the mind, and dragging it down to the level of manœuvres and tale bearings, and even worse, There are pictures that we would not hang up in our drawing-rooms, while we still unblushingly allow some of these poisonous, old, fœtid productions of a bye-gone age to occupy the shelves of our libraries; and the answer is, that there is ability mixed up with their obscenity. So there is, in the painting. And what are some of the precious productions alluded to, but " coarser and more prurient Ostades ?"

Of course, in talking about novels and novel writing, I shall take care to confine myself, in the present article at least, to English ground, where I find far too much of which to represent even the outline, without plunging into the different styles of French, German, and American authors, their aims, their peculiar standards, &c. Just, however, as this article is going to the press, I see an answer to a correspondent of the "Family Herald," inserted in the number for November 13, by which it appears that some one, hating novels as much as my preacher friend, has been endeavouring to prove that "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is not one. The following excellent reply is given :—

"A. H. C.-" Uncle Tom's Cabin" is as much a novel as any other story. A friend of A. H. C. apparently thinks it cannot be a novel because there is so much religious feeling in it. That only makes it more novel. It is not only a novel, but one with much young life and blood in it; very unlike the old man's garrulity, and hole-and-corner rakings from impossible scenes of life and character which characterise the generality of English novels. It is life at large, not hole-and-corner life. We hope it may put new life into some of our popular tale writers. They want a little more blood injected into their old veins. The novel is the most ancient and venerable mode of communicating instruction. It is merely the parable extended. It has been much profaned in this miscellaneous era; but that we hope will not always be."

In one of the latest Serials that has appeared and been completed" Lewis Arundel"-a thoroughly amusing, rollicking kind of story, with " Illustrations by Phiz," there are some whole pages, which, by the bye, fit in marvellously well with the tale, containing an argument on the object of life, sustained by a high-spirited youth, thrown into sadly unfavourable circumstances, and his friend and adviser. The conclusions that they come to, and the reasonings by which they arrive at it, form a thoroughly Christian lesson, couched in interesting and attractive language, which will have its full effect where such lessons seldom reach, and where in their usual garb they are treated as unacceptable and useless.

From a few verses that appear in one of the chapters I extract the following:

Preacher, too dark thy mood;

God made this earth

At its primeval birth,

He saw that it was good."

For that this earth is no abiding place

Shall we displace

The flowers that God hath scattered on our path,
The kindly hearth

The smile of Love still brightening as we come,
Making the Desert-Home,-

The seventh day of rest, the poor man's treasure
Of holy leisure-

Bright sunshine, happy birds, the joy of flowers.
Ah, no! this earth of ours

Was very good, and hath its blessings still;
And if we will

We may be happy; say, stern Preacher, why
Should we then hate to live, or fear to die,
With Love for Time, Heaven for Eternity?"

Why here we have again something very like the two contrasted characters respecting whom I spoke somewhat earlier—the misanthrope student of the positive, and the believer in the possible!

How comes it that all this time I have omitted to say anything respecting one of the great masters of fiction-one of the true enchanters in the ideal world—who can bring before us incidents full of the most touching pathos, and describe the sternest scenes with fitting energy and power, who seizes upon a thousand ludi crosities so graphically, that merriment follows wherever his laughter-provoking sheets reach, as surely as light, follows the sun-of course I mean Charles Dickens. How wearily the months drag round when we cannot look out for what he himself calls his "two green leaves" coming periodically forward-may they be evergreens-equally delightful, whether read by the cosy fireside in winter, or among the luxuriance of summer.

Dickens's vein of humour is, indeed, irresistible. One of his great charms, likewise, is, that he always looks upon the bright side of things, in this respect taking a leaf out of his own book, acting, as that amusing production of his pen, Mark Tapley, would insist upon doing, under even the most unfavourable of circumstances. Continued with great power of satirizing the weaknesses of the day, we often find in his writings the most beautiful touches, showing an intense appreciation of all that is lofty and ennobling in human nature, a recognition of whatever is true, lively, and of good report, with an entire carelessness as to garb and station in society. The old maxim comes perforce

I

into my head, "Honour and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honour lies." Trite, but still well worthy of consideration-a great deal in a little compass-and this has been well exemplified in many of our author's tales.

There is a severe satire in the following remark, taken from "Martin Chuzzlewit," upon the common failing of judging too much by mere outward appearances. Notice how lightly and playfully, and yet how skilfully it is worded—

"Mrs. Todgers, with her holiday garments fluttering in the wind, accompanied them to the carriage, clung round Mercy's neck at parting, and ran back to her dingy house crying the whole way. She had a lean, lank body, Mrs. Todgers, but a wellconditioned soul within. Perhaps the good Samaritan was lean and lank, and found it hard to live. Who knows? when boardinghouse accounts were balanced, with all other ledgers, and the books of the recording angel are made up for ever, perhaps there may be seen an entry to thy credit, lean Mrs. Todgers, which shall make thee beautiful !"

Such descriptions, too, as we constantly meet with, like that of the clouds and wind upon the sea, the " sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of that small island, sleeping a thousand miles away so gaily in the midst of angry waves"—the battle of the midnight ocean with the lonely ship-and that far other scene of the travel of a stage coach by night, when the moon was lighting up the country roads, " Yoho! a match against the moon, Yoho! Yoho!" But it is in vain attempting a list, or even to mention the many gems, or rather glories, of the English language, which rise up in the memory at the name of Dickens! Compared with his landscapes, most others are dull and gloomy, perhaps almost the same scene, but how different! I may liken the latter to an expanded, diversified view of hill and dale, and a thousand objects on a rainy, unfavourable day. But when the sunshine, with its full stream, is spread over all, what a change comes to pass; how the distant waters shine like threads of silver -how the foliage takes glistening and varying tints—what a glow of happiness is there-such is the freshness and the wonderful power of genius.

I must not enlarge further on the productions of Charles Dickens. Surely there are few, if any, of my readers, who will not remember for themselves a thousand examples of his vivid tale-telling, which will ever live amongst their pleasantest literary recollections; neither would it be in accordance with my taste to lead the patient listener, if I should happen to catch hold of such an one, a wire-drawn, lengthy journey of illustration through the

myriad publications of the present day. Have I not said enough on both sides of the question to show what my opinion is, and how it has been formed? Ah! my friend, preacher of temperance in all things, whom I still see in my mind's eye, declaiming, with rather misguided zeal, against all novels in three, or, for ought I can tell, any number of volumes, have you not overshot the mark -proclaimed a fast when there ought rather to have been a feastrecommended total abstinence from what are truly among the good things of this life? In avoiding Scylla how have you recklessly dashed upon Charybdis !

IOTA.

SHAKESPEARE-THE POET-CATHOLIC. THE Elizabethan era has been justly regarded as the golden age of our country's history; thence we may date the rise in our position as a nation, and it is to that period we are, in a great measure, indebted for much that has been great and glorious in our subsequent national existence.

It was the age of the Reformation. The people were just emancipated from the thraldom to which they had been subjected for long centuries by a mass of degrading superstitions, and the result was, that the national intellect, fettered and hindered in its achievements as it had been, obtained in so remarkable a change a strong and immediate impulse, acquired a tenfold energy, and was enabled to accomplish during the lifetime of a single generation, things which, in the ordinary course of events, it would have required many centuries and generations to have produced.

It would be difficult, in fact impossible, sufficiently to estimate the immense benefits which have accrued to England, and, indeed, to European Christendom in general, from the Protestant Reformation. We cannot know the vast impulse given to the development of human civilization in that sudden awakening of mankind from the long night of Papal darkness and oppression. We can merely estimate the characteristics reposing on the surface-the immediate extension of political theories, and the great improvement resulting in the art of government-the direct liberty bestowed upon human thought and mental enquiry, and the consequent activity acquired by scientific and philosophical investigation -the discovery of important laws and regulations in the material and spiritual universe, tending to the improvement and exaltation of the species, and exercising a decisive bearing upon human progress and human civilization-the sudden warmth kindled in the

worlds of art and of literature, giving birth to men whose intellectual greatness and magnificent achievements, have exercised so vast an influence upon succeeding ages, and have rendered them the intellectual sovereigns of the race, and heirs to the admiration and the reverence of all coming generations.

In England the Reformation bore as much of a political as of a religious aspect. The State broke its alliance with one Church but to become united to another whose inner life, though devoid of the great abominations which had disfigured its predecessor, was as much concealed and enshrouded by cold forms and worthless ceremonies. It was left to a subsequent era to produce that great change in the religious life of England, which was effected on the Continent by the Protestant Reformation. The influence of the German Luther was felt here, but the English priesthood lacked the energetic fervour that animated the soul of the Dominican. It remained for Bunyan, Baxter, and the Puritans to achieve that ecclesiastical change which was destined to alter the whole framework of English society, and to arouse and upheave the great religious soul that lay slumbering therein.

And, perhaps, had the Reformation in its earlier stages assumed in England more of a religious than of a political aspect, much of the national greatness and glory which ensued might have been wanting. The great national intellect which then became developed, and which then achieved so many marvellous works, might have wasted its abundant energy upon sectarian struggles, and in worthless debates about bishop and presbyter. As it was, however, the stream coursed along its proper channel; and the reign of Elizabeth, graced as it was by some of the noblest spirits that have adorned our land, has become the glory of our national history, and we are left in wondering admiration of the mighty beings who, wielding a colossal strength, infused that strength into the frame-work of their country, and constituted her the leader of the nations in the onward march of human civilization.

Subsequent periods can boast of no such men as those who adorned the time of Elizabeth. Strong, sturdy, Saxon, they left upon their age the impress of their own individualities, and laid the foundation of all the future glory and prosperity of their country. They were at once the created and the creators of their time, and keenly grasping the circumstances by which they were surrounded, they subjected and moulded them to their own wills, and then wielded them as instruments potent for good. Alike regardless of the smiles and frowns of their contemporaries, they heeded not what the world calls popularity; but, mastering the