mon standard, no Johnsonian or Addisonian model in style; no solitary literary autocrat, like the Edinburgh Review in days of yore, whose awful decisions seal the author's fate, and decide public opinion without a chance for appeal. Every man who takes up the pen chooses matter and manner for himself, without reference to any arbitary rules; so does every woman, we might add. The "republic of letters" is becoming a ramping democracy. We have works in which the good old parts of speech need have the riot act read to them, and these are becoming classics. Readers of all tastes are fed abundantly from the evertoiling press. Among so many rivals we doubt whether Monaldi will be what is called popular, though it be full of power and interest, and win the praise of those whose praise is best worth having. It presents nothing in aspects new as they are true, as human nature appeared to us in Oliver Twist; nor is it of the strictly practical character, which has given such a "run" to some excellent productions on our own side of the water. Yet we may be agreeably disappointed. Who can watch the vane of popularity and wisely predict its veerings? They are as capricious and apparently lawless as the streamings of the Aurora.

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In descriptions of scenery- Italian scenery- our artist author is indeed at home, and we feel it a privilege to read all he may introduce of such description, as well as all that has reference to paintings and painters. In sentiment, we find but one passage that compels us to express a dissent, if we understand him aright. He has been giving us a beautiful touch of nature, where, on Monaldi's recovery from his first attack of insanity, his attendants are melted to tears on seeing him once more open his eyes and speak through them like an intelligent being;" although they were strangers, and might "in other circumstances have been tempted to cheat, slander, or betray the very object of their present compassion." Mr. Allston says, "whether this feeling be called virtuous or not, it is not to be relied on as any evidence of goodness. There is nothing indeed deserving the name, that is not equally so under all circumstances." What an immense proportion of the good that we look upon daily would this strike out! How sadly changed and darkened would be our views of the nature God has given his creatures, if the outbreakings of kindly sympathy and right feeling, which we find so often among the erring, give us no true indication of what that nature is when unassailed by strong or immediate temptation.

We know that the highest virtue is that which, "when opposed to our interest, triumphs over self;" but to deny the name of goodness to all which is spontaneous, springing up in quiet moments when the heart acts freely, to bestow it only on the strong principle, the mighty excellence, which always conquers in the battle with ever-besetting evil, this seems to us a comfortless and unjust scale. It is not consistent with our author's usually cheerful, kind, and right views. We have been accustomed to derive special encouragement, satisfaction, and an augmentation of our religious confidence and charity, from the good deeds done and good impulses manifested even by bad men. They do not prove such to be good men, and cannot stand in the place of habitually virtuous lives; but as far as they go, we must certainly consider them as marks of goodness somewhere; - we are inclined to believe, in man, as well as in God.

The tale has a graceful introduction and conclusion; brief as such portions of any work should be, but worthy of separate mention, for in the former we find one of the most powerful specimens of our author's genius. Monaldi in his madness paints a picture which is described in the introduction, and awakens in us a thrilling interest; the spell is upon us even before we read a single page of the tale itself. It is difficult to forbear extracting this discription, not only on account of its wonderful power, but of its mighty moral, its warning against the fearful attractiveness and monstrous tyranny of Sin. But we do forbear, for we would fain hope it is needless to quote what so many will read in its own place.

We conclude our remarks with the renewed expression of our joy, that one, whose name is to be honored after his gifted hand is mingled with the dust, has wielded both pencil and pen only in ministering to some of the highest and purest tastes of our nature, that he has shown to the world his fine genius seeking to satisfy its aspirations among the spiritualities which Christianity unfolds, doing the homage that becomes him to Truth, Religion, and God.

S. J. H.

ART. VI. Two Discourses on the Nature and Province of Natural, Revealed, and Experimental Religion. By ORVILLE DEWEY, Pastor of the Church of the Messiah, in New York. New York: David Felt & Co. 1841. 8vo. pp. 32.

BELIEVING that the philosophy of the filial heart is higher and of infinitely more worth than that of the doubting head, we rejoice in the expression of simple, childlike faith, by one whom the world will not easily suspect either of having been awed into the popular belief, or of believing one thing, and preaching and printing another. We have been refreshed and strengthened by reading these sermons. It gladdens us to know that one, who has stood so prominent among the champions of liberty and progress in religion, retains so firm an attachment to that basis of miracle and inspiration, on which alone, as we think, Christianity can rest. These Discourses recognise the distinction between Natural and Revealed Religion, the insufficiency of the former of itself both as to doctrine and evidence, and man's deep need of an express and authoritative revelation from the Author of his being. They are so rich in just and striking thought, that to give a fair analysis of them would be to reprint them entire. We will therefore content ourselves with a couple of extracts for the benefit of those of our readers into whose hands the pamphlet has not fallen. We quote first a sound and logical critique upon the vague way, in which it has of late become fashionable to talk and write of intuition as the sole basis of faith. The author has been illustrating the old a posteriori argument for the existence of a designing first cause from the marks of design in creation. He adds ;

-

"Some persons of late, have taken upon them, to repudiate this argument from design, and indeed all argument in the case. They say we have an intuition of God, or we have no knowledge of him any way.

"But what now is the province of intuition? How far does it extend? What facts does it embrace? I cannot tell what other men's intuition is, but I will tell you what mine is. I know not what a German intuition may see, but I know what that is, I perceive with certainty, what I My intuition embraces the facts of

mine sees. experience,

I see,

no more.

my consciousness, nothing beyond. But my experience is not God. The facts of my consciousness are not God, - except according to some Pantheister dreaming. And therefore to say that I have an immediate intuition of God, is an absolute contradiction of ideas; it is to use language without any intelligible meaning.

"This conclusion can be evaded only by setting up a new definition of intuition. If intuition be equivalent to consciousness, it is plain that, strictly speaking, I can be conscious of nothing but what passes within me. If intuition refers to what is self-evident or certain, we are brought to the same conclusion. For nothing is certain to me, nothing is self-evident, but what I perceive, feel, know in myself. The first truths,' as they are called, that is to say, the axioms, whether of Morals or of the Mathematics, are of this character. That benevolence is right; that two and two make four; that the whole is more than a part, these axioms are nothing but descriptions of the state of my own mind. And by this circle, that is, by the circle of my experience, to my apprehension, all absolute certainty is bounded.

"I have indeed the fullest belief in things out of this circle. I have the fullest belief in the being of a God. But I cannot say that I have an intuition of God. The truth, that he is, is not given me by consciousness, nor is it any way a self-evident truth. The being of a God is correlative to my consciousness, is implied by my consciousness, but it is surely no part of my consciousness.

"In short, between my intuition and the being of a God, there is a step of evidence. What I perceive in myself, what I see around me too, evinces by the plainest reasoning the existence of a moral and intelligent Creator. This old way of proceeding, this process of reasoning, is held by some to be quite unsatisfactory. They say it proves that there is a Creator of this world, but does not prove that he is God; this Creator may have been himself created. Grant it for argument's sake. Then this chain of causes must at length bring us to the Supreme Cause. But this hypercriticism does not disturb me. The Being who made me and made the world, to me is God. The rejectors of this way of reasoning, of the logical method, call it logic-grinding, and material philosophy, and I know not what; and claim to be in possession of a more spiritual philosophy. If they had said of a more mystical, I must think they would have adopted a more appropriate word. For in truth, they ought to maintain, as I conceive, that they have discovered a new faculty in the mind, unknown to all former philoso

phy; and that is a faculty which takes as certain a cognizance of things without the mind, as consciousness takes of things in the mind. Intuitive seeing with them, instead of being confined within the modest bounds assigned to it by all former philosophy, penetrates through the universe and reaches the Supreme Cause at a glance." - pp. 10, 11.

We know not how, in justice to our readers, to shorten the following extract upon the authenticity, importance, and religious uses of the Christian miracles. We would that the sober, earnest sentiments of these paragraphs might be well weighed by those, who are beginning to think lightly of the alleged seal of the Almighty, and to resolve Christianity into a mere system of Naturalism, wrought out by a mind of singular purity and power.

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Something that is called miracle, it must be admitted at the least, is found in the New Testament. What is it? Certainly, it is something very wonderful; to all appearance it touches the very order of nature; so it strikes the minds of the astonished beholders; and they say, 'since the world was, it hath not been heard that any man hath opened the eyes of one born blind,' and we know that thou art a teacher come from God; because no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with him;' and our Saviour does not reject this conclusion, but admits it as true. What then, I say again, is this thing that is done? And I must confess that I know not what to think of the state of that mind which, professing to receive the religion, can say that the conclusion was all a mistake; that the thing done was a miracle only to the ignorance of the people; that there was no departure from the order of nature; that the sick were healed, and the dead raised, by the vitality of some powers of which we are ignorant; that the reality of a miracle cannot be admitted. This way of thinking, in one who professes to reverence Christianity and its Founder, is to me utterly incomprehensible. It would drive me farther from all religion, from all faith. If such things can be permitted; if such delusions can be effected under the government of God, I should distrust the very evidence of natural religion. If I did not believe in the miracles with my view of the matter, I should not only be no Christian, but in a fair way to be no religionist of any sort.

"But once more, and in fine, if these are admitted to be veritable miracles, to be what they profess to be, then I cannot understand how they should be lightly regarded; how their im