rule is drawing near its close. His favourite tenet of predestination, however, serves to soothe the disappointed feelings which are provoked by national vanity. The hand of Allah is working the decay of his people, and it is no degradation to be vanquished by Him who is All Powerful. With an earnestness of faith, which it is impossible not to admire, the Turk sees the working of Providence in his day of downfall, as much as in his hour of success. He only regrets that his rulers have not suffered his nation to fall with dignity, but have sought to uphold her by arts and customs borrowed from the Franks, which innovations he views with a mixture of hatred and contempt. The true Osmanli would rather meet his fate with the scimitar of his fathers in his hand, than be indebted to the Franks for instruction in warfare, only to be more completely vanquished by them at last.'-Notes from Nineveh, vol. ii. pp. 17—21.

The principal subject of our review must excuse another lengthened extract, descriptive of Nineveh, as now seen:

The storm was passing over, and the moon was shining in her full brightness, with that clear brilliancy which is witnessed only in Eastern skies. Sheltered by a pillar, I watched the movements of the gazelle. It stood for some minutes as if irresolute, and then leaped over the rampart; I rushed forward, and clambering over some rubbish, reached the place where I first saw it. Looking down I beheld the beautiful creature bounding from ledge to ledge along the side of the mountain, as if exulting in its wild freedom, and defying the swiftest efforts of pursuers. I was enjoying the sight when Toma and his companions joined me. Feeling in no mood for their society, I dismissed them to their repose, and continued to gaze with much interest on the scene before me.

At the foot of the mountain lay the plains of Athur, once the site of that great and mighty Nineveh, where reigned the first conquerors whom the earth ever knew. Happy might it have been for her children, had the era of conquest, spoliation, and violence, terminated with the downfall and ruin of that haughty city, which first taught the lessons of ambition and crime to those who too eagerly received and carried them into action. Yet what a moral might be derived from the present condition of the capital of Assur. In lieu of lofty palaces and gorgeous temples, the eye surveys only the mounds composed of their dust, or the miserable collections of huts which have arisen on their site. The gardens where Sardanapalus revelled are wasted and desolate, the sounds of soft and luxurious music that once floated on the soft Assyrian breezes, have yielded to the silence of devastation or decay. Nothing could be more striking indeed than the stillness which prevailed. Not a sound interrupted the profound repose of nature and of man. Even the cry of the wild animals which disturbs the solitude of ancient Babylon, was not heard here. It was the calmness, the dignified decay of ruined majesty, not the blighting operation of a curse which the crimes and the sins of past days had called forth. The relics of Babylon impressed me with awe, almost with terror; those of Nineveh inspired more a feeling of sympathy and mournful regret.

'As I pace that lonely rampart in my midnight walk, visions of the past seem to rise from yonder deserted plains, and to present themselves before me. Lofty palaces uprear their towering pinnacles in every direction. Terraced gardens, where art has done its utmost to rival, and, perhaps, to outvie nature, appear filled with choicest fruits, and garnished with flowers of the most varied and brilliant hues. Artificial streams pursue their winding course amid these luxuriant plantations, and temper with refreshing coolness the heats of a summer sun. On their banks a thousand

curiously wrought bowers receive the gay troops of revellers, who, crowned with garlands, spend their hours as if life were designed to be one long and uninterrupted revel. From his marble tower, the Chaldean sage tracks the silent course of the heavenly watchers, as they gleam with redoubled brilliancy from the blue and cloudless expanse above. Glittering bands of warriors pass to and fro, exhibiting to the gaze of the curious, the spoils of distant India and Media, mingled with the trophies torn from the cities of the sacred land. Suddenly in the midst of that careless and rejoicing city, a worn and travel-stained form pronounces in a loud and unearthly voice-"Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be destroyed." The monarch quits his throne, the people change their habits of festivity for sackcloth, and all prostrate themselves before the God of the stranger. The supplication is heard, and, for a time at least, the doom of Nineveh is averted.

The vision changes, and in lieu of the gay and joyous scenes, which first attracted the eye, or the mournful and penitential groups that suc-. ceeded to them, the imagination pictures the public places of the mighty city, filled with anxious and apprehensive crowds who recall with trembling earnestness the fearful predictions of a Hebrew Seer. From the neighbouring regions of Alkosh, have gone forth the accents of doom. The bloody city, the city of robbery and lies, must perish. Hosts of barbarians rush from the neighbouring hills, overpower the effeminate and feeble inhabitants; and Nineveh falls, even as a gallant ship that founders in the midst of the solitary and trackless ocean, leaving no trace of her existence, no floating memorial of her fate.'-Notes from Nineveh, vol. i. pp. 205-209.

It is time we should close our very incomplete and hurried review of two most instructive and interesting works. We doubt not, however, that our readers will supply this deficiency by reading for themselves.

One more extract, however, we must give, by way of hearing both sides of a question in these days of impartiality. Lest any one should err in too rapturous a love of Assyrian antiquities, let him learn an admonition from the quiet philosophy of the following passage.

'When I mentioned to Mohammed the excavations of Khoorsabad, he ruminated for a moment, and then asked me, in a confidential tone, how much gold the French Balios (Consul) had discovered. When I told him that M. Botta neither sought for nor expected anything more valuable than some ancient sculptures, my worthy old friend looked grievously disappointed, and, after a few thoughtful puffs, said—

"I have often been astonished, O Yacoub, that a people so wise and intelligent as it must be admitted the Franks generally are, should take such delight in old stones. Praise be to God, I know nothing of Nimroud and Athoor that you have been telling me of, except that one of them put our Father Ibraheem, upon whom be peace, into a great furnace, from which he miraculously escaped. They were both Kafirs, and have, doubtless, been roasting in Gehennam for many years on account of their misdeeds, so why should you or I trouble our heads about them? Did I not know that the Ingleez are a truth-speaking nation, I should suspect that you were telling me falsehoods when you assure me that crowds of people in your country go to gaze upon these idols. I have heard that they of your nation curse the other Christians who worship images, and I know that Musa the Prophet was charged by Allah the Exalted to forbid the

making of such abominations. Why even the mountain Nestorians would not suffer a picture in their houses, and are you less wise than they?

"I remember I once went to the house of a Frank who passed through here a little time ago, and he received me with great honour. We sat down together in peace, and were quietly smoking, when a dog of a Jew brought some worn and rusted coins, for which I would not have given a para. The Frank acted as if the father of the Djin (genii) had possessed him. He leaped from his sofa like one who had discovered a treasure. He viewed the rubbish as if it had been some beautiful damsel, and gave the old thief of a Jew a sum which would have kept my household for a week. The cunning rogue departed laughing in his sleeve, may confusion rest upon him, and the Frank left me hastily, without saying peace be with you, to examine his purchase. I asked the servant if they were relics or pictures of saints that his Excellency worshipped, but he only laughed at my beard. Verily the Franks are a strange people."

'After this speech, a long one for him, my old friend kept silence till the sound of the Muezzin's voice summoned him to quit his beloved pipe. His sentiments, however, represent accurately the feelings of his countrymen with regard to antiquities.'-Ibid. pp. 292–294.

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ART. VI.-1. Sermons, Doctrinal and Practical. By the Rev. WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER, M.A. late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Dublin. Edited, with a Memoir of the Author's Life, by the Rev. THOMAS WOODWARD, M.A. Curate Assistant of Fethard, in the Diocese of Cashel, and Chaplain to His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant. Dublin: Hodges &

Smith. 1849.

2. Letters on the Development of Christian Doctrine, in Reply to Mr. Newman's Essay. By the Rev. WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER, M.A. late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Dublin. Edited by the Rev. THOMAS WOODWARD, M.A. &c. Dublin: Hodges & Smith. 1850.

EVERY one who has remarked on the history of theology, has drawn attention to the two very different shapes into which the theological literature of different ages or communions is apt to run, though the terms by which to denote the difference may not be settled. It is in one case what we may call constructive, in the other, discursive. In the one case it is formal, technical, methodical; in the other, unsystematic and irregular, loose in coherence, indefinite and indistinct in outline, not ambitious, whether capable or not, of well-arranged order and visible consistency. In the one case, it is busy in the harmonious adjustment and employment of an inheritance, vast it may be, but yet definitely circumscribed, of traditionary materials, or in raising on certain great principles a compact and well-guarded fabric of theoretic truth, strong in its internal connexion of parts, and not too vast to be held in one view by the human mind. The procedure in the other case is, compared with this, desultory and fragmentary. Such a theology, for whatever reason, does not seem to feel the necessity of sitting down before it begins its work, to enumerate distinctly, and cast in fixed and immutable formulæ, the principles from which it starts, or to follow out beforehand their consequences, with a view of reconciling and limiting them in theory, before the urgencies of practical difficulty arise. Its principles are elicited by occasions; when enunciated, they are seldom without the stamp of the occasion; and when no longer prominent on the surface of the time, their theoretical position is seldom thought important enough to be settled for the mere satisfaction of speculative reason. Such a theology, viewed as a whole, appears out of shape, dragged hither and thither as its history has proceeded, disproportioned in its parts, and in their elaboration, unsettled, and variable in its subordination of the one to the other. To the eye trained to precision and method, and accus

tomed to exact them, such a spectacle will present little to command sympathy or respect. The weaknesses and the inconveniences which go along with want of system, are palpable, and to many minds, unpardonable. But they whom the fascinating charm of internal coherence, and the admiration felt for the august majesty of a system, comprehensive, symmetrical and complete, do not blind to other forms of truth and greatness, may inquire, and perhaps find that a theology may have strength and reality, though its principle and elements have never been reduced to order and form. There is a greatness in methodizing abstract truth; but there is greatness also in grappling with and grasping the manifold and ever-new facts of life and experience; and if one theology presents the truths of religion, as profound and patient thinkers have drawn them out and marshalled them in just array, the other may present them as thinkers equally profound and patient have investigated them one by one, with a keener sense of their separate importance than of their mutual connexion as a whole. If the latter are less rigorous in statement and deduction, they may escape much narrowness and much that is visibly the mere necessary artifice of theory. Their theology, if less guarded by received modes of exact and well-weighed expression, may be far more satisfactory and persuasive when it deals with what really meets us in life; may be more elastic, more observant, more free, more genuine, more natural. It may fail to meet the exigencies of the dialectic school, as a complete system; and yet present a series of argumentative masterpieces, and sow the seeds of deep and fertile thought for generation after generation.

This is of course but a loose and broad way of stating the contrast; there are systematic minds and unsystematic ones in all ages, and nations, and schools of thought, and religious communions. Yet, on the whole, the general set of the current may be discerned from the eddies which interrupt it, if looked at over a sufficiently large extent. Viewed as a whole, the theology of one body values and aims at method, of another, dispenses with it-of one, is technical, of another, inexact-of one, leaves nothing unaccounted for, of another, is more solicitous about the soundness and evidence of its separate facts, than careful to conjecture their reasons or divine their results, or balance their relations of one, trusts to the completeness of its superstructure to guarantee the one assumption on which it all rests, of another, bases itself with unconcern on several distinct principles which seem to it undeniable, without troubling itself to answer the challenge that they are irreconcileable. And these tendencies show themselves in quite other ways than as respectively distinctive of ancient or modern, or of ecclesiastical or unecclesiastical theology. The thcology of the later English