entered the churchyard, and proceeded directly to the sacred spot,-wherever we had found it, that spot had been sacred; made so by what it contained, the dust that had constituted a temple of the Holy Ghost, consecrated,-where rested, in hope of a glorious resurrection, the remains of John Fletcher. We stood by his tomb. We read the inscription that told us whose earthly tabernacle had been there deposited. There, likewise, reposed the ashes of Mary Bosanquet, afterwards Mary Fletcher, a help meet even for him. Thoughts and feelings such as those which such a spot suggests are not for general utterance. But what they ought to be may be said. He whose earthly course was here finished, received Christian truth with his whole soul. It became the governing power of his nature. Its principles dwelt in him, and became his. He had none contrary to them. He had none besides. He was wholly a Christian man, and nothing but a Christian man. And there was the secret of his excellence, and of his continual communion with his God and Saviour. Whence an imperfect character, whence imperfect fellowship, but from an imperfect reception of religion? He who slept beneath our feet was one who saw that if Christianity was anything, it was everything; that if it were valuable at all, it was valuable infinitely and, seeing this, he embraced an infinite object with an entire and ever-expanding comprehension. He prayed, and the prayer was answered:—

"Stretch my faith's capacity,

Wider, and yet wider still;

Then, with all that is in Thee,

My soul for ever fill."

Will not he who is prepared to feel at all, while standing by the tomb of John and Mary Fletcher, seem to hear in the very solitude in which this view of the past, and of death, will place him, a voice saying to him, "Go thou, and do likewise?" The friend who accompanied us, pointed to the vicaragehouse : "At that window Mrs. Fletcher sat and witnessed the funeral." If it were open, she would hear the service. O, what at that moment were her feelings? Bereft of such a husband! But she was a Christian widow. The voice that came from the grave-side not only said, "We therefore commit

his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust;" but also, "In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord;" words that neither Socrates nor Plato, Cicero nor Seneca, ever knew how to pronounce. Mrs. Fletcher would sorrow; for this the Bible forbids not. At the grave of Lazarus," Jesus wept." But she grieved not as those who have no hope. She had not to deplore final loss, but temporary separation. There she sat, beholding the grave close on what was mortal of her chief earthly joy; but she would sit as hearing a voice from heaven saying unto her, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord. Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." And now it is all over. A little while she remained a widow indeed, not so much remembering the dead and buried, as in strong faith communing with the living, though absent. She, also, has fallen asleep, and the tabernacle of clay is here deposited. "Planted together in the likeness of his death, so shall they be also in the likeness of his resurrection."

Here was

From the grave, we went into the church. In the vestry the register-book was shown us: the entries, in Mr. Fletcher's own writing, reminding us of the ministerial services he had there performed. He had married, baptized, buried. But, above all, he had prayed and preached. O, to have heard the Liturgy read, no, not read, but prayed, by Mr. Fletcher! We were kindly permitted to visit the vicarage. Mr. Fletcher's "study ;" and this (a small slip of wood hanging against the wall, capable of being fixed, when wanted, in the proper position for writing) was his desk. Here he prayed and wrote; wrote his "Checks," which are, I must still think, a model for controversy. Every expression of love (and there are many such) for the persons of his opponents, is genuine : but he loved the truth; he dreaded the influence of error. He did not, therefore, trifle with controversy. With him it was no mere intellectual exercise, fencing with foils. It was a matter of life and death. He brought all his forces into the field, and fought as one who had resolved to conquer or be conquered. And yet victory, only regarded as such, was not his object. He fought for truth; and at any part of the' contest had his opponents convinced him that the truth was

with them, he would at once have exclaimed, "It is time to desist from the combat." It was a noble sentiment that he wrote here. He would equally rejoice in subduing his opponents, and in being subdued by them; in sitting in the chariot with truth, or in being led captive at her chariotwheels. And, therefore, in no part of his controversial writings do we see the advocate pleading from his brief. Never did he seek to make the worse appear the better reason. He was thoroughly in earnest. He wrote as he really believed; and had he been in error, his adversaries had every facility for detecting and exposing it. He had evidently investigated his subjects closely, so that he wrote from conviction; and if, in the course of the investigation, he had perceived that his position was not tenable, even though, through logical skill, he might have maintained it, against the actual assailants, (which was not likely, for they, likewise, were men of strength and earnestness,) he would himself have yielded it, and confessed himself conquered. Victor or vanquished, all he desired was truth. We thought that he had found and established it. Others still think differently. How would he have rejoiced to witness the formation of the Evangelical Alliance!

We were then conducted to the room in which this great and good man finished his course. We stood by the door, in a small passage leading from the top of the stairs, and imagined we saw the bed, and the dying saint breathing away what little breath remained to him, his countenance beaming with unearthly lustre, and his voice, and afterwards his signing hand, declaring "God is love." Along this passage slowly and sorrowfully passed the parishioners, pausing briefly at the door, and looking at their beloved Minister for the last time. The village Pastor is dying, and his flock come with tearful eyes. and sad hearts, to take their final earthly leave. I can never think of that procession without contrasting it with the theatrical mockery of "lying in state;" for mockery it is. What come the crowd to see? A splendid coffin with its rich habiliments, placed in a dimly-lighted room. They who might even have despised the man, may be willing to look on the last piece of furniture that has been prepared for him.

But in the room in which I stood, even had the objects been present, only one would have been seen, the man himself, a man in the valley and shadow of death, but evidencing, before he disappeared from view, that all was light there. O what a silent sermon was that most affecting scene on the often quoted exclamation of Balaam, "Let me die the death of the righteous !"

That we might see all, we were taken into a small closet, with a window opening out of one corner of the bedroom. Here he was accustomed to retire for his beloved work. Here he literally obeyed his Lord's injunction, "Thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet." Who, then, living in Madeley, had not heard Mr. Fletcher pray? But here, this room, is the proof that he was truly a man of prayer. If it be a delightful exercise to us only in public, if we go to our closet only from a sense of duty, and therefore only when we think we should sin in not going, if we there seem only to be performing a task, saying a prayer, we may well fear that our pleasure in public is mixed too much with unsanctified feeling; that, in fact, we too much regard self and man, and are offering a right sacrifice with strange fire. Not thus was it with John Fletcher. He was ardent in public, and not less so in private : in both he realized what alone he sought, the presence of his heavenly Father.

Mental activity may produce as much fatigue as physical exertion; though, eventually, both may contribute to health. I found it so when I returned. The walk had not been long, but imagination and feeling had been powerfully excited, and I felt that I needed silence and repose. I hoped, however, that the excitement would leave salutary results. Whether it did or not, is my own concern; it is the reader's to seek to realize the objects which had that morning been living before me, and to derive from them the profit they are so well calculated to afford.

OCCASIONAL PAPERS ON ENGLISH POETS
AND POETRY.

THE first outbreak of English poetry was marked by originality and vigour. Polish was subsequently given to it;

and of this school,—perhaps it might be called the completion of the first, the great example was given by Milton; if, indeed, he should not rather be said to stand alone. After him smoothness and elegance increased, but strength, though it passed not away, yet rapidly declined. The best examples of this class are found in Addison, and those who wrote about the same time. In Dryden strength revived. In boldness and vigour no English writer has ever exceeded him ; and for a long period, he stood alone. Pope, indeed, soon followed; and for the beauty of polished elegance, he is still unrivalled. But in his successors the decadence of English poetry is manifest. In verse they were far inferior to their master: they aimed at elegance, but were stiff and elaborate. Pope himself was not destitute of poetic feeling; but they who followed him rather tried to be poets than otherwise. It was not till the middle of the last century that signs of improvement appeared. Young, Thomson, and Johnson, though of high rank in literature, still, belong properly to the old school. If Chatterton had not written as a mere imitator of old English, and, instead of yielding to pride and passion, had cultivated and developed his great natural powers, he would have stood as, perhaps, the earliest precursor of the modern school, the morning-star of the bright day which we ourselves have witnessed. Even as it is, in his uncouth style, plain evidences may be perceived of a higher class of writing than the century had yet seen. He produced his pieces as the manuscripts of an unknown writer of an age long gone by; but their internal characteristics are indubitable proofs that he himself was their author. On the whole, though Thomson, in the structure of his verse, especially in his Tragedies, belongs to the olden school, yet, in his decided reference to natural scenery and events, a new style of thought is apparent. This is still more visible in Goldsmith. His verse is flowing and easy without being careless, and firmly constructed without being stiff. The feelings he describes are natural and true, not affected. Mere acted poetry is very different from poetry as it is. Theatrical poetry, and the poetry of actual life, are never to be confounded. In Goldsmith we may now see that poetry was in its transition state, and that a better sort was