difference to be compounded at the general meeting, which is to be of 12. Letters to be sent from every bishop to the rest of his clergy, admonishing them of this translation in hand; and to move and charge as many as, being skilful in the tongues, have taken pains in that kind, to send his particular observations to the company either at Westminster, Cambridge, or Oxford. 13. The directors in each company to be the Deans of Westminster and Chester for that place, and the King's Professors in Hebrew and Greek in each University. 14. These translations to be used, when they agree better with the Whitchurch, Geneva. text than the Bishop's Bible, viz., Tindal's, Matthew's, Coverdale's, The authority of these, however, is very much shaken by the account given in to the Synod of Dort, on the 20th of November, 1618. It is there affirmed that only seven rules were in the end prescribed. Forty distinguished scholars were appointed to execute the translation, and these individuals were divided into five classes. The translation occupied three years, and the first copies were printed in 1611, one of which is in the British Museum. There is another copy in the Museum bearing the same date; but this is a mistake-it belongs to the editions of 1613. This translation was corrected, and many parallel texts added, by Dr Scattergood, in 1683; by Dr Lloyd, Bishop of London, in 1701, and afterwards by Dr Paris at Cambridge; but the most complete revision was that we are bounde to obey, and whome we shulde not obeye: therefore (I saye) it causeth all prosperite, and setteth everythynge in frame; and where it is taught and knowen, it lyghteneth all darknesses, comforteth all sory hertes, leaueth no poore man vahelped, suffreth nothynge amysse Famended, letteth no prynce be disobeyed, permitteth no heresie to be preached: but refourmeth all thinges, amendeth that is amysse, and setteth euery thynge in order.' The bishops found great fault with Coverdale's translation, in consequence of which the king gave orders for a new translation to be made with all possible haste, and within three years the first impression of the work was issued. Cromwell procured a general warrant from the king, allowing all his subjects to read it; for which Cranmer wrote his thanks to Cromwell, 'rejoicing to see the work of Reformation now risen in England, since the word of God did now shine over it all without a cloud.' Cromwell also gave orders that the clergy should set up Bibles in all their churches, and encourage the people to read them. In the reign of Edward VI., Fuller mentions another translation of the Bible, printed in two editions, the first in 1549, the other in 1551; neither of them was divided into verses. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth was published the Bishop's Bible, so called because several of that order were concerned in that version. The work was divided into several parcels, and assigned to men of learning and character; most of the divisions are marked with great initial letters, signify-made by Dr Blayney, in 1769, under the direction of the ing either the name or the titles of the persons employed. As the accounts which have been frequently given regarding the origin of our present version are in many pinis imperfect and inaccurate, it may not be uninteresting to our readers to give a few particulars. From the fact that many of the copies of our present English bibles contain a dedication to James I. of England, it has been all but universally believed that this version had either been suggested by that monarch, or that it was prepared at his expense. The authentic documents of the time, however, prove that these suppositions are entirely groundles. The Scriptures in no period of their history owed their existence or preservation to the kings and princes of the earth; and in regard to our present version, it was not suggested by James; the undertaking was not supported by his personal expense; nor did he ever issue one authoritative proclamation regarding it. The British public are indebted to the distinguished Dr John Rainolds, president of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, for the first suggestion of a new translation of the Bible. At what has been called the Conference at Hampton Court,' held on the 16th and 18th January, 1602, this proposal was made. James 1. consented, but had little more to do with the matter. No further movement was made till the end of June, when a list of scholars, selected by Dr Rainolds and others for the work of translating, was presented to James for his acceptance. To the individuals selected, the king is said to have given the following instructions: 1. The ordinary Bible read in the church, commonly called the Fishop's Bible, to be followed, and as little altered as the original will permit. The names of the prophets, and the holy writers, with their other rames in the text, to be retained as near as may be, according as they a. The old ecclesiastical words to be kept, viz., the word church not to be translated congregation, &c. are vulgarly used. 4. When any word hath divers significations, that to be kept which hath been commonly used by the most eminent fathers, being agrecable to the propriety of the place and to the analogy of faith. & The division of the chapters to be altered either not at all, or as as may be, if necessity so require. No marginal notes at all to be affixed, but only for the explanafica of the Hebrew or Greek words which cannot, without some ciraloention, so briefly and fitly be expressed in the text. Seeh quotations of places to be marginally set down as shall serve Er the fit reference of one Scripture to another. * Every particular man of each company to take the same chapter chapters, and having translated or amended them severally by himwhere he thinks good, all to meet together, confer what they have done, and agree for their part what shall stand. As any one company hath dispatched any one book in this maner, they shall send it to the rest, to be considered of seriously and Jally, for his Majesty is very careful on this point. 10. If any company, upon the review of the book so sent, shall doubt er differ upon any places, to send them word thereof, note the places, and therewithal send their reasons; to which, it they consent not, the vice-chancellor and delegates of the University of Oxford. Selden, in his Table-Talk,' speaking of the Bible, says, 'The English translation of the Bible is the best translation in the world, and renders the sense of the original best, taking in for the English translation the Bishop's Bible as well as King James's. The translators in King James's time took an excellent way. That part of the Bible was given to him who was most excellent in such a tongue (as the Apocrypha to Andrew Downs), and then they met together, and one read the translation, the rest holding in their hands some Bible, either of the learned tongues, or French, Spanish, Italian, &c. If they found any fault they spoke, if not, he read on.' The first Bible ever printed was a Latin one, without date or printer's name, supposed to have been printed at Mentz, between the years 1450 and 1455, in two volumes in folio, probably by Gutenberg and Fust. The first printed edition of the Bible in any modern language was in the German, supposed to be printed by John Mentelin. The first Polish version with which we are acquainted is one by Hedwige, wife of Jagelton, Duke of Lithuania, who embraced Christianity about the year 1890. Poland was indebted to female piety for the introduction of Christianity, Dambrovka, daughter of Boleslaus, Duke of Bohemia, having by repeated exhortations persuaded her husband, Niceslaus, Duke of Poland, to abandon Paganism, and embrace the Gospel, which he did A. D. 965. The celebrated Jewish critics, called Masorites or Mazoretes, had their name from the Hebrew word Masar, to deliver from one to another, because they professed to deliver the Scriptures to posterity in the state of purity in which they were found previous to the Babylonish captivity. To this end, they not only numbered every verse, word, and letter, but even went so far as to ascertain how often each letter of the alphabet occurred in the whole Bible. They were very particular about the copies of the sacred writings designed for their synagogues, it being a constant rule with them, that whatever is considered as corrupt shall never be used, but shall be burned or otherwise destroyed; a book of the law wanting but one letter, with one letter too much, or with an error in one single letter, written with anything but ink, or written on parchment made of the hide of an unclean animal, or on parchment not purposely prepared for that use, or prepared by any but an Israelite, or on skins of parchment tied together by unclean strings, shall be holden to be corrupt; that no word shall be written without a line first drawn on the parchment; no word written by heart or without having been first pronounced orally by the writer; that before he writes the name of God he shall wash his pen; that no letter shall be joined to another; and that if the blank parchment cannot be seen all around each letter, the roll shall be corrupt. They had also settled rules for the length and breadth of each sheet of parchment, and for the space to be left between each letter, each word, and each section. The following masoretical analysis, called the Old and New Testament Dissected, is by an anonymous English writer. It contains an enumeration of all the books, chapters, verses, words, and letters which occur in the English Bible and Apocrypha. For its accuracy, however, no one will venture to vouch unless he has followed the steps of the painfully laborious author of it, who is said to have spent three years of his life in the calculations necessary for its completion. Books.... Chapters.. Verses. Letters.. Old Test. 39 929 New Test. Total. 260 66 1189 ..... 23,214 7,959 31,173 181,253 773,692 838,380 3,566,480 Words.............. 592,439 .2,728,100 In the Apocrypha, chapters 183, verses 6081, words 152,185. The middle chapter, and least in the whole Bible, is Psalm cxvii. The middle verse is Psalm cxviii. 8. The middle chapter of the Old Testament is Job xxix. The middle verse would be Chronicles xxix. 17, if there were a verse more, and 18, if a verse less. The shortest verse is 1 Chronicles 1.25. The word Jehovah occurs 6855 times. The 21st verse of the 7th chapter of Ezra, contains all the letters of The 19th chapter of the 2d book of Kings, and the 37th chapter of Isaiah are alike. The middle book in the New Testament is 2 Thessalonians. THE WOODEN LEG. 'MONSIEUR, I shall be glad to see you to-morrow at nine o'clock A.M., with your scalpal, tourniquet, and all the other instruments necessary for the amputation of a leg.' 'Well, that will do,' said M. Thevenet, as he glanced over the above note, and then turned it round and round, while a sardonic smile played upon his face. So I am a barber or a wood-chopper, that this incognito will send a tatterdemallion for to-morrow,' continued M. Thevenet, as he threw the card in the fire, flung himself into his armchair, and, lifting up a book, commenced to read in such a way as showed that he did not mean to pay the least attention to that anonymous note. Louis Thevenet was the most celebrated surgeon in Calais. His fame, however, was not confined to his own city; it had travelled across the channel, and so had the The middle chapter would be Romans xiii. if there were a chapter great Louis Thevenet himself. When anything of a most more, and xiv. if a chapter less. The middle verse is Acts xvil. 17. The following descriptive character of the several books of the Old and New Testaments is from a tract entitled A Design about disposing the Bible into an Harmony; or an Essay concerning the Transposing the Order of Books and Chapters of the Holy Scriptures, for the reducing of all into a Continued History. By Samuel Torshell. This work was published during the grand rebellion, and is now exceedingly scarce. Genesis............... The cabinet of the greatest antiquities. grave and extraordinary nature in the art of surgery was to take place in London, his advice was looked upon as invaluable in consultation, and his assistance as almost essential to the success of the operation. He did not eclipse his fellow surgeons in Calais-he illumined them; for the halo of his surgical glory threw lustre upon his native city, and consequently upon all his professional brethren. He had been long attached to the army, and had embraced every opportunity of rendering himself perfect in his calling. He was not a man of many ideas. Sulphur was to him the chief of medicines; amputation his panacea for all cuts and bullet-wounds upon practicable places; so that he doubtless became a great surgeon, as the wooden legs of many soldiers like Corporal Trim attested. Everybody liked M. Thevenet, however, even though he was somewhat blunt in his manner; for his open-handedness and his more than common rectitude of character were proverbial. He was most attentive to his patients, who were generally of the noblesse and wealthy class; and as loyalty was also esteemed a great virtue in France in 1782, he did not want for a goodly supply of that either; so that, taking him all in all, he was really a man of great consequence, and it is therefore no wonder that he felt a little piqued at the peremptory tone of the anonymous card. It had caused him a struggle, it must be confessed, to maintain that dignity which he esteemed to be proper on this occasion; for the idea of an amputation was one that exercised a powerful influence over him, and he fain would have been at that limb, had he seen that in the circumstances he was not derogating from the dignity of a famous surgeon. Three days after this, however, he received another card, more pressing in its tone than the former, and couched in a more becoming style. He was besought to be ready on the morrow morning at nine o'clock, and informed that a carriage would come to conduct him to where the operation was to take place. Nine o'clock had scarcely struck upon the great bell, when a splendid caleche, drawn by two beautiful horses, drew up at the door of the surgeon. M. Thevenet did not now hesitate a moment, but mounted the steps of the vehicle; then rapping with his cane upon the golden epaulette of the coachman, he cried, as if impatient to be gone, ، Where shall we go now, my good man p 'Where I have orders to conduct you, Mr Doctor,' replied the coachman, in surly English, as he cracked his whip, and set off at a gallop. 'Yes, yes, it is an English affair, is it?' thought the 1 doctor, as he shook his head. Well, the impertinence of these people is unsurpassable.' The vehicle quickly arrived at its destination, and the doctor was let out by a lacquey. Who is ill ?' he asked, as he was conducted to the door. Is it a man or woman ?' 'You shall soon see that, sir,' replied the lacquey. Thevenet was received at the door of the house by a handsome, fashionably-dressed young man, between twenty-five and thirty years of age, who forthwith led him up stairs to a large and richly-furnished room. 'Is this the place to which I was invited?' said Thevenet, looking round in surprise upon beautiful mahogany furniture, instead of a sick-bed, as he expected. 'Yes, sir, and I am happy that you have been pleased at last to respond to my anonymous invitation,' replied his conductor. 'Rest yourself, I pray you,' and he motioned the doctor to a seat. Have you brought everything necessary to commence this operation?' 'Bat hold, sir!' said the doctor, firmly. 'Permit me to see and examine this limb, before I say a word on the subject. Perhaps amputation is unnecessary.' 'Amputation is necessary, Dr Thevenet,' said the young man, turning quickly upon the surgeon, and looking fiercely at him. Suffer me, I pray you, to be the sole judge of that, and prepare yourself to commence, and that, too, immediately. The doctor sat down, and stared halfdoubtingly in the face of this strange being. Listen to me,' resumed the unknown, speaking slowly and emphatically. Whatever may be the result of the operation, here are one hundred guineas for you, whenever it is finished. But I am to be operated upon-operated upon immediately, too-mark me well!-and if you refuse to obey me, you are in my power, and as sure as the sun shines, I shall blow your brains out in an instant.' While speaking, the stranger had taken a pistol from his pocket, which he held carelessly in his hand, looking at the same time fall in the surgeon's face. 'Oh, sir,' said Thevenet, coolly, 'you no doubt have it in your power to lay me flat upon my face just now, but your pistol wont bring the palor of fear into it, let me tell you. Bat, come, explain to me frankly, and without any more ado about it, for what purpose did you bring me here?' 'Hearing you famed as an amputist, I sent for you to cut off my right leg,' replied the unknown, calmly. With all my heart, sir,' said the surgeon, smiling, and shrugging his shoulders, and your head also, if you please; but, if I don't mistake, your leg seems perfectly whole. You have come bounding up these stairs with the agility of a rope-dancer. What is the matter with it?' 'Nothing at all,' said the unknown, only I want to have it cut off.' Why, sir, you are mad,' said the doctor, looking at the cool Englishman from head to foot, and evidently becoming impressed with the belief that a strait waistcoat was necessary. That is just as you may imagine, sir,' replied the gentleman, sharply. 'Ah! just so,' said Thevenet, in a careless tone; 'but it seems to me that I have a good right to demand of you wherefore you seek to part with a perfect and serviceable leg; for really, sir, you know we are strangers to each other, and I am desirous to have proof that you have all your reason about you.' 'M. Thevenet,' cried the unknown, in a menacing tone, 'will you not comply with my desire?' Yes, sir, when you give me a conclusive reason for beginning an operation which seems to be quite uncalled for.' 'I cannot at this moment discover to you the truth regarding this affair,' said the young man, calmly. Perhaps it will be a mortifying loss to me, I own to you, before a year has passed, but still I am not afraid of being a gainer before the expiration of that time; and then you stall judge yourself whether my resolution to deprive myself of my leg is not dictated by reason, and worthy even of your approbation.' 'I will engage in no such work of chance, then, before I know your name, your residence, your family, and your profession,' said the doctor firmly, and with much dignity. 'You shall know all, sir-but not at present,' said the unknown in an angry voice; and allow me to demand of you,' he continued, looking sternly on M. Thevenet, ‘if you consider me to be a man of honour?' A man of honour, sir,' replied the doctor, bristling up also, and returning the angry look with interest, would never stand over a surgeon with a loaded pistol, in order to force him to cut off a leg. I have duties to perform,' continued the doctor in a swelling tone-'duties towards even you, sir, although you are altogether a stranger to me; and, unless it were absolutely necessary for your safety and health, would not on any account consent to your mutilation. Now, sir, after this explanation, if you believe yourself obliged to become the murderer of the innocent father of a family, fire away!' 'It is well, doctor, your words are those of a brave and courageous man,' said the Englishman, lowering his pistol, and looking somewhat disconcerted. I have no wish to be your assassin, but I must, at all hazards, have you to take off that leg; and you may be induced to do in pity what neither fear nor a golden bait can force you to do.' How that, sir?' said M. Thevenet. 'I shall pierce the limb with a ball in your presence directly,' was the reply; and forthwith the mysterious stranger placed the muzzle of the pistol to his knee. The doctor leaped towards him, in the hope of preventing the rash act. If you advance a single foot,' cried the Englishman, vehemently, I will draw the trigger. One word more,' he continued-will you spare me this useless trouble? Will you, by your refusal, force me to augment the sufferings which I am determined to endure?' 'Monsieur! once more I tell you, you are a madman,' said the doctor, unable to explain this strange affair: 'You are a madman, sir; but I yield to your desire-I consent to free you from that unfortunate leg.' The preparatives were quickly got in order. The limb was stripped, bandaged, and laid out; and Dr Thevenet, throwing off his coat and rolling up his shirt-sleeves, soon showed that he was as active in the work as he had been averse to begin it. Before the first incision the Englishman lighted his pipe as unconcernedly as if nothing serious was to be done, and with much apparent pleasure he continued to smoke until his limb tumbled on the floor. M. Thevenet, of course, acquitted himself with his usual address; the operation was performed to admiration, and in a very short time the voluntary invalid was restored to health. He paid his surgeon generously, and contracted an esteem for him which increased day by day. At last, after again thanking his friend, with tears in his eyes, for ridding him of that wonderful limb, the unknown set out for England, with an excellent wooden substitute for the member that used to occupy his right trouser-leg. Within eighteen months after his departure, the doctor received the following explanatory letter from his singular patient, then in England: M. THEVENET,-Enclosed is a cheque upon Quinat, the banker in Paris, for two hundred and fifty guineas, which I beg you will accept upon my account. In depriving me of that member which was the only obstacle to my happiness here below, you rendered me indeed the happiest of mortals; and now, thou best of men, thou shalt know at last the real motives which induced me to do an action which, to you, seemed replete with folly and caprice. You have declared that nothing in the world could induce you to persist in depriving yourself voluntarily of a member, and it was noble, I do confess, in you to refuse the reward which I offered you in order to impel you to cut off mine; but listen to the truth of the case. Shortly after my last return from the East Indies, where I had been cruising for three years, I became acquainted with Emily Harley, a lovely girl, with whom I at once fell passionately in love. The wealth and nobility of her family sufficiently accounted to my parents for my ardour, and won their approval to my choice; but her I beauty and angelic disposition were all in all to me. cared not for birth or riches. I yielded myself, with many others, a willing slave to her beauty, and dragged the triumphal car of this my goddess, because it was delightful so to do. Alas! my dear sir, I had the happiness to become the most unfortunate of all my rivals. This expression will astonish you; it is true, however; for when I declared my love, she indeed acknowledged that I was dear to her, but she refused my hand. It was in vain that I continued to pay my addresses to her; it was in vain that her parents and friends joined with me in trying to alter her strange determination-she was inexorable, and I was in despair. I was long in discovering the cause of her inexplicable but obstinate refusal. At last one of her sisters revealed the mystery to me. Miss Harley was a prodigy of beauty in face and form; but the dear girl had only one leg and, fearing that the discovery of this defect might cause an aversion in me towards her, she had determined to retain at least my esteem, at the expense of her own happiness. A wooden leg! Was this all? Oh, lovely girl, to refuse me on such a plea! On being apprised of this, my resolution was at once taken. I determined to put an end to this disparity between us; and, thanks to you, respected Thevenet, it no longer exists. I returned to London with my wooden leg, and immediately obtained Miss Harley's consent to our union; for, thanks to a letter which I had taken care should herald my return, it was noised abroad that my leg had been broken by the kick of a horse, which accident had rendered amputation necessary. I therefore became the object of general pity, and returned with a happy prestige to the dear girl of my heart. On the morning of our marriage I avowed to Emily the sacrifice which I had made to obtain her hand, and the love of the dear girl was even increased for me when she heard that avowal. Oh, doctor, I would have lost six legs without the least regret to have obtained my Emily. Death will alone be able to obliterate my kind remembrance of you, and to cancel the debt which I owe you. Come and see us in London; and when you know that angel of my life, if you have previously treated me as a fool, you will then envy me of my folly.' This rhapsodical and whimsical epistle was signed 'Charles Temple.' You may be sure the doctor often exhibited it to his friends, recounting the events which had preceded it; but he never did tell that story without bursting into laughter, and declaring, 'He is now a greater fool than ever.' At last the doctor took occasion to reply to the foregoing epistle, in the following sage terms: 'I thank you for your truly royal and munificent gift. I cannot look upon it as in any way merited by the humble services I had the honour to render to you. I wish you much joy upon your marriage with your delightful partner. Truly, I might once have been induced to regard it but a small sacrifice to lose the same leg in order to attain the possession of a lovely and virtuous woman. The loss is nothing in the meantime, if in the long-run one prove perfectly satisfied with a leg of wood. It cost Adam a rib to possess Eve; and many others of his male descendants have risked their bones for that sex which is so fair and saucy, and many also their cheeks, headpieces, and faces. But despite of your protestations, mark me well, I still maintain my former opinion. Very probably you have reason at present to speak as you do; for you are in the enchantment of the honeymoon. But I have reason also for my ideas, with this difference to you, that I have had time to justify my opinion, for it is not long before we are disposed to observe the stern realities which dispel the illusions of our early loves. Bear this in mind, sir, and observe if my predictions do not be fulfilled. I am much mistaken if in two years hence you do not begin to wish that the amputation had been below, instead of above the knee. In three years you will strongly regret that you did not see to having it taken off by the ankle. In four years you will wish that you had arranged to part with the foot only. In five years you will judge that your large toe would have been sufficient; and before six years have passed you will regret the sacrifice of even your little toe. For all this, however, I entertain not the least doubt of Mrs Temple's good qualities, nor do I undervalue them. Beauty and virtue are attributes not likely soon to fade in man's estimation. In my youth I would willingly have ventured my life for my beloved, although I never was required to sacrifice even a leg. I might not have repented the loss of one; on the other hand, the likelihood is that each day might have been one of deeper regret. If I had been brought to consent to such a sacrifice, I would have assuredly said, Thevenet, you have been guilty of a folly which is utterly beyond naming.' So closed M. Thevenet's answer to his friend's epistle. In 1793, Dr Thevenet was denounced by the envious revolutionary practitioners of Calais, and fled to London for fear of undergoing an operation on the guillotine of a more serious nature than any he had ever performed. On his arrival in London he was soon conducted to the residence of Sir Charles Temple, who immediately opened his door to receive him. Upon a large armchair in his parlour, at the corner of a great fire, with a quantity of newspapers scattered round him, was seated the baronet, without seeming to have the power of rising. You are welcome, Monsieur Thevenet,' cried Sir Charles, when he saw the Frenchman. 'Excuse me for keeping my seat, but my unbendable, abominable wooden leg fails to perform its functions well, and keeps me chained down to this corner. But doubtless you have come to see if I have repented of my ridiculous extravagances.' 'Alas! no,' said the doctor; 'I come as a fugitive from my country, to ask your protection.' 'Ah, well, doctor, and that you shall have,' said Sir Charles, heartily. I will give you a home in the best wing of my house, for you are a sage among the sages. But at this moment,' said the baronet, suddenly holding his wooden leg up in the air, and looking with a halfsavage, half-sorrowful grin at it-'at this moment, my dear sir, I might have been rear-admiral of the Blue if it had not been for that wooden knob-stick substitute for my dear leg, the loss of which has excluded me from the service of my country. I read in these journals news of the greatest importance; I hear of nothing but stirring events; and I anathematise my unlucky stars that I am not able to take part in what is going on. Do you see, sir?' continued Sir Charles, waxing red in the face and flinging his wooden limb up in the air, until he lost his equilibrium and fell back in his chair. 'Do you see, sir?' he cried, as he again recovered his balance and struck it down on the ground with great fury. This leg is like a bower-anchor attached to my body to keep me fastened through life to this fireside. It luckily happens that you have come to be a consolation to me, however;' and he shook the doctor by the hand. 'But, Sir Charles,' interrupted the doctor, in a grave voice, 'that angel of your life—is she not also an angel of consolation ?' 'Oh, the angel has taken wings and flown away now. Her wooden leg, you know, prevented her from dancing, and so she has taken to cards and scandal as her chief occupations. For all that she is a very good sort of woman-in her own way, that is to say.' Ah, then, I was right in my predictions,' said the doctor, smiling. Ay, that you were, my dear doctor,' said the baronet, shaking his head and looking half-philosophically at his wooden leg. Do you know what I have now adopted as my motto?' he asked suddenly. Never make for a woman an irreparable sacrifice.' Cut off, if it is agreeable to her, your hair, your beard, and your nails: that is all very well; for these will be restored to you before you have time to regret their loss; but never sacrifice for her either leg or arm, be she fair as day and as gentle as a zephyr.' M. Thevenet lived with Sir Charles Temple until order was restored, and an amnesty was granted to all who had been obnoxious to the new regime; but from the first hour of his admission to his asylum to his departure, he carefully refrained from referring in the least to that once cherished but now derided wooden leg. THE POETRY OF LIFE; OR, HOW D'YE DO? SECOND ARTICLE. of life, which, in this as in all cases, is a synonyme for enand in the meeting of the two we find a gleam of the poetry joyment. But we are anticipating and forgetting; the inquiry in hand is, What is poetry? Some of our genuine poets, James Montgomery for instance, frankly admit that they cannot give a logical answer to this question. Various answers have been given to it, however, all of which we pass over. Probably the poets think that the best answer is a true poem; and it becomes us to accept this solution of the matter at their hands and be truly thankful. Like all other things of the spiritual world, poetry is a thing to be felt rather than described; at all events, it does not admit of direct description, but only of illustration by comparison with kindred subjects. It is so also with religion. There are thousands of true and intelligent Christians who could not, off-hand, give a logical definition of it. But set them a-thinking, and the thing will take shape and form in their minds; at least of the more reflective and intelligent. They will find that it is a two-fold thing, in appearance at least; that it consists first of mental perceptions, and then of feelings which flow from them; of ideas or pictures in the mind of things out of the mind, and then of a state or condition of mind induced by a contemplation of the things beyond it. Here it may not be improper to remark, that the religious mood or condition is the highest and happiest of all moods, just because those beings, things, and events from the contemplation of which it flows, or of which it is the reflection, are the highest, purest, and greatest in the universe. As there is no royal road to knowledge, we shall probably best attain to the knowledge and enjoyment of the poetry of life by endeavouring to ascertain, in the first place, what is poetry? The lesser always precedes the greater, and is the ladder which leads up to it. All true progress is a series of steps and patient labours. We cannot, by a single bound, spring to mountain-tops, either in the material or mental world. Obstacles and difficulties must be met and encountered, they cannot be evaded, and if they could, we should then lose all the enjoyment of laudable conflict and honest victory; and, besides, we should lose more than the excitement of conflict and the joy of triumph. For all is not a warfare, either in our special journeys, in our excursions of pleasure, or in our long journey of life. There are resting-spots by the way; quiet Sabbath nooks; golden flowers, appealing to our hearts by the mute eloquence of their beauty; and, better than all, there are the lighthearted mirth and laughter, the wit and wisdom of friends and companions; the reflection, from living mirrors, of the shows and forms of nature in her ever-varying moods of obstinate resistance, feminine beauty, and masculine sublimity. We would put a pleasure-party in the jury-box. We would ask them, what went ye forth, on that summer day, for to see? A celebrated linn,' far among the mountains? A rocking-stone of the Druids? The far-famed Trossachs? Or the wild mountain-scenery which spreads around the lofty Scehallion? We would ask them, in what Poetry is the natural counterpart of religion. We will did ye find the chief enjoyment of that day? In the linn? not be misunderstood in saying that it is the secular rethe rocking-stone? the Trossachs? or the top of Scehallion ligion of the soul. The two things are one, or, more corIn the end of your journey, or in the ways and means of rectly, are two phases of the same thing. Religion is the it? We would put this alternative to them; you must blot highest phase and development of poetry. The poetic caout of your book of memory all that you saw, felt, and en- pacity is the only foundation of religion in the soul. We joyed in going and returning from the appointed spot, or speak of the capacity of wonder, love, and reverence; and, all that you saw, felt, and enjoyed at the spot itself. rightly considered, all the influences, ordinary and extraWould one such jury in a hundred require to leave the ordinary, which have been brought to bear upon humanity, jury-box to consider their verdict? Would they not de- from the dawn of creation to this hour, were poetic influclare at once, and with one voice, that the journey, and ences, and addressed to this capacity. To counteract other not the end of it, was the principal source of enjoyment? influences-to counteract the material principles and tenAnd would not such a verdict contain the essence of this dencies of human nature, man has been serenaded for five important but too much neglected truth-that the elements thousand years with spheral harmonies; has been minisof enjoyment lie in our daily paths and not in some dream-tered to by the hands of angels; the veil has been drawn land far away; that our special journeys are epitomes of aside, and he has had glimpses of the spiritual world; cur great journey; that our pleasure excursions are types prophets and seers have been sent to him with the loftiest of what our excursion over the isthmus of time might be; songs; apostles, with visions of a new heaven and a new and that, whereas in the one case the realities and beauties earth; and the Master of them all has come and shed light of the external world, the intercourse of friends, and the on life and immortality. All those messengers have adcondition of our own minds and hearts, are the springs dressed their ministrations to the capacity of which we and causes of our happiness, so we should look to the have spoken; and upon it is built up the various poetic same quarter for happiness in the other. and religious moods of mind, from the love of simple beauty to the highest development of love, faith, and reverence which is to be found in the most matured Christian. Let us join a pleasure-party for a moment. Why does that young maiden run and pluck that flower-that bunch of bonny blooming heather, or mountain daisy? Because she loves it. She is drawn to it by the gentle influence of sympathy. There is an affinity between the present condition of her heart and the flower, as in the material world there is an affinity between the loadstone and a bar of iron. The love of beauty is in her heart, and the flower is the Moses-rod which causes it to spring forth. Another might have seen the flower and passed by. To 'Peter Bell,' a yellow cowslip was a yellow cowslip, and it was nothing more; it was not a thing of beauty, and therefore it was tot a thing of joy. But it was both to our young maiden. She saw it, and loved it, and plucked it; she ran to it, like a mother to the child of her heart, and from the same impelling cause-the love that was in the heart. It was an burst of the poetry of life; and, rightly understood, it is a key which unlocks all the secrets of our subject. This sample flower, the daisy, whose home is everywhere,' may be taken as the type or representative of all external beauty; the feeling which prompted the maiden to pluck it, as the type or representative of the feeling or mood of mind in which it sympathises with whatever is beautiful and true in the wide domains of nature. There was poetry in the flower, and there was poetry in the maiden's heart, To take another illustration from this quarter, we should say that poetry is to other literature what the Sabbath is to the other days of the week. There is nothing particularly holy in the hours and minutes of the Sabbath-day; for what are hours and minutes apart from thought and thinking beings? what is time but the measure of motion, either of matter or of mind? If we search our own consciousness we shall assuredly find, to our cost and our loss, that there is nothing peculiarly holy in the hours and minutes of the Sabbath. It is holy, it is blessed and a blessing, just as we make it. If we gather around us the thoughts with which it were our wisdom to hold communion on that day; if we clothe us with them as with pure and beautiful garments of heaven, we shall then feel that the Sabbath is better and more blessed than other days; but not otherwise. We can make it a common enough day, and, comparing it never so carefully with any other day of the week, we shall be unable to discover the slightest difference. And now for the practical application of these illustrations. We put them forth to elucidate and enforce a view or definition of poetry which, although it may not be new to all the readers of the INSTRUCTOR, is new to us, and which we regard as of considerable importance. This, |