would believe the story? We should be justified in demanding a large amount of the most unimpeachable evidence. This opinion is confirmed by the doubt of scientific men in respect of animal magnetism, where no law is violated, but a faculty hitherto little noticed is disclosed. Now if we look after the facts of the case, we find the evidence for the Christian miracles is very scanty in extent, and very uncertain in character. We must depend on the testimony of the epistolary and the historical books of the New Testament. Now it is a notorious fact that the genuine Epistles, the earliest Christian documents, make no mention of any miracles performed by Jesus; and when we consider the character of Paul, his strong love of the marvellous, the manner in which he dwells on the appearance of Jesus to him after death, it seems surprising, if he believed the other miracles, that he does not allude to them. To examine the testimony of the Gospels: Two profess to contain the evidence of eye-witnesses. But we are not certain these books came in their present shape from John and Matthew; it is certain they were not written till long after the events related. But still more, each of them relates what the writers could not have been witness to; so we may have nothing but hearsay and conjecture. Besides these authors shared the common prejudice of their times, and disagree one with another. The Gospels of Mark and Luke-who were not eye-witnesses-in some points corroborate the testimony of John and Matthew; in others, add nothing. But there are still other documents-the Apocryphal Gospels-some of them perhaps older than the Gospels of Matthew and John, and these make the case worse by disclosing the fondness for miracles that marked the Christians of that early period. Taking all these things into consideration, and remembering that in many respects the three first Gospels are but one witness, adding the current belief of the times in favour of miracles, the evidence to prove their historical reality is almost nothing admitting we have the genuine books of the disciples; it is, at best, such evidence as would not be considered of much value in a court of justice. However, the absence of testimony does not prove that miracles were not performed, for a universal negative of this character cannot be proved.

"If one were to look carefully at the evidence in favour of the Christian miracles, and proceed with the caution of a true inquirer, he must come to the conclusion, I think, that they cannot be admitted as facts. The Resurrection-a miracle alleged to be wrought upon Jesus, not by him,-has more evidence than any other, for it is attested by the Epistles as well as the Gospels, and was one corner-stone of the Christian Church. But here, is the testimony sufficient to show that a man thoroughly dead as Abraham and Isaac were, came back to life, passed through closed doors, and ascended into the sky? I cannot speak for others but certainly I cannot believe such facts on such evidence.

66

There is far more testimony to prove the fact of miracles, witchcraft, and diabolical possessions, in times comparatively modern, than to prove the Christian miracles. It is well known that the most credible writers among the early Christians, Irenæus, Origen, Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustine, Chrysostom, Jerome, Theodoret, and others, believed that the miraculous power continued in great vigour in their time. But to come down still later, the case of St. Bernard of Clairvaux is more to the point. He lived in the eleventh and twelth centuries. His life has been written in part by William Abbot of St. Thierry; Ernald, Abbot of Bonevaux; and Geoffery, Abbot of Igny; all eye-witnesses of the saint's actions.' Another life was written by Alanus, Bishop of Auxerre, and still another by John the Hermit, not long after the death of Bernard, both his contemporaries. Besides, there are three books on his miracles, one by Philip of Clairvaux, another by the monks of that place, and a third by the above mentioned Geoffery. He cures the deaf, the dumb, the lame, the blind, men possessed of devils, in may cases before multitudes of people. He wrought thirty-six miracles in a single day, says one of these historians; converted men and women that could not understand the language he spoke in. His wonders are set down by the eye-witnesses themselves, men known to us by the testimony of others. I do not hesitate in saying that there is far more evidence to support the miracles of St. Bernard than those mentioned in the New Testament."

Perhaps, there is nothing so beautiful in Parker's volume as his thoughtful portrait of Christ. His heart is here breathed out-in defiance of the idolatry of superstition-but with a fervid love of moral excellence which renders the reader desirous of imitating the great and good Exemplar. The following is but a part of the picture; but it is the most impressive part :

MISTAKES ABOUT JÉSUS-HIS RECEPTION AND INFLUENCE.

We often err in our estimate of this man. The image comes to us, not of that lowly one, the carpenter of Nazareth, the companion of the rudest men, hard-handed and poorly clad, not having where to lay his head; who would gladly have stayed his morning appetite on

wild figs, between Bethany and Jerusalem;' hunted by his enemies, stoned out of a city, and fleeing for his life. We take the fancy of poets and painters,-a man clothed in purple and fine linen, obsequiously attended by polished disciples, who watched every movement of his lips, impatient for the oracle to speak. We conceive of a man who was never in doubt, nor fear; whose course was all marked out before him, so that he could not err. But such it was not, if the writers tell truly. Did he say, 'I came to fulfil the Law and the Prophets,' and 'it is easier for Heaven and Earth to pass, than for one jot or tittle of the Law to fail?' Then he must have doubted and thought often, and with a throbbing heart, before he could say, 'I am not come to bring peace, but a sword; to kindle a fire, and would God it were kindled!'many times before the fulness of peace dwelt in him, and he could say, 'The hour cometh and now is, when the true worshipper shall worship in spirit and in truth.' We do not conceive of that sickness of soul which must have come at the coldness of the wise men, the heartlessness of the worldly, at the stupidity and selfishness of the disciples. We do not think how that heart-so great, so finely tuned, and delicately touched-must have been pained to feel there was no other heart to give an answering_beat. We know not the long and bitter agony that went before the triumph-cry of faith, I am not alone for the father is with me;' we do not heed that faintness of soul which comes of hope deferred, of aspirations all unshared by men-a bitter mockery the only human reply, the oft-repeated echo to his prayer of faith. We find it difficult to keep unstained our decent robe of goodness when we herd only with the good, and "n the kennel where Sin and Misery,-parent and child, are huddled with their rags; we do not appreciate that strong and healthy pureness of soul which dwelt daily with iniquity, sat at meat with publicans and sinners, and yet with such cleanness of life as made even sin ashamed of its ugliness, but hopeful to amend. Rarely, almost never, do we see the vast divinity within that soul, which, new though it was in the flesh, at one step goes before the world whole thousands of years; judges the race, decides for us questions we dare not agitate as yet, and breathes the very breath of heavenly love. The Christian world, aghast at such awful beauty in the flesh, transfixed with wonder as such a spirit rises in his heavenly flight, veils its face and says, 'It is a God;-such thoughts are not for men; such life betrays the God.' And is it not the Divine which the flesh enshrouds?-to speak in figures, the brightness of his glory, the express image of his person; the clear resemblance of the all-beautiful; the likeness of God in which man is made! But alas for us! we read our lesson backward; make a God of our brother, who should be our model. So the new-fledged eaglets may see the parent bird, slow rising at first with laborious efforts, then cleaving the air with sharp and steady wing, and soaring through the clouds, with eye undazzled, to meet the sun; they may say, we can only pray to the strong pinion;' but anon their wings shall grow, and flutter impatient for congenial skies, and their parents example guide them on. But men are still so sunk in sloth, so blind and deep with sensuality and sin, they will not see the greatness of man in him, who falling back on the inspiration which God imparts, asks no aid of mortal men, but stands alone, serene in awful loveliness, not fearing the roar of the street, the hiss of the temple, the contempt of his townsmen, the coldness of this disciple, the treachery of that; who still bore up, had freest communion when all alone; was deserted, never forsaken; betrayed, but still safe; crucified, but all the more triumphant. This was the last victory of the soul-the highest type of man. Blessed be God that so much manliness has been lived out, and stands there yet, a lasting monument to mark how high the tides of divine life have risen in the world of man! It bids us take courage and be glad, for what man has done, we may do."

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TO THE YOUNG MEN OF THE WORKING-CLASSES.
LETTER IV. NEW SERIES.

""Tis not a pyramid of marble stone.
Though high as our ambition;

'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can

Give life to th' ashes of a man

But verses only: they shall fresh appear

Whilst there are men to read or hear.

Poets by death are conquered; but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it !"

Cowley.

MEN OF THE FUTURE,-What is the best standard and school of Poetry? -is a question I often hear repeated among you, and often conveyed to me by letter. On this, as on other subjects, I beg that whatever I may say, may be received simply as the sentiments of an individual, and not as intended to dictate to others in the regulation of their taste and judgment.

Let me commence by observing, that, in youth, I had, like many of you, my strong preferences in the catalogue of Poets. I remember well, that when I was about twenty, the writers in the London Magazine-the best periodical of the time-so perseveringly decried Pope and his school, that I imbibed their prejudices, and, for some years after, was disinclined to acknowledge that the great author of the Essay on Man' was a real poet; or that his followers had any claim to be ranked with the genuine worshippers of the Muses. That prejudice-for it was nothing less-is now often brought to my remembrance, by a kindred spirit of partisanship observe in some young poets, as it regards the high names of Byron and Shelley. Many of the fervent admirers of Shelley are accustomed to depreciate Byron in the strongest terms. Even among maturer lovers of poetry there is a similar prejudice, in favour of Shakspere against Milton.

Surely, all this is wrong. Why should any school of Poetry be set up as the only school? Did not Milton express the most passionate love of Shakspere's poetry? And if Shakspere could have read the Paradise Lost' would he not have extolled its sublimity-for who could have estimated the transcendent excellence of that quality in Milton so fully as Shakspere? Were not Byron and Shelley brothers in friendship, and accustomed to confer together respecting their poetical projects? If they had not been swayed by a mutual admiration could they have formed that intimate friendship? Did Pope never express admiration for Chaucer and Spenser, Shakspere and the elder Dramatists ?-whom it was the fashion with certain writers, five and twenty years ago, to eulogise-not beyond their merits-but with the distorted purpose of depreciating the poetry of Pope. Some of you, doubtless, remember how manfully Byron at length stepped

forth and took up 'cudgels for Pope-much to the dismay and vexation of those who had so long and unfairly attempted to oust him from the list of genuine poets.

A catholic, or universal, taste in Poetry, seems, to me at least, the only creditable taste. I do not mean, of course, that a man of any judgment in poetry, will rank all poets on the same level; but that while he feels Shakspere and Milton, Chaucer and Spenser, are higher poets than Pope and Dryden, he will still discern that the two latter have their peculiar excellence, and are also entitled to the world's admiration. Nay, an extended acquaintance with the manners and mental condition of historic periods, will shew him that even the greatest poets lose something of their individuality, and become the representatives of their time-even in their modes of writing, as well as in the sentiments they express.

Thus it may be fairly owned that Pope is not the author of any high poetry that is to say, his verse is not distinguished by daring imagination, exquisite tenderness, or entrancing embodiment of beauty. And who that becomes familiar with the history of the Court and the Nation in the reign of Anne, can imagine that a poet possessing the highest qualities could have risen to eminence in that sorry period of our history? Yet, who fulfilled the poet's mission (to use a phrase which now begins to be hacknied) more fully than Pope? How unsparingly he lashed the vices of his time-lashed them, too, with the true skill of an intelligent flogger, if I may continue the figure-not in the sturdy, coarse, and over-powerful style of Juvenal (you will know what I mean when you can read that appalling satirist in Latin); but with the courtly smartness, point, and delicacy, which were sure to be most forcibly felt in that age of porcelain— that period of varnished, tinselled, and japanned civilization-the reign of Anne! And if it be an indispensable duty of the poet to pourtray the manners of his time-who has more truly fulfilled that duty than Pope? For his consceintious discharge of a higher duty, let the 'Essay on Manperhaps the greatest moral treatise ever written in verse-speak his praise. Many great excellencies, indeed, abound in Pope, though he did not produce what I have hastily termed 'high poetry.' What concentration of meaning he displays! Well might his friend, the shrewd Dean Swift, say in that playful, and yet deeply reflective, essay on-his own death !——

"In Pope, I cannot read a line,
"But with a sigh I wish it mine:
"When he can in one couplet fix
"More sense than I can do in six ;
"It gives me such a jealous fit,

"I cry-Deuce take him and his wit!"

Think me not severe when I say, that our age might copy Pope in this particular, with great benefit. All of us employ too many words to convey our meaning. In the fitness of his words, Pope is likewise a model. You could not, after the greatest labour, think of any word that you would judge to be more appropriate if inserted in the place of one that he employs. He is a perfect master of the vocabulary of fitness. And the ease and finish of his versification have been themes of praise, ever since his time. In this respect he is a deep study for young poets. Whoever would learn lessons of correct mechanism may find them in his poetry-or nowhere. He scarcely ever perpetrates a bad foot: never jars in his modulation: while the sparkling and yet delicate wit, refined raillery, and striking antithesis, which supremely characterise him-must ever render him a choice favourite with all who delight to read for instruction, rather than to experience high

emotion. Take as an example of these varied excellencies, the descriptive picture which precedes the deed of the 'Rape of the Lock:' it is the opening of the third canto of that inimitable

poem.

"Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flowers,
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers,
There stands a structure of majestic frame,

Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name.
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home;
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take-and sometimes tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;
In various talk th' instructive hours they past;
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last.
One speaks the glory of the British queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen;
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,
And wretches hang, that jurymen may dine;
The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace,
And the long labours of the toilet cease."

For his power of conveying graver instruction, innumerable passages might be quoted. Here is one-universally treasured up in the mind by all lovers of his poetry. It is from his masterly Essay on Criticism''What a strange, stiff title for a poem !' readers possessed with the modern flippant taste would exclaim:

"Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever nature has in worth deny'd,

She gives in large recruits of needful pride!

For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find

What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind:

Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,

And fills up all the mighty void of sense.

If once right reason drives that cloud away,

Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.

Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know,
Make use of every friend-and every foe."

Criticism!——how admirable is the following caution which he gives, among others, for performing it aright. Some every-day writers would eke out a volume from the meaning in these fourteen lines:

"A perfect judge will read each work of wit,
With the same spirit that its author writ;
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;

Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,

The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit.
But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow,

Correctly cold, and regularly low,

That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts

Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,

But the joint force and full result of all."

Knowledge of the world-portraiture of life--anatomy of society: in these he is a master-teacher and artist, only second to Shakspere. Here are