will hesitate to think that in His dealings with others He must have made the same truth clear in the same way and at the same time, and yet will know that it can never pass away.

We are persuaded that the hard dogmatic type of Christianity rests on a thoroughly imperfect conception of inspiration and revelation. "Our ground briefly is," says the writer of whom we have before spoken, "that if Christianity be a divine revelation at all, then the messengers divinely commissioned to reveal it must be authoritative in the subject-matter of the revelation— that is, in religious and moral truths." But what is this "subject-matter of revelation,"-this "religious and moral truth"?— not, we conceive, a series of propositions of any kind. The whole ⚫ tenor of the Bible forbids the assumption. Revelation was a taking away of the veil from the spiritual world,―a presentation to the spirits of prophets and apostles of the inward life of God and Christ. The "Inspired Writings" are not, as all now hold, dictated writings,-neither are they writings in which any one sentence professes to transmit a proposition from Heaven to Earth. They are simply the writings of men profoundly and utterly occupied by the influences of God and Christ over their spirits. The "inspired" writers are men whose hearts were more or less absolutely penetrated with that life, beneath the spell of which they might have lived, and perhaps sometimes did live, with reluctant wills. They surely diminished their inspiration with every act of resistance, and deepened it in every faithful hour. Peter surely diminished his inspirationdrew a new film across the unveiled life of God-when he yielded, contrary to his conscience, to the dread of the Judaic party; and was drawn into a clearer light when he told the Sanhedrim that he could not "hearken unto them rather than unto God." Paul surely had his "inspiration" clouded by the strife with Barnabas, and by that dexterous use of the spirit of party between Pharisees and Sadducees for which he seems afterwards to have reproached himself. And when is he so deeply inspired, as when he is speaking of that "charity" which it was the greatest of his conquests over the natural man thus deeply to understand and exercise? Human thoughts and views, imperfect conceptions, mingle in all the writings of all the Apostles; were it not so, they would be of little use to us; and it is not their transmission to us of miraculous logic, but their fulness of that life which was "hidden with Christ in God," which constitutes their revelation: Christ's life and nature-God's life and nature-were the "subject-matter" of their revelation; and this they revealed exactly in the same manner, and according to the same laws, by which one human being can incarnate and give forth again the highest influence which rules over him.

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Miracle is limited to the physical world; the moral world is constrained by no fixed customs which prevent the free mutual action of mind on mind; and inspiration is not its miracle-nay, rather, were it not absolutely free, we might more truly call it its law. Once let us believe that inspiration and revelation is the gradual unveiling to us of the Eternal life and character, and there will be little reason either to dread indifference, or to doubt that God may be with others who, in having much of His goodness, have already much of His Truth, with a sure promise of the whole. If the Hard Church could once be well convinced that the "diffusion of useful knowledge" about the soul and its prospects neither is, nor ever was, the true office of Christianity,

that all the information which the Christian gospel gives at all, it gives immediately through fuller insight into the character of God, they would be a little less fond of turning their apostolic staff into a rod, and perhaps begin to understand better "what spirit they are of."

ART. VI. THE CHARACTER OF SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Memoirs, by the Right Hon. Sir Robert Peel, Bart., M.P., &c. Published by the Trustees of his Papers, Lord Mahon (now Lord Stanhope) and the Right Hon. Edward Cardwell, M.P. Part I. The Roman Catholic Question, 1828-9.

MOST people have looked over old letters. They have been struck with the change of life, with the doubt on things now certain, the belief in things now incredible, the oblivion of what now seems most important, the strained attention to departed detail, which characterise the mouldering leaves. Something like this is the feeling with which we read Sir Robert Peel's memoirs. Who now doubts on the Catholic question? It is no longer a "question." A younger generation has come into vigorous, perhaps into insolent life, who regard the doubts that were formerly entertained as absurd, pernicious, delusive. To revive the controversy was an error. The accusations which are brought against a public man in his own age are rarely those echoed in after times. Posterity sees less or sees more. A few points stand forth in distinct rigidity; there is no idea of the countless accumulation, the collision of action, the web of human feeling, with which, in the day of their life, they were encompassed. Time changes much. The points of controversy seem clear; the assumed premises uncertain. The difficulty is to comprehend "the difficulty." Sir Robert Peel will have to answer

to posterity not for having passed Catholic emancipation when he did, but for having opposed it before; not for having been precipitate, but for having been slow; not for having taken "insufficient securities" for the Irish Protestant Church, but for having endeavoured to take security for an institution too unjust to be secured by laws or lawgivers.

This memoir has, however, a deeper aim. Its end is rather personal than national. It is designed to show not that Sir Robert did what was externally expedient-this was probably too plain-but that he himself really believed what he did to be right. The scene is laid not in Ireland, not in the county of Clare, not amid the gross triumph of O'Connell, or the outrageous bogs of Tipperary, but in the Home Office, among files of papers, among the most correctly-docketed memoranda, beside the minute which shows that Justice A should be dismissed, that malefactor O ought not to be reprieved. It is labelled "My Conscience," and is designed to show that "my conscience" was sincere.

Seriously, and apart from jesting, this is no light matter." Not only does the great space which Sir Robert Peel occupied during many years in the history of the country entitle his character to the anxious attention of historical critics, but the very nature of that character itself, its traits, its deficiencies, its merits, are so congenial to the tendencies of our time and government, that to be unjust to him is to be unjust to all probable statesmen. We design to show concisely how this is.

A constitutional statesman is in general a man of common opinions and uncommon abilities. The reason is obvious. When we speak of a free government, we mean a government in which the sovereign power is divided, in which a single decision is not absolute, where argument has an office. The essence of the " gouvernement des avocats," as the Emperor Nicholas called it, is that you must persuade so many persons. The appeal is not to the solitary decision of a single statesman; not to Richelieu or Nesselrode alone in his closet; but to the jangled mass of men, with a thousand pursuits, a thousand interests, a thousand various habits. Public opinion, as it is said, rules; and public opinion is the opinion of the average man. Fox used to say of Burke: "Burke is a wise man; but he is wise too soon." The average man will not bear this. He is a cool, common person, with a considerate air, with figures in his mind, with his own business to attend to, with a set of ordinary opinions arising from and suited to ordinary life. He can't bear novelty or originalities. He says: "Sir, I never heard such a thing before in my life;" and he thinks this a reductio ad absurdum. You may see his taste by the reading of which he

approves. Is there a more splendid monument of talent and industry than the Times? No wonder that the average man— that any one-believes in it. As Carlyle observes: "Let the highest intellect able to write epics try to write such a leader for the morning newspapers, it cannot do it; the highest intellect will fail." But did you ever see any thing there you had never seen before? Out of the million articles that every body has read, can any one person trace a single marked idea to a single article? Where are the deep theories, and the wise axioms, and the everlasting sentiments which the writers of the most influential publication in the world have been the first to communicate to an ignorant species? Such writers are far too shrewd. The two million, or whatever number of copies it may be, they publish, are not purchased because the buyers wish to know new truth. The purchaser desires an article which he can appreciate at sight; which he can lay down and say, "An excellent article, very excellent; exactly my own sentiments." Original theories give trouble; besides, a grave man on the Coal Exchange does not desire to be an apostle of novelties among the contemporaneous dealers in fuel; he wants to be provided with remarks he can make on the topics of the day which will not be known not to be his; that are not too profound; which he can fancy the paper only reminded him of. And just in the same way, precisely as the most popular political paper is not that which is abstractedly the best or most instructive, but that which most exactly takes up the minds of men where it finds them, catches the floating sentiment of society, puts it in such a form as society can fancy would convince another society which did not believe,-so the most influential of constitutional statesmen is the one who most felicitously expresses the creed of the moment, who administers it, who embodies it in laws and institutions, who gives it the highest life it is capable of, who induces the average man to think "I could not have done it any better if I had had time myself."

It might be said that this is only one of the results of that tyranny of commonplace which seems to accompany civilisation. You may talk of the tyranny of Nero and Tiberius; but the real tyranny is the tyranny of your next-door neighbour. What law is so cruel as the law of doing what he does? What yoke is so galling as the necessity of being like him? What espionage of despotism comes to your door so effectually as the eye of the man who lives at your door? Public opinion is a permeating influence, and it exacts obedience to itself; it requires us to think other men's thoughts, to speak other men's words, to follow other men's habits. Of course, if we do not, no formal ban issues, no corporeal pain, the coarse penalty of a barbarous so

ciety, is inflicted on the offender; but we are called "eccentric;" there is a gentle murmur of "most unfortunate ideas," "singular young man," "well-intentioned, I dare say; but unsafe, sir, quite unsafe." The prudent, of course, conform. The place of nearly every body depends on the opinion of every one else. There is nothing like Swift's precept to attain the repute of a sensible man, "Be of the opinion of the person with whom at the time you are conversing." This world is given to those whom this world can trust. Our very conversation is infected. Where is now the bold humour, the explicit statement, the grasping dogmatism of former days? They have departed; and you read in the orthodox works dreary regrets that the art of conversation has passed away. It would be as reasonable to expect the art of walking to pass away. People talk well enough when they know to whom they are speaking. We might even say that the art of conversation was improved by an application to new circumstances. "Secrete your intellect, use common words, say what you are expected to say," and you shall be at peace. The secret of prosperity in common life is to be commonplace on principle.

Whatever truth there may be in these splenetic observations, might be expected to show itself more particularly in the world of politics. People dread to be thought unsafe in proportion as they get their living by being thought to be safe. "Literary men," it has been said, are outcasts ;" and they are eminent in a certain way notwithstanding. "They can say strong things of their age; for no one expects they will go out and act on them." They are a kind of ticket-of-leave lunatics, from whom no harm is for the moment expected; who seem quiet, but on whose vagaries a practical public must have its eye. For statesmen it is different-they must be thought men of judgment. The most morbidly agricultural counties were aggrieved when Mr. Disraeli was made Chancellor of the Exchequer. They could not believe he was a man of solidity; and they could not comprehend taxes by the author of Coningsby, or sums by an adherent of the Caucasus. "There is," said Sir Walter Scott, "a certain hypocrisy of action, which, however it is despised by persons intrinsically excellent, will nevertheless be cultivated by those who desire the good repute of men." Politicians, as has been said, live in the repute of the commonalty. They may appeal to posterity; but of what use is posterity? Years before that tribunal comes into life your life will be extinct. It is like a moth going into Chancery. Those who desire a public career, must look to the views of the living public; an immediate exterior influence is essential to the exertion of their faculties. The confidence of others is your fulcrum. You cannot, many people wish you