reach, and left to your choice. You will no longer flatter yourselves with vain hopes of getting to heaven without choosing it; nor strengthen your resolution in sin, by saying you cannot help it. You will see that you have no one to blame but yourselves. This inexcusableness of sinners shows us something of the misery of them that are lost. They are lost because they chose the ways of death. Whatever may be the particular means which God will employ to show his displeasure against sin, we may be sure of this, that those who are lost will endure the reproaches of conscience. That deathless monitor within will not only bring to their remembrance the hidden deeds of darkness, and reprove them for all their particular sins; but it will ground its bitterest reproaches upon the truth we are considering. It will pursue its wretched victim with the thought that life and death were set before him, and he chose death. "O my madness!" he will continually exclaim; "God revealed in his word the way of life. He made a free offer of eternal salvation through the blood of Christ. Life and death were set before me, both equally within my reach, and I knew it, and laid hold on death." Who is there that does not know something of the bitterness of selfreproach? We see one burying himself in seclusion from the haunts of men, to get away from the upbraidings of conscience. We see another drowning its voice in intoxication, and preferring the life of a beast to a sense of accountability. A third cries out, in an agony of spirit, and reveals his secret murders, and prays that civil justice may execute its sentence, as some little atonement for his crimes A fourth, goaded even to madness by its stings, rushes unbidden into the presence of his Judge, to know the worst of his case! All this is not VOL. VII No. 9. 57 the remorse of hell. This is not that agony which will fill every pore with suffering at the thought; "Life and death were set before me, and I chose death." In that world there will be no seclusion from the eye of Jehovah. Your naked souls will be continually exposed to his piercing glance. There will be no intoxicating draught, in which you can lose your sense of accountability and become beasts. There is no gallows to which you can look with the vain hope of expiating your sins. There will be no means of suicide, no escape from the existing torment, no change, nor hope of change. You will know the worst of it, and not have even the poor relief of change. If you open your eyes, you will only see the heaven you have rejected, and the hell you have chosen. If you close them, it will only call home your thoughts again to the same point: "Life and death were set before me, and I chose death." Every new view of the destruction you have brought upon yourselves will only add to your torment. Every thought of heaven will only bring home with a more withering energy the thought, "I might have been there, but I chose death." Every pang of suffering will but recal to you, "It is my own choice." And there will be no end to this. From the nature of the subject there can be no end. When ages on ages shall have rolled away, the thought will still be as true as ever, and as bitter as ever; "Life and death were set before me, and I chose death." Reader, this doom is not yet sealed. Heaven is still within your reach. God says to you, now while you read, (perhaps it is the last time,) "I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live." S. D. MISCELLANEOUS. To the Editor of the Christian Spectator. In a note to some remarks on the character of Lord Byron in the Christian Observer for February, there is a short correspondence between a Mr. Sheppard and the poet, which I beg leave to transfer to your pages, with a single comment. Almost all infidels, those who have perplexed the world wit. their subtleties, as well as their more humble disciples, have at one time or other in the course of their lives, given the lie to their professions. There is a certain feeling respecting the invisible things of God" which is universal in our nature, and which, however it may have been produced there, whether by education, or by the light of God's works, or by the more immediate agency of him who framed our moral being, lies too deep for any perversity of the intellect to eradicate, or any desperateness of the heart wholly to destroy. And when Christianity comes to be exhibited in its purity, and especially when it is made to "shine before men" in the meek and unambitions lives of its professors, it finds in this feeling every where existing in the human bosom, something like the evidence of consciousness that its doctrines are true. I do not say that Byron was an infidel; his impiety consisted rather in a profligate indifference to all religious faith, than in any settled results of a false philosophy. The first letter is from Mr. Sheppard, and is as follows : Frome. Somerset, Nov, 21, 1821. "MY LORD-More than two years since, a lovely and beloved wife was taken from me, by lingering disease, after a very short union. She possessed unvarying gentleness and fortitude, and a pięty so retiring as rares ly to disclose itself in words, but so influential, as to produce uniform benevolence of conduct. In the last hour of life, after a farewell look on a lately born and only infant, for whom she had evinced inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 'God's happiness!-God's happiness!' Since the second anniversary of her decease, I have read some papers which no one had seen during her life, and which contain her most secret thoughts. I am induced to communicate to your lordship a passage from these papers, which, there is no doubt, refers to yourself; as I have more than once heard the writer mention your agility on the rocks at Hastings "Oh, my God! I take encouragement from the assurance of thy word, to pray to Thee in behalf of one for whom I have lately been much interested. May the person to whom I allude, (and who is now, we fear, as much distinguished for his neglect of Thee as for the transcendent talents Thou hast bestowed on him.) be awakened to a sense of his own danger, and led to seek that peace of mind in a proper sense of religion which he has found this world's enjoyments unable to procure! Do Thou grant that his future example may be productive of far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and writings have been of evil; and may the Sun of Righteousness, which, we trust, will, at some future period, arise on him, be bright in proportion to the darkness of those clouds which guilt has raised around him, and the balm, which it bestows, healing and soothing in proportion to the keenness of that agony which the punishment of his vices has inflicted on him!' &c. "Hastings, July 31, 1814.' "There is nothing, my lord, in this extract which,in a literary sense, can at all interest you; but it may perhaps, appear to you worthy of reflection, how deep and expansive a concern for the happiness of others, the Christian faith can awaken in the midst of youth and prosperity. Here is nothing poetical and splendid, as in the expostulatory homage of M. Delamartine; but here is the sublime, my lord; for this intercession was offered on your account, to the supreme Source of happiness. It sprang from a faith more confirmed than that of the French poet; and from a charity, which, in combination with faith, showed its power unimpaired amidst the languors and pains of approaching dissolution. I will hope that a prayer, which, I am sure, was deeply sincere, may not be always unavailing. "It would add nothing, my lord, to the fame with which your genius has surrounded you, for an unknown and obscure individual to express his admiration of it. I had rather be numbered with those who wish and pray, that wisdom from above,' and peace,' and 'joy,' may enter such a mind." Lord Byron'S ANSWER. Pisa, Dec. 8, 1821. “SIR,—I have received your letter. I need not say, that the extract which it contains has affected me, because it would imply a want of all feeling to have read it with indifference. Though I am not quite sure that it was intended by the writer for me, yet the date, the place where it was written, with some other circumstances which you mention, render the allusion probable. But, for whomsoever it was meant, I have read it with all the pleasure that can arise from so melancholy a topic. I say pleasure, because your brief and simple picture of the life and demeanor of the excellent person whom I trust that you will again meet, cannot be contemplated without the admiration due to her virtues, and her pure and unpretending piety. Her last moments were particularly strik ing; and I do not know, that in the course of reading the story of mankind, and still less in my observations of the existing portion, I ever met with any thing so unostentatiously beautiful. Indisputably, the firm believers in the gospel have a great advantage over all others,—— for this simple reason, that, if true, they will have their reward hereaf ter; and if there be no hereafter, they can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep, having had the assistance of an exalted hope, through life, without subsequent disappointment, since, (at the worst for them) out of nothing, nothing can arise,' not even sorrow. But a man's creed does not depend upon himself; who can say, I will believe,-this,-that, -or the other; and least of all, that which he least can comprehend? I have however observed, that those who have begun life with an extreme faith, have in the end greatly narrowed it, as Chillingworth, Clarke, (who ended as an Arian,) Bayle, and Gibbon, (once a Catholic,) and some others; while on the other hand, nothing is more common than for the early skeptic to end in a firm belief, like Maupertius and Henry Kirke White. "But my business is to acknowledge your letter, and not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you for your good wishes, and more than obliged by the extract from the papers of the beloved object whose qualities you have so well described in a few words. I can assure you, that all the fame which ever cheated humanity into higher notions of its own importance, would never weigh in my mind against the pure and pious interest which a virtuous being may be pleased to take in my welfare. In this point of view, I would not exchange the prayer the deceased in my behalf for the united glory of Homer, Cæsar, and Napoleon, could such be accumu of lated upon a living head. Do me at Video meliora probo-que,' however the Deteriora sequor' may have been applied to my conduct. "I have the honour to be, "Your obliged and obedient servant, "BYRON. "P. S. 1 do not know that I am addressing a clergyman; but I presume that you will not be affronted by the mistake (if it is one) on the address of this letter. One who has so well explained, and deeply felt, the doctrines of religion, will excuse the error which led me to believe him its minister." In this letter Lord Byron shows the inconsistency which skeptics always show, when they suffer themselves to speak out the honest convictions of their minds. He excuses his irreligion by asserting that "a man's creed does not depend upon himself;" "who can say I will believe, &c. ;" and yet he expresses his belief in the life and immortality, which the gospel brings to light, and in the efficacy of that faith which prompts the Christian's prayer: he speaks of his correspondent's meeting his beloved partner in another world, and declares that he would not exchange his interest in her pious supplications, for the united glory of Homer, Cæsar, and Napoleon. No, it is not true, as he would have it, that a man's creed does not depend upon himself; and to have spoken consistently with what he felt, his question should have been, Who can say, I will not believe in a religion which so adorns the lives of its professors, and so commends itself to the conscience even of its enemies? For the Christian Spectator. E. R. ON THE GENIUS OF COWPER. To discuss the merits of Cowper is like analyzing the qualities of an inimate friend; the emotions of qur hearts towards him are not so much admiration as tenderness; not so much a reverence for illustrious genius, as affection for the loveliness of personal character. The accounts of his life, as portrayed by the hand of friendship, and exhibited in his private correspondence, and wrought into the descriptions of his poetry, are made up of those lesser incidents and hourly displays of feeling which constitute the material and charm of personal friendship. We feel ourselves linked to tionate intimacy; we are let into the him by the ties of a long and affecsecrecy and confidence of his bosom; and our souls mingle with his, and thoughts and joys and sadness. flow together with it in its current of Other poets are borne above us, and break away from the sympathies of the soul, and are wafted in vast elevation on the breath of general fame; we gaze on them with a feeling of cold and tumultuous wonder, and every personal trait, and favourite virtue, and weakness, intellectual glory. But Cowper has are swallowed up in the full blaze of descended from the dazzling height luminaries, hovering over the and glorious company of his fellowdwelling of peaceful life, and shedding down upon them a soft radiance as if imploring the love and fellowship of mortality. His image is mingled with our visions of domestic bliss; it dwells among the remembered pleasures of childhood and bome. The spirit of his soft and lovely character steals through the relations of private intercourse and social affinities. We throw open to him the inmost sanctuaries of our bosoms, and he enters a dear and welcome visiter. His very name kindles up within us a glow of human sensibility and celestial purity. The thought of him is like a whispering vision of paradise. How softly do our contemplations repose on this dearest and most sacred image of genius! how quietly he steals away one and another of our sym pathies, till the enchanted heart surrenders in sweet captivation, and rejoices in his power! There was in the constitution of Cowper a deep and strong morality, a quiet but inextinguishable warmth of temperament, in which every pure and amiable feeling sprung up in ever-blooming freshness and verdure. It was in his age and before, that the hollow-hearted poetry of France had spread its elegant and frosty incrustations over the fountains of the British Helicon ; but the streams still flowed beneath and collected in secret their force, till they gushed forth warm and sparkling in the genius of Cowper. The original temperament of Cowper fitted him for a secluded retreat and select friendship. His situation might seem to deprive him of much of that literary stimulus and that wide fellowship with the play of human passions, which is so generally necessary to sustain the heart in healthful and vigorous exercise; but a manner of life which was ill suited to the general structure of our moral nature, was just adapted to give his the most vigorous expansion. His acute sensibilities shrunk from the rough contact of a selfish and unsympathizing world; he sighed for the protection and nourishment of tender childhood; he wanted to repose on the bosom that loved him with maternal fondness. His gentle and innocent affections expanded themselves to sweet smiles, and soothing voices, and delicate assiduities; and as the tender vegetable drinks in its life from the dews of the evening, so the heart of Cowper banqueted on the soft elegance of female courtesies. He could not tolerate a distant and civil friendship; if he loved, it was with the ardour of young and untaught enthusiam. With the boundless confidence of inexperience, he clasped his friend to his inmost self, and bathed and blessed him in the outpourings of his purest affections. Domestic seclusion was the ele ment in which he lived and breathed. He delighted in the contemplation of human character and manners, as they displayed their countless hues to objects of pleasure and ambition; but they must be chastened and mellowed by distance; the toil, and clamour, and confusion, and heart-breaking of this restless and turbid life-he loved to feel and pity them all; but it was in the musing of quiet contemplation; it was as one who at a dis tance from the haunts of men, and his feelings soothed to the mildness of an evening sky, listens to the mingled murmurs of a busy and expiring day. The beartlessness of an indolent and irregular life, the succeeding months of agony which rolled over him, must have given double attractions to a scene of calm and hallowed repose; here he found rest and healing to his wounded spirit; here it flowed even and tranquil like the gentle ripples of an ocean after a night of shipwreck and storm; and the scenery of life comes reflected from his mind in all its original beauty and in crystalline purity. There is an indefinable charm pervading the writings of Cowper which the heart only can understand. He has no loftiness of dic tion, or surprising novelties of imagery to lead captive the fancy. His style is that of an even and unambitious phraseology. You see no labour of thought, nor sudden impulses of inspiration. When he rises, it is in gentle undulation. There is sometimes such a want of vigour that he almost borders on the very verge of tameness, when some happy thought will awaken a new gleam of poetic fervour and every reader will forgive him his error. The tone of feeling that pervades his composition is perfectly inimitable, it is so entirely the ef fusion of his native and spontaneous temperament. The directness and simplicity of his expression, too, no art can equal, because art did not |