lessons, either from Gamaliel, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, or in the third heavens, where he heard even unutterable things."

Again says the same Apostle: "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have [not, shall have at the resurrection] a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." We know there is provision made in heaven for souls after their present dwelling is taken down. An eminent writer explains the text thus:-"The Apostle also alludes to the ancient Jewish tabernacle, which, on all removals of the congrega tion, was dissolved, and taken in pieces; and the ark of the covenant, covered with its own curtains, was carried by itself, and when they came to the place of rest, then the dissolved parts of the tabernacle were put together again as before. When we consider this simile, in connexion with the doctrine of the resurrection, we shall see that he intends to convey the following meaning: that as the tabernacle was taken down in order to be again put together, so the body is to be dissolved in order to be re-edified; that as the ark of the covenant subsisted by itself, while the tabernacle was down, so can the soul when separated from the body; that as the ark had then its own veil for its covering, so the soul is to have some vehicle in which it shall subsist till it receives its body at the resurrection."

But it is vain to multiply proof-texts. If what have been suggested are not sufficient, we despair of proving anything by the word of God. Those who will not believe a sentiment thus established by the concurrent testimony of prophets and apostles, and even of Jesus Christ himself, are just suited to believe, without a particle of evidence, that Moses and the thief were raised from the dead, the annihilation of the wicked, or any other oddity which may flatter their ambition or conceit. We will therefore only add, that the sentiment of the Church finds singular confirmation in the entire absence of any allusion to the resurrection of the soul. It is a remarkable fact, that there is not an intimation of such a phenomenon within the lids of inspired truth. So that if the soul dies with the body, infidel France was right in declaring death to be an eternal sleep. But the body is mentioned repeatedly as the subject of resurrection. Says St. Paul, "If the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwelleth in you." In the same chapter it is added, "We groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our bodies." In another letter he answers the question, "With what bodies do they come?" by declaring, "God giveth them a body as it pleaseth him:" but not a word is said about raising the soul from

the dead, which seems quite irreconcilable with the doctrine we oppose.

The theory under consideration is one of peculiar danger, not only on account of its striking hostility to the plain declarations of Scripture, and its detraction from the principal motives to piety, but for other tendencies to which it is justly chargeable. It rests on a false principle of exegesis, which, if generally applied, would unsettle the foundation of the whole fabric of Christian theology. This accounts for the fact, that those who embrace it become equally heretical on other points. Though they may appear to retain evangelical views, closer examination will show that they hold them in a new aspect, and with qualifications which destroy their vitality, and in effect discredit their truth. The literalism of interpretation necessary to an appearance of proof, generally leads to false notions of future punishment. Hence it is that those who believe in the sleep of the soul, hold with equal confidence to the annihilation of the wicked, and to kindred sentiments little better than infidelity itself. Were it proper, startling facts might be adduced, but we forbear.

Its danger is further indicated in its truckling to the vain philosophy of this world. Christianity is purely a matter of revelation. Its great principles depend on the word of God for their support. However useful philosophy may be within its legitimate province, it is blind here. The fact that it does not see the truth, or that the truth blasts its idle pretensions, does not invalidate the teachings of revelation. Any system, therefore, which follows its flickering glimmer, in opposition to the clear announcements of the Bible, is to be suspected. Let God be true, though human philosophy sink to oblivion. Religious truth never interferes with philosophy, while philosophy keeps within proper limits. Our objection to invoking its aid, in a matter of this nature, is not to its being employed in confirmation of revelation, so far as it goes,-though this, however useful in some cases, is like lighting a taper to see the sun,—but to introducing it as a witness against revelation, where it has no suitable means of knowing.

That we do not mistake the character of this system, is evident from the alliances it forms. It is a trite proverb, that men are known by the company they keep. It is not less true of theological opinions. Their friends and patrons are drawn to each other by a sort of elective affinity, which strongly suggests the moral genus, at least, to which they belong. Now, if any will take the pains to try the theory in question by this rule, he will see cause of suspicion. For it is a fact fully demonstrable by its history, that it is regarded

with special favour by those to whom the cross of Christ gives particular offence. Those, for example, who deny any future existence, and discard all real religion, rejoice to meet their friends (the Sleepers) half way, and congratulate them on their progress. Other latitudinarians, the very enemies of Christ, mingle in the joy, and are glad to see their neighbours "getting out of the leading-strings of the Church," and thinking for themselves. Such praise wears a suspicious appearance. We commend the fact to the consideration of those whom it especially concerns.

ART. VIII.-LIVING AUTHORS OF ENGLAND.

The Living Authors of England. By THOMAS POWELL.

ton & Co. 1849.

New-York: D. Apple

THE department of literary criticism is one of the most difficult paths of human labour. It is, indeed, as Sir Thomas Browne calls goodness, a "funambulatory track." The bridge Al Sirat, more slender than a hair, and sharper than the edge of a sword, affords a not more insecure footing. And as the souls of the faithful would never be able to pass that bridge without angelic assistance, so no man living should attempt criticism who is not sure of being waited on by the heaven-descended virtues of charity and modesty. If he does, he will be sure to fail; and there are none the world respects less than those who fail in commenting on the failures of others.

An author who makes contemporary authors his theme, places himself in the delicate position of using for himself only what they can spare without loss. He has no right to make them subjects for dissection while they are yet alive. He cannot be of them, and live upon them; just so far as he does so, he renounces the dignity of authorship, and takes an inferior grade. He becomes what Charles Lamb might denominate, "the lesser flea that lives upon other fleas." For he is presumed to know the hardships of literature, the labour of invention, the inconvenience of a reputation for wit, or other intellectual qualities, the poor reward-all that makes the profession of letters one in which success is most rarely achieved; and when it is achieved, consisting only in the world's expectation of newer labours still to be undertaken. All this he must be presumed to know.

There is a passage in Carlyle's "Life of Schiller," which, in this connexion, will serve as a preparative to the remarks we intend to

make upon the "Living Authors of England." It is written in the author's first and best style, and is worth remembering, not only for its truth, but as a fine piece of impassioned declamation:

"If to know wisdom were to practise it; if fame brought true dignity and peace of mind; or if happiness consisted in nourishing the intellect with its appropriate food, and surrounding the imagination with ideal beauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot of this world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. The man of letters has no inscrutable, all-conquering volition, more than other men; to understand and to perform, are two very different things with him, as with every one. His fame rarely exerts a favourable influence on his dignity of character, and never on his peace of mind: its glitter is external, for the eyes of others; within, it is but the aliment of unrest, the oil cast upon the ever-gnawing fire of ambition, quickening into fresh vehemence the blaze which it stills for a moment. Moreover, this man of letters is not wholly made of spirit, but of clay and spirit mixed: his thinking faculties may be nobly trained and exercised, but he must have affections as well as thoughts to make him happy, and food and raiment must be given him, or he dies. Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is, perhaps, among the many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express its activity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Look at the biography of authors! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is the most sickening chapter in the history of man. The calamities of these people are a fertile topic; and too often their faults and vices have kept pace with their calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how this has happened. Talent of any sort is generally accompanied with a peculiar fineness of sensibility; of genius this is the most essential constituent; and life, in any shape, has sorrows enough for hearts so formed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency; the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it into morbid soreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life; its delights are too ethereal and too transient to furnish that perennial flow of satisfaction, coarse, but plenteous and substantial, of which happiness in this world of ours is made. The most finished efforts of the mind give it little pleasure, frequently they give it pain; for men's aims are ever far beyond their strength. And the outward recompense of these undertakings, the distinction they confer, is of still smaller value: the desire for it is insatiable, even when successful; and when baffled, it issues in jealousy and envy, and every pitiful and painful feeling. So keen a temperament, with so little to restrain or satisfy, so much to distress or tempt it, produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence the unhappiness of literary men. Hence their faults and follies.

"Thus literature is apt to form a dangerous and discontenting occupation, even for the amateur. But for him whose rank and worldly comforts depend upon it, who does not live to write, but writes to live, its difficulties and perils are fearfully increased. Few spectacles are more afflicting than that of such a man; so gifted and so fated; so jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude bustle of life, the buffetings of which he is so little fitted to endure. Cherishing, it may be, the loftiest thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants; of pure and holy purposes, yet ever driven from the straight path by the pressure of necessity, or the impulse of passion; thirsting for glory, and frequently in want of daily bread; hovering between the empyrean of his fancy and the squalid desert of reality; cramped and foiled in his most strenuous exertions; dissatisfied with his best performances, disgusted with his fortune, this man of letters too often spends his weary days in conflicts with obscure misery: harassed, chagrined, debased, or maddened; the victim at once of tragedy and farce; the last forlorn outpost in the war of mind against matter. Many are

the noble souls that have perished bitterly, with their tasks unfinished, under these corroding woes! Some in utter famine, like Otway; some in dark insanity, like Cowper and Collins; some, like Chatterton, have sought out a more stern quietus, and turning their indignant steps away from a world which refused them welcome, have taken refuge in that strong fortress, where poverty and cold neglect, and the thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to, could not reach them any more."

We have quoted this passage at length, for the purpose of contrasting the spirit in which it is written with that which is manifested in the "Living Authors," &c. This volume contains notices of upwards of thirty writers, all but a few of whom are little known here, and of several of whom we now hear for the first time-three hundred pages of critical remark, amusing anecdote, and personal gossip. The criticism is merely a reckless scattering of opinions, sometimes just, often contradictory, but based on no principles, and leaving no clear impression. The anecdotes have mostly been quoted in the daily papers; they are amusing, but evidently mere stories.

If our remarks at the outset be correct, it is sufficient to estimate a work of this kind by the spirit in which it is undertaken-its moral character. We shall confine ourselves, therefore, to that.

The introduction includes brief notices of several of the elder writers who "belong more properly to the last generation;" Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Proctor, Moore, Landor, and Rogers. From what relates to Wordsworth, we extract the following:

"In person he is tall and largely framed; his eyes have a peculiarly thoughtful expression-they seem the seat of contemplation, not of observation; and being deeply set in his head, give to the whole contour of his face a physical expression admirably in keeping with his idiosyncrasy. The finest likeness of him is a three-quarter portrait by one of the most gifted of modern artists, Margaret Gillies. This represents him in his parlour at Rydal Mount, with the beautiful lake scenery in the distance, seen through the window; an open book is before him. He is looking up at some one to whom he is explaining a passage in the volume, which, it is almost unnecessary to add, is his own poems.

"In private life he is an example to all men, obliging, charitable, and courteous; he is always happy to see any visitors whom the fame of his genius inclines to call on him, and shows his garden and grounds with the gusto of a connoisseur, and the affection of a parent. Every tree has a living interest in his eye, and he is on speaking terms with every natural object in the country. Hills, woods, and waterfalls, are his companions, and he resents an indignity offered to them with as much energy as though they were of his own household. He visits London, generally, every other year, where he remains for three or four months, one of the most venerable of lions. We regret to add, that his health has lately been very much impaired, and aggravated by the death of his only daughter, Mrs. Quillinan, who died of consumption. "Owing to his careful husbandry of a small patrimony, and his frugal habits, he has a moderate competency. Till four years since he was a

dis