This Puseyism is not a thing to be laughed at. It has vitality; for it has faith. It grows rapidly; for its professors are true to it, and lose no occasion, neglect no means adequate to its promulgation. What then is Puseyism? Look at it closely and it turns out to be a very old thing with a new name. It is simply the doctrine of priestly despotism. It would set the ecclesiastical above the civil power. There is nothing noble, nothing captivating in it, nothing that would elevate humanity. It is the foe of progress, of knowledge, of freedom, of self-reliance. It worships power, despotic, irresponsible power, loves mystery and ceremonial splendour, believes in transubstantiation, and bids believers look up to the priest, not to God, as the means of salvation. It is pure unmitigated barbarous despotism of the most hateful species. It has a gorgeous frame, but a debasing spirit. Puseyism is the prostration of reason and conscience before the arrogant egotism of a small and erring portion of mankind. Take away from it the magnificent cathedral service it longs for, and the ascetic ministering priests decked in glittering robes; show it to man exactly as it would be if realized-a faith that feeds the body and neglects the soul-a spiritual reign of terror-the foe of Protestantism of all kinds-pull off the gorgeous trappings of ecclesiastical worldliness, and you will see a stern, terrible, domineering dæmonism, intent upon crushing the spirit of enterprise, staying the diffusion of knowledge, and the career of science; intent on making man the born thrall of a gorgeous and mystic superstition, a groveling, crawling reptile, bending in abject submission at the feet of an arrogant and powerful priesthood.

It is not our purpose to be alarmists, but it is no fiction to state that this doctrine is spreading. Indefatigable in labour, imperturbable in temper, living up to their doctrine in point of asceticism and solemn sobriety of demeanour, the Puseyites of Oxford are every where gaining ground. Evidence in plenty lies around us if we would but open our eyes, or listen to those who have. And a more convincing proof could not be found than this, that semiRomish doctrine is now-a-days one of the elements of a popular novel. Mr. Disraeli indeed loves, as is natural, Jerusalem better than Rome; but the City of the Seven Hills stands next in his affections to the Holy City of Palestine.

But Puseyism is a re-action. The Oxford Protestant Magazine, a new periodical, published just at the proper time, conducted fearlessly, and whose appearance on the scene of controversy we are glad to see, seems to indicate that the spirit of the age is favourable to Puseyism. But this, as we think, is an error in judgment. In our view, Puseyism is the antagonist of the spirit of the age, not the spirit of the age itself. What the spirit of the age is, we care not, at the end of a paper, to describe. It is, however, almost unanimous in this-in doing stout battle with

ecclesiastical authority-earnest in the pursuit of science, and powerful in the possession of knowledge. The age has a most muscular intellect, and a terrible will. But it has no one deeprooted faith. It is unorganized, undisciplined. Recent instances, however, show with what power and efficiency the will of the nation can be concentrated and expressed, when fairly informed and really in earnest.

But Mr. Disraeli's inclination to Tractarianism has led us away from his novel.

"Tancred" has been, and will be, read by thousands of individuals. The fame of Mr. Disraeli is an accomplished fact. He is therefore become, in some sort, a teacher; at all events, an influence of the time. His want of logical power diminishes, in some degree, the danger of his doctrines. Our purpose will be fulfilled if we have succeeded in warning any of our readers of the breakers ahead, or have saved any lighter craft from striking on the sunken reefs of an intricate and deceptive shore. Mr. Disraeli will, no doubt, soon furnish us with another act of the " New Crusade," when we shall have another opportunity of doing what justice we can to the teachings of the new teacher. For ourselves, we are by no means of opinion that the world is coming to an end, just yet, or that Asia is going to return us the compliment of a New Crusade. We think the contrary much more likely, and rest in the belief, that

"Through the ages an increasing purpose runs :

And the thoughts of men are widened by the process of the suns.”

G. H.

TO ADELE.

My beautiful, my beautiful, my bright and peerless one,
With laughing eye that dazzles more than does the summer sun,
And blushing cheek, and rosy lip, and forehead broad of air;
More dear to me art thou, my love, than poet's visions are.

Oh wert thou but a shining gem far down the glassy sea,
The wave that plays around thee how gladly would I be ;
The chariot of the storm might float along the troubled deep,
But calm should be thy resting-place, as is an infant's sleep.

For thee I cherish every hope, I breathe my every prayer,
That the sun of heaven may brightly shine upon thee every where ;
That the bitter cup of human woe it be not thine to drink,
That in the gulf of human grief it be not thine to sink.

What man can be to her he loves, that I will be to thee,
And, from above, the smile of God shall come down pleasantly,
And together we will tread the path that leads to Him,
Till our locks are thin and grey, and our eyes are dull and dim

And then we'll sleep together on some low and grassy bed,
Where th' earliest flowers of spring their loveliness shall shed,
And, as they rise to bud and bloom, so may our spirits rise
To brighter scenes than those of earth-a home within the skies.
EN AF WER IF WEN KARL.

HAMBURG AS IT IS.

BY J. EWING RITCHIE.

WERE we to observe that a few centuries-we do not refer in particular to those highly popular ones, who, according to Napoleon, looked down from the tops of the Pyramids, but to centuries in general -witness very wonderful changes, we should state a truth which but few would feel disposed to deny; for instance, how completely have our continental relations changed since Ragnar Lodbrog, that bravest of the terrible sea-kings, of a haply long-departed day, wrecked his unweildly race-horses, as he called them, on the Northumbrian coast. England then seems to have been a very attractive spot. No sooner did a gay young Norseman, "all of the olden time," become short of cash, or crossed in love, or tired of doing nothing, than he straitway bought, begged, or borrowed a ship, filled it with companions as "hard up" as himself, and started at once for our sea-girt isle, where they pillaged and murdered with a ferocity unparalleled, even in that age of blood. "We have sung them the mass of the lances," said these sons of Odin, mockingly, when they had carried devastation and death to some Christian abbey or peaceful home. "It commenced early in the morning, and lasted until night." Now the scene is, indeed, changed. It is the Englishman who travels, armed with a passport and “Murray's Handbook," with good English sovereigns in his pocket-a coin, by the by, which no Englishman will find any difficulty in putting into circulation wherever he may be-in every nook and corner of the land is he welcomed, where once grew and strengthened his fiercest foes. Our age is literally one of progress. "Keep on moving" seems to be the one universal cry.

Gentle reader, for such undoubtedly thou art,-would you

obey this instinct of our age-would you seek, as best you can, to accomplish this universal mission would you study men and manners in other countries than your own, or, to speak more intelligibly, would you smoke cigars and drink brandy and water— would you fatten on beef that may challenge a comparison even with that of your own dear isle-would you swallow unrivalled coffee and abominable tea-would you luxuriate on claret and Rhine wine-would you feed at banquets which a London alderman might grace with his presence, and the memory of which is still green in the soul, as Tom Moore says or said, for poets are,

"To one thing constant, never,"

of the unfortunate individual who now addresses you-in a word, would you lead an idle, voluptuous, good-for-nothing sort of life, and that at but a trifling cost-would you spend your time in looking at dark-eyed Rebeccas and picturesque Vierländerins-who, by the by, as far excel the fruit and flower women of Covent-garden as Kate Nickleby does Betsy Prig—would you buy cigars at three a penny, and coffee at eightpence a pound-would you exalt the animal, and weaken the man-then throw all business, all study, on one side, and do as the writer before you has done-take a berth on board the Countess of Lonsdale, and start for Hamburg.

In about fifty hours after leaving the Custom-house, you may expect to find yourself in one of the busiest of continental towns. Two things will at once convince you that you are in a foreign land -the unaccountable absence of docks, and the houses old fashioned, and, owing to the absence of the window-tax, as full of windows as an egg is of meat. The part of the town through which the stranger is first conducted leaves any thing but a favourable impression. You wind your way along streets, narrow and dark, with, in time of winter, a channel in their centre for every kind of abomination; and across canals, full of stagnant impurities, and of necessity redolent with disease. In a little time, however, the part of the town rebuilt since the fire is reached, and the scene is completely changed. Long rows of handsome houses-with a cleanliness we look for in vain in our labyrinths of stucco, that testify the architectural prowess of him who delighted to be thought the first gentleman in Europe, and Beau Nash-present a really commanding appearance. In taste and splendour, indeed, in all but size, the shops in the Nieur-wall may challenge a comparison with those of Regent-street itself. On the Jungferstien, where the beauty and fashion of Hamburg delight to congregate, some really princely hotels are to be found. There, on a summer evening, one may while away many an hour listening to the music that bursts forth from many a gay and glittering pavilion by, or that floats across the Alster, a magnificent piece of water in the centre of the May, 1847.-VOL. XLIX.-NO. CXCIII.

G

town, as a crew of light hearts, with pleasure at the helm, give themselves up to the balmy influences of the hour. Does the traveller enjoy the weed; let him then enter the Alster Pavilion, by which we, in imagination. have placed him. There he will find the best of everything, whether it be a glass of liquer, or a cup of coffee, a slice of that German delicacy, raw ham, or a plate of confectionary, of which the untravelled English reader cannot adequately conceive, served up by pleasant, good-looking Swiss waiters, with green aprons, with a promptness and civility that would not disgrace even "Jeames" himself. There, also, he will find what is so much needed in England, the wife and the sister joining in the relaxations of her male companions, drinking coffee and eating sweatmeats, and, by her presence, giving a tone and character to be ever desired. It were well if the same mixing of the softer sex in the amusements and leisure hours of ours were to be found at home. The thing, we see, is to be attempted by the Whittington Club; it will not say much for our civilisation should the attempt be found unsuccessful. In Hamburg they are provided with better accommodation than we are here. The pavilions, on the banks of the Alster, are really respectable and elegant; while, in London, we have nothing of the sort. Most of our coffee-houses are really disgraceful; no man, who has a decent room of his own to sit in, would enter them, but from sheer necessity; and the Cigar Divan, in the Strand, which, inasmuch as it permits the visitor to smoke and drink coffee, comes the nearest to a Hamburg pavilion; yet, while in all other respects it is immeasurably inferior, charges a price for admission which would make each particular hair on the head of a worthy Hamburg burgher to bristle up, and stand like quills on the fretful porcupine.

But our coffee is drunk and our cigar smoked. We have seen nearly all the town, and yet we have not seen its glory and pride. With the exception of a magnificent Exchange and the Johanneum Library, in which Luther's Bible is to be seen, Hamburg has but little to boast of in the way of public buildings; but she has that which is better than lofty domes and Corinthian columns--she has that which is more intimately connected with the people's weal and the glory of the state. In 1814, when the English mind was as yet ignorant of sanatory reform-long before Charles James Thackrah had demonstrated, to the ineffable delight of a black-draughtdrinking and blue-pill-devouring generation, that every trade was a short cut from this world to the next-when Dr. Southwood Smith had but just been breeched, and when Mr. Chadwick could not write his own name in a decent manner, and much less a report— at that very time, the Hamburg people threw down the fortifications by which their town had been defended, and turned them into