wisdom to moderate the early excess of the parts, or progress of over-forward childhood. Neither is it otherwise in our Christian profession; a sudden and lavish ostentation of grace may fill the eye with wonder, and the mouth with talk, but will not at the last fill the lap with fruit.

Let me not promise too much, nor raise too high expectations of my undertakings; I had rather men should complain of my small hopes than of iny short performances.

Upon Occasion of a Redbreast Coming into his Chamber.

Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next meal; and at night must shroud thyself in a bush for lodging! What a shame it is for me, that see before me so liberal provisions of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dulness. Had I so little certainty of my harbour and purveyance, how heartless should I be, how careful; how little list should I have to make music to thee or myself! Surely thou comest not hither without a providence. God sent thee not so much to delight as to shame me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under more apparant meaus, am less cheerful and confident; reason and faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of nature; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me.

O God! thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou hast given me above these brute things; let not my greater helps hinder me froin a holy security, and comfortable reliance on thee.

Upon Hearing of Music by Night.

How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the daytime it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness; thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation; the gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private affliction; it is ever the same; the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O God! whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful.

Upon the Sight of an Owl in the Twilight.

What a strange melancholic life doth this creature lead; to hide her head all the day long in an ivy bush, and at night, when all other birds are at rest, to fly abroad, and vent her harsh notes. I know not why the ancients made sacred this bird to wisdom, except it be for her safe closeness and singular perspicuity; that when other domestical and airy creatures are blind, she only hath inward light to discern the least objects for her own advantage. Surely thus much wit they have taught us in her that he is the wisest man that would have least to do with the multitude; that no life is so safe as the obscure; that retiredness, if it have less comfort, yet has less danger and vexation; lastly, that he is truly wise who sees by a light of his own, when the rest of the world sit in an ignorant and confused darkness, unable to apprehend any truth save by the helps of an outward illumination.

Had this fowl come forth in the day time, how had all the little birds flocked wondering about her, to see her uncouth visage, to hear her untuned notes: she likes her estate never the worse, but pleaseth herself in her own quiet reservedness. It is not for a wise man to be much affected with the censures of the rude and unskilful vulgar, but, to hold fast unto his own well-chosen and well-fixed resolutions; every fool knows what is wont to be done; but what is best to be done, is known only to the wise.

Upon the Sight of a Great Library.

What a world of wit is here packed up together? I know not whether this sight doth more dismay or comfort me: it dismays me to think that here is so much that I cannot know; it comforts me to think that this variety yields so good helps to know what I should. There is no truer word than that of Solomon-there is no end of making many books: this sight verifies it-there is no end; indeed it were pity there should: God hath given to man a busy soul, the agitation whereof cannot

but through time and experience work out many hidden truths; to suppress these, would be no other than injurious to mankind, whose minds, like unto so many candles, should be kindled by each other: the thoughts of our deliberation are most accurate; these we vent into our papers: what a happiness is it, that, without all offence of necromancy, I may here call up any of the ancient worthies of learning, whether human or divine, and confer with them of all my doubts-that I can at pleasure summon whole synods of reverend fathers, and acute doctors, from all the coasts of the earth, to give their well-studied judgments in all points of question which I propose! Neither can I cast my eye casually upon any of these silent masters but I must learn somewhat: it is a wantonness to complain of choice.

No law binds me to read all; but the more we can take in and digest, the better liking must the mind's needs be: blessed be God that hath set up so many clear lamps in His church!

Now, none but the wilfully blind can plead darkness; and blessed be the memory of those His faithful servants, that have left their blood, their spirits, their lives, in these precious papers, and have willingly wasted themselves into these during monuments, to give light unto others!

Paradise-The Gospel of Labour.

Every earth was not fit for Adam, but a garden, a paradise. What excellent pleasures and rare varieties have men found in gardens planted by the hands of men! And yet all the world of men cannot make one twig, or leaf, or spire of grass. When he that made the matter undertakes the fashion, how must it needs be beyond our capacity, excellent! No herb, no flower, no tree was wanting there, that might be for ornament or use, whether for sight, or for scent, or for taste. The bounty of God wrought further than to necessity, even to comfort and recreation. Why are we niggardly to ourselves, when God is liberal? But, for all this, if God had not there conversed with man, no abundance could have made him blessed.

Yet, behold! that which was man's storehouse was also his workhouse; his pleasure was his task: paradise served not only to feed his senses, but to exercise his hands. If happiness had consisted in doing nothing, man had not been employed; all his delights could not have made him happy in an idle life. Man, therefore, is no sooner made than he is set to work; neither greatness nor perfection can privilege a folded hand; he must labour because he was happy; how much more we that we may be! This first labour of his was, as without necessity, so without pains, without weariness; how much more cheerfully we go about our business, so much nearer we come to our paradise.

The sermons of Bishop Hall display an uncommonly rapid and vehement species of eloquence, weil fitted to arouse and impress even the most listless audience. As a specimen we give the following extract from a discourse on the text, 'It is finished,' preached at Paul's Cross, on Good-Friday, 1609:

Christ Crucified Afresh by Sinners.

Now,

Behold, this storm, wherewith all the powers of the world were shaken, is now over. The elders, Pharisees, Judas, the soldiers, priests, witnesses, judges, thieves, executioners, devils, have all tired themselves in vain with their own malice; and he triumphs over them all, upon the throne of his cross: his enemies are vanquished, his Father satisfied, his soul with this world at rest and glory: It is finished. there is no more betraying, agonies, arraignments, scourgings, scoffing, crucifying, conflicts, terrors; all is finished.' Alas! beloved, and will we not let the son of God be at rest? Do we now again go about to fetch him out of his glory, to scorn and crucify him? I fear to say it: God's spirit dare and doth; They crucify again to themselves the Son of God, and make a mock of him:' to themselves, not in himself; that they cannot, it is no thank to them; they would do it. See and consider: the notoriously sinful conversations of those that should be Christians, offer violence unto our glorified Saviour; they stretch their hand to heaven, and pull him down from his throne to his cross; they tear him with thorns, pierce him with nails, load him with reproaches. Thou hatest the Jews, spittest at the name of Judas,

railest on Pilate, condemnest the cruel butchers of Christ; yet thou canst blaspheme, and swear him quite over, curse, swagger, lie, oppress, boil with lust, scoff, riot, and livest like a debauched man; yea, like a human beast; yea, like an unclean devil. Cry Hosannah as long as thou wilt; thou art a Pilate, a Jew, a Judas, an executioner of the Lord of life; and so much greater shall thy judgment be, by how much thy light and his glory is more. O beloved, is it not enough that he died once for us? Were those pains so light, that we should every day redouble them? Is this the entertainment that so gracious a Saviour hath deserved of us by dying? Is this the recompense of that infinite love of his that thou shouldest thus cruelly vex and wound him with thy sins? Every of our sins is a thorn, and nail, and spear to him; while thou pourest down thy drunken carouses, thou givest thy Saviour a portion of gall; while thou despiseth his poor servants, thou spittest on his face; while thou puttest on thy proud dresses, and liftest up thy vain heart with high conceits, thou settest a crown of thorns on his head; while thou wringest and oppresseth his poor children, thou whippest him, and drawest blood of his hands and feet. Thou hypocrite, how darest thou offer to receive the sacrament of God with that hand which is thus imbrued with the blood of him whom thou receivest? In every ordinary thy profane tongue wags, in the disgrace of the religious and conscionable. Thou makest no scruple of thine own sins, and scornest those that do; not to be wicked, is crime enough. Hear him that saith: Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?' Saul strikes at Damascus; Christ suffers in heaven. Thou strikest; Christ Jesus smarteth, and will revenge. These are the afterings of Christ's sufferings. In himself it is 'finished;' in his members it is not, till the world be finished. We must oil, and groan, and bleed, that we may reign; if he had not done so, it nad not been finished.' This is our warfare; this is the religion of our sorrow and death. Now are we set upon the sandy pavement of our theatre, and are matched with all sorts of evils; evil men, evil spirits, evil accidents, and, which is worst, our own evil hearts; temptations, crosses, persecutions, sicknesses wants, infamies, death; all these must in our courses be encountered by the law of our profession. What should we do but strive and suffer, as our general hath done, that we may reign as he doth, and once triumph in our Consummatum est. God and his angels sit upon the scaffolds of heaven, and behold us; our crown is ready; our day of deliverance shall come; yea, our redemption is near, when all tears shall be wiped from our eyes, and we that have sown in tears shall reap in joy. In the meantime, let us possess our souls not in patience only, but in comfort; let us adore and magnify our Saviour in his sufferings, and imitate him in our own. Our sorrows shall have an end; our joys shall not; our pains shall soon be finished; our glory shall be finished, but never ended.

The writing of characters was a favourite species of composition among the authors of this period. How successfully Bishop Hall could portray human nature, will appear from his character of

The Hypocrite.

A hypocrite is the worst kind of player, by so much that he acts the better part; which hath always two faces, oftentimes two hearts: that can compose his forehead to sa:iness and gravity, while he bids his heart be wanton and careless within, and, in the meantime, laughs within himself to think how smoothly he hath cozened the beholder. In whose silent face are written the characters of religion, which his tongue and gestures pronounce, but his hands recant. That hath a clean face and garment, with a foul soul; whose mouth belies his heart, and his fingers belie his mouth. Walking early up into the city, he turns into the great church, and salutes one of the pillars on one knee, worshipping that God which at home he cares not for, while his eye is fixed on some window or some passenger, and his heart knows not whither his lips go. He rises, and, looking about with admiration, complains of our frozen charity, commends the ancient. At church he will ever sit where he may be seen best, and in the midst of the sermon pulls out his tables in haste, as if he feared to lose that note; when he writes either his forgotten errand, or nothing. Then he turns his Bible with a noise, to seek an omitted quotation, and folds the leaf as if he had found it, and asks aloud the name of the preacher, and repeats it, whom he publicly salutes, thanks, praises in an honest mouth. He can command tears when he

speaks of his youth, indeed, because it is past, not because it was sinful; himself is now better, but the times are worse. All other sins he reckons up with detestation, while he loves and hides his darling in his bosom; all his speech returns to himself, and every occurrent draws in a story to his own praise. When he should give, he looks about him, and says, Who sees me? no alms nor prayers fall from him without a witness; belike lest God should deny that He hath received them; and when he hath done, lest the world should not know it, his own mouth is his trumpet to proclaim it. In brief, he is the stranger's saint, the neighbour's disease, the blot of goodness, a rotten stick in a dark night, the poppy in a cornfield, an ill-tempered candle with a great snuff, that in going out smells ill; an angel abroad, a devil at home; and worse when an angel than when a devil.

The Busy-body.

His estate is too narrow for his mind; and, therefore, he is fain to make himself room in others' affairs, yet ever in pretence of love. No news can stir but by his door; neither can he know that which he must not tell. What every man ventures in a Guiana voyage, and what they gained, he knows to a hair. Whether Holland will have peace, he knows; and on what conditions, and with what success, is familiar to him ere it be concluded. No post can pass him without a question; and, rather than he will lose the news, he rides back with him to appose (1) him of tidings; and then to the next man he meets he supplies the wants of his hasty intelligence, and makes up a perfect tale; wherewith he so haunteth the patient auditor, that, after many excuses, he is fain to endure rather the censures of his manners in ruaning away, than the tediousness of an impertinent discourse. His speech is oft broken off with a succession of long parentheses, which he ever vows to fill up ere the conclusion; and perhaps would effect it, if the other's ear were as unweariable as his tongue. If he see but two men talk, and read a letter in the street, he runs to them, and asks if he may not be partner of that secret relation; and if they deny it, he offers to tell, since he may not hear, wonders; and then falls upon the report of the Scottish mine, or of the great fish taken up at Lynn, or of the freezing of the Thames; and, after many thanks and dismissions, is hardly entreated silence. He undertakes as much as he performs little. This man will thrust himself forward to be the guide of the way he knows not; and calls at his neighbour's window, and asks why his servants are not at work. The market hath no commodity which he prizeth not, and which the next table shall not hear recited. His tongue, like the tail of Samson's foxes, carries firebrands, and is enough to set the whole field of the world on a flame. Himself begins table-talk of his neighbour at another's board, to whom he bears the first news, and adjures him to conceal the reporter: whose choleric answer he returns to his first host, enlarged with a second edition; so, as it uses to be done in the fight of unwilling mastiffs, he claps each on the side apart, and provokes them to an eager conflict. There can no act pass without his comment; which is ever far-fetched, rash, suspicious, dilatory. His ears are long, and his eyes quick, but most of all to imperfections; which, as he easily sees, so he increases with intermeddling. He labours without thanks, talks without credit. lives without love, dies without tears, without pity-save that some say: 'It was pity he died no sooner.'

A few Scottish authors may now be enumerated, beginning with the greatest, the reformer of a kingdom.'

JOHN KNOX.

JOHN KNOX was born in 1505, at Giffordgate, a suburb of Haddington, connected with that town by a bridge across the Tyne. Little is known of his parentage, but one of his contemporaries, a panegyrist, says he was descended of lineage small.' Addressing the Earl of Bothwell in 1562, the Reformer himself said: 'My lord, my grandfather, goodschir [mother's father], and father, have served

1 Question.

6

your lordship's predecessors, and some of them have died under their standards 'referring most likely to the field of Flodden. Knox studied at the university of Glasgow, but left without taking the degree of M.A. When he was admitted to the order of the priesthood, is not known. The earliest notice of him is dated December 13, 1540, when he is styled 'Sir John Knox,' as one of the Pope's knights, Sir' being the usual designation of priests who had not obtained the higher degree of Magister. In 1543, he is found acting as notary, and was engaged in private teaching. In 1545, George Wishart visited East Lothian, and Knox professed himself a convert to the Protestant doctrines, attending on Wishart, and carrying a sword in his defence. On the night of Wishart's apprehension, when Knox expressed his intention not to leave him, his friend said: 'Nay; return to your bairns [or pupils], and God bless you: one is sufficient for ane sacrifice.' The Reformed doctrines had then made considerable progress in Scotland, in the higher and educated classes, and with one of these, Douglas of Longniddry, Knox resided for some time as tutor. He afterwards preached in St. Andrews; but in 1547 was taken prisoner with others, and conveyed on board the galleys to France. Being set at liberty eighteen months afterwards, he preached in England till the accession of Mary induced him to retire to the continent in 1551, where he resided chiefly at Geneva and Frankfort. Visiting Scotland in 1555, he greatly strengthened the rotestant cause by his exertions in Edinburgh; but, at the earnest solicitation of the English congregation in Geneva, he once more took up his abode there in 1556. At Geneva, he_published "The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment * of Women,' directed principally against Mary of England and the Queen-regent of Scotland. Returning to Scotland in 1559, he continued his exertions in behalf of Protestantism; and in the following year, the cause was made triumphant by Queen Elizabeth entering into a formal engagement with the Lords of the Congregation, by which she engaged to send an army into Scotland, to assist them in expelling the French forces. On the 24th of August 1560, the Protestant Confession was ratified by the Scots parliament. Knox laboured with unabated zeal and courage for twelve more years. He died November 24, 1572; and when laid in the grave, was characterized by the Earl of Morton as one who never feared the face of man.' The works of Knox are numerous, and have been carefully edited by Mr. David Laing. The life of Knox has also been written with great learning and ability by Dr. McCrie. The chief work of the reformer is a History of the Reformation of Religion within the Realm of Scotland,' printed after his death. Knox was more a man of action than of study, and his labours in support of the Presbyterian church and clergy, and the progress of education, can

* Regimen or government.