“influencing others”; checking, without throwing aside, their own high feelings; subduing, with a systematic humility, their impulses to express them, and submitting to learn their duty by the slow and common-sense process of “following great examples,” “studying Hebrew and the Ante-Nicene Fathers,” and in the meantime obeying scrupulously the voices of those whom they feel to be better than themselves…. ‘The volume before us touches the magic keys with a bold hand; and though some of the notes which come forth are rather startling, and may be untruly struck, yet there is a meaning in them which deserves to be analysed by those defenders of the English Church who are looking about for weapons to wield, and ground to stand on. Two principal wants, then, the author seems to have felt in the English Church: authority, and richness; and that not in the spirit of a dreaming philosopher, but of one who knew that we were here not to think only, but to act; that evil was given us that we might strive against it; Truth, that we might uphold or restore it; Revelation and moral instincts, that we might know both one and the other; Talent and energy, that we might form projects, recommend, and execute them. Nor would the restraints he set on his impulses to influence others, till circumstances and a conscious fitness should call him to it, make him likely to shrink from his task when he felt it given him. He seems early to have thought that his powers would enable him to serve the Church more effectually as a reader and writer than as a parochial clergyman: by acting on those minds which are to guide the masses, [rather] than on the masses themselves. To this his position as College Fellow seemed also to invite him; and the following extracts illustrate part of the spirit in which he devoted himself to this task, and the tastes he sacrificed to it. ‘“_July 27, 1827._―― ‘What is home, you silly, silly wight, That it seems to you to shine so bright? What is home?――’Tis a place so gay, Where the birds are singing all the day; Where a wood is close by, and a river dear, And the banks they sleep in the water clear; Where the roses are red and the lilies pale; And the little brooks run along every vale. Is it nowhere but home, you silly-billee, That the thrushes sing in each shady tree? That the woods are deep, and the rivers too, And the roses and lilies laugh at you? O there are thousands of places as well! So be quiet, I pray, and no nonsense tell. Oh yes, but faces of kindness are there, Which brighten the flowers and freshen the air; Sweetly at morn our eyes do rest On those whom waking thoughts have blest, And guarded in sleep by a magic spell, O’er which “Good-nights” are sentinel.