that she does not believe in the government of the country? Is thought free? Has it ever been free? And in the old days when religious heresy was perilous, was it not perilous because at bottom it was believed to be political heresy-quite unpardonable still?

Jonathan Edwards believed in hell-fire, and felt it to be just as clearly his duty to warn people of their danger as any stranger today would warn another if his house were on fire, or if he did not see an approaching train. Some shallow objectors have declared that neither Edwards nor any one else ever really believed in hell, because if they knew millions were suffering such torment, they themselves could neither eat nor sleep, much less laugh and play. But today, although we know at this very moment thousands are dying by famine and tortured by disease in Russia, we do not permit the certain knowledge of that fact to interfere with our programme of business and golf. That way madness lies: we know it, and Edwards knew it, only he ran the chance rather than have people remain in indifference. He was as determined that citizens should not forget hell as your modern social reformer is determined that they shall not forget poverty and disease. I honour him for it.

His sermons were well-known in England. In the London Magazine, for June, 1774, I find this notice: "The Justice of God in the Damnation of a Sinner. By the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, M. A., late President of New Jersey College &c. Revised

and Corrected by C. Decoetlogon, M. A. Good sound Calvinism: imported from America for the use of the Lock-Chapel."

In his religious meditations, he was by no means always dwelling within the shadow of his creed. He had vast depths of saintly tenderness, which are occasionally revealed in lyrical passages that sound like "harps in the air."

"Holiness, as I then wrote down some of my contemplations on it, appeared to me to be of a sweet, pleasant, charming, serene, calm nature; which brought an inexpressible purity, brightness, peacefulness, and ravishment to the soul. In other words, that it made the soul like a field or garden of God, with all manner of pleasant flowers; enjoying a sweet calm and the gently vivifying beams of the sun. The soul of a true Christian, as I then wrote my meditations, appeared like such a little white flower as we see in the spring of the year; low and humble on the ground, opening its bosom to receive the pleasant beams of the sun's glory; rejoicing, as it were, in a calm rapture; diffusing around a sweet fragrancy; standing peacefully and lovingly in the midst of other flowers round about; all in like manner opening their bosoms to drink in the light of the sun. There was no part of creature-holiness that I had so great a sense of its loveliness as humility, brokenness of heart, and poverty of spirit; and there was nothing that I so earnestly longed for. My heart panted after this -to lie low before God, as in the dust; that I might

be nothing, and that God might be all; that I might become as a little child."

Although he was obsessed by divine thoughts, he fell in love with a girl like any other man. Perhaps he would have said that there is no such distinction as that commonly made between sacred and profane love; perhaps all true love to him was sacred. At all events, he was a passionate lover. When he was twenty-two, he wrote on the fly-leaf of a book the following words:

"They say there is a young lady in New-Haven who is beloved of that Great Being, who made and rules the world, and that there are certain seasons in which this Great Being, in some way or other invisible, comes to her and fills her mind with exceeding sweet delight, and that she hardly cares for anything, except to meditate on him-that she expects after a while to be received up where he is, to be raised up out of the world and caught up into heaven; being assured that he loves her too well to let her remain at a distance from him always. There she is to dwell with him, and to be ravished with his love and delight forever. Therefore, if you present all the world before her, with the richest of its treasures, she disregards and cares not for it, and is unmindful of any pain or affliction. She has a strange sweetness in her mind and singular purity in her affections; is most just and conscientious in all her conduct; and you could not persuade her to do anything wrong or sinful, if you would give

her all the world, lest she should offend this Great Being. She is of a wonderful sweetness, calmness and universal benevolence of mind; especially after this great God has manifested himself to her mind. She will sometimes go about from place to place, singing sweetly; and seems to be always full of joy and pleasure; and no one knows for what. She loves to be alone, walking in the fields and groves, and seems to have some one invisible always conversing with her."

The man who wrote that passage was fathoms deep in love.

Jonathan Edwards was a great man; he had genius, all of which he used in the exposition, defense and propagation of what he believed to be God's truth. He was the greatest metaphysician this country ever produced; but sometimes I think he was greatest as an ancestor. In every state of the Union, I meet with lineal descendants of Jonathan Edwards. They seem to be desirable citizens. As an ancestor, he was a conspicuous success; he made only one mistake; he was the grandfather of Aaron Burr, for which perhaps he ought not to be held wholly responsible. Now it is a good thing to have a little Edwards in the blood. I should hardly like to be his son; but to have Edwards diluted through five or six generations, ought to give a tonic quality not undesirable. There are indeed some whom it would conceivably improve.

As we learn the chief facts of interest about the life of Edwards from his own writings, we find the

same thing true of Franklin. His Autobiography is as cheerfully frank as the diary of Pepys, only instead of being set down in cypher, it was openly addressed to his illegitimate son, William. Later this man became governor of New Jersey, and during the War for Independence was an intense Royalist, which caused his father both grief and disgust.

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.

William in turn had an illegitimate son, William Temple Franklin, who was Benjamin's literary executor, and as editor of the Autobiography inflicted. so many surface wounds on that masterpiece that only a small proportion of its readers even today know what its author actually wrote.

In 1771 Franklin began writing the book at the pleasant town of Twyford, in England; in 1784 he continued its composition at Passy; in 1788 he took it up again at Philadelphia; and in 1789 added a few pages.

The publication of the Autobiography is as romantic in its vicissitudes as any of the events it describes. Franklin died in 1790; in 1791 the first edition appeared at Paris, in the French language. This was apparently a surreptitious affair, and how the publisher got hold of the manuscript we do not know. In 1793 two English editions appeared in England, but they were translations of the French version. It was not until 1817, that the Autobiography, supposedly as written by Franklin, was pub