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them, till it has become an impossibility for him to do otherwise. His mind is well worth your study. Its logical acuteness is something marvelous. Its analyzing power is searching and exhaustive. Its introspection seems to be all-seeing. He understands so well the checks and limitations of the human intellect that he is never satisfied to accept an idea for the reasons on its face. He goes back of the formal demonstration to what he considers the far more powerful motives of credibility. The syllogism says not all. The real convincing and abiding reasons on which a proposition is accepted as true are beyond either premises or conclusion. "As to logic," he remarks, "its drain of conclusions hangs loose at both ends; both the point from which the proof should start, and the point at which it should arrive, are beyond its reach; it comes short both of first principles and of concrete issues." Besides all this there are undercurrents of sentiment and inclination, associations of ideas, obscure memories, half confessed motives, probabilities, popular impressions that determine the frame of mind and the tone of thought, and they all of them enter his calculations. "And such mainly is the way," he tells us," in which all men, gifted or not gifted, commonly reason,—not by rule, but by an inward faculty." A mind recognizing all these elements of thought and coördinating them, and giving each its value and position, is the highest ideal of a well-thinking mind that I can place before you. But I have not yet said all.

Cardinal Newman's mind is above all a religious mind. Religion is for him a reality—an intense reality; it is a sacred tunic clothing all his thoughts and making them holy and earnest; it is an essential part of his existence; it is the life of his life. And this is not simply the religion of sentiment or of the mere viewiness of doctrine and dogma, but religion based upon clear-cut doctrines and well-defined principles. "From the age of fifteen "-he tells us in one of those revelations of himself that light up his soul and show the man-" dogma has been the fundamental principle of my religion; I know of no other religion; I cannot enter into the idea of any other sort of religion; religion as a sentiment is to me a mere dream and a mockery. As well can there be filial love without the fact of a father, as devotion without the fact of the Su

preme Being." Here is the central thought of Cardinal Newman's intellect. All thoughts, all issues group around that one idea. To him who reads between lines, every sermon, every essay, every treatise of the six and thirty volumes penned by his hand, reveals a soul ever questioning, ever struggling with difficulties, ever solving to itself the problems and issues of the day, ever arranging and rearranging in clear, well-defined order its own views and opinions and all for one object and with one result, that of harmonizing them with the teachings of religion. The thoughts and questionings and theories against which other strong and well-equipped intellects struggled only to be made captives of irreligion and agnosticism, he also wrestled with and became their master, each new effort giving him additional strength; and now, his laurels won, he looks upon the intellectual struggles of the day with the repose of a warrior who has been in the fight and has come out of it a victor.

MILTON.

"Into the heaven of heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn Empyreal fire.
-PARADISE LOST, Book VII.

Irreverent Milton! bold I deem thy flight;
Unsanctified, unbidden, thou didst wing
Thy pathless way off tow'rd the secret spring
Of God's decrees, and read them not aright;
Thou sought to do what no man mortal might,

Still thence a speech majestical didst bring,
And there o'erheard some angels whispering
Of Eden's bliss, and from thy lofty height
Surveyed all starry space both far and wide,

And saw hell's deepest depths and tortures dire,
And viewed the darkling works of demon pride,

And in the glowing of poetic fire,

What time thy heart felt age's chilly hand,
Embodied all in language stately, grand.

161

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY.

(1835-1885.)

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY was born in Dublin on May 20, 1835, and was educated there, taking his degree of B.A. at Trinity College in 1856. At first he was a surgeon in the Royal Navy, but afterward took orders, and went to Canada, where he died on May 31, 1885. He contributed to Kottabos, and published verses in The Nation, The Irish Metropolitan Magazine, and The College Magazine, which he edited. His books are: Lyrics of History and of Life' (1880); A History of Brant, Ontario' (1883); 'Toronto, Past and Present' (1884); History of the North-West Rebellion of 1885' (1886). He was engaged on A History of Canadian Liberalism'

when he died.

·

LONG DESERTED.

Yon old house in moonlight sleeping,
Once it held a lady fair,

Long ago she left it weeping,

Still the old house standeth there

That old pauper house unmeet for the pleasant village street

With its eyeless window sockets,

And its courts all grass o'ergrown,

And the weeds above its doorway

Where the flowers are carved in stone,

And its chimneys lank and high like gaunt tombstones on the sky.

Ruined, past all care and trouble,

Like the heir of some old race

Whose past glories but redouble

Present ruin and disgrace,

For whom none are left that bear hope or sorrow anywhere.

Lost old house! and I was happy

'Neath thy shade one summer night, When on one that walked beside me

Gazed I by the lingering light,

In the depths of her dark eyes searching for my destinies.

There within our quiet garden
Fell that last of happy eves

Through the gold of the laburnum
And the thickening lilac leaves;

There the winter winds are now sighing round each leafless bough.

Haunted house! and do they whisper
That the wintry moon-rays show,
Glancing through thy halls, a ghastly
Phantasy of long ago,

And thy windows shining bright with a spectral gala light?

Vain and idle superstition!

Thee no spectral rays illume;

But one shape of gentlest beauty

I can conjure from thy gloom,

In whose sad eyes I can see ghosts that haunt my memory.

ARTHUR MURPHY.

(1727-1805.)

ARTHUR MURPHY, actor, lawyer, dramatist, and editor, was born at Clooniquin, in the county of Roscommon, in the year 1727. He was educated at the college of St. Omer. For a while he was employed in his uncle's counting-house in Cork, but in 1751 he went to live in London. There he edited a political paper, and made acquaintance with a number of actors and men of letters. He went on to the stage and made some money, and afterward was called to the bar. Finding himself unsuccessful in the legal profession, he determined to devote himself to literature alone.

His first dramatic attempt was 'The Apprentice.' In 1759 his tragedy of 'The Orphan of China' was the means of making Mrs. Yates a favorite with the public, and in 1761 she had another success with the author's 'All in the Wrong.' This last comedy was also a great financial success, and, with 'Know Your Own Mind' and 'The Way to Keep Him,' held the stage for many years; indeed the three plays are yet acted occasionally in provincial theaters. The Grecian Daughter,' a tragedy, Three Weeks after Marriage,' and 'The Citizen,' both comedies, were also successes.

After his retirement to Hammersmith, Murphy published his 'Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson.' In 1793 appeared his translation of Tacitus, with an essay on his life and genius, which has frequently been reprinted. He also wrote a 'Life of Fielding' and a 'Life of Garrick,' which last is his least talented work. In 1798 appeared his tragedy of 'Arminius,' which was in favor of the then pending war, and for which he was granted a pension of £200 ($1,000) a year. This he enjoyed till his death, which occurred at Knightsbridge, in June, 1805.

HOW TO FALL OUT.

From Three Weeks After Marriage.'

SIR CHARLES and LADY RACKETT.

Lady Rackett. Well, now let's go to rest;-but, Sir Charles, how shockingly you played that last rubber, when I stood looking over you.

Sir Charles. My love, I played the truth of the game. Lady Rackett. No, indeed, my dear, you played it wrong.

Sir Charles. Pho! nonsense! You don't understand it. Lady Rackett. I beg your pardon, I'm allowed to play better than you.

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