"Who can be, I wonder, if Mr. Huntley is not?"

“Ah, Rosina, you may say so, but it is not wit and genius alone that will make a woman happy. You laugh, but I am not speaking at random. Hannah is happy now, and I could not bear ever to see her otherwise. Wit and genius alone, will not make Hannah happy. There must be temper and principle besides, and on these points I have my doubts of Huntley. He may or may not possess them, but we know very little of him. Well! things must take their course. Who knows what may happen to me in the next twelvemonth? Do you recollect the queer map that Mr. Russell once shewed us,drawn by Martin Belem,—which Columbus took with him on his first voyage? Islands, and straits, and shoals, and bays, all set down by guess-the imaginary kingdom of St. Brandan on one hand, on the other, the island of Cathay: in one place was written, "no ships can sail among these islands on account of the loadstones with which they abound; ' another, "syrens sing along these coasts."

Yes, I recollect it. What of it?"

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in

So

Why, I am going to make a fine simile. Is not that just like the ocean of life? We expect to meet dangers and pleasures, but we cannot, with all our calculations beforehand, tell when we shall come upon them. Those we expected to meet with, prove fallacious and we find others in their stead. all the guesses we make at what will and what will not be, are about as useful to us as Martin Belem's chart to Columbus, and all we can do is, like Columbus, to set a bold face on the matter and take storms and sunshine as they are given

us.

"Well, Matthew, you have made something grand of Martin Belem at last. Be sure you write to us often."

"As often as I can; but you know, what with attending lectures, and dissecting, and walking through hospitals, and now and then perhaps going to the play, I shall not have much time to spare: therefore don't fancy because I do not write to you regularly, that I must have punctured my finger, or caught the typhus fever. I will write to you when I have leisure, and when I have anything to say-"

"Oh, you will always have plenty to say,-in London !" "And mind that you write frequently to me too. I shall be very industrious, and very economical; my mother has been so generous that it would be a shame if I were to be otherwise. And I shall come back to see you at Christmas; and some of these days perhaps, Mr. Good may take me into

partnership, or Parker of Hexley may sell his business. Harry will be in Mr. Smith's office, and my mother and Hannah will perhaps in time keep house for one of us,-for Hannah must not marry Huntley, Rosy!-and-”

And why am I left out?"

"Oh! you and Sam Good-"

Nonsense, Matthew!"

"Well then, you and Lewis Pennington-"

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Nonsense l'

You won't hear me out.

Well then; my mother and

Hannah shall keep house for Harry, and you shall live with me."

"Do you mean then to be a bachelor?"

Why not?" After a pause he added carelessly," By the by, perhaps you do not know that the Hinckleys are going to live on the continent."

"Are they? Well, we shall not miss them much, that is one comfort."

Matthew began to whistle again; but this time, it was

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"Oh no, we never mention her,

Her name is never heard."

How beautifully Mr. Huntley sings that song!" said Rosina.

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Does he ?-See, there is Hannah beckoning to us at the gate. Come! let us have a run down the lane."

CHAPTER XXV.

CRITICISMS.

MR. Russell, with all his goodness of heart and strength of judgment, was but a man. He had his prejudices; and one day he was angry with Huntley for calling Lord Byron the greatest of modern poets.

"A great poet," replied he, "is one who purifies your mind. instead of enervating or poisoning it-who either peoples this actual earth with a fair and exquisite creation of his own, or quits it altogether and soars with you into the world of

VOL. I.-R.

intellect, leaving no misanthropic disgust, no metaphysical falsities clinging to you when he is laid aside, but making you wiser and better than you were before. Milton does this; and even in these present times, there are poets who have aimed at and achieved better things than Lord Byron, and whom I consequently esteem better poets. They are the best who raise you highest."

This was irritating to Huntley, whose admiration of his favourite writer approached idolatry. He defended him with warmth, quoting passage after passage from Childe Harold, and exclaiming, "You cannot deny the splendour of that thought"-" you will acknowledge the beauty of this," while Mr. Russell, whose opinion of their moral, or rather, immoral tendency, somewhat obscured his perception of their beauty, remained obstinately fixed in his original way of thinking. The discussion was dropped, but they were not quite so well pleased with each other as before; Huntley silently accusing Mr. Russell of illiberality, and Mr. Russell thinking Huntley's opinions too free.

Mr. Russell had not been often at the White Cottage lately. One morning, soon after Matthew's quitting Summerfield, he called, and found Hannah sitting to Huntley for her picture, Mrs. Wellford reading Mr. Good's daily paper, and Rosina copying one of Flaxman's illustrations of the Greek dramatists, which had been lent her by Mrs. Shivers. Mr. Russell admired the accuracy of her drawing, and began to speak of the fable which it illustrated, and of the absurdities of the heathen mythology.

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'Absurd as it was," observed Huntley, we artists may be thankful to it for the finest sculptures in the world."

And can you really be thankful that myriads of human beings should wallow for ages in the grossest idolatry, merely because the sculptor hence had fanciful subjects offered to his chisel ?"

"Of course I spoke only in jest. Though Apollo and Venus had never been, the genius of Phidias would not have slept. No-of all absurdities it appears to me the greatest, that man should worship the work of his own hands.”

Idolatry," said Mr. Russell," is as natural to barbarous, as infidelity is to half-civilized minds. A vivid ill-regulated imagination leads to one, and a cold sluggish imagination to the other. The man whose feelings and fancy are equally inert, sees God nowhere: the man whose lively mind is uncontrolled by knowledge and reason, sees everywhere, not

one, but many gods. He is brought into close contact with the mighty works of creation, and is unable to fathom their laws. To him, the sun, because beyond his control, appears uncontrolled; the seasons, returning regularly, seem to do so of their own accord. And what he admires or fears, he worships thus arise a host of imaginary deities,—' Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood,' Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns.' Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Huntley, as an argument against the authenticity of Ossian, that there is no mention of idolatrous worship in his poems? His gloomy chiefs erect no altars, pour no libations."

"It is enough for me," said Huntley, laughing, "that a regular epic in six books, should have been translated from manuscripts which are nowhere to be seen, and that his Celtic damsels are ladies of the utmost delicacy and refinement, white-handed and white-footed, in spite of exposure to the sun and air, with no more debasing employments than playing on the harp and braiding their golden hair."

"And why should not they play on the harp, and braid their hair?" said Rosina, who loved Ossian, not wisely but too well.

"If I might differ from a lady, I should say that the wives of Fingal and Ossian were more likely to have occupied themselves in sewing together their garments of skin, and dressing the game which their husbands brought from the hills."

Ah, Mr. Huntley! and have you no admiration of Cathullin, mourning that he is unworthy to bear the shield of his fathers, or Gaul, or Fillan of the dark brown hair? And what do you say, Mr. Russell, to the address to the sun?"

Think of the

"An imitation, gross, palpable, of the scriptural passage which describes him, coming from his chamber as a bridegroom, and rejoicing as a mighty man to run a race. 'Oh! very, very different, Mr. Russell! old, blind, melancholy man, regretful of the past, and hopeless of the future; unable to behold the sun that warms his chilly limbs, and sorrowfully saying 'thou, perhaps, art like me, for a season, thy years will have an end: thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.' Oh, Mr. Russell! Mr. Huntley! is there no poetry in this?"

Their looks told her that there was.

"Yes," said Mr. Russell," whether the merit lies with you Rosina, or Macpherson, or Ossian, the picture is striking.

When we think of an old man thus bereft of his most precious faculties, and his dearest kindred, nothing left to enjoy on earth, and no hope beyond the grave,- —we are almost ready to exclaim with Lord Bacon, 'I would rather believe the wildest fables of Mohammedanism, Hindooism, or the Talmud, than be an atheist.'

I cannot go quite so far with you as that," said Huntley. "The atheist is mistaken and unhappy, but there is something childish, degrading, in superstition.

"We are usually more indulgent, Huntley, to the vices of the day than to those which have gone out of fashion." "The vice of the day?" said Rosina, looking rather alarmed, "do you think atheism is common now ?"

"An atheist, Rosina, is one who does not believe in the existence of a God. Now, the seeds of truth are so deeply planted in our hearts, and a certain degree of religious knowledge is so common to all, that I believe there are very few who would seriously, calmly, and decidedly avow themselves atheists; but when does infidelity take firmest root ?—I should say, when the mass of population is congregated in large cities, when factitious wants to an endless extent are created, and much time employed in satisfying those wants; when all make pretensions to freedom from prejudice, and all are acutely sensible of ridicule; when each pretends to a knowledge of mankind, but examines his own conscience little, and the works of nature less. Am I right, do you think? Then, the selfishness engendered by dwelling in a large community where it is impossible to sympathize with all, and each must look to his own interest, and the suspicious temper created by frequently detecting imposition,-above all, the constant whirl of business and amusement, particularly indisposes the mind to feel any interest in religion. Again the dread of singularity makes many pious persons try to appear like those around them, carefully avoid speaking on serious subjects, and effect to be as much engrossed by the plaything of the minute as their neighbours, when they have scarcely risen. from their knees. These grow lukewarm in faith, while others, gathering strength from their weakness, openly make a jest of all that is sacred. Thus as cities multiply and luxury increases, infidelity increases too."

Very true," said Huntley, throwing aside his palette, "but now come and tell me what you think of my morning's work. How do you like my fair Moabitess ?"

"Extremely; there is a moral beauty about her head which