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And not a partner of his perilous state

But feels a martyr's holy confidence,

While, warm and strengthening like celestial food,
Flows from his lips the stream of Christian fortitude.'

The third canto opens with the battle:

But who shall speak the terrors of that hour,
When, as o'er Libya's hot and thirsty land
Moves, bursts, and falls, the self-erected tower,
And whelms whole armies in a waste of sand,
So dark and dreadful, o'er the Moorish power,
Hung great Orlando's desolating hand,
And, with unerring aim, where'er it fell,
Laid bare some new and fearful path to hell!

"From morn till noon, from noon till dewy night,"
With unabated rage the contest glow'd;
And not a Christian in that bloody fight
Gave up to Heaven the sacrifice he ow'd,
But first, in glorious witness of the right,
From Pagan breasts a plenteous current flow'd,
And ghastly heaps on heaps of slaughter'd foes
A monument of Heaven's stern justice rose.

The God of battles, that tremendous day,
Look'd from his throne of vengeance o'er the field,
And scatter'd wild confusion and dismay

From the red terrors of his blazing shield:

'Tis said, (the crowd believes what zealots say,)-
The archangel's self, to human eyes reveal'd,

In radiant armour, on a snow white horse,

Thrice rallied to the charge the Christian force.'

In the fourth canto, Rinaldo is conveyed from Egypt through the air to Roncesvalles, the sight of whom surprizes Orlando; yet the addition of this champion cannot turn the fatal tide of war. The poet, however, takes occasion to advert very happily to our recent successes in the Pyrenees:

Yet at the last a prouder day shall dawn,
O Roncesvalles! on thy blighted name;
When Treason, to her secret haunts withdrawn,
Shall mourn her conquests past in present shame:
Fresh laurels shall o'ercanopy the lawn
With grateful shade, and fairest flowers of fame
Start from each barren cleft and sun-burnt cave,
To wreathe immortal chaplets for the brave.

But not for France shall swell the solemn strain
Of triumph; -not, degenerate France, for thee!
Thy fame is past; and treason's foulest stain
Blots out thy light of ancient chivalry.

Lo!

Lo! Britain leads the glorious chase, and Spain
From all her mountain summits follows free,
Leagued in just vengeance for a blacker crime
Than e'er defiled the rolls of elder Time.'

Into the fifth canto, the bloody conflict between the Christians and the Moors is extended, and it concludes with the death of the far-famed Orlando: but this portion of the romance, though it closely follows the originals from which Mr. M. copies, is surely too outré for the most extravagant modern poetic faith.

Beyond all doubt, this poem displays great execution; and, though Mr. Merivale probably will not approve our endeavour to damp his passion for the Italian romance, we must say that we should be happy to find his Muse more nobly employed. We trust that he will afford us an opportunity of reporting of him,

"That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,

But stoop'd to Truth, and moralized his song."

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ART. XI. Memoirs of the private and public Life of William Penn. By Thomas Clarkson, M. A. 2 Vols. 8vo. pp. 1020. 11. 4s. Boards. Longman and Co. 1813.

ΟΝ N presenting for contemplation such men as William Penn and Thomas Clarkson, human nature seems indeed "ad sidera tollere vultus" with conscious dignity; and to overlook, in this proud moment, the dirt and filth of ordinary charac

We join these men together, because both appear to be imbued with the same spirit of Christian benevolence, both have equally despised the low cunning and corrupt policy of the world, and both have been alike strongly convinced of the importance of the pure and sublime principles of the gospel of Christ to the happiness of individuals and communities. No one could write the life of William Penn with more satisfaction to himself, and with more justice to his hero, than Thomas Clarkson, through whose soul the meek and amiable temper of Quakerism seems to be diffused; and, if departed spirits are conscious of what is passing in this lower world, Penn himself must be delighted on having found so congenial a biographer.

Such a publication as that which is now before us is worth a thousand common memoirs. It affords a picture on which the philosophic Christian can dwell with pleasure; and which, in spite of surrounding baseness and profligacy, encourages a hope of the moral amelioration of the world. Indeed, the noble example here displayed ought not only to teach us the high

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moral

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moral capabilities of the human mind, but it ought to be so emblazoned as to inspire, if possible, all classes of society with a conviction of the superlative excellence of virtue. Every opportunity should be embraced for exhibiting Man as he can be, and Man as he ought to be. Some writers, however, think that they are justified, while deploring the extreme prevalence of vice, in degrading human nature as inherently vile: not duly reflecting that a natural inaptitude or incapacity for virtue exonerates from crime; and that, on their view of the case, we can as little expect to give any moral brilliancy to the mind as polish to a block of Portland stone. Here we must reason from exceptions. Fallen or degraded as is the state of man, some luminous spots now and then appear as glorious proofs of the possibility of mental cultivation, on which we ought to fix our regards; and, if some instances convince us of the mean and vicious state to which human beings can be debased, let others instruct us to what an elevation of intellect and virtue they may be exalted. It must be confessed that, in the world as it is, more occurs to relax than to give a proper tone to the moral principle: but, if such a principle naturally exists, of which we can have no doubt, we should resist its relaxation and rouse its energies. By exhibiting the Memoirs of William Penn, the bic grapher, who, as we have said, is morally the counterpart of his hero, reads a lecture to the professing Christian world of which it is much in want, and which, we hope, will not be thrown away.

If something visionary pervaded the minds of William Penn and the first apostles of Quakerism, when they cherished the belief that they had a divine commission for the restoration of Christianity, and if something not clearly definable appertains to their cardinal principle of inward light, (unless they mean by this phrase a powerful impression of duty to follow the pure light of the spirit of God, as revealed in the gospel of Christ,) it must be recorded of them, to their immortal honour, that their creed contained no errors which debased or vitiated their own minds, or which operated to the injury of others. They may be regarded as a sect of Christian Stoics; who, in spite of the frowns and rebuffs of all around them, nobly preferred pure virtue and conscious integrity to all sublunary considerations; and who, in a manner rarely seen since the days of the apostles, evinced a degree of patience, equanimity, and meekness, under the most cruel and irritating sufferings, which excited astonishment and awakened remorse in the flinty hearts even of their persecutors. The first Quakers may be said to have van, quished their enemies by the placid dignity with which they met reproaches, buffetings, fines, and imprisonments; a dignity

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dignity which taught the persecutor his own comparative lit tleness, and made him at last ashamed of visiting "with whips and scorpions" the members of a sect whose only crime was that they exercised themselves to have "consciences void of offence towards God and man."

How opposite was their maxim to that which is adopted by the great mass even of professing Christians! They preferred purity of heart to what is called property, and to all the vanity, pride, and power which attend it. Like the Stoics of old, they looked to the riches within the man, rather than to those without him; they could indeed say with Themistocles, "Ego verò malo virum qui pecuniâ egeat, quàm pecuniam que viro:" they placed the summum bonum in virtue; and, having a better rule to guide them in its choice and practice, they soared to a higher sublimity. As a private Christian, and a preacher of that which he regarded as the light and truth of divine inspiration, William Penn is a very impressive example; and when we ascend one step higher, and view him as a public character, as a statesman, and the head of a civil community, he merits the attention of the world as demonstrating the practicability of Christian principles in the government of states, and the superiority of a public conduct founded on justice and humanity over that which rests on political expediency or cunning. Plato remarks that, till kings are philosophers, or philosophers are kings, no termination can be put to the miseries of states; Penn, therefore, endeavoured, like a true Christian philosopher, to establish the little state over which he presided in a sort of regal capacity, on the pure principles of morality and religion, that he might see how far the usual vices and misery of civil communities could be obviated by such a process. His model of government, had it not been in some degree realized, would have been pronounced Utopian: but in many of its features it has been proved to be practicable; and we may confidently assert that, if more Statesmen resembled Penn, more virtue and happiness would be found on earth. The biographer before us is entirely of this opinion. Speaking, therefore, in his short preface, of that conduct, whether in private or public life, which is founded on the basis of religion, he observes, It has its origin in the mind of man; but only where it has been first illuminated from above. Its name is Wisdom. No other species of action has a title to that sublime appellation. It is the only one whose effects are blessed. It removes all evils. It promotes all good. It is solid and permanent. It lasts for ever.'

We must now, however, descend from general remarks to the contents of the work before us, which commences with a short

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account of the remote ancestors of the subject of the memoirs ; who, four or five centuries ago, resided at a village which bears their name in Buckinghamshire. William Penn, the son of Admiral Sir William Penn, was born in London, in the parish of St. Catherine, on Tower-hill, October 14th, 1644. The biographer traces him from Chigwell-school, in Essex, the place of his early education, to Oxford, where the preaching of Thomas Loe, a Quaker, so impressed his mind, that he made a public avowal of his principles; in consequence of which he was fined for non-conformity, and not merely expelled from college, but, on returning home, was turned out of doors by his father. The Admiral, however, did not abandon him, but, probably with a view of wearing off his son's serious turn, sent him to France, in the years 1662, 3. Here, studying at Saumur, under the learned Moses Amyrault, a Calvinist, and professor of divinity, William became versed in theology, especially in the knowlege of the Fathers. When recalled in the following year, he appeared to have obtained some polish from foreign travel: but, being in 1666 sent to Ireland, and again meeting with Thomas Loe, his religious convictions displayed themselves, he associated with the Quakers, was put into gaol for attending a Quaker's meeting, and, on being liberated and ordered home, was again turned out of his parent's house. Undaunted by the treatment to which his principles thus exposed him, he commenced, in 1668, a minister of the gospel, held conferences, and published several tracts. Among these was "The sandy Foundation shaken;" for the contents of which he was apprehended and sent to the Tower, where he was treated with great severity, and where he composed his most celebrated work intitled "No Cross no Crown," which in his own life-time passed through several editions. Glorying in what he conceived to be the truth, he wrote also, during his imprisonment in the Tower, a letter to Lord Arlington, then principal secretary of state, which is replete with just and noble sentiments, on the absurdity of employing persecution in the place of argument. "Force," says he, " may make hypocrites, but can make no converts."

On the intercession of the Duke of York (afterward James II.) with the King, (Charles II.) William Penn was discharged from the Tower; after which he was again sent to Ireland, and on his return was reconciled to his father. In 1670, the passing of the famous Conventicle Act, and the strange principle which was then maintained by a chaplain of the Archbishop of Canterbury, " that it would be less injurious to government to dispense with profane and loose persons than to allow toleration to religious Dissenters," subjected Penn to a

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