views. Are not, in fact, all subjects connected with, or arising out of, the overwhelming truths of eternity, omnipotence and spiritual beingof the mysterious questions of the origin and existence of evil, and especially of moral evil-of the permission of sin, and the creation, by a benevolent and omniscient Creator, of accountable beings, with strong tendencies towards error and vice-of foreknowledge and free will, together with the innumerable practical or theoretical doubts and opinions which grow out of these are not all these subjects necessarily very hard to be understood by the human mind?

"But in considering the internal signs of authenticity and veracity, I refer chiefly to the manner of his unfolding these opinions, and of arguing upon these subjects. It is a manner wholly original, and bearing the deepest impress of truth and nature. The writer professes himself to be one who has heard, and seen, and been taught unutterable things--who has been brought to th knowledge and confession of that truth, which engrosses all his thoughts, and swallows up every other interest, not through the slow processes of reason, or by the observation of miraculous facts visible to the senses, or in the ordinary operation or moral illumination through the conscience and affections, but in a manner not only supernatural but wholly peculiar; whose knowledge of the doctrines, which, he authoritatively declares to his disciples, he tells them, came not of man nor through man, but immediately from the Father of lights, in a way which he himself does not and could not describe or explain-whether in the body or out of the body, he is wholly uncertain.

"This statement, the objector will say, is the work either of delusion or imposture; but let us compare the account given us of Paul's history and his state of mind with his writings, and mark how wonderful is the congruity which we may observe between them.

"His style, forcible, flexible, and copious as it is, is not perspicuous; but its obscurity is like that effulgence which the great English epic poet has described as being "dark with excess of light." His mind is evidently crowded with ideas struggling for utterance, with thoughts and emotions for which he finds language to be wholly inadequate, to which he feels that the habitual conceptions, the reason, the knowledge, the experience, of those to whom he addresses himself, present no sufficient counterpart. He labors with the magnitude of a revelation, with the vastness and certainty of a knowledge, which his mind can with difficulty contain, and which he feels that he can but partially unfold to others. "His intense and immediate conviction of truth, is accompanied with an equal intensity of feeling. He is filled with devotion, fervid gratitude, prostrate humility, unquenchable zeal. From these causes, naturally arise his sudden transitions, his rapid accumulations of thought upon thought. Hence his peculiar mode of unexpectedly rising from the argument in which the errors, or the controversies of the times happened to engage him, to loftier themes, and holier contemplations; connecting with the business and controversies of this world, which were soon to pass away, considerations of eternal and universal importance, of whose reality he had a still more intimate and present conviction.

"It is true, that to him who has made no approach to this knowledge, and more especially to him who has no answering sympathies to his kindling sentiment, much of this is, and must ever be, strangely and wildly obscure-his transitions must appear abrupt, his raptures extravagant or enthusiastic, and his reasonings incoherent or inconclusive.

"Yet, if we grant that he taught the truth, and emember the manner in which this truth is asserted to have been poured into his mind, and the extent and distinctness of the revelation so vouchsafed to him, then we can easily trace a most perfect coincidence between the style and character of thought, argument, and language, and that state of feeling which we may judge to have been habitual to the writer whenever his mind was turned, either in direct meditation, or by some casual association, to the recollection of the "deep things of God."--238-241.

Mr. Verplanck's mind is deeply imbued with much reading in the best authors. The range of his illustrations sometimes creates an incongruity between the sacredness of his subject, and his allusions; but his argument is never weak, and he evinces a judgment, in a remarkable degree, calm and unprejudiced. Many of his readers will doubt the wisdom of generalizing so far as scarcely to specify the doctrines of revealed religion; and many will think that he speaks with less effect, because he stands so much in the outer porch of the temple. We are convinced, that the more we descend to particulars in the doctrines of Christ, the more we shall find a divine life in every vein and fibre. In general propositions, so much may be said on each hand, that the longer we live, the more we become sceptical of mere human reasonings. We remember to have heard, not many leagues from Coppet, that after M. Benjamin Constant had read, several years ago, an essay against religion to a circle at Madame de Stael's, she told him that the fashion had changed, the times were altered, he ought now to write in favor of religion. He took the advice, and produced, in a few days, an admirable specimen of dialectics, refuting his former positions. We do not vouch for the truth of all this; se non è vero, è ben trovato. Mr. Verplanck writes with the stamp of deepand earnest conviction; and he proves so well the divine authority of the Bible, that we hope he will soon be prepared to pronounce upon more than these preliminary considerations. His style is pure, perspicuous, and beautifully elaborated; not always, perhaps, sufficiently spirited and flowing, and sometimes, although not often, cumbersome and heavy; peculiarities which the habit of devoting himself more to philosophical abstractions than to the expression of eloquent feeling, has probably induced. On a subject which has called forth the talents, the learning, and the eloquence of the ablest divines, there was little reason to expect any increase or enforcement of the evidences of our faith. Mr. Verplanck has, therefore, done much more than could be reasonably required. By an occasional contribution of new testimony, and a skilful and impressive exhibition of the old, he has given to his book a value, original in its character. and, we doubt not, lasting in its influence.

cious management of their parents, aided by the ingenuous reflections of their own minds, are improved into so many lessons of wisdom and benevolence. They are related in a very spirited and agreeable manner. As a specimen of the work, we give one of those beautiful little narratives with which it is interspersed. A stranger is relating to the travellers a tradition concerning the ruins of an old French fortification, situated on a point of land at the junction of the Oswegatchie and the St. Lawrence.

“A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages) married a young Iroquois, who was before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord-her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

"On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions, natural enough at a time when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;-the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous armagain she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were 'household words' with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders-she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gayly, 'I am my mother's body-guard you know.' Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events that followed rendered them memorable.

"The distance, continued the stranger, from the fort to the place where the commandant moored his canoe was trifling, and quickly passed Marguerite and Louis flew along the narrow foot path, reached the shore, and were in the arms of Mecumeh and his fierce companions. Entreaties and resistance were alike vain. Resistance was made, with a manly spirit, by young Louis, who drew a knife from the girdle of one of the Indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, who was roughly binding his wampum belt over Marguerite's mouth, to deaden the sound of her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him, as if he recognised in the brave boy a scion from his own stock.

"The Indians had two canoes; Marguerite was conveyed to one, Louis to the other and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.

"Not a word nor cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose, and when the canoe approached near the shore, he took off a military cap he wore, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged, where he meant it should, on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The Indians had observed the boy's movement-they held up their oars for à moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap; but after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water, and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed; hid their canoes behind some trees on the river's bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It seems to have been their intention to have returned to their canoes in the morning, and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire, and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Marguerite and Louis. Poor Marguerite, as you may suppose, had no mind to eat; but Louis, saith tradition, ate as heartily as if he had been safe within the walls of the fort. After the supper, the Indians stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Marguerite to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of his uncle Mecumeh. Neither of the prisoners, as you may imagine, closed their eyes. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lightning; the moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face, convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held a crucifix to her lips; the other was on her rosary. The sight of his mother in such a situation, stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy--but he lay powerless in his uncle's naked brawny arms. He tried to disengage himself, but at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep, that in the depth of the night steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him-his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped beside him, and left Louis free.

"He rose cautiously, looked for one instant on the Indians, and assured himself they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord that bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word—but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the

cious management of their parents, aided by the ingenuous reflections of their own minds, are improved into so many lessons of wisdom and benevolence. They are related in a very spirited and agreeable manner. As a specimen of the work, we give one of those beautiful little narratives with which it is interspersed. A stranger is relating to the travellers a tradition concerning the ruins of an old French fortification, situated on a point of land at the junction of the Oswegatchie and the St. Lawrence.

"A commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages) married a young Iroquois, who was before or after the marriage converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighbourhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain. The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord-her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river often on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

"On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions, natural enough at a time when imminent dangers and hairbreadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;-the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination. Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous armagain she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds. Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were household words' with him. He laughed at his mother's fears; but, in spite of his boyish ridicule, they strengthened, till apprehension seemed reality. Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of the night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing hand in hand towards the outer gate, when a sentinel stopped them to remind Marguerite it was her husband's order that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to the commandant for his breach of orders-she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gayly, 'I am my mother's body-guard you know.' Tradition has preserved these trifling circumstances, as the events that followed rendered them memorable.