nor shall we be charged with a wish to restrict the sphere of scientific inquiry when we condemn what we must consider the extravagance of many modern scientists.

The domain of theological inquiry does not, as some of the older theological schools seemed to have believed, embrace the whole circle of human knowledge. It is restricted to the great questions of the existence and nature of God, and of His relations to the created world. Natural theology conducts its researches on these points by the means which are at the disposal of the unaided human reason. A higher theological science is formed by the examination of the various revelations which God has made of His nature, and of the relations which it has pleased Him to establish with the creatures whom He has made. Outside of this sphere, the opinion of the theologian has only the importance which his acquaintance with the subject on which he ventures to speak secures him. The errors which the forgetfulness of this principle has occasioned, and the unseemly display of an intolerant ignorance of physical science to which it has occasionally led, have often pained those who, while firmly attached to their faith, at the same time warmly sympathise with the cause of advancing knowledge. The dogmas of the Catholic Church are by no means identified with the philosophico-theological theses defended at Salamanca and Coimbra three centuries ago. The question of the nature of the music produced by the revolution of the spheres, or the equally interesting and instructive inquiry as to whether the rosebushes of Eden bore thorns or not, has no bearing whatever on her infallible teaching, and it is unfair to represent them as examples of orthodox science.

We repeat it; in matters which regard mere natural science, no amount of theological learning gives its possessor a claim to be considered an authority. Theological reasoning could never establish the binomial theorem, or demonstrate the circulation of the blood; and therefore in the mathematical or experimental sciences no one who is a theologian, and nothing more, may dispute the conclusions of Newton or Harvey.

But if we would confine the theologian within the limits of his own science, much more rigidly would we forbid the excursions of the student of natural science into the domain of theology. The study of physical nature is but the study of the laws which rule the material world. It is indeed true that "the heavens show forth the glory of God;" that the earth, too, teaches the same lesson, that the evidences of His being and His perfections are legible in every department of creation-in every rock piled up on the rugged surface of the mountains, in every organism, "animal or vegetable, which contributes to swell the vast mass of created life. All this is true; but all this does not prove that there is anything in the studies of the astronomer, the geologist, or the physiologist, which enables them to read with peculiar clearness the lesson which creation was designed to teach to all. An intimate acquaintance with the movements of the planets does not peculiarly qualify the astronomer to appreciate the arguments which demonstrate the existence of a necessary Being

from the existence of an order of things contingent because changeable. The study of the elaborate organisms of the animal and vegetable kingdoms will hardly enable the naturalist to realise better than his less instructed neighbours the force of the argument from design. Natural science deals only with the proximate causes of physical phenomena; the arguments by which we deduce the existence and nature of a primal cause are outside of its sphere, and remain unaffected by its progress. Nay, on the great questions of the existence of the human soul, its nature, and its destiny-questions on which physical science might seem to have some bearing-advancing knowledge throws no light whatever. We do not, of course, dignify by the name of science the vagaries of Vogt, Moleschott, Büchner, and writers of the same school, who have done so much to bring the study of physical nature into contempt. The mysterious substance which pervades this body of clay, and is, indeed, the better part of ourselves, still eludes the dissecting knife and the microscope; the manner of its union with the body must still be expressed in the vague phraseology of the theses of medieval philosophy. Its presence is still proved by the long-known phenomena of life and consciousness; no discovery of medicine has added anything to our knowledge of its nature. What may be its destiny when it shall have parted company with the clay which it animates on earth, physical science cannot guess, nor do scientists, except such as M. Figuier, stop to inquire.

But if natural science is unequal to the solution of the higher questions of physiology and the fundamental ones of natural theology, much more remote is its bearing on and its connection with the problems which grow out of the revelations which God has made to his creatures. The dogmas of revelation belong to an order of truth, of which the student of the law of nature can know nothing, and with which the reasoning peculiar to the studies in which he is engaged can never make him acquainted. There are, indeed, points on which particular tenets of revealed doctrine might seem to be out of harmony with the established laws of physical nature; but the philosopher who has made progress enough to understand that even physical laws are but very imperfectly understood, and that the inner nature of the physical world is still a mystery to man, will not easily assert that to be impossible which a certain revelation declares to have been realised. He will be ready to admit that there may be vast realms of knowledge far beyond the range of human vision, and that if, at times, a beam from that distant land of brightness finds its way to these more gloomy regions, it would ill become us to shroud our eyes to its light because it outshines the tiny lanterns which we ourselves have lighted to guide us in the darkness. The senseless philosophy, that what our eyes can see, our hands feel, and our other organs of perception grasp, is the only legitimate subject of human investigation, that the existence of another world is problematic, and its communications with the inhabitants of this, if it exist, altogether impossible; that the laws of physical nature are an immutable, eternal code, the execution of which no power can suspend, is repugnant to

the feelings and aspirations of man, and can only live as a monument of the age in which it found corruption enough to flourish on.

We protest, then, in the name of science, against the attacks made by her pretended votaries on the doctrines of revelation; and we repeat that those who make them usurp an authority to which they have no claim. Revealed truth lies outside of the sphere of their reasonings, and consequently beyond the range of their weapons.

It is, indeed, matter of regret that progressive knowledge is so often identified with men whose intolerance of doctrines of which they know but little, estranges many from the cause which they so unworthily represent. But whatever science may lose in the contest, of this we are certain, Faith will come out of it, as she has come out of many others, renewed in her beauty and strengthened in her immutability. T. F.

THERE

ON THE ROCKS.

ALICE ESMONDE.

HERE'S scarce a breeze on all the green hill-sides,
And scarce a breath upon the sultry sea,

As from a boat that o'er the water glides

A song in foreign tongue comes up to me:
A mellow voice, full, plaintive, rich, and deep,
'Mid sounds of breaking waves that sigh along,
And still their low, complaining chorus keep,
Like memory's tones, through all the sailor's song.

Great peaks of cliffs loom eastwards far around,
And hide these lonely rocks and shelving seats;
At certain hours each eve I catch the sound

Of distant strains from out the busy streets;
On restless wings wild flocks of sea-birds fly,
As now they flit o'er yellow sands,--and now,
With evermore that strange and painful cry,

They bathe their white breasts in the billow's brow.

One cloud-one only-tinged with gold to-day,
And moving slow, on towards the western verge,
To fade, as brighter things have done, away,

Where sky and wave in purple glory merge.
Oh! lone and grand those seas so vast and strange,
That bring deep, solemn thoughts this hour to me,
As purple shades upon their bosom change,

And fill my soul with awe and mystery.

The fishing-boats their white sails homeward bend,
The foreign flags from tall masts deck the bay,
Two stately ships their outward course slow wend,
O'er trackless wastes to distant lands away.
Unchanged, the seabird's restless wail floats by,
And from the shore rush weary waves in fear;
The gold-tinged cloud has dropped down from the sky-
And still that song in foreign tongue I hear.

And see!-a Grecian pennant waves below,
With restful oars the sailor moves along-
And in a rich voice, sweet, and deep, and low,
He pours his soul in floods of plaintive song:
Perhaps but who the heart's dreams may divine?
His thoughts go back to home and childhood's days,
To fairer scenes and suns that brighter shine,

To long-lost friends and old familiar ways.

A mother's eyes, a father's troubled voice-
A sister's tears, a friend's or brother's hands
Outstretched between him and his wayward choice,
Of ocean's roar and strange and unknown lands,
While yet the wild waves wooed him to their breast,
His soul bewitched with al their magic strain,
He turned from those on earth that oved him best,
With pulse on fire for dangers o'er the main.

Oh! silent seas, so fair, and calm, and sad,
That angry dreams deep in your bosom hide
Oh! Life that looks to youthful eyes so glad,

With treacherous ways for trustful feet untried!
So strangely sweet, and still, and hushed to-day,
That far-off haze of blue and misty wave,
As when it lured the sailor youth away,
To give, alas!-as oft before-a grave.

Oh! solemn seas, so lone, and free and wide,
Oh! sailor, singing sad of distant lands,
Complaining waves that moan along the tide,

And restless birds that flit across the sands:
Ye touch deep, yearning chords in souls this hour,
And feelings wake responsive to your call-
While still ye tell with words of truth and power,
That aching hearts find kindred here with all.

Low evening winds just stir the trackless foam,
And from the sands rush weary waves in fear;

In lines the fishers' sails draw nearer home,

No music-strains from out the streets come near.

I sit and dream of storms and tempests' cry,

Of hearts that break and sink on Life's dar shore;

And still the restless sea-birds wail and fly,

But sailor, boat, and song, are there no more.

IN the general advance of the Irish lines MacDermott found himself in front of Monroe's field-pieces. The order was brought him that he should charge the enemy's guns, and, if possible, seize them where they stood. Whilst O'Reilly with the main body of the Irish horse bore down on the Scotch cavalry, MacDermott, at the head of his troop, rode for the hillock on which the guns were planted. A few illdirected shots were aimed at them as they approached, but they passed harmlessly over their heads. Soon they were near enough to reply with their pistols, and then with half-a-dozen strides they were in the midst of the Scottish gunners, overriding and cutting down all who waited their attack.

The conflict at this point was fierce and bloody. Lord Blaney, though an indifferent captain of artillery, was a valiant soldier withal. He met the charge of the Irish pistoliers without flinching, and by command and example animated his wavering followers. A random shot had broken his leg at the beginning of the action, but he sat his horse as if the wounded limb caused him no suffering. His sword dealt blows thick and fast about him, and his voice was heard above the din of the fight, calling on his men to stand fast. Again and again he rallied his dispirited followers to meet their assailants, but again and again his ranks were broken, overridden and cut down by the furious horsemen.

Half his followers had already fallen, and he was no longer able to control the panic which had seized the remainder. Supported by a few of his officers, he still struggled desperately to maintain his position, and round the spot where he stood the conflict was fiercest. MacDermott could not but admire the valour displayed by the veteran, and determined to save him. Forcing his way through the thick of the fight, he endeavoured to restrain his men, who were closing in upon the resolute group that had rallied round the Master of the Ordnance. "Your sword!" he cried; “resistance is useless."

"Never, rebel, never!" shouted the veteran, at the same time urging forward his horse, to meet the Irish officer. He had hardly advanced a step, when a bullet from the pistol of an Irish trooper pierced his breast, and with a sharp cry of pain he rolled from his saddle. A youthful officer of his train caught him as he fell, and tried to prevent his sinking under the feet of the horses. This act of