to ascend into heaven is to obtain the complete knowledge of divine things, to come down from heaven, is to communicate that knowledge by divine authority, to come forth as an authorized teacher of heavenly truth. Dr. S.'s statement, that "from a careful examination of the scriptural use of the expressions from heaven, and being, coming, or descending from heaven, it appears that the idea intended is A DIVINE ORigin, which is, of course, applied variously according to the nature of the subject,” is nearly coincident with Mr. Belsham's, and is sufficient for our purpose, since divine origin, the idea being applied according to the nature of the case under our consideration, must mean divine authority, as Matt. xxi. 25, "The baptism of John, was it from heaven or of men ?" It is objected that there is no other instance of a person being said to come from heaven, meaning to bring and communicate truth, or to teach by divine authority. Prov. xxx. 4, as we have explained it, is an example of this use of the phrase; but if there were none, it arises so completely from the connexion and the sense of the preceding clause, that no difficulty need be felt.

The figurative sense of the third clause, who is in heaven," who has received divine communications perfectly qualifying him for his office," follows, of course, (allowing its genuineness, which is not certain, as it is omitted by some important authorities,) from that of the others, and Dr. S.'s interpretation of it, "who as to his superior nature is in heaven, even whilst he speaks to you on earth," is far more difficult and strange than any figurative one. We have now carefully examined our author's remarks on this very important passage, and we hope it will be perceived that he has done nothing to weaken the force of the criticisms of Mr. Belsham and other eminent men, who have contended for its interpretation as figurative language, but that a full consideration of the subject only confirms and establishes the justness of their views.

With regret we pass by other portions of Dr. S.'s volume, which certainly deserve attention. We have preferred the plan of carefully examining a few articles to that of merely touching upon many, and we venture to assure the reader (we hope that some such will be found) who is, upon the whole, satisfied with what we have done, so far as it goes, that we have not chosen the least difficult portions, and that, should he not possess the requisite knowledge for personal examination, he may judge of the controversial value of the whole from what has been laid before him.

SABBATH MUSINGS.

No. IV.

"WE spend our years as a tale that is told."

Such is the fact on

which a voice enlarged this day in yonder church. It is a fact, as that voice proved, in pointing out the indolence, the frivolity, the perverseness, of man: but I would now regard the fact under a different aspect. Round me is the scenery, within ken are the materials, within myself is the sequence, of a magnificent tale, whose aims are higher than vain amusement, and whose catastrophe can never pass away from the mind and be forgotten. Widely, almost illimitably, the prospect spreads, and my sense is well nigh bewildered when I regard it in detail. This heathy plot on which I lie, the ravine beside me, with its pines slanting over the water course, the craggy ridge behind, which crests these hills, are of themselves enough to satisfy the meditative spirit through many a long summer's day; and what have I besides? I follow with my eye the steep chalk path by which I ascended, and see how it intersects many a sheep-track on the down, winds through many a field, diverges to farms, to cottages, and to yonder bright reach of the stream, till it is lost at the churchyard stile. And this is but a small section of the landscape. The dwellings clustered round the grey steeple shew but as one abode when compared with the lordly mansion near; and many such mansions rear their graceful fronts amidst their lawns and woods, glorious beneath the sloping sunbeams. Further and yet further spreads this vast plain, with its one distant eminence, behind which hangs the smoke of the city. Its cathedral towers alone stand out from the cloud; and thus I have peaceful tidings of the inhabitants,—that they are dwellers beside a domestic hearth, and worshipers in a Christian temple. Beyond, the boundary which separates earth and sky is not discernible. Yes, that golden line which brightens every moment as the sun sinks to the horizon, marks where the eye must rest: There is Thames shedding his floods into the main, apparently losing the individuality which is elsewhere perpetually renewed. Is not this indeed the scenery of a magnificent tale? And not only the scenery, but much of the material also. Much of our life is made of matter like this. What would this scene be to an infant? A coloured surface, no more extensive, and perhaps less diversified, than the carpet of his nursery. He would stretch out his craving hand to yon burnished flood as to a picture frame on the walls. He would pass over the moving flocks that speckle the down, as smaller than the butterflies that flit above the heath blossoms on which he lies. I think I can remember something of this; something of the confused notions of distance and proportion under which the world opens upon the young sense and I do vividly remember the days, when, having surmounted my first ignorance and

learned to guide myself, I was yet in blindness and bondage respecting external things. Then I thought motion was life; for of the spreading influences of life I knew nothing. Then all things seemed rayless, bare, and insulated. I discerned no relation between the woodbine and the bee, the dawn and the upspringing lark, the stirrings of nature and man's sabbath-hymn. Then the rose was trampled under foot when its fragrance had passed away, and the starry cope seemed like a low ceiling under which there was no more than room to breathe. No mystery then floated over the face of things. All was without form, for I dreamed not of proportion ; all was void, for I conceived not of purpose; and discerned or felt nothing of spirit moving amidst this chaos. Let none say that the work of creation had no witnesses of a lower rank than the winged ones who stationed themselves round the abyss of space to gaze. Adam may have stepped forth into a formed world; but, save him, every child of humanity has been beckoned by the Creator to come and behold how all things are done, and that all are good.

But man understands, and therefore may be said to behold this, only long after the Creator's voice has called him out of nothing. His bodily eye and ear are fitly framed; but the light is to him he knows not what, and he hears nothing of the song of the morning stars. When the second great period of his life is come-the opening age of mystery-he becomes sensible that the light must proceed from some source, and turns himself this way and that to look for it. There has till now been utter silence; but at length a wandering breath of music reaches his ear, and rouses him to a new experience. It comes again and again, and wakens answering harmonies. Must he be mute? He puts forth his voice and finds an answer, and thenceforth knows that there may be communion with what is unseen. He has now begun to prepare for his entrance upon the spiritual world. He is like the young solitary native of a prison. He wakes up and beholds bright reflections on his dungeon walls; and when he has found the crevice by which they enter, he knows by their perpetual change that there is something beyond. He turns an eager ear when melody also comes; and his response is not the less joyful because he knows not yet that his deliverance is at hand.-This is but the opening of the tale; but does it not stimulate to know more?

When the young captive comes forth into the living world, he is not left unguarded and untaught. The teachers appointed by his Maker-Man and Nature-await him at his prison door. The one seats him at the domestic board, guides him where he may witness the traffic, the strife, the co-operation, ever going on among his brethren; points out to him the sources of sympathy and the causes of contention; unveils to him somewhat of the machinery of society; and, when he is harassed and alarmed at what he beholds, leads him to the sabbath-temple. There his spirit is soothed, but not satisfied. He hears harmony, but it is in an unknown

tongue. He prefers the consolations of nature, who appoints him a couch in her turfy vales, or brings the breezes to meet him on the mountain top, or casts a dewy glance upon him from the morning cloud. She calls him off from his obstinate questionings for a time by exercising him in the handiwork of her servants. She bids him fathom her wells, and mark the growth of her forests, and explore her echoing retreats in the deep. Thus occupied, he is at peace for a time, but not for long. He still asks,-and the more earnestly day by day-"Why is all this, and what is its end?" He cannot discover this for himself. As he walks among his elders, he finds one wiser, one richer, one more powerful than another. Some are serene, some are troubled, some are joyous; but there seems no ultimate purpose in all this diversity, and he soon discerns that one lot awaits them all. They disappear one by one, and are seen no more. He questions nature concerning their fate, and conjures her to interpret to him the language of the sanctuary, in which alone his other guide, Man, will reply to his doubts. He is led to the churchyard, where man and nature meet,— the one to shed tears, the other to scatter flowers. He discerns a smile amidst those tears, and sees how the motionless chrysalis comes forth fluttering on radiant wings from amidst those flowers, and a new hope unfolds within his breast.

His guides had often spoken to him of one who should come to teach him greater things than any he had yet conceived; and now that the preparation is complete, this exalted teacher appears with a commission from on high to make all things clear. Christ comes to finish the work of preparation for immediate communion with God. To teach him the history of communion, he leads the wandering pupil through the land of promise,by the tents of the patriarchs, by the tabernacle in the wilderness, over the passage of Jordan, and through the cities of Israel up to the metropolitan throne of God's anointed, and even to the threshold of the holy of holies; and thence to the mountain solitudes of Galilee, and to the cave of the rock where the fount of immortality was first laid open to the day. To teach his charge the mode of communion, he leads him from beholding the infant reposing on his father's bosom to listen at the portals of heaven to the united voices of the celestial hierarchy which sing of immortality. And now the most perplexing doubts of the spirit are solved. The foundling knows himself to be an heir, and has seen his inheritance,-remotely indeed, but distinctly. He sees that he is being educated and to what end, and can thenceforth exercise his privilege of co-operating with God.-The tale passes on, but does not its interest deepen ?

The pupil is now arrived at a new stage. He has learned much, he has discovered something; he must now originate. And here, alas! is the boundary line which our present state of social imperfection imposes as that beyond which the multitude may not pass. Fain would those to whom Providence has vouchsafed such privileges as from their nature appear

designed for universality, enjoy the sympathy of all their race in their own best pleasures. Fain would the solitary muser amid the hills believe that the dwellers above and around him thought as he thinks, and felt as he feels. But it cannot be. The more I watch what is doing in this abode beside me, and the more distinctly the tones of its inmates reach me, the more certain I am that, though blessed, it is not with the highest kind of blessing; and that this Sabbath eve, so full of solemn joy to some, is to them only the close of a day of rest. What an abode it is! If I did not know it to have been prepared for the luxury of those who seek the pleasures of nature in company, I should have imagined it built for the retreat of the philosopher. If I did not know it to be the charge of a peasant's family, I should have looked for an inhabitant of a different class-for a world-wearied or nature-loving recluse. How its bold front springs abruptly from the rock, while its projecting thatch is made to send the summer rain pattering among the pebbles far below! How snugly is it sheltered by the larch-plantation on either side, and its wall-flowers-is there any other place where they grow so abundantly? The rock is tufted with them in every crevice; they spring from every ledge, and fringe every projection. And what are the dwellers in this summer-house; the woodranger, and his wife and babe? They look happy, but they are heedless of what is before their eyes. They have possessed themselves of the best window, as if it were their Sunday privilege to monopolize the pleasures which their superiors eagerly seek on every other day. But what avails their privileged seat to them? That man's brow is such as should betoken high capabilities; yet, with this scene before him, he amuses himself with provoking the bayings of his mastiff. What mother, with her infant in her lap, can be insensible to maternal cares? Yet there is one who heeds not her babe, and who has no such intelligence in her wandering gaze as might account for the neglect. Why should not these, pupils, like the wise, of nature and of man, bred up like the wise in the knowledge of the gospel, feel the full beauty and solemnity of a scene like this? Nature has been ready to do her part; the gospel can never fail; it is man who has stinted what he ought to have cherished, and perverted the energies which it was his office to controul. It is through evil social influences that the eyes of such as these are turned from beholding the stars when, as now, they first glimmer through the twilight, and that their ears are closed to the soothing tones of the night winds, as they come hither from their rovings over land and sea.

It is the crime of society, also, that evils exist, compared with which this insensibility is virtue. In that shadowy wood below, there was done, but a few days since, an act whose guilt and agony made the place for the moment a hell. The murder of a child, for the sake of the purse he carried, is a crime whose atrocity and utter folly alike shew that society has neglected its duty of instructing every one that is born into it in the pur