sarily render him ridiculous, and are, besides, almost as ruinous to him as they are to the common people.In his own conduct, therefore, he is obliged to follow that system of morals which the common people respect the most. He gains their esteem and affection, by that plan of life which his own interest and situation would lead him to follow. The common people look upon him with that kindness, with which we naturally regard one who approaches somewhat to our own condition, but who, we think, ought to be in a higher. Their kindness naturally provokes his kindness.-He becomes careful to instruct them, and attentive to assist and relieve them.-He does not even despise the prejudices of people who are disposed to be so favourable to him, and never treats them with those contemptuous and arrogant airs, which we so often meet with in the proud dignitaries of opulent and well endowed churches.'

Let us look at the effects of the two systems, as described by Mr. Jacob himself. In England the churches are said to be deserted nearly by the people, but much frequented by the higher ranks-In Germany to be crowded by the people, and nearly deserted by the higher ranks.-Now whether is it most important that the many or the few should receive religious instructions?--And what are we to think of the system which is adapted to the few and leaves out the many?

which gives instruction to those who have leisure and means to obtain it in books, and neglects those who have hardly any other means of obtaining it?

We shall conclude with an anecdote illustrative of the difference of spirit in England and in Germany on certain subjects.-Professor Gesenius of the University of Halle, one of the most distinguished Orientalists now living, lately visited this country for the purpose of copying for publication an apocryphal Hebrew writer, of which a perfect MS. exists only at Oxford.-It so happens that the apocryphal work in question appears to have been thought genuine by the Apostle Paul.-The purpose of the Professor having come to the ears of a certain society, he was solicited by them to renounce it, as it might tend to unsettle the belief of the multitude. He replied, that he had made truth his object through life, and hoped he should continue to do so to the last.--Money was then offered to him.-"Gentlemen," said the Professor, "you have mistaken your man-if money had been my object, I should not have given myself all this trouble to publish a work by which I know, from the limited sale it will have, that I must be a loser." And he indignantly quitted an assembly so little scrupulous in its morality, and capable of offering such an insult to a man of character.

14th Feb. 1821.

THE individual whom we have chosen as the subject of this notice has scarcely yet attained that eminence among his fellows which his talents deserve. He is, perhaps, usually esteemed by them, merely as an able and faithful minister, and considered as more remarkable for his zeal than for extraordinary powers. To us he appears to possess some of the mightiest elements of oratory-not finely tempered or harmoniously blended-but still having potency over the heart, exceeded by that of no living preacher. Of all professors of Calvinism whom we ever have heard, he seems to us its most fitting champion. He alone has displayed strength to cut the knots of its mysterious difficulties-to exhibit its doctrines in all their austere grandeur-and to wield its terrible artillery. There are few things more surprising, or better worthy of analysis, than the listless indifference with which many of its preachers descant on its most thrilling themes. They tell their hearers, that on a few short moments their eternal fates are suspended that each hour is big with imperishable joy, or with undying despair - in accents more drowsy and unimpassioned than they would speak of any subject of present interest to their own worldly possessions. Or they strive to show how gracefully they can touch on these awful subjects-how delicately they may hint damnation-or what pretty fantastic desires they can intersperse among the tremendous threatenings and promises which they declare. In listening to them we are almost tempted to think that, without absolute insincerity, their belief is worth but little-that the certainty of a future state of retribution cannot be vivid in their minds -and that they are rather repeating certain cant phrases, to which they attach no very definite meaning, than that they are fully impressed with the reality of "things not seen as yet" by mortal eyes. Mr. Leif child is not one of these. He feels "the future in the instant." He has

almost as intense a consciousness of the world to come as he has of the visible objects around him. He speaks, not only as believing, but as "seeing that which is invisible." The torments of the hell which he discloses are as palpable to his mind as the sufferings of a convict stretched on a rack by a human torturer. He speaks as if he and his hearers stood visibly on this "end and shoal of time," with the glories of heaven above him, and the eternal abyss beneath, and on the reception of his living words the doom of all who heard them were, on the moment, to be fixed for ever. He makes audible to the heart the silent flight of time, as that the wings of the hours seem to rustle as they pass by with fearful sound.

There are, however, two circumstances which we regard as impairing the effect even of Mr. Leifchild's noblest effusions-and as these are matters rather of feeling and taste than of doctrine, we shall dwell a little upon them. The first is the too perpetual endeavour to awaken hope and terror, in his representations of the future world; and the second consists in the frequency of his appeals to sensibilities which are merely physical. He confines himself too exclusively to the truth, that godliness is great gain. He constantly sets before his hearers the blessedness of heaven, and the agonies of hell; and, with intense anxiety, implores them to fly from the wrath to come, and lay up treasures that will never perish. And for this he has, no doubt, the warrant of Scripture, and the sanction of experience, which proves that a large portion of men can be affected only thus. But this after all--tremendous as the excitements are-is only an appeal to very low and ignoble motives. The passion of fear, the basest in the human heart, is a miserable foundation of piety. He who serves God for reward, is but a poor menial, though the reward he seeks be paradise! In short, the appeal of the preacher is only made to self-love; and this

is neither the purest, nor the strongest incitement to penitence or to virtue. This may, at first, sound like a paradox, but we think it may be established as a truth, even without referring to the noble subtleties of Mr. Hazlitt's eloquent and ingenious "Essay on the Principles of Human Action." It is not true, that men do good or evil according to the rectitude, or the fallacy of their calculations of happiness. How often do they not only prefer the present to that which is to come, but relish joy the more because it is fleeting; and snatch a desperate delight on the verge of ruin! How false is it that men are only excited to action by the hope of something which they may personally taste! The desire of posthumous fame cannot be accounted for on selfish principles, but is part of the very nature and essence of an immortal spirit. Its anticipation, indeed, forces men to realize more intensely the chillness of that grave which will cover them, while the shadows cast from their deeds shall endure. Were they incited only by self-love, they would desire to be forgotten when consciousness ceased, as jealous of their own memories. It is a mere assumption, and we think a false one, that man is prompted by his nature to seek his own good in preference to that of all others. On the contrary, we contend that there is in the human heart a constant desire to go out of itself a principle of diffusion-a tendency to impart life to other objects which may survive its final beatings. Hence the exquisite delight with which a father anticipates the prosperity of his children, when he shall be resting from his labours. Hence the consolation of the philanthropist, who casts the seeds of good into the earth for a brighter day which he must never look on. Hence those rare moments in which the mind seems to overleap the boundaries of its mortal tenement, lives in the light of holier days, and almost loses its individuality among the anticipated harmo nies of the universe.

Mr. Hall, whose fine talents we imperfectly characterized in our last Essay, has a striking passage in opposition to our views of this subject in one of his sermons. "It may," he contends, "be assumed as a

maxim, that no person can be required to act contrary to his greatest good, or his highest interest, comprehensively viewed in relation to the whole duration of his being. It is often our duty to forego our own interest partially, to sacrifice a smaller pleasure for the sake of a greater; to incur a present evil in pursuit of a distant good of more consequence. In a word, to arbitrate amongst interfering claims of inclination, is the moral arithmetic of human life. But to risk the happiness of the whole duration of our being in any case whatever, admitting it to be possible, would be foolish; because the sacrifice must, by the nature of it, be so great as to preclude the possibility of compensation."-It is difficult, notwithstanding our respect for the individual who has put forth this reasoning, to refrain from expressing the strong sentiments of indignation which it awakens. What! has goodness no other basis than expediency, no higher aim than reward? Is the holiest of men only the best of calculators? Does heaven pour nothing higher than a subtle arithmetic into the hearts of those whom it selects for its divinest purposes? If so, there can be no intrinsical beauty in virtue, or, at least, none which is capable of affecting the motives of those creatures for whose preference it is offered. If so, there can be no well-founded abhorrence of crime, whatever pity or contempt may be felt for those who have so far neglected their true interest as to choose it. But the theory is contradicted by all the principles of imagination, and the noblest incidents in human history. Would not suffering virtue affect us, even though it were doomed to be afflicted for ever? Is it only in the presence or the assurance of happiness, that we can feel the dignity of our being? Is it necessary that a golden wreath should be seen quivering over the head of the heroic sufferer, that we may gaze with admiration on the picture of his sorrows? Were there no heaven to reward a Clarissa, should we love or admire her the less? Assuredly not ;-nor is there more ground for the assertion that the pleasure derived from virtue itself is the motive which instigates the best to practise it. They have not thought at all, or

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