The writer, who described Bede as "trimming the lamp of learning," might have represented him, more truly and graphically, as a good-natured," garrulous old monk, of great but not accurate memory, beguiling the long winter nights by reading to the other monks, in the common hall, with the aid of a rushlight, a huge volume of extracts, compiled by himself, from the works of the fathers; varying his course of lectures with a chapter of his own Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation, "stuffed here and there with thumping miracles, for which he must be pardoned," as Bishop Nicholson charitably observes; and occasionally rousing them, when he perceived that they were becoming drowsy, with a narrative from the life of St. Cuthbert, which, as he has represented it, was nothing but a series of miracles from beginning to end. To speak without figure, he is, in his purely theological works, the mere transcriber of earlier authorized opinions, without ever venturing to inquire into the reasons on which they might be based. His ecclesiastical history is, in many places, where opportunity is afforded of testing it by other authorities, extremely inaccurate, while it abounds in passages which, at first sight, are perceived to be purely fabulous. That he did not invent them may be a salvo for his honesty; but then the fact of his recording them, as he has done, must be admitted to be a proof of his being no less blindly credulous than the most illiterate of his countrymen. This work is also infected, though in a slight degree, with that loathsome impurity which is often to be met with in the writings of monkish authors, both of the Greek and Latin church. That which was shameful for a layman to do or even mention, the cloistered monk often seems to have felt a depraved pleasure in recording. The portion to which we

allude is that in which Pope Gregory the Great answers the queries of Augustine, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Bede's life of St. Cuthbert is a perfect specimen of that kind of biography which, when served up by writers of a later period, is usually classed under the head of "pious frauds." Strange, that those who are most eager to magnify the extent and value of Bede's learning and knowledge should seek to absolve him from the charge of pious fraud, on the plea of pious ignorance! It cannot be said that the miracles which he records of St. Cuthbert were consecrated by time, for Cuthbert was living when Bede was born, and did not die till 687, when Bede was thirteen years old. As Bede had many more to imitate the fictions which he recorded, than to be edified by his facts, it may be truly said that the light which he contributed to diffuse was of that kind which renders man blind, rather than enables him to

postures afterwards." This is not, however, exactly correct; the way was previously shown by St. Athanasius, in his life of St. Anthony, the patron of monks, and by Sulpicius Severus, in his life of St. Martin, of Tours. It has, indeed, been denied that the life of St. Anthony was really written by Athanasius; yet the genuineness of no one of the works ascribed to him depends on better authority.

It is related that, shortly before the Reformation, a French bishop, in returning homeward from an embassy to Scotland, visited, on the same day, the shrines of St. Cuthbert and Bede, in Durham Cathedral; that at St. Cuthbert's he offered a small copper coin, saying, "St. Cuthbert, if thou art a saint, pray for me;" and that at Bede's he offered a French crown, requesting his prayers because he was a saint indeed. This anecdote, and its quotation by certain shrewd persons, for the purpose of depreciating Cuthbert and exalting Bede, present a curious exemplification of the manner in which the mind, though conscious of a fallacy

somewh e, is yet unable to disentangle it, and, cutting boldly, cuts wrong. Cuthbert is, to a certain extent, regarded as an impostor; while in this case the real impostor is extravagantly honored; though it be owing to his fallacious narrative alone that the mind has become impressed with a confused idea of the former having pretended to have done or said that which the false or credulous biographer has recorded of him. He who really thinks Bede a saint is bound to receive Cuthbert as a saint, also. A man pays but a left-handed compliment to the knowledge and piety of a friend, by treating a person as if he were a cheat, merely because he was highly reverenced, and his saintly virtues much extolled by that friend.

Bede was very highly esteemed in his own age for his great learning; and William of Malmsbury says that Pope Sergius wished him to come to Rome, in order to consult with him on ecclesiastical affairs. From what circumstance he first acquired the title of "Venerable" has not been determined. According to one account, he obtained it from the following circumstance: When he was old and blind he was led about by a young monk, who once took him to a heap of stones, telling him that they were country people waiting in reverent silence to hear him preach. He forthwith began, and at the end of his discourse the stones saluted him with 66 Amen, Venerable Bede!" The other is, that one of his scholars, when engaged in writing his epitaph, could not complete it for want of an approprite word; but leaving it at night thus,

"Hac sunt in fossa Bedæ

ossa,"

eager to secure possession than scrupulous about the means. "It seems," says the late Mr. Surtees, in his History of Durham," that a propensity to con veying, as the wise it call,' was no less inherent in those ancient collectors of rarities than in their modern representatives." An old chair, said to have been Bede's, is still preserved at Jarrow. The seat, which is of oak, of great solidity, and rudely hollowed out, is unquestionably antique; the back and sides are more modern, the originals having been several times carried off in small pieces, by visitors, as portions of Bede's chair.

About the year 1370, Bede's remains, which were inclosed in a shrine of gold and silver, appear to have been removed from the feretory of St. Cuthbert, and placed on a marble table in that part of the church called the Galilee. This shrine was defaced at the Reformation. His bones were buried beneath the spot where it stood, and over them was erected a plain table monument. In 1831 the tomb was examined, when several bones, reputed to be Bede's, were discovered; that they really were his is uncertain, seeing that several monasteries, both in England and on the Continent, could boast of having some of them.

We have not said all that we could have wished to say respecting Bede, but our paper is out. That the opinions which we have expressed concerning Bede may not, however, be misconstrued, we beg to say that we have no desire to unfairly depreciate a Saxon relique; we only wish to ascertain its real value and use, not only with reference to the standard of times past, but also to that of times present. An acre of land might be purchased for a shilling in the time of Bede; but he must be grossly infatuated with the love of antiquity who would now give an acre of land for twelve Saxon pennies. To draw to a point. Oh, Wiseacre ! part not with thy mental freehold upon such terms; and ever as thou lovest correct accounts, trust not implicitly to the label, but examine the contents of the bag.

THE

HE staunch old ship "Good Cheer" lies at her wharf. She has come in from a long and tedious voyage, during which she has met with unusual buffetings, and she now seems resting from toil and danger, and recruiting her energies for another adventurous tour of the world. As some old gentleman, when wearied with his long tramp through crooked, crowded, and dusty streets, rejoices to reach his home, and there, in order to enjoy his leisure to the utmost, unbuttons his coat and vest, stretches out his legs, and rests his aching head against the wall, so does it seem to me that the ship "Good Cheer" has determined to make the most of a few short weeks of inactivity, and has thereto placed herself in negligent attitude and attire: stripping off her sails, folding up her bowsprit and studdingsail booms, loosening her rigging, opening her hatches, as though for breath, and throwing out upon the wharf the heavy cargo which for months has held her head pressed down into the waves.

It is a pleasant sight to see the old ship again, even under the negligent air of easy contentment. She is far from being in trim order, to be sure; nor does she appear to the same advantage as when, once upon a time, I was wont to watch the spray fly to either side, as she dipped into the brine, or, leaning against the bulwarks, gazed upon the graceful swell of the distended sails, enjoying, all the while, the pleasant rolling motion. She lies now almost as lifeless as the dingy warehouses which line the shore. She floats in a pool of unhealthy-colored water, in which the sport of dolphins and albicores is usurped by the rotation of a wretched circle of cocoanut-husks, chips, and half-decayed lemon-rinds. Men, in miserable little punts, bump up against her sides, and she has no power to resent the familiarity. Hideous steam-tugs fly past, and snort defiance; but she is helpless as to reply. And, if the truth must be told, her deck is very dirty. But, even in the midst of such discouraging influences, I can recognize here and there a trait to awaken my old fondness, and fill me with pleasant associations of the past. Here, lashed behind the wheel, is the old double-cask life-preserver, upon which I have so

often sat, and, leaning over, watched the play of the phosphorescent water of the tropics. There is the quarter-deck hand-rail, scratched from one end to the other with tallies of unnumbered games of cribbage. And there, up aloft, is the mizzen-top, where I so often sat, and read, or played, or mused, or watched the horizon, in the vain hope of being the first to signalize myself by discovering a strange sail. And now, moved by a passing whim, I leap over the quarter-rail, cling to the shrouds, and begin to ascend. It is harder work than it used to be. Either I have grown more portly and less elastic in my limbs, or else it is the fault of my long-skirted coat and high-heeled boots, which, indeed, are not well adapted for climbing. But I resolutely persevere, rise from ratlin to ratlin, swing myself clumsily over, and at length seat myself once more upon the mizzen-top as of old, with my right hand grasping the shrouds, and my feet hanging over the edge.

Would you like to know, Tom, what I thought of when seated up there? I thought, at first, of you, and how that it might have been a good thing for you if you could have been there with me. I fancied that, as we recalled the past, some bright spot might have glowed in your encrusted heart, and made you, at least for a little while, something like the man you were when we two sailed together; for I do not believe that you are yet entirely lost, Tom. It is true that you have changed-that you have become that idol of the world, a practical, unimaginative, business man-that your delight is now in dingy countinghouses and mouldy ledgers, and that your conversation is always upon the price of stocks and corner-lots. But I believe that there may yet be a tender spot in your soul-a relic of your other life; and that there are glimpses of the outer world which may yet have power to recall you to yourself, if properly presented to you.

Hard and unromantic as your heart has been growing for the last ten years, I do not believe, Tom, that you could have stood upon the mizzen-top with me, and have heard me talk to you of past adventures, and have

looked with me down upon the deck which once so pleasantly rolled beneath us, and not have thought of something besides the number of chests of tea and barrels of flour our good ship could

carry.

Well, you were not there, Tom, and so I will tell you what I recalled. You may not read this-you probably will not. I believe that of late your only reading has been the price-currents, and interest-tables, and that you affect to despise all lighter influences. But it may happen, by some strange chance, that you are at some time placed where you must necessarily see these pages -in a car or stage, for instance-where you can get no stock-lists, can find no commercial friends to talk with, and so must either listen to me, or be idle. And if that time does come, Tom, remember that I write this for you, with pity for your present fallen state, and a feeble hope that the only remaining tender spot in your heart may glow once more with something of its old native fire, and burn off the hard crust with which the world will soon smother every spark of pleasant reminiscence forever.

And I thought, first, of the time when the brave little ship "Good Cheer" cast off from the shore and carried us out upon the ocean, which, until that day, we had never seen. Shall I recall that picture, Tom? We stood together at the stern. Around us, and, like ourselves, gazing towards our rapidly-disappearing home, were a number who were to be our companions for many a month-some friends from our native place-a German, with long, red beard, flat cap, and hooded travelingcloak- -a Frenchman, short and withered a Scotchman, from the very bosom of the Tweed-and many others. The ship, with her broad sails set square, gayly broke her way through the whitecrested waves, which hissed madly against her sides, and then fell behind, baffled and frowning. At our right, far off, was a speck-our pilot-boat, already in search of another prize. At our left, a long, low steamer trailed her wreath of smoke through the air. In advance, and rapidly drawing near, was an inward-bound bark, toilsomely beating towards the land, and rolling up and down in the yeasty sea-trough, until we could even see the yellow planking of her deck. Behind, and slowly sinking below the horizon, were the heights of

Nevesink, with a few white dots at their feet, where cottages stood, and two white lines above, for light-house landmarks. And, as we gazed, the sun touched the mountain brows, a flood of brightness streamed up from the west for a few brief moments, and then sank into dim twilight; the swift-faced night came on and shut out the sight of our native shores, save where the glimmer of light-houses began to mark their position, and the blue of the sea changed to blackness, while the waves seemed to leap and hiss more madly, and with a more sullen moan than before. There we stood-sad but excited-with a timorous instant of dread throbbing in our hearts, and an exulting gleam of courage leaping to our eyes-with eyelids moistened with regret at the fading away of that land which we might never see again, and a secret joy swelling the soul at the thought of the wild and daring life of excitement which our hopes had so lavishly spread out before us. And so the night closed in above us.

Tom, I am afraid that if we once again stood thus together, and saw spread out before us the same rich glories of wave, and shore, and sky, you would only complain of the cold, draw your cloak more tightly about you, and go below.

And now recall a certain tropical night, that even you long remembered. The air was warm, the waves light, and the wind feeble; and our good ship was slowly forging ahead, with a gentle, rocking, lullaby motion. From deck to truck she was one pile of canvas, narrowing gradually to the light sky-sail, which, with every swell, described its little arch upon the heavens; while, at the sides, the studding-sails projected far out, until, as a heavier roll than usual now and then swept along, they dipped their corners carefully in the water. Behind us, the vessel left a trail of fire, as she ploughed up the phosphorescent sea; and, in the distance, the rugged crags of the little isle Fernando de Noronha darkly broke the line of the horizon, and added to the enchantment of the scene. And, above all, the full moon rode the heavens, silvering the waves, gleaming upon the light sails, brightening up the freshlyscraped deck, and even, here and there, tinging with a mellow glow some jutting peak of the old distant isle. Člad in light garments, we sat upon the