baptised in the sweat and blood of our early reformers and rereformers.

Nay, to pass from man's word to God's word, the Bible itself, the book of the world, the Alp of literature, the old oracle of the past, the word of light, which has cast its solemn ray upon all books and all thoughts, and was wont, as the sun evening clouds, to transfigure even the doubts and difficulties which assailed it into embers in its own burning glory; the Bible, too, has suffered from the analysis, the coldness, and the uncertainty of our age. It is circulated, indeed, widely; it is set in a prominent place in our exhibitions; it lies in the boudoir of our sovereign, gilded, elegantly lettered, and splendidly bound. It is quoted now in Parliament without provoking a laugh; its language is frequently used by our judges, even when they are trampling on its precepts, and dooming poor ignorant wretches to be "hanged by the neck till they be dead," with sentences from the Sermon on the Mount in their wise and solemn threats. It is sometimes seen on the death-bed of seepties; when assailed, the attack is generally prefaced by a deep bow of real or apparent respect; such a reverence as might be given by a revolutionist to a fallen king. But where is the crown wherewith its Father crowned it? Where the red circle of Sinaitic fire about its brows? Where the halo of Calvary? Where the awful reverence which once ringed in its every page, and made even its chronologies and naked names hallowed and sublime? Where the feeling which dictated the title—which, although not expressly given by God, yet, coming out from the deep heart of man's devotion, might be called divine, and might be compared to God's " naming of the stars"-the "Holy Bible?" Where the thunder, blended with still small voices of equal power, which once ran down the ages, came all from the one Hebrew cave, and which to hear was to obey, and to obey was to worship? Has its strength gone out from it? is it dead, or has it become weak as other books? No; its life, its divine stamp and innate worth, remain; but they are disputed, or only half acknowledged, when not altogether ignored.

Such are a few of the symptoms of our spiritual disease. We have not room to dilate on our conceptions of the remedy. Suffice it at present to say, that our conviction is decided (and

that of the age shall soon come to the same point), that there is nothing more to be expected from Carlylism; that bombshell has burst, and its fragments are colored with the blood of John Sterling, and hundreds besides him! The city "No," to use the prophet's language, has been long a "populous city;" but its population must become thinner. The everlasting Yea," on the other hand, has fair turrets and golden spires; but it is a city in the clouds, abandoned, too, by its builder; there is no such place, either in this world or in that which is to come. There seems nothing for it but downright naturalism, which means flat desperation, or a return to Christianity, in a new, higher, and more hopeful form. We, at least, have made up our minds to cling to the old banner of the cross; expecting that since Jesus has already shaken the world by his accents, as no man ever did, he has only to speak once more," at his own time, and in the language of the "two-edged sword," which issues from his glorified lips-to revolutionise society, to purify the thrashing-floor of his church, and to introduce that "milder day," for which, in all dialects and in all ages, the true, the noble, the gifted, and the pious, have been breathing their prayers. If we err in this, we err in company with John Milton, and with many, only less than

he.

Since writing the first half of our critique, we have read the "Times" on "Carlyle's Sterling." We are, in general, no admirers of that "perpetual Prospectus," that gigantic Jesuit of the press, that Cerberus with three heads, three tongues, and no heart; which can be bribed, though not bought; sopped, but not enticed to the upper air (and the Hercules to drag up this dog of darkness has not yet arrived); but we have for once been delighted with an effusion from Printinghouse Square. The thunderbolts are well fabricated, and are strongly pointed at Mr. Carlyle's entirely negative and un satisfactory mode of thought; at his systematic, though sub voce, depreciation of Christianity; at the gloomy bile which spots the splendor of his genius; at the charges of "cowardice" and weakness which he dashes in the face of every one who ventures to believe Christianity, or to pray to the Almighty Father; at the deliberate darkness he piles, or at least leaves unmitigated, around the religious creed and last ex

periences of poor Sterling; and at the fierce and disgusting dogmatism, which is often his substitute for logic, and his pis aller for inspiration. But we do not believe, with the "Times" that in this book Thomas's wrath has got to its height; for, in fact, it is mere milk-and-water compared to his "Pamphlets;" nor do we think that his temper is his greatest fault; pride, according to the measure of a demon, is his raging sin; and no words in Scripture are more repulsive to him than these, "Except a man become as a little child, he shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven." But none are more true, and, to a large portion of men, none more terrible.

NO. II.-EMERSON.*

THE fame of Emerson has had a singular cycle of history, within the last thirteen years, in Britain. His first Essays, re-published in 1841, with a preface by Carlyle, were, on the whole, coldly welcomed by the public; with the exceptions of the "Eclectic Review," which praised their genius while condemning their opinions, and "Tait's Magazine," the monthly and quarterly press either ignored or abused them. Their admirers, indeed, were very ardent, but they were very few, and principally young men, whose enthusiasm was slightly shaded with a sceptical tendency. Between this period and his visit to Britain, in 1848, a great revolution in his favor had taken place. The publication of a second volume of Essays, still more peculiar and daring than the first, the re-appearance of his tractate, entitled "Nature"-the most complete and polished of all his works-the deepening enthusiasm of his admirers, and the exertions of one or two of them, who had gained the ear of the public, and were determined to fill it with his fame, as well as the real merit of his writings, had amply pre

*The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

pared the country for his approach, when, among the last days of 1847, he set the impress of his foot upon our shores. Then his name and influence came to a culminating point, and ever since they seem to us to have declined. For this, various causes may be assigned.

In the first place, his appearance disappointed many; they did not meet the rapt, simple, dreaming enthusiast of whom they had been dreaming.

Secondly, his Lectures were chiefly double entendres. There were alike commissions and omissions in them, which proved this to a certainty. We have seen him scanning an audience ere he resolved which of two lectures he should give. Think of Paul on Mars Hill, balancing between two Greek variations of his immortal speech, or, on consideration, choosing another text than "Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye worship DEMONS too much." We have heard of him, too, sacrificing, to suit an audience, the principal pith, marrow, and meaning of a whole lecture; as if, in quoting the words, “thou shalt worship the Lord thy God," he had slily and sub voce substituted the little word "not." Nay, even when there was no such disingenuous concealment or subtraction, there was a game of "hide-and-seek" continually going on-a use of Scripture phrases in an unscriptural sense, a trimming, and turning, and terror at the prejudices of his audience, altogether unworthy of his genius. Indeed, we wonder that the tribe of expectant materialists in England and Scotland, with Holyoake, MacAll, and George Combe at their head, had not, disgusted at the doubledealing of their American champion, met at Berwick-upon-Tweed, and burned him in effigy. They, at least, are direct, and honest, and thoroughgoing men, we mean animals, for they are perpetually boasting of their lineal descent from brutes, and reptiles, and fishes, and slime, and everything but God, and we are not disposed to deny their far-come and dearly-won honors, or to quarrel, so far as they are concerned, with this mud heraldry.

Thirdly, the better portion of the age is fast becoming sick of all systems of mere negation. And what else is Emerson's? Any man who has ever thought for himself is competent to deny, and even to make his system of denial almost impregnable. A child of six or seven is quite able to trace the syllable

No. To use again the allusion of the prophet, "it is a popu lous city-No;" and assuredly Emerson keeps one of its principal gates. But, with the exception of a mangled Platonism, although he seldom if ever quotes the Greek of Plato, there is not a trace of system, of consistent intuition, of progressive advancement in thought, in all his writings. In one part of them he makes man's soul all; in a second, he makes nature all; and, in a third, he magnifies some shadowy abstraction which he calls the "Oversoul," a sort of sublime overhead negro-driver, compelling men to hell or heaven, as seems good in his own blind eyes. In one place he declares that society never advances, and in another he gives a chart of a Millennium in society which love is by "pushing" to produce. Contradictory intuitions, as he would call them, abound in almost every page, and the question naturally arises, which are we to believe? which of the deliverances of this Paul-Pyrrho, this oracular sceptic, this captive to the "Oversoul," are we to receive as his? To refute them were difficult, because, in the first place, it is not easy to see what they are; because, secondly, he often saves us the trouble, by contradicting them in the next page or volume himself; and because, thirdly, while it is the simplest matter in the world to rear or to dwell in the City No," it is the most difficult matter to overturn it. It is like hunting a dream, or trampling on a shade, or fitting out an expedition to overset Aladdin's palace.

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Such are some of the reasons why Emerson's influence over the young, sincere, and liberal minds of the age must rapidly go down-like an October sun, very bright, but which is too late for ripening anything, and which, after a brief meridian, and a briefer afternoon, sinks, as if in haste and confusion, below the horizon. Another reason we are reluctantly, and in deep sorrow, compelled to add-Emerson is one of the few sceptics who has personally, and by name, insulted the Lord Jesus Christ, and, through him, that Humanity of which Jesus is the Hope, the Glory, the Ideal, and the Crown. extreme Carlyle has always avoided, and he has never spoken of Christ, or of the Divine Mystery implied in him, but with deep reverence. Many other of the sublimer order of doubters have been equally guardel. But Emerson, with Julian the Apostate, Voltaire, Paine, and Francis Newman, must

This