"that, as a guide to the true knowledge of Paul's life and writings, it is worth any half-dozen commentaries we have met with." And the North British Review called it "a valuable help toward understanding the New Testament. The Greek and Latin quotations are almost entirely confined to the notes; any unlearned reader may study the text with ease and profit."

Dr. Conybeare was also well known, to those who were interested in the religious aspect of the times in the Anglican communion, by a novel which appeared shortly before his death, entitled Perversion, or the Causes and Consequences of Infidelity. This work was met with a warm welcome from some quarters, and by a storm of adverse criticism from others, the National Review writing of it as The Hard Church Novel.

THE TENDENCY OF RATIONALISM.

I acknowledge, indeed, that if I were to yield myself to the guidance of the speculative understanding, I could not stop short of that system of atheism which it is now the fashion to call pantheism; for I quite agree with you in finding no resting-place in the shallow deism of Theodore Parker or Francis Newman; indeed, I cannot imagine how anyone who has read Butler should ever have halted at such a half-way house. But I can feel deeply the attractiveness of Spinoza's creed, or rather of that ancient system of oriental speculation of which Spinoza has been the greatest modern exponent; but to which he added nothing essential that had not been said by Chinese and Indian pantheists three thousand years before him. So far as the mere intellect is concerned, I could embrace that grand idealistic philosophy which identifies the perceived with the perceiver, matter with spirit, and man with God-which represents all physical and all moral phenomena as unVOL. VI.-24

alterably determined by antecedent fate-all things but parts of one tremendous whole-all wheels in one vast machine, impelled by irresistible and incomprehensible laws. I could believe (with Fichte) that "everything is what it is of absolute necessity, and cannot be other than it is;" or (with Miss Martineau) that "I am as completely the result of my nature, and impelled to do what I do, as the needle to point to the north, or the puppet to move according as the string is pulled." And I could proceed (with Emerson) to identify good with evil, and could quote Goethe to prove the idleness of wishing to jump off one's shadow.

But, when the understanding has entangled me in this web of necessitarianism, conscience rises in rebellion, and cries out indignantly that good is different from evil, that sin is sinful, and that guilt demands atonement. And the longing of my heart convinces me that I cannot do without a heavenly Father to love me, a heavenly deliverer to save me from myself.-From Perversion, a Tale for the Times.

COOK, ELIZA, an English poet, was born at Southwark, London, December 24, 1818; died at Thornton Hill, Wimbledon, September 23, 1889. At an early age she became a contributor to the Literary Gazette and other periodicals. Her first volume, Melaia, and Other Poems, was published in 1840. A few years later she became editor of Eliza Cook's Journal, a weekly magazine, intended to advance mental culture, which she conducted until failing health forced her to relinquish the care in 1854. Her poems have passed through many editions. Among her books are Jottings from My Journal (1860) and New Echoes (1864). Among her single poems are The Old Arm-Chair, The Old Farm Gate, Oh, Why Does the White Man Follow My Path.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

I never see a young hand hold

The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of my heart.
My smile expires into a sigh;
I feel a struggling in the eye,
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way;
For soul and brain will travel back
Through memory's chequered mazes,
To days when I but trod life's track
For buttercups and daisies.

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare,
Of sober speech and silver hair,
Who carry counsel, wise and sage,
With all the gravity of age;
Oh! say, do ye not like to hear
The accents ringing in your ear,
When sportive urchins laugh and shout,
Tossing those precious flowers about,
Springing with bold and gleesome bound,
Proclaiming joy that crazes,
And chorusing the magic sound
Of buttercups and daisies?

Are there, I ask, beneath the sky
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With childhood's love? Can any please
Or light the infant eye like these?
No, no; there's not a bud on earth,
Of richest tint or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours
When burning words and praises
Were lavished on those shining flowers,
Buttercups and daisies?

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;

And though old Time has marked my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest linked to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past;
And then the only wish I have

Is, that the one who raises
The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave
With buttercups and daisies.

A HOME IN THE HEART.

Oh, ask not a home in the mansions of pride, Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls; Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold,

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.