as the preacher calls it, in members of the same church, seen as seldom, we are sorry to say, as its counter feit is obtrusive, is well defined. The proper conduct of the Church towards Dissenters, is stated in very specific terms; and, in general, the conduct of all religious controvertists towards each other. One sermon on the latter general subject we think most particularly worthy of note; and from it we shall hope for space to make some considerable extracts, as well to characterize the amiable qualities of the author himself, as to furnish a standard alike to ourselves and our contemporaries, of the spirit in which alone we can with propriety either controvert or instruct those who oppose themselves.

In relation to the points thus enumerated in these several volumes, we shall now proceed to a few extracts and remarks. These will bear, first, upon the division existing amongst what we may still call orthodox Christians; secondly, the source of that division; thirdly, the operation of it in one or two very remarkable points; and fourthly, the cure, or at least due regulation of it. But these points are far too important to be discussed in the short space which we could devote to them in the present Number. Having, therefore, opened the subject, we shall leave our readers to ruminate upon it at their leisure, till our next monthly visit, when we hope to resume the discussion.

(To be continued.)

Original Memorials,or brief Sketches of Real Characters. By a Clergyman of the Church of England. London: Hatchard and Son. 1822,

THE fifteen tales contained in this little volume are stated in the dedication to be authentic narratives of facts, which appear to have fallen under the author's own observation,

in the cure of several parishes in the west of England. In the larger portion of them, the individuals alluded to are no more, and were, when living, found in the privacy of domestic scenes, or in indigent obscurity: but they were not necessarily the less, on this account, deserving of attention, since, oftentimes the peculiar power of Divine grace and the vigor of Christian virtue shine forth with a brilliancy in these scenes and circumstances, which is scarcely elsewhere exhibited. The "annals of the poor" may be "short and simple," but they frequently furnish the richest instruction; and if they are deemed momentous enough to find a record in heaven,why should they be thought unworthy of notice on earth? Those which have appeared to us the most interesting of these narratives, are "The walking Bible," "Lady M-," "Visits to a Farm House," "True Happiness," "Revenge," "The Harpoon Boy," "The dying Deist," and "The Cottager and Atheist."

The first of these is an account of the son of a poor widow, who, living in an obscure part of the country, and in days, we imagine, when no such things as Bible Societies existed, (for these golden mines are of comparatively recent discovery,) borrowed of a neighbour detached portions of the sacred volume successively till he had in turn had the whole in his possession, and had so diligently and repeatedly perused them, that he had committed the greater part to memory, in consequence of which he gained the ho nourable title which has served for a designation to the tale. The details which follow are accounts of various occurrences, in which the acquaintance he had thus obtained with the Divine record proved of the greatest spiritual benefit both to himself and others. In one instance, although but then a youth, he was enabled to lead his own parent to such a trust in the providence of God as saved her from the breach of a Divine command; and in another, in after

life, after the example of an Apostle at Philippi, his forcible citation of the consolatory passages of Scripture calmed the perturbed spirit of one who meditated instant suicide. In another instance, he was enabled to set at rest the deluded mind of a man who, being a publican, had long determined not to read the Bible, because, as he said, it condemned him in every part, even by name; "publicans and sinners" being frequently classed together. But Psoon undeceived him; and when he had pointed the denunciation against the sin, and not the abstract occupation, and moreover described that occupation as being not the modern one known by that name, but that of a farmer, or collector, of taxes, he went on to shew him that even publicans, in the scriptural sense of the term, were not shut out of Divine mercy. He told him of St. Matthew and Zaccheus, two abiding demonstrations to the contrary, and of Jesus describing himself as "the friend of publicans and sinners."

The allusion to an inn-keeper has led our author into some just remarks on the snares attendant upon that situation in life. In these remarks, he takes occasion to contrast the very opposite feelings entertained by those two remarkable men, Dr. Johnson and Archbishop Leighton, in reference to an inn. Perhaps the contrast is greater from the circumstance, that the sentiments uttered by them were given at a time when Johnson was in his worst, and Leighton in his best, frame of mind. The former said to Sir John Hawkins, "A tavern chair is the throne of human felicity." The latter observed, "If I were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; because it looks like a pilgrim's going home, to whom this world is all an inn, and who is weary of the noise and confusion in it." The former sentiment was the product of that morbid dislike to domestic enjoyment and that contempt for human nature from his penetration into its selfish springs of action,

which so frequently suspended on Johnson's lips the melancholy stanza of Shenstone;

Who that has travell'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.

The latter was the result of that heavenly state of the affections which Bishop Burnet, speaking of Leighton, declares he never saw disturbed in him, and which so subordinated all earthly concerns, and even relations, in his view, as to make him regard with apprehension the domestic enclosure which contained so many things to entangle a dying man's regards.

The character of Lady Mis drawn with delicate feeling and discrimination-we should suppose

with accuracy. She appears to us to have been one of those amiable individuals, who, though moving in a circle and under circumstances which the world esteems all-sufficient to impart happiness, was yet unable to be happy, and was herself surprised at it, till a light from above had shone upon the true cause. She is thus described :

"Her character stood high with the world; for her splendid hospitality welcomed many to N Court. Her affability gave ease to all who approached her, and her liberal charity drew forth the blessings of the surrounding peasantry. Her manners were highly fascinating. In her tongue was 'the law of kindness ;' not merely that glossy and smiling courteousness which is learned in the school of Chesterfield, and is regarded in the polite world as an essential accomplishment, but that cordial sumed kindliness which reach the heart tenderness, that spontaneous and unasand captivate the affections. She never was forgetful of the courtliness becoming her rank; but her condescension gave no pain. She was dignified, without being repulsive, and complaisant without affectation: her conversation was enlivened with ready wit, treasures of a mind well stored with geneand often unlocked and displayed the ral literature, and an extensive knowledge of the world, which she had viewed with an intelligent eye. But Lady M. was not in possession of happiness, though she had

within her reach those ingredients which are imagined to compose the all of earthly bliss. In the midst of the splendour by which she was encircled, when she thought that no eye was surveying her, I have seen by a glance her expressive countenance lose all its gaiety, and exhibit the index of a mind ill at ease. Deep thought gave a fixedness to her eye, and pallid sadness clothed her cheek, except when a hectic flush, that treacherous colouring with which consumption beautifies its victims, betrayed that canker that was secretly preying upon her life." pp. 75, 76,

Lady M-appears, of all our English poets, to have given the preference to Young. The temper of his uneasy mind, and the bitter results of his experiment upon the world, seemed the very food to nourish her melancholy. Her minister perceived this, and endeavoured in his conversation with her to exthe cause of the poet's gloom. pose "I said that the perusal of Young always left my heart cold; that he winged my imagination, but did not elevate my affections; that there was an indescribable chillinesss in his compositions, which diffused over the soul a dreary melancholy. Lady M. appeared struck with the agreement of my sentiments with her own. 'It has been remarked,' I added, that the great poet of the Night never recognised the invaluable and consolatory doctrine of the need and attainableness of the promised influences of the Holy Spirit; and that this may account for that absence of hallowed and glowing feeling in his pages, of which a truly Christian reader is painfully conscious. This observation produced in her considerable agitation, which she sought to conceal by rising instantly to depart." p. 78.

She appears, however, to have been herself under the controlling operations of that same Spirit; and that Spirit, though he never leaves his heavenly work incomplete, yet has assimilated his operations to that element in nature which, however powerful in working, is yet undistinguishable in its approach,-so that while we hear the sound thereof, we cannot tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth. For "so," it is added, "is every one that is born of the Spirit."

"In the look of Lady M., at church, there was the stedfast and anxious gaze of one who was hearing with a heart that trembled and shrunk at the discovery of its emotions, but which, like Lydia's, was being opened to attend to the things that were spoken. There was a pensive sadness that said, This is truth; but it is painful truth.' Nor seldom did her cheeks betray the traces of a tear, over which I hoped that angels might rejoice, as a token of that repentance which was hidden from human observation."... "The never acknowledged ardour of her soul for religious knowledge discovered itself in a manner, which as much encouraged our hopes as excited our surprise. I officiated at another church, about three miles distance from N Court. The path thither lay across numerous fields, through a low marshy country, whose clayey and adhesive soil very greatly added to the fatigue of pedestrian travellers. Yet with every convenience at her command, during a most inclement autumn and winter, and

with a cough upon her, which, though unperceived by her, was making daily ravages on her constitution, she regularly walked to the church of L, usually accompanied by her daughter and a servant, after having attended at our parish church. There, though a stranger, and of elevated rank, she was with difficulty persuaded to accept of any superior accommodation. She would often enter pews crowded by the poor population of a parish, which contained no genteel inhabitants, and there, upon her knees, on the uncovered floor, set a dignified, but humble, example of devotion. She appeared absorbed in never-vacillating attention to the prayers and praises that were being offered up, and to the instructions of one who had not seen half her years, and who was but a novitiate [novice] in the ministry of reconciliation between God and man."

PP. 80-82.

Shortly after the time alluded to in this paragraph, the author appears to have been obliged to quit his residence in that vicinity, and, on leaving, presented Lady M- with two works, judiciously selected for her state of mind, "Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion," and "The Refuge." He remarks;

"The rise of religion in her mind was obscured by many clouds, and its progress was impeded by all the formidable obstacles

authority. He felt, and humbly acknowledged, all that I urged. To ascertain, if possible, the present state of his mind, I said to him, Suppose you were at this moment to see Mr. and in such a situation as you once desired to meet him in, how should you feel towards him, and how would you act?' I should be disposed,' said he, to offer him my hand, and to do him any service in my power.' This was no trifling evidence of the altered tone of his feelings." pp. 134-137.

The narrative proceeds to describe him in after life as giving satisfactory evidence of a change of heart; particularly mentioning his unremitting study of the Scriptures, his attendance on the means of grace, and that habit and demeanour which perhaps are in all, and certainly must have been in him, the best and safest criterion of such a change that humble, meek, and quiet spirit, which in the sight of God is of great price. He seemed, like one of old, "to go softly all his days." The account of his minister's farewel visit to him is affectingly described: but we pass on to extract some of the just and forcible remarks which the author himself elicits from his tale.

"To what a fearful extent may the malignant passions obtain ascendency in the human breast! Hardened by the deceitfulness of sin, and by his habitual abandonment of the public means of grace, this man yielded himself up to the dominion of a wrathful and revengeful spirit, which goaded him on to the very brink of destruction. In the blind fury which took possession of his soul, he conceived himself authorized to take the scales and the sword of justice into his own hands; and having thus usurped the seat of Him who saith, Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' he never discovered the immense disproportion between the injury he had sustained and that which he intended to inflict. He saw not that what he had en dured was a trifle compared with the blow he meditated, and yet he imagined that Divine Justice would approve the deed. Thus far was he carried by the false principles which he had adopted, and which he attempted not to counteract or oppose by those ordinances of religion which even in their external character powerfully tend to moderate and humanize the natural

ferocity of human passions. Had he continued to slight these ordinances, and had he not been led to enter the sanctuary of God in the posture of an inquirer, guilty and monstrous as was the object of his inquiry, he in all probability would have imbrued his hands in blood, which from the earth would have called for heavier vengeance than that which he had inflicted. But it is both wonderful and delightful to notice how, even in this instance, God honoured the means of his own appointment for the extrication of men from the snares which Satan spreads for their ruin.

The man was not so wholly left to himself as to throw off all the restraints of religion. The holy Scriptures were still his companions, and threw too much light upon the desperate course he pursued, to leave him in the dark about its ultimate issue. This kept up in his mind thoughts of God and a future state, which held in his passions from running the full course of their and righteous Deity held no place in his natural impetuosity. Had an all-seeing belief, and had he adopted the fool's creed,

There is no God;' or had he with the more decent sceptic, confined the Almighty to some distant and sequestered province of his dominions, too remote to notice, and too engrossed by his own calm and glorious repose to take an interest in, the affairs of men: had he excluded from

the vision of the future all that is to be dreaded in hell, and all that is to be hoped for in heaven: had he reasoned himself into the assurance that he would have to appear before no other than an earthly tribunal, and that the hand of the executioner would blot out his name from the book of existence, as well as from the list of mortals, no motive would have remained sufficiently powerful to withhold him from the speedy completion of his diabolical purpose. But happily the fear of God was not altogether removed from his heart. He was prompted to pray for light; and light, very different from what he sought, shone forth upon his soul, and revealed, not the promise of impunity which he desired, but his own fearful condition, as the slave and tool of Satan, the god of this world. The eye of the Omniscient observed his approach to the longforsaken temple, and was fixed upon him when he bent his knee to implore the commission of a destroying demon. That Ear, which no sound escapes, heard his prayer for liberty to shed blood. Perhaps no knee was ever before bent on earth, and no petition ever before ascended to the throne of God, for such an object.