THE LATE DR. HARRIS.

As to Dr. Harris's genius, a posterity judging more wisely than his contemporaries, from his later and more mature works rather than from those which created such a furore amongst ourselves, will probably rate it more highly than we do. Time, we are persuaded, will only serve to mellow his fame, especially as a theologian. It was on his "Pre-Adamite Earth," ," "Man Primeval," "Patriarchy," with the other unfinished treatises of the series, "The State," and "The Church," that he had lavished the stores of his very original thinking and of his ample erudition. When the plastic hand of some competent editor shall have moulded into shape the posthumous materials for the two latter productions, so as to complete the colossus, and to enable us to judge of the grand design as a whole, it will be seen more clearly than is now possible, that it is not merely a popular preacher and religious writer, but one entitled to be styled in the best and highest sense, a master in Israel," who has passed from our midst.

An impression has been long and pretty widely prevalent that the discovery of his talents only dates from the publication of his " Mammon," and ad captandum appeals to the modest aspirations of "mute inglorious Harrises still lying perdus in "the dark unfathomed caves" of other Epsoms, have been now and then founded on the assumed fact. It is to be hoped that these " gems" and "flowers" in petto have something better wherewith to console their hidden blushing and shining than this fiction; for a fiction it will turn out to be. No doubt Dr. Conquest's prize was the means of bringing the humble Dissenting pastor before the eyes of the great public, which from that time never lost sight of him again. But, not to speak of the immediate recognition of the high merits of his "Great Teacher" by the Eclectic and other reviewers, we are able to affirm, on the authority of a ministerial friend of ours who was two years a fellow-student with Dr. Harris at Hoxton Academy, that something extraordinary was discerned in him by many from his very first entrance upon college life. Through the kindness of the gentleman referred to, we have it in our power, without unduly trenching upon the province of the professed biographer, to communicate a few facts belonging to this early period of the brilliant career so recently brought to a happy and triumphant close. These scattered reminiscences will not be without their interest to our readers at the present time.

Several years back, we remember to have heard that so distinctly was Dr. Harris's preaching talent acknowledged, even whilst "only a student," that he was wont to be paid a compliment on this score which was never accorded to any other alumnus of Hoxton either before or since. It is usual, in the Dissenting Colleges, for the members of the Divinity class in turn to compose, and then to read, in the presence of the professor and of the class, a sermon, which is afterwards subjected to pretty searching criticism on all sides. Now it has been said that, whenever it was young Harris's turn to prepare such a homiletical exercise, not only his classmates, but the whole college, ordinarily claimed the privilege of hearing it. Our present informant left Hoxton before the subject of this anecdote rose to the Divinity class, and he confesses that he never heard of the fact, which, since he was in the habit of corresponding with several of his fellow-students after his leaving, he thinks he should have done, had there been any truth in the account. He distinctly recollects, however, that a college sermon of Harris's on the text (Acts xxiv. 16), made a very great sensation both within and without the walls of the institution. He states, moreover, of his own knowledge, that, having occasion for the services of a student for his own pulpit during his first vacation after his settlement, he accordingly applied

to the late Thomas Wilson, Esq., the treasurer of the academy, who asked him whom he would deem an acceptable supply. The name of Harris was instantly mentioned, upon which Mr. Wilson, stroking his chin as usual, remarked, "Well, Sir, you must have him then, but you are of course aware that Mr. Harris is the best preacher in the house."

But how, then, it may be asked, if such were his reputation already, came he to be banished to such a penal settlement as Epsom? The answer is very simple. From the first he was of a very debilitated frame, and this precluded his acceptance of a more exacting sphere of labour. But for this it is probable that he would have been the first pastor of the Rusholme-road Chapel, Manchester, which was just ready for him as he left Hoxton, and for which post his name was actually discussed. The circumstances were these. At the ordination of the Rev. Luke Foster, as successor to Dr. (then Mr.) Joseph Fletcher, in the pastorate of the church at Blackburn, in Lancashire, there were present, besides the officiating ministers, several of Mr. Foster's fellow-students at Hoxton, amongst them Messrs. Harris, Hague, and our informant. After the ceremony, these, with the Rev. Walter Scott, who had given the charge, made an excursion to Manchester. Mr. Scott, now Professor Emeritus of Airedale College, had prepared young Harris for college, at his seminary at Rowell, in Northamptonshire, and always entertained the highest opinion of his abilities. It was during this Manchester visit, that the conversation relative to Mr. Harris's settlement at Rusholme-road took place, but, owing to his weak state of health, nothing further came of it; and he ultimately retired to the easier, if more obscure, position which Epsom presented, where the Wranghams, into whose family he subsequently married, undertook that their house should be his home, and that nothing should be wanting on their part to secure his comfort and the speedy recovery, if possible, of his shattered bodily tone. We should not omit to mention, that during the same trip to Lancashire, Mr. Hague, in talking with our friend about their talented fellow-student, took occasion to compare him to South. Mr. Hague was first settled over an English Independent congregation at Rotterdam, and afterwards at Lower Darwen, in Lancashire, where he died at an early age. Indeed, there was but one opinion of Harris's mind and heart amongst his college companions. His genial humour and wit were particularly conspicuous from the beginning, which accounts for the parallel so soon recognised between him and South.

As early as 1827, and it is believed even before that date, he began to contribute to the periodical literature of the day. It is surmised that the "Congregational Magazine" contains his first printed essay. However that may be, it is known that at the period mentioned he was wont pretty frequently to appear before the reading public under the signature "Aspirate," in the pages of a weekly (afterwards monthly) magazine, published by Westley and Davis, and entitled the "Spirit and Manners of the Age." The publication was eventually merged in the "British Magazine.” The volumes for 1827 contain many papers by " Aspirate." There is one in particular on "Egotism" ("Spirit and Manners," vol. iii., p. 225), which is noticeable from its containing the portraiture of one of the author's fellowstudents, who seems to have been almost a perfect exemplification of that vice. His name (which, of course, is not given in the original, but need not now be withheld) was Jones, and the passage, which is very characteristic, is as follows:-"I once knew a thorough-paced egotist, and I would not willingly part with the idea which I retain of him. It was the fulness, the perfection of his egotism alone, which rendered I's supportable. Had he been less egotistical, he would have been intolerable, simply because he would not have appeared incurable. Had he occasionally descended from his stilts, his friends might have cherished a hope that he might gradually

be taught to walk upon the earth. But he never disappointed their hopes, for he never excited any. Had he occasionally enjoyed a lucid interval, an attempt might have been made at exorcism. But the demon of egotism never left him, so that no one could hesitate to pronounce him incurable. It was scarcely possible to offend him by any of the ordinary means of giving offence. Convict him of ignorance, his self-confidence remained unshaken. He felt assured, in his own mind, that he had read or heard to the effect of what he had stated; or, he was not in the habit of forming an opinion hastily, nor should he be hasty in relinquishing it. Politely requer t him to withdraw, he evidently pitied you for defrauding yourself of the pleasure of his company. Tax him with egotism, he professed himself to hate nothing so cordially. But if it was difficult to displease him, it was a proverbial impossibility to put him on indifferent terms with himself. If he ever admitted, for a moment, that he could, in any single point, be more perfect than he was, it was done so blandly-with so many alleviating expressions, and assurances of self-esteem, that he could not possibly be offended with himself; and, moreover, it was always the certain forerunner of invidious comparisons with those around him, and ended in torrents of self-gratulation. He was a happy instance of the principle of gravitation -for he was his own centre, and to that he tended with a constancy and force of determination which nothing external could ever disturb →

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And J. -s, self-balanced, on his centre hung."

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Of this fly in amber, the illustrious Jones, many traits are recorded which fully bear out the above description. He seems to have been an incorrigible dandy. On one occasion, when Harris was supplying at Leatherhead, in Surrey, during a college vacation, Jones came to see him there, but more so, it turned out, for the purpose of displaying a new pair of pantaloons of which he had possessed himself, than from motives of friendship. "Harris," he said, as soon as they were alone, "don't you admire my pantaloons?" "Well, I don't know," said his companion, "what is there special about them?" Why, my boy," said the triumphant coxcomb, "they're number elevens." And on being taken to Box-hill, instead of becoming absorbed in the glorious scenery, his head was still full of the subject, so that instead of the expected ejaculation, "splendid view!" he broke forth, at the very summit of the ascent, with the astounding contretemps, "Ah, my boy, you should get a pair of number elevens!" On one occasion, however, the egotist's self-complacency seems to have been actually shaken by a practical joke played upon him at college, in which affair Aspirate" was no doubt a principal actor. The bonassus was, at that time, the great novelty at Exeter Change; and a burlesque letter in Blackwood, describing the London sights, and alluding to this animal in the rapt exclamation of ignorant bewilderment, "Who could make a bonassus, Mrs. Price ?" had made the phrase current at Hoxton, as a sort of cant saying, of which Harris was somewhat fond. This, however, is by the way, apropos of the animal in question; and now to our anecdote. Jones, whose loyalty to himself was manifested in acts of physical as well as metaphysical homage to his sovereign, was in the habit of treating himself once a week (on Friday) to a lobster, or some other delicacy, of which he had never been known to ask any fellow-student to partake. This selfishness it was decreed to punish. One evening, accordingly, an immense placard was suspended at the extremity of the supper-room, inscribed with the announcement, "That wonderful animal, the bonassus; feeding time at half-past nine.' Punctually at that time, in stalked Jones with his crustacean to the tune of a charivari of fiddles, fire-irons, &c., which had been prepared for his special entertainment, amid the shouts of the showman, "Walk in, ladies and gentlemen; feeding time is just begun!" The poor

victim tried to eat, but it was of no use, and he rushed out of the hornets' nest which his selfishness had raised about his ears. The last time he was seen was at New York, where, on being accosted by an old chum with, Ah, Jones, how do you do?" he bridled up with ineffable dignity, simply deigning to reply, in the most measured accents, "I'm-in-the-Church," and at once turned upon his heel.

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THE JEWS AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.

"The stars twinkled just as they had done in happier days over the burning walls of Masada. Beneath rolled the Dead Sea-the monument of foreign wrath and war; in the distance, as far as the eye could reach, the desolate landscape bore the marks of the oppressor. Before them was

the camp of the Roman, who watched with anxiety for his prey and the morrow. All was silence in Masada. Defence now seemed impossible, and certain death stared the devoted garrison in the face. Despair settled on the stoutest heart, deepened by the presence and the well-known fate of the women and children. Nought was heard but the crackling of burning timbers, and the ill-suppressed moans of the wives and children of the garrison. Then for the last time Eleazar summoned his warriors. In language such as fierce despair alone could have inspired on his, or brooked on their part, he reminded them of their solemn oath-to gain freedom or to die. One of these alternatives alone remained for them-to die. The men of war around him had not quailed before any enemy, yet they shrank from the proposal of their leader. A low murmur betokened their disapprobation. Then flashed Eleazar's eye. Pointing over the burning rampart to the enemy, and in the distance towards Jerusalem, he related with fearful truthfulness, the fate which awaited them on the morrow :to be slain by the enemy, or to be reserved for the arena; to have their wives devoted in their sight to shame, and their children to torture and slavery. Were they to choose this alternative, or a glorious death, and with it liberty-a death in obedience to their oath, in devotedness to their God and to their country? The appeal had its effect. It was not sudden madness, nor a momentary frenzy, which seized these men when they brought forth, to immolate them on the altar of their liberty, their wives, and their children, their chattels, and ranged themselves each by the side of all that had been dear to him in the world. The last glimmer of hope had died out, and with the determination of despair, the last defenders of Judea prepared to perish in the flames which enveloped its last fortress. First, each heaped together his household gear, associated with the pleasures of other days, and set fire to it. Again they pressed to their hearts their wives and children. Bitter were the tears wrung from these iron men; yet the sacrifice was made unshrinkingly, and each plunged his sword into the hearts of his wife and children. Now they laid themselves down beside them, and locked them in tender embrace -now the embrace of death. Cheerfully they presented their breasts to ten of their number, chosen by lot to put the rest of their brethren to death. Of these ten, one had again been fixed upon to slay the remaining nine. Having finished his bloody work, he looked around to see whether any of the band yet required his service. But all was silent. The last survivor then approached as closely as possible to his own family and fell upon his sword. Nine hundred bodies covered the ground.

"Morning dawned upon Masada, and the Romans eagerly approached its walls-but within was the silence of death. A feint was apprehended, and the soldiers advanced cautiously, raising a shout, as if the defenders on

the wall implored the help of their brethren. Then two women, who, with five children, had concealed themselves in vaults during the murderous scene of the preceding evening, came forth from their retreat to tell the Romans the sad story. So fearfully strange did it sound, that their statement was scarcely credited. Slowly the Romans advanced; then rushing through the flames, they penetrated into the court of the palace. There lay the lifeless bodies of the garrison and their families. It was not a day of triumph even to the enemy, but one of awe and admiration. They buried the dead and withdrew, leaving a garrison. 'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, that killest the prophets,' &c. "Therefore, behold, your house is left unto you desolate.'

"Thus terminated the war of Jewish nationality. Various causes conspired to make this contest one of the most obstinate ever witnessed. The Roman legions were led by the ablest generals of the empire, and instigated by the recollection of the shameful defeat which they had sustained at the commencement of the war, and by the obstinate resistance now made by a small and unwarlike race whom they had long affected to despise. Nor was the issue of the struggle unimportant to the Roman state. Defeat under any circumstances would have been the first step in the decadence of an empire whose provinces bore so disproportionate a relation to the dominant country. Besides, Roman rule had never been firmly established eastward of Judea, and on that account the latter country presented an important military position. Finally the triumph of the Jews would have been fatal to the prestige of Rome in the East, and probably become the signal for a general rising in the neighbouring provinces. On the other hand, the Jews fought for national existence, for political and religious liberty, for their lives, for their hearths and homes. Flushed at first by victory, relying on the zeal and enthusiasm of the whole nation, and defending themselves in their own country and among its fastnesses against the foreign invaders, the Jews fought with the despair of men who knew what awaited them in case of defeat. Besides they relied on promised succours from their brethren in the East, or at least on a diversion in their favour. Nor was this contest merely one for national independence; it was essentially also a religious war. Jerusalem was not only a political but also a religious capital. In fighting for their country, the Jews fought also for their religion, which, indeed, was almost inseparable from the soil of Palestine, and hence, as they thought, for the name and cause of their God. Were it requisite, proofs could readily be adduced of this. Even after they had been defeated, it was stated by the theological expositors of popular sentiment, that since the day of the destruction of the temple, God had mourned for the fate of His people, and that joy had become a stranger in_the_celestial mansions. Hence they constantly reckoned all along on the Divine assistance. The Maccabees had in former times, with a mere handful of men, defied the Syrian hosts, and why should not similar success be vouchsafed to them under more advantageous circumstances? And even if it turned out otherwise, surely it could only happen in judgment, and for a season, that their God had left His covenant people, His special favourites, for whose sakes even heaven and earth had been created, and who alone fulfilled the end of their being by glorifying their Maker. Whatever, then, might be their divinely appointed fate, to conquer or to die, the Zealots were ready to meet in such a cause. These views were indeed intimately connected with the whole of the carnal tendency in their religion. To belong outwardly to the chosen race, constituted a person a member of the kingdom of God. The place and the rites of the temple were identical with acceptable worship; outward observances and a mere logical development, became substitutes for spiritual apprehension of the truth for love and devotedness.

Thus