his irony. He shewed no mercy to the man who could traffic with the bones and sinews of his fellow-man; and against the system of slavery, in all its shades, modifications, and degrees, he waged eternal war. The extinction, and nothing but the extinction of slavery, would satisfy him; and it is only the immediate abolition of this unchristian, disgraceful, and bloodthirsty traffic, that will satisfy the real man of God. We are not to wait year after year, while nothing is done. Empty promises will not please the Christian. Committees of the House of Lords, while the majority are proprietors of slaves, will afford the man of benevolence no satisfaction. We want the dark cloud to be scattered at once!-the curse to be abolished at once!-the plague to be stayed at once! And, though there may be a loud wailing in the West Indian camp, we are to go forward, heedless of the cries that are raised, for it is the cause of enlightened legislation, the cause of humanity, of mercy, and of God.

"Who locks the negro's sable arms?

The white man with his iron chain."

But we, as Britons and as Christians, must burst this chain asunder, and never remain satisfied, till every fetter which manacles the slave be completely riven and destroyed. This was the grand object at which our departed friend ever aimed; and we love and revere his memory, for the bold and ceaseless efforts he made, to liberate the fettered negro; and we are sure, that his energetic labours, and his fervid prayers, will never be fruitless, or in vain.

As a writer, Mr. Watson occupies high and commanding ground. With many of his views, my sentiments, as an Independent minister, are not accordant; but I am a sincere and an ardent admirer of him, as he has spoken to us from the press. His style is very luminous, energetic, and polished. There is no flippancy; no prettiness; no aim at mere ornament; every thing is nervous, manly, and bold; and yet, there is great elegance. I have very recently been reading, with care, his "Conversations for the Young;" and have been much gratified with the simple, vigorous, chaste, and beautiful passages which the volume contains. It is a work which exhibits considerable research; which develops independent and masculine reflection; which takes a wide and most important range; which abounds in original remark; and which is eminently calculated to do good to all, and especially to the young. It will fix their minds, induce thought, excite to inquiry, and pour much import

ant light on the word of God. Watson's “ Observations on Southey's Life of Wesley” uniformly gave me much pleasure. They are admirably penned. There is exhibited much closeness of argument; much point and originality of remark; a great superiority as regards acquaintance with his subject, over the gifted, though partial and high-church, poet; and the most determined coolness and good feeling, in the prosecution of his design. There are passages in the "Observations," penned with much discrimination and beauty.

His "Theological Institutes" require an essay, in order to exhibit their character, delineate their properties, and point out their excellence; and, therefore, I only remark, that no man can rise from the study of them, without saying, "I have been in the company of an enlightened and vigorous thinker, a deep theologian, a nervous and original writer, and a true minister of Christ.'

The christian world has indeed lost a great man; a star of the first magnitude has been extinguished, with regard to us; and all the advantages of his light, wisdom, benevolence, and energy, we shall no more enjoy. Let us take comfort. "He lives with Christ in glory. He basks in the sunshine of immortality. He is liberated from all the fetters of earth, and he enjoys the perfect and unbounded freedom of heaven. He is still with us by his writings, and they will ever be precious to his friends. His example is as fragrant ointment poured forth." Why then despond? Let us be encouraged to renewed exertion. Let us be more fervent in our prayers, that his spirit may be ours. Then, while here, we shall tread in his steps, delight in his labours; and, when we come to die, partake of his crown. "Our bliss shall never fade, our day be past, of trial, and of fear to fall."

66

Petworth, February 7, 1833.

T. W.

THE RUINS OF THE SOUL.

By John Philip Wilson.

RUINED magnificence is a melancholy subject for contemplation, but it is a grand one; and the emotions it calls up in a mind fitted for such an exercise of reflective power, have a sublimity commensurate with the nobleness of the outward object. Recollections of the past mingle with thoughts of the present, and then we look forward, and vainly strive to form anticipations of the future. A mere matter-offact mind, cannot comprehend pleasures

such as this, but one of an imaginative nature can thus create delights within himself which common men little wot of.

When we view the remains of the once proud and towering castle-its broken and moss-grown arches, its dilapidated and ivymantled towers, our thoughts revert to the days of feudal splendour; and the history of the middle ages, the romance of chivalry, arise in the mind by their association with the object before us, and seem to pass before our vision. We behold belted knights, and fair ladies, gallant troubadours, and faithful squires, the deadly strife, and peaceful tournament. We hear the warcries of the leaders, the loud blast of the trumpets, the tramp of steeds, and the clash of armour. We see the glancing of gay crests, and the waving of brave plumes, the glittering of polished swords and sharp spears. See, they close in conflict! Hark to the arrows whistling through the air, and the sharp click of the arblasts! The contest grows more hot and deadly. Battleaxes and huge maces fall with ponderous weight on the helms of adversaries, and the clang of blows mingle with shouts of exultation and groans of death! Ha! the leader of one party falls. His armour of goodly price is disjointed and bloody, and his white plume no longer streams in the van of battle-he is dead! His followers fly in confusion, and some of the victorious prepare for pursuit; whilst others, panting with exertion and wounds, sink down to rest-some of them to rise no more.

Then traverse we the deserted and roofless halls: seat we ourselves on some mouldering fragment, and straightway the antient edifice becomes arrayed in the rude splendour of ages that have passed away. Banners and trophies deck the walls, the hearth once more blazes, the long oaken table, loaded with viands, is placed upon the rush-strewn floor. The fierce warriors have donned their peaceful attire, and are seated at the convivial board, where grim visages and herculean forms consort with those of lovely damsels, and the dark gar. ments of the pilgrim or monk contrast with gay velvet, and the glitter of gold and jewels. The seneschal proffers with lowly reverence the goblet to his lord, who is seated on the dais. Then passes the wine cup, and the joyous laugh of the carousers echoes loud and clear along the vaulted and lofty roof. Then chanteth the minstrel his romaunt, and bright eyes glisten, and brave hearts throb and swell, at the recital of deeds of glory—“lays of love and war."

Shall we explore the gloomy and sub2D. SERIES, NO. 28.-VOL. III.

terraneous dungeons of the castle? We see the prisoner of war, or the victim of feudal tyranny, pining away his melancholy hours, solitary and manacled. The torture is applied, and wild shrieks of anguish fill the dank air of this tomb of the living, but penetrate not beyond the solid walls. He is murdered! No human eye witnesseth the deed, no human tongue telleth the dark secrets of the massy more.

But a bird wingeth its flight near, a dog barks, any trivial sound breaks the silence, and, lo! the vision hath vanished, the daydream is dispelled. The forms that fancy created have faded into air, and we but behold the present reality-the mouldering relics which brought scenes of other times to our imagination, and we smile at her warmth that she should thus picture them with almost the vivid force of actual pre

sence.

The ruins alone remain; and the din of battle, the rude mirth of the carousers, and the wail of the prisoner, have gone. All around seems the region of desolation, and silence holds her reign unbroken about the spot once the scene of warfare, of gaiety, and of oppressive cruelty, unless perchance the hollow steps of some passing traveller, or inquisitive antiquary, the hooting of an owl, or the cry of some straggling animal, breaks upon the stillness, rendering the succeeding hush yet more gloomy than before. The crumbling walls no longer echo to the sweet strains of minstrelsy, nor the falling battlements to the war-cry. The prisons are now untenanted, save by the crawling reptile or solitary bat, and haply the decaying bones of some poor captive, whose miserable existence famine or assassination had closed. The fortifications are dismantled; the strong castle, whilom withstanding many a siege uninjured, hath at length yielded to the slower but more certain attack of time. Its original proud pos sessors, with a long line of their descendants, its defenders and besiegers-all, all now rest with dust; and ruin alone marks the site of many a deed of heroism, of many a deed of cruelty.

And now, let a few more years pass away, and the spoiler and the tempest shall disperse even these feeble relics of other times, and posterity will in vain seek out the spot famed in history and tradition, but which not a vestige of bygone splendour remains to mark.

Such reflections are naturally excited by the contemplation of a noble ruin. But if a melancholy impression be left upon the mind by such meditation-if we feel a kind of regret on viewing the destroying 172.-VOL. XV.

Y

effects of time or casualty upon the works of man's hands, when we know that they are by nature endurable, and may be likened to the evanescent flower that springs up, blooms, and dies-oh! how much more grievous is it to contemplate the ruins of the soul-the immortal soul of man!

True, the first is perishable matter, and the last immaterial and immortal, but yet there is analogy. Time and accident are the destroyers of the former, and sin of the latter. In the first, ravages are obvious to the sight in the broken pillar, the crumbling wall, the fallen turret; and in the second also there are visible outward signs of the invisible decay within.

The debasement and perversion of reason, and the degradation of the mind-in a word, all effects of guilt-may not inaptly be termed "the ruins of the soul." And although, from frequent occurrence, less remarked than other events of less intrinsic importance, yet they are subjects worthy the deepest consideration, and the contemplation of them ought to be attended by highly beneficial results. We see the soul tottering beneath the blast of sin, and fall by the corrosive powers that sap its foundation. We mark where (had timely care been taken) its dilapidations might have been repaired, and complete ruin avoided. Hasten, we then, to examine the fabric in our own breast, lest the GREAT ARCHITECT should not be called upon until it be past amending.

What are the evidences of a ruined soul, and where are they to be found? They are terrible, and they are common. Behold them in sin, and seek them in the abodes of vice. Contemplate, for example, yon wretched object. He is of the dregs of society. Hearken to his filthy and disgusting discourse-he derides and blasphemes his God, and mocks the idea of future punishment. He is an atheist! Mark his wretched body, the prey of disease and dirt, and observe the dull gleam of habitual intoxication twinkling in his sunken eye. Alas! he is a great and hardened sinner, and sets at nought the laws divine and human. But stay, he speaks again; listen to his words attentively, and you will perceive that, although every sentence carries with it an oath or an obscenity, yet his language is of a superior description, and he uses expressions that denote him educated. Observe his carriage, too; there is a lofty bearing breaking forth at times, which ill assorts with the squalid misery of his appearance. Ay, it is true indeed, these are the poor remains of what has been. That

man was once good, noble-minded, intellectual, and rich-but he was gay, he drank freely, and gamed; then he lost his fortune, and became a drunkard and a gamblerhe became a thief! and followed practices that brutalized humanity-he broke the heart of a kind and gentle wife; she died, but his hardened spirit grieved not at her loss. He professes pyrrhonism, to stifle any glimmerings of conscience that may yet remain amid the sad desolation of his soul.

Close your eyes for a moment, and imagine him as he once was. Behold him with serenity seated upon his intelligent countenance, the effect of a mind contented and happy. He smiles upon his young and lovely partner. Oh! there was goodness, there was love expressed in that smile. It was beautiful, so beautiful that you might wish it to rest upon his face for ever. See, he dispenses charity-pity beams in his eye, and the blessings of the poor surround him. He kneels to pray, and a light divine irradiates his fine features, as his form is humbled before his Creator. He is now good and glorious— but stay, trace not his downfall, but unclose your eyes at once, and view him as he now is. Behold the ruins of a soul! And yet this wreck is not the effect of sudden convulsion, it was completed by degrees, step by step, in the same manner as the proud strong castle was reduced to destruction. He had a weak side, and there temptation assailed, until gradually she effected her cruel work. View him. He is lost. It is too horrible to anticipate his final fate, but the seal of the doomed one seems set upon his brow.

Oh! this is truly a dread subject for contemplation, and one that harrows up every feeling of humanity. What are the ruins of monuments, towers, castles, or pyramids, in comparison with this, the work of the great Creator himself-the mind of man. The structure how grand and towering, the fall how awful!

Man is provided with safeguards against the inroads of vice, whilst senseless masonry is undefended from the assaults of time. The soul has reason and conscience, but these invaluable sentinels are made to sleep, and the citadel is left accessible to the attacks of the enemy. Then all is lost, and the portion of Divine essence-that spark of immateriality, connecting matter and mortality with a superior intelligence— becomes drowned, and swept away in the whirlpool of assailing sin; and the soul, formed by the Almighty to be lasting through eternity in its original beautiful

purity, becomes a ruin, compared with which the most shapeless weatherworn pile is firm and beautiful.

ON SELF- KNOWLEDGE.

THE tendency visible in most men, to the study of their own minds, and the eagerness so frequently manifested for the acquisition of a certain knowledge of themselves, appears to me a most striking proof of the importance of the soul's destinies, and its realities. The research after the source and nature of these secret operations never fatigue the human mind. How often is the attention arrested by some peculiar object of striking interest, or lively solicitude. Without decidedly knowing why, each man endeavours to arrange his ideas of himself, to trace a sort of catalogue, to compose a list, of the faculties of his mind, or the propensities of his heart.

That which each man appears instinctively to do on his own account, some have undertaken to perform for human nature generally. Philosophy is the name which has been particularly applied to this study of our moral and intellectual organization, and many believe that, could they but arrive at the deciphering of the unknown characters imprinted on our souls, the topmost branches of the lofty tree of knowledge would bow down within our grasp. But these characters are not deciphered. That which each man knows of himself; that even, which philosophers know of human nature, may all be compared to a few broken fragments of an earthen vessel, from which nothing can be reconstructed.

In man as judge, and in man as the object judged, are there not certain great defects which abridge his knowledge? Is there not a want of a true way to the arrival of this? Doubtless this defect exists, doubtless this way is wanting, and, as long as he is governed by the one, or receives not the help of the other, man will never arrive at the proper explanation of his own heart.

The principal defect in natural man, as judge of himself, is, his total ignorance of spiritual truths; this ignorance would be dreadful to him, if, as is generally the case, he was satisfied with the examination only, instead of shunning that which tends to decrease his knowledge. It would be dreadful, for it carries with it its destinies, which are irrevocable, permanent, and positive. All that which has no decided affinity to the present life, all that which in any manner leads to things eternal and invisible, throws him in a state of doubt

and hesitation. Man finds himself at variance with these spiritual subjects, when he studies his nature, in which he encounters an immortal soul, a soul which in its origin was created by the breath of God, in his image that image, alas! now lost, but that breath of life still indestructible. This soul, instead of enlightening the researches of man on himself, tends only to complicate his views, and that in such a manner as to render it impossible satisfactorily to conclude his study. Tell a man of learning to obtain the knowledge of any subject whatever, belonging exclusively to this world, and he will do it to the utmost of his power; but ask him to study a subject, in which are mingled things not pertaining to this world, in which he encounters some of those truths which eternity alone can unfold, such as the destruction of this world, and with it all mankind; then we find these things to him totally inexplicable. The judgment of man then has not that necessary qualification by which he is capable of judging correctly of himself.

The heart of man, as the object judged, presents insurmountable obstacles: the Scriptures say, "The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it?" And remark, this question is one of defiance: God appears to say to man, I defy you to know your own heart, on account of its cunning and malice.' This miserable propensity of the human heart, is as a labyrinth without end; entangling, instead of safely conducting such as enter it. A pure and bright mind would be lost on such a heart as this. What then would become of an impoverished and ignorant one?

Man, then, being incapable, from the nature of his heart and mind, of studying and knowing himself, another means is necessary, unconnected with him. A point of comparison-something tangible-which will assist him in valuing his powers, in measuring the dimensions of his mind. An object which is capable of judging. A type. A perfection, which can accomplish or contrast all that which is imperfect or wicked in him; which can place before his eyes, and shew him in a positive manner, that which he is not, and that which he ought to be. This type of spiritual existence, man knows not, yet it exists. It is God, that God which is spirit and lifethat God who calls himself "The God of the spirits of all flesh." This is the mean by which man can learn himself, can judge himself, and can appreciate his just value. The knowledge of God, in whom we find everlasting wisdom and truth This is

what can instruct the ignorance of man, and destroy the depravity of his heart; "Be ye holy as I am holy," has God said in his word.-Behold now a comparison between God and man, a comparison which is capable of arranging all the various objects passing to and from the human heart.— All that is necessary for man, in the contemplation of himself, is, whether he is, or is not, like God; if a man neglects examination on this principle, he has no certain rule to go by. Amongst men there exists certain fixed principles of good and evil,they avow, that in the constitution of morals all is relative. But self-knowledge, will it not be uncertain, with such an uncertainty of principles as this? If God exists, he is necessarily the type of goodness and perfection; and the opposite, of evil and corruption. He is himself the fixed principle from which the nature and actions of all spiritual beings shall be judged.

If man will examine himself after this rule, he will easily arrive at a result, to which all his own efforts could never have brought him. In the presence of the holiness of God, His eternity, and His perfection, he will soon discover the depravity of his own heart, his carnal and earthly nature, and his contrast to the traits of a divine character. This is the first truth man has to learn of himself, which will be an introduction to all others, while it will shut out the entrance of all repugnant subjects. Southwark, Feb. 22.

W.K.T.

THE FISHERMAN OF SOLWAY FRITH. (BY W. PRESCOTT SPARKS.)

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear, Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness in the desert air.

It was a beautiful evening: the moon had just risen above the ocean, and was mounting her throne in the high heavens: the waters beneath lay calm and unruffled in her beams, which shed their unbedimmed lustre over land and sea, save when a few light clouds threw a momentary veil across her silver face, and a faint shadow passed over the lovely scene of her empire, even as when, in scenes of glory or delight, some bitter memory suddenly beclouds the breast of mortality; or, to draw a higher comparison, when a shadow passes for a moment between the uplifted eye of a humble believer, and the life-giving countenance of his heavenly Guide! Not only in this soft yet powerful light was the shore, with the

few fishermen's huts scattered here and there, distinctly visible, but the vessels at sea, as they sailed along, or rode quietly at anchor, were clearly outlined. On the margin of the shore, looking out upon the waters, stood two human beings, who, from their conversation, appeared to be watching the return of some fishing-boat. The one was a young woman, apparently about twenty years of age; slight, yet well formed, and with highly interesting, if not decidedly beautiful features. The young man who was her companion, was about the same age, and his dress bespoke him a ploughman of the deep. They stood some time in silence, as if meditating upon the beauty of the night, and the sweet stillness which reigned around. At last the girl somewhat hastily exclaimed,

"I must leave you now, William; my father and brother cannot be far distant; I must get them a fire, and provide something for them. You know, they have been all day at sea."

"Nay, Mary," replied the other, "leave me not all so soon; but another day, and I shall leave you for a long, long time, but yet I would not keep you from your duty.

God bless you, dearest Mary; to-morrow night we will again meet, but it will be the last time for many, many months."

With these words they parted; the female disappeared into one of the cottages hard by, and the youth briskly pursued his walk in an inland direction.

Mary Gray was the daughter of an old fisherman who had long resided on the borders of the Solway Frith. Her mother had long since died, and the care of their small household devolved upon her. Her father and brother, a youth about a year younger than herself, were almost constantly from home during the day, either employed in fishing, or in selling the produce of their labours, consequently much of her time was spent alone, until Allen, the young man whom we have just mentioned, became an occasional and not unfrequent visitor.

He was a young sailor who, when at home, resided at a small town not far distant from the Frith, and had there been in the habit of seeing John Gray and his son, when they came weekly to sell their fish : he had also obliged the young one by supplying him with some nets. In course of time, Allen visited their cottage, where he saw Mary, his first distant acquaintance with whom soon ripened into a feeling of a totally different kind. Her father and brother observed this, the first with sullen silence, never objecting, but not expressing his approbation; but his son, in spite of all