the possessor to work himself up into a passion, or to use any violent contortions to gain attention or to keep it.  These two celebrated preachers are in almost all respects an antithesis to each other.  If Mr. Irving is an example of what can be done by the help of external advantages, Dr. Chalmers is a proof of what can be done without them.  The one is most indebted to his mind, the other to his body.  If Mr. Irving inclines one to suspect fashionable or popular religion of a little anthropomorphitism, Dr. Chalmers effectually redeems it from that scandal.

[Footnote A:  We remember finding the volume in the orchard at Burford-bridge near Boxhill, and passing a whole and very delightful morning in reading it, without quitting the shade of an apple-tree.  We have not been able to pay Mr. Irving’s back the same compliment of reading it at a sitting.]

* * * * *

THE LATE MR. HORNE TOOKE.

Mr. Horne Tooke was one of those who may be considered as connecting links between a former period and the existing generation.  His education and accomplishments, nay, his political opinions, were of the last age; his mind, and the tone of his feelings were modern.  There was a hard, dry materialism in the very texture of his understanding, varnished over by the external refinements of the old school.  Mr. Tooke had great scope of attainment, and great versatility of pursuit; but the same shrewdness, quickness, cool self-possession, the same literalness of perception, and absence of passion and enthusiasm, characterised nearly all he did, said, or wrote.  He was without a rival (almost) in private conversation, an expert public speaker, a keen politician, a first-rate grammarian, and the finest gentleman (to say the least) of his own party.  He had no imagination (or he would not have scorned it!)—­no delicacy of taste, no rooted prejudices or strong attachments:  his intellect was like a bow of polished steel, from which he shot sharp-pointed poisoned arrows at his friends in private, at his enemies in public.  His mind (so to speak) had no religion in it, and very little even of the moral qualities of genius; but he was a man of the world, a scholar bred, and a most acute and powerful logician.  He was also a wit, and a formidable one:  yet it may be questioned whether his wit was any thing more than an excess of his logical faculty:  it did not consist in the play of fancy, but in close and cutting combinations of the understanding.  “The law is open to every one:  so,” said Mr. Tooke, “is the London Tavern!” It is the previous deduction formed in the mind, and the splenetic contempt felt for a practical sophism, that beats about the bush for, and at last finds the apt illustration; not the casual, glancing coincidence of two objects, that points out an absurdity to the understanding.  So, on another occasion, when Sir Allan Gardiner (who