It is a gratifying feature of the times that so much talent is effectively employed in the service of Truth. A priori, we should presume that talent had always been thus employed-that true talent would spurn the service of Error, and would cast off its livery as a hated and despicable master. Yet how deceptive such an opinion. Tested by the actual condition of things, it would appear that talent had engaged its noblest offices to every other purpose save the defence of truth, that for this alone it had disdained to use its powers, or, if to use them at all, to do so inefficiently and feebly. What a display of talent, for example, in the department of Fictioncharacterizing by the term every species of literature presenting false or exaggerated views of life? How much of thrilling eloquence, of dramatic ability, of powerful narrative? If we may trust ourself to read the pages of modern novelists of this type, we shall find our cheeks suffused with weeping over imaginary wrongs, while our ears are deaf and our sensibilities unawakened to the cry for bread at our doors, or the petition for relief on our streets. Or, if our novelist author has seasoned his dish for the mental palate with the ordinary condiments of latter-day fiction, we shall discover in ourself an unwonted eagerness for the success of well-polished villainy, while the victim of his vices, but recently adorned with the virtues of womanly modesty and the graces of refined and delicate sentiment, is left to eke out her

miserable existence without exciting a pang of pity, or a sigh of remorse. Or, we are introduced, it may be, into an unnatural and unreal world, in which though there be upon its inhabitants the blight of sin, yet its streams of felicity are perennial and its sweets ever enduring:-a world of life and light, with no source for its origin and no adequate cause for its continued existence. What a display of talent in the coteries of fashion? If we shall visit them, we will find the sparkle of wit, the frolic of humour, and the play of satire-all actively enlisted, not always in the advancement of truth, but making what efforts they may for its annihilation. At the best, society, ordinarily so called, is but a contrivance for the assassination of time!"time, destined to perish by a mightier hand, but men are willing to assist in its destruction!"'+

If we turn to the professions and business pursuits of life, we shall discover the frequent and vast efforts of talent in building up the wrong and pulling down the right. We are not inclined to echo the slanders perpetrated against one of the professions particularly. We cannot entertain the opinion uttered by some, even of respectable attainments, that no man can be a lawyer and a Christian! Yet, how few of the legal profession are numbered among Christ's people? How few have studied the truly "higher law' of his kingdom, and have deemed it more honour to fill the lowest seat at his table than to gain a heritage of fame! Of

† John Foster.

medical men, how many have found in secondary causes the origin of things; and have neglected the higher analysis of the immortal and imperishable part of man to devote attention exclusively to the merely mortal and perishing! We repeat that observation teaches the lesson that Talent has not always been enlisted in the service of truth. And when thus employed, as sometimes it has been, its efforts have, in great part, been feeble and inefficient. Truth lay hid and buried in the ponderous octavos and unreadable quartos of the past century, while Error was disseminated in sprightly essays and vivacious volumes. We rejoice that a change has been wrought here;—that the children of light have learned wisdom from the children of darkness, and that sanctified talent has at last been taught the lesson that precious knowledge may be communicated to the masses better in the tract than in the treatise, better in a volume of unpretending proportions, than in a body of divinity. We are gratified that it has learned more-that in order to be read, in order to accomplish the very purpose for which books are written, books must be made interesting as well as instructive-must have the graces of a perspicuous style as well as an abundance of ripe thought. Few men are so highly gifted as to justify the venture to make themselves obscure in order that they may be studied. The Oi Polloi are now the rulers in the republic of letters-as well of Christian letters, distinctively so called, as of what is unhappily denominated profane literature; and the Oi Polloi demand that those who cater for their mental religious appetite, shall create the appetite as well as supply its wants. We regret that the fact is so. We would have truth sought for herself, because she is Truth. But complainings will not remedy the evil. Nor will it do to stand off and deliver learned divinity to a public mind that cannot retain the pith of a single sermon. We must come down to the capacities of the people, if we cannot lift them up to our ordinary tone

of discourse. We must give them the nourishment they can digest. Nourishment of some sort they will have, and if we do not give them food to sustain and strengthen them, of a character adapted to their capacities, they will find noxious poisons to allay their hunger and, it may be, to destroy the little of mental health and vitality that remains. It is for these reasons that we are gratified that men of talent, of thinking power, have not deemed it an unworthy office to supply such mental pabulum;-that while they might easily have constructed systems of divinity, they have preferred to present truth in its fragments in order to entrap into the way of right thinking the languid and almost listless reader of modern literature, and to pour over his intellect a tide of fresh and pure thought to quicken it to a healthful activity. The time has arrived for such works. When John Foster published his volume of essays, containing the essay on "Decision of Character," and that on "The Use of the Epithet Romantic," works characterized by the highest eloquence and by profound thought; he did so with fear and trembling; and was gratified that his volume had reached its third edition in as many years. A quarter of a century afterwards, a "kind of moral essay," such as Foster produced, would have fallen stillborn from the press, while the current of modern fiction, embracing alike with the higher qualities of imagination and artistic power displayed in "Vanity Fair," "Dombey and Son," and "Jane Eyre," the disgusting detail of the lives of "Dick Turpin, the Highwayman," and "Edwards, the Forger," would have been devoured with avidity! Fortunately, the supply of the baser material has so completely glutted the intellectual appetite, that the taste for such delicacies has in a measure diminished, and is daily diminishing. One may even confess without a blush, in the literary circles of the day, that he has not read Dickens' last novel, and is wholly oblivious of, if he ever saw, the latest productions of James,* or

Reynolds! In this decline of the modern Novel, taking its march into oblivion after its predecessor, the Romance, it is peculiarly happy that Fact and Reality are gaining their rightful power, and that Religious Fact has now an opportunity to assert its dominion.

We have placed at the beginning of this article the titles of three works recently published, all of this type. We hail their appearance as indicative of a higher literature for the reading public, and their circulation as evidencing that the public mind is now prepared for a purer and more healthful style of thought than has distinguished the days just numbered with the past.

Mr. Bayley's first work is autobiographic throughout, though he may not probably have designed it as such. In the Lights and Shades of Itinerant Life and in the moral essays, as well as in his avowed Confessions, he is disclosing to us the actual progress of his own mind-a mind intensely active and stored with thought and eminently self-reflective while touching at many points the Cxternal world, and deriving and communicating pleasure and profit from the contact. We have an antipathy to the title "Confessions." We associate with it the so called disclosures of Rousseau, his pompous bombast and his causeless and impertinent self-abasement-self-abasement having more the air of exaltation than of repentance, more of the spirit of the carnally proud than of the spiritually humble. We would be inclined also to condemn these "Confessions of a Converted Infidel" if they were of this type or approached it. But this is far from being true. They are a plain and unvarnished tale of the manner in which the author trod the pathway to infidelity and of his deliverance from this worse than Serbonian bog. Our author was born in an ancient borough of old England. In early

childhood he lost the training of a mother. Before he had reached his fifth birth-day she was laid in the grave. His father was unhappily an admirer of Paine, Volney and Voltaire, and possibly this parental example had somewhat to do with the early aversion which he cherished toward the truths of the bible and the avidity with which his mind fastened itself upon its unpalatable doctrines, and continually discarded them. A course of miscellaneous reading, conversation with the leaders of the infidel party, misuse of the Sabbath for purposes of recreation, contrast of the rich and wealthy with the humble and destitute, completed the work of transformation and the author became a confirmed infidel. In that spirit be bade a farewell to his native land "to see the operations of Deism" in America. A companion blessed him on his way with the exhortation "that he had been inoculated with the truth and must spread it." After passing many years in the northern portion of the Union, he came to Virginia to learn another system of truth, and to become its ardent and zealous defender. By a series of not very wonderful providences, he is led gently along to retrace his steps, to converse again with the pious and the pure, to read books of wholesome doctrine and finally to renounce his infidelity and to embrace in intellect the truth of the Christian religion. We must cite here a passage disclosing this gradual change of mind: "I began to look upon religion and religious people with more respect and to attend more frequently the house of God. It was some time after this before my heart was sufficiently humbled to lead me to the practice of prayer. Indeed, I still thought, with a marvellous inconsistency, that prayer to the Almighty was very absurd. And one day I walked into the solitude of the woods to think over the subject, with the intention of writing an essay upon it. As I was walk

ing about, I thought, 'If God is infinite in knowledge, why should we inform him of our own wants, since he knew them before? If he is infinitely wise, why should we attempt to direct him? If he is infinitely good, why should we endea vor to prevail upon him to supply our wants? And, above all, if he is unchangeable, why should we solicit him to change?' In the midst of these reflections, my attention was arrested by a plaintive and earnestly supplicating voice, and going in the direction from which the voice came, I saw a negro man on his knees, under a tree, with hands clasped together and uplifted to heaven, while he cried out with great earnestness, Jesus, Master, have mercy on me a poor sinner!' And this he continued to repeat. The poor fellow did not observe me, so intently was he engaged in prayer. An awful feeling came over my soul, I forgot my essay, and walked back to town musing on the power of religion. That negro was happily converted, and many a time afterward have we met together at our sunrise prayer meetings, and in the use of other means of grace. These impressions, however, wore off, and it was not until it pleased the Lord to lay me upon a bed of sickness that I was led to renounce publicly my infidel sentiments, and to seek an interest in the atonement made for the whole human race by our Lord Jesus Christ."

While he lay on the bed of sickness, the letter of an absent sister from across the Atlantic reached him and touched his heart. He longed to be a Christian that he might say, that if they met no more on earth they would meet in heaven. This at least would be something cheering to write; and she had told him that his letters were unhappy and made her so. Here was the turning point in his experience. He had found before that Butler's Analogy was able to remove all his positive objections to the truths of the Christian religion, but he had not yet cherished the spirit which prompted to a cheerful and hearty surrender to its claims. "The christian religion became," he says, "something very lovely and desirable in my sight, and though it was several

months before I could make the change in my sentiments known, there was a decided change from that hour." The strugglings with conscience were not yet over: We must eite his graphic description of his conversion: "The devil was endesvoring to retain me in his bondage and I could find no rest to my spirit. I wan dered into the woods in the neighborhood, and there in the silence of the groves sat down and wept. Often did I make up my mind to unbosom myself to some one, and as often did pride gain the mastery over me, and compel me to keep my secret. Never, while memory retains her power, shall I forget one holy Sabbath morning, when I paid a visit to the Baptist church, to hear the Rev. Mr. Fife. He gave out the hymn commencing,

'Jesus! and shall it ever be

A mortal man ashamed of thee?"

When the congregation began to sing the hymn, I looked around with a heavy heart; my lips were sealed, and I could not utter a word, and a voice in my inmost soul seemed to say, 'Yes, sinner, that is you-you are the only one in this congregation ashamed of Christ.' For it seemed to me that with one united heart and voice that congregation did worship Christ as a God. My troubled heart would not allow me to pay much attention to the sermon; but I went home weary and heavy laden, anxious to obtain rest, and yet obstinately and foolishly refusing to seek it in God's appointed way. Falling into the company of some young men who had recently been converted, I made some inquiries about religion, to which they gave me evasive answers, supposing that I wanted to get into a controversy with them, according to my usual praetice. Seeing their unwillingness to converse with me on the subject, my heart was grieved and my eyes were filled with tears. One of them said, 'Are you sick? you had better lie down.' And though I assured them that I was not sick, they all left the room. As soon as I was left alone, a voice in my heart seemed to say, Sinner, you should kneel down and pray. It was the wooing voice of Christ, lead

mained on my knees until the congregation was dismissed, when some one came to me and whispered in my ear that I ought to go home and pray there. As soon as I got to my room, I saw a friend with whom I lodged at the time, sitting by a table reading; and throwing myself upon my knees by the bedside, I asked him to pray for me. He immediately left the room, and sent Mr. Childs, and several other brethren, who came to my room, and held a little prayer-meeting until about midnight. After they had left me, I remained up all night in a state that I have no language to describe. It appear ed to me that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, the sin which hath no forgiveness, and I was afraid to lie down and sleep, lest I should die, and wake up in hell. I remained in my room all the next day, meditating, praying and reading, and at night went to a prayermeeting, at which John Morris, a colored man, who has since gone to Liberia as a missionary, made a profession of religion. At that meeting one against whom I had taken up a prejudice, put his arms around me, and tried to encourage me to believe, but it had quite a chilling effect upon my feelings, and as I walked home that night, I thought I should give up the struggle and become worse than I had ever been. But the next day my convictions returned with increased power, and I lay on my bed almost in the agonies of despair. While reflecting on my past life, and on the great subject of religion, I was bewildered; my reason seemed to be forsaking me, and then it was suggested to my mind, you will lose your reason, then you will certainly be lost, for religion is a reasonable thing, and no one who is not in his right mind, can repent and believe in Christ. This alarmed me greatly, and I turned over in my bed and cried aloud, so that some of the neighbors came in to see what was the matter. Among others my dear departed friend, Brother Wm. Blanton, came in and knelt by my bedside and prayed for me. The conversation of Mr. James M. Jackson, Mr. John Long, and others, was profitable and encouraging to my soul. I read Butler's chapter on the Mediatorial char

ing the blind by a way that he knew not; but, to my shame let it be written, I thought that perhaps some one would come in and see me at prayer. So I took the key of Mr. James Jackson's store, and went to that place and locked myself in, and soon was upon my knees. With a heart tossed to and fro by a variety of conflicting emotions, I began, O Lord, if thou didst ever hear prayer-' Here I came to a pause, and repeated the 'if,' and it occurred to my mind that it was very absurd to pray in that way, since God had caused it to be written in his word, Without faith it is impossible to please Him; he that cometh to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him.' Strange as it may seem, I rose from my knees without offering up a prayer. I then opened the Bible and read the eighth chapter of the epistle to the Romans, at which place I happened to open undesignedly. This was entirely above my comprehension, and it occurred to my mind that I had once read it before, and asked my father if he understood it; to which he replied, 'No, nor does any one else— it is a heap of nonsense.' Finding nothing to relieve me here, I closed the book and left the store, and endeavored to shake off my feelings in another way. Some few weeks afterward Mr. Childs had an appointment in the village. It was in the Christmas time, and though the backsliding which generally follows great religious excitements had not commenced, there was no unusual manifestation of religious feeling at that time in the community. I was one of the congregation that night, but I have no recollection of the preacher's text, nor of his discourse. All that I know is, that he fixed his piercing eyes upon me at the close of the discourse, descended from the pulpit, walked deliberately to me, took me by the hand, and said, 'Get down on your knees, and begin to pray.' I fell down trembling without a word, and began to pray and cry aloud for merey. Thus the struggle, as far as regards my recantation of infidelity, was over, and I was before the congregation a weeping penitent suing for mercy at the foot of the cross.

I re

and