mind from those of any other modern people. Shall we call that man uncultivated whose mind is imbued with the deep wisdom, the sublime devotion, the grand imagery of the Book of Books? And where shall we find a better school of language, a deeper well of English undefiled, than in our common version of the Old and New Testaments?"

"Do all these preachers know how to read?"

For

"Many of them. Those who do not, when they are men of strong intellect, lose less by the deprivation than we are apt to suppose. every aid that civilization gives us, we sacrifice something of our self-reliance, and, with this, something of our power. The force of memory possessed by some of these men, who cannot store learning up in libraries and find it ready to their hand, but must trust to their own brain for the preservation of whatever mental treasures they collect, would astonish many a German scholar. Only the Druids, perhaps, may have surpassed them. Their wealth, too, is gathered slowly; each new accession is pondered and scrutinized."

"I have had few opportunities of listening to negro eloquence. I once, indeed, heard a black man relate to an audience of his own race a mournful incident in simple and touching language. I was moved with. the rest. But when he heightened the pathos of his narrative by noting the fineness of the handkerchief with which his heroine dried her tears, my sympathies received a sudden shock. He passed from the grief of the bereaved to the procession of carriages to the grave, and described with unction the splendor and profusion of the funeral-feast. I have always found my interest thus cut short. It is true, I have heard no black preacher of eminence. I have seen reports of negro discourses in which I have found originality certainly, and rude power; but the grotesque and vulgar images, which no doubt were well enough adapted to those they were meant for, would, I am afraid, have made me laugh in spite of myself, if I had been of the audience."

James Freeman Clarke.

BORN in Hanover, N. H., 1810. DIED at Jamaica Plain, Mass., 1888.

THE BELIEF IN GOD.

[Ten Great Religions. 1883.]

HENCE was this belief in God, which we find so universal, derived? We have seen that all men believe in and adore unseen

powers, higher than themselves. This worship begins in one great faith, universal and the same,-the belief in the presence and power of invisible spirits. It passes up through various phases of belief, and then at last becomes once more the same faith; namely, belief in one Supreme Spiritual Being. It is one in its lowest form as Animism; one, finally, in its highest form, as Monotheism.

The only source from which man's belief in spirits could have been derived is the consciousness that he is himself a soul, a soul with a body for its present organ, but capable of existing without this organism. Apart from this consciousness, it is difficult to see how his belief in disembodied spirits could have come.

The second step is taken by means of another universal and necessary law of thought-belief in causation. All things around are in perpetual change; but a law of the mind compels us to believe that every event must have a cause; that for every change there must exist a motive force.

This notion of cause is deeply rooted in every human mind. It is a universal idea, for all men have it. It is a necessary idea, for we cannot help having it, even if we deny its existence. It probably arises first in the mind on the occasion of our making an effort and seeing some result follow. Cause is an idea connected intimately with personal action, effort, choice, the exercise of an intelligent will. Childlike races, looking out on the phenomena of nature, the coming of dawn, day and night, storm and sunshine, spring-time and harvest, flowers and fruits, and, seeing that these were caused by the sun, the atmosphere, the spring rains and summer heats, personified these causes as the Sun-god and Rain-god, as Agin, God of fire, and Indra, God of Storms. Thus the second step in religious belief was taken.

The next idea associated with the gods is that of creation. This belief in a God, who has created the heavens and the earth, we have also found to be very widely disseminated among races in every degree of civilization.

What was the origin of this belief? It seems to have risen in the mind by adding to the idea of causation that of finality or design. There is a universal law of thought, by which from the perception of adaptation we infer design. I do not here undertake to decide if this be an original intuition or not, but at present it is a law of thought which works like an instinct. Nearly the whole life of man is spent in adapting means to foreseen and intended ends. From the hunter setting his trap to catch game, up to Shakespeare designing the play of "Hamlet," or the Apostle Paul planning the conversion of Europe, through all human industries, arts, amusements, man is adapting means to ends during all his life. When the Pilgrim Fathers landed on Cape Cod, before they knew whether the region was inhabited they "came to a tree

VOL. VII.-4

where a young sprit was bowed down, and some acorns strewed under it. As we were looking at it William Bradford came up, and as he went about, it gave a sudden jerk up, and he was caught by the leg. Stephen Hopkins said, 'It was made to catch some deer.' It is a very pretty device." No one thought it a freak of nature. Adaptation proved design. In a stratum of sand belonging to a geological epoch where the presence of man had not then been suspected, there were found stones rudely shaped into some kind of tools. Their adaptation to cutting and grinding was at once regarded as a sufficient proof of design, therefore as evidence that men had existed on the earth at that remote period. No one can contemplate the myriad adaptations of means to ends in nature without being impressed with the sense of intelligent purpose. We do not stop now to consider the modern metaphysical objections to finality in nature. Such objections certainly never disturbed the primitive reason of mankind. To the common sense of the childlike races, no less than to the penetrating thought of Socrates, it was enough to look at the immense order of the universe, its infinite variety and majestic unity, its thousandfold adaptations to life, growth, and the progress of the creature, to lead to the conclusion that it was the work of some divine architect, some celestial Demiurg.

One more step was to be taken. If there are supernatural beings above man, yet caring for man, and if among these there is a Supreme Being maintaining the order of the universe, it needs only to proceed a little farther in this process of thought to reach the pure Monotheism of the Greek philosophy and the Egyptian mysteries. A contemplation of the world without shows universal law, fixed and invariable order, the permanence of being; and on this permanence of existing law our whole mind and heart repose securely. The invariable order of things is the only guarantee of our sanity, and to maintain this order we need infinite power, infinite wisdom, and infinite goodness. This conception of Infinite Being, existing in boundless space and eternal duration, is given us by another law of thought behind which we cannot go. Given the finite, there is a necessity to believe in the infinite. This is a conception so lofty as to seem above the capacity of a created mind, and yet it is one of the primal truths from which no human reason can escape. It is one of those of which Epictetus says: "He who denies self-evident truths cannot be reasoned with."

William Henry Channing.

BORN in Boston, Mass., 1810. DIED in London, England, 1884.

MARGARET FULLER.

[Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 1852.]

AS, leaning on one arm, she poured out her stream of thought, turn

ing now and then her eyes full upon me, to see whether I caught her meaning, there was leisure to study her thoroughly. Her temperament was predominantly what the physiologists would call nervous sanguine; and the gray eye, rich brown hair, and light complexion, with the muscular and well-developed frame, bespoke delicacy balanced by vigor. Here was a sensitive yet powerful being, fit at once for rapture or sustained effort, intensely active, prompt for adventure, firm for trial. She certainly had not beauty, yet the high arched dome of the head, the changeful expressiveness of every feature, and her whole air of mingled dignity and impulse, gave her a commanding charm. Especially characteristic were two physical traits. The first was a contraction of the eyelids almost to a point,-a trick caught from near-sightedness,—and then a sudden dilation, till the iris seemed to emit flashes;-an effect, no doubt, dependent on her highly magnetized condition. The second was a singular pliancy of the vertebræ and muscles of the neck, enabling her by a mere movement to denote each varying emotion; in moments of tenderness, or pensive feeling, its curves were swan-like in grace, but when she was scornful or indignant it contracted, and made swift turns like that of a bird of prey. Finally, in the animation, yet abandon, of Margaret's attitude and look, were rarely blended the fiery force of northern, and the soft languor of southern races.

Meantime, as I was thus, through her physiognomy, tracing the outlines of her spiritual form, she was narrating chapters from the book of experience. How superficially, heretofore, had I known her. We had met chiefly as scholars. But now I saw before me one whose whole life had been a poem,-of boundless aspiration and hope almost wild in its daring, of indomitable effort amidst poignant disappointment,-of widest range, yet persistent unity. Yes, here was a poet indeed, a true worshipper of Apollo, who had steadfastly striven to brighten and make glad existence, to harmonize all jarring and discordant strings, to fuse most hard conditions and cast them in a symmetric mould, to piece fragmentary fortunes into a mosaic symbol of heavenly order. Here was one, fond as a child of joy, eager as a native of the tropics for swift transition from luxurious rest to passionate excitement, prodigal to pour her

seen.

mingled force of will, thought, sentiment, into the life of the moment, all radiant with imagination, longing for communion with artists of every age in their inspired hours, fitted by genius and culture to mingle as an equal in the most refined circles of Europe, and yet her youth and early womanhood had passed away amid the very decent, yet drudging, descendants of the prim Puritans. Trained among those who could have discerned her peculiar power, and early fed with the fruits of beauty for which her spirit pined, she would have developed into one of the finest lyrists, romancers, and critics, that the modern literary world has This she knew; and this tantalization of her fate she keenly felt. But the tragedy of Margaret's history was deeper yet. Behind the poet was the woman,--the fond and relying, the heroic and disinterested woman. The very glow of her poetic enthusiasm was but an outflush of trustful affection; the very restlessness of her intellect was the confession that her heart had found no home. A "bookworm," "a dilettante," "a pedant," I had heard her sneeringly called; but now it was evident that her seeming insensibility was virgin pride, and her absorption in study the natural vent of emotions, which had met no object worthy of lifelong attachment. At once, many of her peculiarities became intelligible. Fitfulness, unlooked-for changes of mood, misconceptions of words and actions, substitution of fancy for fact,-which had annoyed me during the previous season, as inconsistent in a person of such capacious judgment and sustained self-government,-were now referred to the morbid influence of affections pent up to prey upon themselves. And, what was still more interesting, the clue was given to a singular credulousness, by which, in spite of her unusual penetration, Margaret might be led away blindfold. As this revelation of her ardent nature burst upon me, and as, rapidly recalling the past, I saw how faithful she had kept to her high purposes, how patient, gentle, and thoughtful for others, how active in self-improvement and usefulness, how wisely dignified she had been,-I could not but bow to her in reverence.

We walked back to the house amid a rosy sunset, and it was with no surprise that I heard her complain of an agonizing nervous headache, which compelled her at once to retire and call for assistance. As for myself, while going homeward, I reflected with astonishment on the unflagging spiritual energy with which, for hour after hour, she had swept over lands and seas of thought, and, as my own excitement cooled, I became conscious of exhaustion, as if a week's life had been concentrated in a day.

The interview, thus hastily sketched, may serve as a fair type of our usual intercourse. Always I found her open-eyed to beauty, fresh for wonder, with wings poised for flight, and fanning the coming breeze of inspiration. Always she seemed to see before her