Now, if an inordinate share of nervous power be directed or solicited to any part of the system, to answer some necessary purpose of the constitution, as the growth or nutrition of any organ, or excited either by external stimulus, or by mental, as hope, shame, and other passions of the mind, the vital power of the arteries, thus influenced, puts them in immediate co-operation with the nerves, and a greater volume of blood is directed to the peculiar part. On the cessation of the stimulus, or when the necessary end is accomplished, the vessels returning to their former state, restore the balance of the circulation.

On the other hand, various sedatives, as cold, and some of the affections of the mind, as fear, for instance, cause the extreme vessels to contract by virtue of their vital power, and the blood is consequently more accumulated in the larger vessels; presently these in their turn re-act by the same power, and again restore the balance of the circulation. That the arteries do therefore assist in this great work, there can, I think, be but little doubt, if not in the ordinary state of the circulation, at least in determining the blood to various parts, as circumstances may require. But yet it must be further acknowledged, that the capillaries, in which the blood is certainly in a great measure beyond the influence of the heart, have in themselves the power of propelling the blood into the veins, for it cannot be imagined how the blood can enter the veins, unless the capillaries be endued with an independent contractile power superior to the larger arteries; and besides, in favour of this opinion it is observed, that the smaller vessels have their fibrous coat proportionably of a stronger and firmer texture than the larger arteries, where so great a contractile power does not appear to be required; we have therefore every reason to believe, that the blood is propelled from these vessels by their own exertions, into the veins.

We now arrive at a question of some difficulty, and much interest; viz. How does the blood proceed along the veins into the right auricle of the heart? The veins have certainly no contractile power by which they can act upon the blood, so as to propel it along. The force of the left ventricle is exhausted before the blood has even entered the veins; and the contraction of the capillaries can be supposed as only sufficient to propel the fluid from themselves through the minute venous radicles. Let us then look to the right auricle of the heart itself, and consider what influence it can have on the returning blood. But

before proceeding, we must keep in mind, that the vessels being filled from the first moment of our existence, are not to be considered as tubes previously empty, through which a certain volume of fluid must be propelled by a proportionate force; on the contrary, they are, and have been, constantly full, the ingress of fluid balancing the egress. Now, on the dilatation of the auricle, which is not a state of rest or relaxation succeeding its contraction, but a strenuous counter-exertion to that which preceded, a vacuum is immediately formed, into which a certain portion of the blood rushes, while the remainder, of course, rises in the vessel, the deficiency being supplied by the constant ingress of fresh fluid. The auricle having contracted again, dilates, and another portion enters; its place becoming occupied by a succeeding volume as before.

But the progressive motion of the blood through the smaller veins, at least, is much assisted, and often considerably accelerated by the action of the muscles. We know how great a sense of weight and listlessness is felt, after remaining for some time in one position, without exerting any muscular action. This appears to arise from the sluggishness of the circulation, and the accumulation of blood in the veins, which a slight effort, as stretching the limbs or body, quickly removes. The cutaneous veins appear to be the least of any supported and assisted; and this perhaps may be the reason why we see them so often distended, being unable to transmit the blood as quickly as they receive it, especially when the influx is greater than usual, owing to any excitement of the system, or the application of external heat.

While we admit, that the assistance which the veins receive from the muscles in enabling them to carry on their part in the circulation, is very considerable, we must remember that these vessels are fitted by their strength for sustaining a fresh pressure, and, as we have seen, are capable of being much dilated. Besides, those that ascend from the lower parts of the body are numerously supplied with valves, by which the column of blood is supported, and prevented from pressing back on the venous radicles and capillary vessels, its superincumbent weight being broken by each valve, while its progress onwards is unimpeded, from their peculiar construc

tion.

The valves with which the veins of the upper parts of the body are furnished, are so constructed, that instead of supporting the column of blood, a circumstance here

355

356

upon the principle of a revelation. Take that away, and all is dark as Erebus; not a star twinkles through the gloom.

MR. EDITOR,

SIR,-In some conversations with men of deistical principles, I have been led to notice, that the few admissions they make, all have their source and origin in the Holy Scriptures; and yet, alas! there is no other book against which they wage BO constant and violent a warfare. Talk to them of the Koran of Mahomed, the Shasters of the Hindoos, or any of the works of antiquity, they are quite dispassionate; these may be probablenay, admissible. They wage no war with ancient philosophy; the credibility of heathen sages, they admit; and many of them are even believers in the dark mysteries of astrology. The subject of a peopled planetary system, (though impossible to be proved,) finds among them many advocates. Signs, omens, lucky and unlucky days, and even the fables of antiquity, are objects of their credulity.

They will believe in Pandora's box, but they will not admit the fall of man, of which that is a fine allegory. They affect to think that there has been a golden age, but the garden of Eden, and man's innocence, they doubt. Egyptian, Babylonian, Grecian, and Roman antiquities and fables, may be true, but the Scriptures cannot; for although heathen mythology is but an ape of the religion of the Bible, and their fables garbled and gypsified transpositions of the record of God; yet the former shall command their assent, but the latter they stiffly deny. They will believe in Saturn, Janus, Apollo, Mars, and Hercules, nay, even Niobe, but they doubt the existence of Adam, Noah, Joshua, Samson, and Lot's wife; of whom the former were but clumsy imitations. And though the Bible is the fountain head of all cosmogony, religion, antiquity, and philosophy, as both Gale and Stillingfleet have proved; yet these misguided men admit the stream, but overlook the source.

Plato was glad to derive his philosophy from the Scriptures; they leave the light of truth, to follow the fire-fly of reason. It is the Bible, and the Bible alone, that is false; this is not, cannot, must not, be true. This pyramid of heavenly wisdom, the wonder of ages, is all priestcraft. The moral Pharos, that has enlightened the world for nearly four thousand years, is proved to be a priest's jack-o'-lantern, to mislead. This rock, against which all the surges of ancient and modern infidelity have beat in vain, is said to be a mere Sorbonian bog, swallowing up both reason and credibility.

But will you permit me to ask, Where does the deist borrow his system? Does he not steal it from that blessed volume he so foully libels? Does he believe in Jehovah, one God; who told him there is but one? for any thing his system knows to the contrary, there may be thousands. Where did he learn the immortality of the soul? Surely not from the heathen: many of whom doubted the fact. Does he allow to the Deity justice, wisdom, power, goodness: what part of the Bible of nature furnished this information? here also he borrows from the Oracles of God. In short, sir, his admissions are fatal to his scheme: he bad better avow that he "believes in all unbelief," than throw himself upon the horns of a dilemma,

These thoughts suggested the following Poem, which goes upon the principle, that all is uncertain, except so far as the light of truth shines upon our path; and that all knowledge of Divine things is by revelation. Antiquity, reason, nature, and philosophy, although a quadruple alliance, are but blind guides; when the deep things of God are concerned, the Bible is the only pilot, compass, quadrant, and chart, in the ocean beyond time. No deist ever circumnavigated that Mare Incognitum. Life and immortality are brought to light by the Gospel alone; and this is the point from which I have started in the verses appended to these remarks. Should they induce any candid deist to read Stillingfleet's Origines Sacra, Gale's Court of the Gentiles, or Ellis on the Knowledge of Divine Things from Revelation, I shall not have lost my labour. Whether my verses possess the argumentum ad hominem" in favour of a Revelation, is not for me to say; but let any man sail, in his own imagination, East, West, North, or South, in quest of the Truth, he must come to this point at last, that his Bible and his Redeemer are the only haven in which he can find rest for his soul. JOSHUA MARSDEN.

WHAT IS TRUTH?-John xviii. 38.

I ASKED old time and the spheres,
To answer this question so high;
Days, months, and the swift rolling years;
But neither gave any reply.

I stood on a steep precipice,
And call'd to the surges below,
If ocean could answer me this?
Its hoarse billows murmured-No!
Creation I ventur'd to sound,

Streams, groves, valleys, meadows, and flowers;
But mute was the landscape around,
"Twas silence in gardens and bowers.
Of seasons adorning the year,
Young spring, summer's roseate flush,
I ask'd, and they lent me an ear;
But all were as mute as a rush.

Yon sun in his chariot of gold,
Fair Luna, that angel, of night,
Those folio volumes so old,

I read, but they gave me no light:
I look'd to the blue vaulted sky,
Which sages are wont to explain,
And each constellation on high-
But sought for solution in vain.

Astronomy bade me draw near,
The signs to decipher and read;
But planets, though brilliant and clear,
Were dark on this subject indeed :
And dark was astrology too,
The fam'd hieroglyphical lore;
Though Merlin had lent me his clue,
It left me as dark as before.
Whom fame in her temple enroll'd,
The masters of magic and song;
I sought to the sages of old,
But silent was every tongue :
In wilderness mazes they stray'd,
On seas of uncertainty toss'd,
Philosophy lent them her aid,
But Truth was in Paradise lost.
I went to the Delphian shrine,
And next to Dodona's fair fane;
The priestess, she could not define,
The oracle answer'd in vain.
At length I resort to the schools,
Where science flows racy and clear,
But say, were they wise men or fools?
"The knowledge of Truth was not here."
Some bade me of reason inquire,
Who dwells in the temple of mind,
I went to the white-headed sire,
But found him decrepit and blind.

I ask'd him to lend me a clue,
He look'd, but was silent and glum,
And taught me this lesson so true,
That-unbaptized Reason is dumb.

Thus science, philosophy, art,

Wit, reason, and nature, were mute;
They could not an answer impart,
Or settle the point in dispute:
So restless, dissatisfied, vext,

With the pains I had taken, forsooth,

I went to my Bible the next,

And Jesus said, "I AM THE TRUTH." Worcester.

THE STAG.

(Extracted and versified from Hervey's Theron and Aspasio.-By M. G.)

ROUSED from his lair, he shakes his dappled sides,
Tosses his beamy head, and scorns alarm;
In his superior swiftness he confides,
And bids defiance to the gathering storm.

He plunges thro' the copse, and 'thwarts the glade,
And wheels about in many a doubling maze,
As tho' pursuing whom he would evade,
Till the pack drive him from his wily ways.
On his agility he now relies,

And takes to flight, and would outstrip the wind;
Bursts through the woods, o'er the lawns bounding
And leaves the lagging beagles far behind. [flies,
Through woods, through lawns, through half the
forest wide,

The unwearied beagles urge their ardent way;
With slow, but certain pace, the scent their guide,
Still, still they gain upon their fearful prey.
Again he flies; flies with redoubled speed;
Shoots down the steep, and, straining up the hill,
Seeks a short shelter in his pressing need,
In some sequester'd grove where all is still.
The hounds hang greedy on the scent, and win
Lost ground with toil untiring and intense;
A third time up they come, and, joining in
One general peal of vengeance, drive him thence.
Perplex'd, in deep distress, he fain would go
And lose himself the numerous herd among;
But they, unheedful of a brother's woe,
Shun or expel him from their selfish throng.
Now ruin haunts him, by his fellows left,
He trembles with the leaf that shakes in sight;
He starts, springs, flies-wild as the wind and
swift-

He knows not where, yet pours his soul in flight.

His efforts vain! again the horrid shout
In his ears thundering, thickens on the gale,
His sprightliness is gone, his speed worn out,
See how he toils and hobbles in the vale.
Now the poor breathless victim, full in view,
Quickens the whetted hounds' impetuous way;
With violence tumultuous the rough crew
Rush in, and claim, with clamorous joy, their prey.
What can he do, the ravenous jaw besets,
And tongue of insult? E'en despair has manned
The timorous breast. He faces round, forgets,
Hopeless, to fear, and makes a resolute stand.
A sturdy trunk in rear, with broad-branched head
He rushes on his foes, nor stands at bay :
Gores some, laid grovelling on the turf, some dead,
And making the whole coward pack give way.
Elate by this success, he hopes once more;
His spirits rally up their drooping wings,
In the small remnant of his strength to soar,
And through the dashed, retiring rout he springs.
His last chance this, and every nerve is strain'd;
The kennel rabble vanish from his eyes,
Once more lost sight off; yet, unsafe on land,
Seeks in the wave what the stern shore denies.

He throws his burning sides into the tide ;
Sails down the cooling stream, and slinks, afraid,
To some small shelving island's verge to hide
Where rest his feet, lose skulking in the shade.

There all immersed, his nostrils only free,
The ambient waters baffle the pursuit ;
Nor for a while man's prying eye may see,
Nor find his track the keener smell of brute.

At length found out, the slippery bank's his way,
To fly unfit, yet quits the refuge vain,
And 'gainst an aged willow stands at bay-
Stands-faint with toil, and sobbing with his pain.

The crowds that gather round him, now forlorn,
Glad in his misery, their transports yell,
Merciless triumph! whilst the sonorous horn,
And throats bloodthirsty ring his funeral knell.
The tears, till now unknown, gush from his eyes;
He casts one look upon the landscape near,
Scenes of his former pleasures and his joys,
And, fix'd to die, prepares to sell life dear.

But timely now the huntsman-king arrives,
He sees the creature's anguish-pitying sees;
Calls off the pack, raving for blood, and gives
Him life and liberty again, and ease.

So from accusing sins the roused soul flies,
That in his ears ring doom, and gather round,
Till sovereign Heaven beholds with ruthful eyes,
And mercy in extremity is found.

BISHOP HEBER IN INDIA.

The following beautiful Lines, written by the late Bishop Heber, were addressed to his Wife whilst he was making an episcopal visit to his immense diocese in the East Indies.

Ir thou wert by my side, my love!
How fast would evening fail,
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love! wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning grey,"
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thon art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits,
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright they say,
Across the dark blue sea,

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay,
As then shall meet in thee!

359

STANZAS.

SWEET dreams, and are ye over,

Long o'er my bosom cast;

Ye may no longer hove,

Too sweet, too bright, to last? The hope of happier hours,

Born of a brighter day,

The honey-dew of life's best flowers,
Must all dissolve away.

How many a flower uncloses
Its bosom to the sun,

But secretly reposes

And shrinks when day is done; Like such a flower, my heart

Expands when thou art nigh,

But dreads the hour that says, we part, When hope and peace must die.

The river softly streaming

With scarce a ripple's sound, With placid surface gleaming,

But speaks its depth profound; So grief that festers deep,

Words, looks, can never tell: The heart may throb, the eye may weep, But dare not say-Farewell!

360

judgment. In fitting the work for the public eye, some expurgation has been deemed necessary; but the editor would have acted wisely, had he used the spunge still more freely. As an index, it contains ample proof of the Doctor's mental voracity; but at the same time every page exhibits a striking instance of what the great Bentley said of Warburton, after their first interview, "The man has a monstrous appetite for reading, but a shockingly bad digestion."

Taking the book as a mirror of the Doctor's mind, it gives no very favourable image of his character for consistency or humility. On the contrary, we are disgusted with egotism and vanity of the most insufferable kind, whenever the Doctor has occasion to speak of himself; and yet all this, forbidding as it is, might be passed over without much censure, if there were any redeeming qualities in other parts of the compilation, to make up for these pro

logue of the Library of the late Dr. Samuel Parr. 8vo. Bohn.

In a short preface to this volume, we are told, that it was the anxious wish of Dr. Parr that his library should be purchased in its entire shape, either by some spirited individual, or a public institution, in order that the world might see what sort of a collection of books had been made by a country parson. From this view, the Doctor was diverted by his quondam pupil and steady friend Dr. Maltby, who observed, that if the library were purchased by a single person, it would be locked up from the world; and if for the public, as that of Burney was, it would be absorbed in such a crowd, as to be rendered almost inaccessible, and consequently useless. Dr. Maltby, therefore, who was well acquainted with his preceptor's passion for fame, suggested to him the idea of preparing a Catalogue raisonneè of his books, accompanying most of the remarkable articles with characteristic notes, illustrative of their merits, rarity, and such other circumstances connected with them as might prove entertaining and instructive. The hint was approved, and out of it arose the "Bibliotheca Parriana," in which, if the reader does not find much to gratify his curiosity, he will meet with more than enough to convince him, that " he who seeketh wisdom in books, eateth up leaves, and loseth the fruit."

From the memoranda scattered up and down this multifarious volume, we shall content ourselves with extracting a few particulars here and there, at random, as specimens of the learned collector's spirit and

to pass over in silence and pity, the selfcomplacency with which a man of the first-rate talents speaks of his literary labours, but we cannot so easily bring ourselves to excuse in him the want of liberality towards his contemporaries and equals in learning.

Unfortunately for the posthumous credit of Dr. Parr, hè has left the most indubitable evidence of his total deficiency in this respect. Thus, in characterizing the ingenious and erudite Paley, whose writings have been, and will be, of infinitely more benefit to the world than those of his calumniator, it is said in the Catalogue, “ I never thought Paley an honest man. He could not afford to have a conscience, and he had

none.

He had great sagacity, wit, and science, and some good humour, but he was the vain, the inconsistent, and the selfish archdeacon Paley."

We do not believe that the history of controversial literature can furnish an in. stance of philosophic malignity, equal in virulence to what is contained in this sentence. How could Parr dare to say, that Paley had no conscience? and by what rule of moral and political justice was he warranted in pronouncing arbitrarily on his bare ipse dixit, that the archdeacon was not an honest man? There is an authority, which it might have been expected even Dr. Parr would have respected, that has peremptorily forbidden all indiscriminate and rash judgment, especially of the motives, intentions, and consciences of others. In defiance of this law, which is essentially necessary to the well-being of all society, the Doctor, without any call whatever, leaves upon re

cord a damnatory stigma upon the good name of a brother divine, with whom, when alive, it is well known to their respective friends, he associated upon the most familiar

terms.

The sneer at Paley as an archdeacon is mean, but it clearly explains the real cause of Parr's spleen; for with all his boasted independence of principle, the renowned Doctor sought preferment, and even panted for a mitre. This we learn, on the incontrovertible evidence of the late worthy Mr. John Nichols, who has enregistered some of the discourses that passed between him and Parr at his own hospitable table.

Now, in regard to Paley, we never heard him accused of having truckled for eleva. tion, or made use of any unworthy arts to obtain the patronage of the great; much less did he, as Parr did, submit to become the pensioner of a tavern club, to subserve the purposes of a political party.

The first preferment conferred on Paley was by his friend Law, afterwards bishop of Elphin, and the next by the father of that prelate. All that followed was spontaneously bestowed by the bishops of London, Ely, Lincoln, and Durham, solely out of respect to the well-applied talents of this eminent divine, and on no account with a view to a political object. As to vanity, nothing of the kind appears in the works of Paley, and Dr. Parr was the last man in the world that should have taxed another person either with that foible or inconsistency. In the same spirit of bitter enmity, but for what reason it is not easy to imagine, the Doctor has dipped his pen in gall, to blast the memory of that good man, the late William Burgh, Esq. of York.

In the year 1775, when the attention of the public was much excited by the secession of Mr. Lindsey from the established church, and the opening of a chapel according to the Socinian plan in London, Mr. Burgh published a masterly “Vindication of the Doctrine of Christ's Divinity," in a review of the writings of the fathers of the first three centuries. For this unanswerable and most seasonable work, the University of Oxford, in convocation, distinguished the learned author by a doctor's degree. This book could not have been written with a view to preferment or emolument, for Mr. Burgh was then, and continued to be all his life, a layman, and possessed of an easy fortune, with which he remained contented. What then could have induced Dr. Parr to affix this scurrilous epithet to the name of so estimable a man-"Viper Burgh, of York, on whom was conferred a doctor's degree?"

112.-VOL. X.

6

How differently does the Doctor treat the character and works of those who have distinguished themselves by their opposition to the received doctrines of the Christian church! The irascible Gilbert Wakefield, the Ishmael of heterodoxy, whose hand was against every man,' is designated as “the learned, the pious, and the injured.” Of Dr. Priestley the praise is unbounded. In one place, that Coryphoeus of Socinianism is called "an eminently great, and truly good man; and the Doctor's most respected, injured, and calumniated friend." In another place Dr. Parr speaks with exultation, of having written the epitaph upon this friend, which is inscribed on the monumental tablet erected to his honour in the meeting-house at Birmingham.

Mr. Belsham also has his share of unqualified panegyric, and his publication entitled, "Notes on the Epistles of Paul the Apostle," is said to be "an excellent work, which does great credit to the diligence, judgment, erudition, and piety, of my much respected friend.”

Now, the avowed object of the performance to which this imprimatur is given, is to reduce the character of the apostle to the level of an ordinary, uninspired writer; and consequently, to take away the right of appeal to his testimony in support of those doctrinal articles which have hitherto been regarded as the fundamental principles of the Christian faith. Dr. Priestley began the attack upon the authority of St. Paul, by terming him "an inconclusive reasoner;" and the whole Socinian tribe have ever since followed it up, till not only the apostolical epistles, but the whole New Testament, under their hands, has become a caput mortuum, to which it would be useless, on any disputed point, to refer.

The liberality of Dr. Parr was not confined to these dissidents from the common standard of faith. He was also extremely generous to those who made it their study to undermine Christianity, and to bring it into contempt. About the time when Paine published his scurrilous invectives against the Bible, one Mr. Hollis, a gentleman of fortune, at High Wycombe, with the same goodly object, printed some insidious pamphlets of an atheistical tendency. With this person Dr. Parr kept up a great intimacy, and he has characterized him in the Catalogue, as "one of the most serious, upright, and benevolent of human beings.'

In noticing a book, entitled "A Dissertation on the Eleusinian and Bacchic Mysteries, the Doctor informs us, that the work was "written by Mr. Taylor, the learned

2 A