woe.

"The present is nothing to him. The past is all; and he runs over its accidents and actions with wonder at the strength of his memory." Nay, the past is not all to him: for already he lives with the future yet unborn: and between the joys of the past, and the bright visions of the future, he can scarcely snatch a moment of the present to scratch a mark on his tally or his wall.

"Now," says our author, with an air of becoming triumph, "Now you are prepared to understand how it will be with man, when he is disembodied. We shall proceed to give the substance of his information on the subject, as nearly as possible in his own words.

"The body, which contained the senses, lies mouldering in the grave. The link is broken or wasted away, which joined the soul to the enjoyments or troubles of the present world. No new material investments are given to her, whereby to move again amidst these material things. Till the resurrection she shall be disunited; and then, being rejoined by her former companion, they shall be submitted to material scenes, again to suffer or enjoy. What is there now to occupy the soul? There are no sensations nor pursuits to take her off from self knowledge and self-examination. Now seeing it is the fact, that when the soul is delivered from surrounding and disturbing objects, and occupying sensations, she recovereth with wonderful rapidity the lost impressions of the past, and ascertaineth with much judgment her present condition, it is not to be doubted, that when she hath suffered her great separation, she will be busily occupied with recovering from the past all her experience, and observing all her condition. Indeed I can see no other occupation to which she can devote herself in her purely spiritual existence, save of this of revoking from oblivion all the past, and calling up from the future all things dreaded or hoped for. Therefore she will doat and dream over her condition, live all the past over again, and float away into the future. One thing is cer tain, that whatever she doth recover will stand out before her in a light altogether new, and that she will pass upon herself other judgments than those with which she is at present content. Witness when you are laid on a bed of sickness, how you ruminate, and reflect, and turn the eye inward, upon the state of your soul; how offended conscience raiseth up her voice, and future fears come trooping up, like spirits from the realms of night. What then shall be the nature of our reflections, when we are disembodied in very truth, and the world is escaped into the land of visions? Then I truly ween there will be a scrutiny and a self-arraignment more severe than hath ever passed in monkish cell or hermit's cave. The soul will unfold the leaves of her experience, which since they were engraven, had never before been turned out to her inspection. The glorious colours which illumine them are gone; the pomp, the vanity, the applause the sensual joy, and there is nothing left but the blank and bare engraving upon the tablet; and conscience is its severe interpreter, not worldly inteterest, ambition, or folly; and there is no companionship of fellows or masters in wickedness to keep us in heart; and there is no hope of amendment to chase self-accusation, no voice of consolation, no preaching of recovery, no sound of salvation; all is blank solitude, spiritual nakedness, stark necessity, and changeless fate. The soul must have an irksome time of it, if so be that it hath lent no ear to the admonitions of its better part, and to the counsels of God which sustaineth these. It affrights me while I write to think of it. Such is the light upon this difficult subject of the wicked soul's condition, till judgment, which I can derive from the simple consideration of her being separated from her former companion, and driven upon her spiritual resources of reflection and hope. But as this is

an inquiry which concerns an important portion of human destiny, and decides the question of the soul's preparation for and acquiescence in the judgment, I count it worth the while to push this inquiry into the change brought about by death, as far as our faculties can go with clear discernment" (Pp. 292, 293, 294, &c.)

It would have been well for our Author's character and usefulness as a religious teacher, had he checked his inquiries at the point where clear discernment" failed him. Unhappily he has pushed them far beyond the utmost stretch of the "human faculties;" and thus has brought discredit on himself, and, which is worse, on that cause which we really believe it is his main object to advance. We shall not follow him in his reveries; but that our readers may have some idea of what he is aiming at, in this long disquisition, we subjoin the conclusion of it in his own words.

"In short (for we wander without bounds in this sea of discourse) from all these considerations which have been mentioned, and many more, it seemeth to me that death hath no sooner planted his pale signet upon the cold brow of our body, than a first initiatory judgment hath us in its hold; a first paradise, or a first hell instantly ensueth. All the past comes floating down, and all the future comes bearing up; they near us, they possess us, and the soul is engirdled, as it were, in a ring of events touching her on every side, and communicating each one a stound of pain or a relish of joy." (P. 310)

Again,

"During the long intervals, therefore, from the stroke of death, till the trump of God shall ring in death's astonished ear, the soul is, as it were, by the necessity of her existence, forced to engage herself with the work of self-examination and self-trial, according to the best standard which during life she knew. If she was enlightened upon the divine constitution, then, according to the rule thereof, she will examine herself, and soon ascertain whether she held it in reverence, and took the appointed measures to obey it, or whether she cast it behind her back or trod it under foot. If, again, she had no revelation of God, but had to depend on the light of nature alone, then she will try herself according to that light, and discover whether she made virtue or vice her delight, good or evil her God."

In fine, as far as we can discover our Author's meaning in this chapter, amidst the heap of words and figures with which it is overspread, it is this, that the soul at death is cast into some solitary place, where it dwells alone, and is set hard at work to discover whether it has been good or wicked, while united with the body, and thus to prepare itself for the sentence which the judge will pronounce upon it at the resurrection; during which process, it seems, it will work itself into intolerable torture, or unspeakable delight, according as its state may have been while in the body. Nay, this is not all, for from a hint thrown out, that in this state, "some perception of a Saviour may possibly be revealed to the virtuous of other communions," (i. e. we presume, to the heathen to whom a Saviour had not in this life been unfolded) a very important and arduous piece of work is reserved for the soul to engage in immediately after death, which will afford it abundant occupation till the judgment, if, even then, it shall be completed.

All this is very absurd, and it is deeply to be deplored that a man of Mr. Irving's powers and good intentions, should preach and publish it. But it is infinitely worse that he should have the hardihood, after telling us, in the outset, that this is a discovery of his own, that it is a casting of light upon a subject hitherto dark and untreated," to attempt at last to impose it as a thing taught and sanctioned by the Bible. Our readers will scarcely believe that Mr. Irving has found authority for all this preparative purgatorial process which the soul is to undergo after death, in the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, the promise to the penitent thief on the cross, the entrancing of St. Paul, the visions of St. John, and the constant allusions in the New Testament to the judgment and coming of Christ, as immediately at hand."

The necessity of bringing this article to an immediate close, in consequence of the length to which it has run, prevents our noticing several other parts of the work to which we had intended to advert. We cannot conclude, however, without a word or two on Mr. Irving's style, which, in common, with most of his readers, we consider as superlatively, and in many places, ridiculously, unnatural and affected. There is scarcely a single sentence in the volume simply and naturally expressed. He would do well, if he means to appear again as an author, to take the same pains to get rid of his style, which it must have cost him to acquire it. Frequently have we been ready to exclaim, as we toiled through his heavy sentences, what labour has been bestowed in fabricating this cumbrous and unnatural mass.

We had intended to animadvert on the self-sufficiency and arrogance which Mr. Irving betrays in too many parts of his work; and also on his attack on a certain class of the established clergy. But on the first of these subjects, we feel disposed, on further consideration, to exercise lenity. Considering the infirmity of human nature, it is not surprising, that our Author's success as a preacher should have the effect of making him forget himself. And, in this respect, we confidently look for amendment. On the other point it appears to us, on mature reflection, that the merits of the party attacked must be very questionable indeed, if that attack can injure them. Their religious sentiments and their character are before the public. The judicious part of that public will decide for themselves.

FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

LETTERS OF TIMOTHY TICKLER, ESQ. TO EMINENT LITERARY CHARACTERS.

To Thomas Campbell, Esq. Editor of the New Monthly Magazine.

DEAR TOM,-It is now about twenty years since you and I turned into Johnny Dowie's, to wash the dust out of our throats with a pint of Gile's ale, if I remember right, though perhaps it might have been with a crown bowl of punch. You were then a young man of high reputation

deservedly high, for you had published the Pleasures of Hope. Your fancied schemes of future life were brilliant; and no wonder. Scott had scarcely appeared in our literature; Byron was a boy at Harrow; Wordsworth a butt of derision to the shallow creatures who exercised the art critical in those days; Coleridge was dreaming as at present; Southey had not published his great poems, and was under a sort of cloud; Darwin was gradually getting voted a bore of the first magnitude; this Magazine was among the things uncreated-nay, I may say, unhoped for or unconceived; and, positively, you were alone, the rising star of our poetical world. We freely discussed your prospects. Though at that date Time had not thinned my flowing hair, as he has done since, and be hanged to him, nor bent me in his iron hand, as he has vainly attempted to do, still I was so much your senior as to entitle me to give advice even to a man of your surprising talents. Like St. Paul at the feet of Gamaliel, the docter of laws, you listened to the voice of my instructions, while in social conversation we sluiced over our ivories the ever-to-be-honoured extract of Sir John Barley-corn. With a mild suavity, I pointed out a path of glory to you; and the beaming of your intelligent eye, and the heartfelt pressure which you occasionalty gave my hand, showed that you appreciated my intentions.

We have never met since. You went to London, and I fixed permanently in Southside. You dwelt in the throng and bustle of men, amid the intercourse of wits and sages, in the noise and tumult of civilization

I, in the silent hills, in the heart of the glories of nature, in the company of the simple and unrefined. But think not that I was an incurious spectator of your progress. I rejoiced in the estimation in which you were held. I shall never be ashamed of the national feeling which makes us Scotchmen proud of one another's success throughout the world, and ready to promote it. It is a higher feather in our cap than the grand name of "the nation of gentlemen," or "the modern Athens," or "the dwellers under the pillars of the Parthenon." You did not, indeed, do as much as I expected; but what you did was of the first order. I forgave the un-nationality of the spirit which directed your choice of such subjects for your elegant muse as "Gertrude of Wyoming," and the "Exile of Erin," because I knew you were a Whig, and compelled, ex-officio, to chant the praises of rebellion, successful or unsuccessful, "all over the world; particularly when, as in the Irish case, it is marked with unmitigated ferocity of murder and conflagration. I forgave it, I say, for the sake of " the Mariners of England,"

the Battle of the Baltic," and "Our Countrymen in Flanders." It would be absurd were I at this time of day to compliment you on “Lochiel," and "O'Connor's Child," when every body has them by heart. I own I did not like to see you at task-work for the booksellers; but I remembered that those who lived to please, should please to live. Above all, I did not approve of your new connexion with Colburn's Magazine. There is something nasty and plagiary in the very name; and, little as I value Sir Pythagoras,* I sympathized with his indignation against this

[* The nickname of Sir Richard Philips, who cats no meat. O). O.]

robbery of his title. I was sorry, besides, to see you put yourself at the head of such capons as cackle for that periodical-making yourself Bashaw of a band of Balaamites, Commander-in-Chief of a Company of crestless Cockatoos. (There, by the by, is a fine specimen of apt alliteration's artful aid.) But that is your look-out, not mine; I hope you

find your account in it.

It is concerning a passage in your Magazine for September that I am now addressing you. Let me again revert to the last evening I had the pleasure of meeting you at Johnny Dowie's. You may remember we had been sitting in one of the tiniest of the tiny cribs of that celebrated man, who is now gathered to his fathers, employed as I have already mentioned. Why do I dwell on such trifles? Simply because I never have thought of that evening without pleasure. On leaving the house, the morning-sun was illuminating the lofty tenements of the old town. "Good night," said I, "Thomas, or rather, good morning. God bless you through life, and make you an honour to the land of your birth. You are, I perceive, Thomas, a Whig-endeavour, notwithstanding, to be an honest man. Be, if possible a gentleman. I know that it is a hard task I am imposing; but do, Thomas, Whig as you are, try to be a gentleman throughout life." To do you justice, you have kept to my advice, and are, I am happy to say, a gentleman in all members absolute, 66 in entrails, heart, and head, liver and reins." On you Whiggery has not wrought all its usual effect. There are some constitutions which resist the most mortal poisons; and as I know that there have been bibbers of laudanum, and swallowers of corrosive sublimate, so I can admit that in some rare instances I have heard of Whigs being gentlemen, and am happy to say, for old acquaintance' sake, that you are one of that infinitisimally small body. If I did not think you were, I should not waste this pretty sheet of foolscap upon you.

Some of
Let me

Such a tribute, however, I cannot pay to your employers. them are merely asses; but others have not even that excuse. ask you, Mr. Thomes Campbell, why you permit Mr. William Hazlitt, the modern Pygmalion, to fill your pages with gross, scurrilous, and lowlived abuse of people, whom such a man should not be permitted to name. Jeffrey, we all know, he called " the Prince of Critics, and the King of Men;" and Agamemnon the Second was so tickled by the compliment, so bamboozled by the blarney, that, without further inquiry, he let him loose in the Edinburgh Review, in an article which, I flatter myself, I utterly demolished in my last letter to North. But I do not remember that you have been daubed over by the dirty butter of his applause, so that you cannot make even that miserable apology. Were I speaking merely as a Magaziner, as a friend to my dear friend Christopher, I should rejoice in your infatuation, in the injury inflicted on a rival establishment; but both Kit and I are above that feeling. You may be sure it would please us more to hear of what would redound to your honour and advantage, than what could lower you, or any thing with which you

[Christopher North, the nominal editor of Blackwood's Magazine. O. O}