find themselves not the rule and gauge of the administration of God. We are startled to deeper feeling, and our vision reaches farther into the truth of the universe. There gleams out upon us, as from a deep and silent sky, a retribution, waiting still behind a cloud, but whose face shall be inconceivably terrible to behold. Humanity is seen a ruin far mightier than her consciousness; destinies of awful date and aspect waiting round her, and her eye kindling with glimpses of the intolera ble brightness of the everlasting fire; while nature starting up amid her ruins, turns with "fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation" to the life to come.

But as nature is not without a significance in harmony with the doom announced in revelation, so the obvious and natural interpretation of that doom seems in especial accord with the revealed scheme of redemption. In the vastness of the remedy we read the vastness of the ruin. This accord is not simply with the greatness of that scheme, but with the tone of emotion pervading it; its passion of fear and grief seeming to us not that simply of a struggle from the grave and a limited retribution, but as of an agony between an eternal heaven and an eternal hell. Not simply the awful personage engaged in it, and his humiliation unto suffering, shame, sorrow and death; not simply nature exhibiting through the eclipse, the earthquake, and the opening graves, her consciousness of him and his work; but the feeling that breathes through all the stupendous scenery of redemption; its chord of sympathy for man, that seems to vibrate, not between existence and non-existence, but between two everlastings; and its awful sorrow, that seems to pulsate from the highest Heaven to Gethsemane and Calvary. Its tone of woe seems to come up from the deeps of an immortal ruin. The agony of the divine nature and government engaged in it is an exponent of an ever-opening, ever-deepening perspective of sin and sorrow. The coloring of the scheme of redemption, as portrayed by revelation, seems shaded with the contrast of eternal light or gloom. Why that deep shading, that tone of awful sorrow, which marks the mission of Christ to our world? Was it that lost souls were merely lost from existence? What were that, one might inquire, to Almighty creative power? that could as easily repair the loss to being by their extinction, as that of the ephemerides of a summer's day? and can at his pleasure repeople a universe with souls? The deep hue and tone of sorrow and fear, that blend with those of hope and love, in the scheme of mercy for man, are significant of exposure to infinite peril; not a mere striking from existence and consignment to eternal sleep-a sleep that ends

all heart-aches-remorse and sorrow, and fear and shame-and is, as the heathen orator, (Julius Cæsar,) well defined, a refuge rather than a retribution. That the universe shall be hereafter simply as if we had never been, as it was in fact before ever we were that seems not a peril adequate to inspire into the mission of the Son of God its vast and solemn passion. We will not presume to affirm that the cast of emotion which imbues the scheme of redemption, would only arise in a vision of immortal ruin. We are incompetent to gauge and adjust proportionals so infinite. It is not a case for demonstration. We have not means to measure the depth of shade and tone there is, and certainly not that which should be in such a problem of immeasurables. But we design here only to suggest that the tone and coloring of the scheme of redemption, as presented in Scripture, are in harmony with the plain and natural interpretation of its declarations concerning the future destiny of the wicked. Positive, terrible, woful beyond thought, must have been the doom from which he came to deliver. How terrible, how woful, we may not attempt to define or utter, save in the awful words which the Lord of life and love himself employed, "eternal punishment," "the undying worm," "the everlasting fire;" nor may we dare abridge or extenuate the natural force of the terms he employs.

Thus have we, as we could, pondered the mighty theme of immortality. Our interpretation of nature leads us to anticipate a double doom for man; for the good an existence of endless and glorious progress; for the wicked, a future retribution of a date, the thought whereof the children of this life may not fathom. Justice opens to them surely an existence beyond the tomb; and when the soul has passed the crisis of the grave, we can discover by the light of nature no new and more fatal dissolution yet to come, nor any exigency of divine government requiring its extinction in the endless future more than in the article of death. Still for assurance, nature refers to revelation. She leads to the sacred oracle, and bids us, in simple, child-like trust receive and interpret its utterance. Aiming in such a spirit to interpret it, we seem to ourselves unmistakably to hear its solemn asseveration that the soul once embarked on moral existence and history, is embarked on an endless voyage; that in glory or ruin, in bliss or woe, in life endlessly progressive, or with a being destroyed, and forever perishing, it shall never, never cease to be.

Thus according to our argument from either nature or revelation, the morality of humanity binds it to immortality. Its capacity of classification with the righteous or the wicked,

and of moral award, makes it heir of immortal destiny. It may be urged that our argument makes a provision only for those of positive moral character, but none for those who from ignorance, or infancy, or imbecility, are connected with a future destiny and celestial government by no moral tie. To this we only answer, in passing, that if conscience and free will, and moral history are guarantees of immortality under a moral God, so the creation of capacity for endless bliss and virtue would seem to us a commitment of creative wisdom to an existence competent to develop that capacity; such capacity seems to establish relations between the soul and a reasonable God, binding it to existence. But beyond the moral aspects of the question, or into the region of merely curious speculation, we care little to adventure. What shall be the disposition of souls without moral development or history, presents no practical issue to detain us.

Such is the general scope of our argument and such the goal to which it brings us. The terribleness of the outlook which that goal opens to us in one direction, may well make us look back and see whether the paths by which we have been led to our conclusion, are indeed those of sober reason and Divine truth; and whether the awful landscape opening under eternal night, be in truth part of the empire of a God of love. We have thus looked back repeatedly; but we are unable to perceive where we have been turned aside from the true issue, or how we could have avoided the fearful conclusion to which we have been brought. Once committing the question to the arbitrament of revelation and falling into the current of its argument, we can no more resist than we can wrestle with Niagara within its rapids. We may abandon the stream, but remaining in it, we must on. So, it seems to us, the only logical escape from our conclusions is to abandon revelation itself. It were strange if in a range of argument so vast, dealing with evidence so varied and multitudious, all points were perfectly complete or fully guarded and defended. But we are not aware of any departure from logic or candor in constructing it; and imperfect as it may be, we believe it is broad enough and strong enough to sustain the conclusion based thereon, viz, the universal immortality of man. Yet though we have been led to the awful height of this argument, guided as we believe by the word of the Eternal Spirit, still terror takes hold of us, and we are ready to shudder and faint, as we look from the fearful height down the awful avenues of endless night and sorrow. We know that even this is within the rule of celestial love. But that love is too high, too glorious and terrible for us. Its ways in the eternity past are in an infinite deep; so they must lie in

the infinite to be. We may not trace the path of God. But though we can only faintly descry God's ways, and the ways of those who make their final plunge into that sea of fire, still the oracle that reveals their progress to its dreadful border, assures us none shall plunge therein whom infinite love, wisdom and justice can deliver. Yea, we see, blocking up the approach to it, not only Sinai but Calvary. We see nature, providence, and revelation surrounding the abyss with thunderings and lightnings, and with voices warning the children of this life afar; and at the same time voices numberless from saint, seer and psalmist, and from apostle and evangelist, from the Spirit and the bride, from the ranks of everlasting joy, and from him who weareth on the throne the vesture dipped in blood-all inviting to the unbarred gates of light-assure us of love and fear yearning for man in heaven.

Standing then by the open abyss, we may not doubt God's love, though its height and depth be awful even as the nature of God. Nor may we doubt the reality of that dread abyss, though we see not why God's love does not close it. For that love itself warns us of it. And if we interpret not amiss, as God is true, it is real. Yea, and the celestial love that warns us of that everlasting deep, and discloses its horrid blazon, shows us also its CONQUEROR-a glorious one wrestling for man -not with our king of immortal terrors, but that mightier horror of which he is but the shadow, and quelling him-the second death. We see him unbinding from humanity the chains of darkness, extracting from its bosom the undying worm, opening the dungeon house to the prisoners of eternal sin and woe, and lifting them up to his own glorious throne. That thronethe rainbow of peace and love is round about it forever. Nor may we doubt the glad emblem, though its emerald brightness rests on thick dark, to mortal vision edged with gloom and wrath.

God's empire, natural and spiritual, abounds with aspects that afflict, terrify and confound us. Our only refuge is childlike faith. Mysteries high, deep, dark, dreadful, or of intolerable effulgency wait round the brightness unapproachable. In their presence awe and terror seize upon us. Philosophy faints, mortal vision cannot bear, nor mortal heart endure them; but through them is our walk to the Great Father. Though we may not scan or comprehend, we will not doubt, we will not fear, but hold fast our trust and love. For we know there is a center whence all grows light, whence gushes love with life through being, AND WHENCE PULSATES THROUGH THE UNI

VERSE AND THROUGH ETERNITY THE THROB OF IMMORTALITY.

THAT CENTER IS GOD, WHOSE NAME IS LOVE.

ART. II.-NAPOLEON BONAPARTE AT ST. HELENA.

The History of the Captivity of Napoleon at St. Helena, from the Letters and Journals of the late Sir Hudson Lowe; and Official Documents never before made public. By WILLIAM FORSYTH, M. A., late fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Harper & Brothers. 1855.

Napoleon at St. Helena: or interesting Anecdotes and remarkable Conversations of the Emperor during the five and a half years of his Captivity; collected from the Memorials of Las Cases, O'Meara, Montholon, Antommarchi, and others. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. Harper & Brothers. 1855.

AFTER Mr. Abbott had concluded in Harper's Magazine, his long-drawn biographical series on Napoleon Bonaparte, and then repeated his work in two royal octavo volumes, pp. 611, 666, we hoped that having exhausted his theme, he had exhausted his strength, and that he would not be seen again on his hobby, spurring over the same track. It had, indeed, been hinted to us that the Rev. author was occupied in preparing for the press, the life of another eminent warrior, General Benedict Arnold; containing some account of his religious experience at Philadelphia and West Point, with embellishments. We were fairly surprised, therefore, by the reappearance of the other old soldier under a new name. But the great Captain is again before us, challenging our attention in his worn regimentals, since we have given him on several occasions a hearty, though not a friendly salute. We halt before we advance to another review, for it appears to do but little good to inspect sharply a flashy book. It will be read and paid for, in spite of criticism. After the success of Headley's Napoleon, and Abbott's Napoleon, affording no small gains both to the authors and publishers, it seems as if a book of any sort "illustrated and appropriately bound," would obtain a transient popularity. Such productions, literary men turn over carelessly and consign them to the pile of "light reading." The critic seizes his pen and writes with the consciousness of having power enough to expose these palpable blunders, these bald impositions in the name of history; but the people have enjoyed a few hours of empty amusement and turn away to seek another. The author collects his profits and straightway repeats the entertainment, and as if