land, Holland, and Sweden, by which the career of Louis was, for a time, effectually checked. In the same year he received the appointment of ambassador at the Hague, where he resided in that capacity for about twelve months, on terms of intimacy with De Witt, and also with the young Prince of Orange, afterwards William the Third, of England. The corrupt and wavering principles of the English court having led to the recall of Temple, in 1669, he retired from public life to his residence at Sheen, near Richmond, and there employed himself in literary occupations and gardening, for five years. In 1674 he consented, but with great reluctance, to return as ambassador to Holland; in which country, besides engaging in various important negotiations, he contributed to bring about the marriage of the Prince of Orange, with Mary, eldest daughter of the Duke of York. That important and popular event took place in 1677.

Having finally returned to England, in 1679, Temple was pressed by the king to accept the office of secretary of state, which, however, he persisted in refusing. Charles was now in the utmost perplexity, in consequence of the discontents and difficulties which a long course of misgovernment had occasioned; and used to hold long interviews with Temple, on the means of extricating himself from his embarrassments. The measure which Sir William advised, was the appointment of a privy council of thirty persons, in conformity with whose advice the king should always act, and by whom all his affairs should be freely and openly debated; one half of the members to consist of the great officers of state, and the other half of the most influential and wealthy noblemen and gentlemen of the country. This scheme was adopted by the king, and produced great joy throughout the nation. The hopes of the people were, however, speedily frustrated by the turbulent and unprincipled factiousness of some of the members. Temple, who was himself one of the council, soon became disgusted with its proceedings, as well as those of the king, and in 1681, took his final leave of public life. He passed the remainder of his days chiefly at Moor Park, in Surrey, where Swift, as we have already observed, resided for some time with him, as an amanuensis. After the Revolution, King William, whose respect for the friend of his youth was most profound, often visited Sir William, in order to obtain his advice upon momentous occasions. Temple's death occurred in 1698, at his seat in Moor Park, in the seventieth year of his age.

The works of Sir William Temple consist chiefly of short miscellaneous pieces. His longest productions are his Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands, and his Essay on the Original and Nature of Government. The former of these was written during his first retirement at Sheen, and is considered a master-piece of its kind. The latter was composed at about the same time, but is not written with equal felicity. Besides several political tracts of temporary interest, he wrote Essays on Ancient and Modern Learning; The Gardens of Epicures; Heroic Virtue; Poetry; Popular Discontents; Health and Long Life. In these are to be found many sound and acute observations, expressed in the perspicuous

and easy language, for which he is so noted. But of all Sir William's productions, that which is, in matter as well as in composition, the best, is A Letter to the Countess of Essex, on her excessive grief for the loss of a beloved daughter. As a specimen of eloquent, firm, and dignified, yet tender and affectionate expostulation, it is unsurpassed in English literature.

The style of Sir William Temple is, according to Dr. Blair, distinguished for its simplicity. All is easy and flowing in him; he is exceedingly harmonious; smoothness and what may be called amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his manner; relaxing sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and remiss style.' And Dr. Johnson, in a conversation preserved by Boswell, remarked that 'Sir William Temple was the first writer who gave cadence to English prose: before his time, they were careless of arrangement, and did not mind whether a sentence ended with an important word or an insignificant word, or with what part of speech it was concluded.' To this remark, Cowley, and perhaps some few others, form exceptions.

From the Letter to the Countess of Essex,' we select the following passages, and regret that our space does not allow us to introduce the whole of that masterly performance :

AGAINST EXCESSIVE GRIEF.

The honour which I received by a letter from your ladyship was too great not to be acknowledged; yet I doubted whether that occasion could bear me out in the confidence of giving your ladyship any further trouble. But I can no longer forbear, on account of the sensible wounds that have so often of late been given your friends here, by the desperate expressions in several of your letters, respecting your temper of mind, your health, and your life; in all which you must allow them to be extremely concerned. Perhaps none can be, at heart, more partial than I am to whatever regards your ladyship, nor more inclined to defend you on this very occasion, how unjust and unkind soever you are to yourself. But when you throw away your health, or your life, so great a remainder of your own family, and so great hopes of that into which you are entered, and all by a desperate melancholy, upon an event past remedy, and to which all the mortal race is perpetually subject, give me leave to tell you, madam, that what you do is not at all consistent either with so good a Christian, or so reasonable and great a person, as your ladyship appears to the world in all other lights.

I know no duty in religion more generally agreed on, nor more justly required by God Almighty, than a perfect submission to his will in all things; nor do I think any disposition of mind can either please him more, or becomes us better, than that of being satisfied with all he gives, and contented with all he takes away. None, I am sure, can be of more honour to God, nor of more use to ourselves. For, if we con sider him as our Maker, we can not contend with him; if as our Father, we ought not to distrust him; so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for good; and whatever happens we interpret otherwise, yet we can get nothing by repining, nor save any thing by resisting.

But if it were fit for us to reason with God Almighty, and your ladyship's loss were acknowledged as great as it could have been to any one, yet, I doubt, you would have but ill grace to complain at the rate you have done, or rather as you do; for the first emotions or passions may be pardoned; it is only the continuance of them which makes them inexcusable. In this world, madam, there is nothing perfectly

good; and whatever is called so, is but either comparatively with other things of its kind, or else with the evil that is mingled in its composition; so he is a good man who is better than men commonly are, or in whom the good qualities are more than the bad; so, in the course of life, his condition is esteemed good, which is better than that of most other men, or in which the good circumstances are more than evil. By this measure, I doubt, madam, your complaints ought to be turned into acknowledgments, and your friends would have cause to rejoice rather than to condole with you. When your ladyship has fairly considered how God Almighty has dealt with you in what he has given, you may be left to judge yourself how you have dealt with him in your complaints for what he has taken away. If you look about you, and consider other lives as well as your own, and what your lot is, in comparison with those that have been drawn in the circle of your knowledge; if you think how few are born with honour, how many die without name or children, how little beauty we see, how few friends we hear of, how much poverty, and how many diseases there are in the world, you will fall down upon your knees, and instead of repining at one affliction, will admire so many blessings as you have received at the hand of God.

To put your ladyship in mind of what you are, and of the advantages which you have, would look like a design to flatter you. But this I may say, that we will pity you as much as you please, if you will tell us who they are whom you think, upon all circumstances, you have reason to envy. Now, if I had a master who gave me all I could ask, but thought fit to take one thing from me again, either because I used it ill, or gave myself so much over to it as to neglect what I owed to him, or to the world; or perhaps, because he would show his power, and put me in mind from whom I held all the rest, would you think I had much reason to complain of hard usage, and never to remember any more what was left me, never to forget what was taken away?

It is true you have lost a child, and all that could be lost is a child of that age; but you have kept one child, and you are likely to do so long; you have the assurance of another, and the hopes of many more. You have kept a husband, great in employment, in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your beauty and your health, unless you have destroyed them yourself, or discouraged them to stay with you by using them ill. You have friends who are as kind to you as you can wish, or as you can give them leave to be. You have honour and esteem from all who know you; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon that point of your seeming to be fallen out with God and the whole world, and neither to care for yourself, nor anything else, after what you have lost.

You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all to you, and your fondness of it made you indifferent to every thing else. But this, I doubt, will be so far from justifying you, that it will prove to be your fault as well as your misfortune.

God Almighty gave you all the blessings of life, and you set your heart wholly upon one, and despise or undervalue all the rest is this his fault or yours? Nay, is it not to be very unthankful to Heaven, as well as very scornful to the rest of the world? is it not to say, because you have lost one thing God has given, you thank him for nothing he has left, and care not what he has taken away? is it not to say, since that one thing is gone out of the world, there is nothing left in it which you think can deserve your kindness or esteem? A friend makes me a feast, and places before me all that his care or kindness could provide: but I set my heart upon one dish alone, and, if that happens to be thrown down, I scorn all the rest; and though he sends for another of the same kind, yet I rise from the table in a rage, and say, 'My friend has become my enemy, and he has done me the greatest wrong in the world.' Have I reason, madam, or good grace in what I do? or would it become me better to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of what had happened, and could not be remedied?

Christianity teaches and commands us to moderate our passions; to temper our

affections towards all things below; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss, whenever HE who gave shall see fit to take away. Your extreme fondness was perhaps as displeasing to God before as now your extreme affliction is; and your loss may have been a punishment for your faults in the manner of enjoying what you had. It is at least pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us to our demerits, rather than to injustice to God. And it becomes us better to adore the issues of his providence in the effects, than to inquire into the causes; for submission is the only way of reasoning between a creature and its Maker; and contentment in his will is the greatest duty we can pretend to, and the best remedy we can apply to all our misfortunes.

Whilst I had any hopes that your tears would ease you, or that your grief would consume itself by liberty and time, your ladyship knows very well I never accused it, nor ever increased it by common formal ways of attempting to assuage it: and this, I am sure, is the first office of the kind I ever performed, otherwise than in the most ordinary forms. I was in hopes what was so violent could not be long; but when I observed it to grow stronger with age, and increase like a stream the further it ran; when I saw it draw out to such unhappy consequences, and threaten not less than your child, your health, and your life, I could no longer forbear this endeavour. Nor can I end it without begging of your ladyship, for God's sake, for your own, for that of your children and your friends, your country and your family, that you would no longer abandon yourself to so disconsolate a passion; but that you would at length awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse up the invincible spirit of the Percies, which never yet shrunk at any disaster, that you would sometimes remember the great honours and fortune of your family not always the losses: cherish those veins of good-humour that are so natural to you, and sear up those of ill, that would make you so unkind to your children and to yourself; and, above all, that you would enter upon the cares of your health and your life. For my part, I know nothing that could be so great an honour and a satisfaction to me, as if your ladyship would own me to have contributed towards this cure; but, however, none can perhaps more justly pretend to your pardon for the attempt, since there is none, I am sure, who has always had at heart a greater honour for your ladyship's family, nor can have more esteem for you, than, madam, your most obedient and most humble servant.

JOHN BUNYAN presents a remarkable contrast, not only to the writer last mentioned, but also to all the rest of his contemporaries. He was born at Elstow, near Bedford, in 1628; and his father being a brazier or tinker, resolved to bring up his son to the same occupation. The education he, therefore, received, extended merely to reading and writing; and even this, when we consider the extreme poverty of his father, must have been afforded him at a very considerable sacrifice. His early life has been variously represented; for while some have regarded him to have been, in all respects, a reprobate, others, among whom was Southey, have labored to show that there was little in the lad that any reasonable person would severely censure. He was certainly never a drunkard, a libertine, or a lover of sanguinary sports; and the profanity and Sabbath-breaking which afterwards so deeply preyed upon his awakened conscience, are, unhappily, in the rank of life to which he belonged, too frequent to render their perpetrator conspicuous. The truth is, that which gave Bunyan notoriety in his youthful days, and which made him afterwards appear to himself such a monster of

iniquity, was the energy which he threw into all his doings. He had a zeal for idle amusements, and an enthusiasm in mischief, which were the perverse manifestations of a forceful character, and which may have well entitled him to Southey's epithet, a blackguard.'

The strong depraving element in Bunyan's character was ungodliness. He walked according to the course of this world, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind, feeling no other restraining influence than that of terror. Under the power of this passion his days were often gloomy, through forebodings of the wrath to come; and his nights were scared with visions, which the boisterous diversions and adventures of his waking-day could not always dispel. As he grew older, however, he became more hardened in iniquity; and though he experienced some remarkable providences, they neither startled nor melted him. On two occasions he narrowly escaped being drowned-once, by falling into the sea, and once by falling from a boat, into Bedford river. In the civil war he was 'drawn' as a soldier to go to the siege of Leicester; but just before his departure, a comrade sought leave to take his place. Bunyan consented; his companion went; and, soon after, while standing sentry, was shot through the head, and instantly killed. But these remarkable interpositions made, at the time, comparatively no impression upon him. Soon after, however, he happened to hear a sermon on the sin of Sabbath-breaking, which fell with such weight upon his conscience, as to haunt him throughout the day; and when he went to his usual diversions in the afternoon, its cadence was still knelling in his troubled ear. He was engaged in a game of 'Cat,' and had already struck the ball one blow, and was about to deal another, when, in his own language, a voice darted from heaven into his soul, Wilt thou leave thy sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to hell?'' The conviction thus fastened on Bunyan's mind was soon after deepened by a reproof from a woman of notoriously bad character, who declared to him that his awful oaths were shocking even to her. He resolved, from this time, to leave off profane swearing altogether, and endeavor to reform his life. With this view he commenced the careful study of the Scriptures; but as his nature was made up of vivid fancy and vehement emotions, he seldom believed what he really felt and saw. Hence it was that year after year passed away before his faith and hope were firmly established. At length the Rev. John Gifford became pastor of the Baptist church at Bedford, and under his public ministry and private instructions Bunyan's mind was relieved of the burthen which had so long borne it down; and, in 1654, when in the twenty-seventh year of his age, he became, by public profession, a member of that church.

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Bunyan had not long been a member of the church before he was called upon to exercise its actual ministry. Gifford had gone to his everlasting rest; and as a substitute for his labors, until another pastor could be found, a few of the brethren volunteered to speak the word of exhortation to the rest. Of these Bunyan was one; and his exercises having afforded the utmost satisfaction to his warm-hearted but judicious hearers, he was urged