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nised. All the faith was not on one side, | Christina of Sweden has left her testimony nor all the chivalry on the other, in the Civil that Cromwell's ambassador could dance Wars. In fact, the grand names of the like any other gentleman of her Court. Anglican succession-the saints like Farrar And we have better evidence of the true and Herbert, who have lighted up the re- nobility which was native amongst men cesses of household life-the stately divines who had ventured to give up all for truth, such as Taylor and Sanderson-and the and were daily looking death in the face. thinkers like Browne and Chillingworth, who Amongst all the horror of the war which could doubt and yet believe-belong to the rough troopers carried on so unsparingly, time when the whole fabric of their Church English women were safe everywhere. Somewas upset by the passionate energy of a times we catch a glimpse of a Puritan family. party not more learned or zealous, but And Montrose's splendid lines to his lady are more distinctly national. The middle classes almost paraphrased in Mrs. Hutchinson's dethen, as now, were obstinately English, and scription of her husband, who "loved her preferred the staple produce of their own better than his life, yet still considered honor, conventicles to European liturgies or tradi- religion, and duty, above her." tional creeds. No doubt they generally lacked the polish which, in days when most men lived on their lands, was best to be learned in a Court. But even fashion was not quite wanting in their ranks. Queen

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What we have said, and still more what we have quoted, will, we hope, induce many to consult Wither's Hallelujah. They will find that Mr. Farr has given them an admirable preface and a careful edition.

ON WASTING PALSY. By William Roberts, | it with inconvenient force, yet he could do noth B.A., M.D., Lond. Churchill.

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Although a case of "a man which had his hand withered is recorded eighteen hundred years ago, the discase of which this essay treats has scarcely been noticed till the present century; For the last half dozen years it has obtained growing attention from French and German authors, and now, for the first time in England, is considered systematically and is distinguished by a name.

The disease, to which Dr. Roberts is sponsor, rarely attacks the whole body-happily "living skeletons" are rare exhibitions-but wasting palsy attacking one or more groups of muscles is not uncommon, and even when it exists in a very small degree, how terrible its importance! Take one man's very slight case for example:

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He is a tailor by trade. The weakness of the right hand dates three months back; about that time he found that the member failed him in its usual service; he could not grasp the needle with sufficient force to use it in his trade, and he was compelled to leave off work. On a cursory examination of the hand it would have been difficult to imagine that it was the scat of so serious an injury-an injury that rendered it as useless to the owner in the practice of his handicraft as if it had been altogether cut off. When I placed my hand in his he grasped

ing with his needle, it turned between his thumb and fingers, or fell entirely from his hold. Perhaps, I thought, the sensation is at fault. No, he could feel as well with the right as with the left hand. I examined the hand more carefully, and, warned by previous experience, I was not long in tracing out the source of the defect which took away from this poor man the power of gaining his bread.

From his own and others' experience, the auyond the workhouse for such a person. thor shows that there may be some resource be

This essay is comprehensive and well digested, and it will not fail to be welcome to Dr. Robtion extant on a disease which spares no age, erts's profession, giving them the best informasex, nor station.-Examiner.

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GRIEF.

I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat
As it would strangle me: such as felt,
I knew it well, some twenty years ago,
When my good father shed his blessing on me:
I hate to weep, and so I came away.

-Joanna Baillie.

BAD ARGUMENTS.-The best way of answering a bad argument is, not to stop it, but let it go on its course until it overleaps the boundaries of common sense.-Sydney Smith.

CAIRD'S SERMONS.*

From The Spectator. in the sense of intelligence. His mind is
observing rather than inventive; he is rich
by accumulation rather than by nature; he
impresses more by multiplying images than
by at once stamping his conclusions on the
hearer. Reasoning in fact is at the bottom
of every thing; be religious and you will
gain by it is the scope of the hortative.
This logic is quite different from coherence
of parts and a consistent soundness of con-
clusion, in which the preacher is apt to fail.
In two very able sermons on the Sufferings
of Christ, the first as regards the solitariness
of those sufferings, and the other our partici-
line of distinction sufficiently clear between
pation in them, he seems not to draw the
the human and divine nature of Christ. For
example, Christ's knowledge of sin and his
disgust at it, must have been just as great
before the incarnation as during its continu-
ance; in fact, according to the arguments of
theology, his sufferings from this cause would
have been greater, because we are told that
his human nature gave him a sympathy with
man by subjecting him to the feelings and
exposing him to the temptations of the human
race. Again, in another sermon on the com-
parative influence of character and doctrine,
the preacher seems, at the outset, to be
addressing the clergy on the importance of
earnest belief in the substance of their ser-
not suffice.
mons, as mere scholarly or literary skill will

THE celebrity of Mr. Caird as a preacher is no doubt owing in a degree to his sermon on " Religion in Common Life," delivered before the Queen, and published by her Majesty's command. He has qualities that would have excited attention apart from extrinsic circumstances, though we cannot say that those qualities are of the very highest order. He has none of that originality which arises from an original feeling as it were on the subject of Christianity, such as distinguishes Maurice and Kingsley; and which though it may lead to some vagueness in matters of doctrine, creates a real religious sympathy with the deadness of the poor, and even with the struggles of conscientious doubt searching for truth, while it barbs attacks upon the conventional virtues and "respectabilities"-the "whited outsides" of modern society. Neither has Mr. Caird the peculiar genius so to speak which gives a personal originality to the sermons of some men, as the scholastic learning and genial unction that characterize the Bishop of Oxford. It does not strike us that the now minister of " the Park Church, Glasgow" has that lesser originality in any high degree which arises from taking a more searching view of existing society and throwing a new light on the doctrines of Christianity by applying them to the actual requirements of contemporary life.

The most prominent peculiarity of Mr. Caird, as it seems to us, is the power of enforcement. We do not trace any remarkable novelty in the choice of his subject-such novelty as would excite attention by the mere statement of the theme. Neither is the theme treated with extraordinary literary skill or urged with that living fervor of mind and style which distinguished the late Frederick Robertson of Brighton. It is not meant to say that Mr. Caird's subjects are stale, or his treatment common. His choice of texts, or more properly the views he deduces from his texts, indicate a thoughtful and experienced theologian; his style possesses that power which arises from well-chosen images closely expressed and ably argued. Indeed logic is the essential characteristic of Mr. Caird's genius; not so much in the sense of comprehensive reasoning, for we think that there is occasionally some failure on this ground, as

Sermons. By the Rev. John Caird, M.A., Minister of the Park Church, Glasgow, Author of "Religion in Common Life." 'Published by Blackwood.

He afterwards speaks of the importance of Christian conduct in laymen in general without distinctly marking his change in purpose. We are not, indeed, sure whether throughout the discourse the difference is sufficiently marked between logical or intellectual subjects, where skill of a certain kind suffices, and matters of faith and feeling where conviction is all in all, as was intimated long ago.

"Si vis me flere dolendum est

Primum ispi tibi."

nance of the logical over the feeling and imIt must not be supposed that the predomiaginative qualities removes the discourses from human nature to mere abstractions. On the contrary, life and its interests are continually present. Even the illustrations of the preacher are mostly drawn from the natural world or the experience of mankind. Take as one instance a short passage from the opening of the sermon already alluded to on the solitariness of the Saviour's sufferings, from the text, "I have trodden the winepress alone."

"There is always a certain degree of solitude about a great mind. Even a mere human being cannot rise preeminently above the level of his fellow men, without becoming conscious of a certain solitariness of spirit

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gathering round him. The loftiest intellecApart from any other consideration, there tual elevation, indeed, is nowise inconsistent is something in the mere fact of the gradual with a genial openness and simplicity of na- and insidious way in which changes of char ture; nor is there any thing impossible or un-acter generally take place, that tends to blind exampled in the combination of a grasp of men to their own defects. For every one intellect that could cope with the loftiest ab- knows how unconscious we often are of stractions of philosophy, and a playfulness changes that occur by minute and slow dethat could condescend to sport with a child. grees. If, for instance, the transitions from Yet whilst it is thus true that the possessor of one season of the year to another were more a great mind may be capable of sympathizing sudden and rapid, our attention would be with, of entering kindly into the views and much more forcibly arrested by their occurfeelings, the joys and sorrows of inferior minds, rence than it now is. But because we are not it must at the same time be admitted that plunged from midsummer into winter,-bethere is ever a range of thought and feeling cause, in the declining year, one day is so like into which they cannot enter with him. They the day that preceded it, the daylight hours may accompany him, so to speak, a certain contract so insensibly, the chilly feeling infuses height up the mountain, but there is a point itself by such slight increases into the air, the at which their feebler powers become ex-yellow tint creeps so gradually over the folihausted, and if he ascend beyond that, his path must be a solitary one.

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"You who are parents have, I dare say, often felt struck by the reflection what a world of thoughts, and cares, and anxieties are constantly present to your minds, into which your children cannot enter. You may be continually amongst them, holding familiar intercourse with them, condescending to all their childish thoughts and feelings, entering into all their childish ways,-yet every day there are a thousand things passing through your mind, with respect, for instance, to your business or profession, your schemes and projects, your troubles, your fears, hopes, and ambitions in life, your social connections, the incidents and events that are going on in the world around you, there are a thousand reflections and feelings on such matters passing daily through your mind, of which your children know nothing. You never dream of talking to them on such subjects, and they could not understand or sympathize with you if you did. There is a little world in which the play of their passions is strong and vivid, but beyond that their sympathies entirely fail. And perhaps there is no spectacle so exquisitely touching as that which one sometimes witnesses in a house of mourning-the elder members of the family bowed down to the dust by some heavy sorrow, whilst the little children sport around in unconscious playfulness. "The bearing of this illustration is obvious. What children are to the mature-minded man, the rest of mankind were to Jesus."

The following passage descriptive of the gradual changes in nature may be quoted as a specimen of Mr. Caird's power of enforcing an idea. As an argument tending to show why men are self-ignorant it is not so conclusive; for self-love, vanity, and the real difficulty of "seeing ourselves as others see us " have more to do with our self-ignorance than the gradual changes that may be wrought in us by time.

age, because autumn thus frequently softens and shades away into winter by gradations so gentle, we scarcely perceive while it is going on the change which has passed over the face of nature. So, again, how imperceptibly do life's advancing stages steal upon us? If we leapt at once from boyhood into manhood, or if we lay down at night with the consciousness of manhood's bloom and vigor, and waked in the morning to find ourselves grey-haired, worn and withered old men, we could not choose but be arrested by transitions so marked. But now, because to-day you are very much the same man as yesterday-because, with the silent growth of the stature, the graver cares, and interests, and responsibilities of life gather so gradually around you; and then, when you reach the turning-point and begin to descend, because this year the blood circulates but a very little less freely, and but a few more and deeper lines are gathering on the face, than in the last; because old associations are not suddenly broken up, but only unwound thread by thread, and old forms and faces are not swept away all at once by some sudden catastrophe, but only dropt out of sight one by one, you are not struck, you are not forced to think of life's decline, and almost unawares you may not be far off from its close.

"Now if we know that changes such as these in the natural world and in our own persons take place imperceptibly, may not this prepare us to admit, that analagous changes, equally unnoted, because equally slow and gradual, may be occurring in our moral character, in the state of our souls before God? And with many I maintain that it is actually so.

There is a winter of the

soul, a spiritual decrepitude and death, to which many are advancing, at which many have already arrived, yet all unconsciously, because by minute and inappreciable grada

tions."

No. 740.—31 July 1858.—Enlarged Series, No. 18.

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POETRY.-Sir Robert's Sailor Son, 322. Shadows, 322. The Lilacs, 322. Despondency, 332. Three Horsemen, 332. Translations from the German, 332. Doubting Heart, 332. Night Song, 332. The German Watchman, 335. Puseyite invitation, 336. The Old Sexton, 336. Water Music, 384. Vernal, 384. Ancient Ladies' Pomp, 384.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Louis Napoleon and the Isthmus Canal, 327. Balloon turned Pirate, 328. Quaker Marriage Certificate, 334. Rachel's Children, 334. Fog Signals, 374. Rachel at Thirteen, 374.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL, SON & Co., Boston; and STANFORD & DELISSER, 508 Broadway, New-York.

For Six Dollars a year, remitted directly to either of the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually forwarded, free of postage.

Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume.

ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers.

ANY NUMBER may be had for 12 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value.

SIR ROBERT'S SAILOR SON.

OUR England hath no need to raise
The Ghosts of Glories gone;
Such Heroes dying in our days

Still toss the live torch on.

Brave blood as bright a crimson gleams,
Still burns as goodly a zeal;
The old heroic radiance beams
In Men like William Peel.
Oh, he was just a warrior for
A weary working day!
So kind in peace, so stern in war,
He walkt our English way,
With beautiful bravery clothed on,
And such high moral grace;
A light of rare soul-armor shone
Out of his noble face.

How, like a Battle brand red-hot,
His spirit grew, and glowed,
When in his swift war Chariot
The Avenger rose, and rode!
His Sailors loved him so on deck,
So cheery was his call,
They leapt on land, and in his wake
Followed him, Guns and all.
Sleep, Sailor darling, leal and brave,
With our dead Soldiers sleep!
That so, the land you lived to save,
You shall have died to keep.

You might have wished the dear Sea-blue
To have folded round your breast;
But God had other work for you,
And other place of rest.

We tried to reach you with our wreath
When living, but, laid low,

You grow so grand! and after death
The dearness deepens so!

To have gone so soon, so loved to have died,
So young to wear that crown,

We think. But with such thrills of pride
As shake the last tears down.

God rest you, gallant William Peel,
With those whom England leaves
Scattered, as still she ples her steel,-
But God gleans up in sheaves.
We'll tell the tale on land, on board,

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BY W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

On the pictur'd wall most grimly

Flaunt the shadows to and fro;
Clearly now, and now all dimly,
Fretful on the arras show.
Bolder as the firelight's clearer,
Weaker as it falls and wanes-
Now the statued alcove nearer,

Now athwart the blazon'd panes.
Thus they come, and thus they go,
Looming-lapsing-to and fro.
As I gaze, each shadow taking

From my fancy outline quaint,
Seems a world phantastic making,
Such as Callot lov'd to paint.

Now a nodding plume before me

Tops some huge and monstrous crest; Now a giant arm sweeps o'er me,

Idly smites me on my breast!
Thus they come, and thus they go,
Looming-lapsing-to and fro.
Now the battle heaves about me,

Serried ranks in order wheel:
Now the maddest goblins flout me-
Now the grim Bacchantes reel!
Mighty woods no sun can brighten,
Seem astir with sudden breeze;
Rolling waters seethe and whiten,
Wrathful swell the winter seas.
Thus they come, and thus they go,
Looming-lapsing-to and fro.
O'er the pictur'd wall they wander,
Changeful shadows to and fro,
While the flame-spire rises yonder,
Fitful, on the arras, show.
Bolder as the firelight's clearer,
Weaker as it falls and wanes;
Now the statued alcove nearer,

Now athwart the blazon'd panes.
Thus they come, and thus they go,
Soon forgot the spectral show!
So the fire of some great passion

Shining on the Heart's still Deep,
Strangest shadows aye will fashion,
Spirits rouse from life-long sleep.
All the Old Time's memories waken
In the fierce but fleeting light.
Soul! thus in thy weakness taken,

Dost thou shudder at the sight? Hah, hah, they come-hah, hah, they go! Soon forgot the spectral show!

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THE LILACS.

THAT was a right joyous season!
Sang the thrush outside the room,
Crept the fragrance through the window,
For the lilacs were in bloom..

One could sit and read and listen,

Half in sunshine, half in gloomSunlight sweetest, shadow softest, Where the lilacs were in bloom.

As in some Italian grotto,

When one listens for the sca,

And there comes but sweet-breathed silence, In itself a melody:

So one waited for one's fancies,

There to murmur words of thought;
But the languid, loving brightness,
With no spirit-sound was fraught.
There was silence in the fragrance,
In the sunshine, in the gloom,
In the rest and in the gladness,
Where the lilacs were in bloom.
Sometimes in the garden trembled
Voices like a lullaby;

Sometimes village churchbells blended
Nigh and far, and far and nigh;
But within that chamber's shadow,
In the book-disordered room,
There was sweet unruffled silence
When the lilacs were in bloom.

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EDWARD Fox.

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