on them to prohibit the publication of any edition of the "Gerusalemme Liberata" in their states, unless authorized by Tasso himself.

His melancholy increased daily, and some other subjects concurred to give him uneasiness. A letter from Rome gave him cause to fear a coolness on the part of his best friend, Scipio di Gonzaga. Horace Ariosto, nephew to the great poet, had addressed him in some stanzas so highly panegyrical, that he imagined they were intended as a snare to his vanity, and concealed some purpose of injuring him. His enemies found means to corrupt his servants, or to persuade him that they were faithless, and at length he gave way to the imagination that he had been accused to the duke, and denounced to the inquisition.

The following account is taken from Scrassi, who gives it with a simplicity that proves his sincerity. Tasso, as he afterwards confessed, being accustomed to employ his mind on the subtleties of the ancient philosophers, had experienced some doubts on the mystery of the incarnation of the Son of God. He felt uncertain whether God had created the world, or whether it only depended upon him from eternity; and, finally, whether he had or had not endowed man with an immortal soul. It is true he had never voluntarily given way to these doubts, but the fear of being wanting in orthodoxy agitated him so much that he went to Bologna to present himself to the inquisitor. He returned satisfied, and furnished with instructions tending to strengthen his faith. But he dreaded that he might have let fall some expressions before persons who were on the watch to injure him, which might cast a doubt on the soundness of his religious opinions. He persuaded himself they would use the power this put into their hands for his ruin, and to all his other terrors he added that of being poisoned or assassinated. His imagination became so heated, that he could speak of nothing else, and it was impossible to persuade or calm him. The duke, the lady Leonora, and the duchess d'Urbino, did all they could to quiet these vain fears, but their efforts were fruitless.

One evening, in the apartments of the duchess, he drew a knife to strike one of his domestics whom he suspected. The duke immediately gave orders that he should be confined in one of the small rooms that surround the court of the palace. It is said this was to prevent any danger, and to induce him to allow himself to be properly attended to, and not as a punishment. This might be the case, but the same effects might surely have been produced by more gentle means. His imprisonment completed his dismay. He wrote the most supplicating letters that he might be restored to liberty. The duke was at last softened, and allowed him to return to his own apartments; he only insisted on his being attended by the best physicians; their treatment appeared to succeed. Alphonso, to efface the recollection of his harshness, took him to Belriguardo, and neglected nothing that could console and amuse his mind. But he was so well aware of the source of his greatest disturbance, that before they left Ferrara, he caused Tasso to present himself before the holy tribunal, where he was carefully examined on the subject that occasioned him uneasiness. The inquisitor, who perceived that his doubts were only caused by a disturbed imagination, treated him with kindness, certified that he was a good catholic, and

declared him free and absolved from all suspicion. The duke, on his part, gave him the strongest assurances that he did not entertain the least displeasure against him; that he was assured of his fidelity, and that if he had ever committed any fault in his service he forgave him with all his heart.

In spite of all these assurances, and in the midst of the amusements of Belriguardo, Tasso began to argue in the most extraordinary manner on the decision of the inquisitor, maintaining that it was not valid, and that he was not properly absolved, because the ordinary and prescribed forms had not been observed. He imagined, too, that the duke was more prejudiced against him than he would allow, and on these two topics, but especially the first, he reasoned in a manner that was distressing to hear. Alphonso, therefore, determined to send him back to Ferrara, and Tasso having expressed a wish to be placed with the Franciscans, he was conveyed thither, and recommended by the duke to their attention and kindness. His first care was to draw up a petition to the cardinals who composed the supreme tribunal of the inquisition at Rome, stating his doubts on the validity of the decision of Ferrara, and requesting permission to present himself before them, and thus to redeem his honour, and obtain repose. He wrote to the same effect to Scipio di Gonzaga. Notwithstanding all his precautions, these letters were intercepted, and at this time it was well for him that they were.

He submitted to medical treatment, however, but reluctantly, and in constant fear that poison would be mixed with his medicines. His great source of disquietude was still the fear of not having been fully acquitted by the inquisition. He wrote incessantly to the duke, and at last exhausted his patience. In one of his letters he confessed that he had suspected the prince, and had talked openly of his suspicions; that this was a sign of madness, he admitted; but he protested that he was less mad than the duke was deceived. Alphonso, offended with this, and some expressions that appeared to him too familiar, not only ceased to reply to him, but strictly forbade him to write either to himself or the princess d'Urbino. This increased his agitation and terrors; he seized a moment when left alone, and escaped from the convent, and soon afterwards from Ferrara. He left this city, where his name was so honoured, the court in which his talents excited so much admiration, where he was, perhaps, the object of more tender feelings, and where his favour had caused so much envy, at night, without money, without a guide, almost without clothes, but, above all, without his manuscripts, without a copy of his "Goffredo," his Aminta," or any of his other poems, content to escape with life from the perils with which he fancied himself surrounded.

66

(To be continued.)

NOTICES OF BOOKS.

The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit, &c. Nos. I.-IX. London: Chapman and Hall.

ALTHOUGH Sufficient progress has not yet been made in this, Mr. Dickens' present work, to enable us at all to guess at the probable conduct of the story, or the destiny of its personages, we have had enough to warrant us in forming some judgment on its merits. These are very considerable; indeed, far above any that were to be found in Barnaby Rudge, and not a whit behind those of Mr. Dickens' other tales. The characters of the Misses Pecksniff, of Mr. Tigg, of Martin Chuzzlewit, and of Mark Tapley, are all admirable in their way; though the last is the only one-of those, at least, of whom we see much—that relieves the dreariness of such an assemblage of base and heartless people as Mr. Dickens has thought proper to introduce to our acquaintance. To do him justice, however, he has always hitherto brought us, sooner or later, into the company of loveable people; and therefore we look forward to by and by finding Mr. Tapley relieved from his solitude in goodness. Mr. Pinch might serve that purpose; but, though obviously a great favourite with the author, we cannot think his character a happy conception. Such gullibility as his is altogether incompatible with the intellectual power and accomplishments which he is described as possessing; for, although goodness be ready enough to believe in the pretence to goodness, intellect and information cannot be similarly misled, as regards a similar pretence to them. Such a man as Pinch could not have lived for years with such a man as Pecksniff without discovering him to be an ignorant quack; for the perception or non-perception of that could not have depended on temper. It must have been a fact too daily obvious to admit of his shutting his eyes to it.

The most humorous portions of the tale, as far as it has yet gone, are the scenes at Todgers's, and in America. The former display all that power with which the author usually works up his pictures of what is at once most pretending and least estimable in the lower regions of the middling classes. It is from the latter, however, that the work will take its character. Nothing can well be more odious than our author's pictures of men and manners in the United States; and we cannot help suspecting that nothing can well be more true, though we rejoice to know that is not the whole truth. Indeed, Mr. Dickens admits as much himself; admits that there are people in America as unlike his Colonel Divers and Jefferson Briks, as the most fastidious aristocrat on this side of the Channel could possibly be; and such it has been our happiness to fall in with. That it would be well for America were they more in number, and possessed of the weight to which their intelligence and character entitle them, is assuredly true; and that being so, we have a right to dwell on the baser many, who, standing between them and their true position, are the bane and disgrace of their nation. Whether it is wise, or even

justifiable, in Mr. Dickens, to deal forth, at present, such exasperating wounds as these pictures of his must necessarily be, is another question, and one which can be answered only by the event.

To one point, however, we are anxious to call attention. Nothing is more complete, surely, than the extinction of the American party among English politicians. The causes, indeed, of such extinction are obvious enough, and on them we need not dwell; all that we wish noticed is, that whereas twelve years ago English radicalism was enamoured of the American character and American institutions, all such enthusiasm for the other side of the Atlantic seems now to have disappeared from within our borders. But has all friendship gone with it? Far from it. They who will look in the pages, not of the Radical Mr. Dickens, but of the Tory Christian Remembrancer, will find that when all political sympathy has failed, there remains yet an affectionate concern for each other, between such Englishmen and such Americans as feel that they belong to one Church; that the brotherhood involved in that gets the better of a thousand prejudices; and that an English and an American Churchman, when they fall together, feel that thay have in common all that is most precious to each. Nor do such find any material difference between the one and the other in respect of manners and refinement. Such American prelates and clergy as we have recently seen, have been men as high bred as any European court could have produced. More might be added on this subject; but what we have said is enough to suggest serious reflections on both sides of the Atlantic. The Church may prove the basis of national friendship when every element of political alliance shall have been blown to the winds; and all unestablished though she be, America no less than England may discover that she is the main stay, the constitutive and conservative principle, the very life and soul of the nation.

Two Treatises on the Church: the first by THOMAS JACKSON, D.D. the second by ROBERT SANDERSON, D.D. formerly Lord Bishop of Lincoln; to which is added, a Letter of BISHOP COSIN, &c. Edited, with Introductory Remarks, by WILLIAM GOODE, M. A. &c. London: Hatchards.

We never shall do otherwise than thank those who render any portions of the thoughtful and rich theology of other days more generally accessible than they had previously been; and therefore are we grateful to Mr. Goode for the present reprint. His introductory remarks are not much to our mind, being both needlessly angry, and more than a little unfair. We cannot feel implicated in any charges which Mr. Goode may substantiate against the Catena Patrum, which are to be found in the Oxford Tracts, but we honestly own our inability to see what, in this instance, he has substantiated. If we remember aright the documents in question, they were each testimonies of high authorities in favour of some one specific point-the Apostolical succession, the rule of Vincent, and the like. We have no recollection of its ever being pretended by the compilers that all the writers cited in the Catena coincided with every sentiment they might themselves have advocated in the Tracts or elsewhere. The pretence would have

been too absurd even for minds that would not have recoiled from its dishonesty. We may refer Mr. Goode to the Clarendon edition of Hooker to satisfy him how far Mr. Keble is from making it. In his able and admirable preface to that edition, he distinctly admits that the first generation of high-Church divines did not complete the scheme of their successors; nor do we imagine that he was ignorant of what, not being ignorant of it, he certainly would never have denied, that among those successors all were not equally exclusive in their opinions of the channel of ordination.

Again, when Mr. Goode speaks as follows

"The favourite phraseology now is, that it is through our union with the visible Church, that we become united to Christ, and that all grace is derived to us through the Church. Dr. Jackson's language is, that the Church is a true and real body, consisting of many parts, all really, though mystically and spiritually, united into one Head; and by their real union with one Head, all are truly and really united amongst themselves.' 'Every one is so far a member of Christ's Church, as he is a member of Christ's body.'

"The difference is of no little importance. In the Tractarian view the prime question is, What constitutes a man a member of the Church? In Dr. Jackson's, What unites a man to Christ, and constitutes him a member of Christ's body? According to Tractarian notions, a man becomes united to Christ only by becoming a member of the Church. According to Dr. Jackson, a man becomes a true and real member of the Church only by being united to Christ."

he is surely very unfair. He cannot be so ignorant as to imagine that the question he here raises is one between himself, Jackson, or any other, and the Tractarian. He ought to know, if he does not, that there have been, and that there are, many upon whom he has no right to confer that appellation, who would, on the whole, accept the statement which he denounces; not, perhaps, in the bald, crude way in which he has presented it, but in this sense, that the Church is not a mere general term for the multitude of believers, but a divinelyendowed society, holy in essential constitution and character, whatever be her members at any given time, and exercising a formative power over them, rather than they over her. In truth, this is a large, grave question, which, in one shape or other, is always rising up among men; and it is to be profitably discussed, not by giving each other nicknames, or by hinting at dark suspicions, or by trying to aggravate an alienation between brethren already far too great, but by the wisdom of brotherly love exercising itself in meditation and prayer.

Finally, has not Mr. Goode dealt with reckless cruelty by the memory of the departed, in his citations from Panzani's accounts of his progress and prospects in England? He admits that Montague, probably, was deceived by his wishes in his estimate of his brethren. May not Panzani have had, at least, equal inducements for misrepresenting even Montague? An agent would, probably, wish to be considered as successful as the facts could, by any possibility, make him out to be. To implicate Laud and his school in the charges insinuated by this reference to Panzani, (and if not to implicate them, for what conceivable purpose was it made?) is a proceeding of which, happily, the unfairness is only equalled by the extreme absurdity. Rome knew better what was in the author of the Conference with Fisher than to be very sanguine of gaining him, or any much influenced by him.