It is evident that whosoever desires to penetrate the depths of philosophical science must, in the first place, endeavour to discover where certainty resides, what constitutes certainty, or the means by which he may acquire the conviction of its presence. To deviate from this course would be tantamount to building a castle in the air. We have not far to go in search of those striking land-marks which indicate what does not admit of doubt: such characteristic features are deeply engraved in an innocent nature. With a view to explain my meaning, and to remove the slightest obscurity from so grave a question, I shall bring the clearest terms and the most obvious examples in aid of my object. When I hear these expressions - a circle is not a triangle, the sun rises in the east, and closes its course in the west, Rome or Constantinople exists — I feel within me a deep and invincible impression which excludes every doubt from my mind. I do not say that my nature disposes or inclines me to believe. Assuredly not it conveys to me a far livelier and more powerful impression, and utterly excludes all hesitation it bears away my consent in spite of, and, as it were, without me. This is, unquestionably, an all-sufficient motive for my firm and absolute acquiescence. The instances I have just adduced exhibit the resistless power of evidence, of the assent of our inward feelings, and in countless instances, of the testimony of men. The other principles of certainty, two or three in number, are readily discovered by a similar process. Who would venture to demand a firmer basis whereon to establish his judgement? what blindness to mistrust such solid supports! It were easier for us to divest ourselves of our being than to refuse our belief, when possessed of such warrants, which regulate alike the determinations of the learned and of the people; and any one who should disown them, would be deemed by common accord as standing more in need of medical care than philosophers' reasonings. Certainty can go no further in this world; and that light is amply sufficient to guide us. If it fail to satisfy, the very sun would be cavilled at: we should be affirming that we were in darkness, because other rays emanating from another world, the creature of our imagination, have failed to convey their light to our eyes. This has been the point overlooked by the German school, which has too many proselytes amongst us. How can it have escaped them that this separation of self from non-self, so much talked of, is removed by nature, which has dispelled the fancied bridge invented by them-an empty and frivolous labour? How truly we may apply in this place the language of scripture in reference to certain minds: "They give birth, with much labour, to inventions which the wind blows away." (Eccles. v. 15.) And again: "They have vanished away in their thoughts." (Rom. i. 21.) I have therefore unerring means of becoming assured of the truth. But what is the first use I should make of those lights and resources? Can there be a moment's hesitation in a heart conscious that its existence is not selfderived? Impelled by a sense of gratitude and dependence, does not man first raise himself towards his Creator, in order to feel impressed with the reality of that Creator's existence, his greatness, his favours, his infinite perfections? How great is this treasure, this indescribable conquest of the knowledge of God, so easily derived from the consideration of the great first cause, of the self-existing Supreme Being! What, in fact, do we see in this abyss of life and glory? The Being who unfolds himself, and spreads on all sides, without ever encountering any limits. The plenitude of existence is His lot; He discerns in himself, without measure and without end, all that heightens existence, embellishes and perfects it: in other words, His infinite and adorable attributes. These truths are by turns proclaimed by the harmony of nature, and the wonders of the visible world. Lastly, they are consecrated and rendered perpetual by the faith of mankind and its canticles of adoration. I no sooner hold this first link than the rest fall readily within my grasp: I proceed from light to light (2 Cor. iii. 18); a crowd of truths unfold themselves before me, and nothing is left for me to fear but my own voluntary blindness. After reaching this comprehensive and majestic point of view, I stop a moment to contemplate the course I have already run. I was aware that my nature had been my faithful and assured guide; nevertheless, I admire the splendid gifts bestowed upon man, whilst admitting that divine truth bestows a fresh authority upon the evidence and other legitimate motives of belief; since those impressions which a God, eminently true, has implanted in my breast, can never be a snare nor an instrument of error. God is known to us: he is the source of all truths. All that are necessary to us may be said to present themselves spontaneously to our acceptance. Does there exist another life? Yes; for it is impossible that, under a just God, virtue, ever persecuted and bathed in tears, should in the end share a kindred fate with the uniformly successful criminal. Our moral world is a frightful picture. In order that it may be rendered worthy of God, it is requisite that the Supreme Being should re-model, correct, perfect it, in short, in a future existence. Is Christianity divine? Yes; because if numerous prophecies fulfilled, well authenticated miracles, other causes which have converted the world, and are therefore so much within the reach of my natural intellect, were to deceive me, I should be entitled to impute my error to God himself—an impossible thing. Lastly, is the ancient religion of our country entitled to the respect and love of so great a people? Who can doubt it? For what are we told? That the true church of our Saviour fell to pieces a few centuries after its birth! and that Catholicity has, for a long time past, been no more than a corrupted, disfigured, broken-down Christianity. Let me ask, however, how can we suppose a God to have been so unskilful an architect as to raise a tottering edifice, which was calculated to crumble to ruins shortly after its being erected by His adorable hand? It is moreover attested by a thousand indications, that nothing essential has been changed; and the series of Peter's successors, which unquestionably ascends to its first origin, is ample warrant that all has been transmitted to us through that channel - the authority of the word, the remission of sins, the grace of the sacraments, and generally all spiritual gifts brought by the Man-God into the world. It is readily understood that I do not aim at sifting the proofs on which I rely, and that my only object is briefly to demonstrate the link of ideas composing the philosophy of true Christians, and afterwards the perfect harmony of their belief. Let us conclude. Reason is a splendid vestibule, in which we could wish to find more majesty, elevation, and extent. When I consider nature's rapture towards an infinite object, I find the dimensions of man too great to be kept in their first boundary: should he in fact make a proper use of his intellects, he steps beyond the threshold, and that portico where he at first tarried introduces him into a venerated sanctuary, which is religion. He has no sooner entered than his sight takes a far wider range: his looks penetrate to the skies, where a throne arrests his view. It will be the limit of his cause, and the reward of his virtues. Yes, religion is that house of God (Gen. xxvii. 17) - which leads us to our end- that of rest after fatigues, of joy after sorrow, of immortality and perfect bliss. Happy is he, I venture to assert, who can feel impressed with the doctrine I have just laid down. It has ever been that of the Church; and I add, in the words of St. Paul, "has the promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come." [Bishop of Chartres. THE HERMITAGE OF CAMALDOLI. [FROM THE LONDON AND DUBLIN ORTHODOX JOURNAL.] -- On the declivity of Monte Tusculano stands the hermitage of Camaldoli. About half a mile above it rises a bare but lofty eminence, known as the site of the citadel of ancient Tusculum. Around it stretches a thick and extensive wood of chesnut, beech, and ilex, which throws a gloom and quiet round the place favourable to prayer and meditation. Their thick, dark foliage, is relieved by the paler and brighter green of the vine and the olive - the usual accompaniments of industry and luxury that skirt the foot of the hill. An almost perpetual silence reigns around, that gives additional sanctity to the place: even the bell seems to impart a tone of devotion, as it breaks the stillness of the midnight air calling the brotherhood to matins. For a brief space during autumn, the silence of the woods is broken by the enlivening shouts of the youthful villagers, who range the woods to collect chesnuts for their winter store. At the same season may be heard from the distant vineyards, the hymn or the litany of Our Lady sung by pious groups, as they collect the grapes for the vintage perhaps to uncatholic ears, io Bacche io triumphe! might form a more pleasing melody. Yet, beautifully situated as is this hermitage, which may be denominated the abode of the dead living, it lacks the beauty of our ancient English monasteries. We miss the rivulet, or the turbulent mountain stream, rolling along at its foot, that adds so much to the convenience and picturesqueness of our old ruins. We miss the large pointed window of the church, with its stained glass; the spacious refectory, and the magnificent and elegantly-adorned chapter-house. Nor have we the chasteness and simplicity of a Greek building to compensate for this want of grandeur. Camaldoli consists of a number of detached cells, of a hall for guests, of an infirmary, and of a large pile, embracing the church, the library, and the chapter-house. It was founded by Pope Paul V. in 1611: the church was re-built in 1772. Every hermit has a small garden, which he plants and arranges according to his own taste, and four little cells; one of which serves for his bed-room, another for his study, a third for his chapel, and the fourth is merely a closet for his winter store of fire-wood. The one through which we were shown (it was the guest-master's) was adorned with numerous appropriate and wellexecuted prints, all of a nature to deaden the mind to worldly objects and awaken in it pious and holy thoughts. In the garden were numerous fragments of ancient statues, inscriptions, and an altar, with the words Diis manibus, to whom it was dedicated they were probably the remains of the tomb of the Furii, which anciently stood within their inclosure on the via Tusculana. Unless in time of sickness, they are not allowed to say mass in their little chapels; but they have a large and elegant church, containing numerous altars, in which they say mass. Out of a community of thirteen, they number six priests. They have a common library, well stored with theological and ascetical works. The present doors of the sacristy formerly belonged to the confessional of the subterranean church of St. Peter, in which the relics of St. Peter and St. Paul were kept. On the erection of the present stupendous basilica of St. Peter, the gates were removed by Paul V. and given to Camaldoli. This order owes its existence to St. Romuald, who was of the family of Honeste, dukes of Ravenna. Disgusted with the world, and grieved at having been a spectator of a duel, in which his father Sergius slew a relation with whom he had a contract about an estate, he embraced a monastic life in the order of St. Benedict. He afterwards added several observances and austerities to this rule, and formed a new order, in which he united the cenobitic and eremitical life. The monks and the hermits do not live together. The first monastery was erected by St. Romuald, near Arizzo in Tuscany, thirty miles east from Florence, about the year 1009: the hermitage is two miles distant from the monastery.* With the hermitage of Camaldoli, near Frascati, there is no monastery connected; the nearest monastery of the order is on Monto Celio, Rome, occupying the site of the monastery from which St. Augustine was sent to the conversion of England. The rules of the hermits are very severe they live within perpetual inclosure, but they are allowed the free range of the grounds, which are inclosed by a wall. Any woman entering this, except with the permission of the Pope, is excommunicated ipso facto. They never taste flesh meat, unless when ordered by a physician in time of sickness, and then they are obliged to remove to the infirmary, which is at a short distance from the huts of the hermits. They rise at midnight,† winter and summer, to assist at the divine office; they confess their faults publicly in chapter every week; and from St. Martin's-day to Christmas, and during Lent, they observe a rigid silence. During the rest of the year, they are allowed to speak from prime till complin, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They wear wooden clogs, but no stockings. Formerly, they wore a black habit, like the Benedictines; but after St. Romuald saw, in a vision, his monks mounting up a ladder to heaven all in white, he changed their habit from black to white. Lured by the charms of solitude, Cardinal Passionei retired to this hermitage, built and adorned cells with beautiful prints, formed a wood with interesting walks, in which he placed a collection of ancient marbles, containing eight hundred inscriptions, and collected a good library. Whilst living in this retreat, he had often for a guest James III. of England, who lived at a villa in the suburbs of Frascati ; and in 1741 he was visited by Pope Benedict XIV. After the Cardinal's death, his apartments, and so forth, were destroyed. For the accommodation of visitors and strangers, there is a guest-hall; and one of the hermits is appointed to receive them, accompany them, and wait upon them. During the short time that we remained in the neighbourhood, they The first and most famous monastery founded by St. Romuald, was called Camaldoli from the Lord Maldoli, to whom the site belonged. It is a contradiction from Campo Maldoli. Mr. Eustace, with his easy, accommodating spirit, tells us that it is easy, in a hot climate, to rise at midnight, espcially after having taken a SIESTA, or nap, after dinner. We have had more than one sunmer's experience of the refreshing influence of a siesta, but we have still found it as difficult as before to rise even several hours after midnight. We doubt whether Mr. Eustace ever tried the experiment of rising at midnight to recite his breviary. + Jacobus III, with a long inscription on a marble slab, is still standing above the door of the house which he formerly occupied above the outer gate are two stone lions. The house, in size and appearance, seems more suited to the style and title of a country gentleman than an exiled king. : were visited by the dowager queen of Sardinia, and by his holiness the Pope, who, before his elevation to the purple, was a monk of this order. We wish those who so often rail against solitaries for depriving the world and society of their services would visit this holy retreat. The church, the cells, and the gardens are extremely neat and cleanly. There reigns such a bewitching silence, and the monks, with their white dress, long snowy beards, and benevolent and placid countenances, look so like angels, that you are tempted to believe yourself in the anti-chamber of heaven. In a few minutes you almost forget that there is a world without, and you would fain believe that you could live there for eternity. EDUCATION WITHOUT RELIGION. [FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.] NOTHING can be more plain, therefore, than that the great panacea of the Liberal party this regenerator which is to banish sin from the world, and fit men for the important duties of self-government — is a total delusion; and that mere intellectual education, so far from qualifying the masses for political rights and the safe exercise of democratic powers, in reality renders them more than ever unfit for them-by increasing, on the one hand, the restless activity of their minds, and augmenting, on the other, the depraved tastes, corrupt desires, and unbridled passions, which lead them to turn that activity to wicked purposes. This fact, which utterly bewilders the whole Liberal school-which is, literally speaking, to the Jews a stumbling-block, and to the Greeks foolishness with which Lord Brougham and all those smitten by the education-mania are sore perplexed, without knowing how to extricate themselves from its weight-is perfectly intelligible to, and was all along predicted alike by, the calm observers of nature, who took experience for their guide, and the simple believers, who, without going farther than the gospel, were aware that in religion alone, was an antidote to the poisonous fruit of the tree of knowledge to be found. Miss Edgeworth shewed her knowledge when she put into the mouth of one of her characters-"Edication will do a great deal, but it won't change the natur that is in them." History in every age has taught, that it was in the latest ages of society that knowledge was most generally diffused, and corruption most widely spread. Experience every where around us shows, that in those situations where the human race is most densely massed together, instruction, at least on political subjects, is most common, and depravity of every sort most abundant. Coupling these facts together, the result of observation, alike in the past and the present, is, that it is not in the cultivation of the intellectual faculties that an antidote to the corruption of our nature is to be found, but that the only real regeneration, either of society or of its political institutions, must begin with those measures which augment the spread and increase the influence of that faith, which, setting itself in the outset to root out the seeds of evil in the human heart, can alone prepare men, by successively governing themselves, to take a useful part in the direction of others. The way in which general instruction, when unaccompanied with a proportioned cultivation of the moral and religious feelings, acts in this way, is, to any person practically acquainted with the middling and lower orders, perfectly apparent. It extends the desires of the heart and the cravings of the pas |