tion to an unwieldly, unnatural corpulency, attended with gout and inflammatory symptoms. It is rather a matter of wonder that he lived so long, than of surprise at the occurence of his death in his sixty-eighth year.

The political career of this king may be summed up in a few words. In the early part of his life, he, as prince of Wales, headed the opposition, or the whig party-and thus arrayed, with Fox, Burke, Windham, Spencer, Fitzwilliam, and others, opposed the administration of his father, George III. At the commencement of the French revolution, he deserted the party whose creed hardly recognized the divine right or the legitimacy of kings. After this he made no stir on the political arena until the year 1810, when his father's insanity made the prince in every thing but name a king.

It would be an act of injustice to the English nation and an impeachment of the wisdom of British ministers to give the king the credit of the vast, complicated and successful operations that may have been brought to a successful termination during his reign. In a government so admirably balanced in the distribution of power as the English, the chief of the nation, may be entitled to credit for two things-for a judicious choice of ministry, and for not opposing them when once in place. George the Fourth is entitled to credit on account of both of the above named considerations.

During the reign of George the Third, England was a loser in the game of nations; during the reign of George the Fourth she has triumphed often in arms, oftener in policy-has been the centre and rallying point

of that stern vengeance which fell upon the legions of Napoleon at Waterloo-has gathered laurels with a prodigal hand-has added immensely to a national debt almost beyond the reach of numeration before-and has gained-not an inch of territory.

We will simply allude to two transactions that may appear in a dubious light on the pages of history-one the relentless persecution of Queen Caroline; the other, the imprisonment of Napoleon. It is not for us to express an opinion on either of these topics. We speak of them as of those things already under a bitter censure from large portions of that community whose united or prevalent opinion makes up the decisions of history.

With regard to the christian character of his late majesty but little can be said-It is, however, a remarkable fact that the Bishop of Winchester, who was his spiritual adviser, received his honors on account of his faithful, uncompromising plainness and fidelity to the King of kings. 'Sumner,' said the king one day to Winchester before his episcopal advancement, 'you make me tremble in view of my responsibility to God.'

He was observant of the sacred rites of religion in his last hours, and received the sacrament after his physicians had communicated to him their belief of his approaching dissolution. Like most men who have lived pleasurable lives, the king, during his sickness, shuddered at the thought of the pains of death-and saw nothing fearful in dissolution, excepting the attending agonies. His dying words were most eloquent. Nature then spoke her own language.

It was a king on his death bed-one who had filled the cup of worldly grandeur to the brim. Power was impotency then. Habits of command were of no avail in the conflict then raging. Desiring his attendants to change the position of his head, he suddenly motioned them to desist, and putting his hand on his breast, said— Oh this is not right! This is death! Oh, God, I am dying. The mind often goes out into the dark, exploring to find out, if possible, what may be the nature of those untried sensations which precede and attend the struggle of dissolution. Here we find all that we can know until we make the experiment for ourselves and for none else. The sensation which was immediately consequent on the rupture of a blood vessel, is recognized by the king. It untried one—it was death.-One exclamation to his maker closes a monarch's volume of spoken things, -and even this exclamation breathes nothing of hope. It carries terror, surprise, if not despair, in its impotent cry. What a lesson for the great! George the Fourth has gone where he is not known as a monarch-but as a

was a new,

man.

RELIGION.

THIS Word connects two worlds together. It embraces every thing pure, holy, blessed, peaceful, in this world, and carries forward the immortal mind in rapturous anticipation to the full fruition of eternity. Religion is

not profession, so much as possession; it is not creed, so much as deed. It is that which honors God and blesses man. Madmen have quarrelled about religion, soldiers have fought about it, and countries have been depopulated on its account, while it has been far away from all these scenes of strife, and no more responsible for the fires of persecution or the destruction of battle than the sleeping infant. Religion is peace—and all opposition to it is war. It comes and softens the heart of the sinner, renders the glorious Jesus visible to the mind's eye, checks and finally subdues the current of moral wickedness, and prepares the temper for the concord of heaven, where no voice of contention shall ever be heard, and no jarring sectarisms dispute the territory. Religion is a principle of life, or it could not breathe amidst the pollutions of our moral death. Sustained by the mighty spirit of God, rendered efficacious by the pangs and blood of an Infinite Sacrifice, it comes upon mankind like a conqueror-but it conquers by love-it hushes the tumults of the soul-makes peace between the creature and the Creator-and signs, even here upon earth, the preliminaries of future inheritance. Not to be purchased by oceans of tears, the tears of penitence must flow before religion comes into the soul to abide there. Not to be bought by duties, hard and laborious, the duties required by God must cheerfully and spontaneously be fulfilled before the sanctifier takes up his abode with the servant, who shall one day, if persevering, become a son. Earth has no moral sun, but the sun of religion-heaven has no other light and needs no other to throw insufferable effulgence throughout all its glorious scenery.

RELIGION AND POETRY.

THE Connection between religious emotion and poetic enthusiasm is a subject worthy of more than a transient reflection. The sensibilities and emotions connected with religion have perhaps less of fervency than the ardor of poetry-but they have an energy, a power to mould, transform and sustain beyond any earth-born feeling. Religion, in its moments of triumph, calls in the aid of poetry to sustain with its ministry the wing of devotion rising towards its native heaven. In seasons of religious despondency, too, the harp is taught to moan with melancholy music. Plaintive thoughts,-the remembrances that come over the mind of the captive,—the bright anticipations of faith, spontaneously clothe themselves in poetic drapery-and, from this circumstance, a very common error has originated; which is, that religious emotion is nothing more than the action of the mind under a high state of excitement.

The advocate for the individuality and the supernatural origin of religion has a marked advantage over the champion for the excitements of genius, taste, passion or sublimity, derived from the last scenes of life, when time gives up the being of a few years to the unchanging dominion of eternity. It is but seldom that a man of genius retains in the hour of death the enthusiasm which distinguished his life. A man of genius may indeed have the nobler enthusiasm of religion to sustain him when earthly objects cease to interest him-but, to a very general extent, men feel at death the impotency of fame, riches, power or human grandeur in any of its varieties,