sant stream of words until the person, who listened to him, was obliged to leave him alone. And, even then, he did not lose his hold upon his listener, but, at his next opportunity, seized upon him again, and, with some remark referring to the interrupted discourse, he commenced anew upon the old subject. Of course he was not, in any proper sense, a conversationist. Few great talkers are so. He was, rather, a lecturer to a single auditor; and, though he was sometimes interesting and instructive, yet, like all lecturers in ordinary society, he was sometimes, also, wearisome and dull. We cannot wonder that the young gentlemen and ladies in Hartford were not enchanted, in his early life, by his carefully-prepared and elab orate talk upon various topics; or that the elder Professor Silliman, at one of the meetings of the Connecticut Academy of Sciences, when he had discoursed at interminable length, politely intimated to him, as he hesitated for a moment, that the members would be glad to have the conclusion of the subject at another time. Beyond all doubt, there was something in him, from the very beginning, of the character of the "Old Man of the Sea," who troubled the poet Holmes so much in one of his waking dreams; and men of this character cannot expect to be universally attractive or universally courted.

As a scholar, Dr. Percival seems to have been large-minded in his views; a believer in progress and hopeful for the future; disposed to penetrate into the deepest mysteries; and willing to regard nothing as settled, so long as any shadow of uncertainty remained, or even the minutest point had not yet been examined. The field enlarged itself, in every direction, the moment he first entered it, and grew still wider and wider at every step of his course afterward. So far, even, did he carry this spirit of inquiry as to interfere very greatly with the attainment of those results, without which a scholar's labors do the world comparatively little good. Could he have lived a hundred and fifty years, he might have finished something according to his own desires. But, unfortunately, he died at sixty, and the world gained almost nothing from him, because the time was not half long enough. He was fitted simply to pore over books in his own library, and curiously to seek out the most curious things of literature and science. But, inas

much as he never, at any moment, to his own view knew anything, quite as he ought to know it, he never was ready to publish his knowledge to mankind; and, as a necessary consequence, the generation, that has followed him, does not know that he knew anything, except as it finds the fact recorded somewhere in the testimony of his friends. At the same time, he may have had a certain beneficial influence upon his contemporaries, by the mere example which he set before them, of "self-abnegation and devotion to study," as one of his friends claims for him; and the words of that friend may be truethough we think not in his later years-that "his presence in the scholastic community where he lived was a perpetual incentive to industry and manliness, and that thousands yet live to thank him for lessons derived from the simple survey of his daily life." If this be indeed so, as a scholar he did not live in

vain.

In regard to his feelings and sentiments toward the world, we agree with Professor Shepard, whose reminiscences of the poet are given in this volume, that he was not a misanthrope. He was a hermit, not because he hated or disliked his fellowmen, but because he thought they thrust him out of their association and approbation, and because the continual disappointment and poverty of many years made him shrink, more and more, from the public view. Gradually, of course, he came to love his retirement, and was, at last, unable to live outside of it. But, in early life, he was even willing to enjoy the society of women; he was susceptible to the charms of personal beauty, and would have married, had he not been disheartened by the failure of his efforts to win those whom he loved. He was not, as some men are, designed, through the very solitary tendencies of the natural character, to be a bachelor, and yet it would seem that no woman could have been designed to be his wife. But he was not otherwise than of a kindly spirit, in general. He bore no hatred or perpetual illwill toward individuals. He was a well-wisher of the race, and he loved both his home and his country.

As we remember him, in his later life, he was an object of curiosity to all-rarely showing himself in the public streets, and almost as unknown to the daily life of the world as if he

had been of an earlier age. Of his appearance and general bearing we can give no better account than that which Professor Shepard has presented, in his description of him. He says, "The impression made on me by his singular person and manners was vivid and indelible. Slender in form, rather above than under the middle height, he had a narrow chest, and a peculiar stoop, which was not in the back, but high up in the shoulders. His head, without being large, was fine. His eyes were of a dark hazel, and possessed uncommon expression. His nose, mouth, and chin were symmetrically, if not elegantly, formed, and came short of beauty only because of that meagreness which marked his whole person. His complexion, light without redness, inclined to sallow, and suggested a temperament somewhat bilious. His dark brown hair had become thin above the forehead, revealing to advantage that most striking feature of his countenance. Taken all together, his appearance was that of a weak man, of delicate constitution, an appearance hardly justified by the fact; for he endured fatigue and privation with remarkable stanchness." He adds, "Percival's face, when he was silent, was full of calm, serious meditation; when speaking, it lighted up with thought, and became noticeably expressive. He commonly talked in a mild, unimpassioned undertone, but just above a whisper, letting his voice sink with rather a pleasing cadence at the completion of each sentence. Even when most animated, he used no gesture except a movement of the first and second fingers of his right hand backward and forward across the palm of his left, meantime following their monotonous unrest with his eyes, and rarely meeting the gaze of his interlocutor. He would stand for hours, when talking, his right elbow on a mantelpiece, if there was one near, his fingers going through their strange palmistry; and in this manner, never once stirring from his position, he would not unfrequently protract his discourse till long past midnight. An inexhaustible, undemonstrative, noiseless, passionless man, scarcely evident to you by physical qualities, and impressing you, for the most part, as a creature of pure intellect."

It remains only to speak of Dr. Percival's religious character. This was peculiarly hidden from the world. We find some expressions in his earlier poetry, which were disturbing

to many of his friends and of the people of his own day; and, from occasional remarks in his letters, it would seem that he differed from the doctrinal views and system held in the region where he lived. But we have no record of his later years, in this regard; and, as we have seen, he died with prayer, but with the utterance of no words that might have borne witness respecting his spiritual life. We can only say that we believe the Divine work often goes on, gradually and silently, in the heart of such a man through the progress of many years, and that, while men see nothing but darkness and doubt, to the eye of God the light, though faint at first, becomes brighter and brighter until it fades into the perfect day. And we cannot but hope that, amid all his searchings into the mysteries of science and learning, he may have found, in his lifetime, the unfolding of the mystery of Divine truth,—and that out of all the trials and disappointments of his years on earth he may have passed, at the end, into the happiness and peace of those who are satisfied forever. After so sorrowful a beginning it would be sad indeed, were there no joyful ending.

We lay aside Mr. Ward's volume with a mingled feeling of pleasure and regret that it has been published. A man like Percival, of so strange a history and of so much genius-a poet and a scholar-ought not to pass away, as we said at the beginning, without any record of his life to recall him to the knowledge and remembrance of men. And it is fitting—when his friends had followed him to the grave, and thus could speak of him no longer-that even a stranger should tell of what he did and what he was. But there is so much of weakness revealed in the narrative, and our idea of the man is so pitiably lowered, as we discover the causes of his failure and the secrets of his inward being, that we are almost led to feel it would have been better to have left him in the solitude of his hermitage-revealing himself to mankind only through his poetry, and carrying with him even into the unseen world all other knowledge of himself. It was a reverential hand, indeed, that lifted the veil, and a kindly heart that inspired the story. But we fear that it is the saddest thing that could have befallen the poet's memory or his present fame, that the veil was lifted at all, or that the story was ever told to those who had not known it before.

ARTICLE V.-THOUGHTS ON PUBLIC WORSHIP.

WORSHIP Springs from a need of our nature to express the reverence we feel toward God. This, in union with the social instinct, which compels man to a fellowship with others even in his most spiritual acts, gives rise to Public Worship. The springs of worship are in ourselves, but the end of worship is God. "Whoso offereth praise glorifieth me." God, we believe, delights in the worship of his creatures when it springs from the heart, and is a true expression of the gratitude and praise of beings he has made; not that he desires praise for self-glorification, but because his infinite perfections and glorions works deserve praise, because to give them praise is the duty and impulse of every good heart, and because the goodness of God is identical with goodness itself. "Praise honors God, and therefore puts a distinguishing honor upon this duty. Prayer is an expression of our indigence and weakness. Thanksgiving expresseth our relish of the sweetness of benefits received; but praise rises above all selfish regards, and directly terminates on the goodness and amiableness of God himself. He loves our prayers, he loves our penitential tears and groans; but nothing pleases him so much as the cheerful adoration and praise of his people. Nay, penitential tears are no otherwise valuable than as they purge our eyes from the filth of sin, that we may behold more clearly the loveliness of God, and give him that glory which is due to his name. All the other duties of devotion are only means of preparation for this sublime exercise. The habitations of the blessed continually resound with the high praises of God. There the most perfect creatures, in their most perfect state, have this for their constant unwearied employment, 'they rest not day nor night, saying, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come.'"*

* Robert Walker-Sermons, p. 370.