ment is no less applicable to the moral and religious advance of a human spirit through this "vale of tears," as in holy writ it is called, to that "inheritance on high which fadeth not away," than to the physical condition of body and mind, as considered in their natural progress from youth to old age. The most violent effort towards the pursuit of the straight path that leadeth unto life, consists in the renunciation of the "broad way and the green," which leadeth unto destruction. There is, upon the whole, also, more of resolute action in the incidents of the former part of Christian's career, than in the middle or latter part. He struggles through the Slough of Despond, notwithstanding the ill example of his neighbour Pliable, and goes on his way alone. His last combat is with Apollyon, in the Valley of Humiliation. After that, he has little use, even in the valley of the Shadow of Death, for his armour; and in Vanity Fair, where Faithful suffers, there is more of passive endurance than of active resistance. In the land of Beulah, of which (as well as of the Celestial City itself) they have a glimpse from the Delectable Mountains, that which befel the author himself is represented as constituting the spiritual state of Christian. The River of Death alone lay between him and eternal happiness. All there was composure and serenity. And not merely so indeed, but, "as they walked in this land they had more rejoicing than in parts more remote from the kingdom to which they were bound; and drawing nearer to the city, they had a more perfect view thereof; it was built of pearls and precious stones, also the streets thereof were paved with gold." And the increasing beauty of the scene after the River of Death is passed over, is such, that it seems almost as wrong to take upon one's self to praise it, as it would be to have the arrogance to announce one's approbation of scripture itself.

I must not omit (before I quit the subject) to praise the title of this allegory, as adapted to the production itself and to panegyrize no less the character of the allegory as conformable to the title. For failures in both these particulars have been by no

As Mr. Bellamy and other Unitarians have had the impudence to do.

means unfrequent. And here I have to make a remark of my own, which, as being original, and at the same time axiomatically true, may confer a value on the paper which it might not otherwise possess, in the opinion of the merely critical reader. Whoever it was that named the celebrated poem of Homer, the Iliad,—even though it were Homer himself, as perhaps it was-was guilty of a misnomer. So that Bunyan may lay claim to one item of praise which to Homer (if to him the title of his poem is to be ascribed) does not belong. For the Iliad is a poem by no means answerable to its name. And every child that has read Pope's translation of it must be sensible of its deficiency, as a professed account of the siege of Troy. The fact is, it is no such thing, and as such it would be a wretchedly imperfect production. It sets out, however, with no such professions. Homer himself states his subject, in very explicit terms, to be, the anger of Achilles, through which many souls were sent untimely to the shades below. And dependent upon the wrath of Achilles are all the incidents related respecting the war. Accordingly, it should have been called the Achilleid, as Virgil's poem was called the Æneid. And bold as this opinion may seem, it will support itself without any lame arguments for props. For though Hector is slain, Troy is not taken; nor, as far as the reader can learn from the context, in a way to be taken at the close of the poem. It remained as yet for Ulysses to introduce the wooden horse for this purpose, as narrated by Eneas to the queen of Carthage, in the third book of the Æneid, and as told also by others elsewhere. It certainly therefore is to be admired in John Bunyan, that he had the simplicity to give his work the best and only title that was appropriate to it. And in some cases there is a high degree of merit in calling a thing by its right name. Men of bad taste, or of bad principles, are almost sure to shew their want of wit and of good faith, in little things as well as in great. These remarks do not, of course, apply to the iliad.

The titles of some of John Bunyan's other works would certainly be considered, in our day of false polish and refinement, to be more indicative of honesty than of good taste ;{^^nor

should I like to say much on their behalf. One of them bears a name which delicacy will hardly permit me to express; and whatever excellencies it may contain, many will refuse to read it on account of its title: and others, to say the truth without dissembling, are somewhat too palpably characteristic of the tinker and the puritan. Indeed, the allegories he wrote excel them all, inasmuch as they are works of genius, in which Christianity and good sense for the most part predominate over features of a less agreeable sort, which are elsewhere apparent. A man of genius without taste is like one of those great crazy mammoths that went trampling about chaos before the world was created. The Pilgrim's Progress was not the first work of John Bunyan, and his earlier productions only serve to furnish an additional instance of the truth of the assertion in the foregoing sentence. Many other instances of the same truth might be brought forward. Milton's prose is forcible, but by no means correct and elegant. And under favour of the many modern divines who preach in a similar style, I would beg to speak still less favourably (to resume a more serious mood of reflection) of the prose productions of John Bunyan, with the exception always of his Pilgrim's Progress.

The Rev. Edward Irving asks, in one of his prefaces, "Who is Taste, and where are his works?" It might be answered, that the Pilgrim's Progress is one of his works, as also, in its way, the Paradise Lost; and that the prose of Milton, and the greater part of the rest of John Bunyan's, like the greater portion of a volume of Orations lately published, are not among the number of his works.Taste is a man, whose acquaintance is, after all that can be said, very well worth having. And had even Spenser, one of Mr. Irving's favourites, cultivated a closer intimacy with him, his genius, splendid as was its exhi bition, would have displayed itself to more advantage. But enough of a theme, which is beginning to appear to the writer's self invidious. While genius without taste is mad and mischievous; taste without genius is as "dull, stale, flat, and unprofitable," as any man would wish to represent it. To return to our main subject.

What is infinitely beyond all cal

culation more to the point, than a mere cold assértion respecting the Pilgrim's Progress, as a matter of taste, is, the relative consideration of it with the holy scriptures themselves, as a vehicle of truth. And if it could be truly said (which it cannot) of any book but one, that it contained "truth without any mixture of error for its matter," the Pilgrim's Progress of John Bunyan might challenge as fair a claim to it as any book I know. And would to God that all books were always thus rated, though it were to the exclusion of the use of the words taste, feeling, genius, and the like, from henceforward to all generations! For such words (like all words indeed) have but a conventional signification, and are so liable to misuse, that could better words be found, there would be no harm in substituting them in their place. To those who began the quarrel with them, in the mean time, the duty appertains, of furnishing words more proper. Perhaps in the course of time they also may come to an opinion, that no radical change can be effected, in religion or literature, by a mere alteration of words, and that the words themselves which they dis like do not apply to distinction without a difference.

It may be expected here that some notice should be taken of the two parts of the Pilgrim's Progress, as distinct from each other. A few remarks on this head will suffice. The difference between the first and se cond parts of the allegory of our author, resembles the difference between the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. The first production of each is the more chaste and severe of the two. The second, however, is not so inferior to the first in either case, as to be unwor thy of proceeding from the same pen. Ulysses has very liberally allowed to him the privileges of his vocation as a traveller, to recite wonders which sometimes approach too nearly to the character of those which are narrated by that veracious personage Baron Munchausen. Christiana also is edified by a sight of the slaying of sundry giants, in the course of her peregrination through the same scenes which her husband had passed through before her, and claims too the privileges of her vocation, as a woman, to gossip and loiter about, quite as much as was seemly, and rather more than

tends to the due advancement of the fable. But these are slight foibles, after all. And as our previous knowledge of the Trojan war in the firstwritten poem of Homer, prepares us to feel an interest in its various consequences as related in the Odyssey, -so our acquaintance with Christian and the scenes he passed through in the first part of the Pilgrim's Progress, superinduces an interest in the occurrences of the second. We, without feeling any weariness, are ever ready to trace Christiana in her progress through scenes so endeared to us by previous associations. In short, none who like the Iliad, or the first part of the Pilgrim's Progress, would wish the Odyssey, or the second part of the Pilgrim's Progress, unwritten. And there are those, with whose taste I know not that we have any right to quarrel, who will give the preference to the latter of the productions which we have thus compared together.

There is a passage in Doctor Moore's writings, with which I shall at present close the subject. It contains a sentiment which Sir Walter Scott has borrowed more than once for application to certain of his ever well-drawn characters. Though not very novel, it is well expressed, and is, as a general remark, perfectly just; and more than this, very specially applicable (especially upon the principle of a rejection of the words genius, taste, feeling, &c.) to the author of the Pilgrim's Progress. "A man of compound education," says he, "but of good parts, by constant reading of the bible, will naturally form a more winning and commanding rhetoric, than those that are learned: the mixture of artificial tongues and phrases debasing their style." But for this key to the secret, the improvisatori sermons of many men of little or no education among the methodists would be to me, I confess, a mystery far beyond my comprehension. Such was the learning of John Bunyan. And if the frequent and constant reading of the scriptures will not avail to make us authors of works like his Pilgrim's Progress, a rival to which the world in all likelihood will never produce, it can scarcely fail to better us, and that" in such a sort," to use an expression of John Bunyan's, as will be of more service to us, than the

mere forlorn and destitute consciousness of having written works which may be mentioned in a hundred reviews, as being "creditable to our taste and feelings."

POETRY.

THE DELUGE.

BEHOLD the waters pouring down!
The fountains beaving from beneath!
Celestial windows vengeance frown-
Bury the world with direful death!
Th' Almighty's anger flaming forth
With tenfold terrors marks his way,
O'er east and west, o'er south and north;
The earth is swallow'd by the sea.
The mountains sink beneath the waves,
Which, rising higher, reach the sky;
The clouds descend, the tempest raves;
And all the living creatures die.
Why is the earth so soon destroy'd?
Why is the fair creation torn?
Why all the ground of life devoid,
As infants when untimely born?
Is heaven already tir'd with man?

Are all things else his sin to share?
Is there not yet a little span,

A little respite from despair? Alas! for deeds of foulest name,

For violence, deceit, and blood; For an unchaste, unhallow'd flame, For an avow'd contempt of God; The earth was into ruin hurl'd, Men, beasts, and birds, and reptiles died; Vengeance o'ertook our fallen world, And spoil'd the boast of human pride. But yet, amidst a sea of sin,

A little peaceful isle is found ;Noah preserves his garments clean,

And stands on sure and stable ground.
Rage, rage, ye waves, and roar aloud,
With double fury yawn and scream;
The ark's suspended in the cloud,

Or borne aloft upon the stream.
So God delights the good to save,—
The righteous mount above the wave,
So God delights the pure to bless ;-

The pious rest and sleep in peace.
And, for their sakes, their children too,
The mercy of their Maker share;
Whose grace preserves the faithful few,
Whose wrath will not the guilty spare.
The waters now abate, and go

Back to the channels of the deep;
The mountain-tops are seen! and, lo!

The ark finds rest, as hush'd to sleep.
The little tribe of purer kind,

Again we see repeople earth,
And God, to soothe the tender mind,
Sends his most gracious promise forth.
"My bow I in the cloud will set,

Whene'er the waters wet the ground, "To teach you that I have not yet Forgot compassion's joyful sound.

There they can enter, and with boldness pour
Their griefs into the bosom of their God."
And he who hears the ravens when they cry
Will stretch his hand, and satisfy their need.
Wait then his will with resignation mild;
His own good time is best; tempt not his love
By a presumptuous wish. But yet a hope
Built on the basis of his word who said,
All things shall work together for their good
Who fear him, cannot be presumption:
O no! the Power above, without whose will
A sparrow falleth not, will still protect
Thy youthful years, and out of seeming ill
Produce abundant good. His deep designs
What stretch of thought can fathom? Who
survey

The purposes of him who sees the end
From the beginning? Therefore murmur not:
A wise directing Providence shall lead
Thy way thro' all this dreary pilgrimage,
And set thy feet upon an eminence,

From which thou shalt behold the promised land,

Fair, full in prospect; but behind, the road,

O whither have thy fond illusions flown?
When first thy little bark pursued its way
Upon the ever-varying track of life,

Who would have thought the storm so soon would rise,

Or that the raging waves would on it beat?
O say, why in the opening of thy years
The angry blast should with such fury blow?
What, is not innocence itself secure?
Does pale misfortune oft attend the just?
O yes! the Arbiter of human things
Does as he pleases with his chosen ones.
His arm, 'tis true, could always keep them safe
From dire oppression and from sore distress,
But this he wills not-yet he wills their good,
And to accomplish this he leads them on
By safe progression in his own right way.
He shall withhold no real good from those
He loves, and he loves all who seek his face.
To them the door of mercy open stands,

Which during many a year thy steps had paced.
But oh how set with dangers thou hadst 'scaped!
There a huge precipice of wondrous height;
Here was the mouth of a wide yawning pit;
One to engulph thee, one t' obstruct thy pro-
gress.

Here a fair footway that would lead to death;
There flatt'ring baits, and there enticing strains
Sweet, but delusive as the syren's song.
All these and more thy well-discerning eye
Shall then with gratitude and love behold.
Now that thou treadst this valley of distress,
Though the dark shadow circle thee around,
Know, soon the day-star on thy soul shall
dawn,

And shed a peaceful radiance round thy head.
Soon shall thy heavenly Father call thee up
To the blest heights above, where thou shalt
dwell

In the calm sunshine of the heav'n of heav'ns.
August 7, 1824.
B. E.

A MELODY ON FAITH.

LOVE brings to Christ a burning heart, For he has been at wisdom's mart, Where living coals" for ever glow;

Who feels this vital flame below.

Repentance brings a bleeding soul;
The fountain gushes balmy tears;
But tho' the waves of sorrow roll,
Hope glimmers thro' a night of fears.

Obedience brings a chain of gold,

Where links of active labour shine; She ploughs the field, or tends the fold, Draws in the yoke, or digs the mine. Patience serene, with sweet accord Offers a broad, a willing back, To bear the burdens of the Lord,"

And trudge to bliss beneath the pack.

With eyes of love and wings of flame, And willing feet and working hand; Zeal builds a temple to his name,

Or spreads his truth thro' every land.

But faith has nothing, she is poor,
With empty hand and asking eyes;
A bankrupt nearest mercy's door,

Yet bold to ask immortal joys.
She builds a bower in sorrow's vale,
And makes the promises a base;
And chants the sweetly pleasing tale,
A sinner, "I am sav'd by grace."
When loud the storm, the prospect dark,
And thunders rend the gloomy sky;
She rides the billows on an ark,

And warbles "Jesus cannot lie." She makes the soul a garden bower, And tends each plant with holy care; Each duty is a fragrant flower,

Each zephyr a believing prayer. She makes the heart a hallow'd fane; There builds a throne of purest love; Then bids the Lamb for ever reign,

In concert with the mystic Dove. She gives the soul a second sight,

And brings the world of spirits nigh; Then takes an eagle's soaring flight, To read the secrets of the sky. As roses in a crystal vase,

So shines the soul in Jesu's sight; When faith, the elder-born of grace,

Sheds o'er each work her hallowing light. She takes the promise by the hand,

And stops the lovely angel's flight;
Then bids the " Hope of Israel" stand,
Who else had tarried but a night.
A flower for ever fair and good,

She drinks the light, imbibes the dew,
And loves beneath the cross to bud,
In fragrance rich, in crimson hue.
She like the arbor triste grows,*

Her blossoms in the night appear,
To cheer us in this vale of woes;

But then she blossoms all the year.
To touch the Saviour's garment hem,
She presses through a crowd of fears;
And though a broken law condemn,

A gracious promise sweetly cheers.
She eyes the vale of death, a swamp,

And throws a rampart o'er the fosse ;
Then boldly braves the tyrant's camp,
Leaning upon the bleeding cross.
Or looking from life's highest ridge,
To hear the mortal billows roar;
She turns the promise to a bridge,
And crosses safe to Eden's shore.
Newark.

JOSHUA MARSDEN.

THE PILGRIM'S LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. METHOUGHT I heard, in pensive strain, A weary wanderer thus complain "The night was dark, my way was far, I gladly hail'd one brilliant star,

* This very remarkable plant grows in India, and is called the "sorrowful tree," because it never blossoms but in the night. Till the sun sets there is not a blossom to be seen, yet within half an hour there appear innumerable flowers, pleasing to the sight, and of a very fragrant smell.

And fondly hop'd that star should throw
Along my path its radiant glow:
But treach'rous, as too oft the gleam
Of earthly promises, it shed
A fitful, tho' a lovely beam,

Betraying where it should have led.
"Yet still, with pilgrim-steps, I trod
The beaten, tho' the toilsome road,
And solac'd by a constant ray
That inly beam'd to cheer my way,
A light that ever, ever shone,
My path was track'd, my haven won.
But ere that haven won, I saw,-.
And, even as I tell, I shiver,-
I saw that beauteous star withdraw,
And set in awful shades for ever.
""Twas so-there came upon my ear
The sounds of fierce contention near;
And soon my scarcely piercing sight
Discern'd, amid the shades of night,
Two furious foes, whose angry mood
Predicted coming deeds of blood.
The haughty threat, the madman's rave,
The tyrant here might well betray,
While nobler tokens mark'd the slave
Resolv'd to cast his chains away.
"Tho' nobly born, and nobly now
Determin'd never more to bow,
For many a year, the one had been
A wretched vassal, base and mean;
Till rous'd by long-abus'd control,
In native majesty of soul,

He stood, amid the gloom, unaw'd,
Where hop'd the despot, tho' in vain,
To make the rebel own him' lord,'

And wear his slavish bonds again.
"The menace on the lips of fear
Yet courage kindling by despair,
The panting breath, the greedy eye
Of avarice in agony,

Bespoke forewarnings of an hour
Ordain'd to crush the tyrant's pow'r,
While, Moslem-like, against the star

That balk'd his perfidy, he rail'd;

And bless'd the moon, whose crescent-car
Had borne her where the darkness veil'd.
'Not thus his foe, who seem'd as one
Of those who fought at Marathon :
His ample brow reveal'd the soul
Where noble passions conscious roll;
And clad in potent honour's might,
The hero hail'd each beam of light.
And now forth sprang each thirsty sword,
And now the deadly fight began,
The tyrant aiming to be ford,

The vassal struggling to be man.
"And now that star which, heretofore,
An evil aspect only wore,
Beam'd forth as if an angel's eye
Were looking down in sympathy;
It almost seem'd, so true it shone,
For past offences to atone :
And thus, like some blest spirit's smile
Approving some ennobling aim,
Its mingling radiance awhile

Enliven'd freedom's glorious flame.
On liberty's reviving sight,
"But scarce had beam'd its cheering light
Scarce tyranny began to throw
His curses on the dazzling glow,