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REGINALD HEBER.

Hodnet, Salop, Lond., 1837, 3 vols. 8vo, 5th edit., 1844, 2 vols. 8vo; The Whole Works of Bishop Jeremy Taylor, with a Life of the Author, and a Critical Examination of his Writings, Lond., 1820-22, 15 vols. 8vo, 2d edit., 1828, 15 vols. 8vo, 3d edit., 1839, 15 vols. 8vo revised by C. P. Eden, 1847-54, 10 vols. 8vo: Heber's Life of Taylor was published separately, 1824, 2 vols. cr. 8vo, 3d edit., 1828, 8vo. See Heber's Life and unpublished Works by his Widow, Lond., 1830, 2 vols. 4to, and The Last Days of Bishop Heber, by Thomas Robinson, 1830, 8vo.

"Learned, polished, and dignified, he was undoubtedly; yet far more conspicuously kind, humble, tolerant, and laborious:-zealous for his church, too, and not forgetful of his station; but remembering it more for the duties than for the honours that were attached to it."-LORD JEFFREY: Edin. Review, 48: 314.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

There is an ancient fable told by the Greek and Roman Churches, which, fable as it is, may for its beauty and singularity well deserve to be remembered, that in one of the earliest persecutions to which the Christian world was exposed, seven Christian youths sought concealment in a lonely cave, and there, by God's appointment, fell into a deep and death-like slumber. They slept, the legend runs, two hundred years, till the greater part of mankind had received the faith of the Gospel, and that Church which they had left a poor and afflicted orphan, had "kings" for her "nursing fathers, and queens" for her "nursing mothers." They then at length awoke, and entering into their native Ephesus, so altered now that its streets were altogether unknown to them, they cautiously inquired if there were any Christians in the city? "Christians!" was the answer, "we are all Christians here!" and they heard with a thankful joy the change, which, since they left the world, had taken place in the opinions of its inhabitants. On one side they were shown a stately fabric adorned with a gilded cross, and dedicated, as they were told, to the worship of their crucified Master: on another, schools for the public exposition of those Gospels of which so short a time before the bare profession was proscribed and deadly. But no fear was now to be entertained of those miseries which had encircled the cradle of Christianity: no danger now of the rack, the lions, or the sword: the emperor and his prefects held the same faith with themselves, and all the wealth of the east, and all the valour and authority of the western world, were exerted to protect and endow the professors and the teachers of their religion.

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But joyful as these tidings must at first have been, their further inquiries are said to have been met with answers which very deeply surprised and pained them. They learned that the greater part of those who called themselves by the name of Christ, were strangely regardless of the blessings which Christ had bestowed, and of the obligations which He had laid on His followers. They found that, as the world had become Christian, Christianity itself had become worldly; and wearied and sorrowful they besought of God to lay them asleep again, crying out to those who followed them, "You have shown us many heathens who have given up their old idolatry without gaining anything better in its room; many who are of no religion at all; and many with whom the religion of Christ is no more than a cloak of licentiousness; but where, where are the Christians?" And thus they returned to their cave; and there God had compassion on them, releasing them, once for all, from that world for whose reproof their days had been lengthened, and removing their souls to the society of their ancient friends and pastors, the martyrs and saints of an earlier and a better generation.

The admiration of former times is a feeling at first, perhaps, engrafted on our minds by the regrets of those who vainly seek in the evening of life for the sunny tints which adorned their morning landscape; and who are led to fancy a deterioration in surrounding objects, when the change is in themselves, and the twilight in their own powers of perception. It is probable that, as each age of the individual or the species is subject to its peculiar dangers, so each has its peculiar and compensating advantages; and that the difficulties which, at different periods of the world's duration, have impeded the believer's progress to heaven, though in appearance equally various, are, in amount, very nearly equal. It is probable that no age is without its sufficient share of offences, of judgments, of graces, and of mercies, and that the corrupted nature of mankind was never otherwise than hostile or indifferent to the means which God has employed to remedy its misery. Had we lived in the times of the infant Church, even amid the blaze of miracle on the one hand, and the chastening fires of persecution on the other, we should have heard, perhaps, no fewer complaints of the cowardice and apostasy, the dissimulation and murmuring inseparable from a continuance of public distress and danger, than we now hear regrets for those days of wholesome affliction, when the mutual love of believers was strengthened by their common danger; when their want of worldly advantages disposed them to regard a release

from the world with hope far more than with apprehension, and compelled the Church to cling to her Master's cross alone for comfort and for succour.

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Minister to Spain from 1842 until 1846, when he retired to his beautiful countryseat of Wolfert's Roost (Sunnyside), on the Hudson, purchased by him some years before, and resided there until his death, Nov. 28, 1859.

Works and Life, New York, G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1851-57, and later, 26 vols. 16mo: vol. i., Bracebridge Hall; ii., Wolfert's Roost; iii., Sketch Book; iv., Tales of a Traveller; v., Knickerbocker's History of New York; vi., The Crayon Miscellany ; vii., Life of Oliver Goldsmith; viii., The Alham

ions; xii., Astoria ; xiii., Captain Bonneville's Adventures; xiv., xv., Mahomet and his Successors; xvi., The Conquest of Granada; xvii., Salmagundi; xviii., Spanish Papers; xix., xx., xxi., xxii., xxiii., Life of George Washington (also published in 5 vols. 4to, 185557, with illustrations, 5 vols. 8vo, 1855-59, 4 vols. 8vo, 1855-57, 2 vols. 8vo, and Abridged, 1 vol. large 12mo); xxiv., xxv., xxvi., Life and Letters, by Pierre M. Irving (abridged from the original edition in 4 vols. 12mo, 1862-64).

Still, however, it is most wonderful, yea, rather by this very consideration is our wonder increased at the circumstance, that in any or every age of Christianity, such inducements and such menaces as the religion of Christ displays, should be regarded with so much indifference, and postponed for objects so trifling and comparatively worthless. If there were no other difference but that of duration between the happiness of the pres-bra; ix., x., xi., Columbus and his Companent life and of the life which is to follow, or though it were allowed us to believe that the enjoyments of earth were, in every other respect, the greater and more desirable of the two, this single consideration of its eternity would prove the wisdom of making heaven the object of our more earnest care and concern of retaining its image constantly in our minds; of applying ourselves with a more excellent zeal to everything which can help us in its attainment, and of esteeming all things as less than worthless which are set in comparison with its claims, or which stand in the way of its purchase. Accordingly, this is the motive which St. Paul assigns for a contempt of the sufferings and pleasures, the hopes and fears, of the life which now is, in comparison with the pleasures and sufferings, the fears and hopes, which are in another life, held out to each of us. And it is a reason which must carry great weight to the mind of every reasonable being, inasmuch as any thing which may end soon, and must end some time or other, is, supposing all other circumstances equal, or even allowing to the temporal good a very large preponderance of pleasure, of exceedingly less value than that which, once attained, is alike safe from accident and decay, the enjoyment of which is neither to be checked by insecurity, nor palled by long possession, but which must continue thenceforth in everlasting and incorruptible blessedness, as surely as God Himself is incorruptible and everlasting.

Sermons Preached at Lincoln's Inn, 1823.

WASHINGTON IRVING, LL.D., born April 23, 1783, in William Street, between John and Fulton Streets, in the city of New York, after a two years' (1804-1806) residence in Italy, Switzerland, France, England, etc., returned to New York, and was admitted to the New York bar; again sailed for Europe in 1815, and remained abroad until 1832; lived in Madrid as United States

Messrs. Putnam published: I. The Riverside Edition, 26 vols. 16mo; II. The People's Edition, 26 vols. 16mo; III. The Knickerbocker Edition, 27 vols. large 12mo; IV. Sunnyside Edition, 28 vols. 12mo; Lighter Works, 8 vols. 16mo. H. G. Bohn, of London, publishes an edition of Irving's Works (including Theodore Irving's Conquest of Florida by Hernando de Soto), in 10 vols. p. 8vo. To either edition of Irving's Works should be added: I. Irving Vignettes: Vignette Illustrations of the Writings of Washington Irving, Engraved on Steel by Smillie, Hall, and others; with a Sketch of his Life and Works, from Allibone's forthcoming "Dictionary of Authors," and Passages from the Works Illustrated, New York, G. P. Putnam, 1857, sq. 12mo, pp. 287; II. Irving Memorial: A Discourse on the Life, Character, and Genius of Washington Irving, delivered before the New York Historical Society, at the Academy of Music in New York, on the 3d of April, 1860, by William Cullen Bryant, New York, G. P. Putnam, 1860, sq. 12mo, pp. 70; pp. 71113, Massachusetts Historical Society; appendix, pp. 7-63, Allibone's Sketch of Irving.

"The candour with which the English have recognized Mr. Irving's literary merits is equally honourable to both parties, while his genius has experienced a still more unequivocal homage in the countless imitations to which he has given rise; imitations whose uniform failure, notwithstanding all the appliances of accomplishment and talent, prove their model to be inimitable."-WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT: N. Amer. Rev., 35: 192, July, 1832.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

"Other writers may no doubt arise in the course of time, who will exhibit in verse or prose a more commanding talent, and soar a still loftier flight in the empyrean sky of glory. Some western Homer, Shakspeare, Milton, Corneille, or Calderon, may irradiate our literary world with a flood of splendour that shall throw all other greatness into the shade. This, or something like it, may or may not happen; but, even if it should, it can never be disputed that the mild and beautiful genius of Mr. Irving was the Morning Star that led up the march of our heavenly host; and that he has a fair right, much fairer certainly than the great Mantuan, to assume the proud device, Primus ego in patriam."-ALEXANDER H. EVERETT: N. Amer. Rev., 28: 110, Jan. 1829.

A RAINY SUNDAY IN AN INN.

The

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ing ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bells ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite, who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further without

to amuse me.

course of the morning a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal yelept Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purliens of an inn; but the bustle was transient: the coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on.

It was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy The day continued lowering and gloomy; month of November. I had been detained the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted in the course of a journey by a slight in- heavily along; there was no variety even in disposition, from which I was recovering; the rain; it was one dull, continued, mobut I was still feverish, and was obliged to notonous patter, patter, patter, excepting keep within doors all day, in an inn of the that now and then I was enlivened by the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of country inn! whoever has had the luck to the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was experience one, can alone judge of my situ- quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a ation. The rain pattered against the case-hackneyed phrase of the day) when in the ments, the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye, but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water surrounding an island of inuck; there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit, his droop ing tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a halfdozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide; a walleyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now and then between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped back wards and forwards through the yards in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; everything, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drink- |

The evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire, and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns and breakings-down. They discussed the credits of different merchants and different inns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their nightcaps; that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water or sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after which they one after another rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. There was only one man left.-a short-legged, long-bodied plethoric fellow, with a very large sandy head. IIe sat by himself with a glass of port wine

negus and a spoon, sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drippings of the rain-drop, drop, drop-from the eaves of the house. Bracebridge Hall.

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS.

Columbus was now at open defiance with his crew, and his situation became desperate. Fortunately, the manifestations of the vicinity of land were such on the following day as no longer to admit a doubt. Beside a quantity of fresh weeds, such as grow in rivers, they saw a green fish of a kind which keeps about rocks; then a branch of thorn with berries on it, and recently separated from the tree, floated by them; then they picked up a reed, a small board, and, above all, a staff artificially carved. All gloom and mutiny now gave way to sanguine expectation; and throughout the day each one was eagerly on the watch, in hopes of being the first to discover the long-sought-for land. In the evening, when, according to invariable custom on board of the admiral's ship, the mariners had sung the salve regina, or vesper hymn to the Virgin, he made an impressive address to his crew. He pointed out the goodness of God in thus conducting them by soft and favouring breezes across a tranquil ocean, cheering their hopes continually with fresh signs, increasing as their fears augmented, and thus leading and guiding them to a promised land. He now reminded them of the orders he had given on board the Canaries, that, after sailing westward seven hundred leagues, they should not make sail after midnight. Present appearances authorized such a precaution. He thought it probable they would make land that very night; he ordered, therefore, a vigilant look-out to be kept from the forecastle, promising to whomsoever should make the discovery a doublet of velvet, in addition to the pension to be given by the sovereigns.

The breeze had been fresh all day, with more sea than usual, and they had made great progress. At sunset they had stood again to the west, and were ploughing the waves

at a rapid rate, the Pinta keeping the lead, from her superior sailing. The greatest animation prevailed throughout the ships: not an eye was closed that night. As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin on the high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch. About ten o'clock he thought he beheld a light glimmering at a great distance. Fearing his eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro Gutierrez, gentleman of the king's bed-chamber, and inquired whether he saw such a light; the latter replied in the affirmative. Doubtful whether it might not yet be some delusion of the faney, Columbus called Rodrige Sanchez of Segovia, and made the same inquiry. By the time the latter had ascended the round-house, the light had disappeared. They saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing gleams; as if it were a torch in the bark of a fisherman, rising and sinking with the waves; or in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as he walked from house to house. So transient and uncertain were these gleams that few attached any importance to them; Columbus, however, considered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the land was inhabited.

They continued their course until two in the morning, when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of land. It was first descried by a mariner named Rodrigo de Triana; but the reward was afterwards adjudged to the admiral, for having previ ously perceived the light. The land was now clearly seen about two leagues distant, whereupon they took in sail, and laid to, waiting impatiently for the dawn.

The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little space of time must have been tumultuous and intense. At length, in spite of every difficulty and danger, he had accomplished his object. The great mystery of the ocean was revealed; his theory, which had been the scoff of sages, was triumphantly established; he had secured to him self a glory durable as the world itself.

It is difficult to conceive the feelings of such a man, at such a moment; or the con jectures which must have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before him, covered with darkness. That it was fruitful, was evident from the vegetables which floated from its shores. He thought, too, that he perceived the fragrance of aromatic groves. The moving light he had beheld proved it the residence of man. But what were its inhabitants? Were they like those of the other parts of the globe; or were they some strange and monstrous race, such as the imagina

WASHINGTON IRVING.

tion was prone in those times to give to all remote and unknown regions? Had he come upon some wild island far in the Indian sea; or was this the famed Cipango itself, the object of his golden fancies? A thousand speculations of the kind must have swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious crews, he waited for the night to pass away; wondering whether the morning light would reveal a savage wilderness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering fanes, and gilded cities, and all the splendour of oriental civiliza

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IRVING AT ABBOTSFORD.

Late in the evening of the 29th of August, 1817, I arrived at the ancient little border town of Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had come down from Edinburgh, partly to visit Melrose Abbey and its vicinity, but chiefly to get a sight of the "mighty minstrel of the north." I had a letter of introduction to him from Thomas Campbell the poet, and had reason to think, from the interest he had taken in some of my earlier scribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an intrusion.

On the following morning, after an early breakfast, I set off in a post-chaise for the Abbey. On the way thither I stopped at the gate of Abbotsford, and sent the postillion to the house with the letter of introduction and my card, on which I had written that I was on my way to the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether it would be agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not yet been made a Baronet) to receive a visit from me in the course of the morning.

While the postillion was on his errand, I had time to survey the mansion. It stood some short distance below the road, on the side of a hill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet but a snug gentleman's cottage, with something rural and picturesque in its appearance. The whole front was overrun with evergreens, and immediately below the portal was a great pair of elk horns branching out from beneath the foliage, and giving the cottage the look of a hunting-lodge. The huge baronial pile, to which this modest mansion in a manner gave birth, was just emerging into existence part of the walls, surrounded by scaffolding, already had risen to the height of the cottage, and the court-yard in front was encumbered by masses of hewn stone.

The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the establishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leaping on one of the blocks of stone,

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began a furious barking. His alarm brought out the whole garrison of dogs:

"Both mongrel, puppy. whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree;"

all open-mouthed and vociferous.-I should
correct my quotation;-not a cur was to be
seen on the premises: Scott was too true a
sportsinan, and had too high a veneration
for pure
blood, to tolerate a mongrel.

In a little while the "lord of the castle"

himself made his appearance. I knew him at once by the descriptions I had read and heard, and the likenesses that had been published of him. He was tall, and of a large and powerful frame. His dress was simple, and almost rustic. An old, green shooting-coat, with a dog whistle at the button-hole, brown linen pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding himself by a stout walkingstaff, but moving rapidly and with vigour. By his side jogged along a large iron-gray staghound of most grave demeanour, who took no part in the clamour of the canine rabble, but seemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to give me a courteous reception.

Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived at the door of the chaise, he grasped me. warmly by the hand: "Come, drive down, drive down to the house," said he; "ye're just in time for breakfast, and afterwards ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey."

I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made my breakfast. "Hout, man," cried he, "a ride in the morning in the keen air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast."

I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a few moments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There was no one present but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott, her eldest daughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, two or three years younger, Walter, a well-grown stripling, and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or twelve years of age. I soon felt myself quite at home, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I had thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let off so lightly.

"You must not think our neighbourhood is to be read in a morning, like a newspaper," ," said Scott. "It takes several days of study for an observant traveller that has a relish for auld world trumpery. After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall not be able to accom

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