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cause thou art strong! Thou art strong and good because thou art good and strong! Thou hast the vigor of the athlete, but thou hast also the grace of an infant. Jerome, there are moments

when my eyes fill with tears as I think that this People is mine, that it belongs to me, its friend and colorist!"

:

Oscar has a great enjoyment in store for Jerome he will take him to the Louvre, there to delight him with the splendors of republican Art. Arrived there, Oscar is shocked to find Jerome not in ecstacies. Jerome begins to doubt republican Art.

"Take care, Paturot! There is a touch of the sceptic in you. You play with great ideas. Sceptic, indeed! who is not so? Even the épicier is! That which is more rare is to have a soul intoxicated with splendors and an eye full of radiations! . . . . . . it is to carry in one's bosom a world of color and of light, and to clothe with it all objects without distinction. That is what characterizes us artists, and places an abyss between us and épicerie."

Not content with showing the Louvre, Oscar takes Jerome to see the exhibition of the "concours" for a symbolical figure of the Republic; Oscar, of course, being one of the

66 concurrents.

"My dear Paturot, it is into this that I have thrown my whole soul. No reminiscence, no plagiarism; but a flame the most intense, creation the most vigorous. You know the expression which Cimabue gave to his Virgins: the naïf, the primitive, I have re-discovered that! You shall see."

Jerome is speechless before this specimen of romantic and republican Art. Oscar, disdainfully pointing at the other works, thus speaks of his chef-d'œuvre.—

Oscar's absurdity is one of the very few things that raise a smile throughout these volumes. The following samples of circulars, addressed by candidates for the Assembly, can scarcely be called caricatures

Sentimental Circular.

Citizens,-Name me. The interests of the people have been the preoccupation of all my life. I have known the people,-and have loved it. The more it is known-the better it is beloved. How profound its philosophy-how naïve its poetry! People, thou hast all the graces as thou hast all the virtues.-Name me!

Conspirator's Circular.

Citizens,-Name me; name the man who addresses you. He has the right to speak out; he bears the brand of the royal chain, he has known the tyranny of monarchs. Whilst others compounded with the government, and allowed themselves to be corrupted by the gold of tyrants, he only dared to oppose his breast against the steel of the satellites. What he has suffered for the people may be asked of the dungeons of Mont St. Michael, and of the damp straw which there supported his wasted frame. People! between us guarantees have been given. I am a martyr of your cause:-behold my wounds! Whilst you suffered-I conspired; you suffer still-and I still conspire. I will conspire as long as you suffer. The prison knows me. It is the pride and delight of high souls and contemplative

natures-Name me.

There are several others, but we can spare room only for this

Ouvrier's Circular.

of a working man, cousin of a working man, Citizens, The son of a working man, nephew of a working man, cousin of a working man, son-in-law of a working man, uncle of a working man, and father of a working man, I might myself have been a working man had circumstances favored me. What do I say? Work"Look at those sketches. There is texture ing man? I am one, and more so than any and some handling; but where is the conception other. Ouvrier?-oh, yes! ouvrier! It is a title --where the idea? Nothing which makes you of which I am proud, and which I would change dream, nothing which carries you beyond the for none other. How beautiful a thing it is to bounds of space! I see republics seated and be a working man, and bear the name! That republics standing others lying, others kneeling name I claim. I decorate myself with it and -near this are tigers, near that lions-farther glory therein. Ouvrier! how it fills the mouth! on are seen serpents, trees, and all the furniture Ouvriers, my brothers, come to my arms-quick of creation, with no end of spheres. But the into my arms! Let us exchange the fraternal profound thought, the inspired prophecy, kiss. By the beating of my heart I feel that I where are they? Do you see those? Do you am worthy of you. Ouvrier! yes I am an ouvhear them resounding in the depth of the hori-rier! who shall gainsay it? I am an ouvrier of zon? No, Jerome, no! These things are dumb as a tomb,-while mine has all the melodies of nature! The Virgin strikes the globe, and from it issues infinite treasures. Mine delivers the key of human destinies and the sombre enigma of the Sphinx. All that in a few touches! A little color, and the mystery of the world is revealed! It is cyclopean-it is genesiac. Human genius will never transcend it."

thought! Thus, working men, behold one of yourselves-one of your most humble and devoted comrades! Let your hearts respond to his heart!-Name me!

These extracts will be sufficient to give our readers an idea of the two volumes of this continuation which are now before us.

Athenæum.

RELIGIOUS STORIES.*

It is ten years since two gay maidens put up the celebrated petition, "Aunt, do tell us what Puseyism is-we can't get on at Almack's without being able to talk about it!" If the fair questioners had waited a little, it would have been unnecessary to trouble their good kinswoman; for them, and for all who might wish to acquire the current controversial small-talk without the labor of reading grave works of theology, the press was about to provide abundant instruction in the shape of novels and story-books, illustrating the doctrines and the practices of the newly-risen "ism." And now a very extensive literature of this kind has grown up among us, exhibiting the "movement" and the "development" in all their phases, and adding largely to the materials which must be mastered by the future Church historian who would qualify himself for describing the workings of the late controversies on the mind of our generation.

Mr. Gresley and Mr. Paget are, we believe, the acknowledged fathers of this literature; for, if they did not actually take the lead in attempting to combine the interest of fictitious narrative with the enforcement of the opinions which they had embraced, they were certainly the first in that line who succeeded in attracting any considerable amount of attention. For some years the pens of these gentlemen were very busy. From Lichfield and from Elford little book after little book came forth, attired in blue or scarlet cloth, with gilt title on the back, nicely printed, adorned with pretty cuts, sold at a price ranging from half-a-crown to four-and-sixpence, and each intended to set forth some particular doctrine necessary for the times, or to maintain in general what the writer conceived to be the true position of the English Church.

While the tide of popularity was bearing him on, we always felt sorry for Mr. Paget. It was evident that he possessed abilities to which he was doing injustice. Writing hastily,

*Grantley Manor. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

3 vols. London, 1847. Moxon.

From Oxford to Rome, and how it fared with some who lately made the Journey. By a Companion Traveller. London, 1847. Longmans.

Rest in the Church. By the Anthor of From Oxford to Rome. London, 1848. Longmans.

Steepleton; or, High Church and Low Church: being the Present Tendencies of Parties in the Church, exhibited in the History of Frank Faithful. By a Clergyman. London, 1847. Longmans. Loss and Gain. London, 1848. Burns.

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writing for a party, and being sure of a certain measure of applause and circulation, secured for him by his opinions independently of any literary merit, he was tempted to disregard those qualities which would have given his stories a value as works of art. Within the compass allowed to each there was little room for the development of plot or character, and he made very little use of what there was. And yet it seemed that neither plot nor character would have been beyond his power if his readers had been pleased to require them at his hands. Moreover, one of his most conspicuous talents a somewhat flippant wit although it would have been blameless and agreeable in ordinary fiction, was strangely out of keeping with the professed piety and even unction with which it was combined in his religious stories. In short, poor Mr. Paget appeared to be doubly unfortunate, -a man who might have been a good writer of secular novels, failed as a novelist by venturing on a religious line, while yet there was a tone about his writings which made it impossible to be satisfied with them as religious works.

But if Mr. Paget threw away talent, Mr. Gresley was quite guiltless of any such prodigality. There was no ground for supposing that he could have done better in any other department than in that to which he devoted himself. As stories, his productions were absolutely nothing. Of plot or character he seemed to have no idea whatever. His pérsons were little better than mere names, used as machinery for the enunciation of arguments; the arguments without this machinery would have been sermons of very unusual dulness. Thus the story was endured for the sake of the doctrine, and the doctrine was rendered palatable by the story, while either of them separately would have been intolerable. But Mr. Gresley had, in a happy hour, discovered or stumbled on the fact, that the classes to which he addressed himself were extremely ignorant of the subjects which he professed to treat, and ready to receive instruction; and by serving up to them in the guise of fiction the theories which had been infinitely better stated in very accessible publications, he attained for the time a great reputation. Nor was this without its effect on him. In proportion as each succeeding book was more dismally empty and dull than its predecessor, the author's tone became more absurdly oracular. Even now we sometimes meet with Mr.

Gresley's name in advertisements; but it is long since we saw, and yet longer since we read, any of his publications.

For ladies who are disposed to mingle in religious controversy, the story-book seems a very appropriate medium; and of the literature which we are now surveying, a large portion-we tion — we may add, the best portion-has been contributed by female writers.

widely different from the last of her more elaborate tales which has as yet appeared.

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First came the Fairy Bower, and its sequel, the Lost Brooch, - the work of a lady nearly related to the Prophet of Littlemore. The books were both very clever; both with much that was good, the earlier with something, the later and larger with a great deal, that was objectionable, in the too detailed and unsparing exhibition of a family whose type of religion was represented as different from that which the writer wished to recommend. Great skill and delicacy were shown in the delineaments, and deeply impressed by Romish prae

tion of character. There was somewhat too

much of feminine fussiness and of Newmanly over-subtlety; and in the Lost Brooch there was very considerable tediousness. The admiration bestowed on these tales by the party devoted to the authoress' eminent brother was, of course, far above their deserts; still-imperfect as they are in respect of execution, and far from faultless in spirit - we do not hesitate to say that no later production of a female pen in the same department has displayed an equal amount of talent.

Those who, like ourselves, valued the

Fairy Bower and its companion less for what was realized in them than for the promise which they held out, have hitherto been doomed to disappointment. The next work by the same authoress, Louisa, or the Bride, was weaker. Some short tales for children of the poorer classes served only to show that her talent did not extend to writing for the poor; and from whatever cause (partly, we fear, from ill health), Mrs. Mozley has not again appeared among our writers of fiction.

Another lady novelist soon after came before the public-the authoress of Amy Herbert, who announces Mr. Sewell as her editor and the guarantee of her orthodoxy. Her works are generally characterized by pure taste and feeling, and by a chastened spirit of religion; they are less brilliant than those of Mrs. Mozley, but more equal; and they are entirely free from all disfigurement of party malice or extravagance. This writer, we rejoice to say, is still productive; but while we look forward with hope to her future works, we must make the condition that they shall be

Margaret Percival is considerably longer It is than either Amy Herbert or Gertrude. much more ambitious, for it treats of the controversy with Rome; and we believe we express the general opinion of readers in saying handled. Margaret, the daughter of a physi that this great subject is most unsatisfactorily cian, is exposed to the influence of an Italian The countess is represented as a model of countess and her chaplain, Father Andrea. Roman Catholic sanctity; the priest, as zealous, able, earnest man, thoroughly devoted to his Church, and desirous of winning converts to it. With these high foreign patterns are contrasted certain members of the English communion, who are far from any ideal perfection. Margaret is plied with Romish argutice. Her allegiance to the Church of her baptism is giving way, when she is reclaimed by a clerical uncle, Mr. Sutherland. his line of argument is this, that she is in leave it, but must endeavor more to realize her the English Church, and, therefore, may not vocation as a member of it; that she is not in a condition to judge, and, therefore, is bound to shut her ears and her very eyes against any thing which might tend to unsettle her.

And

that it is

Now all this may be very true; but we earnestly protest against such representations of the case. In the first place, we utterly deny that the English Church, as opposed to with timidity and doubtfulness, Romanism, is something to be pleaded for something which, at best, can only be justified in the way of humble apology. Our old conmaintained that the position of our Church troversialists took a different line. They free from any thing like the guilt of schism; was a right and a good position; that she was and was a faithful restorer and witness of most important truths which Rome had denied or corrupted. They had no thought of contenting themselves with a defensive attitude, but, with the fearlessness of strong men fighting in a good cause, they attacked the enemy, and never doubted of success. And if now that enemy has actually withdrawn from his old ground, if he has abandoned the pretence of primitiveness, and has taken refuge in a novel theory of "development," surely it is a strange proceeding that our new champions, instead of following up the victory which has thus virtually been won, betake themselves to the faint-hearted excuses and the slippery probabilities on which our cause has of late been rested; and that not only in story-books

of female authorship, but in works of far graver character and pretensions.

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Again, we altogether object to the comparison of an ideal Romanism with the deficiencies of our actual Anglicanism,-deficiencies which a certain class of writers among us think it their duty even to exaggerate. Some ingenius persons may, indeed, find a satisfaction in showing how, taking our own Church at the worst and the Roman at the best, it would yet be incumbent on us to remain where we are, but we are sure that the effect of arguments conducted on such terms cannot be beneficial. Why put the case, to our own disadvantage, on grounds which are notoriously false? The realities of Romanism- as is well known to every one who has had an opportunity of fairly forming an opinion on the subject, whether through the medium of books or through the experience of travel are at least as far short of a Catholic ideal as those of our own Church. Indeed, we believe that our neo-Catholics, if they would but investigate the matter, would find that all which most offends them, not only in the National Church but in our Dissenting bodies, has a parallel in the existing system of the Romish communion. Roman controversialists, we may be assured, would never take any such ground for themselves as that which our apologists are pleased to take for us, although, indeed, there is far more reason why they should do so. Their tone is never that of shame or humility; boasting, swaggering, misrepresentation of adversaries, concealment of their own defects, exaggeration of those which they detect in their opponents, such are the weapons of Rome's champions. Sorrow over short-comings and confession of offences appear to be things unknown to them. Far, indeed, may such proceedings ever be from us! Yet let us not give an undue advantage to the enemy by adopting his estimate both of himself and of ourselves. With ordinary readers, this kind of statement will tell far more against us than the best argument which can be framed on such a basis would tell

for us.

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And, further, we doubt very seriously whether such reasonings as those of Margaret Percival would make any good impression on the kind of persons for whom the controversy of story-books is intended. Mr. Sutherland may be as dogmatical as the learned editor himself; he may assure his niece, "Child, you are no judge of these things, and, therefore, ought not to think of forming any opinion, but to sit quietly and thankfully where you are ;" and the young lady of the book may be represented as submitting to this treatment;

but we question whether any young lady of real life, who should have imbibed similar doubts as to her Church, would be in any degree stilled by what is said. "If," the waverers might tell us, "Mr. Sutherland could walk out of the second orange-clad duodecimo,-if, through claims before established, he had acquired an authority over our minds, then, indeed, we might be content and glad to listen to him. But, alas! he is in the book, and we are out of it. We know that the writer is no deep divine, but a gentle lady; and we have heard even the editor spoken of in such a way that, not being under his personal influence, we cannot have implicit confidence in him. And Rome has not shunned to argue with us; she has not told us that we are not qualified to decide."

Alas! Margaret Percival is no book of satisfaction for excited and somewhat selfconfident spirits. With great respect for the authoress which we trust we have not equivocally expressed—we must regret that it was ever written.

Mr. Sewell has himself also tried his hand at the religious novel; for we believe that he may now be mentioned as the avowed author of a work which no one at all acquainted with his sentiments or style could ever have hesitated to ascribe to him. In Hawkstone we have Mr. Sewell's idea of English churchmanship as it ought to be, standing out distinctly from all other forms of religion. Everything but the one true and right system comes in for a portion of reproach or ridicule. The author is strong against Dissent; towards Evangelicism (so called) he is compassionately contemptuous; on old-fashioned High-Churchism he is severe; he is unsparingly sarcastic against the Romanizing subsection, which at the date of the book was still outwardly within our Church, and which had lately consummated its offences by the new theory of" development," and the floundering sophistries of Mr. Ward; and against Romanism he is absolutely rabid.

The whole thing is distressingly overdone and extravagant, with a prodigious waste of energy and material. The author's opinions on all subjects are announced with a vehemence which could not, perhaps, find an exact response from any single reader. Nobody, we should imagine, would choose to venture on a second reading of Hawkstone; but, with all its faults, the book is as yet unequalled in its kind for the ability which is displayed in it. If Mr. Sewell would but condescend to put some check on his peculiarities; if he would endeavor to admit the idea that his readers, and even the persons whom he opposes, may

possibly, after all, be creatures of the same species with himself; if he would subdue the volcanic character which marks both his narrative and his opinions-he might (should he think fit to pursue this kind of composition) with ease achieve far better things in it than any other writer whom we could name.

Somewhat earlier than Hawkstone appeared the novel of Ellen Middleton, the first work of Lady Georgiana Fullerton. There were circumstances in connection with it which could hardly fail to prepossess the critics in favor of the book. The writer's rank appealed powerfully to the besetting weakness of one great quarterly organ; the Whiggism of her family bespoke the kindness of the other; while the object of the story secured the sympathies of certain more expressly theological publications. But indeed it had no need of such aid as it might have derived from these considerations. It was a tale of deep and passionate interest; unpleasant in its impression, but of fascinating power. Speaking from memory, however, we should say that it altogether failed of its intended purpose-which was, to recommend ecclesiastical confession. Ellen, while a child, became accidentally the cause of a cousin's death. Circumstances prevented her from owning this at the time; and the secret embittered her after life, while it furnished the only other person to whom it was known with the means of a mysterious influence over her. The matter-of-fact critic of the North objected that the story was impossible; because, in the supposed case of death, a coroner's inquest would have at once brought out the truth. The suggestion was mocked at as "Rigbyism," by high-flown sympathizers; but it was really of some importance, inasmuch as it showed that English people are not liable to the dangers which were represented as resulting from the disuse of confession-that the civil institutions of the country would interpose, if the Church failed to do so. But, besides this, ecclesiastical confession was evidently not the thing which in the first instance was wrongfully omitted; nor would ecclesiastical absolution have been required for what was not a matter of moral guilt. Confession and pastoral direction might, of course, have come in beneficially in the later stages; but the force of the story was destroyed by the fact that they would not have been necessary in the beginning. The lesson which remained-the duty of making a clean breast after having done wrong-was one which it had not been reserved for the authoress of Ellen Middleton to teach.

Although the purpose of the tale was to enforce confession, it did not, in so far as we

remember, advocate any thing of this sort beyond what might be had, if requisite, in the English Church. It was, therefore, with surprise and sorrow-the surprise unusual, and the sorrow not universally felt in such casesthat we read the announcement of Lady Georgiana Fullerton's having become a convert to Romanism. In that character, we shall hereafter have occasion to speak of her.

The gradual progress of opinions was, of course, not without effect on our story-books. In the early days of Messrs. Paget and Gresley, it was treated as a ridiculous impossibility that any person who had embraced doctrines akin to those of the Tracts for the Times, should ever fall away to the communion of Rome. Mr. Gresley was not a man to be put out by facts; when, therefore, secessions began to be undeniable and frequent, he maintained that the unhappy seceders had not forsaken us through their own fault, but had been driven away by puritan persecution. Mr. Paget, however, had betimes taken another line. Before the beginning of the actual defections, he attacked the coxcombry which was shewing itself among us with very hearty good will, in his cleverest work, The Warden of Berkingholt. Things had gone further when Hawk stone appeared; it is mainly directed against Romanism, and, as has been said, it is unmercifully severe on the the Idealism which was just then prevalent at Oxford. Ellen Middleton, with its persuasives to confession, would have been out of place at an earlier date; and Margaret Percival belongs to the still more advanced stage, when our young women were in immediate danger from Romanism.

Meanwhile, there were other appearances which we have not time to examine. There was a series of tales by members of the Cambridge Camden Society, which, if they have any literary or religious merit, must be very unlike such productions of the same writers as have happened to fall in our way. There were the Lives of English Saints, or Littlemore Myths; considerably more fictitious than any of the tales, and worthy to have proceeded from Mr. Newman, of the Minerva Press, rather than from his namesake of Oriel. There was a profusion of little books for children and the poor, at prices from a halfpenny upwards; some of them very clever, and better adapted for their purpose than anything that before existed in our language; others intolerably foolish and affected. Fouqué's works which for many years had been read among us as beautiful but somewhat fantastic tales, were now more extensively translated, and became the symbolical books of a high mystico-roman

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