and fear that father had tried to rear his son. The letter is beautifully written; but Epictetus could have done it, Cicero could have done it; and if such sentiments be Christian, then Christianity appears among us, after all, only to hold

"An empty urn within her wither'd hand."

Again, Scott's mother died on the 24th of December, 1819; and now, if ever, the truth which came from God to guide, and sanctify, and comfort man, will surely appear in the conduct of this gifted man. He had heard that truth in his early days. He knew enough of the Scriptures to make grotesque applications of their language. Does the heavenly thing, then, now appear; not caricatured, or disfigured, but as it came in its divinity from heaven to earth? We read letter after letter on the subject, and though the poet had to refer to the fact that four times in a very brief space of time had the family burying-ground been opened, we do not read one sentence of the Christian aspects of death-one reference to the life, or one glimpse beyond the grave. Reference is made to his mother's blessing-the words, "God has so ordered it," are used regarding certain of the circumstances-and that is all we hear of God in these eventful family dispensations. We speak, of course, only of what appears in Sir Walter's letters-we have no access to his heart; but O, is it not passing strange, that not a hint is dropped on the most vital of all matters-not a warning given to his own son?

All is a dreary blank on those topics which most concern either the living or the dead; and if we might judge from the silence of this gifted man, the religion of Jesus might still have remained among the mysteries of heaven; it was of no use, at least it does not appear to have been used, even when the ravages of death were rife.

But this gifted man had to pass through an ordeal which touched him yet more acutely. Lady Scott died in the year 1826, and her husband felt most sensitively both her illness and her death. He writes with deepest pathos on the subject -his diary of the period lets us see into his very heart. He says:

"May 18. Another day, and a bright one, to the external world, again opens on us the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves

glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural enjoyment. Casements of lead and wood already hold her-cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte-it is not the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the nuns of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gayety and pastime. No, no! She is sentient, and conscious of my emotions somewhere, somehow: where, we cannot tell; how, we cannot tell; yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious, yet certain hope, that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world can give me. The necessity of the separation-that necessity which rendered it even a relief-that and patience must be my comfort. I do not experience those paroxysms of grief which others do on the same occasion. I can exert myself and speak even cheerfully with the poor girls. But alone, or if anything touches me the choking sensation! I have been to her room; there was no voice in itno stirring; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but all was calm-calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her: she raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said with a sort of smile, 'You all have such melancholy faces.' These were the last words I ever heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite conscious of what she said; when I returned, immediately departing, she was in a This was but deep sleep. It is deeper now. seven days since."

They are arranging the chamber of death that which was long the apartment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better than in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treading fast and thick. For weeks you could not have heard a foot-fall. O my God !"

"O my God!" Such is the exclamation of this wounded spirit; and how does he seek consolation? What is the secret

of his strength? Is there much of the religion of Jesus apparent in his language? It is when grief is most poignant, that the soul is most completely made known; and Sir Walter Scott? what is the soothing sought amid grief by

"The melancholy horrors of yesterday," he says, "must not return. To encourage that dreamy state of incapacity is to resign all authority over the mind, and I

have been used to say,

Such was the spirit of Sir Walter Scott's resolutions on the death of his wife. He had said, "Duty to God and to my children must teach me patience." And in another entry he says: "Were an enemy coming upon my house, would I not do my best to fight, although oppressed in spirit? and shall a similar despondency prevent me from mental exertion? It shall not, by heaven." "Swear not at all, neither by heaven, for it is God's throne," are the words of the Redeemer of the lost; but here is one sitting, we may say, by the grave which had just closed over much of what he loved and prized—and what is his language? What is the lesson which it teaches? His biographer has recorded it without a single explanation; and yet it is a direct violation of the simple truth as spoken by the Son of God. Crabb speaks of some who are "Not warn'd by misery, nor made rich by gain." And does not that line find a verification in the clause which has been quoted? Our great poet himself made Rebecca sing in "Ivanhoe,"

"Our fathers would not know THY WAYS,
And thou hast left them to THEIR OWN;"

and how common is that lot!

But we can acquire clearer views still of the religion of Sir Walter Scott. He thus describes it in 1825:

of

of the same gross indulgences by which ours are solaced."

And after some further remarks, equally beautiful with these, Sir Walter says:--

"But it is all speculation, and it is impossible to guess what we shall do, unless we could ascertain the equally difficult previous question, what we are to be. But there is a God, and a just God—a judgment and a future life-and all who own so much, let them act according to the faith that is in them."

Now, this is beautiful-but why so negative? Why not even glance at Him in whom God is the just God here described? Why no allusion to Him who is our advocate at the judgment, to which the poet alludes? Or why no reference to Him who is the resurrection? It is this ignoring of the Christian element-or rather of Him who is the Alpha and the Omega of truth according to the Christiam system-which we cannot but exceedingly deplore.

But more still. It is well known that on one occasion Sir Walter furnished two discourses to a candidate for the ministry in the Scottish Establishment, and referring to certain remarks which would probably be made on the occasion of their being published by his consent, he says:—

They would do me gross injustice, for I would, if called upon, die a martyr for the Christian religion, so completely is (in my poor opinion) its divine origin proved by its beneficial effects on the state of society. Were we but to name the abolition of slavery and polygamy, how much has, in these two words, been gained to mankind in the lessons of our Saviour ?"

Now, this also is admirable; but why keep still among secondary, though important benefits? Why no mention of the pardon of sin ?—of dying, the Just for the unjust? Why leave under a vail that which constitutes the essential glory of the creed for which Sir Walter was willing to die a martyr? If the religion of Christ has made no provision for taking sin away, it can be of no avail to man at the judgment. But it has made that provision: To have done so is its glory, and that should never be either vailed or ignored.

It is time, however, to turn to the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, and inquire what is the evidence which it affords of sound religious views, the views, we mean, which form the very essence of that re

here it is difficult indeed to find a single passage indicative of faith in that peculiar system which came from heaven to fit men for it, in a divinely peculiar way, and then to conduct them to glory. All is on the world's side, feeding its pomp and vanity, and in a hundred ways opposed to the word, the mind, and spirit of the Saviour. All that is peculiar in his lessons is not merely ignored and shunned -much that is utterly antagonistic to Christianity is embodied in poetry the most exquisite, and highly commended by all the attractions of unquestionable genius.

So much is this the case, that one of the closest approximations to sound religion which we remember in Scott's poetry occurs in a High-School Exercise, dated in 1783. One of his juvenile effusions was,

"ON THE SETTING SUN.
"Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints serve to display
Their great Creator's praise:
Then let the short-lived thing call'd man,
Whose life's comprised within a span,
To him his homage raise.

"We often praise the evening clouds,

And tints so gay and bold,
And seldom think upon our God,

Who tinged these clouds with gold."

There is here at least the recognition of the Creator-a recognition which often woefully disappears in the more mature and brilliant productions of the poet.

The following "Lines written in Ilness," may enable us yet further to discover the religious resources of the author of "Waverley." He was struggling at the time (1817) against languor and depression, and sought relief in poetry, as follows:

"The sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,-
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it bore,
Though evening with her richest dye

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

"With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me?

"Alas! the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply?
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill,
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill."

This is poetry-exquisite, graphical, and pensive; but had that noble mind no hold upon the mighty arm which could have sustained? Had the mourning poet no knowledge of the Comforter? Was there no soothing for that " mind diseased" in "the story of peace," as the Irish describe the gospel? Would the poetry have been less beautiful, or the mind still as sad, had the eye glanced from the " lowering landscape" to the brightness of the Father's glory; from "the dreary change," to Him who makes all things new? It is that distressing oversight of all that is fitted and designed by Heaven to soothe and elevate man that we here again deplore. It at once forms the danger of such productions when perused by unchristian minds, and explains how

"The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,"

had no inherent power to soothe the poet's mourning mind.

But the closing scene drew on, and were it our design to delineate a deathbed, that of Scott ranks among the most instructive of modern times. His fortunes, his hopes, and his health were equally shattered. After displaying stores of mental wealth, and resources such as no literary man ever had exhibited before; after struggling with difficulties which twenty ordinary minds, the poet must yield; and in what phase does religion now appear?

would have crushed

says:-

He

"I am down-hearted about leaving all my things after I was quietly settled; it is a kind of disrooting that recalls a thousand painful ideas of former happier journeys. And to be at the mercy of these fellows! (his creditors.) God help but rather God bless-man must help himself."

And a considerable time subsequent to that, when death was at the door, having requested his son-in-law to read, and being asked what book, he replied, "Need you ask? There is but one." He listened to the fourteenth chapter of John, and said, "Well, this is a great comfort; I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I

fragment of the Bible, especially the prophecies of Isaiah, and the Book of Job," were at times heard on his lips. To his son-in-law he said, "Be a good man, be virtuous, be religious, be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." Such was the tone of his closing hours-and on the 21st of September, 1832, he breathed his last.

His son-in-law has said that Sir Walter Scott "appears never to have swerved" "from the great doctrines which his parents taught him ;" and adds, that "his works teach the practical lessons of morality and Christianity in the most captivating form, unobtrusively and unaffectedly." "The sober, serene, and elevated frame of mind in which he habitually contemplated man's relation to his Maker," is also dwelt upon. But how does it happen that we hear so little of the way to the Father? Why is that which makes Christianity what it is—the religion of sinners that they may be made saints—so perfectly ignored? We are forming no opinion of the departed; we judge from what is seen and read of all men, and, in defense of the slighted truth, must ask again: Why were those who believed they were suffering for Christ's sake caricatured, or lampooned, and the Redeemer himself left out of the religion of these poems? We do not expect Sir Walter Scott to be engaged only in writing hymns or dirges, and deprecate every approximation to cant; but we have a right to demand allegiance and deference to the truth, and at least to protest when these are withheld. Some one has said that few sermons can be read with so much profit as memoirs of Burns, of Chatterton, and Savage; we may add that of Scott. With colossal powers, with a poetic genius the most exquisite, with benevolence such as few ever rivaled, and achievements in literature which render him the most remarkable man of his day, he has in his poetry all but ignored the religion of the cross. Amid the graces and the beauties of his poetry, one feels that true religion is dealt with as if one would administer poison in honey, or as if a mother would suffocate her child by pressing it to her breast.

THA

joined little in the festivities, which were however carried on with considerable animation by the rest of the young people. Seated under a spreading lime-tree, they listened to Rudolph's history. The escape of the boys from the cloister, their intended search for their parents, their journey, and the unfortunate disappearance of Hans, were all heard by the newly-married couple with breathless attention. Then Rudolph inquired about his parents. What did Conrad know of them?

Alas! it was but little. Until they arrived at the village in Saxony where Grete was staying, they and he had traveled together, and a melancholy journey it had been, especially to the poor parents. There they separated. Conrad remained to look out for some employment, in order to earn a little money, to enable him to marry, and emigrate to America. “And, thank God," continued he, "I did not look long. I found a kind friend in Grete's uncle, and have already been able to lay by a sum, which, added to her marriage portion, will be sufficient for the outfit. O! Rudolph, I have much to be thankful for ! On this day above every other I ought to feel it! When I think how many of our poor neighbors have lost wife or children in these unhappy times, I feel that I ought not to utter another word of complaint."

"But why do you still talk of going to America, Conrad ?" asked Rudolph ; "why do you not stay here, if you can earn your living? You are nearer our own country than you would be in America."

"I do not want to be near it, boy," answered Conrad; "the farther I am off, the less I shall think of home. I shall see the two fields on the hill-side, and my cottage below them, less plainly, when the broad ocean lies between us."

"Yes, yes, we must go," said Grete; "it will be better when we are quite away."

Besides," continued Conrad, "the employment I have got is only for a time; and, if all accounts be true, it is easier to make a living in America than here. I only wish, Rudolph, that your father, and

I have a great mind to go with you as it is," said Rudolph, bursting into tears; "for how could I meet father and mother again, without Hans, after promising to take care of him?"

"O, Rudolph!" said Grete," that is very wrong. Would you deprive your parents of both their children, when one, at least, may be restored to comfort them ?"

"Hans is not lost," said Conrad-" only missing. We will find him, Rudolph, depend upon it, if he is anywhere in Germany. But come, remember that this is my wedding-day; let us make it as merry as we can, and forget, while it lasts, all that is past and all that is to come, in the enjoyment of the present."

As Conrad was expecting to receive news from Caspar, he prevailed upon Rudolph to remain with him for the present, and endeavor to procure tidings of Hans before proceeding on his journey. The village in which Conrad resided was not more than seven leagues from Dresden, and Rudolph determined to make an excursion to that city, for the purpose of inquiring at the hospital, where, it had been suggested to him, he might possibly hear of his brother. Accordingly, the very next morning he departed; for, by no persuasion or argument, could Conrad or Grete induce him to rest a day or two before he set off.

On arriving at Dresden, he proceeded at once to the hospital, the situation of which had been accurately described to him by one of the villagers. But no person bearing the name, or answering to the description, of Hans was to be heard of there; and, with a feeling of bitter disappointment, Rudolph turned from the door, and asked himself what he should do next. This was not easy to determine. He knew not where to go, or of whom to inquire. To some of the busy people he encountered in the streets of the city he explained his situation; but they only smiled at his setting out to find a child with so slight a clew to guide him. The more patient heard, and pitied, and passed on; while the more occupied, and the less compassionate, did not even stop to listen to his story. But Rudolph still lingered in Dresden. For two or three days he paced its streets, peering

he chanced to encounter; and looking longingly into doors and windows, as if one of the many human habitations which rose around must contain the object of his search. When his flute attracted a few young auditors, he was more careful to observe their countenances than to collect their small contributions; and he scarcely noticed when these were refused, so much was his mind occupied by one engrossing thought. At last he was obliged to acknowledge that it was useless to prolong his stay, and, with the feeble hope that Conrad might have received some tidings in his absence, he returned to the abode of that faithful friend.

Conrad and Rudolph looked at each other anxiously when they met, and each saw at once that the other had nothing hopeful to communicate. Neither spoke; but Conrad shook Rudolph's hand kindly, and Grete made haste to set some refreshment before him. As she did so, she endeavored to cheer him.

"You are very, very kind, Grete," said poor Rudolph; "I shall never be able to repay you and Conrad all you have done for me."

"We do not want you to repay us," said Grete, good-humoredly; "I only want you to eat your dinner, for you must be very hungry and very tired, after such a journey."

"I believe I am not very hungry," said Rudolph, after a few ineffectual attempts to eat; "and I think I had better go again toward the Kuhstall, and try my luck in that direction."

"Go already, you foolish boy!" cried Conrad; "indeed you shall not. Your going would do no good," he continued ; "for I have caused inquiries to be made in that neighborhood, and I am sorry to say without success."

"You are not well," said Grete; "if you were, you would have an appetite, after all the fatigue you have undergone. Look at him, Conrad, how pale he is! Sit down again, and don't talk of setting off anywhere just now!"

She was right: Rudolph was ill. Strong as he was, the fatigue, the anxiety and distress of mind, the want of food and rest, which he had within the last few days endured, had been too much for him. He was soon obliged to give up all thoughts of traveling further at present,