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How readily their spiritual affinities have brought them together where now they "live unto God."

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The record appended to the Journal in this as in earlier editions shows that his end was in harmony with his course. "His last public labor," says Whittier in a note, "was a testimony in York meeting in behalf of the poor and enslaved. His last prayer on his death-bed was a commendation of his fellow creatures separated from the divine harmony' to the Omnipotent Power whom he had learned to call his Father." His labors and overtasked sympathies had left him ill fitted to resist the malady that cut short his life in its maturity. "Though in a foreign land," such a man indeed was "not far from home." We may transfer to him what Cotton Mather said of the lady Arbella Johnson, only reversing one word, that he “took Old England on his way to heaven." The testimonies of God's children going home one after another, though not necessary, are always welcome, and Woolman's utterances were still in his own manner. "He said he had settled his outward affairs to his mind, had taken leave of his wife and family as never to return, leaving them to the divine protection, adding, 'Though I feel them near to me at this time, yet I have freely given them up, having a hope that they will be provided for;' and a little after said, 'This trial is made easier than I could have thought, my will being wholly taken away.' To a young friend who had ministered to him, he said, "My child, thou seemest very kind to me, a poor creature: the Lord will reward thee for it." "Awhile after he cried out with great earnestness of spirit, 'O my Father! my Father! how comfortable art thou to my soul in this trying season!' Being asked if he would take a little nourishment, after some pause he replied, 'My child, I cannot tell what to say to it; I seem nearly arrived where my soul shall have rest from all its troubles.' He described his disorder as at times coming "like a whirlwind" over his mind, which, however, "had hitherto been kept steady and centered in everlasting love," and "if that be mercifully continued," he said, "I ask and desire no more." When medicine had been ineffectual, and a friend anxiously asked, "What shall I do now?" he answered, "Rejoice evermore, and in every thing give thanks," but soon added, "This is sometimes hard to come at."

When some hope of his recovery was expressed, he replied, "My hope is in Christ; and though I may seem a little better, a change in the disorder may soon happen, and my little strength be dissolved; and if it so happen, I shall be gathered to my everlasting rest." And to his medical attendant: "My dependence is on the Lord Jesus, who I trust will forgive my sins, which is all I hope for; and if it be his will to raise up this body again, I am content; and if to die, I am resigned; but if thou canst not be easy without trying to assist nature, I submit." Still he commemorated the divine goodness and cared for others: "How tenderly have I been waited on in this time of affliction, in which I may say in Job's words, 'tedious days and wearisome nights are appointed unto me;' and how many are spending their time and money in vanity and superfluities, while thousands and tens of thousands want the necessaries of life, who might be relieved by them, and their distresses at such a time as this in some degree softened by the administering of suitable things." And this is the last simple record, for the morning of his death: "He asked for pen and ink, and at several times with much difficulty, wrote thus: 'I believe my being here is in the wisdom of Christ; I know not as to life or death." So it was that on the "second day, 5th of tenth month," 1772, he fell asleep on the breast of Him whom, with the loving reverence of the kindred spirit, George Herbert, he might have called, "My Master Jesus."

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ARTICLE III.-REMARKS ON THE STYLE OF CHINESE

PROSE.

BY REV. W. A. P. MARTIN, D.D.,

President of the Imperial College, Pekin, China.

A PROFESSOR of Chinese in America is reported to have said that "in the Chinese language there is no such thing as a florid style or a beautiful style. Style is not taken into consideration. It is in writing the language that skill is displayed; and the man that executes the characters with dexterity and ingenuity is the one that understands the language."

Though somewhat unexpected as coming from the chair of a Chinese professor, this opinion is not novel. It expresses but too truly the estimate in which the literature of China has been generally held by the learned world.

The value of Chinese records is fully conceded. The great antiquity of the people; their accurate system of chronology; their habit of appealing to history, as the only tribunal before which they can arraign their sovereigns; and especially their practice of noting as a prodigy every strange phenomenon that occurs in any department of nature, all conspire to render their annals an inexhaustible mine of curious and useful information. Add that these annals are not restricted to what is known as the history of the empire; but that one or more such works may be found recording in minute detail whatever has been thought interesting or instructive in the history of every department and district; and we have a mass of such literature that stands without a parallel among the nations of the earth.

It is in these that our savans may find, extending back in unbroken series for thousands of years, notices of eclipses. comets, star-showers, aerolites, droughts, floods, earthquakes, &c. &c., as well as a comparatively faithful account of the rise and fortunes of the most numerous branch of the human family.

But, while admitting that it is worth while to encounter all the toil of a difficult language in order to gain access to such a field of research, who ever dreams that the Chinese language

contains anything else to repay the labor of acquisition? Who ever imagines that in pursuing his favorite game, instead of traversing deserts and jungles, he will find himself walking among forests filled with the songs of strange birds, and perfumed with the fragrance of unknown flowers, while ever and anon he is ravished by the view of some landscape of surpassing beauty? As soon would the student of literary art expect to find the graces of diction among the hieratic inscriptions of Egypt, or the arrow-headed records of Assyria, as to meet them on pages that bristle with the ideographic symbols of China. It is with a view to correcting such prevalent impressions that this paper is written. In attempting this, however, I do not propose a disquisition on the value of Chinese literature in general, nor commit myself to the task of elucidating the principles of its rhetoric and grammar; but limit myself rather to the single topic of style; and more particularly the style of its prose composition. This is a subject which, I am aware, it will not be easy to discuss in such a manner as to render it intelligible or interesting to those who are unacquainted with the Chinese language. Style is a volatile quality, which escapes in the process of transfusion; and illustrations of style, however carefully rendered, are at best but as dried plants and stuffed animals compared with living nature. Chinese, moreover, being from our idiom the most remote of all languages, suffers most in the process of rendering. I fear, therefore, that the best versions I may be able to offer will only have the effect of confirming the impressions which it is my object to combat. That such impressions are erroneous, ought to be apparent from the mere consideration of the antiquity and extent of the Chinese literature. For, to suppose that a great people have been engaged from a time anterior to the rise of any other living language in building up a literature unequalled in amount, and to suppose that that literature contains nothing to gratify the taste or feed the imagination, is it not to suppose its authors destitute of the attributes of our common humanity? Are we to believe that the bees of China are so different from those of other countries, that they construct their curious cells from a mere love of labor, without ever depositing there the sweets on which they are wont to feed ?

It is not always true that external decoration implies internal finish or furniture; still we may assert that it would be impossible that the taste which the Chinese display in the embellishment of their hand-writing and letter-press should not find its counterpart in the refinement of style.

Not

They literally worship their letters. When letters were invented, they say, heaven rejoiced and hell trembled. for any consideration will they tread on a piece of lettered paper; and to foster this reverence, literary associations employ agents to go about the streets, collect waste paper, and burn it on a kind of altar, with the solemnity of a sacrifice. They execute their characters with the painter's brush, and rank writing as the very highest of the fine arts. They decorate their dwellings and the temples of their gods with ornamental inscriptions; and exercise their ingenuity in varying both chirography and orthography in a hundred fantastic ways. We may well excuse them for this almost idolatrous admiration for the greatest gift of their ancestors, for there is no other language on earth whose written characters approach the Chinese in their adaptation to pictorial effect.

Yet all this exaggerated attention to the mechanical art is but an index of the ardor with which Chinese scholars devote themselves to the graces of composition.

Their style is as varied as their chirography, and as much more elaborate than that of other nations. If they spend years in learning to write, where others give a few weeks or months to the acquisition of that accomplishment, it is equally true that, while in other countries, the student acquires a style of composition almost by accident, those of China make it the earnest study of half a life-time.

While, in the lower examinations, elegance of mechanical execution joined to a fair proportion of other merits is sure to achieve success, in competition for the higher degrees, the essays are copied by official clerks before they meet the eye of the examiner; style is everything and hand-writing nothing. Even the matter of the essay is of little consequence in comparison with the form in which it is presented. This is perceived and lamented by the more intelligent among the Chinese themselves. They often contrast the hollow glitter of the style of

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