heaven seen through trees, perpetually interposes its splendid boundary to the stages of his thought. Next to this, we like his "Vastness of the Material Creation," where to “him the book of night is opened wide "—and where he finds that a page thick with suns is not more true or glorious than one leaf of his Bible, where "voices from the depths of space proclaim a marvel and a secret;" but he discovers the marvel to be the old mystery of godliness, the secret to be only that of the Lord, which "is with them that fear him." By a strange association, this book of "Saturday Evening" suggests to us the Saturday papers of the "Spectator." They are alike, but oh, how different!" Their subjects are the same; night, the stars, immortality, God, and heaven. But since Addison's time, how much nearer have the stars approached and yet, in another sense, how much farther off have they receded! At what a ratio of more than geometric increase has the universe been multiplying to our eyes! And with regard to the other topics, in what deeper channels do the modern's thoughts flow than those of the gentle "Spectator!" Their language is the same; but how different the classic coolness, the careless but inimitable graces, the modest but inestimable ornaments, the ease and sweet simplicity of Addison's English, from the feverish heat and the rich tropical exuberance of Taylor's! Their religion is the same; but how different the faint though true glow of Christianity in Addison's page from that seraphic flame which burns in Taylor's! In what different ages written! The one a low and languid age-feeble in faith, feebler in love, feeblest of all in hope-in which Addison's sanctified genius shines as a sweet solitary star; the other a "juncture of eras period of bustle, and heat, and hope, and progress, and anxious uncertainty, and listening silence; for do not all men expect, sooner or later, the crisis of the earth to be coming-and do not "all creatures sigh to be renewed?" "Fa -a We must permit ourselves a few observations upon naticism" and the "Physical Theory of a Future Life." .. Fanaticism was unfortunate in its subject. From the black and malevolent passions, even when portrayed by the hand of a master, men in general shrink. To dissect deformity is a thankless task. And although it is said that the laws of disease are as beautiful as those of health, yet few have the patience or courage to wait till they are initiated into that terrible kind of beauty. Fanaticism, also, was a topic too like enthusiasm to be susceptible of much novelty in the mode of treatment. And here and there you could detect traces of that mannerism, and self-imitation which betray in authors their fear at least that their vein is nearly exhausted —a fear reminding us of the reluctance of the mariner to take soundings in a suspected shallow. The style too had not improved from the date of his former work, nay, it bore marks of great effort, was uneven and uneasy, and sinned often against the laws of clearness, simplicity, and good taste. Something of the cloudy character of the theme seemed to have infected the writer; and the language was swollen, as if under the "fanaticism of the scourge." Still the book had bold bursts and splendid sweeping pictures; and it were worth while contrasting its estimate of Mahometanism with that of Carlyle, and wondering by what strange possibility a system which appears to the one a vast and virulent ulcer should appear to the other a needful volcano, and through what transfiguring magic Mahomet the monster of the one becomes Mahomet the hero of the other. We hinted a little before, that there was in Taylor's mind a strong but subdued tendency toward the mystic and supernatural. In all his works, he seems standing on the confines of the spiritual world, leaning over the great precipice, and, with beseeching looks, essaying to commune with the tremendous secrets of the final state. Entirely satisfied with the declarations of Scripture, that there is immortality for man, he yet must "ask that dreadful question at the hills which look eternal". -at the streams which "lucid flow for ever "—at the stars, those bright and pure watchers at the deepest metaphysics of the human mind-and find in them something more than a faltering perhaps, in addition to the loud, confident, and commanding, "Thus saith the Lord." Nay, in the "Physical Theory of Another Life," he fairly bursts across the barriers, enters like a "permitted guest" within the mighty curtain which divides the living and the dead, and with infinite ingenuity maps out the dim provinces and expounds the mysterious conditions of that strange world. The intention of the work has been often misapprehended. It is no dogmatic dream, like the visions of Swedenborg-no "rushing in where angels fear to tread." Nor is it the more mechanical fancy disporting itself on the theme, as in the reveries of Tucker (to whom Taylor, however, is considerably indebted ;) it is a long philosophical, modest and earnest conjecture-a trial, as it were, how far the human mind can go in that shadowy direction, and how far it is possible, by combining psychological principles with Scripture hints, to build up a probable and lifelike scheme of the future existence. How far he has been successful in this attempt we shall, of course, never know till we enter on that solemn state ourselves. But, in the mean time, it is curious to think of this writer's spirit, from the height of eternity, looking back and comparing the continent of glory he has reached with the meagre yet memorable map he drew of it, in the infancy of his being. And yet more curious it were to imagine an actual denizen of that sublime world smiling a gentle smile over this effort of the unborn child to conceive of the green earth, the gay sun, and the ever burning stars! The reader would be richly rewarded who should sit down and compare the Visions of heaven and hell ascribed to Bunyan with Taylor's theory of a future life. Both are rich, eloquent, and imaginative dreams-but how different in spirit, manner, style, and scientific construction! Between the two, what an interval has the religious mind traversed! What a difference between the "melted gold" and coarse material torments of the one author, and Ariel-like agonies of Taylor's supposed spirit, thrust out naked amid the quick agencies of an angry universe, where the silent night surrounds it as in a sea of fire, and where, through a thousand avenues, rushes in upon it the wrath of Heaven. And yet the author of these visions (Bunyan he certainly was not) was not only a man of high genius, as some magnificent passages prove, but a thorough scholar; for its frequent literary allusions and use of scholastic terms sufficiently evince that he was quite up to, if not before, the spirit and learning of his times. How little, after all, do the revolutions of time and the advancement of the human mind add to our real knowledge, however they may modify our feelings and language, in respect to the awful futurity before us! The path of human progress, on one side so free and boundless, on an other is soon met by its uttermost confine on earth, as by a wall of black, solid, and frowning marble! Isaac Taylor is, as before hinted, of "virtuous father, virtuous son." The praise of Taylor of Ongar was in "all the churches." His daughter, Jane Taylor, a woman of a highly cultivated and most feminine intellect, authoress of several well known works, has long been dead. Isaac, at first designed for the Dissenting pulpit, became a barrister in preference, but has for many years resided in retirement at Stamford Rivers, educating his family, and prosecuting his own delightful and holy studies. A writer in the "Edin burgh Review" has given a description of his early feelings and his present habits of life, displaying at once the warmth of personal friendship and the sympathy of kindred intellect and kindred sentiments. We learn with interest from it, that Taylor is an expert and eager angler as well as the farfamed author of the "Natural History of Enthusiasm ;" ." that he spends his Saturday mornings in directing the sports of his dear children; while his Saturday evenings are devoted to the loftiest meditations which can engross the soul of mortal. He is, moreover, a person of animated bearing, brilliant eye, and incessant and eloquent talk. Altogether, we deem him among the most accomplished of modern religious authors, and heartily wish him life and strength to fulfil that great work of his life, from which the tractarian controversy has for a season drawn him aside-the history of the various corruptions of Christianity, which, if worthily completed, as it has been worthily commenced, shall more assuredly and honorably preserve his name, "than though a pyramid formed his monumental fane." HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. AMERICA has been long looking for its Poet, and has been taught by many sages to believe, that hitherto it has been looking in vain. Each new aspirant to the laurel has been scanned with a watchfulness and jealousy, pro portioned to the height of expectation which had been excited, and to the length of time during which that expectation has been deferred; and because the risen Poet did not supply the vacuum of centuries-did not clear all the space by which Britain had got the start of her daughter did not include in his single self the essence of Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton, and Byron-his genius was pronounced a failure, and his works naught. Tests were proposed to him, from which our home authors would have recoiled. Originalities were demanded of him, which few of ourselves, in this imitative age, have been able to exemplify. As in Macbeth, not the "child's," but the "armed head" was expected to rise first from the vacant abyss. American literature must walk before creeping, and fly before walking. Not unfrequently, our British journals contained programmes of the genius and writings of the anticipated Poet, differing not more from common sense, than from each other. "He must be intensely national," said one authority. "He must be broadly Catholic-of no country," said a second. must be profoundly meditative, as his own solitary woods," said a third. "He must be bustling, rapid, and fiery as his own railways," said a fourth. One sighed for an American Milton; another predicted the uprise of another Goethe, "Giant of the Western Star ;" and a third modestly confined his wishes within the compass of a second Shakspeare. "He Pernicious as, in some measure, such inordinate expectations must have proved to all timid and vacillating minds in America, it did not prevent its bolder and more earnest spirits from taking their own way,-by grafting, upon the stock of imported poetry, many graceful and lovely shoots of native song. In spite of the penumbra of prejudice against American verse, more fugitive floating poetry of real merit exists in its literature than in almost any other. Dana has united many of the qualities of Crabbe to a portion of the weird and haggard power of Coleridge's muse. Percival has recalled Wordsworth to our minds, by the pensive and tremulous depth of his strains. Bryant, without a trace of imitation, has become the American Campbell, equally select, simple, chary, and memorable. In reply to Mrs. Hemans, have been uttered a perfect chorus of voices |