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definite statistical notions of its enormous magnitude, and the difficulty, and yet the absolute necessity for a remedy. Men of all ranks and professions are making sacrifices of money: other personal sacrifices will follow. The more the subject is brought out, the more will it be forced upon the public mind, that our existing parochial system (humanly speaking) is utterly powerless for making head against the tide of irreligion that sets in. But lately, there was a meeting for providing schools and churches for a single district in one corner of London, at which this fearful fact is stated, that there are 700,000 souls, and church accommodation for but 5000. The Bishop of London, as everywhere, was forward with his munificent contribution. But what a time it must be before money can be raised, and churches built, and clergymen settled to begin labour among these Christian souls. Specially then, we envy the lot of him who may have boldness to make trial of associating a number of young men as a collegiate body, for the cheaper supply of an efficient ministry to operate on these dense and dark masses of sin and ignorance, to live with him, not tied by vows, but purposing in their hearts, by God's grace, not to entangle themselves in the affairs of this life, that they may the more devote themselves to this great work. One word from that active prelate, and we doubt not some one would be found, under his sanction and encouragement, to make the attempt, some one perhaps with chance advantages of local connections, which would prevent the experiment being scorned as not respectable, but might from such chance influence, as it were, command a fair trial. It would be a noble addition to the praise of his lordship's munificent charity, to have brought into practice a plan, by which, under God's providence, so much might be done, and which, if judiciously managed under his advice and patronage, would soon be adopted elsewhere, so that his name might go down to posterity as the Christianizer of the great Towns of our Land.

ART. VII.—1. Helps to the Building of Churches and Parsonage Houses; containing Plans, Elevations, Specifications, &c. By the Rev. William Carus Wilson, M.A. Rector of Whittington, Perpetual Curate of Casterton, and Chaplain to His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex. London. 1835. 2. A Letter on Ecclesiastical Architecture, as applicable to Modern Churches: addressed to the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of London. By John Shaw, Architect. London: Weale. 1839.

3. Twenty Lithographic Views of Ecclesiastical Edifices in the Borough of Stroud. By Alfred Smith, Artist; with Short Notices appended to each Drawing. Stroud: Brisley. 1838. 4. Designs for Rural Churches. By George E. Hamilton, Architect. London. Weale: 1836.

THERE is a kind of natural alliance between the science of architecture and the sentiment of philanthropy, by which both have ever been purified and ennobled. Philanthropy wearies at length of satisfying only the wants of the day, of administering comforts which serve only to make the sad and certain tenor of poverty still more felt, of trying to fill the sieve-like purse of improvidence, of letting the weakness and the vices of mankind be the only rule and measure of its bounties; it longs to emerge from matters of food and raiment to man's higher destinies, from gratifications to utilities, from the dark alley to the public thoroughfare, from individuals and classes to the universal state, and from the passing hour to distant generations. Architecture then comes forward and presents the most obvious and most palpable means of satisfying the craving after permanent, noble, public and systematic benefits. It writes the various social charities of men on a durable and dignified material, which Providence seems to have furnished for this very purpose; it gives a visible identity to past and future ages, to cities, and the commonweal. The town-hall with its lofty portico overshadowing the crowded mart, the palace-like infirmary, the classic library, the secluded college, the bridge's bold and graceful span, the massive river walls of the spacious quay, the causeway stretching across the marshy plain and over the sevenfold stream, the breakwater, or the mountain road, are all lasting, general, and undoubted deeds of kindness, with a sort of heroic grace about them, whether the work of men or of a whole generation of benefactors. To a truly generous, that is a truly social mind, no occasion is so fair and honourable as the public need-no gift so gracious as what is given to

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the state-no property so sacred as what belongs to all. It is rue that private edifices are not without their charm; but no small part of that charm is derived from the political associations with which they are enveloped in our minds-from the rank and place the holders occupy in society, and from the duties and relations which are therein implied. Viewed as abodes of selfish ease and luxury, of individual display, or as designed for the narrow hospitalities of a class, they sink below the peasant's hut in mental interest. But at the best they have no charm, if we know anything of the current feelings of mankind, to compare with that of strictly public structures, which are the fair front and ornament of cities, the turreted crown of the state, the memorials, not of families, but of our common forefathers, the emblems of union and of mutual obligations, the connecting points of mind and memory in fellow townsmen separated by ever so great an interval of condition, space or time.

Such being their charm and moral interest, we cannot wonder at the great ambition of many men to be the adorners of their native towns or other places dear to them. If this be not more justly described as the desire of all men, unless they are debased by selfishness, or hindered by calls upon their means and affections still nearer home, or alienated by party differences, it may at least be called the ambition of a superior class of minds. It is most honourable that men should desire to leave permanent footsteps of their earthly sojourn, and to be still seen and known in their works as they were always wont to be. Notwithstanding the eccentricities frequently found to disguise benevolence, we think few moral pictures more agreeable than that not unfrequent one of men apparently devoted by early habit to the accumulation of wealth, yet without the ordinary objects that render wealth desirable; denied by Providence a natural channel of affection, and kept by their one engrossing occupation from expensive pleasures, yet in the seeming isolation of their minds secretly cherishing, with a strength unknown to the many, the finest tastes and noblest instincts of patriotism, and dying content that poverty, distress, and ignorance should be their heirs. We know it is the fashion to depreciate such benevolences, and ascribe them to any lower feelings which may by possibility have marred the deed. But is kindness no longer kind because it asks for thankfulness? Is the gift no real gift if the giver wishes to be known, or if he seem somewhat arbitrary and capricious in the conditions of his bounty? As we would wish to receive a merciful judgment on our own best deeds, so should we look on the infirmities of good doers more as the accidental peculiarities than the very groundwork of their actions. Yet after all, how few of our ancient benefactors

have stipulated for a name! The origin and the first authors of many of the greatest works and institutions of this country are utterly unrecorded and unknown.

Men of common humbleness are apt to be overwhelmed in the decline of life by the consciousness of the vast benefits they have received from society, and the little return they have made. When, as life advances, recollection takes the place of hope, and late repentance comes instead of the sanguine schemes of youth, their memories recal with painful faithfulness the many opportunities of serving their generation which they have neglected, and the many perhaps everlasting injuries they have through wil fulness or inadvertence inflicted on it. If it may possibly be helped they cannot bear to die in debt to mankind, and with their whole soul they yearn to discharge a vast obligation which nature itself suggests may still press upon them in a world where it can no longer be paid or diminished. Something of this feeling it is which is expressed by Plato in that well-known passage of his Republic, where Socrates says to a wealthy old man

"But I will venture to ask you one other question, What do you consider the greatest advantage you have derived from the possession of an ample fortune?' On which Cephalus replies, One advantage which I dare say few persons would give me credit for feeling so strongly. Take my word for it, Socrates, that when a man finds he cannot calculate on staying here much longer, he begins to be sensible of certain fears and anxieties which he never knew before. However much he may hitherto have been disposed to slight the stories that are told of those who are in hell, and the doctrine that such as do ill in this lif suffer retribution there, they then present themselves to him with fearful force, and torment his soul with the thought that they may perhaps be Whether it be from the weakness of old age, or because he is now somewhat more near to that future world, he begins to contemplate it steadily. He becomes therefore full of misgiving and dread; takes account of his life, and considers whether he has done any injury to any one. If in the course of this examination he convicts himself of any wrongful deeds, then he falls a prey to terror, he starts up even in his sleep like a child, and lives with an evil hope. Whereas the man who is conscious of no iniquity enjoys the perpetual presence of a sweet hope, the kind and comfortable nurse of his old age, as Pindar says. With what beauty, Socrates, does he express the state of a man who has passed a life of justice and peace.

true.

'Ye mortals, that your lot complain,

That seek for peace and seek in vain,
Hear ye at length his envied meed
Who lives in just and holy deed;
Who never from his word has strayed
By weakness or by will betrayed;

Whom no temptation e'er could move
From promised vow or claim of love
To man below or God above.

A consolation, all unknown
To gilded pomp or purple throne,
To iron rule or victor's bays,
Shall still be his as strength decays,
Shall still attend his latest days.

Him sweetest hope, the nurse of age,
Shall cheer thro' life's long pilgrimage,
And sooth bis heart with healing balm
To nought but virtue given;
Hope, that a thousand wanderings past,
Still guides us through the stormy waste
To distant shores of endless calm,

And steers the bark to heaven.'*

"Well said, indeed, and with a force that all must feel. For my own part, at least, I consider that the chief value of wealth, not indeed to any man, but to a man of ordinary goodness, consists in its affording the means of satisfying a burdened conscience, and procuring that ease of mind which Pindar alludes to. For wealth is a great security against even unwillingly defrauding or breaking one's word, and then leaving this world for another with the fearful consciousness of unfulfilled vows of sacrifice to God, and undischarged debts to man. There are indeed many other great conveniences in wealth; but comparing one with another, Socrates, I should consider this to be the most valuable of all, at any rate to a man of reflection.''

We need scarcely observe that we quote this passage as illustrating a heathen's notion of one particular religious use of wealth, when Providence has placed it at our disposal. Neither Socrates nor Plato are compromised in the sentiment put into the mouth of a pious Athenian, that wealth is in any wise necessary to peace of mind.

But all the above incentives to public works of benevolence bear with vastly concentrated force on religious foundations. Nothing can be so sacred, so public, so permanent, so really benevolent, so truly gracious an offering, as a building devoted to the worship of the Living God. By what other work of man's hands can any one so securely perpetuate his love to God and man? Churches once built, as far as we can judge, never cease to exist, and to be as great a benefit as at first. Other buildings may lose their utility from changes in the wants of men and in the construc

The fragment from Pindar is paraphrased, and the sense completed from the contents of Plato. The words in italics are the whole of the original.

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