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physical causation ? That they, and their immediately producing causes, are not living entities he cannot reasonably doubt; but that they are all somehow ascribable to the exercise of omniscient will-power, his reason compels him to believe. By tracing phenomena or effects to their causes, immediate, proximate, or remote, he discovers that out of exactly similar circumstances exactly similar results ensue, and hence he deduces and formulates what, for scientific convenience, he calls natural "laws," but which so-called "laws" no real scientific inquirer can deem to be anything more than a tentative human conception, and more or less hypothetical.

Is there no evidence of personality traceable, then, in the course of a scientific exploration through any department or region of Nature? Is the universe constituted of nothing but matter and force? Is a human being nothing more than a wondrous piece of mere physical organization with just a temporary spark of vitality thrown in, which is called its "life"? Is its brainpower and its reasoning capacity an effect only of certain mechanical and chemical combinations? Is any coffinful of black dust which is so ruthlessly disturbed nowadays, the resultant entirety of a thinking, speaking, devising, and right or wrongdoing locomotive machine, which, some twenty or thirty centuries ago, was so carefully located in its Egyptian tomb in the belief, on the part of its relatives, that the body would some day be resuscitated and the skeleton resume its garment of flesh? Can science aver its yea or its nay in answer to that question?

As there is no doubt whatever that science cannot positively answer it one way or the other, seeing that upon the death of the body taking place an impenetrable veil is drawn down, yet, on the other hand, it seems certain that those of the provisions and operations of Nature with which we become acquainted, afford evidence of the most absolute kind, of there being a supreme intelligent personality-or what we are justified in reverently regarding as such a personality.

That what is called "intelligence" is one of the invisible and intangible facts of Nature is perfectly obvious, for the

proofs of its existence and of its exercise present themselves in millions upon millions of instances at any spot upon. the globe's surface at which man places himself. The evidence is discernible throughout the vast range of ocean life. Whether in the case of the merest diatom or of the biggest leviathan, there is an instinct or a greater or less degree of "intelligence" which is employed in directing the animal's movements in its searches for appropriate food, and for the external conditions requisite for its various functions. And so in every example of the locomotive creatures of the air and of the land, there is unquestionably a greater or a smaller degree of that adaptive characteristic which is obviously a part of the creature's being.

And in coming to the consideration of our own race, there is no need to refer to the evidence it affords of the existence of that faculty, for it is manifested in various degrees in the actions of the hundreds of millions of human beings who people the earth. As one of the realities of Nature it may serve either the pessimist or the optimist for a text, but that it exists as an irrefutable fact is demonstrated in almost every region of the globe.

Such a course of suggestion leads one back to the part of the subject with which the present article was commenced-namely, to the manner in which Nature presumes to deal with the earth's living denizens in general and with the human race in particular, and to the various arrangements which appear to have been ordained in their special behalf.

In the estimate of the pessimistic philosopher there may appear to be a striking incongruity as between the numberless painful circumstances which, on the one hand, are incidental to all animal existence, including the human section of it, and, on the other hand, the superabounding beneficence in virtue whereof the well-being of every living thing is provided for, almost as though the forces and influences of the entire universe were directed to its individual interests according to its functions and its needs.

If true scientific inquiry consists, as it would appear to do, in the tracing of phenomena or effects to their immedi

ate or remoter causes, and in ascertaining the manner in which Nature's processes are evolved, the inquirer will not be perturbed in spirit because in the course of his explorations he discovers so much that is for the time inscrutable and that so utterly passes understand ing. From a few simple facts which present themselves to his attention in the humble lowlands where his quest begins, he gradually mounts to higher points whence more extensive views are His knowledge of facts increases as zone above zone is reached, and until he is enabled to discern the more general features of the wondrous region which he is traversing.

What summary, then, can be formulated by an intelligent mind out of a general scientific inquiry or philosophical exploration through the visible and invisible regions of Nature by which we are surrounded, and of which every human being is in fact a denizen ?

(1) The first axiom which suggests itself is that Nature is absolutely supreme in the exercise of her functions, and that, pessimistic protests and optimistic laudation notwithstanding, she produces her effects with special reference to the utilities they subserve and according to seemingly established methods, but yet with more or less of variation or deviation from absolutely rigid courses.

(2) All visible phenomena are the outcome of forces or influences which are themselves invisible, and which indicate, in the manner in which they operate together and produce their effects, that they are due to the exercise, apart from themselves, of a supreme omnipresent intelligence and of an omnipotent and universally beneficent will.

(3) The facts of Nature do not afford any absolute intimation whether man's being has or has not a continuing sentient existence after the decease of the body, but, so far as they do afford evidence upon the subject, they show it to be reasonably probable that it has such an existence in some form.

The principles upon which Nature appears to be constituted seem to include the necessity that the question concerning a "hereafter" for mortal man, should not be capable of solution by us, for if, on the one hand, it were

known as a fact that when the body dies we should enter into conditions more acceptable than those of the present life, how many folk would be justified in hastening their departure hence, and so frustrating the very purposes for which the world exists; while, on the other hand, if it were certain that there were no future state for us, it would be but reasonable that man's efforts should be chiefly directed to pres ent enjoyment. But the spirit whereby the educated and enterprising portion of mankind is animated, is in consonance with the higher aims supposedly involved in a progressive destiny. our mundane existence were assuredly terminated by a mere blank, then, with so hopeless and meaningless a prospect before us, it would perhaps be almost justifiable on the part of every individual and of every community to act upon the aphorism "what does it matter, annihilation is before us, let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."

If

Respecting our own special sphere of existence, one part of Nature's methods is plainly discernible-namely, that every living organism has its genesis and its period of growth and development and of decadence, and that the dissolution of the material part of it is the precursor, though not the progenitor, of new life. Even the rocks, of which at least the outer portion of our globe itself is composed, appear to undergo their transformations prior to their ultimate disintegration, which, in its turn, is a step preliminary to the reconstruction of the materials constituting them; and it may be that the same principle of genesis, development, and decadence extends to the suns, worlds, and other heavenly bodies with which we may suppose infinite space to be tenanted, and that. after performing the functions proper to them, they become ultimately dissolved and dispersed previous to the elements composing them entering into new combinations and being gradually worked up again, so to speak, into new spheres.

Into what region do we find ourselves landed after thus attempting to make a philosophical exploration amid the wondrous facts of Nature with which we are surrounded? Do the innumerable evidences of design, method, order, and

beneficent provision, which present themselves at every step we take, lead to a reasonable conclusion that Nature is merely a vast aggregation of material and physical effects which operate, of necessity, according to rigid "laws," and without any other purpose than that of material and physical evolution? and that the universe, after all, is but an inconceivably intricate combination of soulless mechanism? Does such an excursion conduct us into the domain of fancy, and sentiment, and miracle, where credulity, under the head of religion, dominates to a prevailing extent the minds and hearts of men? or do we not rather become more and more conscious at every instant of our being, that we are in a Presence whom we may, for want of a more appropriate expression, deem to be an all-pervading personality, and the Soul and Spirit of the Universe?

There seems to be no ground for the

apprehension on the part of man that the beneficence which is so conspicuous a characteristic of Nature's processes will be lacking, whatever it may be that ensues when his body is grasped by the mystic hand of death. That all things are perfectly adapted to the circumstances in and for which they appear to have existence, that the welfare of everything having life is thoroughly provided for at every stage of its being, and that material and physical operations which take place in, upon, and around our globe are effected in the most complete manner conceivable, are matters of actual experience. They are facts which may be seen, and understood of all men who are capable of forming an indepen dent judgment. They are not the imaginary conceptions of credulity, but the reasonable bases upon which an absolutely relying faith may unhesitatingly repose.-Westminster Review.

LETTERS OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

MORE than one master of literature has left on record his opinion of the necessary qualities that go to make a good correspondent. Goethe asks for nothing less than "a free and daring grace, a careless security, a fine and sharp polish, a delicate and perfect taste."

This is but to confirm, in less homely language, the verdict of his quaint Scottish contemporary, who had it that "birr and smeddum" are the very juice and flavor of the true epistle. These high conditions are amply fulfilled in the recently published Letters of James Russell Lowell." "There did not seem to be a drop of bitterness in his composition," writes Mr. Leslie Stephen in the admirable sketch which closes the volumes; and certainly nothing that could wound the tenderest susceptibilities is found within their pages. The letters are genial and wholesome, as the man's nature was wholesome to the core; sound and sweet and instinct with the ready, sparkling wit which made him so delightful a fireside companion. They are truly "the mirror of his heart; he stands revealed in them; for, as the editor

points out, few men have given in their letters a more faithful representation of themselves, and, barring those essential reserves, those sanctities which belong to every human soul, and with which none may dare to intermeddle, we have here an almost complete record of his life from childhood to age.

The son of a much-respected clergyman, James Russell Lowell, born at Cambridge, Mass., on February 22, 1819, was singularly fortunate in his home surroundings. Elmwood, the spacious, comfortable country house of which we hear so much in the letters, and for which he cherished an intense affection to the last, was the scene of many pleasant social gatherings, and the meeting-place of innumerable relations. Here the boy, the youngest of seven children, a handsome lad and his mother's darling, led a healthy, natural, outof-door life among the woods and riverwashed meadows, learning a good deal more from them than from school tasks, though he absorbed culture almost unconsciously from his bookloving father. From his mother, a member of an old Orkney family, he

always held himself to havé inherited his poetic temperament, his love of nature, and sensitive response to her in fluences.

There is nothing remarkable in the few childish letters that have been preserved, unless we may trace some hint of the coming man in the boy of nine, who writes to a brother of the three volumes of Tales of a Grandfather" added to his bookshelf; it must be owned, however, that a new suit of broadcloth clothes with buttons of his own selection,, and "the melancholy news" of his " ague, together with a gumbile," fairly divide the writer's interest. Following on this, there are nine years of silence. The letters begin again when Lowell was eighteen, and had already been four years a student at Harvard. Shy on first entering the new life, his genial, sociable qualities quickly gathered friends about him. The love of books had grown with his years. "You see the editiomania has not left me yet," he writes to a college friend, after telling of a handsome edition of Milton and one of Coleridge given him by his father; "with some stray cash I have purchased Butler and Beattie also. Did you ever read Hudibras'?" The letter is all about books, and here we have the first hint of verse-making. "When my poems are published I'll send them to you." His mother is his confidant about those "poetical effusions," "one of which I have dedicated to you who have always been the patron and encourager of my youthful muse."

A boyish assertion of independence led to his rustication, and he left Harvard to finish his studies under a private tutor at Concord, where Emerson was then living in seclusion. He found Concord dull, and he was restless and in discontent with himself, and out of sympathy with Emerson's transcendentalism.

In the autumn of 1838 he received his bachelor's degree and returned to Elmwood; and then followed the necessity of choosing a career. For his father's profession he had no inward call;" the law, which he finally chose, does not seem to have been much more con

genial. "If I thought it possible that I ever could love the law (one can't

make a lawyer without it), I wouldn't hesitate a moment; but I am confident that I shall never be able even to be on speaking terms with it."

A year later he is still in a "miserable state" of indecision; now veering toward medicine, now toward "business," again toward lecturing, the inborn craving for literary expression forever reasserting itself. He fought and conquered his.disinclination, however, and in 1840 took his degree of Bachelor of Law at Harvard Law School. Scribbling had all this while lightened the arid study of Blackstone and Kent's "Commentaries," and his betrothal in the same year to Miss Maria White, a young lady of large gifts of mind and heart, herself a writer of sweet and sympathetic verse, did much to quicken and stimulate his powers and develop his character. Though now fully qualified to practise law, literature still lured him; in this same eventful year he made a collection of verses which had already appeared in various periodicals, and succeeded in publishing them under the title of "A Year's Life." The little volume brought him some encouraging praise, but little money, and in the hope of bettering his fortune he started a monthly journal in partnership with a man scarcely more practical than himself. "The Pioneer" soon came to grief, expiring after a languishing existence of three months, and leaving a heavy legacy of debt behind it.

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The winter of 1842-3 was spent in New York, where, brought into relations with a fresh set of minds, and rubbing shoulders with young and eager authors of his own generation, Lowell was inspired to compose a second volume of verse. It was now quite clear that for the future the pen must be his weapon; fresh avenues opening to him in many quarters; and with an easy conscience he could at last realize his dream and "sit down to do something literary for the rest of his life." With the optimism and delightful youthfulness of hope which never failed him, Lowell now considered himself justified in marrying upon what might fairly be described as nothing a year, and that uncertain.” “All I ask," he confides in C. F. Briggs, a young writer of great promise whose

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acquaintance he made in New York, and to whom many of the letters in these volumes are addressed, "is enough for necessaries," and the enough was forthcoming, though the great prizes of literature never fell to Lowell's share. To the same friend he sends the following delightful sketch of his father, who had proposed to build a cottage for the young people.

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"I have already christened my new castle (though as yet an atmospheric one) Elmwood Junior,' much to the delight of my father, who is one of the men you would like to know. He is Dr. Primrose in the comparative degree, the very simplest and charmingest of sexagenarians, and not without a great deal of the truest magnanimity. Nothing delights him so much as any compliment paid to me, except the idea of building me a cottage. If you could see him criticising the strut or crow of one of my chanticleers with a child's enthusiasm, or reading a review of my poems which he does not think laudatory enough (at the same time professing himself a disciple of Pope, and pretending that he can't understand more than a tithe of what I write), or pointing

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out the advantages of the site he has selected for planting the Colony from Elmwood Senior, or talking of the efficacy of prayer, or praising the old Federal Party with Washington at its head,' or speaking of Jefferson as harshly as his kind heart will let him speak of anybody-in short, if you had a more than Asmodeus-faculty, and could take the roof off his heart, you would fall in love with him. He has had far more sorrow, too, than most men, and his wounds have been in his tenderest part... but nothing could shake my beloved and honored father's trust in God, and his sincere piety."

Mrs. Lowell's delicate health sent the young pair to winter in Philadelphia, where Lowell was at once enrolled on the staff of the "Pennsylvania Freeman." Returning to Elmwood in summer, he was engaged to write for the "Standard," the organ of the American Anti-Slavery Society, published in New York. His heart was deeply stirred by the burning question of the day, and the whole strength and fervor of his nature were poured into the poems and articles which he contributed weekly. "Hosea Bigelow," who had made his first bow to the public from the platform of the " Boston Courier," now transferred his services to the "Standard." In sending the first of the famous series he says to Sydney H. Gay: "You will find a squib of mine in this week's Courier.' I wish it to continue anonymous, for I wish slavery NEW SERIES.-VOL. LIX., No. 3.

to think it has as many enemies as possible." Yet, though the next years were busy and productive ones, since they saw the birth of the "Bigelow Papers," "Sir Launcefal," The Fable for Critics," besides much newspaper and magazine work, the money rewards came in very slowly.

"If ever letter deserved the name of a providential raven," he writes to Sydney H. Gay, editor of the "Standard" in 1849, "it was your last. Not for its blackness, nor for any the least unpleasantness in its note, but for the supply it brought to a famishing man. Though I am now a middle-aged man (he was but thirty!) my constitution is still vigorous enough to bear a draft. I think I could sit exposed to such as yours all day long without taking cold. .. I will macerate myself. I will keep lent, so that I may never more be under the necessity of borrowing. . . haps I should bear riches with resignation. I think few of us would hold an umbrella (at any rate right side up) against a golden shower."

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took to heart far more than the emThere were vexations and griefs he barrassments of poverty. The restraints enforced by his position on the "Standard" had long fretted him, and even his cheerful philosophy scarcely helped him to bear the strain. "I have felt," he says, that I ought to work in my own way, and yet I have also felt that I ought to try and work in their way, so that I have failed of working in either." In 1849 he severed his connection with the paper. He was a little chagrined at the readiness with which his resignation was accepted, but his saving sense of humor helped him to see the comical side; and, after all, the worries incidental to every literary career were but trifles light as air compared with the deep grief he felt at the loss, within three years, of his two little daughters, to be followed by that of his only son, a child of great beauty and promise who died in Rome in 1851. Lowell had gone thither in the hope of re-establishing his wife's failing health, but the journey was undertaken in vain. She lingered for about a year after their return to America, dying in the autumn of 1853. The blow was crushing to one of his loyal and tender nature. To his friend C. F. Briggs he permits a glimpse into his sorrow:

22

'I feel now for the first time old, and as if I had a past-something, I mean, quite alien

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