enlightenment. The profound submission hitherto paid to the clergy gradually subsided. Many began to think for themselves, and before the Reformation there was a large class of independent writers and readers. A formal respect was paid to the church but under the form evidently lay hid much secret dissatisfaction, which only waited a favourable opportunity to show itself. Men now arose to scatter light amongst their fellows. Reuchlin, Erasmus, Melancthon, Hütten, and many besides, Iwere on the side of truth. The Bible became a less obscure book, and the fountain of truth was practically opened afresh.

Now all these were providential circumstances connected with, and leading to, the Reformation. But for this progress in knowledge, the Reformers would have laboured in vain. Their cause would have been unappreciated, and they would have been left without support. When once the blow was struck, the people of Germany at least were ripe for change. New truth had vegetated and pushed off the old error. The whole united nation of the Germans defended by popular voice the great instrument employed by God. 'Miltitz, an envoy dispatched by Leo in 1515, upon a conciliatory errand, told Luther that 25000 armed men would not suffice to make him prisoner, so favourable was the impression of his doctrine upon Germany."* And Frederick himself the elector of Saxony, not long after wrote plainly to Rome, that a great change had taken place in his country; the German people were not what they had been; there were many men of great talents and considerable learning among them, and the laity were beginning to be anxious about the knowledge of the scriptures; so that unless Luther's doctrines were to be refuted by better arguments than mere ecclesiastical fulminations, the consequence would be so much disturbance in the empire, as would by no means redound to the benefit of the Holy See.

Thus the advancement of knowledge, variously brought about, prepared the way for the Reformation: and this was the case not only in Germany, but in Switzerland, England, and other countries.

* Hallam's Literature of Europe, in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. Vol. i. chap. iv.

EDWIN: A FRAGMENT.*

The sensibilities of our nature were bestowed for the most important purposes. From their exercise flow our most exquisite pleasures, and our most poignant sorrows; but they were not designed to terminate in feeling; on the contrary, they should stimulate to active benevolence and humane exertions. When their influence is excessive, they enervate the mind, and effectually counteract their original tendencies.

The works of fiction, which abound in the present age, have greatly promoted a wrong direction of the powers of feeling; and many have wept at "the elegy of a mouse," or a panegyric on a "dead ass," who were unmoved by scenes of real distress. They could not endure the sight of living woe, while painted misery has drawn from their eyes the sympathetic tear. Such was not the sensibility of Edwin. He had a feeling heart, and he "wept with those that wept;" but while he felt, he relieved. Often did he enter the chamber of sickness, and wipe the tear from the eye of sorrow often did he pour the balm of consolation into the wounded spirit; and by real and not imaginary benevolence, evince the purest and most exalted sensibility. The same disposition fitted him for receiving the highest pleasure from the welfare of others; for he " rejoiced with those that rejoiced," and cheerfulness illumined his countenance when those around him were happy.

But the sensibility of Edwin was not confined to the display of sympathetic affections. He had received a liberal education under eminent masters, in every department of scientific and polite literature. From his youth he was distinguished by a lively imagination, and to considerable degrees of genius he joined a correctness and delicacy of taste, which enabled him to discern with accuracy, and to relish with delight, the beauties of nature and art. But his refinement was not excessive, nor his

* It will afford a melancholy pleasure to some of our readers to learn that the following "Fragment" was found amongst the manuscript remains of the late lamented Dr. Fletcher. It was written by the author at an early age, when a student at Glasgow University. Its object is to exemplify the characteristic features of a well-directed sensibility, as distinguished from mere sentimentality. It is inserted in the belief that our youthful readers may be profited by its perusal. The present number contains about half of the entire piece the remainder will appear in our next.

delicacy fastidious, and if there had been any tendencies to such an excess, they were counteracted by just views of human nature, and that prevailing feature which has been mentioned.

Many other amiable traits were discernible in the character of Edwin. I add only one more—he was pious. This discovered itself in the uniform discharge of social and relative obligations; and especially in the best affections of the heart towards the author of his being the source of all his enjoyments. In an age of scepticism, he dared to call himself a believer, and was not ashamed of that name which is "the highest style of man." Not ashamed, did I say? He gloried in the appellation; for the religion of the gospel was endeared to him by the most attractive characters. In the moments of gloom and dejection (and in whose life do not such moments occur?) the truths of christianity cheered his mind and inspired the "hope that is full of immortality."

Such were a few features in the character of Edwin, whom I once called my friend; but the hand of death has dissolved the relation. I fondly hoped that we should have trodden the vale of life in the society of each other; at least, that the day of separation was far distant. But uncertain and transient are the

enjoyments of humanity-as the " vapours which appear a little time, and then vanish away.”

When the hours that I enjoyed in the society of Edwin are recalled, I feel mingled emotions. The lenient hand of time has softened the severity of grief, the suffusion of sorrow has subsided, and the thought that he is happy without the possibility of change, that he is employed in the sublimest speculations, in the most dignified service, reconciles my mind to such a deprivation. And is this an illusion? No.

But I have wandered far from my original intention, which was to present to the reader a "Fragment* of a Tour,” which I found among the papers of Edwin after his decease. In the following unfinished narration, those features in his character, which I have described, will easily be recognised. I have only to state that it was written some time before his death, which melancholy event happened in his nineteenth year.

* The design of the following "Fragment" is not to describe the manners of the Welsh, &c., but to relate a few incidents in a journey which tended to display the characteristic sensibility of Edwin, as mentioned in the introduction.

In the summer of 1790, I left the house of my father, with a view to an excursion as far as the north-western extremity of Wales. I had often resolved to visit the principality where British manners retain more of their original character, and are less removed from the simplicity of ancient times. In the month of August a concurrence of favourable circumstances allowed me to gratify my wish, and on the tenth of the month I began my tour to the mountains of Cambria.

I soon lost sight of the village of Alvanley, and the hills of Cheshire, and arrived at the spot "where Deva spreads her wizard stream,"* and separates England from Wales. I now passed through several hamlets and villages, where the guttural language of the inhabitants convinced me that I was not in the land of my fathers; and in the evening I arrived in safety at the town of Wrexham in Denbighshire.

Most of the inhabitants of this town, which is one of the most extensive in North Wales, speak both the English and the Welsh languages: their vicinity to the counties of Cheshire and Shropshire is doubtless the occasion of this circumstance. I spent the evening at this place in the society of a respectable clergyman, who accompanied me on the following day through all parts of the town. The only structure which attracted my attention was the church, which is built in the finest style of modern gothic architecture. It is built of white free stone, and its steeple is near two hundred feet in height. The interior of the church displays great elegance and taste: near the altar is a neat piece of statuary by the celebrated Inigo Jones, erected to the memory of a Lady Middleton. It exhibits her as rising from the dead at the resurrection; the rending rocks and the bursting tomb are admirably designed and executed.

In the afternoon I left Wrexham, and pursued my route to Llangollen, where I arrived in the dusk of the evening. I remained there during the night, and early in the morning resumed my journey. It was a delightful morning. The sun had dispersed the shadows of the night, and was diffusing its gladdening rays around me. I rode several miles through an extensive vale, which presented on all sides the most beauteous and picturesque scenery. Numerous herds of cattle and sheep were browsing on the pastures, and in the fields the yellow grain

* Milton.

waved its ears of plenty. On quitting the valley I ascended one of the highest hills in Denbighshire, and surveyed from its summit the scenes through which I had passed. My heart dilated with joy at the prospect, and in the "morning hymn" of Milton I gave utterance to my feelings.

The morning was now far advanced, and as I resolved to reach the neighbourhood of Snowdon by the evening, I urged on with greater speed. I had not proceeded many miles when a dark cloud in the south announced an approaching storm. On the road several persons accosted me in the Welsh, and though I could not understand them, I thought their countenances expressed signs of alarm, and that they were warning me either to seek some covert or to press forward more swiftly. These suspicions induced me to act upon the supposition; but I could not exceed in flight the swift-winged tempest. For some moments I stood in painful suspense, when the sight of a farmhouse determined me to make towards it with all speed. I immediately spurred my horse and soon arrived at the house. On knocking at the gate I requested a temporary shelter from the approaching storm. The farmer could not speak English, but he easily understood my meaning, (for benevolence was his interpreter), and treated me with that hospitality for which the ancient Britons have been so long celebrated. From this peaceful refuge I viewed the storm which soon followed. Awfully did the thunder roll, preceded by the most vivid flashes of lightning, and accompanied with torrents of hail mingled with rain, and its solemn sounds were prolonged by the surrounding amphitheatre of mountains.

The storm lasted above an hour, and I was preparing to take my departure from this friendly roof, when we were alarmed by one of the maids, who rushed into the room where the farmer and I were sitting, and told us that one of the servants was killed by the lightning. We left the house immediately, and beheld some of the other servants bringing home the lifeless corpse of William. We examined the body, and sent to a neighbouring village for medical aid; but all was over, the tide of life flowed no longer, and the heart of William had ceased its throbbings. For some time I gazed upon the corpse—all the family were gathered around it—and when the violence of grief allowed any of them to speak, it was in praise of the virtues of