that in perceptible materiality he had manifested himself, to our sight, in the burning bush ; to hearing, in the still small voice; and to all our senses, by means of the Incarnation. Thus, by the test of touch, our Lord, after his Resurrection, convinced the incredulity of Thomas; who, being permitted to thrust his hand into his wounds, exclaimed in admiration, "My Lord, and my God!"

It is observed, that Archbishop Tillotson has said, that where religion ends, metaphysics begin. If by religion we are to understand revelation, and if the metaphysics here intended are conversant about the same subject, and meant to be supplemental to revelation, I doubt whether this be not an appendix, with which we might very well dispense.

If the Scriptures have not disclosed to us less than enough, why need metaphysics curiously seek to discover more? I should fear that wanderings, so discursive and abstruse, might stray into inquiries too much resembling those which Milton supposes to have engrossed the revolted angels, in their confinement.

«Others apart, sat on a hill retired,

In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high,
Of Providence, foreknowledge, will and fate,
Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.
Of good and evil, much they argued then ;
Of happiness, and final misery:

Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy."*

What do you think of the Lectures of a Country Pastor?

That they seem to be the work of an able, a pious, and a learned man.

read them all.

But I have not

I suppose you know to whom they are attributed, by Rumour.

I do.

What do you think of him?

I have not seen enough, for enabling me to form an opinion.

And what does he think of you?

I would repeat my last answer. I have indeed a surmise; but I hope, or at least wish, as much for his sake as for mine, that it may be

*Paradise Lost.

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an unfounded one; and therefore, instead of stating it, I will say nous verrons.

Do you subscribe to his hypothesis, that when body dies, soul falls into a kind of trance, from which it is roused by the last trumpet, unconscious of the lapse of ages, if ages have intervened, and seeming to itself to have terminated, but the moment before, its terrestrial career?

No; to this hypothesis I have two objections: first, I seem to have something resembling warrant of Holy Writ, for believing the soul to have a conscious and separate existence, in the interval between death and the general resurrection; secondly, the stowing of thousands of years in the twinkling of an eye, is a compendiousness which exceeds my faculties of conception.

The Pastor himself admits this to be so; but you have yourself said, that what we are incapable of conceiving, we frequently must believe.

I say so still.

When God commands our faith, we are bound implicitly to believe. Nor is there blind or weak credulity in this submission. We merely assume that to be the word

of Truth, which we have ascertained to be the word of God. Thus, though we are required to believe more than we understand, we are not called upon to believe more than we know to be strictly true. But where the commands of Deity have not interposed, I am free to regulate myself by sublunary rules; and to shrink from believing what I am unable to comprehend.

The Pastor, accordingly, admits that belief to be quite optional, which you decline to form.

Yes; the work is a liberal and candid one: it contains nothing peremptory or dogmatic. To opinions so advanced, I am the more disposed to defer; and if the Author be not more self-sufficient than his book, I would on this score extend a portion of my respect to him. But you sigh and laugh. Why this is a match for Andromache's δακρυοεν γελασασα.

I sighed after a ghost story; and laughed at myself for such a childish longing. But there is a little spice of superstition about yourself: you, therefore, will not join me in this laugh at my expense.

No: like my Brother Rambler, Doctor Johnson, I take a keen delight, in glimpses however transient, of the spiritual world; and grasp at vouchers of its near neighbourhood; and of the mysterious activity of its intangible existence. Neither do I dislike that slight creeping of the flesh, which a recital of supernaturals is calculated to produce. It seems to revive the simple and primitive sensations, of innocent, inexperienced, and story-craving Childhood. But the scene of these charmingly frightful narratives should be an appropriate one. The apartment ought to be rambling, and undefined; its outline broken by dim recesses, and light-absorbing nooks. From an adjoining landing-place, the loud ticking of an ancient house-clock might be heard; and hoarse growl with which it preludes a tedious striking of the hour. If the wind, too, chose to pipe, though I might prefer a sob, I should not maké objection: I have not forgotten Ossian.

Ghosts ride on the tempest to night;

Sweet is their voice, between the gusts of wind:
Their songs are of other worlds.