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grew thicker than ever on the grave of Keats ; and the primroses lay in clusters of pale gold about the cypress glades of Monte Mario. Thus, too, we extended our rambles for many a mile beyond the city walls, trampling the wild flowers of the Campagna; tracking the antique boundaries of Latium and Etruria ; mapping out the battle-fields of the Æneid ; and visiting the sites of cities whose history has been for long centuries confounded with tradition, and whose temples were dedicated to a religion of which the poetry and the ruins alone survive. It was indeed a happy, happy time; and the days went by as if they had been set to music.
One day, as the Spring was rapidly merging into Summer, we drove out from Rome to Albano. It was quite early when we started. The grassy mounds of the Campo Vaccino were crowded with bullock-tracks as we went down the Sacred Road; and the brown walls of the Colosseum were touched with golden sunshine. The same shadows that had fallen daily for centuries in the same places, darkened the windings of the lower passages. The blue day shone through the uppermost arches, and the shrubs that grew upon them waved to and fro in the morning breeze. A monk was preaching in the midst of the arena; and a French military band was practising upon the open ground be. hind the building.
“Oh, for a living Cæsar to expel these Gauls !” muttered Hugh, aiming the end of his cigar at the spurred heels of a dandy little sous lieutenant who was sauntering "delicately,” like King Agag, on the sunny side of the road.
Passing out by the San Giovanni gate we entered upon those broad wastes that lie to the southeast of the city. Going forward thence, with the aqueducts to our left, and the old Appian Way, lined with crumbling sepulchres, reaching for miles in one unswerving line to our far right, we soon left Rome behind. Faint patches of vegetation gleamed here and there, likę streaks of light; and nameless ruins lay scattered broadcast over the bleak shores of this “most desolate region.” Sometimes we came upon a primitive bullock-wagon, or a peasant driving an ass laden with green boughs; but these signs of life were rare. Presently we passed the remains of a square temple, with Corinthian pilasters then a drove of shaggy ponies—then a little truck with a tiny pent-house reared on one side of the seat, to keep the driver from the sun—then a flock of rusty sheep-a stagnant pool-a clump of stunted trees-a conical thatched hut-a round sepulchre, half buried in the soil of ages—a fragment of broken arch; and so on, for miles and miles, across the barren plain.
By and by we saw a drove of buffaloes scouring along toward the aqueduct, followed by a mounted herdsman, buskined and brown, with his lance in his hand, his blue cloak floating behind him, and his sombrero down upon his brow—the very picture of a Mexican hunter. Now the Campagna was left behind, and Albano stood straight before us, on the summit of a steep and weary hill. Low lines of whitewashed wall bordered the road on either side, inclosing fields of fascine, orchards, olive-grounds, and gloomy plantations of cypresses and pines. Next came a range of sand-banks with cavernous hollows and deep undershadows; next, an old cinque-cento gateway, crumbling away by the roadside ; then a little wooden cross on an overhanging crag; then the sepulchre of Pompey; and then the gates of Albano, through which we rattled into the town, and up to the entrance of the Hôtel de Russie. Here we tasted the wine that Horace praised, and lunched in a room that overlooked a brown sea of Campagna, with the hazy Mediterranean on the farthest horizon, and tower of Corioli standing against the clear sky to our left.—Barbara's History,
EDWARDS, JONATHAN, a distinguished Amer. ican divine and metaphysician, born at East Windsor, Conn., October 5, 1703 ; died at Princeton, N. J., March 22, 1758. He entered Yale College at thirteen, and was licensed to preach at nineteen; but before accepting any regular pas
; toral charge, he resolved to devote two more years to study. From 1724 to 1726 he was tutor at Yale. Early in 1727 he was ordained as colleague to his maternal grandfather, Mr. Stoddard, the pastor at Northampton, Mass., becoming sole minister, two years later, upon the death of Mr. Stoddard. His ministry at Northampton lasted twenty-four years. Disputes upon ecclesiastical points arose between him and his congregation, and he was forced to resign. He then became a missionary among the remnant of the Housatonic Indians at Stockbridge, Mass., where he wrote the Inquiry into the Freedom of the Will; God's Last End in the Creation, the treatises on The Affections, on Original Sin, and on The Nature of True Virtue, and a projected voluminous History of Redemption, which had been begun several years before. In 1757 his son-in-law, Rev. Aaron Burr, President of Princeton College, died, and Edwards was chosen as his successor. He was installed in this office in February, 1758, but died a month after, from an attack of smallpox. Besides the works already mentioned and a Life of David Brainard, his son-in-law, numerous Sermons of Edwards' were published during his lifetime and after his death. Several editions of his Works have been published; the most complete of which, with a Memoir, is by his great-grandson, Sereno Edwards Dwight (10 vols., 1830; afterward in a more compact form in 4 large volumes).
EDWARDS, JONATHAN, JR., son of the preceding, was born at Northampton, Mass., May 26, 1745; died at Schenectady, N. Y., August 1, 1801. He was educated at Princeton, where he became tutor after his graduation. In 1769 he was ordained pastor of the church at White Haven, Conn., continuing as such until 1795, when he resigned in consequence of theological differences between him and his congregation. In 1799 he was elected President of Union College, Schenectady, N. Y., but died two years after his inauguration. His Complete Works, edited, with a Memoir, by his grandson, Rev. Tryon Edwards, were published in 2 vols. in 1842.
EDWARDS, TRYON, born at Hartford, Conn., in 1809; died January 4, 1894. He was graduated at Yale, studied theology and afterward law, and in 1834 became pastor of a Congregational church at Rochester, N. Y., and in 1845 at New London, Conn. He was a frequent contributor to religious periodicals, and wrote or compiled several books, among which are Self-Cultivation (1843); Select Poetry for Children and Youth (1851); The World's Laconics (1852), and Sketches for the Fireside (1867).
THE WILL DETERMINED BY THE STRONGEST MOTIVE.
By determining the Will—if the phrase be used with any meaning-must be intended, causing that the act of the Will or choice should be thus, and not otherwise ; and the Will is said to be determined when in consequence of some action or influence, its choice is directed to, and fixed upon a particular object. As when we speak of the determination of motion, we mean causing the motion of the body to be such a way, or in such a direction, rather than another. To talk of the determination of the Will, supposes an effect, which must have a cause. If the Will be determined, there is a determiner. This must be supposed to be intended even by them that say the Will determines itself. If it be so, the Will is both determiner and determined ; it is a cause that acts and produces effects upon itself, and is the object of its own influence and action.
With respect to that grand inquiry, What determines the Will ? it is sufficient to my present purpose to say, it is a motive, which, as it stands in the view of the mind, is the strongest, that determines the Will. By motive I mean the whole of that which moves, excites, or invites the mind to volition, whether that be one thing singly, or many things conjunctly. Many particular things may concur and unite their strength to induce the mind, and, when it is so, all together are as it were one complex motive. And when I speak of the strongest motive, I have respect to the strength of the whole that operates to induce to a particular act of volition, whether that be the strength of one thing alone, or of many together. Whatever is a motive, in this sense, must be something that is extant in the view or apprehension of the understanding, or perceiving faculty. Nothing can induce or invite the mind to will or to act anything, any further than it is perceived, or is in some way or other in the mind's view ; for what is wholly unperceived, and perfectly out of the mind's view, cannot affect the mind at all. It is most evident that nothing is in the mind, or reaches it, or takes any hold of it, any other wise than as it is perceived or thought of.