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events existing and occurring around us; while the phrase, a habit of intelligence,' refers to that peculiar mode of thought which leads a man to be continually seeking and collecting those relations.

66 Intelligence, then, it is evident, is the source of all science, the fountain of all knowledge. It is intelligence that gives to nature her universal harmony-intelligence that bedecks her with her brightest beauty. Without intelligence, all would be obscurity and confusion. Our senses furnish us only with the raw material of thought; it is intelligence that spins and weaves it into the garb of wisdom. They only extract, as it were, the rude and shapeless substance from the quarry; it is intelligence that fashions it into symmetry and grace-intelligence that endows it with the lovely form of truth. All is disorder in the mind until, like a tidy housewife, intelligence assigns to everything its proper place, classing those things which are similar, and separating those which differ in their nature; and thus evoking, a world of light and harmony out of darkness and of chaos."

By means of this intelligence, and independently of any knowledge of reading or writing, the pupil is to study natural, mental, and moral philosophy; and, with the exception of the last, our author has shewn that he may do this with very good success. But it is with his moral philosophy, and indeed with most systems under this name, that we have a quarrel to pick. The school to which the writer of this essay belongs, seems to proceed upon a fundamental error. It assumes man to be any thing but what the Sacred Scriptures represent him-a compound of arrogance, sin, and folly. It does not recognize the inspired declaration regarding his incapacity for any thing virtuous or honorable, and though it admits the necessity of morals and education to bring out his good points, it says nothing whatever of that spiritual regeneration which must precede all holy desires, all good counsels, and all just works. We may be charged, probably, with great simplicity, but we confess ourselves ignorant of the Christian acceptation of the terms, "moral philosophy." When we hear God spoken of as the "moral Governor" of the universe, or hear the grand "moral scheme" of the Bible descanted on, or our own "moral obligations" enforced, we confess ourselves at a loss to know the legitimate meaning of these expressions, nothing like which are to be found in the Scriptures. The gospel, which is our religious scheme, is not a moral,

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but a spiritual system, based upon that unique and fundamental doctrine-"ye must be born again." Christianity is no part of philosophy; and, without Christianity, no philosophy, not excepting that which is called moral, is worth having. Pity it is, then, that a work in other respects so original and valuable as the book before us, should be so liable to the very serious objec tions which attach to the cold intellectuality of the Socinian school, that we cannot recommend its perusal, without guarding our advice in the most pointed and impressive manner. Like the much-lauded and self-complacent work of Channing on "Selfculture," it abounds in deep thought and practical hints, calculated to "build up a force of mind:" but it is such a force, that we cannot help dreading the ruinous explosion, in which it will unquestionably issue, unless controlled, and directed, and sanctified, by the principles of the gospel of the grace of God.







Mr. Walker, like the rest of his species, had but two eyes, though his friends very truly remarked of him, that he had " an eye for every thing." Wherever he went, he was sure to see all that was worth seeing; and he had such a happy mode of registering his observations in his mind, that he always knew where to find them when he had an opportunity of using them to advantage.

He had an eye for the sublime. Usually in the Autumn, he would take his family out of town for a few weeks, and though fashion had very little hand in directing his movements, he would often spend this brief holiday by the sea-side. Unlike the majority of his neighbours, however, Mr. Walker was not to be seen amongst the listless throngs who crowd the shores of our stylish watering-places; for he really wanted what he professed to want, retirement and relaxation from the duties of an arduous profession. He generally sought out therefore some secluded and unpretending village on the coast, where, if he could not procure every luxury of the season, or know the last movements in the political world, he might commune with nature in her loftiest as well as in her gentlest moods. Mr. Walker loved the sea; he enjoyed a stroll along its shores, or a sail upon its waters: but, above all things, he delighted to look on the dark and riotous waves when the sky


was lowering, and the wind howling around him in all its might, driving the white spray in feathery flakes along the beach, and rolling wave after wave against the trembling head-land. He loved to see the breakers chase each other, bend their crested heads, and burst in foam upon the hissing pebbles at his feet, strewing the wide strand with sea-weed, and then retreating to their parent ocean. He loved too, when the sky was calm and clear, to mark the varying shades that passed along the slumbering waters, to see them change from molten gold to emerald, and from emerald to deepest purple, or to look upon them when without a shadow or a speck upon their glowing surface, they mingled with the tranquil sky beyond, and tasked the dazzled sight to discover the precise boundary betwixt heaven and earth. And when a brisk, but welcome breeze played over it, he never thought the mighty deep monotonous, but pictured in its crested waves and dark hollows, and towering peaks, and varied lights and shadows, all the features of an inland landscape; hill and valley, field and spire, and grassy ridge, and gleaming homestead, and dim dusky town looming in the blue distance, and piercing the clear sky with its dark towers or graceful pinnacles.

He had an eye for the beautiful. He loved, when wandering inland, to stand within the narrow passes that led down to the sunny beach, and look above him at the clear sky, and the swallows darting over head, or disappearing in the high red sand banks by which he was hemmed in on either hand; or, turning round, to gaze upon the quiet sea, now gleaming with a lustre heightened by contrast with the cool and shady road from which he viewed it. And as he gained the cheerful upland, his heart grew warm within him as he saw the waving corn, bowing, and rustling, and darkening in the passing breeze, or heard the clamorous lark pouring out his impassioned song, and rising higher and higher into the warm and fragrant air. But chiefly did he love to wander forth in the early morning, whilst the sun still lingered below the grey horizon, though the green corn fields seemed alive with song. He loved to see the "morning spread upon the mountains," to mark the rolling mists as they travelled swiftly over the green-hill side, spiritualizing the lovely scenery of their summits, and opening, as they passed away, the most entrancing vistas of elysian scenery. Here, isolated from the range, and standing beautifully but not abruptly

forward, he marked the fir-crowned mount, or the gently undulating down, dotted with dark yews, or broken into gleaming cliffs of chalk; and there, radiant with the first sunbeam, and lifted high above the wheeling haze, the shepherd's clay-built hut alone, but far from lonely, while the purest and earliest smiles of day fell upon its grey and weather-beaten walls, soliciting its homely inmate to come forth to his work and to his labour, till the warm and solemn tints of evening should bathe the hills again, How ardently and throw the glorious valley into welcome shade. he looked into that broad and beautiful valley, as one by one, the multitudinous features it displayed, kindled in the rosy light of morning the grey church-tower-the dark hedge-row-the sealike forest, pasture, and corn field, and fallow land; the noiseless towns skirting the distant river, and the solitary farms beneath his very feet; all, all grew warmer in the cheering light, and held him in attentive and grateful contemplation, whilst thousands were immersed in useless slumbers, or, from other causes, insensible to the rich and varied pleasures furnished for them by the great Framer of the ends of the earth.

Can there be swellings, tumult, strife, discord, envy, hatred, malice, and even murder amongst the tenants of this beauteous world? Is it possible that in the very midst of such lovely displays of the Divine goodness and glory, any should be found who have profited nothing by the perusal of "the things which are seen” in their study of the invisible things of God? Has nature made no converts to christianity; and are men in this lovely and romantic district of the earth, as far from the right knowledge of God, and of themselves, as if they had seen nothing of the sublime and beautiful in creation? Such were the questions that would often intrude themselves upon the mind of Mr. Walker, and he had no wish to shut them out. He knew very well that the natural mind of man cannot receive the things of the Spirit; and amongst these things, he was disposed to rank a proper view of the character and ends of all created things.

He looked upon the volume of the universe, as very imperfectly, if at all, legible by those whose eyes had not been enlightened from above, remembering that God's way was in the sanctuary, and it was there only he could fully understand the meaning of his works. He remembered his "wonders of old," as ministering to that mag

nificent scheme of mercy which the psalmist contemplated when he poured out his soul in praise, and said, "I will meditate also of ALL THY WORK!" He looked at the glories of the natural world as merging in that mighty system, which in the dispensation of the fulness of times, shall bring together in one, all things in Christ, both which are in heaven and which are in earth; and he found rest only in the thought of that majestic gathering.

He had an eye for information. He looked upon the earth as given to the children of men; and he studied it as one of the most interesting and trustworthy records from which he could obtain knowledge. If he picked up a stone, he must know its history and its relations, for experience and study, and a moderate acquaintance with facts and principles of current value, had taught him that nothing was isolated in creation. The rain that falls upon the desert, where no man is, had, he was well aware,`an indis pensable influence on the populous and distant regions of the earth; and he knew the secrets of God's wisdom to be double to that which he had been pleased to manifest. The undulating hill, the rugged ravine, the rich alluvial valley, or the winding river, were all, in his mind, associated with the changes wrought in distant ages, by Him who alone moves the rock out of its place, and shuts up the sea with doors, preparing for it his decreed place, and limiting the rule of its imperious waters. If he met with a fossil, he did not cast it from him as a thing that only concerned the professor of Geology. He looked at it as a christian: God had made it, and surely it was worth a thought. Circumstances connected with its structure, its appearance, its position, disclosed to him a portion of its history; and he read that history by the light of a Father's loving kindness. If he gathered a flower from the wayside, he did not lay it aside again in despair, because he knew nothing of the long and unutterable names bestowed upon it by the botanical student. He could see the finger of God in the exquisite tracery of its leaves, or the pencilling of its unpretending petals; it was a link in that electric chain of love that thrills the soul of every faithful child who comes in contact with it; a letter in the "alphabet of angels;" a little word in the message of our better Father! He could not pass without due notice the insect glancing in the summer's sun across his path. He was no entomologist, and it cost him little anxiety, that he was unable, scientifically, to

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