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tions for weddings, and for burials. It promises food and raiment, and limits the use of both. It points out a faithful and eternal guardian to the departing husband and father, tells him with whom to leave his fatherless children, and in whom his widow is to trust, and promises a father to the former, and husband to the latter. It teaches a man how to set his house in order, and how to make bis will; it appoints a dowry for his wife, and entails the right of the first-born, and shows how the younger branches shall be left. It defends the right of all-and reveals vengeance to every defaulter, over-reacher, and oppressor. It is the first book,-the best book,-and the oldest book in the world. It contains the choicest matter,-gives the best instruction; affords the greatest pleasure and satisfaction ever was enjoyed. It contains the best laws, and the most profound mysteries that ever were penned; it brings the best tidings, and affords the best of comfort, to the inquiring and disconsolate. It exhibits life and immortality from everlasting, and shows the way to glory. It is a brief recital of all that is past, and a certain prediction of all that is to come. It settles all matters in debate, resolves all doubts, and eases the mind and conscience of all their scruples. It reveals the only living and true God, and shows the way to him; and sets aside all other gods, and describes the vanity of them, and of all that trust in such: in short, it is a book of laws, to show right and wrong; a book of wisdom, that condemns all folly, and makes the foolish wise; a book of truth, that detects all lies and confutes all errors; and a book of life, that shows the way from everlasting death. It is the most compendious book in the world— the most authentic, and the most entertaining history that ever was published. It contains the most ancient antiquities, strange events, wonderful occurrences, heroic deeds, unparallelled wars; it describes the celestial, terrestrial, and internal worlds, and the origin of the angelic myriads, human tribes, and devilish legions. It will instruct the accomplished mechanic, and the most profound artist. It teaches the best rhetorician, and exercises every power of the most skillful arithmetician; puzzles the wisest anatomist, and exercises the nicest critic. It corrects the vain philosopher, and confutes the unwise astronomer. It exposes the subtle sophist, and makes diviners mad. It is a complete code of laws-a perfect body of divinity- -an unequalled narrative-a book of lives a book of travels, and a book of voyages. It is the best covenant that ever was agreed on-the best deed that ever was sealed-the best evidence that ever was produced -the best will that ever was made. To understand it, is to be wise indeed; to be ignorant of it, is to be destitute of wisdom. It is the king's best copy, the magistrate's best rule, the housewife's best guide, the servant's best directory, and the young man's best companion; it is the schoolboy's best book, and the learned man's master-piece. It contains a choice grammar for a novice, and a profound mystery for a sage. It is the ignorant man's dictionary, and the wise man's directory. It affords knowledge of witty inventions for the humorous, and dark sayings for the grave; and it is its own interpre ter. It encourages the wise, the warrior, the swift, and the overcomer; and promises an eternal reward to the excellent, the conquerer, the winner, and the prevalent. And that which crowns all, is, that the Author is without partiality, and without hypocrisy. "In whom is no variableness or shadow of turning."

[No. 2.]

(From a Speech at London, 1848, by the Rev. George Gilfillan.)

The Bible is not a scientific work; it does not profess or display any scientific methods; but it could not be remarked with too much attention, that no passage contained therein, as properly interpreted, was found to contradict any principle of scientific truth. It had been subjected to the fire of the closest investigation, a fire which had contemp

tuously burnt up the cosmography of the Shastre, the absurdities of the Koran, and other works of false philosophy, but yet this artless, loosely compiled little book was unhurt, untouched, not one of its pages singed, with not even the smell of fire upon it. That book was the mirror of Divinity; other books, like the planets, shone with reflected lustre,―that book, like the sun, shone with unborrowed rays; other books sprang from earth, that book of books came from heaven on high; other books appealed to the understanding or feelings, that book to conscience and faith: other books solicited their attention, that book demanded it, for it "spoke with authority and not as the scribes." Other books would glide gracefully along the earth, or onwards to the mountain summit of imagination; that book, and that alone, conducted up the awful abyss which led to heaven other books, after shining a little season, might perish in flames fiercer than those which consumed the Alexandrian library; that book should remain, pure as gold, yet unconsumable as asbestos, in the flames of a general conflagration. Other books might be forgotten in an universe where suns go down and disappear like bubbles in the stream; that book transferred to a higher place, shall shine as the brightness of the firmament and as the stars of heaven.

"Within that awful volume lies,

The mystery of mysteries.
Happy the man of human race,
To whom our God has granted grace,
To ask, to seek, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and find the way.

But better had he not been born,

Who reads to doubt, or reads to scorn."

[No. 3.]

(Extract from the Obligations of the World to the Bible, by the Rev. Dr. Spring, of New York.) There is no book in any country, in any language, in any age, that can be compared with this. From one page of this wonderful volume, more may be acquired, than reason or philosophy could acquire by patience and the toil of centuries. The Bible expands the mind, exalts the faculties, developes the powers of the will and of feeling, furnishes a more just estimate of the true dignity of man, and opens more sources of intellectual and spiritual enjoyment, than any other book. Science and literature have taken deep root on this consecrated soil. No book furnishes so many important hints to the human mind; gives so many clues to intellectual discovery, and has so many charms in so many departments of human inquiry. In whatever paths of science, or walks of human knowledge we tread, there is scarcely a science or pursuit of paramount advantage to mankind, which may either trace its origin to the Bible, or to which the Bible will not be found to be a powerful auxiliary. Whether we consider its influence upon an oral and written language-upon history and literature-upon laws and government-upon civil and religious liberty-upon the social institutions-upon moral science and the moral virtues-upon the holiness which fits men for heaven, and the peculiar spirit and exalted character which prepares them to act well their part on earth-upon the happiness they enjoy in the present world-or upon the agency and power by which these desirable results are secured; we shall be at no loss to see that the world in which we live is under everlasting obligations to a supernatural revelation. Wordsworth, in one of his beautiful sonnets on the translation of the Scripture, says: "But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book,

In dusty sequestration wrapt too long,

Assumes the accents of our native tongue;

And he who guides the plough or wields the crook,
With understanding spirit now may look

Upon her records, listen to her song,

And sift her laws-much wondering that the wrong
Which faith has suffered, heaven could calmly brook.
Transcendant boon !-noblest that earthly king
Ever bestowed to equalize and bless,

Under the weight of mortal wretchedness."


His principal characteristic is majesty. In Milton's character and work is consummated the union of human learning and divine love. Here, as in an old world cathedral, illumined by the setting sun, and resounding hallelujahs, blends the most perfect devotion with the most perfect art. All is grand, and beautiful, and holy. In the "Paradise Lost," you come into contact with thoughts which sweep the whole compass of letters, and the fresh fields of nature made lustrous by the fine frenzy of the poet; here also, and more especially, you come into contact with "thoughts which wander through eternity." You trace his daring flight, not simply through the realms of primeval glory, but of chaos and elder night. You follow the track of his burning wing through the hollow abyss," whose soil is fiery marl," whose roof is one vast floor of lurid light, and whose oceans are "floods of sweltering flame." You mingle, shuddering with infernal hosts, or listen with rapture to the far-off choiring of cherubim and seraphim, the glorious mingling of sweet sounds "from harp, lute, and dulcimer." You stand on the dismal verge of Pandemonium, with its dusky swarms of fallen spirits, glimmering through the shadows, "thick as the leaves in Vallambrosa," see borne upon its burning marl or sailing through the gloomy atmosphere, that form of angel ruined, vast, shadowy, and terrible, which, when it moves causes the abyss to shudder. You gaze with astonishment and awe upon the starry domes, which rise, "like an exhalation," from the fiery depths, and tremble at the shout of defiance from the the multitudinous army, as it rings through those lurid halls. Or, rising oppressed with the splendour and woe of the infernal regions, you pass, with the gentle poet, into the fragrance of Paradise, bathe your eyes in celestial dews, wander with heavenly guests through the melodious groves and "amaranthine bowers" of Eden, quaffing immortal draughts from cool fountains, soothed by the song of early birds, and finding rest unutterable beneath the shadow of the tree of life; or, it may be, holding converse high, on some 66 serener mount," with angelic forms, or with that noblest pair, whose innocence and beauty are fresh as the young dews which glisten upon the flowers of Eden. You catch the spirit of that high Christian seer, gaze through the long vista of time, behold the wonders of Calvary, man redeemed, and the gates of glory thronged with rejoicing myriads.—Rev. R. Turnbull in Christian Review.


(From a Speech in London, in 1848, by the Rev. George Gilfillan.)

I need not now allude to the many eminent divines who have excelled in works of science and literature, though they have been numerous, because their testimony might be considered interested and worthless, however high their authority might otherwise be.

I do not say it ought to be considered in such a light, but it is far safer to adduce instances of another kind to which no such objection could be made. When illustrious laymen came forth from their laboratories, observatories, or painting rooms, or desks, and delivered distinct, deliberate, and eloquent witness in behalf of Christian truth, it was as if the prophet were again helping the woman. The thunder of a Bossuet, a Hall, or a Chalmers, coming from the pulpit, did not speak so loud in the cause of Christianity, as the still small voice which proceeded from the studies of such men as Boyle, Addison, Cowper, or Isaac Taylor. They could, indeed, speak of mighty names on their side. Galileo, the starry sage, who first unravelled the map of the sky, was a Christian. Michael Angelo, the best painter who ever stamped his strong soul on canvas-the greatest sculptor who ever wrought his terrible conceptions into marble,--the greatest architect who ever suspended the truth of genius between earth and heaven. Michael Angelo was a Christian, and some of his sonnets written in his old age breathed the purest spirit of Christian faith and Christian love. And need he speak of John Miltor, who laid the brightest crown of genius at the foot of the cross, and sprinkled the waters of Castalia on the roses of the garden of God. It might be asked, why he brought forward those names? Was it that he held them to be the pillars of Christianity? No,-Christianity stood on her own foundations, on her own simplicity, beauty, purity, grandeur, originality, and adaptation to the wants and circumstances of men. Those men were not the pillars, they were merely the decorations of her temple.


What a wonderful and beautiful thing is the gift of genius! How it enshrines its possessors in the minds and memories of men 1 How it creates a home for itself in hearts which have long felt, but could not express, its breathing thoughts and burning words! How its interests and sympathies go on circling and widening, like the ripples around the stone cast into the water, till they become as "household words" or "old familiar faces," in all tongues and all lands! How it grows-never older, but ever younger; the mighty men of yore speaking more powerfully to the generation of to-day, than to the past of yesterday! Beauty has power, and it, also, is a gift from Heaven; but it passeth away, and its place is known no more; for who treasures the defaced and vacant casket, or the flower of the morning, when it lies on the cold ground? The easel of the painter and the chisel of the sculptor, may preserve the lineaments of loveliness, but only as a sight to the eyes, no longer as a voice to the heart. Riches, too, have power, but they have also wings, and oftentimes they flee away. And even when they remain till the rich man is obliged to flee from them, they leave no memories, they create no sympathies. Rank is mighty over the minds of men, and proudly does it rear its ermined form and jewelled brow; but the time soon comes when no voice sounds. No power emanates from the crimson pall and escutcheoned tomb. How different is genius from all these! True, it has its waywardness, its follies, its eccentricities; but these are lost in, or perhaps only enhanced by, the charm of its truth, its earnestness, its humility. Yes, genius is true; it is a reality; it has truth to inculcate, and work to do, were it only to bring down a sense of beauty, or a power of vision to closed hearts and filmy eyes. Genius is earnest; it flutters not like the white-winged wanderers of the summer, idly and uselessly, from flower to flower; but, like the bee, it perceives, and earnestly extracts, use with the beauty, food with the perfume. Genius is humble: striving after something far higher than itself, which it never reaches, gazing into brightness and into beauty which it cannot emulate, it for ever sees its own littleness, its own darkness, its own deformity, and shrinks from occupying the pedestal assigned to it by its day and generation. Of course, these

qualities form the golden setting of the real gem, fresh from the depths of the ocean, or the recesses of the mine, for never do they surround the mock jewel, created out of the dust and tinsel of the world. It is not, however, to the fulfilled thoughts, and words, and works of great men-it is not to their name and their fame throughout the land—it is not to the incense showered upon them in the halls of the crowned, and the circles of the beautiful-that our hearts turn with the deepest understanding and sympathy. No, it is to their homes and their hearths, to their joys and their sorrows. Yonder are the walls which have looked down upon the midnight vigil and noonday languor. Yonder is the window whence the eye, gazing up to the heavens, has caught something of their inspiration. Lo, here the board which has echoed to the sweet sounds of household jest and homely tenderness. Lo, there the sleepless couch, where the sufferings of life, if not more bravely borne, have been more deeply felt, than by other men!—Anonymous.


(From Salad for the Solitary,)

How beautiful is the memory of the dead! What a holy thing it is in the human heart, and what a charming influence it sheds upon human life! How it subdues all the harshness that grows up within us in the daily intercourse with the world! How it melts our unkindness, softens our pride, kindles our deepest love, and tasks our highest aspirations! Is there one who has not some loved friend gone into the eternal world, and one whom he delights to live again in memory? Does he not love to sit down in the hushed and tranquil home of existence, and call around him the face, the form, so familiar, and cherished-to look into the eye that mirrored, not more clearly his own face, than the soul which he loves-to listen to the tones which he loved to listen to, the tones which were once melody in bis ear, and have echoed softly in his ear since they were hushed to his senses? Is there a spirit to which heaven is not brought nearer, by holding some kindred souls? How friend follows friend into the happy dwelling place of the dead, till we find at length, that those who loved us on the heavenly shore are more than they who dwell among us! Every year witnesses the departure of some one whom we knew and loved; and when we recall the names of all who have been dear to us in life, how many of them we see passed into that city which is imperishable. The blessed dead! how free from sin is our love for the.a! The earthly taint of our affections is buried with that which was corruptible, and the divine in its purity illumines our breast. We have now no fear of losing them. They are fixed for us eternally in the mansions prepared for our re-union. We shall find them waiting for us, in their garments of beauty. The glorious dead! how reverentially we speak their names. Our hearts are sanctified by their words which we remember. How wise they have now grown in the limitless fields of truth! How joyous they have now become by the undying fountain of pleasure! The immortal dead! how unchanging is their love for us! How tenderly they look down on us, and how closely they surround our beings, how earnestly they rebuke the evils of our lives. Let me talk pleasantly of the dead, as those who no longer suffer and are tried, as those who pursue no longer the fleeting, but have grasped and secured the real. With them the fear and the longings, the hope and the terror, and the pain are past; the fruition of life has begun. How unkind, that when we put away their bodies, we should cease the utterance of their names. The tender-hearted dead, who struggle so in parting from us! why should we speak of them in awe, and remember them only with sighing? Very dear. were they when hand clasped hand, and heart responded to heart. Why are they less dear when they have grown worthy of a higher love than ours, and their perfected souls might receive even our adoration! By their hearthside and graveside, in solitude and amid the multitude, think cheerfully and speak lovingly of the dead.

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