Obrazy na stronie

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Infolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As eer beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil secth-

ing, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion, Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumuli Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the sountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 't would win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those cayes of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware : Beware!. His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honey-dew hath fed And drank the milk of Paradise.


Ear on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knces;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble Trust mine eye-lids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought express'd :
Only a sense of supplication,
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unbleet,

Since in me, round me, everywhere, Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

But yester-night I pray'd aloud
In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me :
A lurid light, a trainpling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom I scorn'd, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still'
Desire with lothing strangely mix’d,
On wild or hateful objects fix’d.
Fantastic passions! maddening brawl.'
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know,
Whether I suffer'd, or I did :
For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe,
My own or others', still the same
Life-stilling fear, soul-stilling shame.

So two nights pass'd: the night's dismay Sadden'd and stunn'd the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seem'd to me Distemper's worst calamity. The third night, when my own loud scream . Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child ; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder inood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stain'd with sin: For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, The horror of their deeds to view, To know and lothe, yet wish and do! Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ! To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed.


APOLOGETIC PREFACE to “fire, FAMINE, AND slaughter.” [Sce page 26].

At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian consecrates a cultivated genius and the favorable accidents of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, it was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or polite literature, than are commonly sound collected round the same table. In the course of conversation, one of the party reminded an illustrious Poet, then present, of some verses which he had recited that morning, and which had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so addressed replicd, that he was rather surprised that

none of us should havé noticed or heard of the poem,
as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in
Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feel-
ings were at this moment not of the most comforta-
ble kind. Of all present, one only knew or suspect-
ed me to be the author: a man who would have
established himself in the first rank of England's
living Poets, if the Genius of our country had not
decreed that he should rather be the first in the first
rank of its Philosophers and scientific Benefactors.
It appeared the general wish to hear the lines. As my
friend chose to remain silent, I chose to follow his
example, and Mr. ***** recited the Poem. This he
could do with the better grace, being known to have
ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and
Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr.
Pitt, both as a good man and a great Statesman. As
a Poet exclusively, he had been amused with the
Eclogue; as a Poet, he recited it; and in a spirit,
which made it evident, that he would have read and
repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own
name been attached to the imaginary object or agent.
After the recitation, our amiable host observed,
that in his opinion Mr. ***** had overrated the merits
of the poetry; but had they been tenfold greater,
they could not have compensated for that malignity
of heart, which could alone have prompted senti-
ments so atrocious. I perceived that my illustrious
friend became greatly distressed on my account; but
fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and pres-
ence of mind enough to take up the subject without
exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully
it interested me.
What follows, is substantially the same as I then
replied, but dilated and in language less colloquial.
It was not my intention, I said, to justify the publi-
cation, whatever its author's feelings might have
been at the time of composing it. That they are
calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from
a good man, is not the worst feature of such poems.
Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion to
the pleasure which they are capable of affording
to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled Yeaders.
Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the
author seriously wished what he had thus wildly im-
agined, even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so
monstrous would be an insult to the hearers. But it
seemed to me worthy of consideration, whether the
mood of mind, and the general state of sensations,
in which a Poet produces such vivid and fantastic
images, is likely to coexist, or is even compatible,
with that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a
serious wish to realize them would presuppose. It
had been often observed, and all my experience
tended to confirm the observation, that prospects of
pain and evil to others, and, in general, all deep feel-
ings of revenge, are commonly expressed in a few
words, ironically tame, and mild. The mind under
so direful and fiend-like an influence seems to take a
morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of its
wishes and feelings, with the slightness or levity of
the expressions by which they are hinted; and in-
deed feelings so intense and solitary, if they were
not precluded (as in almost all cases they would be)
by a constitutional activity of fancy and association,
and by the specific joyousness combined with it,
would assuredly themselves preclude such activity.
Passion, in its own quality, is the antagonist of ac-
tion; though in an ordinary and natural degree the

former alternates with the latter, and thereby revives

and strengthens it. But the more intense and insane the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the correspondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its favorite object, and exercises as it were a perpetual tautology of mind in thoughts and words, which admit of no adequate substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it moves restlessly round and round the scanty circumference, which it cannot leave without losing its vital clement.

There is a second character of such imaginary representations as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to another, which we often see in real life, and might even anticipate from the nature of the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive man places before his imagination, will most often be taken from the realities of life: they will be images of pain and suffering which he has himself seen inflicted on other men, and which he can fancy him. self as inflicting on the object of his hatred. I will suppose that we had heard at different times two common sailors, each speaking of some one who had wronged or offended him: that the first with apparent violence had devoted every part of his adversary's body and soul to all the horrid phantoms and fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, and this in a rapid flow of those outré and wildly-combined execrations, which too often with our lower classes serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess of their passions, as so much superfluous steam that would endanger the vessel if it were retained. The other, on the contrary, with that sort of calmness of tone which is to the ear what the paleness of anger is to the eye, shall simply say, “If I chance to be made boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but once get that fellow under my hand (and I shall be upon the watch for him), I'll tickle his pretty skin' I wont hurt him! oh no! I'll only cut the to the liver!” I dare appeal to all present, which of the two they would regard as the least deceptive symptom of deliberate malignity 1 nay, whether it would surprise them to see the first fellow, an hour or two afterward, cordially shaking hands with the very man, the fractional parts of whose body and soul he had been so charitably disposing of; or even perhaps risking his life for him. What language Shakspeare considered characteristic of malignant disposition, we see in the speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who spoke “an infinite deal of nothing more than any man in all Venice;”

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and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shy-
lock's tranquil “I stand here for law.”
Or, to take a case more analogous to the present
subject, should we hold it either fair or charitable to
believe it to have been Dante's serious wish, that all
the persons mentioned by him, (many recently de-
parted, and some even alive at the time), should ac-
tually suffer the fantastic and horrible punishments,
to which he has sentenced them in his Hell and
Purgatory? Or what shall we say of the passages
in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state
of those who, vicious themselves, have been the

cause of vice and misery to their fellow-creatures 2 Could we endure for a moment to think that a spirit, like Bishop Taylor's, burning with Christian love; that a man constitutionally overflowing with pleasurable kindliness; who scarcely even in a casual illustration introduces the image of woman, child, or bird, but he embalms the thought with so rich a tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties and fragments of poetry from a Euripides or Simonudes:–can we endure to think, that a man so natured and so disciplined, did at the time of composing this horrible picture, attach a sober feeling of reality to the phrases or that he would have described in the same tone of justification, in the same luxuriant flow of phrases, the tortures about to be inflicted on a living individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber? or the still more atrocious sentences executed on the Scotch anti-prelatists and schismatics, at the command, and in some instances under the very eye of the Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched bigot who afterwards dishonored and forfeited the throne of Great Britain Or do we not rather feel and understand, that these violent words were mere bubbles, siashes and electrical apparitions, from the magic ealdron of a servid and ebullient fancy, constantly fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language 2

Were I now to have read by myself for the first time the Poem in question, my conclusion, I fully believe, would be, that the writer must have been some man of warm feelings and active fancy; that he had painted to himself the circumstances that accompany war in so many vivid and yet fantastic forms, as proved that neither the images nor the teelings were the result of observation, or in any way derived from realities. I should judge, that they were the product of his own seething imagination, and therefore impregnated with that pleasurable exultation which is experienced in all energetic exerwon of intellectual power; that in the same mood he had generalized the causes of the war, and then personified the abstract, and christened it by the name which he had been accustomed to hear most often associated with its management and measures. I should guess that the minister was in the author's mind at the moment of composition, as completely a-aos, draipogaokos, as Anacreon's grasshopper, and that he had as hille nouon of a real person of flesh and blood,

Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,

as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half person, half allegory) which he has placed at the gates of Hell. I concluded by observing, that the Poem was not calculated to excite passion in any mind, or to make any impression except on poetic readers; and that from the culpable levity, betrayed at the close of the Eclogue by the grotesque union of epigrammatic wit with allegoric personification, in the allusion to the most fearful of thoughts, I should conjecture that the “rantin' Bardie,” instead of really believing, much less wishing, the fate spoken of in the last line, in application to any human individual. would shrink from passing the verdict even on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor Burns,

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I'm was to think upon yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!

I need not say that these thoughts, which are here dilated, were in such a company only rapidly suggested. Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous compliment observed, that the defence was too good for the cause. My voice faltered a little, for I was somewhat agitated; though not so much on. my own account as for the uneasiness that so kind and friendly a man would feel from the thought that he had been the occasion of distressing me. At length I brought out these words: “I must now confess, Sir! that I am author of that Poem. It was written some years ago. I do not attempt to justify my past self, young as I then was ; but as little as I would now write a similar poem, so far was I even then from imagining, that the lines would be taken as more or less than a sport of fancy. At all events, if I know my own heart, there was never a moment in my existence in which I should have been more ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to interpose my own body, and defend his life at the risk of my own.”

I have prefaced the Poem with this anecdote, because to have printed it without any remark might well have been understood as implying an unconditional approbation on my part, and this after many years' consideration. But if it be asked why I republished it at all ! I answer, that the Poem had been attributed at different times to different other persons; and what I had dared beget, I thought it neither manly nor honorable not to dare father. From the same motives I should have published perfect copies of two Poems, the one entitled The Devil's Thoughts, and the other The Two Round Spaces on the Tomb-Stone, but that the three first stanzas of the former, which were worth all the rest of the poem, and the best stanza of the remainder, were written by a friend of deserved celebrity; and because there are passages in both, which might have given offence to the religious feelings of certain readers. I myself indeed see no reason why vulgar superstitions, and absurd conceptions that deform the pure faith of a Christian, should possess a greater immunity from ridicule than stories of witches, or the fables of Greece and Rome. But there are those who deem it profaneness and irreverence to call an ape an ape, if it but wear a monk's cowl on its head; and I would rather reason with this weakness than offend it.

The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred, is found in his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judgment; which is likewise the second in his year's course of sermons. Among many remarkable passages of the same character in those discourses. I have selected this as the most so. “But when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall appear, then Justice shall strike and Mercy shall not hold her hands; she shall strike sore strokes, and Pity shall not break the blow. As there are treasures of good things, so hath God a treasure of wrath and fury, and scourges and scorpions; and then shall be produced the shame of Lust and the malice of Envy. and the groans of the oppressed and the persecutions of the saints, and the cares of Covetousness and the troubles of Ambition, and the indolence of traitors and the violences of rebels, and the rage of anger and the uneasiness of impatience, and the restlessness of unlawful desires; and by this time the monsters and diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when God's heavy hand shall press the sanies and the intolerableness, the obliquity and the unreasonableness, the amazement and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the guilt and the punishment, out from all our sins, and pour them into one chalice, and mingle them with an infinite wrath, and make the wicked drink of all the vengeance, and force it down their unwilling throats with the violence of devils and accursed spirits.” That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination rather than the discretion of the compounder; that, in short, this passage and others of the kind are in a bad taste, few will deny at the present day. It would doubtless have more behoved the good bishop not to be wise beyond what is written, on a subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, and a death threatened, not the negative, but the positive Oppositive of Life; a subject, therefore, which must of necessity be indescribable to the human understanding in our present state. But I can neither find nor believe, that it ever occurred to any reader to ground on such passages a charge against Bishop TAYLon's humanity, or goodness of heart. I was not a little surprised therefore to find, in the Pursuits of Literature and other works, so horrible a sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for a passage in his prose-writings, as nearly parallel to this of Taylor's as two passages can well be conceived to be. All his merits, as a poet forsooth—all the glory of having written the PARADise Lost, are light in the scale, nay, kick the beam, compared with the atrocious malignity of heart expressed in the offensive paragraph. I remembered, in general, that Milton had concluded one of his works on Reformation, written in the servor of his youthful imagination, in a high poetic strain, that wanted metre only to become a lyrical poem. I remembered that in the former part he had formed to himself a perfect ideal of human virtue, a character of heroic, disinterested zeal and devotion for Truth, Religion, and public Liberty, in Act and in Suffering, in the day of Triumph and in the hour of Martyrdom. Such spirits, as more excellent than others, he describes as having a more excellent reward, and as distinguished by a transcendent glory; and this reward and this glory he displays and particularizes with an energy and brilliance that announced the Paradise Lost as plainly as ever the bright purple clouds in the east announced the coming of the sun. Milton then passes to the gloomy contrast, to such men as from motives of selfish ambition and the lust of personal aggrandizement should, against their own light, persecute truth and the true religion, and wilfully abuse the powers and gifts intrusted to them, to bring vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on their native country, on the very country that had trusted, enriched and honored them. Such beings, after that speedy and appropriate removal from their sphere of mischief which all good and humane men must of course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity of reason, meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men, as their guilt and its consequences were more enor. mous. His description of this imaginary punishment presents more distinct pictures to the fancy than the extract from Jeremy Taylor; but the thoughts in the latter are incomparably more exaggerated and hor. rific. All this I knew; but I neither remembered,

nor by reference and careful re-perusal could discover, any other meaning, either in Milton or Taylor, but that good men will be rewarded, and the impenitent wicked punished, in proportion to their dispositions and intentional acts in this life; and that if the punishment of the least wicked be fearful beyond conception, all words and descriptions must be so far true, that they must fall short of the punishment that awaits the transcendently wicked. Had Milton stated either his ideal of virtue, or of depravity, as an individual or individuals actually existing? Certainly not! Is this representation worded historically, or only hypothetically Assuredly the latter! Does he express it as his own wish, that after death they should suffer these tortures? or as a general consequence, deduced from reason and revelation, that such will be their fate? Again, the latter only! His wish is expressly confined to a speedy stop being put by Providence to their power of inflicting misery on others! But did he name or refer to any persons, living or dead No! But the calumniators of Milton dare say (for what will calumny not dare say?) that he had Laud and STAfford in his mind, while writing of remorseless persecution, and the enslavement of a free country, from motives of selfish ambition. Now, what if a stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking of the insolencies of traitors and the violences of rebels. Bishop Taylor must have individualized in his mind. HAMPDEN, Hollis, PyM, FAIRFAx, IREton, and MILtoN ? And what if he should take the liberty of concluding, that, in the after description, the Bishop was feeding and feasting his party-hatred, and with those individuals before the eyes of his imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror after horror, the picture of their intolerable agonies Yet this bigot would have an equal right thus to criminate the one good and great man, as these men have to criminate the other. Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with equal truth could have said it, “that in his whole life he never spake against a man even that his skin should be grazed.” He asserted this when one of his opponents (either Bishop Hall or his nephew) had called upon the women and children in the streets to take up stones and stone him (Milton). It is known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to protect the royalists; but even at a time when all lies would have been meritorious against him, no charge was made, no story pretended, that he had ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in their persecution. Oh! methinks there are other and far better feelings, which should be acquired by the perusal of our great elder writers. When I have before me on the same table, the works of Hammond and Baxter: when I reflect with what joy and dearness their blessed spirits are now loving each other: it seems a mournful thing that their names should be perverted to an occasion of bitterness among us, who are enjoying that happy mean which the human too-Much on both sides was perhaps necessary to produce. “The tangle of delusions which stifled and distorted the growing tree of our well-being has been torn away! the parasite weeds that fed on its very roots have been plucked up with a salutary violence. To us there remain only quiet duties, the constant care, the gradual improvement, the cautious unhazardous labors of the industrious though contented gardener—to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one by one to remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and the caterpillar. But far be it from us to undervalue with light and senseless

detraction the conscientious hardihood of our predecessors, or even to condemn in them that vehemence, to which the blessings it won for us leave us now neither temptation or pretext. We antedate the feelings, in order to criminate the authors, of our present Liberty, Light and Toleration.” (THE FRIEND, 54.)

P. If ever two great men might seem, during their whole lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though neither of them has at any time introduced the name of the other, Milton and Jeremy Taylor were they. The former commenced his career by attack. ing the Church-Liturgy and all set forms of prayer. The latter, but far more successfully, by defending both. Milton's next work was then against the Prelacy and the then existing Church-Government— Taylor's in vindication and support of them. Milton became more and more a stern republican, or rather an advocate for that religious and moral aristocracy which, in his day, was called republicanism, and which, even more than royalism itself, is the direct antipode of modern jacobinism. Taylor, as more and moresceptical concerning the fitness of men in general for power, became more and more attached to the prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism, with a still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for Church-Antiquity in general, Milton seems to have ended in an indifference, if not a dislike, to all forms of ecclesiastic government, and to have retreated wholly into the inward and spiritual church-communion of his own spirit with the Light, that lighteth every man that cometh into the world. Taylor, with a growing reverence for authority, an increasing sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures without the aids of tradition and the consent of euthorized interpreters, advanced as far in his approaches (not indeed to Popery, but) to Catholicism, as a conscientious minister of the English Church could well venture. Milton would be, and would utter the same, to all, on all occasions: he would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Taylor would become all things to all men, if by any means he might benefit any; hence he availed himself, in his popular writings, of opinions and representations which stand often in striking contrast with the doubts and convictions expressed in his more philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too seterely to have blamed that management of truth (istan falsitatem dispensativam) authorized and exemplified by almost all the fathers: Integrum omnino Doctorious et cartus Christiani antistibus esse, ut dolos tersent, falsa veris intermisceant et imprimis religionis hostes fallant, dummodo veritatis commodis et utilitati The same antithesis might be carried on with the elements of their several intellectual powers. Milton, austere, condensed, imaginative, supporting his truth by direct enunciations of lofty moral sentiment and by distinct visual representations, and in the same spirit overwhelming what he deemed falsehood by moral denunciation and a succession of pictures appalling or repulsive. In his prose, so many metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. Taylor, eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one of his own words) agglomerative; still more rich in images than Milton himself, but images of Fancy, and presented to the common and passive eye, rather than to the eye of the imagination. Whether sup

porting or assailing, he makes his way either by ar

even by the Schoolmen in subtlety, agility and logic
wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of the
fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his ex-
pressions and illustrations. Here words that con-
vey feelings, and words that slash images, and words
of abstract notion, flow together, and at once whirl
and rush onward like a stream, at once rapid and
full of eddies; and yet still interfused here and there,
we see a tongue or isle of smooth water, with some
picture in it of earth or sky, landscape or living
group of quiet beauty.
Differing, then, so widely, and almost contrariant-
ly, wherein did these great men agree? wherein
did they resemble each other? In Genius, in
Learning, in unfeigned Piety, in blameless Purity
of Life, and in benevolent aspirations and purposes
for the moral and temporal improvement of their fel-
low-creatures! Both of them wrote a Latin Acci-
dence, to render education more easy and less pain-
ful to children; both of them composed hymns and
psalms proportioned to the capacity of common con-
gregations; both, nearly at the same time, set the
glorious example of publicly recommending and sup-
porting general Toleration, and the Liberty both of
the Pulpit and the Press! In the writings of neither
shall we find a single sentence, like those meek
deliverances to God's mercy, with which LAUD ac-
companied his votes for the mutilations and lothe-
some dungeoning of Leighton and others!—nowhere
such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop Hall's
memoranda of his own Life, concerning the subtle
and witty Atheist that so grievously perplexed and
gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's, till he prayed to
the Lord to remove him, and behold! his prayers
were heard; for shortly afterward this Philistine
combatant went to London, and there perished of
the plague in great misery! In short, nowhere shall
we find the least approach, in the lives and writings
of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded
gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with which
the holy Brethren of the Inquisition deliver over a
condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, recom-
mending him to mercy, and hoping that the magis-
trate will treat the erring brother with all possible
mildness!—the magistrate, who too well knows what
would be his own fate, if he dared offend them by
acting on their recommendation.
The opportunity of diverting the reader from my-
self to characters more worthy of his attention, has
led me far beyond my first intention; but it is not
unimportant to expose the false zeal which has occa-
sioned these attacks on our elder patriots. It has
been too much the fashion, first to personify the
Church of England, and then to speak of different
individuals, who in different ages have been rulers
in that church, as if in some strange way they con-
stituted its personal identity. Why should a clergy-
man of the present day feel interested in the defence
of Laud or Sheldon Surely it is sufficient for the
warmest partisan of our establishment, that he ean
assert with truth, when our Church persecuted, it
was on mistaken principles held in common by all
Christendom; and, at all events, far less culpable
was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were main-
taining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit
afterwards shown by their successful opponents, who
had no such excuse, and who should have been
taught mercy by their own sufferings, and wisdom by
the utter failure of the experiment in their own case.

gument or by appeals to the affections, unsurpassed

we can say, that our Church, apostolical in its faith,

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