| | | | | <2. Sintram and his Companions. By M. DE LAMOTTE> | | <3. Theodolf, the Icelander. By M. DE LA MOTTE > | | <4. Evenings with Old Story Tellers.> | | <5. Legends and Traditions.> | | <6. The most delectable, History of Reynard the Fox.> | | <7. Peter Schlemihl, the Shadowless man.> | | <8. Hans Andersen's Tales for the Young.> | | <9. The Lady of the Manor. By Mrs. SHERWOOD.> | | <10. The Castle Builders; or, the Deferred Confirmation.> | | <11. The Daisy Chain. By the Author of the 'Heir of Redclyffe.'> | | <12. The Fairy Bower. London: Mozley.> | <13. The Lost Brooch. By the Author of the "Fairy Bower"> | | | | IT has been the fate of most of the best story books, especially | those in which supernatural beings are introduced, to be seized | upon by a host of critics, in order to prove that the author had | some covert meaning, and under the guise of a tale intended to | inculcate a hidden lesson or moral. | Fouquet's "Undine," Chamisso's "Peter Schlemihl," were both | seized upon as containing a mystery which they would draw out for | the benefit of their readers. Both these authors, however, have | publicly, disclaimed any such intention; their only purpose in | publishing those tales was to give the world the like pleasure in | reading, which they had in writing, them. The fact is, that there is | no fiction which introduces supernatural beings, out of which, cannot | be drawn a moral, sometimes good, sometimes indifferent, from Spenser's | | "Faerie Queen," to Hans Andersen's "Ugly Duck;" perhaps we might | go farther, and say, no really good work of fiction. Who has ever | pondered over the curious Theogonies of the ancient poets, or read | Lord Bacon's "Wisdom of the Ancients," without marvelling at the | wondrous secrets of wisdom and truth contained even in some of their | coarsest and most revolting histories? Who can doubt but that the | framers of these Theogonies intended to teach the great truths of | creation, when they derived all from the first Being, Chaos? When | Eros, or Love, was the oldest of the gods, the son of Heaven and | Night; and The Fall in Pandora and her box, out of which flew all | evils, and only Hope remained behind? and again, how beautifully are | these wondrous fables unfolded in the later Greek tragedians, e.g. the | "Prometheus Vinctus" and the "Orestes." As the ballad preceded | history, and the hymn was the parent of the nation's creed, so it | needed but a vivid imagination to people a whole heaven with | deities, and all the earth with nymphs and satyrs. Heroes, | magnified through the mist of time, would easily rise into demigods, | and their great actions into manifestations of supernatural power. | Poets, taking up the thread where the hymn dropt it, plaited anew into | its folds their own thoughts and conceptions, and hung up its | gorgeous festoons in the national Pantheon, from whence later | philosophers taught the lessons which these allegories contained. It is | no doubt probable that many of the later legends and myths were mere | developments of the former, and were pure poetic fictions, their | authors having no hidden meaning below the surface, like | Fouquet's "Undine;" but there is | scarcely one, even with all the grossness of Ovid, but we may find | a moral in it if we look for it. | | | Let us turn now to the Christian Platonist, Henry More, and see how | he used the old legends, and how he interweaves the ancients' | philosophy into the Christian idea, of the life of the soul. He is | speaking of the birth of Psyche (the soul): ~~ | | | | | | This blending of Platonic philosophy with the truths of revelation, and | illustrating them by means of heathen legends, makes up a very fine | allegory, and seems to show how completely all error to be but a | perversion of truth, and all fable but a casket which contains it. | Jeremy Taylor, in the commencement of his matchless sermon, "Via | Intelligentiae," gives us a fable which exactly describes our meaning: | | | Error being then an imitation of truth; and false religions all | containing an image of truth in the clothing of error, we see how the | heathen fables | | may often be turned into Christian allegories. And thus we return to | our former remark, that all fiction has necessarily, like a fable, its | moral. This idea especially pervades the works of those most | inveterate of story tellers, the authors of the "Gesta:" every story has | its moral, though we fancy, like the commentator on Ovid whom we | mentioned above, that very often the story was written first, and the | moral found out afterwards, for some of the morals are very far fetched | indeed, certainly not to be discovered without an interpreter. With them | all nature and all history was a parable, and they set themselves to | find out a meaning. | | | | It has been suggested, and we need hardly say, with every likelihood | of truth, that the mediaeval legend of the "Wandering Jew" was an | allegory to represent in one person the doom, of Israel, on account of | their rejection of Christ; that, scattered among Christians in Christian | lands, they see everywhere the cross, and everywhere is it a torment to | them; they have no home, no country, but doomed to wander till Christ | comes to judgment: a state far more fully realized in the middle ages | than now but even in this century a poet could say: ~~ | | | | Let its take, by way of illustrating our position that supernatural | stories, when consistently written, have a moral, though not intended | by the authors, the German tale of Peter Schlemihl: a poor student | meets with a | who, in exchange for his shadow, gives | him a purse of gold which never is exhausted. Now it is clear, that | nothing is so entirely useless as a shadow; we cannot conceive it to be | any value; no-one | can be in the least degree better with a shadow than | without one: yet poor Peter Schlemihl is utterly wretched after its | loss; he cannot go out in the shine of day without being a marked man he | is cut off from society; twice on the point of marriage he is | disappointed, neither Fanny, nor Minna will have anything to do with | a weird creature who has no shadow. All his boundless wealth cannot | control respect, nor bring consolation to a shadowless man. And, | lastly, when in the deepest agony of mind, he restores to the tempter | the fatal gift, of the never-failing purse, he cannot | regain his lost shadow, he is forced to pass the rest of his life | a solitary man, cut, off from, and forgotten by, his fellows. Very | strikingly does this illustrate the bartering of any of God's gifts for | the world; honour, chastity, truth, may and are often sold for some | earthly pleasure or fancied advantage; and, when gone, can never be | regained. Repentance may restore the sinner to God's favour, but it | cannot give back what has been lost. Again: even sorrow or remorse | cannot procure restoration to peace of mind, or to God's favour, till | restoration is made; but even that will not restore lost innocence. | Chamisso did well in choosing the shadow as the | article of sale; simply for its apparent uselessness, as if to show that | the very least of God's gifts must not be tampered with. | | It is this moral, or hidden truth, half seen, perhaps only half | suspected, yet intuitively known to be there, that makes fairy tales so | attractive; there is something which at once captivates the mind, and | brings with it such a charm. Generally this lies chiefly in the end, or | winding up. Many novel readers look first at the | denouement, even before commencing the story; | if that does not please them they will not read the book. Look at | children when you are reading a story to them, how eager they watch; and | impatiently expect ~~ what? ~~ the end, the fate of the actors. Sir | Walter Scott, in the preface to one of his "Tales of my Landlord," | represents an old lady not content with knowing the fate of the | principal actors, but was quite unsatisfied till she knew what became of | all the inferior characters, down to Guse Gibbie. So children are quite | unsatisfied with the most stirring events, the most, interesting | adventures, unless it "ends well:" | there must be equal justice dealt | out to all parties; the wrong done must be set right, truth and justice | must | | finally settle and arrange the disordered elements of the tale, and give | to each actor his proper reward. Give children a well-written tale, like | the "Bride of Lammermuir" for instance, in which injustice and wrong | triumph, and they are miserable for days after reading it: it is not the | mere fact of killing people, not the horror of deaths and executions, | that disgusts children's minds, it is the injustice. They will hear | calmly of Front-de-Boeuf burned in his castle, or hundreds of people | executed or slain in an unjust rebellion, because their sense of justice | is not outraged ~~ it is rather satisfied; but the fate of Ravenswood | and Lucy Ashton is insupportable, because their interest has been | excited to the utmost pitch, and their whole sense of justice is | violated. We have known sleepless nights, tears shed in silence, nay, | loss of appetite, and almost of health, follow from reading the "Bride | of Lammermuir" and "S. Ronan's Well" by sensitive children. That which | gives the real delight to a tale of fiction is, when injustice and wrong | have been for some time triumphing, innocence and right suffering, the | end comes which deals out to each its full measure of justice; when the | order is reversed, and right triumphs, and wrong is crushed. We are | inclined to think that, upon the whole, it is better that very young | people should be allowed to read only such books as the latter, unless | there be some very strong intimation that the suffering of the innocent | is a discipline of faith, a special | dispensation of heaven. We would not wound too early the clear light | of conscience which pleads for justice and right; rather encourage it in | every way; experience, as years come on, will soon enough make all | familiar with triumphing injustice and suffering innocence, but it is | not good to blunt too early the keen edge of the natural sense of | justice. | | Living as we are under the light of the revelation of the New | Covenant, in which the expectation of the judgment at the general | resurrection is at once a solution of all difficulties regarding the | inequalities we see here, we hardly realize the difficulties of the | saints of the Old Covenant, in which "life and immortality" | were not yet "brought to light," | or of children, with whom the | present is everything. It was this that the | Psalmist found | for him, until a special revelation unfolded | the plans of Providence; and yet they were but this, that retribution | came in this life: | | | | This, too, is the great question discussed in the history of Job: the | three friends, like the Psalmist, could not believe, for they could not | comprehend, how a really righteous man could suffer as Job did: they, | therefore, hastily concluded that Job had been a great sinner,and that | all his well-known righteousness was but a cloak to cover his secret | wickedness; that now his sin had found him out, and God's anger overtook | him. Job utterly denies this, he strongly maintains his innocency, | i.e. such a freedom from great sin as deserved the | affliction that fell upon him: he knew it was not God, but his enemy | Satan, that had caused his misfortunes, and he stoutly vindicated both | God and himself: he was willing to meet this "adversary," he would be | glad if the adversary had | would bring a written libel | against him before God the Judge, when he was ready to answer him; and | declares his faith that his | "Redeemer," God, lived, was not dead ~~ was not unmindful of his | servant, but would, before the end of his mortal life, | | and would restore his diseased body to health, and in his very | "flesh" should "see" the righteousness of "God" ~~ a faith, we know, | which was verified to its fullest extent. | | We may turn from these Old Testament examples to one familiar to us | all ~~ the great conception of our great poet ~~ Hamlet, the philosphic | Prince of Denmark. Shakespeare introduces him to us as musing on his own | condition and that of the world around him: he sees his father dead, his | unworthy uncle on the throne; his mother, after only two months' | widowhood, forming an incestuous union with her | brother-in-law: ~~ | | Then, after his first interview with the Ghost: | | | Here we see the idea and feeling possessed him that he was | commissioned to set right the wrong done to his father, mother, | himself, and the whole of Denmark. The thought absorbs him, his | brain reels under the pressure; he acts strangely, speaks wildly; does | cruel injustice to Ophelia, whom he really loved, because he has lost | all confidence in woman's honour, by reason of his mother's conduct | in marrying her husband's murderer. Then infirmity of purpose | withholds him from the commission of the deed, and he allows | himself to leave the country: being brought back against his will, he | sees now no escape, and completes the deed, glad that, like Samson, | he perishes with his victim. | | Addison, too, in his well-known tragedy, places the great Roman | philosopher, Cato, in the like perplexity; only, perhaps, he puts into | Cato's mouth Christian sentiments of expectation in the world to | come, and a judgment there, which a heathen philosopher of that | period was not likely to possess: ~~ | | | The ancient poets solved all their difficulties by the | | only, as their ideas of gods were not moulded | on the Christian model, the deity did not always interfere | to punish the guilty. How could he, when, perhaps, he himself had | passions and feelings like the most lawless of men? However, | we know that Horace had to check this propensity among minor | poets to introduce the deities to clear up all difficulties, | | Now what these did with their | gods, we do with fairies: and what more delightful thing is there than | a really good fairy tale? It takes, first, the world as it is, with all | its injustice and contradictions, only perhaps much exaggerated: we have | some king ~~ your trite fairy tale delights in great personages ~~ | tyrannizing over some innocent and helpless family, ruthlessly carrying | off the beautiful daughter, imprisoning the faithful lover, and then, | just when the last moment comes, and our feelings are wrought, up to an | intense indignation against the oppressor, and equally intense interest | in the oppressed, a fairy godmother suddenly appears in a chariot drawn | by milk-white swans, and dispenses even-handed justice. The greater the | suffering and the greater the tyranny, the more intense the relief and | satisfaction when the fairy appears. And so, when children see or read | of injustice done, as it continually is in every-day life, how often we | hear the thought expressed: "Oh, I wish a fairy | would come!" It is true that | children delight in histories of giants, | sorcerers, genii, huge, monstrous, cruel, man-eating creatures; they | read | | of their killing and eating hundreds of innocent beings without | a shudder: but this is different, the interest in the innocent has | not been excited, they have been to them a mere flock of sheep: | besides, children love any exhibition of power: a giant or | magician exercising supernatural power has a charm in itself, | provided sympathy with the oppressed is not roused: excite that, | and all delight in the giant's powers and strength cease. | | We heard a story at Algier, of an Arab chief, which illustrates | our point; we mean that of sympathy being always with the | innocent and against the guilty, though of course, in this case, | his ideas were guided by his peculiar education. An Arab chief, | who had lived all his life in the desert, came on a visit of state | to the Viceroy of Algier; amongst other places to which he was | taken was the theatre; the plot of the piece hinged upon a no | uncommon incident in French life ~~ the infidelity of the wife. | In this piece the (as we should say) | injured husband, on discovering the liaison | of his wife, generously (as the French would consider it) | gave her up to her paramour, and everything ended to the | satisfaction of all parties ~~ except the Arab, who, | when this ending was explained to him, was so indignant, that | he offered to go and kill the woman himself, rather than she | should be allowed to live; and when he understood the actual | conclusion was satisfactory to all parties, conceived the utmost | contempt for the whole French nation generally, which could | tolerate such things. | | It is interesting to note how moral tales take the complexion of | the age in which they are written; the "Gesta Romanorum," and | the "Moralities," all are redolent of the convent: rude, coarse, as | many of them are, they have the stamp of the age in which they | gave delight to a rude and ignorant people; the grand moral | lesson is always somehow to be extracted from them. Historical | personages are jumbled up together without the slightest respect | for chronology, and all the customs and laws of chivalry are | made to regulate people and nations where western habits were | unknown, whence they appear to us as clumsy as must the | mailed crusaders, with their heavy Flemish war horses, have | done to the light armed Oriental with his swift Arab steed. How | many of us have smiled at the strange medley in "Midsummer | Night's Dream;" though here, probably, our own ignorance of the | state of Athens when it was a dukedom under western crusaders | puts us quite as much in the wrong as Shakespeare's. Even | Fouque, in his story of | "Theodolf the Icelander," makes the strange mistakes of | speaking of the customs of western chivalry in eastern | Constantinople, and of crucifixes and carved images | in the Greek churches. Contrast the stories in the | "Arabian Nights" with western | | fairy tales, and what a totally different character the hero | bears in them from that of the latter. In the former, the | | consists in utter indolence, surrounded by | perpetual sunshine and roses; doing nothing, but having, | numerous slaves to obey the slightest wish; gardens, palaces, unbounded | wealth, countless slaves, entire idleness, is the perfection; the | gratification of every whim and caprice, even | to the most minute petty revenge; the power to procure every enjoyment, | or to have cut off every offending head, is the | highest point of happiness; and this is still the Oriental | idea of bliss. At the present day, Turkish ladies dress in their richest | robes, put on their most precious jewels, and sit on | cushions surrounded with slaves, the only variety being that of changing | their dresses and re-arranging their hair and ornaments; their sole | employment eating sweetmeats, drinking coffee and | sherbert, and smoking the narghili. There is | no-one to display | all this finery to, but their lord and master, | no-one to converse | with but their slaves, yet they are perfectly happy; the only thing that | disturbs them is when they cannot have their whims or their revenges | gratified; the only politics the are interested in are the petty | intrigues of the household. A Turk in his kiosk, sitting in a | divan smoking and drinking coffee, thinking of nothing, and doing | nothing, is to be supremely happy ~~ it is kief | ~~ doing nothing and having nothing to do, having all done | for him, merely enjoying life; and this is certainly the notion of | happiness in the "Arabian Nights." Then, when supernatural | beings are introduced, generally huge monstrous beings, with | qualities like the Orientals, themselves, only in excess, either | prodigally good, or unspeakably malignant and cruel, it is to | save men the trouble of doing anything for themselves; not, as | in western fairy tales, to set things right at the last, but to | build palaces, heap up untold wealth, or overthrow some | invincible enemy, while the person for whom all this is done | enjoys kief. | | The East, however, has its moral tales as well as the West. | There are some virtues which are to be always practised under | any circumstances; these therefore must be held up before the | eyes continually, and the duty of observing them at all times | enforced; we need hardly say that the first of these is | hospitality; this is not to be neglected, even to an enemy or an | unbeliever. The beautiful story of Abraham and the Gueber, | which Bishop Heber traced to the Persian poet Saadi, is a fine | example of this sort of Eastern fable. Though well known, it is | short, and to the point, and we make no apology for quoting it. | | | | | The stories of the Jewish Rabbin, if not taken up with fabulous | accounts of King Solomon, are generally intended to "justify | the ways of God to man." We shall give one; it is on | that vexed question of which we have spoken before, of the | seeming allowance of wickedness, and the (apparent) injustice | towards the innocent: ~~ | | | | | We now turn to another well-known mediaeval tale, that of | "Reynard,the Fox;" a tale in moral and purpose totally different | from the others. Reynard is a thorough rascal, he keeps | himself in his castle of Malepardus, well fortified, full of | secret places, with every means of defence and escape, so as to | defy all animal kind. Sent for by his king to attend the court, | where nearly everyone | has some charge against him, he dares | not appear, well knowing what his crimes deserve. The king | sends Tybert the cat to summon him; by a series of manoeuvres, | poor Tybert gets sadly mangled, and returns in pitiful plight to | the king. Bruin the bear, next sent, fares no better; Reynard gets | him into a trap, where he is miserably beaten; then goes | Grimbard the badger, Reynard's nephew, who persuades him to | Come. Here, after being condemned to death, he manages to | deceive the king, queen, and all the court into believing in his | innocence. Next he turns hypocrite, and promises to go on a | pilgrimage to Rome to obtain absolution. Again the king sends | Kyward the hare, and Bellin the ram, to bring him to court. | Reynard kills Kyward, and sends the body back to the king, by | Bellin. Again, challenged by Isegrim the wolf, by his subtlety, | far more than by strength, he gains the victory; again wheedles | king, queen, and court; is not only pardoned, but elevated to the | rank of chancellor, and rules all for the king. | | In this fable we are altogether carried away with sympathy for | Reynard; we know his rascality, but we admire his craft, and | are glad when we hear that he gets out of his scrapes; the fate of | Tybert, or poor Kyward, does not diminish our sympathy, we | should have been really sorry had Reynard been executed, as he | deserved: altogether, we must say the story is a very immoral | one. What makes the interest is the skill and cleverness of the | chief actor; all displays of power are attractive, none more so | than where superior craft prevails over brute force; we are | inclined to forgive the iniquity, on account of the success. It is | all the same in reading of the achievements of Claud Duval, or | Jack Sheppard; we can hardly help regretting | | when we come to the end, and read of the execution of these | two unprincipled robbers. The like feelings are always excited | at the very name of brigand: there is, first, romance; the wild, | free, reckless life of a brigand has a fascination in itself like that | of Robinson Crusoe, especially when attended by acts of | generosity, and wild justice; then, there is success, a very | important element ~~ some men, like Mr. Carlyle, seem almost to | consider that success proves the rectitude of the successful man, | and atones for his crimes. | | "Reynard the Fox" has a moral, and it is a very immoral | one, yet one that has a great deal of truth in it, and truth that | one must acknowledge. It is that which the sophists of Athens | and the statesmen of mediaeval Italy taught and practised. | The argument stands thus: ~~ The world is very wicked, men | are wicked; if you expect to govern the world and rule men, you | must employ craft; your straightforward, honest, simple-minded | man will never make an able statesman; sooner or later he will | be overreached, out-manoeuvred, by some clever intriguer; if | you want to prosper you must meet craft by craft, your states-man must | be as wily as his opponents. Make friends then with | your crafty opponent, gain him over to your side, and you obtain | a double benefit; you rid yourself of an enemy, and | you gain a valuable supporter ~~ do not | put Reynard under the | ban, make him chancellor. This is the moral, ~~ as we have | said, it is an immoral one, but can | anyone deny the policy of | such a line of action? | | We shall give a quotation from Lord Macaulay's essay on | Machiavelli, which will show the feelings on these things in | Italy in the middle ages, and will well explain the force of the | mediaeval fable of "Reynard the Fox." | | | | | We are not to be supposed for a moment to endorse all that | Lord Macaulay says in this passage, we only quote it to show | what was the current political opinion in the middle ages, at, | the time, perhaps, when "Reynard the Fox" was written. Neither | do we think that the writer accounts for the sympathy felt for | Othello, in spite of his crimes; that which excites our feelings in | his behalf is, that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and that his | crimes were not those of a deliberate villain, like Iago, but | were the untamed impulse of justice degenerating into revenge; | his own self-murder, the same impulse trying to make | atonement for his deeds ~~ as he himself says: ~~ | | | If Lord Macaulay's opinion is right, and we think it is, that the | Italian of the fifteenth century would admire a successful villain | more than an unsuccessful hero, though he were perfection | itself, we can well understand how "Reynard the Fox" would | set forth in their eyes the true principles of policy, and how | many active admirers he would have; and this is only another | proof of the fact, that the fable is ever according to the age. | | The last century, the cold, formal, lifeless, eighteenth century, | as we, looking at the religious aspect of that age, delight | to call it, had its moral tales, taking their complexion from the | religious notions of the writers. They were content to teach | morality, plain, formal, unvarnished morality, interspersed with | pious reflections on dependence on God and submission to his | | will, and complete resignation to his judgments: but, generally, | the whole doctrine of grace is ignored. Take Dr. Johnson's | allegories, that one, for instance, of the topless and bottomless | mountain, where he warns us against the power and influence | of little imps called "habits"; ~~ all very true, and very useful, | but where throughout everything seems | to depend upon the moral will and strength alone; no | allusion is made at all to any means of grace to help | us to do conflict with the powers and | temptations of evil: e.g. what a | different and Christian tone would have been communicated to | the whole had he introduced the simple addition of | | by the wayside of the toilsome ascent, whereby the | travellers could have refreshed themselves and gained strength | for their work; and made those who neglected these means soon | and surely become victims of those little imps, till the power of | them hindered their farther progress. Another favourite form of | the religious tale was to make all good children die and go to | heaven, while wicked ones lived on in earth. Here, again, is the | ignoring the fact that real religion, that especially which we | should enforce on the young mind, lies in bearing the trials and | temptations of this life, not in the wish to leave it. A lady once | told us, long ago, and we have never forgotten the fact, that she | was educated with the continual maxim driven into her brains, | "Be good, and you will go to heaven," | enforced by giving her | many tales to read in which all good children died and went to | heaven: and that this way of teaching so affected her, that | having no wish at all to die, she did a great many wrong things, | just enough to destroy that peculiar "goodness" which she saw in | books always led to an early death. In these books there was | always one great fault, the moral intended to be taught was too | manifestly apparent: it was always being brought into notice, | thrust before one's eyes, and the story spoilt; instead of letting | the imagination go on in its own way, the writer cropped the | natural growth of the tale, twisted the parts, clipped the | proportions, till it became, like the trees of a garden of the | eighteenth century ~~ that glory of topiary art ~~ lions, | elephants, peacocks, swans. We Live in our day pretty well got | through this conventionality; we had, however, to go through | another phase first, the preaching. A story is written perhaps of | great interest, incidents well conceived, characters well drawn; | every now and then the whole is marred by the introduction of | religious discussions between the various parties, all intended | to explain and enforce the writer's particular views ~~ so that | really the tale was a mere bait to catch the unwilling into | listening to an enunciation of Calvinistic views or Tractarian | doctrine. We believe that Mrs. Sherwood was the inventor | | of this stratagem: "Stories on the Church-Catechism," and the | "Lady of the Manor," were the books by which she sought to | influence the young, and win them over to a religious life. | Knowing no other form of earnest religion than that presented | by the Evangelical school, and yet deeply attached to the | Church, she naturally sought to bend the dogmatic statements | of the latter into accordance with the peculiar notions of the | former. Her stories are therefore marred by the narrow views | that characterise the school to she belonged; that story which is | intended to illustrate Holy Baptism naturally denies the full gift | of grace therein promised to all who are brought to that | sacrament, and confines its gift to a few who are supposed to be | the "elect." Others are likewise spoilt by the same confined | views. The real defect ~~ we speak only of the story, not of the | writer's opinions ~~ is the introduction of preachments; the | thread of the story is broken, the path suddenly blocked up and | we must either patiently endure the disquisition, or skip whole | pages, before we take up the thread, or resume our way. We | well remember when we were young listening on Sunday | evenings to the reading of these stories, and we remember the | vexation and impatience with which we viewed these | discussions, and how glad we were when they were over, and | the story resumed. | | Another defect in this writer is the apparently fixed idea that | any man who became a religious character should invariably | proceed to seek for Holy Orders, and that every religious | woman should become a clergyman's wife: a religious laity she | ignores. In one story, an ambitious mother forces her daughter | into a state of splendid misery by marrying a worldly duke, | when she wished to marry a clergyman; throughout the tale, the | idea seems to be, that the unhappiness proceeded, not so much | from marrying the duke, as from not marrying the clergyman. | By far the best stories, and those most free from faults, are those | in which the scene is laid in India. At the time they were | written very little was known of social life in that country, they | came to us then with a freshness and novelty which could not | be found elsewhere; life in Indian barracks and bungalows is | there graphically and powerfully described. | | The great Catholic movement of our day was very materially | advanced by religious novels, from the regular three volume | size to the threepenny stories published by Burns and Masters. | At first they were characterised by the faults before mentioned, | though perhaps necessary from general ignorance of Church | doctrines; they were many of them mere flimsy covers, which | enclosed, but did not conceal, the author's "views" and | doctrines. Very useful were they for the purpose intended, for | they were | | read where a directly doctrinal treatise would not have been | looked into: besides, they showed religious life in a very | different phase. In Mrs. Sherwood's days a | "pious clergyman" | was one who preached justification by faith on Sundays, and | went to talk religious subjects over his lady-parishioners' tea | tables on week-day evenings, and who, whilst indulging in this | harmless dissipation, denounced in the severest terms the sinful | worldliness of balls, theatres, and card parties. Positive theology | seemed to consist chiefly in holding | "clear views" on justification by | faith and sanctification; and practical theology, in keeping holy the | Sunday. The change which took place in the style of these novels | when Tractarians used them to enunciate | their views is something quite marvellous. | It is very curious to contrast some of the earlier novelettes of | Gresley, or Paget with Mrs. Sherwood's; it is true we have the long | disquisitions, and expositions of "views," but the ideal clergyman, | and the ideal religious life, is totally different. Daily prayer | and frequent celebrations instead of preachings, school-work and | regular visitations of the poor instead of tea-table discussions, were | now made the characteristics of the priest's life; all amusements were | no longer denounced as "worldly," nor considered as sinful; a wider | and more genial course of life was advocated; secular novels fairy | tales, and such like, which by the straitest sect of Evangelicals were | thought positively wicked, were freely allowed to our children to read | and enjoy, and were showered upon them in the brightest blue and red | bindings, and illustrated with delightful woodcuts. The whole was a | reaction from cold formal Puritanism to a warm, healthy expansion of | the natural in mind and thought. We shall not stop to show how this | principle has run into the extreme of the | "muscular Christianity" school. | | This great change is only a part of the mighty religious reaction | from Puritanism; and that reaction was not merely the work of | the Oxford tract writers, but was one of those national, | intellectual, and moral changes, with which every student in | history is familiar. The Evangelical movement of the last | century was a national reaction from the cold formality brought | in by the revolution of 1688, when the Church's best life was | crushed out, or had to find refuge among the non-jurors. Real | spiritual life could not exist upon the "plain and simple | explanation" of this or that mystery, or this or that doctrine, | all "adapted to the meanest capacity," | ~~ which adaptation consisted | in eliminating all warm, affectionate, familiar language, which | alone the "meanest capacity" understands, and | substituting solemn Johnsonian English, utterly unadapted to the aforesaid | capacity. No wonder crowds went to hear the first methodist | | preachers, and filled the churches of the early Evangelicals; it | was the very thing that a loving and affectionate heart craved | for, to hear the love of the Saviour and the salvation of the | sinner spoken of in this manner; nay, it could delight in | listening to the horrors of the torments of hell, because, there | was energy, life, reality, which went home to an empty heart | longing to be filled. It is true that many of those sermons | which once moved thousands to tears, read to us now meagre, | bald, and tame in the extreme; nay, we believe they would fall | generally powerless on a congregation of the present day; but at | the time they were preached they were new, fresh, and told of | things long hidden from the hearers; to us they are old and | familiar, and so have lost their force: nothing can be a greater | mistake than for a modern evangelical preacher to reproduce the | sermons of the last century, and expect to see them followed by | any other effect than drowsiness and indifference. | | In like manner, the Catholic reaction was a work to supply | another want in the soul which had been entirely overlooked by | the earlier, and still more by the later Evangelicals, ~~ the | sacramental: confusing spirit with mind and feelings, or rather, | fancying that what affected the two latter was that which | constituted spiritual life; they imagined that a feeling of a need | for a Saviour, and a belief in | "justification by faith," was nearly | the sum total of a Christian's duty: ignoring, to a great extent, | the inner spiritual life, the growth in grace, the silent struggle | with temptation, none of which can be supported but by | constant aid of the Incarnate God, and a union with Him, not by | faith only, but by a real participating in His twofold nature, they | failed to supply the stream of grace afforded in the sacraments. | In a word, while they believed that we were reconciled to God | by the death of his Son, they failed to realize what follows, | "much more, being reconciled, we shall | be saved by his life." | The Catholic movement came to supply this lack; while the | Atonement and the Cross were fully set forth, they were both | made a living reality, and not a matter of mere faith: calling for | repentance, sinners were invited to seek for pardon and grace | through the sacraments, as the appointed means to bring them | to the Incarnate Saviour. | | By degrees, as these doctrines became more and more clearly | understood and acted on, the religious tale dropped its | expository conversations and its preachments, and allowed the | thread of the story to go on unbroken, trusting to the general | tone of the whole to impress the reader with the great practical | truths which hang upon, and accompany the belief of doctrinal | truth; faith is illustrated more by the life of the character | described than by mere theological terms by which it may be | expressed: | | instead of a disquisition on daily prayer, or confession, or | frequent reception, the good effects of the practice of these | things is shown in the life and conversation. The inner life of a | family is described, not always talking goodness, and speaking | as if there was always a suspicion that the walls had ears to | hear, and mouths to tell the little pieces of nonsense that | brothers and sisters always do talk when by themselves; but as | such boys and girls really do talk and act. The tight dress, stiff | collar, everlasting, pipeclay of the soldier in barracks in | England, soon gave way to something more natural and easy | when the real work of the Russian war commenced; so the | characters of our tales put off the stiff buckram of | goodness-talking, and spoke naturally about themselves and other | people. We are quite sure that this really natural way of acting | and speaking, as may be seen in Miss Sewell's or Miss Yonge's | novels, has a far more beneficial and far more practical effect on | mind and heart than all the preaching and talkings in the world.