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perceive that the tendency which carries the surplus population of Europe from the Old World to the New might be turned into a religious agency. The apostles of the faith as it is in Brigham Young go forth to Welsh peasants, and English laborers, and Norwegian cottiers, and to the poor of every country where the migratory passion has begun to work; and promise them, not only salvation in the world to come, but land in this. A friend of mine not long ago was engaged in trying to obtain emigrants amongst the agricultural classes for a distant English colony. He found plenty of persons willing to go, but their reluctance to embark alone upon a long journey proved an almost insuperable obstacle to his success as a recruiter for the colony. Let anybody imagine what it must be to ordinary laborers, who have never known anything of the world beyond the limits of their parish, to set forth without friends or acquaintances to seek their fortunes in a strange country where they know nobody. They would like well enough to go, but they are afraid of going. Now this feeling which is, I believe, a very general one amidst the emigrant class-is made to do service for Mormonism. Converts to the new creed have emigration made easy to them : the whole responsibility of the journey is taken off their hands. They are escorted on their road by men they know; amongst their fellow-converts they have friends, or at any rate acquaintances, already provided for them; and they know that when they reach the far-away land which seems to them so utterly beyond their mental vision, they will find homes and employment prepared beforehand. I do not attribute the success of Mormonism solely, or even mainly to its connection with a well-organized system of emigration; but I do believe that any sect which offered the same or similar inducements would find no want of proselytes.

Mr. Dixon is obviously inclined to think that polygamy is an incident rather than a characteristic of Mormonism. It flourished before a plurality of wives was practically allowed, and would continue, he believes, to flourish even if monogamy were re-established as an institution. How far this may be true or not is a mat

ter of speculation. But this much is clear, if Mr. Dixon can be at all relied on, that Utah is not at present, whatever it may become hereafter, a mere sink of licentious self-indulgence. As a body, the Mormons are hard-working, sober, temperate men; actuated by a deep faith and an earnest devotion to the interests of their creed. There must be something in that faith which appeals to men's convictions as well as their passions; and, if I am correct in my theory, the saving instinct of Mormonism is common to it with almost every one of the sects which have sprung up of late years in the West

ern world.

Nobody can have observed the tone of European-and more especially of AngloSaxon European-thought without seeing that the tendency of the age is toward realism in religion as well as in art and literature. The cardinal tenet of all our existing Old World creeds is that this mundane life is of no importance compared with that of the world to come. In former times men really believed this tenet, and based their actions on it. Persecution, asceticism, and celibacy were all natural and logical deductions from this fundamental dogma. If the sole object of this life was to prepare for another, the mode in which you or others passed this mortal existence could be of no material consequence. A little more enjoyment, a little less suffering, were trifles light as air in view of the rewards and punishments of the future beyond the grave. But now, somehow or other, this belief has failed to satisfy mankind. It may be that our faith is not so vivid as it was; it may be that our view is larger. We have grown, even in the most orthodox of sects, to attach a far greater value to this present living existence than is quite consistent with the abstract theory of our theology. Philanthropy, in the sense we ordinarily attach to the word, of a desire to relieve the temporal wants or sufferings of mankind, is in itself antagonistic to the ascetic view of religion. The progress of national civilization may possibly have taught us to exaggerate the importance of what befalls us in this world. I am speaking now, not of what I believe to be the truth with regard to such questions, but simply of the tendencies which I observe.

And, as a matter of fact, however much you may deplore it, I think no one who has ever thought at all upon the question can deny that even devout and orthodox men have learnt imperceptibly to believe that we are bound to live for this world as much as, if not more than, for the next. As late as the days of the Puritans such a faith would have been deemed the rankest heresy; yet it is held by men now who consider themselves the descendants of the Calvinist school. And the doctrine of the new creed I take to be that this life is good, not as a means only of obtaining salvation, but as an end. As the world has gravitated towards this materialistic view, there has been felt the need of some faith other than that in which our fathers rested content. When Heine, in his reckless revolt against all received doctrines, sang, "Ein neues Lied, ein besseres Lied, O Freunde, will ich Euch dichten Wir wollen hier auf Erde schon Das Himmel reich errichten, "he expressed feelings with which others than unbelievers have a distinct if latent sympathy.

So, whatever abstract tenets they may hold, men, even in this Old World, have learnt to believe that misery is not the appointed lot of mankind; and that, if I may say so, as I wish to do, without the slightest irreverence, we are more concerned with the affairs of this earth on which we live than with those of the unknown land on which we shall all have to enter. This belief has pervaded our literature, and has produced a marked influence on our social and political relations. But in the New World it has operated with infinitely more freedom. Every American writer is imbued with the conviction, whether expressed or concealed, that to reclaim the wilderness, to carry on the work of civilization, is the especial mission to fulfil which Americans have been called into existence.

I recollect once hearing an old Irish woman in the States say, in reply to some remark, "Shure an' it's a blessed country. God made it for the poor." This belief is, I think, well-nigh universal among the laboring classes of America. They have entered, as they deem, upon the land of promise; they have reached, in this world, the place of which preach

ers talked as only to be found in another life, where want is unknown, and poverty, as we see it, is a thing unheard of. And thus amongst them there is a decided tendency to rest and be thankful, without spending their time in thinking what the future may have in store for them.

From all these causes, it is, I think, not hard to understand how all the new religions of which Mr. Dixon speaks have a very material character. Even sects which retire from the world, like the Shakers, yet make it part of their creed to labor and toil and till the earth. In fact, the deification of labor might, I think, be called, not inaptly, the especial characteristic of these new creeds and religions. So, if I judge rightly, these developments of faith are due to a reaction against the excessive importance which our older creeds attached to considerations of another life. It is easy enough to see how this materialist tone of thought bears upon the relations of the two sexes. But this question is one of far too wide a nature to be entered on at the close of a paper.

If I have succeeded in making my meaning clear, my view about the disclosures Mr. Dixon has given us would amount to this: Mormons, Jumpers, Shakers, and the rest are of little more innate importance than Irvingites, or Johanna Southcotites, or Muggletonians are in our own country. In a land where there is no or little authority to exercise any influence in matters of opinion, these sects attain a growth of eccentricity which would hardly be possible amongst us. But it would be grossly unjust to imagine that these fantastic faiths have obtained any serious hold on the popular mind of America. On the other hand, I think they do indicate the fashion which all religious thought in America tends to assume. Just as the presence of fungi show where mushrooms may be expected to grow, so I believe that the existence of these anomalous developments of superstition do point to the gradual formation of a creed in America in which, to extirpate poverty, to check disease, to increase the fertility of the soil-to make this world, in fact, as happy for its occupants as it is capable of being madewill be as much a tenet of religion as

any abstract doctrine with regard to the relations of this life and the life to come. I think, if I understand his book rightly, Mr. Dixon in the main would agree with this view. I cannot wish my readers a pleasanter task than to determine for themselves, by the perusal of the "New America," whether this is so or not.

The Art Journal.



"History may be formed from permanent monuments and records, but lives can only be written from personal knowledge, which is growing every day less and less, and in a short time is lost for ever."-DR. JOHNSON.

"We have undertaken to discourse here for a little on Great Men, their manner of appearance in our World's business, how they have shaped themselves in the World's history, what ideas men formed of them, what Work they did."-CARLYLE: HERO WORSHIP.

ALL who were denizens of Londonduring the twenty years that preceded the last ten years-no longer ago-met frequently in the aristocratic neighborhood of St. James' a man evidently aged, yet remarkably active, though with a slight stoop and grizzled hair; not, to my thinking, with a pleasant countenance; certainly not with the frank and free expression of a poet who loved and lived with Nature; but rather that of one whose ever-open book was a ledger, and who counted the day, not by sunrise and sunset, but by Consols and Exchequer bills-things inconceivable to the Order to which SAMUEL ROGERS undoubtedly belonged.

The old man moved rapidly, as if pursuing a vain shadow, always.

He did not often smile, and seldom laughed anything approaching hilarity, aught akin to enthusiasm, to a genuine flow of heart and soul, was foreign to his nature—or, at all events, seemed to be so. Yet, of a surety, he was a keen observer; he looked "quite through the deeds of men;" and his natural talent had been matured and polished by long and familiar intercourse with all the finer spirits of his age; his conversation to his "set" at home was remarkably brilliant, and his wit often pure and original.

It was curious, interesting, and start

ling to converse-as I did in the year of our Lord 1855, with a venerable gentleman whose first book of poems was published in 1786-just sixty-nine years; who had worn a cocked hat when a boy, as other boys did-recollected seeing the heads of the rebels upon poles at Temple Bar-had seen Garrick act-knocked at Dr. Johnson's door in Bolt Court, and chatted there with Boswell-heard Sir Joshua Reynolds lecture, and Haydn play at a concert in a tie wig with a sword at his side-rowed with a boatman who had rowed Alexander Pope-had seen venerable John Wesley lying on his bier "dressed in full canonicals"-had walked with old General Oglethorpe who had shot snipes where Conduit Street now stands was the frequent associate of Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Mackintosh, Horne Tooke, and Madame de Staël, and was a man "in years " when Brougham was called to the Bar, John Kemble first played Coriolanus, Walter Scott had not yet issued "Waverley," Byron was writing "Minor Poems," and Ensign Arthur Wellesley was fighting his way to a dukedom, and immortality!

It seems to me, while writing a memory of this veteran of literature-as it will seem to my readers-that although he was with us but yesterday, he belongs to a remote generation: he had seen and known his co-mates in their youth, when the earliest rays of Fame dawned upon them; many of them he had followed to their graves, and few or none of them survived him.

This is a strange story to tell of any man.

There is no biography of him; if we except that written by his nephew, Mr. Sharpe, as a "Preface" to "Recollections," and another which introduces a volume of "Table Talk. " Neither of these extends to more than a dozen pages. They are singularly meagre; as if the writers had done the work grudgingly ; had no love for the subject, and were content to let the old man say for himself all he had to say. And that was not much. It is indeed a marvel that so little was gathered during so long and so full a life; for in these two volumes of "Remains" it would be difficult to find a score of passages that one would not willingly let die. His frequent companion, the publisher

Moxon, one of his executors, who must have known much about his " ways,"has told us nothing concerning him; and such anecdotes as throw any light on his character must be gathered from his contemporaries who, here and there, and but rarely, illustrate and explain the guiding principles of his public and private life. Yet it is stated by the editor of "Recollections" (not recollections of him but by him), that "from his first entering into society he noted down the conversations or remarks of those among his intimate friends in whose company he took the greatest pleasure."

In reference to his "Life," I received this letter from Mr. Rogers-dated

St. James' Place, Jan. 30th, 1837. "Believe me when I say I should be happy to comply with your desire if I had any intention of writing my own life.

"The only authentic account I can refer you to is to be found, such as it is, in a work published some years ago by Cadell, and entitled, I believe, Portraits of Illustrious Per

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He died at his residence, St. James' Place, on the 18th December, 1855.

His countenance was a theme of continual jokes. It was "ugly," if not repulsive. The expression was in no way, nor under any circumstances, good; he had a drooping eye and a thick under lip; his forehead was broad, his head large out of proportion, indeed, to his form;

The bank, which very recently had become a "joint-stock" concern, failed in the panic of last


but it was without the organs of benevolence and veneration, although preponderating in that of ideality. His features were cadaverous. Lord Dudley once asked him why, now that he could afford it, he did not set up his hearse; and it is said that Sidney Smith gave him. mortal offence by recommending him, "when he sat for his portrait, to be drawn saying his prayers, with his face hidden by his hands."

It is affirmed by some of his friends that "his purse was ever open to the distressed;" and that he was liberal of aid to struggling and suffering genius. That belief, however, is not sustained by evidence. From him to whom much is given, much is expected; the widow's mite was a larger, as well as a more acceptable, gift to the treasury than the Pharisee's contribution of the tithe of all he possessed. Rogers was rich, had few claimants on his "much," and his personal wants were limited; he seems indeed to have had no great relish for the luxuries that money supplies, and which it is a duty to obtain on the part of those to whom wealth is allotted. He saw little company at his own house; giving breakfasts frequently, the cost of which was small, and seldom entertaining at dinner above two or three at a time. Moreover, they were dinners of no very recherché character; at all events, none of his guests ever spoke of them as the feasts of a Sybarite. He never, I believe, kept a carriage-certainly, if he did, he seldom used it. On occasions when he attended meetings of the Royal Society, and other assemblages of that kind, at the close, let the night be ever so severe, if rain or snow were falling, he was invariably seen buttoning up his great-coat in preparation for a walk home. On one occasion I ventured to say to him (it was at an Evening at Lord Northampton's, in Connaught Place), "Mr. Rogers, it is a very wet night, I have a fly at the door, may I have the honor to leave you at your house?" but the invitation was declined; the old man faced the weather from which younger and stronger men would have wisely shrunk.

I cannot find evidence to sustain an impression that he was other than by fits and starts generous; that it was not an impulse but a whim that induced him

occasionally to give a little of his "much." There are certainly a few records of his liberality-and but a few: none are related in the two volumes of "Table Talk," and "Recollections." Moore spoke of him to me, and no doubt to others, as a man with an open purse; but I do not find that he ever did more for the poet than lend him a sum that was repaid with interest.

His charities were certainly often based on calculation. "He did nothing rash," Mr. Hayward states. "I am sure," said one of his friends, "as a baby, he never fell down unless he was push'd; but walked from chair to chair in the drawing-room, steadily and quietly, till he reached a place where the sunbeam fell on the carpet." And Byron, writing to Bernard Barton, asks, "To what does Rogers owe his station in society, and his intimacy in the best circles ?" Not to his profession as an author, but "to his prudence and respectability."

No, "to do good and to distribute" was not the motto of the banker-poet, although some may have tasted of his bounty.*

No doubt, he was often worried by applications for aid; some from fraudalent petitioners, but some from persons to whom timely helps might have been great blessings-probably saved the lives, possibly the souls, of those who asked


He writes-"The letters I receive from people of both sexes (people I have never heard of) asking me for money, either as a gift or a loan, are really innumerable;" but it is evident from the context that suchbegging epistles" produced no results to the writers. It is recorded that Murphy owed him £200; the poet became "uneasy," and accompanied Murphy to his chambers to be paid. Once there, however, Murphy, instead of paying the existing debt, labored hard to borrow more-an attempt which the poet successfully resisted. Rogers afterwards took as security an assignment of the whole of Murphy's works (including his "Tacitus"), but found they had been previously disposed of to a bookseller. And

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It is reported of him that he once loved: at least, that, when a young man, he sedulously sought the society of the most beautiful girl he thought he had seen. At the end of the London season, at a ball, she said, "To-morrow I go to Worthing: are you coming there?" Some months afterwards, being at Ranelagh, he saw the attention of many drawn towards a lady who was leaning on the arm of her husband. Stepping forward to see this wonderful beauty, he found it was his old flame. She merely said, "You never came to Worthing!" Who shall say that the selfish cynic might not have been another man-a better and a far happier man-if he had gone to Worthing!

Moore, one of the few of his friends who really regarded Rogers, thus writes in a letter to Lady Donegal:-"I felt as I always feel with him that the fear of loosing his good opinion almost embitters the possession of it; and that, though in his society one walks upon roses, it is with constant apprehension of the thorns that are among them."

And subsequently, Moore thus alludes to Rogers as a critic:-" He only finds fault with every part in detail; and this you know is the style of his criticism of characters." And Lady Donegal, in reply, speaks of his "sickly and discontented turn of mind which makes him dissatisfied with everything, and disappointed in all his views of life;" speaking, also, of his "unfortunate habit of dwelling upon the faults and follies of his friends."

There is an anecdote recorded by Lady Holland, in her memoirs of her father, Sydney Smith, that, perhaps more than any other, illustrates the character of Rogers; it is this:-"One day, Rogers took Moore and my father home in a carriage from a breakfast; and insisted on showing them, by the way, Dryden's house, in some obscure street. It was very wet; the house looked much like other old houses; and having thin shoes

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