vision, which it is given to the pure in heart, and to them alone, to contemplate. Among the most momentous events of Martin's life, was his connection with Charles Simeon, and with such of his disciples as sought learning at Cambridge, and learned leisure at Clapham. A mind so beset by sympathies of every other kind, could not but be peculiarly susceptible to the contagion of opinion. From that circle he adopted, in all its unadorned simplicity, the system called Evangelical, — that system of which, (if Augustin, Luther, Calvin, Knox, and the writers of the English Homilies, may be credited,) Christ himself was the author, and Paul, the first and greatest interpreter. Through shallow heads and voluble tongues, such a creed, (or indeed any creed,) filtrates so easily, that, of the multitude who maintain it, comparatively few are aware of the conflict of their faith with the natural and unaided reason of mankind. Indeed, he who makes such an avowal, will hardly escape the charge of affectation or of impiety. Yet, if any truth be clearly revealed, it is, that the apostolic doctrine was foolishness to the sages of this world. If any unrevealed truth be indisputable, it is, that such sages are at this day making, as they have ever made, ill-disguised efforts to escape the inferences with which their own admissions teem. Divine philosophy, divorced from human science, celestial things stripped of the mitigating veils woven by man's wit and fancy to relieve them, form an abyss as impassable at Oxford, now, as at Athens, eighteen centuries ago. To Henry Martyn the gulf was visible, the self-renunciation painful, the victory complete. His understanding embraced, and his heart reposed in, the two comprehensive and ever-germinating tenets of the school in which he studied. Regarding his own heart as corrupt, and his own reason as delusive, he exercised an unlimited affiance in the holiness and the wisdom of Him, in whose person the divine nature had been allied to the human, that, in the persons of his followers, the human might be allied to the divine. Such was his religious theory, a theory which doctors may combat, or admit, or qualify, but in which the readers of Henry Martyn's biography, letters, and journals, cannot but acknowledge that he found the restingplace of all the impetuous appetencies of his mind, the spring of all his strange powers of activity and endurance. Prostrating his soul before the real, though the hidden Presence he adored, his doubts were silenced, his anxieties soothed, and every meaner passion hushed into repose. He pursued divine truth, (as all who would succeed in that pursuit must pursue it,) by the will rather than the understanding; by sincerely and earnestly searching out the light which had come into the world, by still going after it, when perceived, — by following its slightest intimations with faith, with resignation, and with constancy, though the path it disclosed led him from the friends and the home of his youth, across wide oceans and burning deserts, amidst contumely and contention, with a wasted frame and an overburthened spirit. He rose to the sublime in character, neither by the powers of his intellect, nor by the compass of his learning, nor by the subtlety, the range, or the beauty of his conceptions, (for in all these he was surpassed by many,) but by the copiousness and the force of the living fountains by which his spiritual life was nourished. Estranged from a world once too fondly loved, his well-tutored heart learned to look back with a calm though affectionate melancholy on its most bitter privations. Insatiable in the thirst for freedom, holiness, and peace, he maintained an ardor of devotion which might pass for an erotic delirium, when contrasted with the Sadducean frigidity of other worshippers. Regarding all the members of the great human' family as his kindred in sorrow and in exile, his zeal for their welfare partook more of the fervor of domestic affection, than of the kind but gentle warmth of a diffusive philanthropy. Elevated in his own esteem by the consciousness of an intimate union with the Eternal Source of all virtue, the meek missionary of the cross exhibited no obscure resemblance to the unobtrusive dignity, the unfaltering purpose, and the indestructible composure of Him by whom the cross was borne. The ill-disciplined desires of youth, now confined within one deep channel, flowed quickly onwards to one great consummation; nor was there any faculty of his soul, or any treasure of his accumulated knowledge, for which appropriate exercise was not found on the high enterprise to which he was devoted. [An example of descriptive and didactic poetry.] Swiftly flashing, hoarsely dashing. Onward rolls the mighty river: Bounding on exultingly; Trembling fountains on blue mountains Through green valleys deep in hills, Onward flowing, ever growing, While in Night's delighted ear, Archly glancing, lightly dancing, Eddies chasing one the other, Round old roots the current whirls, Over ringing pebbles curls; Hoarsely roaring, swiftly pouring, The cataract's fierce voices thunder- Sunlight shifting, white mist drifting, Thus Endeavor striveth ever, Work then bravely, sternly, gravely! What is right, that boldly do; Frankly speak out what is true, Leaving the result to Heaven: Ora atque labora! THE FIELD OF BATTLE.- Hall. [An example of the vivid "Expression" which characterizes high, wrought graphic and dramatic description.] Science and revelation concur in teaching that this ball of earth, which man inhabits, is not the only world; that millions of globes like ours roll in the immensity of space. The sun, the moon, those seven nightly wandering fires," those twinkling stars, are worlds. There, doubt. 66 less, dwell other moral and intellectual natures; passing what man calls time, in one untired pursuit of truth and duty; still seeking, still exploring, ever satisfying, never satiating, the ethereal, moral, intellectual thirst; whose delightful task it is, as it should be ours, to learn the will of the Eternal Father, to seek the good, which to that end, for them and us to seek, hides; and finding, to admire, adore, and praise, "him first, him last, him midst and without end." Imagine one of these celestial spirits, bent on this great purpose, descending upon our globe, and led by chance, to a European plain, at the point of some great battle; on which, to human eye, reckless and blind to over-ruling Heaven, the fate of states and empires is suspended. ners wave. On a sudden, the field of combat opens on his astonished vision. It is a field, which men call " glorious." A hundred thousand warriors stand in opposed ranks. Light gleams on their burnished steel. Their plumes and banHill echoes to hill the noise of moving rank and squadron, the neigh and tramp of steeds, - the trumpet, drum, and bugle call. There is a momentary pause, — a silence like that which precedes the fall of a thunder-bolt, - like that awful stillness, which is precursor to the desolating rage of the whirlwind. In an instant, flash succeeding flash, pours columns of smoke along the plain. The iron tempest sweeps, heaping man, horse, and car, in undistinguished ruin. In shouts of rushing hosts, in shock of breasting steeds, in peals of musketry, in artillery's roar, -in sabres' clash, in thick and gathering clouds of smoke and dust, all human eye, and ear, and sense, are lost. Man sees not, but the sign of onset. Man hears not, but the cry of -" onward." - Not so the celestial stranger. His spiritual eye, unobscured by artificial night, his spiritual ear, unaffected by mechanic noise, witness the real scene, naked in all its cruel horrors. He sees lopped and bleeding limbs scattered; gashed, |
