blood gushed over her with the effort; in mercy, speak!'

"Even in death and agony, the gentle being, who had been as wax unto my lightest wish, struggled to obey me. Do not grieve for me,' she said, in a tremulous and broken voice: it is dearer to die for you than to live!' "Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly The heart, pressed to mine, was still! I started up in dismay-the light shone full upon her face. O God! that I should live to write that Isora was-no more!"Vol. II. pp 129-34.

cease.

ought unquestionably to have ended with the death of
Isora; for she is the personage in whom the reader is by
far the most interested, both on her own account, and
from her connexion with the hero. Her character is
well drawn, not so much in consequence of what she is
made to do, as in consequence of what the author says
about her. This is probably one of the leading distinc-
tions between an intelligent young writer and one of ma-
turer years. The first puts himself in the place of his
dramatis persona, and thinks a great deal for them; the
latter keeps altogether in the background, and makes the
beings he has called into existence act and speak for
We have not yet, however, sufficiently ex-
themselves.
plained our opinion of "Devereux," which we shall do
in a very few words.

The leading faults of the novel are, 1st, A want of unity of design, so palpable, that we question whether Mr Bulwer ever had any distinct notion, after he had finished one chapter, of what was to be in the next; and, at all events, we are sure that he had no regular plan spread out before him, like a map, at the commencement. 2d, An affectation of being familiar with several subjects, on which it may easily be discovered he is only slightly informed. 3d, A straining after effect, and a much more evident anxiety to be brilliant than to be judicious. 4th, The introduction of so many eminent persons, whether in the literary or political world, that, so far from being able to do justice to them all, little more, at an average, than a few pages is allotted to each; and, in point of fact, the trick can be called little else than a tolerably ingenious expedient to make a few splendid names bear out a commonplace dialogue, when it is obvious that the dialogue ought to be worthy of the celebrity of the speakers. It is a peculiarly hazardous, and not a very advisable attempt, for a young author, to undertake to put language into the mouths of all the wits of the reigns of Queen Anne and George I., and of all the statesmen, poets, and philosophers of the court of Louis XIV. It need not be matter of surprise that Mr Bulwer has, in many instances, egregiously failed.

Morton now seeks relief in travel. He accompanies Lord Bolingbroke in his flight from England; goes to the court of France; again plunges into society; meets all the French wits; is presented to Louis Quatorze ; The merits of "Devereux," however, are no less conmakes a friendship with the regent, Philip of Orleans; spicuous than its faults; and they are of a nature which, makes an enemy of the celebrated Dubois; and, on the taking it for all in all, incline us to look upon it as the pretext of an embassy to the court of Peter the Great, is best novel of the season. What we chiefly like about our sent out of France. In Russia he mixes with the mari- author is, that upon every occasion he thinks for himner-monarch, and the statesmen of Catherine's court; self; and that he can, whenever he chooses, open a vein until at last, growing sick of life, with his usual incon- of fresh and strong thought, which does not soon exhaust sistency, he retires to Italy to ruminate and die. Here itself. He despises the common drivel of the ordinary he meets a hermit, who has led for some years a most novel-writer; and, when he is unsuccessful, it is by atascetic life in a forest. This hermit entrusts him with tempting too much, not by being content with too little. a MS., containing a history of his past life, by which He is very versatile also;-he is often eloquent, and as Morton makes the unexpected discovery, that in the per- often humorous; he excels in pathos, and his descripson of the hermit, now dying, he is reunited to his bro- tions are always graphic. With these recommendations, ther Aubrey, supposed to be dead; and that his brother when time has purged away still more of the dross of inAubrey, having been himself attached to Isora, was the experience, we do think that he will present us with some tormentor who so long tortured him under the disguise works of lasting popularity, and of much more sustained of Barnard, was the forger of the will, and the murderer excellence. It strikes us, that there is a good deal of reof his wife. Having obtained a clew to trace the access- semblance between the style of Mr Bulwer and that of ories of these merciless deeds, and learning that Mon- the author of "Vivian Grey." We wonder what has betreuil, the Jesuit, was the instigator of the ingenious vil- come of the latter ;-there are scenes in "Vivian Grey" lainies, Morton returns to England, determined to dis- which Bulwer has never equalled. We shall conclude cover his foe, take ample revenge, and make due atone- these remarks with two extracts, of a different nature, ment to the injured Gerald. He tracks Montreuil to his but both of which place the writer in a favourable point retreat, by the aid of an accomplice in his schemes, and of view. The first is a letter from the uncle of the hero, the work ends with the book of the Jesuit. Sir William Devereux, whose character is more vividly hit off than any other in the book. It may be entitled,

It will now be perceived that this work might, with greater propriety, be entitled "The Life and Times of Count Devereux," than a Novel. From the middle of the second volume, to nearly the conclusion of the third, there does not oceur an incident which, in so far as the main plot is concerned, might not with equal propriety have been left out. The truth is, judging by this and his previous production, Mr Bulwer's forte does not lie in the conducting of a story. In both instances he manages his tale very unskilfully. In "Devereux," the novel

ADVICE REGARDING MATRIMONY.

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"'Sdeath! nephew Morton!-But I won't scold thee, though thou deservest it. Let me see; thou art now scarce twenty, and thou talkest of marriage, which is the exclusive business of middle-age, as familiarly as girls of thirteen do of puppy dogs.' Marry! go hang thyself rather. Marriage, my dear boy, is at the best a treacherous proceeding; and a friend-a true friend-will never counsel another to adopt it rashly. Look you-I have had experience in these matters: and I think the moment a woman is wedded, some

terrible revolution happens in her system; all her former you would have wept not for your own,-over whose pure good qualities vanish, hey presto, like eggs out of a conjuror's and unvexed sleep you have watched and prayed,and, as it box,-'tis true, they appear on t'other side of the box, the lay before you thus still and unconscious of your vigil, have side turned to other people,-but for the poor husband, they shaped out, oh! such bright hopes for its future lot,-would are gone for ever. Ödd's fish, Morton, go to! I tell thee you not rather that, while thus innocent and young, not a again, that I have had experience in these matters, which care tasted, not a crime incurred, it went down at once into thou never hast had, clever as thou thinkest thyself. If the dark grave? Would you not rather suffer this grief, now it were a good marriage thou was't about to make bitter though it be, than watch the predestined victim grow if thou were going to wed power, and money, and places and ripen, and wind itself more and more around your at court, why, something might be said for thee. As it is, heart, and, when it is of full and mature age, and you yourthere is no excuse-none; and I am astonished how a boy self are stricken in years, and can form no new ties to of thy sense could think of such nonsense. Birth! Morton; replace the old that are severed,-when woes have already what the devil does that signify, so long as it is birth in an bowed the darling of your hopes, whom woe never was to other country? A foreign damsel, and a Spanish girl, too, touch,-when sins have already darkened the bright, seabove all others! 'Sdeath! man, as if there was not quick-raph, unclouded heart, which sin was never to dim,-behold silver enough in the English women for you; you must it sink, day by day, altered, diseased, decayed, into the tomb make a mercurial exportation from Spain, must you! Why, which its childhood had in vain escaped? Answer me! Morton-Morton, the ladies in that country are proverbial. Would not the earlier fate be far gentler than the last? I tremble at the very thought of it. But as for my consent, And if you have known and wept over that early tomb-if I never will give it-never; and though I threaten thee you have seen the infant flower fade away from the green not with disinheritance, and such like, yet I do ask some- soil of your affections-if you have missed the bounding thing in return for the great affection I have always borne step, and the laughing eye, and the winning mirth, which thee; and I make no doubt, that thou wilt readily oblige made this sterile world a perpetual holiday-mother of the me in such a trifle as giving up a mere Spanish Donna,-so lost, if you have known, and you still pine for these, anthink of her no more. If thou wantest to make love, there swer me yet again-Is it not a comfort, even while you are ladies in plenty, whom thou needest not to marry; and mourn, to think of all that that breast, now so silent, has for my part, I thought that thou wast all in all with the escaped? The cream, the sparkle, the elixir of life, it had Lady Hasselton-Heaven bless her pretty face! Now already quaffed; is it not sweet to think it shunned the don't think I want to scold thee-and don't think thine wormwood and the dregs? Answer me, even though the old uncle harsh. God knows he is not; but, my dear, dear answer be in tears! Mourner, your child was to you what boy, this is quite out of the question, and thou must let me my early and only love was to me; and could you pierce hear no more about it. The gout cripples me so, that I down, down through a thousand fathom of ebbing thought, must leave off. Ever thine own old uncle."-Vol. II. pp. to the far depths of my heart, you would there behold a sorrow and a consolation, that have something in unison with your own."-Vol. II. pp. 28-32.

7-9.

Our other quotation is of a more serious and impassioned kind. We give it as a specimen of the author's powers in this species of composition :

THOUGHTS ON PARTING FROM THOSE WE LOVE.

This is finely written, but it appears to us to illustrate one of the errors to which we have alluded, namely, that for the sake of being strong and original, Mr Bulwer has given up the higher beauty of being just and sound. We question much whether any mother would wish to see her child die young to avoid the certainty of its dying in and this is not the only instance of the kind which we the prime of life. There is sophistry in the argument; could adduce. We ought also to remark, that the book falls very much off towards the conclusion. The tame manner in which Morton Devereux receives the confession of his brother Aubrey's guilt, is a blemish we can scarcely pardon. His milk-and-water forgiveness of the villain Aubrey is an insult to the memory of Isora.

his judgment,-to study mankind as a living book, more valuable than the lore of ages,-to husband his resources, and to extend his knowledge, and, without arrogating to ourselves any extraordinary power of prophecy, we venture to foretell, that he will rise to a prominent place among the literary men of his day.

"On my arrival at Isora's, I found her already stationed at the window, watching for my coming. How her dark eyes lit into lustre when they saw me! How the rich blood mantled up under the soft cheek which feeling had refined of late into a paler hue than it was wont, when I first gazed upon it, to wear! Then how fled her light step to meet me! How trembled her low voice to welcome me! How spake, from every gesture of her graceful and modelled form, the anxious, joyful, all-animating gladness of her heart! It is a melancholy pleasure to the dry, harsh after-thoughts of later life, to think one has been thus loved; and one marvels, when one considers what one is, how it could ever have been! That love of ours was never made for after years! It could never have flowed into the common and cold channel of orBut, notwithstanding all these things, Mr Bulwer has dinary affairs! It could never have been mingled with the impressed us, and not only us, but the public generally, petty cares and the low objects with which the loves of all with a feeling of his abilities. We call upon him, therewho live long together in this sordid and most earthly fore, to go on,-to be bold in the exercise, yet diffident earth, are sooner or later blended! We could not have of the extent, of his own powers,—to cultivate assiduousspared to others an atom of the great wealth of our affec-ly all his imaginative faculties, but not at the expense of tion. We were misers of every coin in that exhaustless treasury. It would have pierced me to the soul to have seen Isora smile upon another. I know not even, had we had children, if I should not have been jealous of my child! Was this selfish love? Yes, it was intensely, wholly selfish; but it was a love made so only by its excess, nothing selfish on a smaller scale polluted it. There was not on earth that which the one would not have forfeited at the lightest desire of the other. So utterly were happiness and Isora entwined together, that I could form no momentary idea of the former, with which the latter was not connected. Was this love made for the many and miry roads through which man must travel? Was it made for age, or, worse than age, for that middle, cool, ambitious, scheming period of life, in which all the luxuriance and verdure of things are pared into tame shapes that mimic life, but a life that is estranged from nature, in which art is the only beauty, and regularity the only grace? No; in my heart of hearts I feel that our love was not meant for the stages of life through which I have already passed; it would have made us miserable to see it fritter itself away, and to remember what it once was. Better as it is! better to mourn over the green bough than to look upon the sapless stem. You, who now glance over these pages, are you a mother?—if so, answer me one question-Would you not rather that the child whom you have cherished with your soul's care,-whom you have nurtured at your bosom,-whose young joys your eyes have sparkled to behold,-whose lightest grief you have wept to witness, as

Sermons. By Ralph Wardlaw, D.D., Glasgow. Edinburgh. Adam Black. 1829. 8vo. Pp. 526.

THE leading doctrines of Christianity are few and sim

ple. They have been delineated with such clearness in the Sacred Record, and are so strikingly enforced, that even the most illiterate may comprehend their import. This extreme simplicity, which was so essential for rendering Christianity efficacious as a practical system, has been frequently deemed unfavourable for the culture of pulpit oratory. A clergyman, no doubt, uniformly handles the same facts; and, consequently, he must arrest the attention of his auditory, rather by the skilful elucidation of familiar topics, than by the powerful attraction of original theories. But then, it must be remembered that religion is not an isolated science. It is closely

of the most prominent articles of gospel truth. We have also two discourses upon good works; and a powerful argumentative sermon on the untenable nature of that objection which is frequently levelled against Christianity the inconsistencies of its professed believers. The ninth and tenth discourses explain the advantages of genuine religion; and the three concluding sermons, originally preached on public occasions, relate to divine delight in Christ.

We are much pleased with the evangelical spirit in which our author demonstrates the nature and reasonableness of true religion. He thus feelingly introduces his subject:

linked with every branch of human knowledge. It derives some of its most apposite illustrations from the different lights and shades of human character-from the mysterious combination of volitions, antipathies, and affections concentrated in the human heart—and from the varying aspects of human life. If, therefore, the perfection of eloquence consists in developing truth in its most winning form, where can it more freely expatiate than amidst the numerous and diversified themes which Christianity offers for intellectual speculation? A mere declamatory harangue, indeed, can leave no salutary impressions. Its only tendency is to please the imagination, by presenting a number of abstract thoughts, some of them, perhaps, elegantly expressed, but all of them "I might try to set religion before you, as residing in the unproductive of any permanent influence. As the re bosom, and ruling in the character, of a sinless creature,— moval of a single tessera will disorder an entire piece of a creature that has never fallen; the derived purity of the Mosaic, so the whole strength of a discourse, purely rhe-creature holding immediate and intimate fellowship with torical, will be impaired by the partial modification of the essential purity of the Creator. But not only from our mournful want of experience, would the task be difficult; its language. We would not, however, discountenance the description would not at all suit our case. Although warmth in the composition of a sermon. Far less would the religion of man, when he came in his original innocence we substitute the artificial arrangement of a dry, logical from the hand of his Maker, it would not be his religion essay, only characterized by scholastic casuistry. Perhaps the Socratic method of argumentation is, in itself, the least objectionable, though the difficulty of classifying a consecutive variety of causes, conducing to one great result, somewhat circumscribes its utility. But keeping in view the innate dignity and importance of his subject, and its immediate bearing on the immortal destinies of his flock, a clergyman ought, on all occasions, to follow that course, which, by touching their feelings, and convincing their judgments, will most effectually tend to recommend the precepts of Christianity to their cheerful acceptance and submissive obedience.

now.

"I might exhibit religion, clothed in the fascinating, but delusive, sentimentalism of romance and poetry; expatiating on the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Deity, as manifested in the wonders of creation,-wakening the sensibilities of taste, and flattering you to self-complacency, by calling them devotion,-and inviting you into the Temple of Nature, to worship at the shrine of Nature's God. I might tell you, too, of the religion (closely allied to this) of an anti-scriptural and spurious philosophy; according to which the Divine nature is all mercy,-all easy and pliant benignity, with a countenance that cannot frown, and a heart that never can bring itself to punish; and the human nature all native simplicity and goodness, though alloyed by unavoidable frailties, and too often seduced by the allurements of evil.

"But such representations would not be in harmony with the truth of things. In making them, I should be giving the lie to that book which I believe to contain the mind of God;-I should be deceiving, criminally and ruinously deceiving, the souls of my hearers, and jeoparding my own. On such subjects, subjects of which the interest is so deep, and the results depending on their truth or falsehood so vast and so permanent, there ought to be nothing but plain dealing;-no imposing disguises,-no soothing palliations of truth-but things as they are."—Pp. 251-3.

Nor is his portraiture of the happiness of religion less striking. He observes :

Our expectations were considerably excited by the announcement of the volume now before us, in consequence of the approbation with which the former productions of its author have been received, though, probably, none of these is so well entitled to praise as his latest publication. From the preface to it, we presume that the whole of the sermons have been preached er cathedra, and, of course, Dr Wardlaw's own congregation must peruse the volume with the advantage of many salutary associations, and with a full recollection of the ardent and emphatic earnestness, which imparts so great a charm to his oral delivery. But it may be also confidently affirmed, that by the public in general the present volume will be readily appreciated. We have seen many sermons more remark"It is full of interest and delight.-Did the Eden of oriable for graceful style and chaste expression, but very few ginal innocence and felicity still exist in unblighted loveliso replete with forcible reasoning and vivid exposition. ness, with all its divine garniture of sweets and beauties, There is no tedious amplification of the same ideas, artwe should not be satisfied with throwing a mere hasty and fully disguised under different forms of language. Each careless glance within its gates; we should choose to linger sentence abounds with good sense and valuable instruc- amongst its inviting scenes, to stop at every turn, to inhale In refuting any sceptical argument-in exposing Nature's melody, to let our eye repose at leisure on every every breath of passing fragrance, to listen to every note of any doctrinal error-in reprobating any prevalent vicenew variety of elegance, sublimity, or grace. So, the pleain recommending any indispensable duty-our author sures of true religion form a theme so attractive, that I candisplays both sound divinity and intimate acquaintance not dismiss it with a brief superficial notice. Í should like with the world. It has often been disputed amongst to lead you with me into this garden of God,' and to decritics, whether the model of Bourdaloue or Massilon-tain you amidst its various delights; in the hope, that of the two most eminent of French divines-is entitled to those by whom these delights have already been tasted and enjoyed, the relish for them may be heightened; and that, by the blessing of Him who has kindly planted this spiritual Eden amid the wastes of our sinful world, a taste for them may be imparted to such as are yet strangers to the experience of their excellence."-Pp. 273-4.

tion.

preference. The former has been peculiarly celebrated as a profound controversialist, without great pretensions to elegance; while the fame of the latter more immediately rests on the brilliancy of his diction and the beauty of his sentiments. The union of these somewhat opposite qualities seems to us to constitute the essential elements of a sermon; and it is the frequent blending of these in Dr Wardlaw's discourses which we would particularly commend.

The volume opens with two excellent discourses upon the text, "Christ crucified;" which are followed by a third, containing an enquiry into the cause why apostolic evidence originally failed to meet with general acceptance. The fourth sermon sets forth an able defence of the doctrine of Justification, which Luther deemed articulus stantis vel cadentis ecclesiæ, and which is undoubtedly one

Our author is a decided enemy to modern Millennarianism. His views are fully expressed in the last sermon, and the text he has prefixed to it, from the Revelations, is one of those passages principally relied on by the advocates for the system. The chief question respecting the passage is, whether it must be interpreted literally or symbolically-whether, on the one hand, the passage is to be understood of a real personal appearance and reign of the Lord Jesus Christ on earth, and of a real corporeal resurrection from the grave; or whether, on the other hand, the representation is not rather to be interpreted on the principle of prophetic symbol, as figu

ratively representing the character and condition of the Church during the period of the thousand years. Our author adduces a series of observations, tending most decidedly to prove the latter hypothesis. He justly re

marks:

that forgotten and despised science, was a late eminent professor of the art of legerdemain. One would have thought that a person of this description ought, from his knowledge of the thousand ways in which human eyes could be deceived, to have been less than others subject to the phantasies of superstition. Perhaps the habitual use of those abstruse "It ought not to be regarded as an evidence of the Mil- calculations, by which, in a manner surprising to the artist lennarian interpretation being the true one, that it accords himself, many tricks upon cards, &c. are performed, induwith the plain and literal meaning of the words. I must ced this gentleman to study the combination of the stars and not satisfy myself, indeed, with putting this merely in a planets, with the expectation of obtaining prophetic com. negative form. I go farther. It appears to me a proof of munications. He constructed a scheme of his own nativity, the very contrary. It should be recollected, that the pass-calculated according to such rules of art as he could collect age forms part of a prophetical book-of a book that is constructed on the very principle of symbol, and figurative almost throughout. Is it not, then, a fair and reasonable principle of interpretation, that this particular passage should be understood in harmony with the general character of the book? Did the words occur in an historical or epistolary composition, it would be justly pronounced unnatural -unless we were specially warned of the writer's proposed deviation from his ordinary style-to explain them symbolically. Now, in a professedly symbolical book, there is the very same force of objection against their being interpreted literally. The interpretation is not in harmony with the avowed and universally admitted style of the writer, and the principle on which his entire work is constructed. It is just as unfair to interpret prophecy on the principles of simple history, as it would be to interpret simple history by the symbols of prophecy. We might bring the force of the argument to bear still more closely. The whole of the very vision where the text lies is symbolical. We have, in the preceding verses, the Dragon,-the binding of him with a chain, and setting a seal upon him, or upon the entrance of his prison. Why, then, are we immediately to make a transition from the symbolical to the literal, from the obscure and figurative to the direct and simple,-from the style of prophecy to the style of history? Why are we, in the text, to understand literal thrones of earthly dominion, and a literal and corporeal resurrection of men to sit upon those thrones, when all around is symbolical and figurative?”Pp. 498-9.

from the best astrological authors. The result of the past he found agreeable to what had hitherto befallen him; but in the important prospect of the future, a singular difficulty occurred. There were two years, during the course of which he could by no means obtain any exact knowledge whether the subject of the scheme would be dead or alive. Anxious concerning so remarkable a circumstance, he gave the scheme to a brother astrologer, who was also baffled in the same manner. At one period, he found the native, or subject, was certainly alive; at another, that he was unquestionably dead; but a space of two years extended between these two terms, during which he could find no certainty as to his death or existence. The astrologer marked the remarkable circumstance in his Diary, and continued his exhibitions in various parts of the empire, until the pe riod was about to expire, during which his existence had been warranted as actually ascertained. At last, while he was exhibiting to a numerous audience his usual tricks of legerdemain, the hands, whose activity had so often bafiled the closest observer, suddenly lost their power, the cards dropped from them, and he sunk down a disabled paralytic. In this state the artist languished for two years, when he was at length removed by death. It is said that the Diary of this modern astrologer will soon be given to the public.

"The fact, if truly reported, is one of those singular coincidences which occasionally appear, differing so widely from ordinary calculation, yet without which irregularities, human life would not present to mortals, looking into futurity, the abyss of impenetrable darkness, which it is the Indeed, we regard the whole train of our author's rea-pleasure of the Creator it should offer to them. Were every soning on this point as a complete argumentum ad judicium, and as calculated to show the singular inconsistency of the Millennarians themselves.-On the whole, we have experienced much gratification from the perusal of Dr Wardlaw's sermons; and, though our quotations have been necessarily limited, we think they will be sufficient to recommend the volume to the attentive consideration of our readers.

Guy

The Waverley Novels-New Edition. Vol. Third.
Mannering. Edinburgh. Cadell and Co. 1829.
THE Publishers have arranged, that only one volume
of this elegant work, which is to be comprised in forty

volumes, is to appear on the first of every month. We

have now before us the first volume of Guy Mannering, for August. Its peculiar attractions consist of a new Introduction by the author, an excellent frontispiece by Leslie, representing Dominie Sampson in Colonel ManBering's library, and a very spirited vignette by Kidd. In the Introduction, Sir Walter informs us that the story upon which this novel was founded was originally told him by an old servant of his father. In compliance with the nature of this narrative, his first plan inferred a stricter adherence to astrological superstitions than he afterwards found it advisable to preserve. Walter, however, still retains a leaning towards astrology, which the following passage will illustrate. The professor of the art of legerdemain to which he alludes is, we believe, the celebrated Boaz; and we suspect he is indebted for the anecdote he tells concerning him to Mr John Howell, the ingenious author of the Life of Alex

ander Selkirk.

MODERN ASTROLOGY.

Sir

"It is here worthy of observation, that while the astrological doctrines have fallen into general contempt, and been supplanted by superstitions of a more gross and far less beautiful character, they have, even in modern days, retained some votaries. One of the most remarkable believers in

thing to happen in the ordinary train of events, the future would be subject to the rules of arithmetic, like the chances of gaming. But extraordinary events, and wonderful runs of luck, defy the calculations of mankind, and throw impenetrable darkness on future contingencies."

"To the above anecdote, another, still more recent, may be here added. The author was lately honoured with a letter from a gentleman deeply skilled in these mysteries, who kindly undertook to calculate the nativity of the writer of Guy Mannering, who might be supposed to be friendly to the divine art which he professed. But it was impossible to supply data for the construction of a horoscope, had the native been otherwise desirous of it, since all those who could supply the minutia of day, hour, and minute, have

been long removed from the mortal sphere."-Pp. 16-19.

Sir Walter next proceeds to inform us, that the gipsy upon whom the character of Meg Merrilies is founded was well known, about the middle of the last century, by of Kirk-Yetholm, in the Cheviot Hills, adjoining to the the name of Jean Gordon, an inhabitant of the village English Border. It appears, also, that in one of the early Numbers of Blackwood's Magazine he gave a pretty minute account of this remarkable person. Passing from Meg Merrilies to Dominie Sampson, we meet with the following passage regarding our old friend :—-

THE ORIGINAL DOMINIE SAMPSON.

"Such a preceptor as Mr Sampson is supposed to have considerable property. been, was actually tutor in the family of a gentleman of The young lads, his pupils, grew up, and went out in the world, but the tutor continued to reside in the family, no uncommon circumstance in Scot land, (in former days,) where food and shelter were readily afforded to humble friends and dependents. The Laird's predecessors had been imprudent; he himself was passive and unfortunate. Death swept away his sons, whose success in life might have balanced his own bad luck and incapacity. Debts increased and funds diminished, until ruin came. The estate was sold ; and the old man was about to remove from the house of his fathers, to go he knew not whither, when, like an old piece of furniture, which, left alone in its wonted corner, may hold together for a long while, but breaks to pieces on an attempt to move it, he fell

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