ces from point to point of the horizon, wherever a sun-gleam breaks out, wherever a new iris passes wavering along the foam. Every flash of beauty he hails; into every opening, under the fringe of foam and cloud, he peers. But he forgets that the essential point is to learn the precise bearings of the shore; for the night cometh, and the shore of truth is one. It is not an altogether seemly spectacle, this of a man tossed about at the mercy of his instincts, restless and agitated, not impressed with manly consistency and calmness by a reason that believes and a faith that knows! The great problem of the place occupied by Christianity in human history, its relation to human interests, its connection with human ethics, he cannot be said to have solved. In his novels, with all their elevating morality, there is no solution expressly given; what is still more important, there is none tacitly implied. We do not see that the virtues of his characters bud upon the Christian Vine. We cannot perceive in what sense he understands that Christianity makes all things new. And, as a Christian minister, this is what all men have a right to demand of him. You cannot claim of a man that his intellect be profound or his taste exquisite, but you may demand of every man that he hold what light he has clearly before you, that he have strength and honesty to say he is this and not that, that he have a faith and know it. II. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born in 1800, the eldest son of the well-known Zachary Macaulay, a wealthy West Indian merchant. By birth he is English; by extraction he is Scotch. The early part of his education was conducted at home; in 1818, he commenced his university studies at Trinity College, Cambridge. Of his university career we know nothing more than that it was precisely what might be inferred from his course and character in after years. He was very highly distinguished as a classical scholar, was known as a leading speaker in college societies, and, for his wide and varied acquirements, which he displayed in brilliant conversation as well as in debate, was called by his fellows "the omniscient Macaulay." He was still a youth when he produced two pieces in verse the one a fragment, the other a finished and remarkably fine production-entitled, respectively, the Armada and Ivry. Then, we think, one who could read the literary auguries, and who had his eye on the young student, might have discerned some distinct glimmerings of that light that was to shine with so clear and fascinating a radiance. The classical distinction might be witnessed every day, the brilliancy of conversation and spirit in debate might excite neither surprise nor expectation, thousands of young men have versified, and with considerable vigor; but when very high classic attainments were united with singular knowledge of modern history and literature, and a fine, strong, clear gleam was thrown over all by poetic fire, the union might be pronounced rare and hopeful. We would form no common ideas of the youth who could offer us for inspection such a picture as this: "With his white head unbonneted the stout old sheriff comes; And crush'd and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight; ho! scatter flowers, fair maids; Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute; ho! gallants, draw your blades; Thou, sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride." Here are displayed an eye for the picturesque, a power of grouping, and a command of color, which the first painter in England, either with pen or paint brush, might have emulated. In the same piece, the faculty which has been used with such signal success in the Lays of Rome-the faculty of perceiving the musical cadence of particular names, and introducing them to deepen and strengthen the melody of his verses was displayed as finely and effec tively as it has ever since been. In Ivry, a warm, youthful enthusiasm burns through every line, and an attentive observer might have discerned that there was much in its glowing fervor to distinguish it from early productions in general. The picturesqueness found its origin in a happy selection and grouping of telling facts and events, with neither the dimness nor the glare of verbiage; the spirit and ardor were an echo of the feelings of the time and scene which formed the subject of the poem, and owed nothing to sounding commonplace or redundant adjective. The flowers were the lilies of France; the snow-white plume was the very one which Henry wore; the flag of Lorraine was historically painted; and they all took their places in the artistic picture without any aid from Minerva, or Vulcan, or the steeds of Mars. Already it might be said that this man rode a Cappadocian courser of rare breed, and no common hack; he was already far beyond the general band; he had bidden adieu to commonplace. He was not yet known to his countrymen in general; but the time was at hand when he was to emerge from the calm regions of privacy and silence, and become a name forever. He was about twenty-five years of age when he left college; he was “fresh from college" when he wrote his essay on Milton. The step was now taken irreversibly; the author of "Milton" became at once a marked and applauded man. He might well be so; there were few such essays in our literature at the time. It was written in that speaking style, where the eye of the author, writing in all the fervor of generous enthusiasm, seems to flash from every line; it rolled on like a molten stream, glowing and impetuous; and, when you looked, it seemed as if gold and pearls had been lavishly thrown in, and all rushed down in princely magnificence. Amazement at the range of learning was heightened by its rare accuracy and minuteness; astonishment at the profusion of imagery was enhanced by its splendor, freshness, and exquisite point; and the sound. heart rejoiced above all, that the genius, which was ministered to by such taste and such treasures, was kindled and presided over by noble sentiment and devotion to truth. The hand that drew the portrait of Dante, it was felt, possessed a strength and a precision of touch, which might add many a deathless portrait to our national gallery of fame; the magazine of literary adornment, in which were ranged all, it appeared, equally ready to the hand-the terrors of Eschylus and the flowers of Ariosto, the facts of history and the colors of fiction, seemed inexhaustible; and the eye which, with sympathetic fire, gazed across the intervening years to the men of England's noblest time, with a glance of proud recognition, was at once believed to possess a power of vision capable of penetrating far and deep into the recesses of our history. The sensation created by the appearance of this essay was, from all we have been able to learn, profound. Mr. Gilfillan mentions that Robert Hall, when sixty years old, commenced the study of Italian, in order to verify Macaulay's references to Dante. We think any amount of applause was justifiable; Mr. Macaulay wove a brilliant crown of amaranth and gold for one of the noblest men that England ever produced, and it was right that its gleam should be reflected on himself. We have now arrived at a turning-point in Mr. Macaulay's history. In the essay on Milton, he wrote with a fervor which seemed scarcely restrainable by the forms of composition; he scattered his riches around him like an ancient Peruvian monarch, with inexhaustible wealth, but knowing not its value; his decisions were firm and clear, but brightened by a rapture as of poetry. That this would |