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recess, all persons, individually and collectively, who have the cause of democracy at heart, will transmit to the Committee of Observation their sentiments and wishes on the subject, with a view to future action; and by the instruction thus received the Conference will be prepared to act.

'On one subject the Committee feels called upon to express a most decided opinion-which is the absolute necessity of this or some other plan of union, that, by a concentration of the scattered elements of Democracy, will enable any Executive you may hereafter appoint to bring the united force of a compact and determined mass of thinkers and men of action to bear upon our present legislature.

( We say then, in conclusion, to the men of Great Britain and Irelandnow is the time for an universal expression of opinion. Let it no longer be said that we clamour for the possession of abstract rights, while, as a body, we always neglect to use and exercise those we already possess. 'Anxiously waiting your addresses on the subject,

'We are, your faithful friends,

'Edward Swift, George J. Holyoake, John J. Fussell, John Milne, Walter Cooper, George Julian Harney, George W. M, Reynolds, Arthur Bate, Thornton L. Hunt, D. W. Ruffy, Henry A. Ivory, John Pettie, William Shute, Edmund Stallwood, George Hooper, Isaac Wilson, Robert Le Blond, Charles Utting, T. Gerald Massey; John Arnott, Secretary, to whom all letters are requested to be forwarded, at 14, Southampton Street, Strand, London.'

Now, working men of England, you have hitherto been swindled or cajoled out of your rights; the ball is at your feet; this body is the first that have taken the bull by the horns, and determined that individual agitators shall either merge their crotchets or interests in one united movement, or shall be made a mark for the scorn of the masses, instead of the oracle that has hitherto governed them, too often for individual instead of national interests. We say to all men-address this Committee, tell them if you will support them; and, if backed by you, they will carry out a veritable union, that will make aristocracy tremble.

VIEWS OF LIFE FROM SCHILLER.

WOLMAR and Edwin were friends, and lived together in a peaceful hermitage, where they had withdrawn themselves from the noise of the busy world, to investigate in philosophical calm the mysterious destinies of their being. Edwin, the fortunate, embraced the world with more joyous warmth; while the sorrowful Wolmar arrayed it in the sombre tints of his own misfortunes. An alley of linden trees was the scene of their dialogues. Once on a beautiful May-day they were thus walking together; when the following, as I remember well, was the substance of their discourse.

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Edwin. How beautiful is the day! all nature is again cheerful:--but why so thoughtful, Wolmar ?'

Wolmar.-Leave me to myself; you know it is my nature to mar your

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Edwin. But is it possible thereby to make the cup of joy distasteful?' Wolmar.—' Why not, if you find a spider in it? Look you! Nature now decks herself out to you as a rosy cheeked maiden on her wedding day. To me she appears like an age-worn matron ;-rouge on her sallow cheeks; ancestral diamonds in her hair. How ridiculous she is in this Sunday finery: garments worn out, and turned a thousand times! Even this green undulating train she wore of old in the sight of Noah, with the self-same perfume, and the same motley border. For a thousand years she feasted at the table of Death; made up her paint with the bones of her own children ;—and adorned corruption with glittering spangles. Young man, art though well assured in whose company thou now walkest ? Dost ever consider that this eternal globe is the sepulchre of thine ancestors ?—that the wind, which brings down to thee the odour of the sweet lindens, perchance wafts to thy nostrils the scattered energy of Arminius,—that in the refreshing spring it may be thou tastest the crushed bones of our great Henry? The atom that in Plato's brain trembled at the thought of God,—that in the heart of Titus vibrated with pity, animates now perchance the bestial fire in the veins of Sardanapalus, or may be, in those of a hanged highwayman now food for the ravens. You seem to deem that agreeable, Edwin?

Edwin.-' Pardon me ! Your conversation opens to me a comical scene. What if our bodies wander according to certain laws, as it is affirmed of our spirits? If you, after the death of the machine, must still continue the duties that you performed under the guidance of the soul; just as the ghosts of the departed carry on the occupations of their former life-quæ cura fuit vivis cadem sequitur tellure repostos.'

Wolmar.' So may the ashes of Lycurgus till now and for ever lie in the

ocean.'

Edwin.-'Do you hear the tender nightingale warbling yonder? What if she be the urn of Tibullus' ashes, who sang as tenderly as she? May be the sublime Pindar mounts in every eagle up the blue vault. In every coquettish zephyr perchance there flutters an atom of Anacreon. Who can tell whether the bodies of the beaux do not fly about in flakes of fine powder in the tresses of their ladies ?-Whether the remains of the usurer do not lie chained to the rust of a hundred years on the buried coin?-Whether the bodies of many authors may not be condemned to be melted into type, or milled into paper, to groan for ever beneath the squeeze of the press, and for ever to circulate the nonsense of their colleagues? Do you see, Wolmar? Out of the very cup whence you extract bitter gall my humour extracts merry jokes.

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Wolmar. Edwin! Edwin! How you gloss over the serious with sportive wit! Let me continue. The good cause shrinks not from scrutiny.' Edwin. But look at Wolmar when he is happier!'

Wolmar.—' Fie! There you deeply probe the most dangerous of wounds. Wisdom would be a gossiping fault-finder, that goes spunging to every house and accommodates herself to every humour, calumniating kindness itself to the unfortunate, sugaring over evil to the prosperous. A glass of wine can deify the fiend. If our humours be the moulds of our philosophy, tell me, Edwin, in which shall Truth be poured? I fear, Edwin, you will be wise only by first becoming grave.'

Edwin. That may I never be,-though to become wise!'

Wolmar.—' You have well said. How shall that happen, Edwin? Work is the condition of being,-the aim of wisdom; and happiness, they say, is the reward. Thousands upon thousands of outspread sails speed towards the happy island, in the shoreless sea, to win this golden fleece. Tell me, O man of wisdom! how many find it? I here behold a fleet whirled in the everlasting circle of destiny,-ever thrust from the shore, only again to near

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‚—ever approaching, ever again to be thrust away. It hastens to its destination, creeps fearfully along the shore, to provision, to mend the tackle, and never steers into the open sea. Such are they who weary themselves to day, only that they may tire themselves out again on the morrow. In a moment the number is diminished by one half. The whirlpool of sensuality draws others into an inglorious grave. Such are they who waste the whole prime of their existence in consuming the gains of their ancestors. Again we count them, and now but a quarter remains behind. Timid and shy, they sail forth on the terrible ocean, without a compass, guided only by the deceitful stars. Already like white clouds, on the edge of the horizon gleams the luckless coast. The pilot cries out "land!" And behold a miserable plank gives way, and the leaky ship sinks on the hard rocks. The most skilful swimmer struggles to land,—a stranger in the Etherial zone,-alone he wanders around, and seeks with tearful eyes his northern home. Thus do I abstract from the great sum of your brave system one million after another. Children are pleased with the accoutrements of men; and men lament that they are no more children. The stream of our knowledge rolls backwards to its source. The evening is as the morning. In the self-same night Aurora and Hesperus embrace. And the sage that would break through the bounds of mortality sinks down and becomes once more as frivolous as a child. Now, Edwin, do you vindicate the potter against the pot? Answer, Edwin,'

·

Edwin. The potter is already vindicated if the pot can argue with

him.'

Wolmar.- Answer.'

Edwin. I say, then, even if the island be missed, yet is the voyage not thrown away.'

Wolmar.- -Perhaps in feeding the eye on the picturesque landscape as it flies past, Edwin? And for that, to be tossed about in storms, for that to tremble over sharp rocks,-for that on the heaving waste to stagger before the vengeance of a three-fold death! Speak no more! my grief is more eloquent than your enjoyment!'

Edwin. And shall I therefore trample on the violet because I cannot have the rose ? Or shall I lose this May-day because a thunder-storm may darken it? I derive cheerfulness from the cloudless blue, which shortens for me the subsequent tedium of the storm. Shall I not pluck the flower because it will no more scent the morning? I cast it aside when it is faded, and gather its young sister, that already so lovely breaks from out the bud.' -Rendered in the Looker-On.

REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Catholicism, the Religion of Fear. With eight engravings from the remarkable work of Father Pinamonti, of the Society of Jesus, published by Catholic authority. By G. J. HOLYOAKe. J. Watson, 3, Queen's Head Passage, Paternoster Row. 1850.

WITH a bright red cross turned upside down upon its cover-garnished with a series of striking, authentic, and terrific engravings of hell torments -accompanied by a stern, but not inelegant, critique of the Religion of Fear,-Mr. Holyoake's pamphlet is a very valuable contribution to Papal Aggression' literature. In this small work, Mr. Holyoake has done what has not been done elsewhere stated the case fairly between Catholicism and Rationalism, and clearly shown that compromise between the two is impossible; that, if we carry out the Reformation of Luther, Rationalism must be the result; and that, as Catholicism is 'a widely-ramified conspiracy against popular liberty,' so Rationalism, the offspring of civilisation,' is the doctrine and the gospel of liberty. No one who desires to be thoroughly acquainted with the 'Papal Aggression' question, should rest until he has perused this welcome pamphlet.

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Olive a Novel. By the Author of 'The Ogilvies.' Chapman and Hall. 1850.

WE notice this work because it delineates a character professedly as a specimen sceptic. Will the authoress consider her sceptic a little? He is miserable-tormented, not because he is a sceptic, but because he has acted 'a lie'-because he has outraged his conscience, betrayed his duty, by becoming and remaining a minister of the Church of England after he was atheist in thought and reason. Olive is a praiseworthy novel, and we regret that a noble character, so illogically treated, should disfigure its pages.

CORRESPONDENCE.

CONFORMITY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT.

SIR,-An investigation of the principles of different professions of faith is one of the most important considerations which fall under man's notice. A careful examination of the various arguments brought forward by the adherents of opposing sects alone ought to convince any one of the truth of the pretensions of any faction. Having enrolled myself under the standard of Freethought, I hail with unfeigned satisfaction the continued appearance of the Freethinker's Magazine, and wish to contribute my mite to the treasury. It is not with any wish to destroy morality, and to throw men into theological anarchy, that I present the following remarks; but I desire to see mankind snatched from that fatal influence which retards all progress, and clouds all truth, subjecting us to a cruel tyranny.

One argument of the supporters of this religion, when attempting to prove the authenticity of the New Testament, is, that the facts mentioned in that volume, are coincident to, and agree with, the manners and events of that period. It is asserted that allusions are made to the habits of the Greeks, Romans, and Jews, and this is confidently assumed to be proof positive that the writers were present in those countries, and wrote from personal observation. With regard to Jewish customs, they, say our opponents, were overthrown and mixed with others after the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus, therefore these accounts must necessarily have been written before that era. Now, with all due submission to their superior knowledge, I inquire of these how they have discovered what Hebrew manners were before the conquest of the Jewish capital? If they have no evidence to show in proof of this, we cannot for one moment depend upon their bare assertion of it; but if, on the contrary, they have evidence, that evidence must necessarily be contained in accounts of those customs written when they were usual and common. And in that case, I inquire, why should not the Gospel historians have used the same writings? Can they give any proof that those writers were not acquainted with the books then extant? If they cannot then is their argument entirely useless and valueless. As proofs that the writers of the Testament were familiar with the writings of the ancients I might cite many instances, but one will suffice. Plato published a scheme of theism, in which he set forth a Trinitarian Godhead, which he denominated Logos, a Greek term signifying 'The Word.' St. John begins his narrative by introducing this name, and appropriating it, in the same manner as Plato had done, to God. Now the writer of John's Gospel would not have been likely to have chosen a name so strange for the Deity, if he had not been acquainted with this work of Plato. This coincidence is most expressive, and alone will illustrate my position.

But it was the peculiarity of the Jews, that their manners were not suf

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