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in heaven; and thus make unto yourselves friends, by your money, that when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations.” Now, is there any thing we do, or try, in obedience to this express command of Christ? Were we ever afraid of error, or of unbelief, or of reluctance on this point? Have we ever tried to please God in this matter?

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Perhaps, we never studied it at all; or not enough to affect the heart with its authority, as well as to inform the understanding with its meaning. This is common. I have been often asked, what is meant by making friends, through riches, who should welcome us into everlasting habitations? But I was never asked by any one, how he might best please God, or obey his Lord's will in this matter? It always seemed quite enough, and all that was wished for, if this passage (called curious) was explained agreeably to the analogy of faith, and in a natural manner. This has surprised me frequently; especially, when the satisfaction expressed with the explanation, has been followed by a laughing reference to the want of riches. Were the disciples rich, when the Lord laid the injunction upon them? It was to "his disciples" that Jesus addressed the parable of the unjust steward, on which the command is founded. Luke xvi. 1. Now, we are, certainly, not poorer than they were; for, whatever property or income any of them had before they were called, in obeying that call they "forsook all ", to follow Christ. Whatever friends for eternity they made, must, therefore, have been made at a very low expense: so low, indeed, that no one could suspect that the converts won by apostolic money, were brought or bribed over to the faith of Christ. It is, in fact, the glory of the maxim, that it can be as well acted upon, and will often be most successful, in the hands of those who have but little to spare. The bounty of a rich man may defeat its own spiritual purpose; but the benevolence of a poor man, whether shewn to win an impoverished sinner, or to help an afflicted saint, is sure to make the saint his friend for ever, and likely to make the sinner so.'

pp. 166-170.

"The God of Glory, or, a Guide to the Doubting ", forms the last of the present series. The first two or three essays in this volume do not strike us as written with the Author's usual felicity and force. Perhaps, we had begun to expect too much from him, on account of the extraordinary merit of his previous productions. We must say, however, that, after advancing a little way, we found ourselves in the presence of the same Guide' by whom we had been before so pleasingly conducted. We cannot enter into an analysis of this volume, nor must we even venture upon any further extracts, as we have already, we fear, exceeded our limits.

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The first of a new series of Guides, by the same Author, has just appeared, under the title of "Manly Piety ", designed especially for young men. It was our first intention to include it in the present notice; but, as it would be impossible to do it jus

tice in a single paragraph, we shall defer adverting to it, till the series of which it is the commencement, shall be completed.

It would be hardly critically orthodox to part with an author without finding fault with something. Faults, of course, every man and every book must have; and these faults, it becomes us (also of course) to shew that we have ability to detect. We have spoken highly of Mr. Philip's productions, and we have spoken as we feel; believing them to be worthy of general acceptance, and to be adapted for extensive usefulness. We do not, however, think them perfect. The style, in general, is intentionally conversational; now and then, however, it descends a little too much. The volumes abound with pithy and pointed sentences, but occasionally they are made so by main force: the point or antithesis is obtained by what is strained and unnatural. The greatest blemish, however, is the incessant alliteration in which the Writer indulges. Some of his sentences, constructed on this principle, are felicitous and striking; but he recurs to it far too frequently to be either gratifying to his readers or creditable to his taste. These are all, we admit, minor matters; yet, they are worth attending to, on the part of one whose writings constitute so admirable and portable a system of experimental and practical divinity. There are a few expressions, in one or two of his prefaces, which we could wish had been omitted. It may be fastidiousness, but we do not like them. To an unfriendly eye, they might suggest the suspicion, that Mr. P. was afraid lest some persons might think that the publication of little books was a "line of things" somewhat beneath him, and that his adherence to it needed an apology. Let him feel satisfied that he is "serving his generation", and serving it well. His volumes are small, but their excellences are such as confer upon them dignity and importance. Their Author is probably a greater benefactor to his species, than if he had presented it with larger and more learned productions.

Art. VI. Familiar Letters and Miscellaneous Papers of Benjamin Franklin; now for the first Time published. Edited by Jared Sparks, Author of "The Life of Gouverneur Morris ", &c. &c. With Explanatory Notes. 12mo. pp. xvi. 295. London, (Jackson and Walford,) 1833.

THE object of the American Editor, in publishing these do

mestic letters, is to exhibit the private character of Franklin under a more favourable aspect than it wears to those who are acquainted with him only as a political economist and philosopher.

We have here the records of a correspondence with different persons for nearly half a century; and we perceive from beginning to end

VOL. X.-N.S.

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a lively and continued interest in his early friendships, undiminished by time, unaltered by circumstances. Nor will it be easy to find in any letters of the like description, stronger evidences of kindness, sympathy, and all the traits of a truly amiable character and affectionate temper.'

The miscellaneous papers are of another cast, indicating the political opinions of Franklin at an important crisis, and affording triumphant proofs of his patriotism at a time when it has 'suited the purpose of enemies to represent him as having been a wavering friend, if not a secret foe, to the cause of his country." As illustrations of the character of so distinguished an actor in the American Revolution, these papers possess an interest which would not otherwise attach to them. On this side of the Atlantic, the vindication they afford of Franklin's private honesty, fidelity, and patriotism, was, however, scarcely required, as the suspicions alluded to are confined, we apprehend, to his own countrymen. Nor will the Letters be read here with equal interest, and many of them might have been omitted in the reprint without any loss to the reader. We select the following as strongly indicative of the Writer's good sense and amiable feeling.

TO MISS STEVENSON.

. October, 1768.

I see very clearly the unhappiness of your situation, and that it does not arise from any fault in you. I pity you most sincerely. I should not, however, have thought of giving you advice on this occasion, if you had not requested it, believing, as I do, that your own good sense is more than sufficient to direct you in every point of duty to others and yourself. If, then, I should advise you to any thing that may be contrary to your own opinion, do not imagine that I shall condemn you, if you do not follow such advice. I shall only think, that, from a better acquaintance with circumstances, you form a better judgment of what is fit for you to do.

Now I conceive with you, that — both from her affection to you, and from the long habit of having you with her, would really be miserable without you. Her temper, perhaps, was never of the best; and when that is the case, age seldom mends it. Much of her unhap piness must arise from thence; aad since wrong turns of mind, when confirmed by time, are almost as little in our power to cure, as those of the body, I think with you, that her case is a compassionable one.

If she had, though by her own imprudence, brought on herself any grievous sickness, I know you would think it your duty to attend and nurse her with filial tenderness, even were your own health to be endangered by it. Your apprehension, therefore, is right, that it may be your duty to live with her, though inconsistent with your happiness and your interest; but this can only mean present interest, and present happiness; for I think your future, greater, and more lasting interest and happiness will arise from the reflection, that you have done your

duty, and from the high rank you will ever hold in the esteem of all that know you, for having persevered in doing that duty, under so many and great discouragements.

My advice, then, must be, that you return to her as soon as the time proposed for your visit is expired; and that you continue, by every means in your power, to make the remainder of her days as comfortable to her as possible. Invent amusements for her; be pleased when she accepts of them, and patient when she, perhaps peevishly, rejects them. I know this is hard, but I think you are equal to it; not from any servility of temper, but from abundant goodness. In the mean time, all your friends, sensible of your present uncomfortable situation, should endeavour to ease your burthen, by acting in concert with you, and to give her as many opportunities as possible of enjoying the pleasures of society for your sake.

Nothing is more apt to sour the temper of aged people, than the apprehension that they are neglected; and they are extremely apt to entertain such suspicions. It was therefore that I proposed asking her to be of our late party; but, your mother disliking it, the motion was dropped, as some others have been, by my too great easiness, contrary to my judgement. Not but that I was sensible her being with us might have lessened our pleasure, but I hoped it might have prevented you some pain.

In fine, nothing can contribute to true happiness, that it is inconsistent with duty; nor can a course of action, conformable to it, be finally without an ample reward. For God governs, and he is good. I pray him to direct you; and, indeed, you will never be without his direction, if you humbly ask it, and shew yourself always ready to obey it.

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Farewell, my dear friend, and believe me ever sincerely and affectionately yours,

'B. FRANKLIN.'

We are tempted to make room for another, which, by its ease and playfulness, reminds us of the epistolary style of Cowper.

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Begone, business, for an hour at least, and let me chat a little

with my Katy.

I have now before me, my dear girl, three of your favours, viz. of March the 3d, March the 30th, and May the 1st. The first I received just before I set out on a long journey, and the others while I was on that journey, which held me near six weeks. Since my return, I have been in such a perpetual hurry of public affairs of various kinds, as renders it impracticable for me to keep up my private correspondences, even those that afforded me the greatest pleasure.

You ask in your last, how I do, and what I am doing, and whether

every body loves me yet, and why I make them do so.

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In regard to the first, I can say, thanks to God, that I do not remember I was ever better. I still relish all the pleasures of life, that a

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temperate man can in reason desire, and through favour I have them all in my power. This happy situation shall continue as long as God pleases, who knows what is best for his creatures, and I hope will enable me to bear with patience and dutiful submission any change he may think fit to make that is less agreeable. As to the second question, I must confess (but don't you be jealous), that many more people love me now, than ever did before; for since I saw you, I have been enabled to do some general services to the country, and to the army, for which both have thanked and praised me, and say they love me. They say so, as you used to do; and if I were to ask any favours of them, they would, perhaps, as readily refuse me; so that I find little real advantage in being loved, but it pleases my humour.

Now it is near four months since I have been favoured with a single line from you; but I will not be angry with you, because it is my fault. I ran in debt to you three or four letters, and as I did not pay, you would not trust me any more, and you had some reason. But, believe me, I am honest, and though I should never make equal returns, you shall see I will keep fair accounts. Equal returns I can never make, though I should write to you by every post; for the pleasure I receive from one of yours, is more than you can have from two of mine. The small news, the domestic occurrences among our friends, the natural pictures you draw of persons, the sensible observations and reflections you make, and the easy, chatty manner in which you express every thing, all contribute to heighten the pleasure; and the more, as they remind me of those hours and miles that we talked away so agreeably, even in a winter journey, a wrong road, and a soaking shower.

I long to hear whether you have continued ever since in that monastery; or have broke into the world again, doing pretty mischief; how the lady Wards do, and how many of them are married, or about it; what is become of Mr. B. and Mr. L., and what the state of your heart is at this instant? But that, perhaps, I ought not to know; and, therefore, I will not conjure, as you sometimes say I do. If I could conjure, it should be to know what was that oddest question about me that ever was thought of, which you tell me a lady had just sent to ask you.

I commend your prudent resolutions, in the article of granting favours to lovers. But if I were courting you, I could not heartily approve such conduct. I should even be malicious enough to say, you were too knowing, and tell you the old story of the Girl and the Miller. I enclose you the songs you write for, and with them your Spanish letter with a translation. I honour that honest Spaniard for loving you. It shewed the goodness of his taste and judgement. But you must forget him, and bless some worthy young Englishman.

You have spun a long thread, five thousand and twenty-two yards. It will reach almost from Rhode Island hither. I wish I had hold of one end of it, to pull you to me. But you would rather break it than come. The cords of love and friendship are longer and stronger, and in time past have drawn me further; even back from England to Philadelphia. I guess that some of the same kind will one day draw you

out of that Island.
I was extremely pleased with the

you sent me. The

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