ber denote a very nice and precise or der and disposition in the things so estimated. The relation of degrees in any particular quality, likewise conveys the idea of the degrees being regulated. The relation of what is commonly called cause and effect, or of the sequences of nature, owes, as I have again and again shown, all its force and influence on the mind-to the apprehension of these sequences as being fixed and determined-and it is upon this apprehension, that all belief respecting their continuance depends.

III. This principle will perfectly elucidate the whole puzzle of general ideas. There seems to be something more in the operation of the mind, when it gives a general aspect to a particular conception, than merely elassing a number of particulars under one common name. It is evident to me, that when we generalize, we are endeavouring to find out the model, as it were, upon which any class of things has been formed. For this purpose, we take off whatever is peculiar to particular things, and leaving only what belongs to the whole class, we get the notion of that model. The model, to be sure, is a particular conception, as much as any thing else but it applies to a great number of particulars. All this operation proceeds on an impression upon the mind, that the resemblances in nature are signs of design-and, therefore, we always try to find out what the plan, or model, may have been, from which any set of resembling objects has originated. This really comes very near Plato's notion, that general ideas are the ideas of the Divine Mind, but it is that notion stripped of all its mysticism, and we may see from what view it was, that he was led into such a notion.

IV. The association of ideas rests chiefly, too, on the same principle. The reason that the mind is constantly running upon resemblances, cause and effect, and other relations, is, that these are interesting to it, as being the common signs of design and intelligence with which it is constantly conversant, and an intelligent being, even in its wildest reveries, cannot escape into any other course of thought.

Here are all the premises I shall give you at present. Your philosophical readers may chew them at

their leisure. Before I conclude, however, I must still say a few words to establish more firmly my original position, which, I must own, has a paradoxical aspect; but this is entirely owing to our inability to state what are the first germs of reason in the mind of a child, and what are the first perceptions which it may possess of truths, which, while they must continue for ever to govern its reason, may yet be utterly perverted as to all moral consequences, or may never, indeed, have ripened into any.

It seems, then, to be a persuasion very early impressed upon the human mind, that there is something fixed, something established, something to be depended on, in the constitution of things. It seems to occur, by a kind of rational instinct, if I may so speak, to the mind even of a child, that this immense scene of nature is not without plan, regularity, design. We believe, as soon as we believe any thing at all, that our perceptions of external objects are not passing dreams, not reveries of the mind. A vast house we see is built for our habitation, the different rooms are orderly and wellarranged, and we cannot think that the whole is a fairy palace, and that we shall not find it to-morrow as well fitted for our accommodation as it is to-day. All our business is to discover what are the arrangements of the apartments, what are the conveniences which have been prepared for us, what is the establishment of the household; and, when we have made this discovery, we put our trust at once in the unknown Power which has thus beneficially accommodated us.

To say that a child thinks of these things as a man would do, as a philosopher or as a divine would do, would be absurd; but that such impressions are upon its thoughts, in some shape or other, cannot, I think, be reasonably doubted. A young child does not see all the reasons for depending on the word of its early instructors, but it has a confidence in them notwithstanding: what, then, should hinder it from acquiring a similar confidence in Nature? I will venture farther to say, that the foundations on which the thoughts and sentiments of children rest are, in many cases, sounder and more rational than they afterwards become. A child is much more a being of Nature's making than a man is; and if

it is the doctrine of Scripture, that, in point of morality, we must become as little children before we can enter into the kingdom of heaven, so perhaps, in point of reason, we must, in many respects, become as little children before we can be sound philosophers.

It is the boast of the philosophy of this age, that the study of Nature has been substituted in the room of imaginary theories, and Lord Bacon has acquired a very high reputation from having led philosophers in to this legitimate track. But what it required all the sagacity of Bacon to discover in his maturer years, he, as well as every other child, knew perfectly in his cradle. To make experiments is the great object of a child's first exertions, to discover the laws of the kingdom in which it lives. That there is an order or government, that there are laws, is a matter of instinctive perception. When the discovery what the laws are is made, then that these laws will continue to have force is a matter of confidence or belief.

As confidence in man, the sentiment on which belief in human testimony rests, is a moral sentiment, so confidence in Nature is plainly a religious one; and, in this early impression, it is beautiful to discover the first seed, the infant germ of religion. While he is yet in his nurse's arms, the child has a perfect confidence concerning the continuance of those established successions of events which his limited experience has discovered. As he doubts not that his nurse will give him suck when he has occasion for it, so has he no doubt, that if he eats an apple he shall find it sweet, and that if he touches the fire he shall feel pain. He receives at once the intimations of Nature, and bows down with submission before her. He hears at once the "still small voice" which was heard by Elijah the prophet.

Make the supposition of Adam rising into existence with all his faculties about him. The experience of a day or two would surely be sufficient to show him that there was a plan in nature, that this mighty scene was not wrought in vain, and that it was not intended to pass instantaneously away. In Adam, in a man fully possessed of his faculties, this perception would introduce an immediate con

viction of all the great truths of natural religion, and though the voice of God should never talk with him in the garden, he would know to a certainty that there was a God. No one will contend that this observation is made to this extent by a child, or that the confidence which it acquires in the system of nature is any thing more than the first groundwork of religious belief. According to the age and country into which he may be thrown, that will of course be varied and modified. He may be made to believe that God is in the great and strong wind, which rends the mountains, and breaks in pieces the rocks; that he is in the earthquake, or in the fire; he may worship the imaginary powers supposed to preside over these convulsions of nature, yet however his religion may be corrupted, it is still in the general power of Nature that he reposes his daily confidence; it is still from the whispers of the small voice that he receives intimations how to think and to act.

PHILOTHEUS.

REMARKS ON THE LIFE OF WILLIAM LORD RUSSELL; WRITTEN BY LORD JOHN RUSSELL.

(Concluded from Vol. VII. p. 349.)

THE remarkable and fatal events which have made the name of Lord William Russell so conspicuous on the page of history, are (or ought to be) familiar to every well-educated person in the country which owes so much to his memory. The circumstances of his early life, less known, are still important, because they prove that no man was more esteemed and beloved. No one had more happiness to risk by exchanging the sweet serenity of private life for the turmoil of politics, and no one had less of ambition to be distinguished in public. It is an instance almost unparalleled of the moderation and tranquillity of his spirit, that he sat for twelve years in Parliament a silent member.

This is enough to make it evident that nothing less than what he felt, as the strong pressure of conscientious necessity, would have made him launch out from such a harbour of peace into the turbulent politics of that unsettled period. Of the domestic felicity which he so amply enjoyed, and knew so well to value, the following

letter from Lady Rachel is quoted by her descendant as a concurring testi

mony:

A

his love, though I doe merit to so desireable a blessing: but my best life, you that know so well how to love, and to oblige, make my felicity intire, by believing my harte possest with all the gratitude, honour, and passionate affection to your person any creature is capable of, or can be obliged to; and that granted, what have I to aske, but a continuance (if God see fit) of these present enjoyments? if not, a submission without a murmur to his most wise dispensations and unerring providence, having a thankful harte for the yeares I have been so perfectly contented in. He knows best when we have had enough here: what I most earnestly beg from his mercy is, that wee both live soe as which ever goes first, the other may not sorrow as for one of whom they have no hope; then let us cheerfully expect to be together to a good old age, if not, let us not doubt but he will support his servants under what trials he will inflict upon them. These are necessary meditations sometimes, yt we may not be surprised above our strength by a sudden accident, being unprepared. Excuse me if I dwell to long upon it; 'tis from my opinion that if wee can be prepared for al conditions, we can with the greater tranquillity enjoy the present: which I hope will be long, tho' when we change 'twill be for the better, I trust, through the merit of Christ. Let us dayly pray it may be so, and then admit of no feares. Death is the extremest evil against nature, it is true; let us overcome the immoderate fear of it, either to our friend or selfe, and then what light hearts may we live with. But I am immoderate in my length of this discourse,

and consider this is to be a letter. To take

myself off, and alter the subject, I will tell you the newes came on Sunday night," &c. pp. 34, 35.

The poet, speaking of the sense of sight, marks

The wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's

beam.

Without bringing into comparison the splendour of genius by which a chosen few in every age have been distinguished, we find nearly as wide extremes in the portion of intellect

"From on board the Princ. "Dear Sr, the 2 daye of Jun. "I must Confess i have bin to idell in not giving you thankes for all your kindnes, but i shall never forget to one them: i suppose the discription of the fight will be in print as soune as my Letter Cumes to your hands. The Duke is myty kind to me, and will give me a shipe as soune as wee cum to an anchor in the river. Praye present my most humble services to my Ladey Maud, and i Rest your most Hum

ble servant,

ED. RUSSELL."

Follows a no less extraordinary postscript:

"Mr. Digby and mr. nickolds is ded.'”

This accomplished youth not only got the " shipe" he expected, but was afterwards created Earl of Orford. What is still more surprising, he became, if we mistake not, the far-famed Admiral Russell of the popular song on the famous naval victory off La Hogue, in King William's time, memorable for the destruction of the Rising Sun, the pride of the French navy, with many other less distinguished vessels.

This undying strain of British exultation is still the delight of the humbler mess-room, beginning

Thursday, in the morning, the nineteenth of May,

Recorded for ever the memorable ninetytwo, &c. &c.

Tourville on the main triumphant roll'd, To meet the gallant Russell in combat on the deep.

That a person whom, from the specimen of his abilities exhibited in this curious epistle, we should pronounce to be not only deplorably ignorant, but incurably stupid, should not only attain, but apparently deserve, such distinction, is difficult to believe. Yet so it was. His early promotion, under such unpromising appearances, must be attributed to the great weight and consideration he possessed in the

country. What might not the son of the Earl of Bedford aspire to, when his nephew derived so much consequence from the relation? It may be considered as an anticipation of the historical facts, to remark that the virtues and sufferings of Lord William Russell threw a kind of glory over all connected with him. For we find both this cousin, and other kindred of his, distinguished and promoted fully equal to their merits, when the cause for which he suffered became predominant. A quotation from the noble author, which we shall insert, gives a distinct and brief sketch of the state of public affairs, and of the most influential characters during the calm that preceded the storm of political animosity in which his illustrious ancestor was so fatally involved. Speaking of the early period immediately following the Restoration,

he says,

"In this temper the people willingly obeyed the voice of the royalists, and echoed the prejudices to which, twenty years before, they had refused a hearing. And though the king and his minister did not entirely abstain from acts of vengeance, no sympathy could be excited in favour of those who were looked upon as the authors of the late troubles. Yet in the joy of new power, the professions of the sovereign were plausible and constitutional. I shall not propose to myself,' he said,' any one rule in my actions and counsels, than this, what is a parliament like to think of this action or this counsel ? and it shall be a want of understandiug in me, if it will not bear that test.'

"For some years the prudence of Clarendon, who neither tried to make his master independent of parliament, nor refused promotion to those who had raised themselves during the commonwealth; and the integrity of Southampton, who presided over the treasury with exemplary vigilance, preserved the balance of the government. But the death of the latter, and disgrace of the former minister, gave free scope to the favourites and the inclinations of the king. "Charles II., in the station of a private gentleman, would have been universally liked. Few men had such captivating manners, and no man ever united wit and good-nature in society to a greater degree. He had a natural kindness of temper which influenced his moral conduct, and prevented his becoming the oppressor of his queen,

when he could not be constant to her; nor was his inclination for women gratified with so much contempt of virtue as of decency. His mistresses appear to have been all

ready to err, even though their tempter had not worn a crown. No unsuspecting innocence was betrayed; no conjugal felicity was destroyed by his amours. During the latter part of his life, he lived with women rather to indulge indolence than to gratify desire. His brother the Duke of York, and his son the Duke of Monmouth, had equal reason to be grateful for his indulgence. Though the one was the cause of all his troubles, and the other helped to foment them, his behaviour was in almost every instance kind and affectionate.

"But the cares and duties of a throne

were fitted to expose the defects of Charles in the most glaring light. It was evident, that he was indolent, mean, false, unprin cipled, and selfish. The most important affairs could not make him active; the shameful proposals could not rouse his most solemn engagements, true; the most pride, nor the affection of a great people induce him to sacrifice the least and lowest of his pleasures. He wasted a capacity for which the mighty cares of government afforded ample scope in the sciences of chemistry and mechanics which he could not forward; and he lowered the character of his country abroad, that he might establish a despotism at home.

"It is certain that adversity had not improved the character of Charles. Surrounded by his father's old friends, who had suffered from a popular revolution, he learnt to esteem his own authority too highly, and to regard with suspicion and aversion the inclinations of his people. The want of money and of consideration abroad led him into a vagabond course of life, and obliged him to practise the arts of a courtier, when he ought to have maintained the dignity of a sovereign. Whilst those immediately about him persuaded him that he was King of England by Divine right, he could not go out of this narrow circle without encountering the rebuffs of Cardinal Mazarin or Don Lewis de Haro.Vol. I. pp. 38-41.

The character, principles, and abilities of the King's brother, the Duke of York, have been variously described, not only by writers of opposite parties, but by those who entertained the same political views. All contemporary writers of the opposite side agree in assigning a bigoted, but sincere, desire of promoting the Catholic religion as the main spring of all his actions. Mr Fox considers all those blind and headlong measures which ended in precipitating him from the throne of his ancestors, as originating in his eagerness to establish arbitrary power. Whether unlimited authority was with him considered as the