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its own weakness. Self-knowledge, the writer thinks, leads to a distrust of our own powers, and this distrust of our powers he names skepticism. He remarks, that some of the finest minds have been remarkable for the suspending of the balance; for a dubious rather than a settled state of intellect. The ignorant, he says, never doubt-the intelligent must; and this broad propensity must be met somehow by the claims of religion. He then attempts to prove, that the bible discovers an acquaintance with this tendency of the human mind, and meets it in a way to distinguish the authority of its instructions from that of any merely human document. After pursuing the subject at some length, he comes to the conclusion, that we have more reason to adduce the uncertainties of skepticism to overthrow the philosophy of nature, than we have to weaken or overthrow any article of the christian faith. He remarks in passing, that he hardly knows two men who resembled each other, in the intellectual structure of their minds, more than Joseph Butler and David Hume. They were both men of genius, fond of abstract discussion, not very imaginative; sagacious, acute, discriminating, and deeply impressed with the fallacy of human reason, of course inclined to skepticism. He knows not which was the greater doubter. But to what different results did they come. Hume looked wholly at the negative side-he saw the weakness of human reason. Butler, after surveying this, passed on to the positive side, and planted his feet on the immutable foundations of truth. The following extract may not be unacceptable to the reader in connection with this subject:

It is certain, the Bible requires a strong faith in its truths; and the question is, how such a requisition is consistent with the natural skepticism which all the reflecting must feel, and all, who are ingenuous as well as reflecting, must own.

Strong faith may mean, either the unhesitating assent we give to a presented proposition, or the strong effects or emotions which that proposition awakens in the heart. In the second sense, I apprehend there can be no difficulty. For, only once admit that the existence of God is proved, and no language can express the depths of conviction, the sense of his presence, the reverence, love, and humility, which ought to occupy our hearts. So, once admit that the Bible is the word of God, and the most implicit trust in its doctrines is the most natural result. In other words, the truths of the Bible are calculated to produce deep impressions; and, in this sense, strong faith is as much a legitimate result of revelation as deep grief at the sight of a pathetic tragedy. This is the philosophy of the sacred writer, when he said "I believed, and therefore have I spoken." But, as to the first sense of strong faith: it seems to me, that, if scrutiny, after abstracting doubtful points, leaves the remaining more certain, and if the proofs of revelation do remain after scrutiny, why, then it is natural that this skepticism should lead to a stronger faith. Accordingly, we find that no men have had a deep

er conviction of religion than those who have at first questioned or denied its truths. It is exactly the process we should expect. It is as natural as sunrising. A RESOLVED DOUBT IS THE STRONGEST PROOF. Paul began by opposing religion, and ended one of its strongest advocates; and I think, if we could have looked into the mind of Butler, we should have found an amount of faith there which a less scrutinizing mind could hardly comprehend.* A blown-away fog leaves the ocean sparkling with the purest light.

All this is exactly laid down in the Bible. It completely meets the known laws of the mind. WE SEE THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY.

There is a principle of skepticism in every man. The greatest dogma

tists sometimes feel it. Some confident conclusions have been overthrown; and the boldest doubt. The Bible justifies this; we see through a glass darkly.' Vol. I. pp. 96-98.

The subject of skepticism is evidently a favorite one with the author. He handles it like a man who has himself been strongly tempted to launch forth on that dark and gloomy ocean in which so many souls are wrecked; and we are glad, that he has devoted so many pages to this topic in these two little volumes. We think a large class of minds will feel the force of what he has written, much more than they would of even stronger arguments presented in a different form.

There is a chapter on "keeping up appearances, or, pride and poverty," from which, not a few individuals and families might learn a salutary lesson. The author does not seem to be a convert to the notion which some at this day are so assiduous in spreading through the community, that pride and riches, and poverty and humility, always go hand in hand. According to his own account of himself, John Oldbug was a poor man, but neither he nor his father were destitute of the great generic sin of our naPoverty, in his case, was not a security against pride. Poor father, and mother, and son! let us hear their sorrows:

ture.

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My father was a man of expedients, and had spent his whole life, and exhausted all his ingenuity, in that adroit presentation of pretences, which, in common speech, is called keeping up appearances. In this art he was really skillful; and I often suspected then, and have really concluded since, if he had turned half the talent to procuring an honest livelihood, which he used to slobber over his ill-dissembled poverty it would have been better for his soul and body both. He was a man that never told a lie, unless it was to keep up appearances.

I forewarn the reader that I am now entering on the tragic part of my story, and if he has sympathy or pity for me, I hope he will bestow it here. I know how hard-hearted the world is to such miseries, and I hope none of my readers will be so unfeeling as to smile as they peruse

* I speak of faith, here, in the first sense; how strong Butler's emotions were, is another question.

this paper. Still, much as I value the sympathy of a kindred heart, I will not be so cruel as to hope any of my readers have been taught such afflictions by experience. I hope none who hold this book, have been reduced to the miserable necessity of tying up their pantaloons with packthread instead of lawful suspenders; of using a remnant of a pillow-case for a pocket-handkerchief; of sticking a bur on their rent stocking to cover up a hole; and after slitting their worn pantaloons on the knee, when they had got half way to meeting on the Sabbath, of being obliged to tie a pretended pocket-handkerchief over a pretended wound, seeming to be lame, and perhaps before they had walked ten rods, forgetting in which leg the lameness was seated. No, these are the incommunicable sorrows of me, of me the sad hero of a sad family; the prince and heir-apparent to the ragged generation. To me, and to me alone, was reserved the awful destiny of being invited to a party, where were to assemble the first beauties of a country village-not daring to go until evening, lest the light of heaven should expose a threadbare coat-having no clean shirt-not even a dickey which had not been worn ten times-supplying its place with a piece of writingpaper-afraid to turn my head lest the paper should rattle or be displaced-and then, just as a poor wretch was exulting in the hope, that the stratagems of poverty were to pass undetected, to have a lady, perhaps the youngest and most beautiful in the whole party, come provokingly near, and beg to examine your collar, because she admires the pattern. Often has it been my lot to return home from the company, where all hearts seemed to bound with gladness, to water my couch with tears, amid sorrows which I could tell to none, and with which none would sympathize. I thought it poverty. But I was mistaken, It was something else which begins with a P.

And then the awkward apologies to which one is reduced in such a situation, come very near to a mendacious violation of real verity. O how often have I seen my honored father put to his trumps, steering between Scylla and Charybdis, adroitly adjusting his language so as to make an impression, without incurring a lie, and reduced to shifts by which none were deceived, because all understood them. Once on a time, after a week's starvation to procure a velvet collar for my father's best coat, we were sitting down to a dinner of hasty pudding and molasses, when, unluckily, one of our neighbors happened to walk in without knocking, (a very improper act,) and we had no time to slip away the plates and table-cloth; we were taken in the very fact. I never saw my poor father more confounded. A hectic flush passed over his long, sallow cheek, like the last, sad bloom on the visage of a consumptive man. He looked, for a moment, almost like a convicted criminal; but, however, he soon recovered himself, and returned to his expedients. "We thought," said he, "we would have a plain dinner to-day; always to eat roast turkeys, makes one sick." There was no disputing this broad maxim. But happy would it have been for our ill-fated family, if there had been no sickness among its members, either of the head or heart, but such as is produced by eating roasted turkey.' Vol. I. pp. 140-143.

ter.

From the extracts we have made, our readers might perhaps imagine, that few of the pieces are of a dignified or serious characBut it is not so. There is a fine succinct history of the Puritans, two essays on "general principles,"-two on "law,"-another on the law of laws," or the Bible-two on "Hebrew poetry," one on the "great change," or, the new birth,—one on "truth," one on the morality of Macbeth,"-one on "mysteries and mystification," etc. etc. In connection with the last-mentioned topic, the author has the following remarks:

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The truth is, all philosophy (and what is religion but a species of just philosophy) consists of two parts-analysis and mystery. These are blended, like the light and darkness in the natural world. The great art is, to know when the analytic possibility closes and the mystery begins. THIS IS WISDOM; THIS IS THE LAST DISCOVERY RESERVED FOR THE FACULTIES OF MAN. If it were not so, we might go on explaining for ever. Every lamp we bring to the word of God, or the works of nature, would want another light to illuminate it; and the maxim of the old poet would be false, that light is a thing which is seen by itself; or, in other words, it would not be true that knowledge is knowledge.

Nor are these mysteries barren and unproductive in their influence on the understanding or the heart. In religious things I am persuaded, that the unknown is almost as necessary to the sanctifying the heart as the known. Sir Thomas Brown got part of the truth, though he overstated it through his love of paradox. For what can be more necessary, than that man should wonder and adore, before an idea so vast, as to assure us that it comes from God, and so perplexing, as to lead us up to God again? It is the same impression in intellectuals, which was made on the Israelites in visible things, when they saw, at a trembling distance, Moses approach the thick darkness where God was.' Vol. II. pp. 141, 142.

For these reasons, I have never been scrupulous of receiving a system of religion, which presents me with some mysteries. I find them in nature; and I ought to expect to find them in a revelation, which comes from an infinite God; and as I have settled it to my own satisfaction, that some of the deep things of my creed, are not MYSTIFICATION, (i. e. things voluntarily darkened, when they might be expressed more plainly,) I conclude them to be MYSTERIES; and, though I would not say with Sir Thomas Brown, that there is not enough of these in the Bible for my active faith, yet far less would I reject an interpretation, "which contains a doctrine, the light of nature cannot discover, or a precept, which the law of nature does not oblige to.""* Vol. II. p. 145.

There are in these volumes several specimens of the author's poetical powers, which are quite creditable to himself. The poem

"Butler's Analogy, chap. I. part 2.

entitled "The Wounded Spirit," and delivered before a society in college, while the writer was an under-graduate, is above ordinary college-poetry.

The space we have allotted to ourselves does not allow us to give the reader any further extracts. We would gladly, had we room, insert the whole of Nos. 11, 17, 54, and several others. The title of No. 54 is "The Bird's Nest in the Moon;" but no one would guess, from the words, either the subject or the design of the piece. The " Moon" is not the queen of night, but a beautiful island in the vicinity of Boston, commanding a fine view of the harbor. In walking over this delightful spot the author chanced to start a little sparrow from her nest. The nest was

built upon the ground, beneath a small tuft of grass. It contained four little speckled eggs which enclosed the parents' hope. Some cows were feeding around it, whose careless tread might crush the whole into the earth, and frustrate in a moment all the fond anticipations of the little bird. The author saw all this and went away without the least thought of writing a dissertation on the "Bird's Nest in the Moon." But, in his own language, "our minds are strange things." That bird's nest haunted him, till he found himself, at some future time, in a right frame of mind to write a meditation, even on a "broomstick;" when he produced a dissertation on the "Bird's Nest in the Moon;" which, we can assure our reader, especially if he be a bachelor, and a little inclined to infidelity, will repay an attentive perusal. There is more philosophy in this little piece than we sometimes meet with in a respectable quarto.

For a fine specimen of the author's descriptive powers, and for the moral effect of the piece, we would refer our youthful readers particularly, to the vision entitled "The River of Life." The picture is admirably executed.

Our general opinion of the work before us, is evident from what we have already said. We believe the object of the writer was a good one, and that his little book will not utterly fail of accomplishing it. It will tend to make its readers both wiser and better, in addition to affording them, at least, a proper share of innocent amusement. As a whole, it is adapted to interest as many classes of readers, as any work of the kind could reasonably be expected to do. Though its object is not exclusively nor directly religious, the manifest tendency of most of the pieces is to promote the interests of morality and religion. Should some few papers be found, whose influence does not appear at first sight to be of this kind, there are more, it is believed, of an opposite tendency.

Of the literary merits of the work, we have but little to say. The style of the author will be seen, from the above extracts, to be easy, natural, full of vivacity, and sufficiently nervous for his VOL. VIII.

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