time, with rude Teutonism-with Asian Conquestorsthis fact of Progression gives a singular impulse, and a new characteristic to this age; for, in fine, it ought to be a great age, with all the past precedencies that we have; which it will, doth shew in greater, other guises than parliamentary debates, and meagre subdolous speeches on Irish questions. For then doth this fresh life-blood commence, in the appropriation by the people, of a significant word. We began with a"young" England, and we presently had a young France, with Joinville carrying the war into Africa, through the palace of the Algerine; and then out of the ashes of republican Italy, ever struggling for freedom, till freedom,—with its temple consecrated on San Marino-till Lombardy again became Gaul under the Corsican; as of old, under Charlemagne and Pepin-arose its head, in wrath and conspiracy, out of the fire-flashes and sabring of Lodi, of Arcole, of Venice-captures, sold to Austrian marrying cabinets; and thus, we say, Young Italy; and now, this very time, we have a Young Switzerland, well reminded of Arnold and older Melethal. All this, be it understood, not an impudent, stormy, riotous youth; but a grave, noble, and thoughtful youth; not the Intelligencies-those, that built mansions like Sallust, out of the plunder of provinces; that built marble, or ashlar palaces, at Tivoli, or on the slopes of Samniun or Baiæ, by wrenching drachmas out of the hearts of men, at the expense of their hearths-but that noble, antique youth, which, like the renewed freshness of fine souls, when old world-feelings become stale, obsolete; belonging, as it were, to the dull days of our grandmother's hoops-that fresh tide of Progress, under new influence of the celestials, so vivid, so invigorating, so mighty, like a great breathing through the Heart of the world this new Progression, so singular to look upon, and singular to say, has now put Platina and his old Popes quietly on the shelf; nay, old Popedom quite forgotten, except by eras of other men, as Luther, Zuinglius, and so on; and, lo! on this throne of modern Rome, there sitteth a man who threatens to make innovations on the triple crown by concessions to the people, and by reforming abuses. Singular that, of all other singularities, few progressions can be more striking-where Borgias and great Lorenzos reigned, here is a man who repudiates all of them-where bulls and interdictions travelled, behold the railway; listen to the din of the mart and the exchange; behold now, no longer, Genoese interests fighting against Venetian jealousies: they are gone, all of them-prejudices and factions, with all other

Capulets and Montagues, swept beneath the great tidal wave of Progression!

We live now, not so much as progressing individually, as on the whole. Civilization, taste, refinement, perfection, is rarely the work of one; but it is the whole mass taking hold of one idea, and adopting it as a thing suiting each and all-therefore the All carry it forward. Monopolies, however bad, have, at all events, shewn the immense powers that can be multiplied by combining utility, skill, and talent. He must be mighty indeed that can, with his self-energy alone, cut out his grand and solitary path of progression, though there must be such men. Some there be, some there ever will be, who will independently do so-creators of popular opinion, like Islamesin, like Sans-Cullotism; but these men are great leaders in other unseen movements. Say we that the days of miracles are past?-folly. Are not these men they who work miracles? Are not the things that they do most miraculous? most wondrous? God ruleth all; and therefore do these lead, by steps of progression, to the infinite, the perfect; and yet some tell us, with a most sad brow, that they think this perfection all Utopian. Why the very fact of living thus, as we do; of dying, as we do; rather falling into just the next step onward; this is the very proof that the thirsting of the soul after perfection is no dream-no visionary phantasy. Let us believe then rather, that it will turn out to be reality, and that right soon.

Down through the blue ocean, where calmly floating, shining in all the glory of their golden fires, float the stars. Down past these, cometh to us the voice of God!cometh to our souls, a small and solemn voice--" Forward and progress," it crieth to us. If the body with its human intelligence and its fine senses-its appreciation of the true and beautiful-has instincts so great, those of the soul are nobler, truer. Conscience is greater than consciousness. Man and the world progress on in age, and to maturity at times, and arise in new youth and vigour. At one time all goes to decrepitude and decay, like the crumbling of dynasties and empires, though you hear not the thunders of their fall, nor for ever is there a Marius to mourn over the ruins. Some old cycle hath done its part, and left no mark with its huge hammer-hand,--stricken with paralysis; on the world's adamant, that it ever lived; some again strike us with its vraisemblance to the present-the ever present-the present to all generations coming; and they therefore never die. Names become the great land-marks of social and human

progress-the mile-stones of nations and people. With a battle-music, and a struggling, like so many world-storming Wallensteins doth man oscillate, sometimes vacillate, if his energy be not fed powerfully by the sentiment—the idea of progression; for what is more disheartening, more soulsubduing, than the thought of going no-where-no-when? This living without progressing in life, this mere rolling lazily down the tide to oblivion, this yawning into the sleep of death, is the most desponding kind of despotism, to speak by antethesis, in our mutable human world.

The schoolboy begins with his alphabet; and his famous and rare old Dilworth; and presently he discourses to you like Bossuet, like Dante, like Bunyan, or Defoe. Out of his fine Saxon tongue, that he lisped at his mother's breast, he soon gets to the mystic Chaldee; and soon talks, like Moses in Egypt, and becomes a new prophet to a new people. Soon he sounds in your ears the great and terrible verses of the Agamemnon. Soon out of his "pothooks and hangers," he comprehends the writing of the hierarchs in the Pyramids, and reads them like a Champollion. Out of the old cinerary urns of death, and time, and dusty old centuries, he wakens the Memnon music of the past, over the arid plains of ignorance and unbelief it stream to us-for the finest age have these characteristics, the latter being perhaps more predominant; out of these he progresses in light, and life, and knowledge.

Progression has led men out of Paganism to Christianity, from the Mythos of primitive and patriarchal ages to modern Pantheism; only that the great Pan is dead; but it is life, the energies, the progressive form of the Idea which our great Pantheists worshipped. They beheld the world imbued with vitality-the rock living-even the amorphous iron-stone writhing in atomic life. From councils at Delphos to councils at Jerusalem and Trent; from the diets of Daphne, in the Syrian groves-now no longer sounding to the timbrels of Astarte or of Apollo-to the diet of Worms; from the old prophets, stoned at the city gates, down to Luther; all have been progressing onward, purifying the mind, enlarging capacities, magnifying the soul; till by perseverance and prescience, by difficulty, danger, and death, the silent and dark pathway of human life begins to be lighted up, and the sombre aisle to echo the trampling of more feet moving onward simultaneously to their serene home.

There is now more truly-spite of Acre-storming, Caucasian-fighting, and Caffre-battles-there is now one great

hnman brotherhood acknowledged; and, before long, progression will have made us all brothers in heart, hand, and purpose; for in progression there is a power of unity, a capacity for fusing down opposite opinions, or of modifying the extremes, that more than all conduces to the harmonious purposes and ends of life, though it take further a few centuries to accomplish.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

A TALE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.

(Translated from the French.)

BY ELIZABETH ROBINSON.

TOWARDS the end of the month of January, in the year 1793, about eight o'clock one evening, a venerable old lady was seen to descend, alone, the declivity terminating at the church St. Laurent, in the faubourg St. Martin, at Paris. A heavy fall of snow during the day had rendered the pathway so hazardous, that the feet, which at that moment tremblingly pressed the crispy particles under them, were scarcely able to support the aged form of the solitary being who thus ventured to trust them. Silence prevailed through the deserted streets,-it was the "Reign of Terror" -not a passer-by appeared; but, in the distance, were now and then discernable flitting shadows of persons hurrying on, impelled by some peculiar interest, to brave the danger of appearing publicly, during an epoch, in which all France trembled for safety. Trusting to age as a talisman of protection, the old lady crossed "la Rue des Morts," when suddenly she heard, for the first time since leaving her abode, the footsteps of a human being; they were heavy, and firm, and seemed to be in close pursuit of her own. Not daring to turn her head to descry her pursuer, she hastened on towards a distant light, hoping by its aid to be able to ascertain whether he were friend or foe. Having gained the spot, one glance sufficed to fill her mind with the intense apprehension that her actions were the subject of suspicion, and that the man in pursuit of her was a spy. She recog⚫ nised his figure to be the same which had for some days past hovered around her dwelling, having certainly a purpose in view, but not frank in declaring it.

The deep impression of portending danger, instead of depriving her of power to proceed, gave strength to her weakness, and darting forward to the open door of a confectioner's shop, she entered it with precipitation, casting her eyes imploringly at a young female, who stood behind the counter, and throwing herself into a chair, unable to utter a word.

The young woman, judging the errand of her customer from her mien and dress, opened a drawer, as if to search

JAN. 1848.-NO. 1., VOL. IX.

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