the tenor of the history thus far assures us that it will still be strictly impartial and faithful to the truth. A great work is before him in the history of the Reformation in Geneva; another in France; another in England. How vast the field! how varied the incidents! how full of life and thrilling interest!

D'Aubigné's style in writing is often strengthened by powerful antithesis-the compelled, condensed result of profound though strict logic. Where the two come together in a focus, so to speak, upon great principles, it is like the galvanic action in a compound battery, illustrating and burning with intense power and beauty. Some of the best examples of this great excellence are to be found in what, though brief, is one of D'Aubigné's greatest productions-the_concise discourse upon the heresy of Puseyism. It is full of pregnant suggestions and veins of thought, which, pursued and elaborated, would lead to a great mine, if a man were able to work it. He defines the nature of religious liberty, which, in truth, is the great stake in this conflicttrue religious liberty, without which all other liberty is but a dangerous plaything. Take the aphorism, ye Maynooth statesmen, and worshippers at the shrine of expediency, and dwell upon its meaning. Without true religious liberty, every other liberty is but a useless and dangerous plaything.

But what characterizes this work of D'Aubigné especially is the announcement of its its three ONLYS. We thank D'Aubigné for THE THREE ONLYS. They are the Christian army, the army of Christian doctrine, in the form of battle; a triangular phalanx, every point, each wedge of which pierces the opposing mass of error, and makes a breach, through which in rushes the whole gospel, and sweeps the field. These are the

THREE ONLYS:

The Word of God, ONLY; The Grace of Christ, ONLY; The Work of the Spirit, ONLY. The formal principie, the material principle, and the personal principle of Christianity, are here enunciated; and D'Aubigné has set them in such direct and powerful array against the corresponding, counteracting, enormous errors of Rome and of the Oxford tractarians, that the moment you look upon the battle array, you see the victory; the masterly disposition of the forces tells you beforehand the history of the combat. Singling out

each of the columns of error that make Oxford one with Rome, he drives each of these great principles of Christianity against them with such stedfast tread and condensation, that nothing can withstand the shock. Such a description of so brief an essay might almost seem hyperbolical; but the little essay condenses thought for whole volumes; and I beg you, if you find fault with me, to read it, and test its power for yourself. See if it does not make upon your own mind the impression of victory, of greatness.

The manners of D'Aubigné are marked by a plain, manly, unassuming simplicity, no shade of ostentation, no mark of the world's applause upon him—a thing which often leaves a cloud of vain selfconsciousness over the character of a great man, worse by far than any shade produced by the world's frowns. His conversation is full of good sense, just thought, and pious feeling, disclosing a ripe judgment, and a quiet, well-balanced mind. You would not, perhaps, suspect him of a vivid imagination, and yet his writings do often show a high degree of that quality. A child-like simplicity is the most marked characteristic to a stranger, who is often surprised to see so illustrious a man so plain and affable. He is about fifty years of age.

You would see in him a tall, commanding form, much above the stature of his countrymen, a broad, intelligent forehead, a thoughtful, unsuspicious countenance, a cheerful, pleasant eye, over which are set a pair of dark shaggy eyebrows. His person is robust, his frame large and powerful, and apparently capable of great endurance; yet his health is infirm. Altogether, in face and form, his appearance might be described in three wordsnoble, grave, and simple. The habit of wearing spectacles has given him an upward look, in order to command the centre of the glass, which adds to the peculiar openness and manliness of his mien. has great earnestness and emphasis of manner in his discourses to his students.

He

The residence of D'Aubigné, embowered in foliage on the banks of the lake opposite the Jura mountains, commands the loveliest sunset view of that mighty forest-covered range, reflected, with the glowing purple clouds and evening sky, in the bosom of the quiet waters. completely," said Dr. Arnold, speaking from the fulness of his rich classical associations, "is the Jura-like Citharon, with its νάπαι and λειμώνες, and all that

"How

scenery, which Euripides has given to the life in the Baccha!" Are not all mountains more glorious in the sunset? They certainly seem more intelligent at that hour than at any other. They seem like a vast, silent, meditative consciousness. What shall I say of the flush of rich deep colour, and the atmosphere of glory, in which the Jura range, with its pines and oaks, and its deep glens, with its thousand flowers," lies sleeping? Meantime, the lake ripples at your feet, and whispers its low, stilly, hushing music, so soft, so quiet, as if almost it were the expression of an ecstatic, in-dwelling soul, communing with the parting light, that, as it dies away, fills the face of the lake with such indescribable and pensive beauty. Sometimes it seems, as you stand beneath the trees, and look across the lake, and up to where the Jura outline cuts the sky, as if all heaven were opening before you; but speedily, as the shadows deepen, comes that sober colouring to the eye, that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality, and the earth, the air, the water, though so pure, so bright, do breathe irresistibly upon your mind a sacred melancholy.

But why should this melancholy be connected with the twilight and the stars, and all at evening-fall, that is so beautiful? Perhaps it is because, "in the cool of the day," God came down to talk with Adam concerning his sin, and the stars saw him, and the shades of evening were around him, when he fled to hide himself beneath the trees in the garden. Ah, how this green light, that lingers in the west, looked to him then, when the bliss of innocence had gone from his soul, and he began to be afraid of God!

"It is almost awful," said the excellent Dr. Arnold, sitting above the delicious lake of Como (and I quote the passage here, because it is the expression of thoughts and feelings that such a Christian as D'Aubigné must often have experienced in the presence of the loveliness of nature before his own door;) "it is almost awful to look at the overwhelming beauty around me, and then think of moral evil. It seems as if heaven and hell, instead of being separated by a great gulf from one another, were absolutely on each other's confines, and indeed not far from every one of us. Might the sense of moral evil be as strong in me as my delight in external beauty; for in a deep sense of moral evil, more

perhaps than in anything else, abides a saving knowledge of God! It is not so much to admire moral good; that we may do, and yet not be ourselves conformed to it; but if we really do abhor that which is evil, not the persons in whom evil resides, but the evil which dwelleth in them, and much more manifestly and certainly to our own knowledge in our own hearts-this is to have the feeling of God and of Christ, and to have our spirit in sympathy with the Spirit of God.”—Dr. Cheever.

AN EXCURSION TO WOOLWICH.

It is not often that I have an opportunity of indulging myself in a holiday excursion, but when one does present itself, I am particularly fond of a quiet trip to Woolwich. I love the rapid whirl of the Blackwall railway, with its panoramic view of the eastern parts of the metropolis. I love, also, the picturesque sail down the river, which succeeds; and when arrived at my journey's end, I love

pacific as is my disposition-to wander amidst the accumulation of the instruments of destruction which Woolwich presents; to heave a sigh at the sad proofs of the corruption of our nature, which such preparations exhibit, and to look forward with the anticipations of hope, to that blessed period when Messiah's gentle reign shall render the art of war unknown. Woolwich (as all my town readers know, though not my country ones, for whom chiefly I now write,) is situated about eight miles from London, and is one of the grand depots for military stores in the kingdom. On approaching it from the river, the stranger is generally struck with a number of elegant steam vessels of symmetrical form, from whose tapering masts the government pennant is streaming in the wind. These are the yachts employed in the transmission of those royal and other foreign visitors who occasionally are resident at our court. A little farther on, some immense oaken skeleton upon the stocks announces that there the construction of a man-of-war of the largest class is going forward. Advancing farther, we catch a glimpse of a busy dockyard, one compartment of it forming a field of anchors of enormous dimensions, sufficient, it might seem, to moor the whole British fleet, and to defy the stoutest blast that ever swept the Atlantic. Sailing yet a little farther, a few old bat

certain proportion of gunpowder. This was, I found, the process of cartridge-making. As I beheld the rapidity with which these messengers of death were prepared, I could not avoid being struck by the singular contrast between the occupation of the light-hearted children before me, and those associations of comparative innocence with which childhood is generally connected. It seemed painful to contemplate their being thus early pressed into the service of the bloody Moloch of war. An old man in the corner, as the cartridges were completed, quietly packed them up in small casks, for the purpose of being sent abroad. Every bullet has its billet," the soldiers say—and there was room for speculation, as to the mode in which these cartridges might ultimately be expended. To me it appeared as if I saw arranged before me so many death-warrants of my fellowcreatures; and visions of the battle field, with its groans, its parching thirst, and its varied miseries, presented themselves to my imagination.

It was with pleasure that I left this part of the scene, and, in company with the officer who acted as my guide, found myself on the common which serves as a practising ground for the soldiery. In the front of us were several very large pieces of ordnance, with inscriptions purporting that they were trophies of war, taken during the Burmese expedition. Leaving these behind, our attention was drawn to some striking military evolutions which were going forward in various parts of the field, from which we might gather an idea of the tactics of war without its horrors. In one part a body of artillerymen were occupied in pitching their tents; in another, they were going through the manoeuvre of rapidly dismantling their cannon in other words, taking them to pieces in such a manner, that in the event of flight they should not be used by the enemy. In a distant portion of the field a large train of mounted artillery were performing, with imposing order, a series of movements to the sound of the trumpet. I could not help thinking, as the heavy cannon flew past, dragged by horses at full speed, of the dreadful situation of the wounded on a field of battle, exposed as they were to have their limbs crushed by these weighty masses of metal. In another direction of the common, at a fascine battery, as I believe it is called, other artillerymen were going through

the forms of a siege-loading their guns -pushing them up to the embrazuresdrawing them back again—and all with so much fidelity to the written description of such scenes, which occasionally meets the eye in military memoirs, that, by a little aid of fancy, I could have supposed myself present at a real engagement. One conviction forced itself deeply on my mind, while gazing at these things

the corruption and degeneracy of human nature. What a proof was there, in all these formidable preparations for carnage and destruction, of the departure of man from that law of holy love which had originally been imprinted on his heart by his Creator! I was forcibly struck, also, with the fallacy of a sentiment which I have more than once met with in the writings of that class of authors who are continually boasting of the march of intellect—that the pen will yet weigh down the cannon, and that the civilizing effects of literature will one day render useless all the pomp and circumstance of war. However plausible such assertions may sound in the closet, a glance at the stupendous military preparations around me satisfied me that something more than mere argument, however just, was necessary to uproot a system so powerfully supported; and that the only remedy for the evil existed in the application to the heart of man of the gospel, eradicating those fierce passions out of which human animosities spring. The pen, indeed, may be used as a means to this blessed end.

I was now conducted to one of the most interesting exhibitions of Woolwich-the Rotunda. On the road leading to it stand two small cannons, with three mouths or chambers, taken by Marlborough at the battle of Malplaquet, in 1709, and transmitted as a trophy of victory to queen Anne. It was interesting to touch what the hand of Marlborough himself had touched more than a century ago. These cannon are beautifully wrought, and have engraved upon them the Latin motto, "Ultima ratio regum," or, "This is the final argument of kings." Enough of human misery have such arguments cost; may the softer ones reason and justice henceforth prevail more in the cabinets of monarchs and the councils of nations. The Rotunda, as its derivation implies, is a round building, with a roof of metal, shaped in the form of a tent. It was under this very roof that the prince regent enter

tained the allied sovereigns who visited this country in 1814. Immediately opposite the door of the Rotunda are various pieces of ancient artillery, including a cannon of more moderate date, taken at the battle of Waterloo. A deep indention on the surface of the latter shows that it had been struck with a cannon ball. The duke of Wellington, I was informed, never fails, when in this part of Woolwich, to visit this memento of that bloody field which precipitated Napoleon from the throne of empire. The objects contained in the Rotunda are far too numerous to be detailed here. It may only be mentioned, that the exhibition is a gratuitous one, and that it will richly repay the visit of the stranger. Models of forts, of military inventions, weapons of all nations, are tastefully displayed in it-attesting the melancholy perseverance with which human skill has been devoted to the contrivance of schemes for the abridgment of that span of life, which is short enough at its longest duration.

My readers have now, I dare say, had enough of military description, and I refrain, therefore, from noticing many other points of interest connected with Woolwich. A few reflections, however, naturally present themselves, as a sequel to my previous observations. The existence of such military depots as Woolwich, and the care with which the machinery of war is there kept ready for action, sufficiently indicate that, whatever philanthropists may desire, practical men are far from being convinced that a millennial era of peace has arrived. What a solemn duty, then, is imposed upon every Christian, in his social and his private devotions, to pray that the God of peace would continue those blessings of national tranquillity which Europe has now for thirty-five years enjoyed! Recent events have shown by what trifling causes the spirit of war could again obtain the ascendency, and how easily the plants which peace has been rearing among us could be rooted up. Powerful, however, is the intercession of the righteous. The Lord can chain down the furious passions of his creatures; and unless they are thus subdued, vain is the boasted ameliorating influence of literature and civilization. Again, then, may I be permitted to impress upon every lover of peace, whose eye this paper reaches, the necessity of prayer

for the tranquillity of nations-prayer, accompanied by humiliation of heart for private and national backslidings. Should any one be quickened by these feeble remarks, to greater zeal in the performance of these important duties the writer's visit to Woolwich will not have proved an idle excursion. W. H. M.

WILD FLOWERS OF MARCH.

"What though the opening spring be chill,
Although the lark, check'd in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perch'd on the fallow cled
That still o'ertops the blade! Although no branch
Have spread its foliage save the willow wand
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What though the clouds oft lower! these threats
but end

In sunny showers that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couch'd violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe, melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year."
GRAHAME.

THE old proverb that "March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb, though belonging particularly to the month under the old style, is yet generally true. There is scarcely any time of the year in which a few weeks effect a greater change in the appearance of nature, and the state of the atmosphere, than at this time; when, both in morn and eve, "the still increasing day" grows on the darkness, at the command of Him who causeth "the day spring to know his place," Job xxxviii. 12.

The vegetation of this month is not only rapidly assuming the brighter colours of spring, but daily becomes less thin and scattered. The winding sprays of the honeysuckle are pretty well covered; the spiry branches of the Lombardy poplar look quite green, and the flowers of the ash are coming out on its leafless boughs. The well-cased foliage, which has been hid in the resinous buds of the horse-chestnut tree, bursts out from its winter shield, and the green flowers of the gooseberry invite the bees to their nectar. The blossoms of the apricot tree slowly unfold on the garden wall; and that beautiful plant, the almond tree, is putting forth its delicate blushing flowers so quickly, and so much in advance of all the other trees in the garden, as to remind us of the haste and vigilance of which it was an ancient symbol. "What seest thou?" said the word of the Lord to