heard Butler talk on the subject, and that he was no Papist, is, that we should then have known to whom Butler talked. There is nothing in Butler’s writings at all showing any leaning to the peculiar tenets of Roman Catholicism, and there is much which shows a strong opinion against them; and it was far too extreme a doctrine to be at all agreeable to his very English, moderate, and shrinking mind. Calumny, however, is commonly instructive. It must be granted, that though there is no trace or tendency in the writings of Butler to the peculiar superstitions advocated by the Pope, there is a strong and prevailing tinge of what may be called the principle of superstition, that is, the religion of fear. Some may doubt, especially at the present day, whether there be any true religion of that kind at all; yet it seems, as Butler would have said, but a proper feeling ‘in such creatures as we are, in such a world as the present one.’ We may reflect that there are two kinds of religion, which may for some purposes be called, the one the natural, and the other the supernatural. The former seems to take its rise from mere contemplation of external beauty. We look on the world, and we see that it is good. The Greek of former time, reclining softly in his own bright land, ‘looked up to the whole sky and declared that the One was God.’ From the blue air and the fair cloud, the green earth and the white sea, a presence streams upon us. It modulates— ‘With murmurs of the air, And motions of the forests and the sea, And voice of living beings and woven hymns Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.’ But the true home of the idea is in the starlight sky; we instinctively mingle it with an admiration of infinite space, a cold purity is around us, and the clear and steel-like words of the poet justly reflect the doctrine of the clear and steel-like heaven:— The magic car moved on. Earth’s distant orb appeared The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven; Whilst round the chariot’s way Innumerable systems rolled, And countless spheres diffused An ever-varying glory. It was a sight of wonder: some Were hornèd like the crescent moon; Some shed a mild and silver beam Like Hesperus across the western sea; Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, Like worlds to death and ruin driven; Some shone like suns, and, as the chariot passed, Eclipsed all other light. Spirit of nature! here! In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple. Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee: Yet not——’