He was a faithful friend. Of this no 'Still he found his sweetest recreation and better proof is needed than the number of entertainment in his family circle, and it was faithful friends whom he possessed. We here that all the depth, intimacy, and childlike shall not stop to defend him from the charge themselves. Here, as he himself said, was the innocence of his pure religious feeling unfolded that has been made against him of speaking little church, in which his soul was habitually what he did not feel respecting Luther in raised to heaven, and filled with unbounded his funeral oration. That he loved Luther joy. Here were the beloved souls, whom it ardently there can be no doubt; as little was his duty, according to the will of God, to can there be that Luther, in his later years, He often sat by the cradle of his daughters, or form and educate for life eternal. * * * * frequently wounded him, and that he deeply felt it. He said as much, both before and granddaughters, almost all of whom were brought up in his house, with a book in one after Luther's death. But his doing so hand, and the other holding the cradle strap. proves his honesty in what he elsewhere He himself related of his Anna, that she once said, unless it should be thought impossible came to him, and wiped his tears with her little that love should continue where any offence apron, and how much this proof of her sympahas been received. Melanchthon was not thy went to his heart. She was his eldest one in whom the impression made by innu- child, and was on this account, though still merable benefits received from Luther, more on account of her gentle, quiet character, * * * Besides during the confidential intercourse of years, these children and grandchildren, there should especially beloved by him. could be obliterated by the clouds which, also be reckoned, as belonging to Melanchin the later years of Luther's life, passed thon's family, his old servant John, a native of over the horizon of their friendship. He Suabia, who lived thirty-four years in his could state the truth when circumstances house, acted as his house-steward, instructed seemed to call for it, but he loved his friend his children, and through his honesty and no less. His conduct to the widow and faithfulness, was of great, not to say indispensable, value to him. Melanchthon reposed in children of Luther, during the trials which him the most unreserved confidence, corressucceeded the battle of Mühlberg, disarms ponded with him, when on a journey, in Latin, this scandal of its sting. and set great store by his judgment on religious subjects. In the programme, in which. he announced his death, Melanchthon made the most affectionate allusion to his character and are so beloved, a house may certainly be and services. Where servants are of this class, regarded as an ecclesiola Dei.-Matthes, 385, 386.

As little is it necessary to defend him from the charge of being unfaithful to John Frederick. We remember indeed the time when we did think him unfaithful. But a clearer insight into John Frederick's character showed us that Melanchthon could have done no good by following him to Weimar or Jena. He could not, we are persuaded, have entered his service after the temporary dissolution of the Wittemberg university, without sacrificing every prospect of usefulness as a public man.

Melanchthon's religious character may be well enough inferred from what we have already written. The gospel of salvation by the grace of God, through faith in the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ,—the gospel of the New Testament, was, as we have seen, the object of his most incessant anxiety in life, and in death it was his allsufficient consolation. If his faith respecting this heavenly treasure appeared less firm than Luther's, let us remember that there was no deficiency as respects the power of the Gospel, but only last the knowledge of it should again be lost for a season. Yet he doubted not at all that it was the cause of God, and that as such it was secure in truth and steadfastness. One of his most favorite passages, and which he was accustomed to write in the albums of his friends, was Isa. lix. 21. A leaf bearing this verse, written with his own hand

But the amiable and friendly character of Melanchthon is not attested only by the numbers of those who knew and loved him intimately. His correspondence with Cranmer, Calvin, and others whom he did not personally know, or knew but imperfectly, evinces the same thing. And it is still more fully displayed in his correspondence with some who had deeply injured him. Of this his letters to Flacius Illyricus, one of which we have quoted, are a striking example. Nothing is more evident on the face of his extensive correspondence, than that it was his fixed determination, as much as possible, to live peaceably with all men; and that the reciprocation of the offices of friendship was one of the principal enjoy-in Luther's private copy of the Bible, may ments of his life.

still be seen, with other similar memorials of Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, Jonas,

and Agatho, in Luther's cell at Erfurt. He | Lutherans possessed of either was princifeared not for the gospel, but for his coun-pally the fruit of his exertions. He, too, trymen, lest, after that they had heard it in though not the originator of their theology, truth, they should again lose it, either under (in which respect even Luther must, to the corrupt glosses of tradition, or the hor-some extent, resign the palm to Augustine,) rors of war and persecution. His desire was its first scientific expositor. His claims for peace and unity, was, as his last mo- upon the gratitude of Protestants on these ments show, not merely a constitutional accounts are entitled to a passing notice. feeling, but a conscientious principle.* His In his lectures on the ancient classics, love of truth was ardent and unquencha- he laid great stress upon their value as a ble many of his greatest trials sprung mean of intellectual discipline. 'Sœpe from his determination not to call any man enim monui,' he says, ita instituendum master, or to drink from the narrow cisterns esse animum, ut duas has virtutes, scientiam of systematic theology, while he had access judicandi de rebus humanis et facultatem to the full clear fountains of the living dicendi meminerit sibi omnibus nervis paword. He was a man of prayer. If he randas esse. Et ad hoc tanquam ad [scodid not blaze like the phoenix, he soared with the lark, for he rose very early, and opened every morning with devotion. Nor did his own private resources ever cause him to undervalue the public means of grace. He knew that those who took most with them to the house of God, brought most away; and coming once in his perusal of the Psalms, to Psalm xxvii. 4, 5, One thing have I desired,' &c., he was heard to say,' Ah! Lord, let me ever dwell where thou hast a little church.' When his daughter's removal to Königsberg with her husband Sabinus was spoken of, this was a principal consideration with him; in Königsberg, it is well there the house of God is frequented, as it is here.' For he saw nothing praiseworthy in the pretensions of those who undervalue social worship, but declared, My nature is most alien to that Cyclopæan life which despises order, and turns with disgust from customs because they are such, as if they were a

pum oportet referre vigilias, lucubrationes, denique studia omnia. Nam qui aut non formarunt judicium literis, ut intelligant rerum ac morum discrimina, quæque in bonis, quæque in malis ducenda sint, aut non possunt ea, quæ sentiunt, perspicuo sermone docere, hi mihi præter corporis speciem nihil humani habere videntur.'

We have before adverted to the various publications by which Melanchthon strove to advance the cause of education. New editions of the classics, grammars, glossaries, chronicles, treatises on rhetoric, logic, ethics, politics, and the elements of physical science attest his unwearied pains. In moral and intellectual philosophy, he was at first an eclectic, but afterwards attached himself decidedly, though not blindly, to the school of Aristotle, the study of whose works he recommended to precede those of Plato. In physical science, he was not very successful. Our extract relating to his last hours shows that he was a believer in the current astrology. In this respect, he was But it is Melanchthon's special and pe- behind Luther. Yet some even of his culiar praise that he was the first who physical writings-his Commentarius de openly enlisted the revived literature and Anima, and Initia Doctrinæ Physicæ, for science of the sixteenth century in the ser-instance, evince great acuteness and learnIvice of the reformation. Whatever the

canker.'

ing. With all his deficiencies, it should be remembered, that he was the first man who He was indeed, as might be inferred from made it his business to unfold the intimate his unwearied activity, naturally very susceptible connexion between philosophy and practical Camerarius said of him, Humor, quem flavæ bilis nomine appellant, abundantior materiam præbe-life, and to exemplify the true harmony of bat affectionibus animi vehementioribus.' When science and religion. we consider this, his self-possession and patience amidst the unrelenting persecutions he endured are really extraordinary. Few men, even in our own time-to lay no stress on the ruder habits of the sixteenth century-would have maintained such perfect self-command as he did for a long course of years. He not only avoided, in his controversial writings, the use of passionate and provoking expressions, but continued to the last his efforts to conciliate his adversaries, and restore peace to the church.

But his theological labors constitute his greatest claim to the regard of posterity. To enumerate them all is neither necessary nor possible. He assisted in the construction and diffusion of the evangelical theology, not only by his academical lectures, but his commentaries, and other theological writings. He also, as is well known, aided Luther in his translation of the Bible; and

even among his enemies, one whom he greatly displeased.' Equally honorable and characteristic of both is Luther's praise of them. 'I had rather,' said he, 'see Philip's books than my own, whether Latin or, German, exposed for sale. I have been sent into the world to contend with devils; my books, therefore, are too stormy and warlike. I must grub up stumps, thorns, &c. But Master Philip does his work tastefully and without fuss, builds and plants, sows and waters agreeably, according to the gifts which God has so richly bestowed upon him.'

so necessary was this aid, that Luther ex--quam genio suo debet potuis quam ingecused the delay which occurred in the nio,-that while he was exceedingly agreetranslation of the prophetical books of the able so all candid readers, there was not, Old Testament by stating as its cause, that the Elector had taken Melanchthon with him to Spires. Melanchthon's own theological works are exceedingly numerous. Some of them were of local and temporary interest, and have not been collected with the rest. A large number of them are exegetical. His method of exposition may be called the grammatico-dialectic. He used to say that a good theologian and true interpreter of God's word, must be first a grammarian, then a dialectician, thirdly, a witness. He did not dwell much on explanations of single words, but carefully compared the older versions with the origi- We are not able to speak as we could nal, and took great pains to illustrate the wish of the works named at the head of this New Testament Hebraism. When the article. Both are rationalist in principle; text was argumentative-one of Paul's epis- and this element appears in remarks derogtles, for instance-he investigated the rhe-atory not only to the authority of Scripture, torical disposition and scope of it with mi- but to the character and explicit claims of nute attention. Of his Loci Communes, our Lord. Where rationalism does not inthe Confession of Augsburg, and Apology trude, both of them indeed, and that of for it, it is less necessary to speak. These Matthes in particular, may be read with inworks, notwithstanding the calumny which terest. Both authors have used the Corpus was heaped upon their author during the Reformatorum, as far as it had proceeded seventeenth century, are to Lutheranism when they were written; that is, to the what Calvin's Institutes are to the Reform- volumes published in 1838 and 1839. The ed communion. Like Calvin's work, the work of Matthes, though by no means disLoci Communes was considerably enlarged tinguished for the excellence of its narraafter the first edition; aud the development tive, is much more readable than Galle's, of our reformer's theological system is very the style of which is slovenly and inaccuconspicuous in the additions which he rate. But both betray great negligence in made to it. He is spoken of occasionally, other respects. In Galle's, some material by those who wish to have it so, as if he errors, acknowledged in the preface to the had accommodated his theological system first edition, are repeated verbatim in the to the variations of his philosophy. There second. Matthes has given a page of errata, is no doubt that in this respect he admitted, for which he craves excuse on account of as every thoughtful student must do, such his distance from the press. We could model explanations as philosophy supplies supply him with a list, which would, probaon points which enter her domain. Some bly, fill twenty such pages. We are loth of these must, it is very certain, have vari- to say so much in disparagement of works ed with the progress of his studies. He which necessarily contain much useful inalso, it is true, speculated somewhat crude- formation. ly, as many since have done, upon the mode of the Divine existence, the generation of the Son, and the procession of the Spirit. But he never conceded to philosophy the regulation of his religious belief. He was a supernaturalist in the full sense of the term, from the time he penned the first draught of his Loci Communes till his dying day.

Melanchthon's writings are of great sthetic merit. Erasmus commended them as possessing, along with their remarkable erudition and rare eloquence, ' such grace

From the London Daily News.

TRAVELLING

holes which it punched in the walls on

LETTERS WRITTEN ON either side as it came along. We are more

THE ROAD.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

IV.

A RETREAT AT ALBARO.

fortunate, I am told, than an old lady who took a house in these parts not long ago, and stuck fast in her carriage in a lane, and as it was impossible to open one of the doors, she was obliged to submit to the indignity of being hauled through one of the little front windows like a harlequin.

THE first impressions of such a place as this, can hardly fail, I should imagine, to Well when you have got through these be mournful and disappointing. It requires narrow lanes, you come to an archway, ima little time and use to overcome the feeling perfectly stopped up by a rusty old gateof depression consequent, at first, on so my gate. The rusty old gate has a bell to much ruin and neglect. Novelty, pleasant correspond, which you ring, as long as you to most people, is particularly delightful, I like, and which nobody answers, as it has think, to me; and I am not easily dispirited no connection whatever with the house. when I have the means of pursuing my own But there is a rusty old knocker, too,— fancies and occupations; and I believe 1 very loose, so that it slides round when you have some natural aptitude for accommo- touch it-and if you learn the trick of it, dating myself to circumstances. But, as and knock long enough, somebody comes. yet, I stroll about here in all the queer holes The brave courier comes, and gives you and corners of the neighborhood, in a per- admittance. You walk into a seedy little petual state of forlorn surprise; and re-garden, all wild and weedy, from which the turning to my villa; the Villa Bagnerello; vineyard opens; cross it, enter a square hall (it sounds romantic, but Signor Bagnerello like a cellar, walk up a cracked marble is a butcher hard by,) have sufficient occupation in pondering over my new experiences and comparing them, very much to my own amusement, with my expectations, until I wander out again.

The Villa Bagnerello, or the Pink Jail: which, vanity apart, is a far more expressive name for the mansion is in one of the most splendid situations imaginable. The noble bay of Genoa, with the deep blue Mediterranean, lie stretched out near at hand; monstrous old desolate houses and palaces are dotted all about; lofty hills, with their tops often hidden in the clouds; and with strong forts perched high up on their craggy sides, are close upon the left; and in front, stretching from the walls of the house, down to a ruined church which stands upon the bold and picturesque rocks on the seashore, are green vineyards, where you may wander all day long in partial shade, through interminable vistas of grapes, trained on a rough trellis work across the narrow paths. This sequestered spot is approached by lanes so very narrow, that when we arrived at the Custom house, we found the people here had taken the measure of the narrowest among them, and were waiting to apply it to the carriage; which ceremony was gravely performed in the street, while we all stood by, in breathless suspense. It was found to be a very tight fit, but just a possibility and no more-as I am reminded every day, by the sight of various large

staircase, and pass into a most enormous room, with a vaulted roof and whitewashed walls, not unlike a great methodist chapel. This is the sala. It has five windows and five doors, and is decorated with pictures which would gladden the heart of one of those picture-cleaners in London, who hang up as a sign a picture divided, like death and the lady, at the top of the old ballad; which always leaves you in a state of uncertainty whether the ingenious professor has cleaned one half or dirtied the other. The furniture of this sala is a sort of red brocade. All the chairs are immovable, and the sofa weighs several tons.

On the same floor, and opening out of this same chamber, are dining-room, drawing-room, and divers bed-rooms; each with a multitude of doors and windows in it. Up stairs are divers other gaunt chambers, and a kitchen; and down stairs is another kitchen, which, with all sorts of strange contrivances for burning charcoal, looks like an alchemical laboratory. There are also some half dozen small sitting-rooms, where the servants in this hot July may escape from the heat of the fire; and where the brave courier plays all sorts of musical instruments of his own manufacture, all the evening long. A mighty, old, wandering, ghostly, echoing, grim house, it is, as ever I beheld or thought of.

There is a little vine-covered terrace, opening from the drawing-room; and under

this terrace, and forming one side of the little garden, is what used to be the stable. It is now a cow house, and has three cows in it, so that we get new milk by the bucket full. There is no pasturage near, and they never go out, but are constantly lying down and surfeiting themselves with vineleaves perfect Italian cows-enjoying the dolce far niente all the day long. They are presided over, and slept with by an old man named Antonio, and his son, two burnt-sienna natives, with naked legs and feet, and who wear each a shirt, a pair of trousers, and a red sash, with a relic, or some sacred charm, like a bon-bon off a twelfth-cake, hanging round the neck. The old man is very anxious to convert me to the Catholic faith, and exhorts me frequently. We sit upon a stone by the door sometimes in the evening, like Robinson Crusoe and Friday reversed; and he generally relates, towards my conversion, an abridgment of the history of Saint Peter-chiefly, I believe, from the unspeakable delight he has in his imitation of the cock.

dens on a sunny day. The court-yards of these houses are overgrown with grass and weeds; all sorts of hideous patches cover the bases of the statues, as if they were afflicted with a cutaneous disorder; the outer gates are rusty, and the iron bars outside the lower windows are all tumbling down. Firewood is kept in halls where costly treasures might be heaped up, mountains high; water-falls are dry and choked; fountains, too dull to play and too lazy to work, have just enough recollection of their identity, in their sleep, to make the neighborhood damp; and the sirocco wind has been blowing over all these things these two days, like a gigantic oven out for a holiday.

Last Friday was a Festa-day, in honor of the Virgin's mother, and the young men of the neighborhood, having worn green wreaths of the vine, in some procession or other, bathed in them, by scores. It looked very odd and pretty. Though I am bound to confess (not knowing of the festa at that time), that I thought, and was quite satisfied, they wore them as horses do—to keep the flies off.

The view, as I have said, is charming; but in the day you must keep the lattice- Yesterday was another Festa-day, in honblinds close shut, or the sun would drive or of St. Nazarro, I believe. One of the you mad; and when the sun goes down you Albaro young men brought two large boumust shut up all the windows, or the mos-quets soon after breakfast, and coming upquitoes would tempt you to commit suicide. So at this time of the year you don't see much of the prospect within doors. As for the flies, you don't mind them-nor the fleas, whose size is prodigious, and whose name is legion, and who populate the coach house to that extent that I daily expect to see the carriage going off bodily, drawn by myriads of industrious fleas in harness. The rats are kept away quite comfortably, by scores of lean cats who roam about the garden for that purpose. The lizards, of course, nobody cares for; they play in the sun and don't bite. The little scorpions are merely curious. The beetles are rather late, and have not appeared yet. The frogs are company. There is a preserve of them in the grounds of the next villa; and after night-fall one would think that scores upon scores of women in pattens were going up and down a wet stone pavement without a moment's cessation. That is exactly the noise they make. The narrow lanes have great villas opening into them, whose walls (outside walls, mean) are profusely painted with all sorts of subjects-grim and holy. But time and the sea-air have nearly obliterated them; and they look like the entrance to Vauxhall Gar

I

stairs, into that great sala, presented them himself. This was a polite way of begging for a contribution towards the expenses of some music in the saint's honor, so we gave him whatever it may have been, and his messenger departed; well satisfied. At six o'clock in the evening we went to the church-close at hand-a very gaudy place, hung all over with festoons and bright draperies, and filled from the altar to the main door with women, all seated. They wear no bonnets here, simply a long white veilthe "mezzero"-which is very graceful and stately; and it was the most gauzy, ethereal-looking audience I ever saw. There were some men not very many; and a few of these were kneeling about the aisles, while every body else tumbled over them. Innumerable tapers were burning in the church: the bits of silver and tin about the saints (especially in the Virgin's necklace) sparkled brilliantly; the priests were seated about the chief altar; the organ played away, fortissimo, and a full band did the like; while a conductor, in a little gallery opposite to the band, hammered away on the desk before him with a scroll; and a tenor, without any voice, sang. The band played one way, the organ played another, the