of natural affections. Nor do the pains she is at to "screw his courage to the sticking-place," the reproach to him not to be "lost so poorly in himself," the assurance that "a little water clears them of this deed," show any thing but her greater consistency in wickedHer strong-nerved ambition furnishes ribs of steel to "the sides of his intent;" and she is herself wound up to the execution of her baneful project with the same unshrinking fortitude in crime that in other circumstances she would probably have shown patience in suffering. ness. ROBERT HALL, 1764-1831. THIS eminent writer and preacher, the son of a Baptist clergyman in Arnsby, in Leicestershire, was born at that place on the 2d of May, 1764. At a very early age he showed not only a remarkable fondness for books, but for such books as children never read; for it is said that, before he was nine years old, he had read more than once "Edwards on the Affections, and on the Will," and "Butler's Analogy," and had written several essays on religious subjects. Such indications as these are not to be mistaken, for they indubitably presage future eminence. He received the early part of his education in Northampton School, where he made great progress in Latin and Greek, and, in his fifteenth year, he was removed to Bristol Theological Seminary, under the direction of the Baptists. In 1780, he was solemnly "set apart" as a preacher of the gospel, in connection with the Baptists; and, about a year after, he was sent to King's College, Aberdeen, where, among other friendships, he formed that of Mr. (afterward Sir) James Mackintosh, which continued through life. In 1783, he was associated with Dr. Evans, as assistant pastor in the church at Bristol, and became also classical tutor at the academy in that city. From the very commencement of his ministrations, Mr. Hall's preaching attracted an unusual degree of attention. His eloquence, remarkable alike for its brilliancy and its force, was a theme of general praise; and, by his instructive and fascinating conversation in private, he called forth equal admiration. In 1790, he succeeded the celebrated Robert Robinson, as minister of the Baptist congregation at Cambridge, where he labored with increasing reputation till 1804, when he was afflicted by a mental aberration, from which, however, he recovered sufficiently to discharge his pastoral duties in 1805; but, toward the close of that year, he unhappily suffered a relapse, and it was deemed essential for his perfect restoration that he should pass a considerable time in tranquil 1etirement. Accordingly, he resigned his office at Cambridge in 1806, when his congregation testified their deep sense of his merits by purchasing for him an annuity for life. The effect of these attacks upon his health was to make him examine his own religious exercises with more scrutinizing faithfulness, and to consecrate himself more entirely to God. "His piety assumed a more exalted tone, his habits became more strictly devotional, and his exercises more fervent and elevated than they had ever hitherto been; and he watched with jealous care over the whole tenor of his conduct, as well as every movement of his heart." His mental faculties being now completely restored, he accepted the invitation from a church in Leicester to become their pastor. Over this congregation he presided twenty years, a period undistinguished by any incident of very particular moment, excepting his marriage, which took place in March, 1808. During his residence here, however, he gave to the world several valuable productions, which greatly extended his fame and his influence, and contributed many valuable articles to the "Eclectic Review." He also engaged in a religious controversy upon what is called the "Terms of Communion," advocating with his usual energy, learning, and eloquence, the principle of "Open Communion." In 1826, he removed to Bristol, the place where his ministerial career began, and where it was destined soon to come to a close. Reading and study, which had always been at once his bane and antidote, suffered no abatement on account of his increasing infirmities. His opinion was that every species of knowledge might be rendered subservient to religion, and works of almost every description be laid under contribution. His pastoral duties were discharged with his usual faithfulness, but it soon became apparent that his health was declining. In 1830, he was compelled to try a change of air and scene. No ultimate benefit, however, was derived from this movement, and, after suffering severely from a complication of disorders, he departed this life on the 21st of February, 1831. Robert Hall was not only the most distinguished ornament of the Christian body to which he belonged, but, as a preacher, his claims to pre-eminence were acknowledged by competent judges of every creed. His mental endowments were of a very high order, and his excellency consisted not in the predominance of one, but in the exquisite proportion and harmony of all his powers. A mind of naturally great capacity had been enriched by a course of reading of unusual extent, and he was thus enabled to draw his illustrations from an almost infinite variety of sources. His oratory was brilliant, but not unnecessarily showy, or encumbered with poetical images. His style is at once clear and simple, and the construction of his sentences is characterized by ease, united with strength and compactness; so that his works display a union of elevation, learning, and elegance, to which it will be difficult to find a parallel among the works of divines.1 As to his personal character, it was every thing becoming a Christian. His 1 "Mr. Hall, like Bishop Taylor, has the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet, the acuteness of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, and the piety of a saint."— DR. PARR. "There is a living writer who combines the beauties of Johnson, Addison, and Burke, without their imperfections. It is a dissenting minister of Cambridge, the Rev. Robert Hall. Whoever wishes to see the English language in its perfection, must read his writings."DUGALD STEWART. "The richness, variety, and extent of his knowledge are not so remarkable as his absolute mastery over it. He moves about in the loftiest sphere of contemplation, as though he were 'native and endued to its element.' He uses the finest classical allusions, the noblest images, and the most exquisite words, as though they were those that came first to his mind, and which formed his natural dialect. There is not the least appearance of striving after great. ness in his most magnificent excursions; but he rises to the loftiest heights with a child-like ease. His style is one of the clearest and simplest-the least encumbered with its cwr beauty-of any which has ever been written."-London Magazine, February, 1821. As a piety was pure, sincere, exalted, and untainted by bigotry or intolerance. pastor, he was zealous, affectionate, and indefatigable in the discharge of his duties. In him, benevolence and humility were conspicuous, and he united warmth of affection to great strength of intellect. In social life he was open, communicative, sincere, and unostentatious. His conversation was on a level with his preaching, and displayed the same varied excellencies.1 Indeed, the world has seldom seen a character that united so much both of mind and heart, extensive learning, profoundness of thought, great eloquence, sincere and unaffected piety, and a benevolence that embraced the good of the whole human race.2 THE HAPPY PROSPECTS OF THE RIGHTEOUS. If the mere conception of the reunion of good men, in a future state, infused a momentary rapture into the mind of Tully; if an airy speculation-for there is reason to fear it had little hold on his convictions could inspire him with such delight, what may we be expected to feel, who are assured of such an event by the true sayings of God! How should we rejoice in the prospect, the certainty rather, of spending a blissful eternity with those whom we loved on earth, of seeing them emerge from the ruins of the tomb, and the deeper ruins of the fall, not only uninjured, but refined and perfected, "with every tear wiped from their eyes," standing before the throne of God and the Lamb, in white robes, and palms in their hands, crying with a loud voice, Salvation to God, who sitteth upon the throne, and to the Lamb, for ever and ever! What delight will it afford to renew the sweet counsel we have taken together, to recount the toils of the combat and the labor of the way, and to approach, not the house, but the throne of God, in company, in order to join in the symphonies of heavenly voices, and lose ourselves amidst the splendors and fruitions of the beatific vision! To that state all the pious on earth are tending; and if there is a law from whose operation none are exempt, which irresistibly conveys their bodies to darkness and to dust, there is another, not less certain or less powerful, which conducts their spirits to the abodes of bliss, to the bosom of their Father and their God. The wheels of nature are not made to roll backward; every thing presses on towards eternity; from the birth of time an impetuous current has set in, which bears all the sons of men towards that interminable ocean. Meanwhile, heaven is attracting to itself whatever is congenial to its nature, is enriching itself by the spoils of earth, and The degree of Doctor of Divinity was conferred upon him; but, believing it unscriptural, he never assumed the title. The collected works of Robert Hall, with various posthumous productions, and a memoir of his life by Dr. Gregory, were published in 1832, in six volumes, Svo. Read an article in the Edinburgh Review," xlv. 147; another in the "Quarterly," xlviii. 100; and an excellent article in the "North British Review," iv. 54. collecting within its capacious bosom whatever is pure, permanent, and divine, leaving nothing for the last fire to consume but the objects and the slaves of concupiscence; while every thing which grace has prepared and beautified shall be gathered and selected from the ruins of the world, to adorn that eternal city which hath no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of God doth enlighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. FRIENDSHIP. The cultivation of friendship is not made the subject of precept it is left to grow up of itself under the general culture of reason and religion, and is one of the fairest productions of the human soil, the cordial of life, the lenitive of our sorrows, and the multiplier of our joys; the source equally of animation and of repose. He who is destitute of this blessing, amid the greatest crowd and pressure of society, is doomed to solitude; and however surrounded with flatterers and admirers, however armed with power, and rich in the endowments of nature and of fortune, has no resting-place. The most elevated station in life affords no exemption from those agitations and disquietudes which can only be laid to rest upon the bosom of a friend. The sympathies even of virtuous minds, when not warmed by the breath of friendship, are too faint and cold to satisfy the social cravings of our nature their compassion is too much dissipated by the multiplicity of its objects, and the varieties of distress, to suffer it to flow long in one channel: while the sentiments of congratulation are still more slight and superficial. A transient tear of pity, or a smile of complacency equally transient, is all we can usually bestow on the scenes of happiness or of misery which we meet with in the paths of life. But man naturally seeks for a closer union, a more permanent conjunction of interest, a more intense reciprocation of feeling;he finds the want of one or more with whom he can intrust the secrets of his heart, and relieve himself by imparting the interior joys and sorrows with which every breast is fraught. He seeks, in short, another self, a kindred spirit, whose interest in his welfare bears some proportion to his own, with whom he may lessen his cares by sympathy, and multiply his pleasures by participation. Friendship founded on the principles of worldly morality, recognized by virtuous heathens, such as that which subsisted between Atticus and Cicero, which the last of these illustrious men has rendered immortal, is fitted to survive through all the vicissitudes of life; but it belongs only to a union founded on religion, to continue through an endless duration. The former of these stood the shock of conflicting opinions, and of a revolution that shook the world; the latter is destined to survive when the heavens are no more, and to spring fresh from the ashes of the universe. The former possessed all the stability which is possible to sublunary things; the latter partakes of the eternity of God. Friendship founded on worldly principles is natural, and though composed of the best elements of nature, is not exempt from its mutability and frailty; the latter is spiritual, and therefore unchanging and imperishable. The friendship which is founded on kindred tastes and congenial habits, apart from piety, is permitted by the benignity of Providence to embellish a world which, with all its magnificence and beauty, will shortly pass away; that which has religion for its basis will, ere long, be transplanted in order to adorn the paradise of God. HOMER AND MILTON. Perhaps few authors have been distinguished by more similar features of character than Homer and Milton. That vastness of thought which fills the imagination, and that sensibility of spirit which renders every circumstance interesting, are the qualities of both; but Milton is the most sublime, and Homer the most picturesque. Homer lived in an early age, before knowledge was much advanced; he would derive little from any acquired abilities, and therefore may be styled the poet of nature. To this source, perhaps, we may trace the principal difference between Homer and Milton. The Grecian poet was left to the movements of his own mind, and to the influence of that variety of passions which are common to all; his conceptions are therefore distinguished by their simplicity and force. In Milton, who was skilled in almost every department of science, learning seems sometimes to have shaded the splendor of genius. No epic poet excites emotions so fervid as Homer, or possesses so much fire; but in point of sublimity he cannot be compared to Milton. I rather think the Greek poet has been thought to excel in this quality more than he really does, for want of a proper conception of its effects. When the perusal of an author raises us above our usual tone of mind, we immediately ascribe those sensations to the sublime, without considering whether they light on the imagination or the feelings; whether they elevate the fancy or only fire the passions. The sublime has for its object the imagination only, and its influence is not so much to occasion any fervor of feeling as the calmness of fixed astonishment. If we consider the sublime as thus distinguished from every other quality, Milton will appear to possess it in an unrivalled degree; and here indeed lies the secret of his power. The perusal of Homer inspires us with an ardent sensibility; Milton with the stillness of surprise. The one fills and delights the mind with the confluence of various emotions; the other |