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his temple? Without the support of Revelation, the mind would be misguided even by the regularity of nature, and bewildered in the infinity and variety of its wise contrivances.”— p. 12.

He proceeds to point out several remarkable illustrations of his principle, in what we cannot but regard as the lamentabie aberrations and inconsistencies of some of the most eminent votaries of modern science.

Dr. Carpenter is well known to have received the introductory chapters of Luke's Gospel, while he rejected those of Matthew, and, interpreting the former without reference to the latter, to have considered the encouraging assurance of the Divine messenger to the destined mother of Jesus, (Luke i. 38), as implying no more than that this highly-favoured woman should, for the sake of her future offspring, be the object of the special protection and care of God;-should dwell, as the Psalmist expresses it, under the shadow of the Almighty, and be under the care and guidance of his good spirit, of his gracious Providence. And he thinks that the remarkable events which accompanied the birth of Jesus, could not but have a most powerful influence on her who laid these things up in her heart, in the nurture and training of this heir of promise, and also on his own mind, as they were in process of time related to him, while he gradually increased in wisdom and in stature, and in favour both with God and man. The author proceeds to enlarge on this suggestion, and indulge his imagination in following it out into particulars. We cannot make room for the whole, but are unwilling to abridge the following passage.

"It is not unnatural for a moment to wish that we possessed the history, in detail, of the period which this beloved son of the Most High God spent in privacy, before the time when his kinsman John came forth from his solitary abode in the wilderness of Judæa, to preach the baptism of repentance, and to announce the approach of the Messiah. We do know enough to make us feel assured, that the same disposition of soul which he manifested, when, sanctified by the anointing of the Spirit, he was sent into the world by his heavenly Father, had been that by which he had been led through the preceding years from the earliest period of infancy. Of him, without a doubt, it might always be said, as well as in the days of his ministry, that he did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth.' We know that the child grew and waxed strong in the Spirit, filled with wisdom,' and that the grace of God was upon him.' We know that at twelve years of age, still subject to his parents, and engaged without a doubt in the ordinary occupations of life, he showed understanding and sagacity in the subjects of religion, which enabled him to converse with the teachers of the law, so as to VOL. III. No. 13.-New Series. 2 B

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astonish all who heard him; and we have the comprehensive declaration, that he increased in wisdom and in stature, and in favour both with God and man.'

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But we know something more than this, even in addition to what had taken place before and after his birth, contributing to the sanctity of his life, and his preparedness for the great work before him. We know the nature of those public services of religion in which without a doubt he habitually joined; not only of those solemn rites which accompanied the three great festivals of his nation, but those of the frequent stated worship of the synagogues, by which we know what were the supplications and thanksgivings which he offered to Jehovah, the God of his fathers. And we have, too, those holy Scriptures by which he was instructed and guided, by which his pious affections were cherished, by which the fear and the love of Jehovah his God were impressed upon his spirit, and made the regulating spring of his life. But to discern the extraordinary influences of these, as he increased in wisdom, on his understanding, on his heart,-on his pure and lovely sensibilities,on his elevated but regulated imagination,-on his faith in God, and in the purposes and discipline of his soul, -we must remember that he knew from the dawn of life that that life was to be destined to great and momentous purposes. He would learn, as he could receive it, that he was to sit on the throne of his father David, and to possess a kingdom of which there should be no end,-that he was to be a light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of his people Israel ;-but nevertheless that he was to be the object of cruel contradiction,—and that his mother's heart would on his account be pierced through with many sorrows. And how, with such thoughts, would he, in the retired glens which surrounded Nazareth,—in the sacred solitudes where he had no witness but his heavenly Father, dwell in deep contemplation on the prophecies which respect the Anointed of Jehovah, which he was at the appointed, but uncertain, time himself to become. We know that he would discern, in that sacred volume which trains up the spirit to godliness now, as it did in the days of Christ, as it did Jesus himself, that the Messiah (and such he knew he was to be) was specially designed to be the herald of divine mercy to the children of sin and ignorance, to bind up the broken-hearted, to offer liberty to the captive, to open the prison doors to those in bonds, and to proclaim the acceptable year of Jehovah, the year of the spiritual jubilee. He saw that he was one day to have a dominion which should include all nations, and all ages; a kingdom that time and death should not destroy. But he also saw that the Messiah was to be a man of sorrows and acquainted with griefs; to be despised and neglected of men; to be cut off, but not for himself; to be wounded for the transgressions of his people; to be bruised and put to grief, and at last to die with the wicked.

"It requires but little exercise of the imagination, and but little knowledge of the heart, to discern how such contemplations must have influenced and trained this beloved son and servant of the Most High. And then think of him as passing ten years of manhood thus looking forward,-knowing that the time was appointed, but without a knowledge

of the time-often appearing to discern in the distant horizon the streaks of approaching dawn, and then finding the day-star of expectation entirely hidden, constantly discharging present duties, and preparing for those to come,-walking perhaps sometimes in darkness, but always trusting in the name of Jehovah, and staying his soul on God, his God; -doubtless acknowledging Him in all his ways, and secretly directed (as all are who acknowledge Him faithfully) by the unseen hand, which more obviously guided his fathers in the desert by a pillar of cloud in the day, and by a pillar of fire in the night :-growing up before Jehovah as a tender plant, without attracting the observation of men ;-never himself failing or being discouraged, because the day of summons to public duty came not;-but, as the finger of Providence directed him, supporting the bruised reed, and supplying the expiring lamp ;--and always watching with unwavering faith for the fulfilment of God's promises, in the way, and at the time, which Infinite wisdom deemed best. It must have been under the influence of such views, that our great poet, near the beginning of the Paradise Regained, thus speaks of the beloved Son of God,-when in the desert, after his high appointment was announced to him,-as retracing his holy life :

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'When I was yet a child, no childish play
To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do,
What might be public good. Myself I thought
Born to that end, born to promote all truth,
All righteous things; therefore above my years
The law of God I read, and found it sweet,
Made it my whole delight, and in it grew
Unto perfection.''

We might have pleasure in referring to many other discourses in this volume which would serve to illustrate the character and peculiar talents of the author, and suggest useful and interesting trains of thought;-but we forbear. Our object will have been answered, if as many as possible of our readers should enable themselves to derive from a careful perusal of the sermons themselves the moral and spiritual benefit which we are sure they are well fitted to communicate.

We ought not to conclude without adverting to the promised Memoir, which we understand is in preparation, and which, if judiciously drawn up, cannot fail, we should think, of forming an acceptable addition to the treasures of Unitarian Biography.

T.

ART. VI.-PARADISE AFTER THE FALL.

AFTER our first parents had left the garden of Eden, having forfeited by disobedience their earthly Paradise, and their state of immortal innocence, a beautiful band of sisters were placed there, that its flowers might not blossom in vain, that some living forms might delight in the lovely creation.

The tree of knowledge stood in the midst no longer; the new race of innocent and joyous beings were to be free from Eve's fatal temptation; but where its roots had once been fixed, now yawned an awful chasm, deep, dark, and incomprehensible.

The Almighty no longer manifested himself in Paradise. The most High had drawn before Him the veil of His perfections. To the weakened eyes of mortals the Creator had become invisible, and though His fatherly hand was over the sisters, they knew it not.

Stretched upon a mossy turf lay the three beautiful forms whose limbs had never yet tried their power, whose consciousness had yet to come unto them. The trees gently waved over their heads, the rising sun threw its uncertain rays amidst the branches, and the varying light danced on the sleeping sisters. The birds twittered upon the boughs, and carolled their morning hymn. Life came upon these children of God, and their eyes were opened to the beauties of created things. They sprang up together from their resting place, they gazed upon each other smilingly, and they bounded with elasticity of motion, and freshness of spirit, along the glades of the Paradise which opened before them. With unsated senses they once more met together; their hearts beat high with their inward bliss; their lips unbidden opened, and they participated their delight. Again and again they examined the beauties of the garden; they paused to taste of the varied fruits; they turned their eyes to the glorious sun and the bright sky above them, and again and again they re-echoed one another's voices, till exhausted as evening approached, they embracing sunk to repose.

The earliest ray of morning brought Celestina once more to a sense of being. Her eyes opened upon her sisters, who in placid slumbers lay beside her, half concealed by the luxuriant herbage which afforded their chance place of rest. Celestina's first sensation was of past happiness; her first impulse was with kisses of affection to arouse her companions.

Once more they ranged around their paradise with untired,

unabated delight; once more, as the sun departed, the nightbreeze lulled them to repose.

Celestina again woke first, but now she suffered her sisters to sleep on; light had begun to dawn upon her mind, and her thoughts were busy within her breast. "How beautiful, how wonderful!" she mentally exclaimed; "how delightful is every thing around me! How strange that I have but just begun to know of these things!" She paused, she surveyed herself,her eyes wandered inquiringly around; she felt she had consciousness, she was beginning to reflect. "How did I first come hither?" she asked herself; "whence has my life begun, or how is it that I cannot remember that I have always lived?" Her innocent countenance was for the first time beclouded with a sense of imperfection, and the tear stood in her eye, though she understood not its meaning. With a heart less buoyant, and a slower step than before had been Celestina's, she arose and entered a thicket. She explored its recesses, she broke through the close-woven foliage for the first time; she approached the place where the tree of knowledge had stood; she started from the brink of the chasm. She surveyed it with fixed eye; she walked around it; she stooped to examine the fearful abyss. Nothing resisted her snowy arm as she moved it backwards and forwards in the dark opening. Celestina felt within her an assurance of danger; she shuddered; she retreated. In the gayer parts of the garden she found her sisters dancing with light hearts in the pleasant sunbeams. With laughing eyes they entwined their arms with hers, and their waving locks floated on the balmy atmosphere as they chased the butterflies from flower to flower. Bright joy was once more on the brow of Celestina; her solitary walk and her meditations were forgotten.

And so did days, and weeks, and months pass, and the sisters' love never diminished, and their sportive innocence was undecayed. Yet sometimes Celestina's smile would vanish, and sometimes did she, who alone knew of its existence, with an awed spirit visit the chasm; and sometimes did she experience an inward sinking, as though her heart had want of being filled. Yet she knew not what it was that could make her happier ; she only perceived she was less joyous than her sisters. And she was happy; for her Creator ever watched over her for good, and his blessed spirit was with her, though she could not discern it.

It was towards the close of a beautiful day: the sisters were sporting together, and had hid themselves by turns in the deep shades. Two were now seeking through the groves and bowers;

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