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as church members, and receive the blessings and enjoy all the privileges to which they are entitled by baptism. In the Jewish Church, those circumcised children who did not at a proper age perform their appropriate duties, God commanded-after all necessary means had been used to bring them to obedience-should be cut off from his people, and reckoned among the uncircumcised who were aliens from the commonwealth of Israel. We ought to carry out this principle in the treatment of the children of the Church. By stopping short of this, we lose, in a great measure, the benefits of the initiatory ordinance which we so zealously maintain. We render it of none effect; we expose it to contempt; and while the children see themselves cast out and disowned, without any previous effort of the Church to reclaim and to sanctify them, they will be led to despise their baptism and their covenant, and may become hopelessly hardened in unbelief and sin. These children upon whom we have solemnly placed the seal of God's covenant, and at the same time have refused to recognise as belonging to the household of faith, have grounds of heavy complaint against us. Truly are they coldly disowned as if they, like the heathen, were strangers to the covenants of promise? If the seal of the kingdom of heaven is upon them, why are they denied the privilege of that guardianship which belongs to sons in their minority? If they rebel, let them be brought to repentance and obedience by the holy discipline of the Church, or cut off by the sentence of excommunication; but why are they thrust out privily from their father's house, without even an effort to ascertain whether they will comply with their covenant engagements or not? If they wander, why does not the pastor, like the good shepherd, go out into the wilderness after them, and bring them back rejoicing, rather than suffer them to perish for lack of vision. They have cause of complaint. And the great Shepherd who took the lambs in his arms, will, we have reason to fear, apply to us that terrible sentence which was once passed upon the Jewish Church and its pastors, "Ye feed not the flock. diseased have ye not strengthened, neither have ye healed that which was sick, neither have ye bound up that which was broken, neither have ye brought again that which was driven away, neither have ye sought that which was lost. And they were scattered because there was no shepherd, and

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they became meat for all the beasts of the field. My sheep wandered through all the mountains, yea my flock was scattered upon all the face of the earth, and none did search or seek after them."

ART. IV. REVIEW OF DE LAMARTINE'S JOCELYN.

Jocelyn Episode-Journal trouvé chez un Curé de Village. Par Alphonse De Lamartine.

France, "La belle France," has long ceased to be the residence of the Muses. When after the interval of darkness which succeeded the overthrow of the Roman power, the sun of civilization dawned faintly and gradually on a benighted world, her fair skies were first illumined by the welcome light, her woods and valleys first resounded with the notes of the lyre, and the inspired strain of the poet; and the long frozen "tide of song," bursting the bonds. which had restrained it, first flung its golden waves upon her smiling shores. The Provençal bards may be said to have relit the Promethean spark, which was afterwards fanned by the soft breezes of Italy into a glorious flame. The Sacred Nine flew to this more genial clime, and erected there an altar, which their grateful votaries crowned with offerings. The genius of the French nation changed as the spirit of chivalry declined. Their institutions for the cultivation of the gai science, and their fondness for it were forgotten in the political distractions of the country, or in the affairs of commerce. During the last three centuries France has produced many great statesmen, warriors, scholars, savans, and beaux esprits, but very few poets. While Italy has given to the world, a Dante, a Petrach, an Ariosto, and a Tasso, and an infinitude of smaller stars, the annals of France bear but the name of Voltaire, and he perhaps merits rather to be called a great man, than a great poet. This is no doubt to be ascribed in part to the deficiencies of the language, which is neither flexible nor rich in rhymes; but in a still greater degree to the absence of those refined sensibilities, and of that eager percep

tion and adoration of the beautiful which should enter into the composition of a poetical people.

The writings of De Lamartine form a new era in the modern school of French poetry. He does not adhere to the stiff and rigid outlines which his predecessors have drawn, neither does he seem to write with the dread of the "Académie Française" continually before his eyes. His is emphatically the poetry of the heart. Full of imagination and deep feeling, he seems to pour forth his bright and beautiful thoughts spontaneously--to have written because he could neither repress, nor conceal his emotions. We are astonished no less by the versatility, than by the richness of his powers-On all subjects, in all regions, he is equally at home, equally captivating. When he sings of love and beauty, we almost wish that he should sing of nothing else. When he pourtrays the struggles, the horrors, the triumphs of war, not the call of the martial trumpet is not more spirit-striking than his numbers. When he wakes the pious strain of devotion, and borne on the wings of faith, rises to Heaven, a purer, loftier inspiration fires his soul, he paints the glory, the power, the benevolence of the Creator in such glowing colours, that we regret, that the lyre, consecrated to so holy a theme, should respond to any other.

De Lamartine's lyric effusions may be considered as some of the brightest gems of French poetry. His meditations are full of pathos, and of tenderness; and his harmonies abound in striking and sublime passages. He sports with the difficulties of the language, and moulds them to his will. He lays aside those tedious Alexandrines which fatigue us so much in the works of Racine and Voltaire, and delights us with the continual variation of his measures, and the copiousness of his rhymes. We are reminded, on comparing his works with those of the older poets of his country, of the difference of style between the ancient Venetian and Florentine schools of painting; the one all severity and correctness of outline, the other resplendent with bright and exquisitely mingled colours; the one resembling a skeleton, the other, the blush on beauty's cheek, each excellent in its kind, but the union of both necessary to the perfection of art. But it is not so much the beautiful dress of his sentiments that we admire, as the idea of moral excellence which they convey to us. We render homage not merely to the poet, but to the man and the Christian;

not content with amusing the fancy, he aims at elevating the heart. Unlike many whom Heaven has gifted with this most sacred of talents, he allows us to perceive from the direction of the current that its source is divine. In accompanying his poetic wanderings, we do not fear that he is guiding us through the diversified regions of fancy to mislead us at last. We do not fear that, like Byron, he is casting a robe of noble and majestic imagery around that which in itself is base and polluted; nor that his love for the beautiful, his worship of the sublime is but a mask beneath the shelter of which he may scorn and blaspheme the Being whose image is impressed upon all that is beautiful and sublime. Every word carries with it the conviction that it comes from the abundance of a heart purified and refined by the influences of religion.

De Lamartine has from time to time delighted the world with his various lyric compositions. The desire of concentrating the brilliant rays of his genius-of leaving some monument of thought more lasting than "those dewdrops of inspiration" which time and meditation cause to flow from the heart or mind of the poet,-oft scarcely surviving the impression from which they have been produced-gave rise to Jocelyn, his last work. This is a severe test of the poets' powers. It is not always that those who excel in the light and desultory efforts of the imagination, combine with this the power of delineating characters, of relating events, and of sustaining the interest through a long and continuous poem. The attention of the reader is easily gained for a short time, but is difficult to lead it enchained over page after page, through canto after canto. In order to accomplish this, it is necessary that the poet should be in some degree a painter. There is a kind of grouping, a perspective, a contrast in colouring, a distribution of light and shade, all of which are essential to success in this the highest, department of the divine art, and without which even those whose sonnets and odes have charmed us, generally become tiresome, "ennuyant," ungraceful on assuming the Epic style. But the mind of De Lamartine appears to far greater advantage in this new field, in which it is allowed a range sufficiently wide for the display of all its forces. He mingles skilfully description with narrations, and narration with meditation. He is joyous and sad, passionate and calm alternately, but in all he is himself. We VOL. III. 72

recognize throughout the author of "Le Lac," "Le premier regret" and "Napoleon", by the ease, by the refinement and by the felicitous turn of expression which every where distinguish him. It must be acknowledged that with all the other attributes of genius, he has also its inequalities. His enthusiasm sometimes becomes extravagance, and his style is occasionally too diffuse. We find in this, as in many of his other productions, flat lines, and obscure phrases. The tale is, as it were, too much spun out, and though Jocelyn, its hero, is as attractive as youth, virtue, and misfortune can render him, we sometimes tire of the expression of his thoughts, and feelings, beautiful as they are. The description of his solitary life, though filled with fine ideas, and exquisite passages, is monotonous. De Lamartine should study conciseness, and cultivate more concentration of thought. He is too apt to dwell upon details which should be passed over, as they become tedious, and diminish the dignity of his style. He weakens by elaboration that which would be much more forcible and energetic if simply expressed. These defects, however, are so trifling in comparison with the real value of the poem, that they may be easily forgiven and forgotten in its merit as a whole. This episode, as the author has named it, purports to be the journal of a village curate in one of the chalets of the Alps; in which Jocelyn, becoming his own historian, records the events of an unhappy life, and pours forth unrestrainedly the current of sorrow which has long in secret desolated his heart. It is found after his death and preserved by his friend.

The first part commences with the description of a "fête champêtre," It is the sixteenth anniversary of Jocelyn's birth, and he tells us that the day hath passed in joy,

"Like the juice

"Of some delicious fruit which, melting at the touch
"Leaves on the lips but sweetness and perfume."

The lovely faces and graceful forms by which he is surrounded, the chiming bells, the sounds of the rustic instruments, the dances on the greensward, all combine to fill his mind with bright imaginings, his heart with hope. Rapt in Elysium, he lies down at night to dream of radiant eyes, and fairy revels, with the following sage reflections:

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