dwelt with him night and day for a year. That he could not sell him out and out, and that his own interest in him could not be altogether parted with, he inferred from the fact, that in the Israelitish dispensation the land could not be sold for ever. "The land shall not be sold for ever, for the land is mine." Whatever he saw, this temptation mingled with it. "Suppose a pin upon the ground which he stooped to pick up. Sell Christ for that-sell him-sell him." Sometimes it would run on for a hundred times together. "Sell him-sell him." And Bunyan's fear was that he should yield to the temptation, and he would reply-"no not for thousands, not for thousands, not for thousands," at least twenty times together; at last, when out of breath with strange repetition of unmeaning words, he felt the thought pass through his mind, "Let him go if he will." And now the crime was committed, and then came the thought of his ingratitude; then came the fancy that this was to sin against the Holy Ghost; then came a comparison of his sin with all the cases of sin he could imagine or read of, and he found some incident which distinguished his from all others by a deeper stain of guilt. He had committed a sin for which Christ had not died; God would pardon if it were possible, but it would require another sacrifice to save him, and it is written "There is no more sacrifice for sin :"

"187. Thus was I always sinking, whatever I did think or do. So one day I walked to a neighbouring town, and sat down upon a settle in the street, and fell into a very deep pause, about the most fearful state my sin had brought me to; and after long musing, I lifted up my head; but methought I saw, as if the sun that shineth in the heavens did grudge to give light! and as if the very stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did bend themselves against me: methought that they all combined together to banish me out of the world; I was abhorred of them, and unfit to dwell among them, or be partaker of their benefits, because I had sinned against the Saviour. O how happy now was every creature over me! for they stood fast, and kept their station, but I was gone and lost."

The difficulties of his case were at

"Thy

last solved by his considering that we died with Christ; that His righteousness is ours; that He was looked on of God, and should be looked on by us as that common or public person on whom all the body of his elect are always to be considered and reckoned. That we fulfilled the law by him, died by him, rose from the dead by him, got the victory over death, the devil, and hell by him. When he died we died; and so of his resurrection. dead men shall live, together with the dead body shall they arise." He ascribed his temptation to his not having prayed against being led into future tempttation, but confining his supplications to being delivered from present evil. Some five or six years after his joining Gifford's congregation Bunyan was invited by some of the members of it now and then "to take a hand" in exhortation. They were pleased at his success, and he occasionally accompanied such of them as went into the country to teach; and at last was "called forth and appointed" to public preaching. In the occupation of instructing others he found the rest and quiet of mind to which he had been so long a stranger. He had been five years a preacher when he was apprehended and thrown into jail. Sureties were offered, but bail would not be taken, as it was intimated that he would repeat the offence. He was tried for upholding conventicles, and appears to have been severely dealt with. What, if his case had been conducted by counsel, would only have been regarded as an argumentative admission, was treated as a confession of the offence charged, and he was left to languish for some six years in Bedford gaol; and was scarcely discharged when he got back again, and was kept there six years more.

We incline to believe that to this lengthened imprisonment was due the calm of mind into which Bunyan finally passed, and which rendered possible the creation of the glorious work to which he owes his earthly immortality. Of that work, perhaps the most popular in the language, and in the best respects one of the best, we have not left ourselves room to speak as we could wish. The omission we shall soon supply.

LITERATURE, in all its varieties, presents so vast a subject for philosophic contemplation, that it is not surprising the critics have been baffled in assigning the fixed general rules which govern its production. The attempts made at classifying the principles that are actively at work in its creation, have all been clever schemes of systemmongering, arbitrarily adopted by dogmatists of the closet, and it is worthy of notice that the understanding can play as extravagant freaks as the imagination itself; or, in other words, that elaborately logical systems, planned by merely speculative ingenuity, can become as unreal and remote from the living truth as the fancy-begotten dreams of the visionary. How often do we find in the critical caprices of a Scaliger or Bentley as fantastic aberrations from the actual, as in the rhythmical ramblings of Ossian or of Shelley!

It is clear that adopting a national principle for the causative force of literature will not answer, because the history of letters has shown that the masterspirits often pass beyond the bounds of their country's mode of being, and exult in an intellectual atmosphere, quite alien from that of the land whence they have derived their birth and education, but not their characteristic development. Byron was more of an European than an Englishman, as Goethe was more a Greek than a German. How little of the English idiosyncracy do we perceive in the poetry of Pope; and how alien in its generative principles was the best part of the literature of Rome! Admitting that literature must be judged as a social expression of the deepest spiritual and strongest intellectual import, the question still remains, what are the main principles which rule the germination and culture of letters in a nation?

That is a question which has often occupied our attention, and has, both in Paris and London, exercised our closest scrutiny. We have ourselves

watched the causes which appear to us to influence with predominating power the cultivation of letters. We have been a great deal behind the scenes, and have seen the great scribbling manufactory, which calls itself the Literary World," in its working trim as well as in its holiday gear; and we have practically watched literary men in their habits and characters. We have brought experience and observation to the aid of reflection, and we have formed a theory on the genesis of literature, which we will offer to the reader. Before we do so, we may premise an observation of an explanatory kind.

There is a word current amongst the literary men who write the London journals (we allude specially to the daily press), which is not often used outside the circle of editors, proprietors, and leader writers. This word is actuality, and it refers to the current newspaper test for the merit of a leading article. Style is only a very secondary merit in a leading article for a daily journal. The grand point to attain in a leader is freshness of sentiment, and direct reference to what is passing through the heads of the readers or of the public at large. A man may think with the profundity of Bishop Butler, turn sentences as smoothly as Addison, and deck them with the wit of Congreve or Sheridan, and yet he may not tell as an effective leader writer. His writing may be fluent, animated, and brilliant, but yet without "actuality" it will not be effective in moving the minds of the multitude of readers. The passing circumstances the fleeting caprices of that weather-cock, called public opinion by itself, and branded by statesmen and philosophers as popular caprice-the fluctuations of parties, and the fantastic whims of the factionistsall these a good leader writer must have direct cognizance of, either from first-hand sources, or from approved "go-betweens" (as Burke called them).

Cork: 1850.

These are the facts which constitute that actuality which must be ever present to the journalist, a word which may be taken to include the proprietors, managers, editors, and leaderwriters of a daily journal. For it is the spirit of the day, not the spirit of the age, that a daily journal records.

Thus, the word actuality supplies us with the term that we require. In looking to the causes which regulate the origin and the growth of literature, we would assign three main agents which rule its existence. We say, that literature is generated by public actuality, by personal ambition, and by private amusement. Firstly, we say, that a vast mass of literature is generated by the very necessities of a country. A prodigious part of any national literature is the transcript and utterance of popular and passing emotion, the thinking aloud of a nation. Ballads, pamphlets, newspapers, political economy, public speeches, and the criticisms current upon them all, may be referred to the head of actuality. All these are valuable, not so much for style or sentiment, but for their truthful utterance of the convictions of society. The character and ideas of the people are seen in them; and we read the wishes, if not the wants, of an age in their aspirations, political and poctical. In the political literature of a country we gather its opinions, and in the poetical we learn its sentiments; the former being more intellectual manifestations, the latter being more emotional revealings of the ideal of a country's character. Thus, we see the Scotch character in the songs and ballads of its bards, as well as in the systems of its philosophers. There are Scotch simplicity, rugged energy, and vigorous individuality in all the old Scotch ballads upon which Burns formed himself, and there is Scotch shrewdness in the cautious inductions of Reid and his followers. It would not be difficult to carry out this illustration through much of the national literature of Europe, but we have not space to do so here. It is enough to repeat, that political philosophy and popular poetry (and of course their kindred agencies) are all generated by actuality, and that they derive their primary force from realities. The reader will easily see at a glance, that political poetry derives its origin from "ac. tuality," but he may require some elu

cidation as to political philosophy drawing its power from the same source. All useful and practical political philosophy comes from actuality, and not from the cogitations of a dreamer in a closet. Adam Smith, by a vigorous effort formed an economic eclecticism upon the rules of the French philosophers, his ideas on free trade having been anticipated by David Hume in his Essays. But where were the data upon which Hume and Smith founded their schemes and views of social philosophy? The acts of the governments, the financial regulations and economic experiments of Chancellors of the Exchequer, were still prior to Hume and Smith, and gave the exercised intellects of the philosophers materials for their thinking. How much the best political philosophy depends upon actuality, may be gathered from a pregnant remark of Spinosa: "that no political writings are worth study, or have attained permanent fame, except those of men practically engaged in statesmanship." The observation here quoted can be illustrated by Tacitus, who was governor of a province, by Machiavel, who passed a great part of his life in political authority, by Sully in France, by Clarendon and Bacon, by Bolingbroke and Burke. The case of Swift is not an exception, for he lived in a clique of statesmen, and shared their knowledge with their passions. Observe, on the other hand, what speedy oblivion falls on the writings of merely literary politicians. Burke's Political Essays, Priestley's innumerable pamphlets, George Ensor's voluminous lucubrations, cum multis aliis, prove that without the actuality gained by practical experience from power, and from direct responsibility, the cleverest writings on politics are ever forgotten. It is a mistake to suppose that it is the ephemeral subject which causes oblivion so soon to fall on political compositions. We are now more than a century removed from the days when Bolingbroke's pen was in full activity; and every aspiring statesman in these islands still derives a practical knowledge of political science from the writings of Henry St. John.

We repeat that it is actuality, or great public exigency, which gives birth and force to the most important writings in political economy. The last science first began to be closely studied in England, just when the

empire appeared to be in a disastrous condition at the Peace of Paris, in 1783, when, during the brief minis try of Lord Shelburne, England was obliged to cede independence to America, and Benjamin Franklin appeared as representative of free America, in the old velvet suit which he had worn on the very day, when, in the presence of the Privy Council, he incurred the vituperation of Wedderburne. At that time the gloomiest clouds lowered over the destinies of England. America was lost, and Ireland had for a season achieved what was supposed to be "legislative independence." The Indian empire did not then present the boundless field of power and glory, which it subsequently presented under the conquering policy of the Marquis Wellesley. The immensity of the English empire, soon to be consolidated under the imperialising genius of the younger and greater Pitt, was not dreamed of. At that very time, the press began to teen with essays and treatises on political economy. The desperate fortunes of the country invited every intellect to scrutinise the sources of national prosperity. Sinclair, Eden, and a host of writers appeared between the year 1783 and the outbreak of the French revolution. The Prime Minister, Pitt, eagerly ap plied himself to the study of economical sciences; and the greatest of statesmen was closeted with Dr. Price, the clever Unitarian clergyman, then broaching his illusive scheme of a sinking fund. In our day, and in this island, during the fearful term of "The Famine in the Land," the tremendous actuality of the visitation made country gentlemen, lawyers, clergymen, and amiable women (old and young) appear as advocates of some favourite scheme of social economy.

So much for the first main agent in literary activity-Public Actuality. We now proceed to the second efficacious agent-Personal Ambition.

It is clear that the greatest masterpieces in literature, epic poems and tragedies, have originated in the thirst for fame, the ambition of the applause of ages. The first-class histories have also been written under the influence of the same potent stimulant; a fact which we have proved by the avowal of Thucydides and the candid confession of David Hume. Not lucre, nor desire of social influence, nor any of

the common-place motives of action, made Virgil compose the Eneid, or Milton the Paradise Lost. Burke, in one of his speeches, talks of " that instinct of great souls, a passion for fame." This great and predominating passion can only be truly felt by towering natures. Its bastard imitation, a cormorant vanity, is to be carefully distinguished from the principle which rules the breasts of heroes and great poets. When Thucydides thought of the nua ss as, he evidently cared little for the “digiti monstrari atque dicier hic est." sings of his desire to be "remembered with his land's language." Cowley, in two well-known lines, expresses the longing for fame as distinct from present applause:

"What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?"

Byren

In his touching lines on "My Grave," the late Thomas Davis forcibly utters the aspiration of a noble passion:

"Be my epitaph writ on my country's mindHe loved his country, and served his kind."

Without that passion, it is scarcely possible that the first-class productions in art and letters could ever be undertaken. Between the money given for their remuneration in the most successful instances, and the enormous efforts of genius, there can be no proportion. Byron received £20,000 for his poetry, which exercised a world-wide influ ence, and Murray was "the prince of publishers;" but Sir William Follett had realised, by legal toil, nearly a quarter of a million. Scott purchased Abbotsford, and achieved the dignities of a laird and baronet; but Lord Eldon left a landed property of eight thousand a-year! Neither money nor present influence could ever compensate an author for the labour on a work like the Eneid, polished again and again to perfection, and deemed, by the fas tidious genius who composed it, worthy of the flames. What could compensate a Hallam for the laborious research and long-sustained reflection demanded by his masterly history of European literature? Nothing but the honest satisfaction with which he penned his manly avowal, "that he has contributed something to the literature of his country, something to the honour

able estimate of his own name, and to the inheritance of those to whom he will have to bequeath it."

It is to be observed, however, that mixed motives actuate master-spirits as well as commonplace people. Dryden felt the glory of his vocation, and at times glowed with sublime passion; but his hapless lot influenced his writings, and from the thirst for renown, he was compelled to allow his mind to be influenced by the desire of ministering to his personal necessities. Numerous other instances will occur to the reader.

Of the third agent in producing literature-Private Amusement-we will not say much. It is often combined with the love of utility, but it seldom gives rise to laborious efforts. The literary efforts of people of fashion may be referred to this agent. Tired of the routine of dissipation, they find the writer's pen an agreeable stimulant. Hence, Lady Blessington obtained so many contributors to the gilt and gaudy butterfly literature, which was sent forth every year under her auspices. Hence Lord Gower translates German works, and Lady Londonderry prints her diary, non obstante the London Examiner, and all the weekly and monthly critics. It is rarely that works written pour passer le temps can be useful. There is, however, a very remarkable instance in the case of Cowper's Task. The Satires and Essays were written by the bard, under the hope of being useful; but the Task was commenced half in a spirit of graceful courtesy towards the amiable woman who suggested a poem on The Sofa.

The remarkable and very curious volumes now before us cannot be ranged directly under any of these three agencies we have enumerated. Their source is to be traced to a mingling of the first and third causes. Partly from actuality, and partly from amusement, they derive their being, and furnish a striking transcript of their most accomplished author's literary character. They are a selection of the miscellaneous writings of " J. R." the correspondent of "Mr. Urban," and will well repay the attention of a reader of scholastic taste, addicted to the study of languages, and attached to genealogy, and that attractive region, the gossip of history. We regret that the learned author did not preface them by a biographical sketch. Even if we had materials for the pur

VOL. XXXVII.-NO. CCXX.

pose we would not do so, as he has not thought proper to do it himself. Yet, we cannot notice this work, without a few words on himself, for his writings will exemplify the saying of Buffon, "Le style c'est l'homme.'

"J. R." are the initials of Mr. James Roche, the senior magistrate upon the Cork Bench of Justice, the President of the Cork Library, and of the Royal Cork Institution. He is by birth of ancient extraction, a member of the ancient Roman Catholic family, settled at Limerick, and alluded to by Burke, when he inquires, "What are the Roches of Limerick doing?" in reference to the efforts at Roman Catholic Emancipation. He was for several years a denizen of France, and was a spectator of many of the scenes of the first revolution, and was acquainted personally with Vergniaud, and other notorieties of that period. At a subsequent time, he was in the habit, during his residence in London, of attending for amusement, and from curiosity, the debates in the British Parliament, and was a frequent hearer of Pitt and Fox. For several years he was a leading banker in the city of Cork, and resided at an elegant country seat over the waters of Lough Mahon. There he pursued his favourite literary studies, and collected a vast library of rare editions; delighting, at once, the taste of a scholar, and the appetite of a biblomaniac. In early life he had received a careful classical education, and his proficiency in the tongues of antiquity was kept up by constant perusal of Greek and Roman literature. Taking much interest in the diffusion of knowledge through the community, it was no matter for surprise that Mr. Roche should have been an active supporter of the new Colleges. Several years since, some members of the Royal Cork Institution resolved themselves into a permanent Committee for the purpose of directing the public mind to educational improvement, and the leading aim of that most useful and intelligent Committee was the erection of Collegiate Institutions to meet the growing numbers of the middle class, and the demands of Irish society. Mr. Roche was the Chairman of this Committee, and rendered it substantial services, and we appreciate the feelings of satisfaction with which he refers to the labours of the Cork Committee. Up to his seventieth year, Mr. Roche

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