and a host of lawyers from the circuit; and the learned Bishop Watson; and the clever Duchess of Gordon, and her daughter, who appeared at the window of his hermitage and made good their entrance. And then came the Grantleys and Lord Lonsdale; while Lord Muncaster and Isaac Milner were guests living under his roof. All these he enchanted with his genial courtesy, and delighted with his rich and varied conversation. Little did the visitors guess the thoughts then occupying his mind. Little did they imagine, when they parted from their host for the night, after a delightful evening, when hours had flown like minutes through his brilliant talk, that he seated himself in his own room to study his Bible, to scrutinize his thoughts, and to write such words as these:-"I am hurt and ashamed of myself; yet, looking to God for strength, I resolve through Him to amend. Work out then thy own salvation, purify thy heart, thou double-minded. Labour to enter into that rest; the way is narrow, the enemies are many, to thee particularly." (Life, Vol. i. p. 121.) “I pray to a gracious God to have mercy on me, to turn the current of my affections from worldliness, and to impress my mind with an awful and abiding sense of that eternity. which awaits me." (p. 181.) "If Christ's promise, that He would hear those who call upon Him, were less direct and general, I durst not plead for mercy, but should fall into despair." (Ibid. p. 120.) "The result of examination shows me, that though my deliberate plans are formed in the fear of God, and with reference to His will; yet that, when I go into company, on which I resolve as pleasing to God, I am apt to forget Him, my seriousness flies away, the temptations of the moment to vanity and volatility get the better of me." Gentle to others, and tolerant of their infirmities, he is stern to himself; and, the most indulgent of men, when he sits in judgment on his own actions, passes, like the Roman patriot, an unwavering sentence. He discerns his selfishness, ("though I do not pass for selfish," the seeds of vanity and ambition,-"I have of late perceived, on looking inwards, the workings of ambition, of love of this world, its honours, riches, estimation, and even of worldly desires for my family, of which, before, I do not recollect that I was conscious." Nay, examining himself in later life, he says," How does this review shame me! How should I be ashamed if others could see me just as I really am! I often think I am one grand imposture. My heart is heavy. Oh, there is nothing that can speak peace to the wounded spirit but the Gospel promise, and the promise is sure. God is love, and is able to save to the uttermost, and He will cast out none who come to Him. He it is, I trust, who has excited in me a disposition to come; and I will therefore press forward, humbly indeed, but truly, to His mercy, who has promised so many blessings to them that seek Him." And truly the progress

which he failed to detect, others observed. His mother and sister saw a rapid change. To a party of friends at Llangollen, in 1790, he appeared a being of angelic goodness. "Had I," writes one of them, "a spark of enthusiasm about me, I should doubt whether he were not a Superior Being."

Yet at this very moment he was writing in his journal,"My heart is now in a cold and senseless state; I have been short and cold and wandering in private devotions; all within is overgrown with weeds, and every truly Christian grace well nigh choked. Let me distrust myself; but let me throw myself at the feet of Christ, as an undone creature, distrusting, yea despairing of myself, but firmly relying on Him. I fly to God for pardon, pleading the blood of Jesus; though I almost despair, yet Christ is mighty to save. Comparing myself as I am with what I ought to be, I am lost in unutterable shame and self-abasement." Yet as early as 1788, he was conscious of a change in his character. He was able to test this change. He was at the same place in Westmoreland, where he had spent his leisure in 1784:-"I scarce ever felt such wretchedness as during those days which I spent by myself, before my reader joined me at Rayrigg in 1784. My eyes were so bad that I could not read, the rain would not let me leave the house, and I had not a creature with whom to converse. I stood resting my forehead on the chimney-piece, in a state of weariness not to be described." Now he was in the same spot-his health still weak, his eyesight bad-but the mind no longer the same. He no longer leans on society, or depends on excitement. To row out alone in early morning; to escape from company to solitude; to visit one of the wooded islands on the Lake of Windermere, and to make for himself an oratory there; there to reflect and commune with God, to feel the Everlasting Presence, and bow before the Unseen Friend these were his choicest pleasures. The Sunday, which had formerly dragged its listless hours on leaden feet, now flew past him on wings of light. "To unbend, and contemplate the works and the goodness of God; to burst into feelings of united love and triumph, of holy confidence and unrestrained affection." This was his rest. "A Sunday spent in solitude spreads and extends its fragrance."

:

Writing to his sister in the confidence of his heart, after a bright April Sunday:-"I was out before six, and made the fields my oratory, the sun shining as bright and as warm as at Midsummer. I think my own devotions become more fervent when offered in this way, amidst the general chorus with which all nature seems on such a morning to be swelling the song of praise and thanksgiving." And he now could look on "to that eternal rest, when the whole will be a never-ending enjoyment of those feelings of love and joy, admiration and

gratitude, which are, even in the limited degree we here experience them, the truest sources of comfort." Wherever he goes, he finds or makes his oratory for prayer-on the island in the lake, in the glades and depths of the Needwood Forest, on the slopes of Battersea in the early morning, in the rope-walk behind his mother's house at Hull.

Nothing," he writes to his intimate friend Lord Muncaster, "is more effectual than private prayer and the serious perusal of the New Testament." He speaks of the value of the morning hour. "In the calmness of the morning, before the mind is heated and wearied by the turmoil of the day, you have a season of unusual importance for communing with God and with yourself;" and he records his experience, that he found most time for business, and did it best, "when I have most properly observed my private devotions." To his sister he reveals the secret of his own life, as he urges her to adopt it. "Watch and pray; read the Word of God, imploring that true wisdom which may enable you to comprehend and fix it in your heart, that it may gradually produce its effect, under the operation of the Holy Spirit, in renewing the mind." Thus he met the day-dreams of earthliness and ambition,—“ When I see those who were my equals rising above me into stations of wealth and rank, I find myself tempted to desire those stations." "Often, in my visits to Holwood, when I heard one and another speak of this man's place or that man's peerage, I felt a rising inclination to pursue the same objects; but a Sunday in solitude never failed to restore me to myself." Thus also he met the trials of life. On his wife's dangerous illness, he owns his Father's hand. "Give me, O Lord, a heart of flesh, that under Thy chastisements I may lift up to Thee a humble, reverential, and ever thankful eye." On her recovery,-" I will take a morning walk of gratitude and intercession." "Let us praise God, and extract good from present evil, and turn temporary suffering into everlasting happiness." Hence it is that the record of his secret thoughts marks a progress from uncertainty to trust, and from partial to full illumination. True, he reproaches himself, and is often downcast, and at times perplexed. He tries himself by a just standard, and sinks in abasement. "True, Lord, I am wretched and miserable, blind and naked; but what infinite love, that Christ should die to save such a sinner!" Very wretched; all sense gone; when Newton prayed, I was cold and dead; could not warm myself in prayer or meditation; when I leave my study, I cannot keep religious thoughts and impressions on my mind." But along with these expressions we find the following:-"I resolve, under God, to go on. I hope I feel more than I did a Divine assistance; God grant I may not deceive myself in thinking I feel the beginnings of Gospel comfort; more fervent, I hope, in prayer,

resolved more in God's strength; I trust God is with me, but He must ever keep beside me, for I fall the moment I am left to myself."

To such a character, so genial and susceptible, the strong, rough sense of Isaac Milner was useful. It served as a wholesome tonic to that mercurial mind. The opinions of the two friends on many subjects differed. At times they differed in their views of politics. Milner, as we should expect, was more fixed and tenacious, less disposed to modify his views, more of a Tory, with strong prejudices and bias; but, when Wilberforce followed his own judgment, and separated himself, as he did, from Pitt and his party, the Dean's advice was useful to restrain within narrower limits the philanthropist's divergence from his ordinary political friends. Yet whenever philanthropy and religion required it, the old Dean's prepossessions melted into air; and breaking through a host of prejudices, he took his place alongside of Wilberforce in the defence of freedom and truth. In religion their progress dif

fered, though along the same line. Milner found in his road more obstacles, a resistance in his own habits, which, when met and conquered, had the effect of disciplining to greater strenuousness the vigorous and sinewy mind. With Milner there was strong faith, but many infirmities; Wilberforce's course was more serene, though at times even on his path clouds gathered, and thick mists, that found relief in tears. One may compare them to two different seasons, with their respective sun-light-the one a December sun, not warm, yet strong, its strength shown in the vapours which it scatters, and the clouds which it drives before it from the face of the wintry heaven. The temper of the other, calm as a May morning, when, if clouds rise, they hang like folds of lawn, or disperse in gentle showers, not darkening the sky, but leaving the sun to travel on to its evening glory, and to sink at last, as it passes through its varying colours, in a blaze of ruby, pearl, and gold.

The habits of the two men also differed-the one solitary, the other eminently social. The one with a few chosen companions, the other with a host of friends. The one a bachelor, living apart in the President's Lodge of Queen's College, or the deanery of Carlisle; the other, the statesman, dwelling in the heart of London, busy in Parliament, in a crowd from morning to evening, and from the outset of the year to its close. So it fell out that while the statesman was always glad to see the dean, the dean was not always ready to welcome the politician. In fact, when the learned dean was busy with his studies, preparing his lectures, it drove him wild to hear that Wilberforce intended to visit him. He warns him off; he begs him not to come; he has not a moment for company; he has no leisure even for his conversation. Yet

when he is at leisure, no man he delights to see so much as his lively friend. His letters cheer him, his conversation refreshes him. No house to which he goes so readily as the hospitable house at Kensington Gore; no roof where he is so welcome. When he is out of spirits, he resorts to it for comfort; when he is out of health, he goes for ease. They cheer him when he is sad; they tend him when he is sick; when the infirmities of age creep over him, they nurse him fondly; and, when he lays him down to die, he breathes his last in their arms, in peaceful quiet at that familiar home. And, while he is himself a solitary man, and lives and thinks for himself, no one takes a deeper interest in the statesman's busy carcer. He enters into his plans, he cheers or he checks his ardour, and many a useful hint goes up from the study of the sturdy old President to the crowded breakfast-tables of Broomfield and Palace Yard. Nor are the old Dean's letters hastily cast aside. The politician reads and weighs them, takes them to heart, and profits by their counsels. So that early friendship, close, candid, and long sustained, runs clear through life with unslackening stream.

MR. POYNDER ON PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

THE attention of the public has lately been called to the state of our great Public Schools by the Report of "the Commissioners appointed to inquire into the revenues and management of certain colleges and schools, and the studies pursued and instruction given therein."

There is a paper upon this subject in the Edinburgh Review for July, 1864; defective in some respects, as it touches but little on the religious aspect of the question, yet in some perhaps deserving of a passing reference.

These institutions, be it remembered, were most of them founded in superstitious and barbarous times, when Popery was in the ascendant. They have not kept pace with the progress which Christianity has made, and therefore stand in need of a far more searching reform than they have hitherto experienced. Unfortunately the authorities of these institutions are in general so wedded to the system in which they have been brought up, and, above all, derive such large emoluments from it, that they pertinaciously cling to abuses which are discreditable to themselves and a scandal to the age in which we live.

Among these abuses the practice of fagging occupies a prominent place. The reviewer observes at p. 184,-"The great improvement which has of late years been made in the Foundation at Eton appears, among its other good effects, to have broken up, to a great extent, the system of tyrannical fagging