of the bishops were good and valuable men, I could not help feeling that it would be a perfect misery to me to have to address one of them, taken at random, as my 'Right Rev. Father in God,' which seemed like a foul hypocrisy, and, when I remembered who said, 'Call no man father on earth, for one is your father who is in heaven :'-words which not merely in the letter, but still more distinctly in the spirit, forbid the state of feeling which suggested this Episcopal appellation,-it did appear to me as if 'Prelacy' had been rightly coupled, by the Scotch puritans, with Popery as anti-Christian." We request the earnest attention of our Church friends to these important points, noticing only further, that in this stage, Mr. Newman abandoned Councils, Fathers, Creeds, and Articles, adopting the Bible only, but his mind had been too much trained to authority, to rest after one stone was removed; and, therefore, we shall have to meet him again as a disbeliever in the Bible itself: nor can we avoid the suspicion, that the inconsistencies of the men and the system, into which he was prematurely hurried, helped greatly to undermine all religious faith, and to induce that infidelity which is presented as the last phase of Mr. Newman's faith,the want of faith altogether. IV. SCEPTICS' RELIGION. Under this department, sceptical objections, and systems or principles advocated as hostile to Christianity, are dispassionately considered. PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF AN ENQUIRER. CHAP. IV. RECAPITULATION-HOW ADVERSITY MADE A DOCTOR-UNA IN THE WOOD, OR LOUISE AND PHILOSOPHY. "Paint thee a realm shut in from shock of wars, And in the realm a valley, tempest-proof, And in the valley set a silver lake, And on the lake a slumberous gliding swan, Shed on its snow from overhanging boughs; And in that beauty, in that heart of calm, WHO doubts the discernment of the public? Far be it from us at rate. any Assuming, then, this 'by-every-one-at-the-first-glance-to-be-admitted' fact, we infer that there must now be many more readers of The Bible and the People than were to be found last year, when we began to narrate an incident or two in the life of a certain honest Englishman, by name Roger Fenton, a worker in silver, resident at Dantzic. After an interval of such length-a silentium tam diuturnum, a retrospect will be as necessary for old readers as for new. Roger is in the house of Dr. Heinrichs, a Professor at Königsberg. It was to his care that he committed, a year ago, the terrified young girl whom he found at the door of the convent of St. Joseph. The orphan Louise found in the Doctor a parent, and in Roger, first a brother, and by degrees, a lover. The youth could not dream of quitting his friend's house till the physician had vanquished the fever under which the maiden he had rescued suffered so painfully. When that was gone, and, with returning health and happiness, Louise became the sunshine of the house, Roger could not return to Dantzic till she, so lately cured herself, had undertaken his cure, and he was allowed to learn that his affections had not been given in vain. After that, as often as his engagements would permit him, he left his workmen at the bench, paid a farewell call to his excellent friend, Pastor Ahlfeld, and after a pleasant chat, theological, ethical, or political, as the case might be, started off to visit Königsberg once more. It was on the last of these visits that he made the acquaintance of Arnim, the romantic and accomplished student, and, with him, snatched Louise from the hands of the bravoes whom the Jesuit Aguilar had commissioned to carry her off. Now he passes happy days-only too short-in reading, conversing, and walking with Louise, interspersed by interviews with Arnim and discussions with the Doctor. This is the state of parties. We are writing no romance, though there are materials here out of which one of those much-abused (but more read) productions might possibly be constructed by one skilled in such craft. When the reader is informed that two or three chapters more will bring this veritable history to its termination, he will be relieved from all apprehension lest he should be entrapped into reading anything of enchaining interest. The reader-that personage, whoever he or she may be (and may their name be legion), in true love for whom we write these pages, cannot, at least, charge us with any attempt to excite the feelings. He will part with our characters, as he first made their acquaintance, without emotion. There has been in our plain narration no art employed to stimulate curiosity, no thrilling alternations of hope and fear have been awakened, there has been nothing "touchingly withering," as the sentimental phrase it, anywhere. Our concern is not with the rules for the construction of a plot and the canons for the maintenance of interest, it is our privilege to be as improbable, as wayward, as abrupt as we please, since we write not to amuse, but to scatter a few small crumbs of instruction, and to leave even those with such as care to read them, rather as desultory suggestions to be applied by themselves, than as any elaborated and thoroughly furnished annunciations of extensive and complete result. It would have been a more direct and the more usual course, to have embodied the few remarks we have to make, or the little information it may be in our power to impart, on ethics, philosophy, or art, in a series of essays on those subjects. There was only one objection to this plan. We should have fallen asleep in the execution of it. The thing could never have been done. Our worthy editor, the generalissimo of the forces marshalled in the pages of this periodical, might have paid us a visit and found us somnolent over a half-finished paper. We should have had but to place the manuscript under our pillow to ensure a good night's rest. Our very lamp, lighted by a piece of paper so written on, would have burnt slowly and subsided also into slumber at our side. A popular living writer commenced his career by a little book entitled "Essays during the intervals of Business." Astounding and almost inconceivable fact! We, too, write during intervals of business (of what sort, no matter). We can imagine any one writing poetry, tales, anything imaginative, anything humorous, during the intervals of business-but essays! That is too laborious. Illi robur et aes triplex. To chain oneself to the actual during the few brief holiday moments of a toilsome life-what perversity! To create, at such intervals, imaginary personages, to forget yourself in them -to be them for a time, to feel with their feelings and think their thoughts -what pleasure! The reader, we make no doubt, could have understood much in the way of dissertation, far more profound than anything in our power to write. It is not in any condescending adaptation, in any supercilious compassion (sit venia verbo) for thee, O courteous friend, whose eye resteth on this page, that we have adopted fiction as the vehicle of our wares, but purely for our own sake, to keep ourselves awake, and to save ourselves fatigue. There are some minds whose vigour is for a long time mistaken for weakness, in which thought and passion gain strength by very gradual additions. Their repose looks like insensibility. But a work of power goes on beneath the calm and silent surface. When the time of trial comes the hidden potency reveals itself, and produces effects terrible or benign,-mighty for good or evil. It is with them as with the rocks among the glaciers. The melting snows filter silently through every crevice, as the sun heats the crags upon those heights where the effects of radiation are so intense. Then comes night, congealing what day has melted. In every little fissure there awakes the strength of the expanding ice. It seems as though the wand of midnight had created, with one weird wave, a thousand gnomes in the hearts of all the rugged stones. The ice-power loosens, shivers on every side, rock after rock. The surface is seen to move under the moonlight where all else is profoundly still. The cloven fragments drop away-bound from cliff to cliff, and fall at last, broken smaller yet, upon some lower ledge of ice. There they rest, a heap of stones upon the panoply of that lethargic giant, the glacier, slowly creeping down in a slumber which endures for ages. Minds, of the class of which we speak, appear torpid in the midst of all those influences which animate to action natures more agile and more susceptible to impulse from without. Under the sunshine which quickens the butterfly, and is the potent persuasion that opens the heart of all flowers, we see in them but a quiet glistening, as it seems the opening of an eye, which only watches but does not feel. The night must set in. The freezing darkness of some great trouble which seals up in despair or deathless powerful natures, is necessary to awaken within these the energy they possess. It is then that the great and solitary movement of a being, mighty only from within, becomes conspicuous. Then, though rent and suffering, the influence of such a mind is felt by all around, and it covers a vast neighbourhood, as it were, with fragments of itself. It had been thus with the friend who had become the generous protector of Louise. The Doctor had now passed the meridian of life. Of good family, his boyhood and youth had been sheltered by wealth and by social position from every hardship. He was educated and yet not educated. Study gave him information; it was for adversity to give him character. When he was twenty years of age his father died, still in the prime of life, leaving his affairs so involved that the relict of the rich man saved but a pittance for the necessaries of life, and young Paul, the only child, was penniless. Kind friends foretold the worst-one or two came forward with offers of assistance. The youth, not without hauteur, declined all aid. The prognostications of the world grew darker still, for all accounted the awkward, blundering stripling-30 absent, so apathetic-as hopelessly slow, if not quite incapable. With the reserve so often characteristic of decided characters, he communicated his plans to no one. By some immediate efforts in the way of tuition, he added a few comforts to their frugal household. His mother alone could understand him, but even to her he communicated but a portion of his hopes and purposes. Three years of incessant toil were spent upon a work on natural history, his favourite study. On the branch he selected, he threw a new light, and every now and then the results of the most profound research and extensive observation were relieved by descriptions full of that expressive beauty of style, of that graphic truthfulness of description, which has won for Buffon the tribute of a universal admiration. When the magnum opus-the child of so many laborious days, so many restless and thoughtful nights, was completed-when the pen, with a triumphant flourish, of which he was immedately afterwards ashamed, had written the last word-the very last word-then came the question-how was it to be published? At least half-a-dozen publishers, in various places, bowed him politely out of their shops,-as many more received the precious manuscript, which he trembled to give out of his hands-passed it over to certain book-tasters, and, after weeks which seemed ages, sent it back to the author, with a brief statement to the effect that it would not answer their purpose to publish the same. It required all his philosophy to endure, with anything like equanimity, such intervals of expectation. Sometimes, at night, he would wake and think -what if the publisher's house should be burnt down? What if the MS. should be mislaid? And then, to find these anxious periods terminated by disappointment! At last, one publisher consented to undertake the work, giving the author to understand that the act was a magnanimous one, a serious self-sacrifice, of which no other man in the trade would have been guilty. The young Doctor was to receive nothing. But he was happy. Science had not forsaken her votary, and would crown him yet. The book came out. The originality and boldness which it displayed secured it speedy attention. Violent attacks and extravagant praises encompassed it on either side. 'Good,' thought Heinrichs, and remembered, that to keep up the shuttlecock of notoriety, there must be two battledores, and blows on both sides. At least he was obscure no longer. He began to teach. A group of enthusiastic young men surrounded the new Professor. Soon his room was numerously attended, spite of the opponents of novelty. His party-the Heinricians as they were called, numbered among them nearly every name afterwards illustrious in science. The impress of the master's mind was communicated to them all. It was surprising to see how this Heinrichs, who had seemed so formed for solitude, so useless among his fellows, had acquired to perfection the art of intellectual generalship. That faculty and that manner which detects and inspires excellence, which guides and attaches to itself even the waywardness of genius, appeared to have come to him by miracle. He had found his place. The contracted brow was smoothed; and the heart, contracted too, by the very excess of an almost disdainful self-reliance, was ennobled by a new expansion. Open and affable, he was ready to talk on any |