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than by a Christian and philosophic spirit. It is a remarkable work; the style is often highly eloquent, and distinguished generally by calm dignity and power.” Similar testimony is borne by the London literary journals. The London Morning Chronicle of the 10th inst. has an editorial article on the American free soil question; more is promised—a systematic discussion. In the same number of the Chronicle are two extensive documents, suggestive and instructive for the United States. I refer to the report of the commissioner appointed to inquire into the state of the population in the mining districts of Great Britain, and a letter to the lord chancellor from the commissioners on lunacy, with regard to their duties and practice. The Chronicle of the 17th inst. has a continuation of the editorial views of the Wilmot Proviso question. It is severe on the free soil party, and on Presidents Tyler and Polk. The matter is very curious on the whole, if from a foreigner. The writer says:—“The success of the Wilmot Proviso is the doom of slavery.” This is to be shown. Lamartine advertises in his journal all his patrimonial estates. By his writings he has gained as much nearly as Walter Scott received. These men of genius ended in the same ruin, though from different causes, and with very different characters. The Travels of Lyell and Mackay scale many eyes in Great Britain; perhaps, also, in the United States, where some Americans are not less prejudiced against their own country. Louis Napoleon has taken up his residence for the vacations, in the palace of St. Cloud. All the vacant ex-royal palaces must, then, be at his disposal Nearly all the continental governments are negotiating, or about to negotiate, loans. The comparative prosperity of the Prussian finances is a wonder. In the Constitutionnel of 20th inst., and on the same day in the Journal des Debats, there are articles on California, in which the worst aspects are presented by the former, the best by the other. General Riley's proclamation is expounded and praised by both. The Constitutionnel treats the plan of the St. Francisco Assembly as revolutionary. Allow me to translate for you a paragraph of each. From the Constitutionnel. If the attempt of General Riley succeeds, he will preserve the rights and maintain the authority of the central power. Part of the population has already adhered to his proclamation, and consented to pursue the plan he has indicated to them. But the provincial assembly of St. Francisco refuses him the right of taking such a step ; it protests against the union of civil and military power, and proposes in its turn, that the different districts should elect delegates for a convention, which should give to California a definitive constitution, without refer

ence to the will or the ulterior displeasure of the ruling powers at Washington. Such a step would cause a separation between California and the Union, and would be almost equivalent to a declaration of independence. The next news will inform us which have succeeded—the plans of General Riley, or the revolutionary ones of the assembly of San FranClSCO,

From the Journal des Debats.

We return often to the subject of California. It is in fact a most interesting spectacle to behold the Anglo-Saxon race there taking possession, colonizing, administering laws, and making a flourishing country of that, which, a year ago, was a vast desert, and where the immense wealth which it has been discovered to contain, has drawn adventurers from all parts of the world. It is a study full of instruction for France, now attempting the work of colonization, and who for eighteen years has been mistress of one of the most beautiful countries on the face of the globe, where she has expended millions of treasure, and shed the blood of her brave soldiers, but without being able to establish herself permanently on the rich soil and under the delicious climate. For France, still reeling and shuddering from revolution and anarchy, it is well worth the trouble of learning how such a government is founded:—how the concert, liberality, and courage of a handful of honest men, who know what they are about, will succeed in establishing a regular system, make the laws respected, and maintain order and liberty in the midst of a population, of which the elements are, for the most part, as desperate and vicious as those which are now to be found amid the gold mines of San Joaquin and the Sacramento. We must not forget that the greatest number of these intrepid explorers, inured to all danger by their wandering lives, and hardened to all privations and misery, are also men, who, in violence and disorder, do not yield in any degree to the demagogues of our cities, and who have no more idea of respecting property, the rights of mine and thine, than the socialist school here and elsewhere. But, notwithstanding these evil qualities, which must make a struggle with such men terrible, still, they are in a measure controlled by the energy of honest men, who go to seek fortune by their side. Here, then, is a subject for useful meditation for that laborious but timid population, enemies of anarchy, but who do not know how to unite and organize themselves, which forms the immense majority of the French society, and who have left, more than once, the country without defence, to the hands of a few bold conspirators.

The Moniteur of yesterday morning contains the official report from the Council of State, in the case of M. Lesseps, the late envoy or commissioner of France. It censures and condemns his conduct and treaty in the severest terms, and assigns the reasons of this judgment in detail. It pronounces that he entirely violated his instructions, and signed a convention of which the stipulations were contrary to the interests and dignity of France. The Constitutionnel of this day has

another article on the Canadian question. It is

treated as still pregnant with danger for Great Britain, and interest for the United States.

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Aug. 1st.—Mr. Agnew sayd to me this morning, somewhat gravelie, “I observe, cousin, you seem to consider yourselfe the victim of circumstances.” “And am I not " I replied. “No,” he answered, “circumstance is a false god, unrecognized by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn yet a profitable servant.”— “That may be alle very grand for a man to doe,” I sayd. “Very grand, but very feasible, for a woman as well as a man,” rejoined Mr. Agnew, “and we shall be driven to the wall alle our lives, unless we have this victorious struggle with circumstances. I seldom allude, cousin, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for me to meddle with ; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe many opportunities escape. Do I offend 1 or may I go on 1—Onlie think, then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present uncomfortable situation. The tree cannot resist y” graduall growth of y" moss upon it; but you might, anie day, anie hour, have freed yourself from the equallie graduall formation of y" net that has enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste—nay, let that pass—you gave too shorte a triall of your new home before you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a month's end ? But your husband gave you leave of absence, though obtayned under false pretences.—When you found them to be false, should you not have cleared yourself to him of knowledge of y" deceit? Then your leave, soe obtayned, expired—shoulde you not have returned then t—Your health and spiritts were recruited ; your husband wrote to reclaim you—shoulde you not have returned then He provided an escort whom your father beat and drove away.—If you had insisted on going to your husband, might you not have gone then 2 Oh cousin, you dare not look up to heaven and say you have been y' victim of circumstances.” I made no answer: onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, “If I wished to go back, Mr. Milton woulde not receive me now.” “Will you try " sayd Roger. “Will you but let me try Will you let me write to him 1" I had a mind to say “Yes.”—Insteade, I anwered “ No.” “Then there's an end,” cried he sharplie. “Had you made but one fayre triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied—no, not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps the better. Forgive me for having spoken at alle.” Afterwards, I hearde him say to Rose of me, “I verilie believe there is nothing in her on which to make a permanent impression. I verilie think she loves everie one of those long curls of hers more than she loves Mr. Milton.” (Note:—I will cut them two inches shorter tonight. And they will grow all y' faster.) * * * Oh, my sad heart, Roger Agnew hath pierced you at last. I was moved, more than he thought, by what

he sayd in yo morning ; and, in writing down y. heads of his speech, to kill time, a kind of resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before ; in spite of my folly about my curls. Seeking for some trifle in a bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from London, out tumbled a key with curious wards— I knew it at once for one that belonged to a certayn algum-wood casket Mr. Milton had recourse to dailie, because he kept small change in it ; and I knew not I had brought it away ! ”T was worked in grotesque, the casket, by Benvenuto, for Clement the Seventh, who for some reason woulde not have it ; and soe it came somehow to Clementillo, who gave it to Mr. Milton. Thought I, how uncomfortable the loss of this key must have made him " he must have needed it a hundred times even if he hath bought a new casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to y” old one, and then he remembers that he lost y" key the same day that he lost his wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he feels not the one loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well that one of them, tho' y' lesser, shoulde be repaired. "Twill shew signe of grace, mythinking of him, and may open y' way, if God wills, to some interchange of kindnesse, however fleeting. Soe I sought out Mr. Agnew, tapping at his studdy doore. He sayd, “Come in,” drylie enoughe ; and there were he and Rose reading a letter. I sayd, “I want you to write for me to Mr. Milton.” He gave a sour look, as much as to say he disliked y' office; which threw me back, as 't were ; he having soe lately proposed it himself. Rose's eyes, however, dilated with sweete pleasure, as she lookt from one to y” other of us. “Well—I fear ’t is too late,” sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte almost say grufflie—“what am I to write 4” “To tell him I have this key,” I made answer faltering. “That key !” cried he. “Yes, the key of his algum-wood casket, which I knew not I had, and which I think he must miss dailie.” He lookt at me with y” utmost impatience. “And is that alle !” he sayd. “Yes, alle,” I said trembling. “And have you nothing more to tell him 1" sayd he. “No-” after a pause, I replyed. countenance fell. “Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. Milton,” burste forthe Roger Agnew, “unless you choose to write for yourself. I have neither part nor lot in it.” I burste forthe into teares. “No, Rose, no,” repeated Mr. Agnew, putting aside his wife, who woulde have interceded for me; “her teares have noe effect on me now— they proceed, not from a contrite heart, they are y" tears of a child that cannot brook to be chidden for the waywardnesse in which it persists.” “You doe me wrong everie way,” I sayd; “I

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came to you willing and desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this morning, have had me doe.” “But in how strange a way !” cried he. “At a time when anie renewal of your intercourse requires to be conducted with y” utmost delicacy, and even with more show of concession on your part than, an hour ago, I should have deemed needfulle—to propose an abrupt, trivial communication about an old key !” “It needed not to have beene abrupt,” I sayd, “nor yet trivial ; for I meant it to have beene exprest kindlie.” “You said not that before,” answered he. “Because you gave me not time—because you chid me and frightened me.” He stood silent some while upon this ; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie playing with y' key, which he had taken from my hand. Rose looking in his face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his reverie, she playfully tooke it from him, saying, in school-girl phrase, “This is the key of the kingdom ''' “Of the kingdom of heaven, it mighte be?” exclaimed Roger, “if we knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to y” wards of Milton's heart'—there's the difficultie ——a greater one, poor Moll, than you know ; for hithertoe, alle y' reluctance has been on your part. But now ** “What now !” I anxiouslie askt. “We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us,” said Mr. Agnew, “and I was telling Rose that hithertoe I had considered the onlie obstacle to a reunion arose from a false impression of your own, that Mr. Milton coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to y' conclusion that you cannot make him soe, which increases the difficultie.” After a pause, I sayd, “What makes you think soe 1.'' “You and he have made me think soe,” he replyed. “First for yourself, dear Moll, putting aside for a time the consideration of your youth, beauty, franknesse, mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish drollerie and mischiefe that are all very well in fitting time and place—what remains in you for a mind like John Milton's to repose upon what stabilitie? what sympathie what steadfast principle 1 You take noe pains to apprehend and relish his favorite pursuits; you care not for his wounded feelings; you consult not his interests, anie more than your owne duty. Now, is such the character to make Milton happy ‘’’ “No one can answer that but himself,” I replyed, deeplie mortyfide. “Well—he has answered it,” sayd Mr. Agnew, taking up y' letter he and Rose had beene reading when I interrupted them. ** You must know, cousin, that his and my close friendship hath beene a good deal interrupted by this matter. T was under my roof you met. Rose had imparted to me much of her earlie interest in you. I fancied you had good dispositions which, under masterlie trayning, would ripen into noble

principles; and therefore promoted your marriage as far as my interest in your father had weight. I own I was surprised at his easilie obtained conSent but, that you, once domesticated with such a man as John Milton, shoulde find your home uninteresting, your affections free to stray back to your owne family, was what I had nevel contemplated.” Here I made a show of taking the letter, but he held it back. “No, Moll, you disappointed us everie way. And, for a time, Rose and I were ashamed, for you rather than of you, that we left noe means neglected of trying to preserve your place in your husband's regard. But you did not bear as out; and then he beganne to take it amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool words, our correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed.” “He has written us a most kind condolence,” interrupted Rose, “on the death of our baby.” “Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest,” sayd Mr. Agnew ; “but what a conclusion " And then, after this long preamble, he offered me the letter, y' beginning of which, though doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being impatient to reach y” latter part; wherein I found myself spoken of soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw Roger Agnew had not beene beside y' mark when he decided I could never make Mr. Milton happy. Payned and wounded feeling made me lay aside y” letter without proffering another word, and retreat without soe much as a sigh or a sob into mine own chamber; but noe longer could y” restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that Rose prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I shoulde have bathed mine eyes and smoothed my hair; but I have not gone down yet.

Bed time.—I think I shall send to father to have me home at y” beginning of next week. Rose needes me not, now ; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. Agnew to see my sorrowfulle face about y” house. His reproofe and my husband's together have riven my heart; I think I shall never laugh agayn, nor smile but after a piteous sorte; and soe people will cease to love me, for there is nothing in me of a graver kind to draw their af fection ; and soe I shall lead a moping life unto y" end of my dayes.

—Luckilie for me, Rose had much sewing to doe; for she hath undertaken with great energie her labors for y' poore, and consequentlie spends less time in her husband's studdy ; and, as I help her to y' best of my means, my sewing hides my lack of talking, and Mr. Agnew reads to us such books as he deems entertayning; yet half y" time I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much amusement could have beene found in books; and there are some of his, that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow.

Friday.—I have made up my mind now, that I shall never see Mr. Milton more; and am resolved to submitt to it without another tear.

Rose sayd, this morning, she was glad to see me more composed ; and soe am I; but never was more miserable.

Saturday night.—Mr. Agnew's religious services at y' end of the week have alwaies more than usuall matter and meaninge in them. They are neither soe drowsy as those I have beene for manie years accustomed to at home, nor soe wearisome as to remind me of y" Puritans. Were there manie such as he in our church, so faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer schismaticks; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be y” uppermost. To-nighte, Mr. Agnew's prayers went straight to my heart; and I privilie turned sundrie of his generall petitions into particular ones, for myself and Robin, and also for Mr. Milton. This gave such unwonted relief, that since I entered into my closet, I have repeated the same particularlie ; one request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know not how long on my knees, and will bend them yet agayn, ere I go to bed.

How sweetlie y' moon shines through my casement to-night! I am almoste avised to accede to Rose's request of staying here to y" end of the month :—everie thing here is soe peacefulle; and Forrest Hill is dull, now Robin is away.

Sunday evening.—How blessed a Sabbath !— Can it be, that I thought, onlie two days back, I shoulde never know peace agayn ! Joy I may not, but peace I can and doe. And yet nought hath amended y” unfortunate condition of mine affairs; but a different coloring is caste upon them—the Lord grant that it may last ! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved 1 This morn, when I awoke, 't was with a sense of relief such as we have when we miss some wearying bodilie payn ; a feeling as though I had beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. Milton, for I knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by God; and why? I had done nothing to get his forgivenesse, only presumed on his mercy to ask manie things I had noe right to expect. And yet I felt I was forgiven. Why, then, mighte not Mr. Milton some day forgive me! Should y” debt of ten thousand talents be cancelled, and not y” debt of a hundred pence 1 Then I thought on that same word, talents; and considered, had I ten, or even one 1 Decided to consider it at leisure, more closelie, and to make over to God henceforthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, dressed with much composure, and went down to breakfast.

Having marked that Mr. Agnew and Rose af. fected not companie on this day, spent it chiefly by myself, except at church and meal times; partlie in my chamber, partlie in y” garden bowre by the bee-hives. Made manie resolutions, which,

in church, I converted into prayers and promises. Hence, my holy peace.

Monday.—Rose proposed, this morning, we shoulde resume our studdies. Felt loth to comply, but did soe nevertheless, and afterwards we walked manie miles to visit some poor folk. This evening, Mr. Agnew read us y” prologue to the Canterbury Tales. How lifelike are y” portraitures . I mind me that Mr. Milton shewed me y” Talbot Inn, that day we crost the river with Mr. Marvell.

Tuesday.—How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same letter 1–or rather, that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our wishes. We think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small thing were otherwise, which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great thing. Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over y" remembrance of that part wherein he spake such bitter things of my “most ungoverned passion for revellings and junketings.” Sure, he would not call my life too merrie now, could he see me lying wakefullie on my bed—could he see me preventing y” morning watch—could he see me at my prayers, at my books, at my needle. He shall find he hath judged too hardly of Moll, even yet.

Wednesday.—Took a cold dinner in a basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall repast on y” skirt of a wood, where we could see y' squirrels at theire gambols. Mr. Agnew lay on y' grass, and Rose took out her knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like y” Dutch women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on y" Sabbath. Having laught her out of her work, he drew forth Mr. George Herbert's poems, and read us a strayn which pleased Rose and me soe much, that I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.

How fresh, oh Lord ; how sweet and clean
Are thy returns' e'en as yo flowers in spring,

To which, beside theire owne demesne,
The late pent frosts tributes of pleasure bring.

Grief melts away like snow in May,
As if there were noe such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Woulde have recovered greenness! it was gone

Quite underground, as flowers depart
To see their mother root, when they have blown,

Where they together, alle y' hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house alone.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven, in an hour,
Making a chiming of a passing bell.
We say amiss “this or that is ;”
Thy word is alle, if we could spell.
Oh that I once past changing were !
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flowers can wither;
Manie a spring I shoot up faire,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither,
Nor doth my flower want a spring shower,
My sins and I joyning together.

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were my own,

Thy anger comes, and I decline.—
What frost to that? What pole is not y' zone

Where alle things burn, when thou dost turn,
And yo least frown of thine is shewn

And now, in age, I bud agayn,
After soe manie deaths, I bud and write,

I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing ! Oh my onlie light!

It cannot be that I am he
On whom thy tempests fell alle night!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide,

Which, when we once can feel and prove, Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.

Who would be more, swelling their store, Forfeit their Paradise by theire pride.

Thursday.—Father sent over Diggory with a letter for me from deare Robin ; alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return home, as mother wants to goe to Sandford. Fixed the week after next ; but Rose says I must be here agayn at y' apple-gathering. Answered Robin's letter. He looketh not for choyce of fine words; nor noteth an error here and there in yo spelling.

[Ch.ARM of A FAMILIAR object seeN IN Its HAPPiest LIGHT.]

MRs. CARTER, speaking of her journey home, in one of her letters to Mrs. Montagu, says, “I need not tell you, for I am sure you feel it, how much I longed for you to share with me in every view that pleased me; but there was one of such striking beauty, that I was half-wild with impatience at your being so many miles distant. To be sure the wise people, and the gay people, and the silly people of this worky-day world, and for the matter of that, all the people but you and I, would laugh to hear that this object which I was so undone at your not seeing, was no other than a single honeysuckle. It grew in a shady lane, and was surrounded by the deepest verdure, while its own figure and coloring, which were quite perfect, were illuminated by a ray of sunshine. There are some common objects, sometimes placed in such a situation, viewed in such a light, and attended by such accompaniments, as to be seen but once in a whole life, and to give one a pleasure entirely new ; and this is one of them.”—Mrs. Carter's Letters to Mrs. Montagu, vol. 1, p. 117.

[HUMAN NATURE oppositeLY estimated.]

“FroM those that have searched into the state of human nature, we have sometimes received very different and incompatible accounts; as though the inquirers had not been so much learning as fashioning the subject they had in hand ; and that as arbitrarily as a heathen carver, that could make either a god or a tressel out of the same piece of wood. For some have cried down Nature into such a desperate impotency, as would render the grace of God ineffectual ; and others, on the contrary, have invested her with such power and selfsufficiency, as would render the grace of God superfluous. The first of these opinions wrongs nature in defect, by allowing her no strength, which in consequence must make men desperate. The second wrongs nature in excess, by imputing too much strength, which in effect must make men confident; and both of them do equally destroy the reason of our application to God for strength. For neither will the man that is well in conceit, nor yet the desperate, apply himself to a physician; because the one cries there is no need, the other, there is no help.”—Dean Young's Sermons, vol. 1, p. 4.

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small controversies that had lately taken place among the two sects of Methodism. The man of zeal very eagerly asked his lordship if he had seen Mr. Hill's Farrago His lordship, whose ideas ran on Newmarket, whither he was at that time bound, replied, he had not—and begged the gentleman to inform him by whom Farrago was made.— “Made t—why I told you, my lord—by Mr. Hill himself.”—“The d–l he was,” said my lord ; ‘pray, sir, out of what mare – Mare my lord —I don’t understand you.”—“Not understand me !’ said the noble jockey. “Why, is it not a horse you are talking about?”—“A horse ! my lord—why you are strangely out. No, I am not talking about a horse, I am talking about a book.”—“A book ''‘Yes, my lord, and a most excellent one indeed, against John Wesley and universal redemption, by Mr. Rowland Hill—the GREAT Mr. Hill, my lord. whom everybody knows to be the first preacher of the age, and the son of the first baronet in the kingdom.”—“I ask his pardon,’ said his lordship, “for not having heard either of him or his book— but I really thought you was talking about a horse for Newmarket.’ It is indeed of little consequence to ‘those persons who now lead the opinions of a great part of Europe,” whether Mr. Rowland Hill's Farrago be a horse or a book ; whether it is to start for the sweepstakes at Newmarket or the Tabernacle : and it is a matter of perfect indifference to them whether it wins or loses the odds. The contention is too trifling, and the success too insignificant, to excite either hope or fear for one moment.” —Monthly Review, vol. 62, 1780,-Williams's Lectures on the Duties of Religion and Morality, p. 98.

[cHANGE of TASTE IN THE composition of serMons.]

“THERE is a taste in moral and religious as well as other compositions, which varies in different ages, and may very lawfully and innocently be indulged. Thousands received instruction and consolation formerly from sermons, which would not now be endured. The preachers of them served their generation, and are blessed for evermore. But because provision was made for the wants of the last century in one way, there is no reason why it should not be made for the wants of this in another. The next will behold a set of writers of a fashion suited to it, when our discourses shall in their turn be antiquated and forgotten among men ; though if any good be wrought by them in this their day, our hope is, with that of faithful Nehemiah, that our God will remember us concerning them.”—Bishop (Rev. Dr.) Horne, Preface to his Discourses, 1779.

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