own master.' His conscience gave way, until at length (profound and sincere is the apology offered to a Christian audience for repeating such blasphemy), in the pretended miracle of the raising of Lazarus, he became the unwilling conniver at a fraud, got up for interested purposes by his friends! Such is the last humanitarian theory with which a man reputed to be a scholar, and still professing to be a Christian, has shocked the religious feelings of France and Europe and the world." (Lect. iii. pp. 61, 62.)

The inconsistency, however, of Rénan's premises with his conclusions must strike every one who is unacquainted with the singular idiosyncrasies of the Gallic mind. How imposture should do the work of truth, and ignorance reveal the secrets of ineffable wisdom, and sinful connivance with fraud and error should have won the Saviour the admiration of His own age, and the adoring love of every succeeding one, and how a religion built upon such failing props and buttresses should conquer the conquerors of the world-all this is a problem which the French admirers of this writer may attempt to harmonize and solve, but which, most certainly, no one else can. Yet the overruling providence of God has so ordered it, that this "Life of Jesus" has awakened such interest in France, from its descriptive beauty and various literary attractions, that multitudes are inquiring for the divine original of such a singular travestie, and the colporteurs sell more New Testaments than usual in consequence of its popularity. So true it is, that men, however badly disposed, "can do nothing against the truth, but for the truth." Christianity has thus shone from age to age, like the sun, upon the cradles and graves alike of its foes and its friends. From the history of the past, we have a right to augur the triumphs of its future, assured that, like its Divine author, it shall go on in a career of victorious progression, though the pillars of heaven should be shaken, and the light of the world be extinguished. M. Rénan is the real loser; for had he employed his fine talents in the right direction instead of the wrong one,-for Christ wholly, instead of so much against Him; dealing honestly by the evidence, instead of falsifying it in so many particulars,―he would have gained to his memory a lasting name, instead of inflicting upon his own conscience a fearful wound. But the pride of a fancied superiority, and the desire to eclipse his fellows by striking out an erratic course, has fatally misled his better judgment. His false theory, like the apple with an insect at the core, inviting to the eye but treacherous to the hope, seems to have been the tempting bait for which he has lost the world, and been content to lose it.

We regret that our remaining space will not permit our furnishing an outline of the author's convincing statements upon the genial character of God's retributive dispensations,

in which, by a singular process of deductive argument, the impenitent man is made witness and judge of his own case-more terrific, by far, than any declamation could possibly be. But our readers will be thankful to read the lecturer's closing appeal, wherein tenderness and terror are eloquently combined in an unusual degree.

"Nor should it fail to give to our convictions upon this subject a yet deeper reality and intenseness, to remember that, if there be any Scriptural presentments of the doctrine more awfully graphic and appalling than the rest, they are those which proceeded from the lips of Christ Himself; from Him whose sensitiveness and compassion were more than human; from Him who came not to destroy men's lives, nor yet to make them sad, but to redeem us from the power of the destroyer, and to save us with an everlasting love.

"And if in order to this he dwells sometimes on the portion of the ungodly-the worm and the fire, and the darkness and the gnashing of teeth-yet is this only to prevail with us to look at the future world on its other side, and see the spiritual glory of the righteous-fellowship with angels, a seat on the throne, a sight of God. Jesus knows what is in man, and whatever will be in him; that the bitterest ingredient in the cup of undying anguish will be the remembrance, by the impenitent sinner, of the salvation he has refused, and the grace he has resisted, and the calls he has disregarded -the thought of the Saviour who besought him earnestly to accept forgiveness, and of the Spirit who strove with him mightily that he might repent and live. Hence the urgency with which, both in the Old Testament and in the New, we are exhorted to flee from the wrath to come. . . . .

....

"Very soon the powers of immortality will be upon us, and we shall stand in our lot in the realms of a changeless world-changeless to the lost, for where in the midst of that demon-throng should they find one mighty to save?-changeless to the saved, for not all the powers of eternity could make a redeemed saint to fall.

"One thought more. We began by saying that the words of our text were among the last of those which John heard in heaven. They were not quite the last. The older Revelation may conclude with the sentence, Lest I come and smite the earth with a curse;' but the dispensation of grace must close with the offers of grace. Love lingers on the angel's tongue, as the last strains of the inspired music are dying away. And while it is needful to make the proclamation before all worlds, that the resurrection character changeth not, that he that is holy shall be holy still; and he that is filthy shall be filthy still, yet shall not the vision be sealed up without another, and another, and another earnest entreaty of the sinner to accept a present salvation, and to lay hold on eternal life.—AND THE SPIRIT AND THE BRIDE SAY, COME. AND LET HIM THAT HEARETH SAY, COME. AND LET HIM THAT IS ATHIRST COME. AND WHOSOEVER WILL LET HIM TAKE THE WATER OF LIFE FREELY." (pp. 148-150.)

We commend this volume to the attention of our readers, as an antidote to the scepticism of the time, and a great service

to the cause of true religion in the present day. This is a book which "the scholar may read for its learning, the sceptic for its argument, the Christian for its piety;" and those who are perplexed by the cavils of infidelity or the intricacies of controversial criticism, for its clear and convincing advocacy of the truth as it is in Jesus.

NOVELS.

1. Sword and Gown. By the Author of Guy Livingstone. 2nd edition. Parker and Son.

2. Recommended to Mercy. In 3 vols. Saunders, Otley, & Co.

NOVELS, like newspapers and magazines, unquestionably form one of the most striking characteristics of the present age. Never were so many works of fiction written, never perhaps were they so universally read. The advertisements that swarm in every book and every paper, and the lists of our great circulating libraries, sufficiently attest this assertion. There are some tendencies which, be they good or be they evil, it is impossible to check. Whether this passion for novel-reading be necessarily one of these, we will not pretend to determine. But granted that it is so, it behoves us seriously to remember that tendencies, though they cannot be checked, may yet be directed, and that the bend which we give the sappling will often, very often, determine its future growth.

We would premise, to start with that we decidedly approve of the reading of good works of fiction. According to the dictum of a great German writer, a man should, if possible, every day of his life hear a charming bit of music, or see a beautiful picture, or read a page of firstrate poetry; or, we would add, a chapter of a fine work of fiction. God has bestowed none of His gifts in vain on the sons of men, and not the least precious of those gifts have fallen to the lot of the poet and the novelist. Certain tastes have been implanted within us, which it is our duty, if possible, to cultivate; and not the least noble or the least pure of those tastes is the love of the good and the beautiful. Indeed, the universal verdict of all ages has ratified this opinion. We speak with just admiration and gratitude of those who have pourtrayed to us the heart of man, who have given us the tale of Troy divine, the woes of Edipus, the sorrows of Marguerite, Viola, and Desdemona, with their stainless, unfaltering love; Di Vernon and Rebecca, with their true unselfishness, their noble devotion. Nay, even the Book of Books (with all reverence be it said) appeals most strongly to our merely human feelings, inasmuch as it shows us what is in man,

and constantly holds up before our eyes the highest standards of human excellence. To deny ourselves the pleasure of studying and loving such characters as these, would be to crush our affections with more than an anchorite's ruthlessness.

But the very feeling which would lead us to praise really good novels, would lead us to visit with the most unsparing censure really bad novels. Horace, with all the bitterness of a poet who is conscious of his own merits, inveighs against those wretched versifiers who believed themselves to be Virgils and Homers. But, fortunately, bad poetry is generally suicidal. Those who venture unworthily to enter the temple of the Muses are punished invariably with everlasting contempt and oblivion. In the case of a bad novel, on the other hand, the avidity with which it is read too often bears an exact proportion to the amount of evil which it contains; and authors who know the weakness of their powers, resort to the vilest stimulants to make their work palatable.

There is another consideration, too, which cannot fail to have its due weight with us, when we regard it aright—the difference, namely, between the effect of the works of the novelist and the works of the poet. Most poetry, from its very nature, considered simply as poetry, may be extremely good, though its tendencies be extremely bad. Most novels, from their very nature, considered simply as novels, cannot ever be extremely good, if their tendency be extremely bad. That we may not be misunderstood, we will endeavour to make our meaning clearer. What we mean to say is this-that the merits for instance of Lucretius' De Rerum Naturâ, from a poetical point of view, are not lessened by the fact, that his poem was written in defence of a most absurd system of philosophy. We admire his verses, though we laugh at the theory of the atomists. So, again, few persons would be disposed to deny any praise to Pope's Eloisa and Abelard, though they might censure its morality in the strongest terms. Such poems as Byron's Don Juan fall under another class. They are simply licentious novels translated into verse. But works of fiction are subject to a totally different law. Society has rightly considered that the morality of a work of fiction cannot be separated, as in the case of poetry, from the artistic ability with which it is written. For those books represent to us the life in which we all move; they set before us scenes through which we all may pass; they paint characters after which we may each of us fashion our own individual character. In the Frogs of Aristophanes, Eschylus heaps the bitterest reproaches on Euripides for the immorality of his plays, and we all acknowledge the justice of his reproaches. Novels are to us what their tragedies were to the Athenians; and the immorality which vitiated the writings of the Athenian tragedian will as assuredly vitiate the writings of our modern novelists.

And yet in many respects a bad novel is more fatal than a bad play. Public decency would effectually check any excessive grossness on the stage; but over literature, except incidentally, public opinion has no control. A play, save in particular cases, cannot be enjoyed by solitary individuals, but a novel can; and the mind may brood over impure chapters again and again, till the poison has entered the whole soul, Even this does not sum up the full extent of the evil. A novel represents scenes with a vividness and reality which even the best plays, unless acted on the stage, cannot attain. Moreover, the love of novel reading grows upon us with incredible rapidity. As soon as one is finished, another is taken up; and the unnatural craving for intellectual excitement grows in proportion as it is satisfied.

We are convinced that the picture we have drawn is not exaggerated. And it is meant, of course, to apply only to the readers of bad novels. The perusal of good ones is a healthy pleasure, and it is seldom that the love of pure and healthy pleasure is carried to excess. But, unhappily, a class of novels has lately sprung up, which has no object except to pander to the most depraved tastes, and resorts to the most unworthy means to attain that object. Nothing is more unwholesome for the mind than continued excitement, and this excitement it is the aim of these novels to produce. Almost always destitute of high artistic skill, they do not scruple to supply this deficiency by filling the scene with creatures from whom we shrink as we should from Yahoos, and with crimes and vices which we might parallel in vain from the Newgate Calendar. If the writer be a man of talent, the poison may be more subtle, but it is assuredly more dangerous. Far rather would we see the true colours of vice undisguisedly hoisted, as they were by the novelists of eighty years ago, than immoral sentiments affecting the character of virtue, and striving to win their way to the reader's heart by a false appeal to his sympathy. Vice in any shape is hateful, but none so hateful as the hard, barren, attractive vice of a polished state of society.

The first novel whose title we have transcribed above, will justify our last words. Indeed, so strong were our feelings as we read it, that we can even now scarcely trust ourselves to speak of it with calmness. The story is slight enough. An officer in the army, who (as we learn afterwards) has separated from his wife and children, comes to a small watering-place, where he falls in with a beautiful girl. For this girl he conceives a violent passion, which is opposed by the clergyman of the place, who is aware of his former history. He tries to persuade his lady-love to elope with him, and assures her that they