fellow Christians, who may fall into some lesser differences of opinion, as becomes a follower of the blessed Jesus, his Master and mine. In the practical part of his labours and ministry, he hath sufficiently shown himself most happily furnished with all proper gifts and talents to lead persons of all ranks and ages into serious piety and strict religion. I esteem it a considerable honour which the Providence of God hath done me, when it makes use of me as an instrument in His hands to promote the usefulness of this great man in any part of the world; and it is my hearty prayer that our Lord Jesus, the Head of the Church, may bless all his labours with most glorious success, either read or heard, in my native language or in any other tongue. I am, reverend sir, with much sincerity your faithful humble servant, and affectionate brother in the Gospel of our common Lord, “ISAAC WATTS.” “The Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul” is still the best book of its kind; but, without doing any dishonour to its great merits, it may be said that it is built up too much upon a frame-work like that of Scupoli and A’Kempis, and we have known readers to whom it has rather been a message of despair than of mercy. Salvation and spiritual happiness seem to be rather in the attainment of some subjective condition, than in the finished work of Christ; the soul seems to be invited rather to brood over, or look in upon itself, than to look outward and upward to Christ. Still it has been rendered into all the leading languages in Europe. But it is in his hymns that the influence of Doddridge most resembles that of his friend. His hymns have been spoken of as a kind of spiritual amber: but that term, appropriate as it is, is rather descriptive of hymns in general; are they not all pieces of secreted spiritual electricity, rare and rich in spiritual emotion? And many of Doddridge’s have an ineffable beauty. Logan, the Scotch poet, has the doubtful reputation of the authorship of several very sweet hymns; we say doubtful, because the authorship turns rather ominously towards the more likely genius of Michael Bruce; but, in any case, the famous hymn, so sanctified in almost every Scotch household, as it rises to the old tune of Martyrdom— O God of Bethel, by whose hand, ought not to be regarded as his. It may not be uninteresting to notice together the variations in the two hymns: LOGAN. O God of Bethel! by Whose hand Thy people still are fed; Who through this weary pilgrimage Hast all our fathers led; Our vows, our prayers, we now present Before Thy throne of grace. God of our fathers! be the God Of their succeeding race. Through each perplexing path of life, Our wandering footsteps guide: Give us each day our daily bread, And raiment fit provide.