We have selected the work whose title is given below, upon which to found some remarks, a part of which will have reference to individual peculiarities of the book, but another, and as we deem, a more important part, to characteristics representative of a large class of religious literature. Before going farther, we will be permitted to make some observations, designed to guard as far as possible against misconstruction of our motives in writing what will follow.

46

In Blackwood's Magazine, for June 1858, there is what appears to us an admirable article on Religious Memoirs," from which a few sentences may be taken as a not inappropriate preface to our present purpose. "These pious volumes," says the writer, "are, for the most part, as excellent in intention as they are important in subject. Their piety alone might induce us to pass over without comment the imperfections of this class of writing; but we cannot suppose that it is any real advantage to the religious community to put up with these publications out of tenderness for the sentiment of godliness which is presumed to pervade them. This has been, perhaps, done too much already. We have been afraid to incur the reproach of a want of spiritual appreciation, and a general dislike to religious writings, and so have been obliged to

swallow the endless repetition, and flat and unnatural representations of life, conveyed to us in books which nothing but their piety could have entitled to a moment's consideration. This is rather hard upon the unfortunate critic: he reads, because he respects the religious feeling of the writer; he condemns, because human nature cannot stand the manner of the performance; and he is immediately set down as a profane person, who cannot be supposed to appreciate the true beauty of holiness. Perhaps this hard dealing is one of the reasons why the common mass of religious literature is so destitute of ordinary literary qualities-for men who love the matter have been afraid to incur the odium of criticising the manner of those productions, and the censorship has been left to hands indifferent, and passed by with a sneer or a laugh, according to the temper of the moment."

We have extracted these sentences, not because we consider them as in every point applicable to the book whose title is given below, or to the class of booksreligious novels-of which it is a representative; but chiefly as fitly presenting the difficulty which has almost deprived of the heathful influence of sound criticism such writings as, in the form of fiction or biography, attempt to delineate the religious life. By every truly pious

VOL. XXVIII-11

man it will be received as a sound cannon of criticism, having all the force of a fundamental axiom, that no one can properly judge the plan or structure of any literary work, having practical piety for its theme, unless he has a clear perception of the importance and a deep reverence for the power of religion. But one who has this indispensable pre-requisite for the critic's office in this department of literature, must feel so strong a sympathy for the motives of the writer, whose sincere design seems to be to recommend religion to others, as to make him very reluctant to incur the hazard of seeming to oppose the design, when he means only to condemn the mode of its execution. Within their own societies, there is comparatively little danger of such an offence to the pious, when the religious teacher attempts to correct what is deemed an error in the manner or the matter by which christian duty is enjoined. Outside of these bounds, however, where the general public can observe the points of debate, there is much greater jealousy of such censure. And, indeed, it is most natural that it should be so. The presentation of earnest piety to this outside observation, either in the actual present life of the religious man, or as represented in books, has so generally excited scorn or hostility as to make any other reception of it almost a matter of surprise. Whoever, therefore, takes the attitude of opposition to any form or detail of this actual life, or this representation, is apt to be considered as designing to aid the scorner and the enemy. Thus far, the feeling which keeps the religious man from undertaking what he only can adequately perform, is chiefly personal being a shrinking from the possibility that he may be considered an alien and an enemy to those with whose feelings and principles he does in fact deeply sympathize. It has another aspect however, in which self is not so prominent. He fears that, however cautiously he may measure his words, the actual effect of his criticism may be injurious to sincere religious feelings, which have been derived from the characters or the books which are the subjects of this censure.

'If I say, I will speak thus; behold I should offend against the generation of thy children," is a thought which should and does make him hesitate.

But whatever are the difficulties in the way, we cannot but think with the writer in Blackwood, that there does exist such a necessity for criticism, at least upon the writings designed to illustrate the religious life, as should overcome the difficulties. The hands of those who are concerned for the integrity and beauty of the building should interpose, to separate with careful discrimination the wood, hay and stubble, from the gold, silver and precious stones in this structure of prac tical piety, even though they should thereby offend the well-meaning but injudicious builders; and though such separation may make it necessary to re-arrange for the edifice, some parts of the really valuable materials. Our further remarks will be directed by this purpose; and if we fail, it shall be because the ability is not so good as the intention.

There are minor points of objections to the book before us, which we will first notice. These chiefly affect its character as a literary performance, or its correctness and delicacy in matters of taste and feeling; and would not have been deemed of sufficient consequence to call for the reader's atention, had they not been dignified in importance, by being found in a work undertaking to set forth an attractive exhibition of religious life, and in the conduct of those who are presented to us as the Christian lady and the Christian gentleman. As it is, we will give these points but a slight and passing notice, while presenting a rapid, and necessarily imperfect summary of the first part of the story.

The book opens abruptly with a quite effective piece of narrative, in which the two leading characters are introduced as boy and girl, and as parties in an adventure by which the sympathies of the readers are at once and strongly excited, in their favour. Emma Thompson and her cousin Louise Lovelace are standing, with the mother of the former, on the margin of a creek, the waters of which communicate with a broader inlet and

thence with Long Island Sound. Finding there a small boat, with one end resting on the bank, by Mrs. Thompson's permission they enter it. Unfortunately, none of the party had perceived that the boat was only kept in position by the weight of the end which rested on the sand; and as the girls spring hastily in, it is dislodged from its position, and with the ebbing tide, floats down the creek towards the broader inlet. No effective assistance can be obtained, and Mrs. Thompson is almost in despair, when Henry Thornton, a youth of about fifteen, who, from a point higher up the creek, had witnessed the progress of the danger, comes to the rescue. Throwing off a part of his clothing, he hastens, with floundering effort, through the broad marsh which borders the creek, and when come into deeper water presses forward by swimming. With great difficulty, and at the hazard of his life, he reaches the boat and is helped in by the girls, who had become greatly alarmed. After resting a while, his efforts are hastened by a rising storm; and using their one oar (for they had lost the other in the mud of the marsh) he finally succeeds in bringing the boat back to the point whence it started. Henry Thornton is thus immediately enthroned in the sympathies of the reader as the hero of the book. By a more gradual process, Louise Lovelace attains her elevation as the heroine. Emma Thompson, the other occupant of the drifting boat, though at first an equally prominent claimant to the reader's regard, soon subsides into quite a subordinate position of interest.

The author then comes forward as master (or mistress?) of ceremonies, and gives the reader a more formal introduction to Henry Thornton. He is a young man of delicate sensibilities, refined feelings and literary tastes. His father had been sometime dead, and his mother had married a farmer of that neighbourhood, named Langstaff, a widower with several sons, who soon after the marriage reveals himself in his true character, which is altogether sordid and base. This indiscreet marriage had made Henry and his mother the inmates of a most unconge

nial family circle, and had subjected them to all the hardness of rough work and home tyranny. The wretched wife, who is entirely unsupported by the sympathy of her husband, gradually sinks under her burthen of toil and care. At her death, her son is left without resource. He will not continue to live with the harsh step-father, who, by unloving selfishness and cruel disregard of her health, had brought his mother to an untimely grave. The property which she had possessed at her second marriage, Mr. Langstaff had appropriated to his own use, without regard to the claims of his step-son upon his justice and humanity. Henry must therefore make his start in life without property or money, except only his clothing, and a few dollars given to him in such small sums as her slender means could afford. We are thus brought, by a simple and natural arrangement of events, and with much true pathos in the narrative, to perceive the meaning of the alternate title adopted for the book. Henry has been forced from the inhospitable shore on which duty alone could have detained him until now; and is "alone on the wide, wide "of life.

sea

The design of our hero is, after attending his mother's burial, to start on foot for the city of New York. He must first take leave of the Thompson family, however; all the members of which had by their kindness, found a place in his grateful affection. Louise Lovelace has become the object of affection still stronger, though as yet he is not fully aware of its strength. The parting scene is gone through with, almost silently, but with much feeling on his part, and with many expressions of interest on theirs-except only, that Louise seemed under some sudden reserve, approaching to coldness of manner. This parting over, Henry sets forth, first to be present at the burial, and then to take his sad and lonely way to the big city, in which he knows not a single soul who may befriend him. Before going very far, however, he is met by Louise; who, by at once ordering out her horse and riding rapidly by another way, has gotten beyond him, and then,

checking her horse into a gentle pace, has turned back upon his road, hoping thus to avoid the startling effect which would have been produced by galloping after him from behind. Neither Louise nor the author for her seems to perceive that the device must be a very transparent one to Henry, who had so short a while before, left quietly standing in Mr. Thompson's parlour this same young lady now meeting him from the opposite direction. In fact, Henry is a good deal startled at the apparition, but he still has his wits sufficiently about him to help her from the horse when she asks him to do so; and after fastening the animal within a copse of cedars, to lead Louise out of the highway to a spot more retired from observation; when, selecting a rock for the purpose, he begs her to be seated, and then entreats her to let him know how he can help her. As the author had before expressed it, "Louise had resolved there should be no disguise on her part. Between Henry and herself there should be no more reserve." This determination she now proceeds very effectually to carry out. She begs him to pardon her for the coldness of her manner when they parted, and assures him that she did not then act as she felt. She had taken the bold step of thus seeking an interview, to let him know that she was sensi. ble of the wrong done-to ask his forgiveness, and to beg him to be to her a brother, and to allow her a sister's place. But she had another motive in seeking a meeting with him: she wanted to tell him some things which she must commit to some body on whose friendship she could rely. She then informs him that he had received wrong impressions as to her relationship to the Thompsons, and with a burst of rather broad-spoken grief lets him know that a dark cloud of doubt rested over her birth. "I have wealth, Henry; but, oh! you do not know how utterly worthless it is to me! You feel sad, I know, Henry, that you are left without father or mother. You are now on a sad journey, going to prepare a place for the body of your last parent. But, oh! Henry, if I could be in your place, how gladly would I give up all the

property I may ever call my own! I would willingly exchange places with the meanest servant in the land, and work hard to the end of my days, could I thereby roll off the dark cloud that hides from me those who gave me birth. My father may have been the man who was hung a year ago! And my mother I may see, perhaps, in the poor wretch who is hooted at by the boys, and finds a shelter within a barn or beneath a stack of hay! Henry, I am a foundling!"

Omitting a part of the dialogue we again quote from Louise:

"It was not until the last year that I had any clear knowledge of my true situation, and then only by accident. I saw the will (of Captain Lovelace) by which the property I shall have was bequeathed to me. I was called his adopted daughter. That led me to make decided enquiries, and I have learned the whole truth. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson are only relatives in name! I feel that I am doomed to misery. I wish to get away: I care not where. the world will be the The author afterwards lets us know the Captain Lovelace by whom Louise was adopted, was a gentleman who had accumulated a competency while following the sea, and afterwards increased this competency by judicious speculations, until he had become a man of wealth.

Any part of same to me."

Of course Henry is very much interested, and gives appropriate expression to his interest, while this revelation is making; and of course also he assures Louise that his affection had grown to as great a height as hers. He firmly declines the offer she makes of her purse to help him in his pursuit of fortune; and presses her to revoke her determination that their affection must not seek a closer union than that of brother and sister. "He made an earnest appeal to Louise that she would promise him, if he should succeed in his plans-if he should gain a respectable station in life-she would share life with him." His pleading does not change her determination. She cannot be so unjust to him as to allow him to cherish such a desire-But

"although I can never be to you any nearer than I am now, yet take this little token, and keep in mind that you have one friend, who will ever be ready to stand by you to the very last." As she spoke she took from her finger a ring made of hair, fastened with a gold clasp. "It is my own hair, Henry. And now, good-bye." Henry does not wish to part thus abruptly, but entreats her to let him know how he can be of any assistance to her, and assures her that he will do any thing she requests-meaning (the reader is to presume) that he will help her to carry out her expressed desire to get away from her present home, and hide herself from those who are acquainted with the facts which she has just revealed to him. She believes his assurance, but declines the help. Strange to say, she for the first time seems to perceive that there would be peculiar difficulties in the way of his rendering such assistance. And thus they part. The lover's hope has been forbidden a place in their hearts; but, as it is evident to the reader, it has already effected an entrance, and as becomes equally plain, is thenceforward consciously and fondly cherished by both.

We have related this interview at some length, for two reasons. One is, that it gives us a good place where to despatch in a few words what we have to say about this foundling device. Having been informed of the cloud hanging over the lady's birth, we are fairly started upon the search, by the successful termination of which the love story is to have a happy end; and it is only as the passive object of this kind of interest that the lovely Louise retains our worship as the heroine of the book. It is therefore, as we have said, a fit place to pronounce upon this part of the author's machinery. We are sorry we cannot say at starting that "the plot is a good plot." Every novel reader must know, that when the writer of a story presents us a foundling for a hero or a heroine, he adopts a plan for exciting our interest and curiosity, which has lost all the novelty it ever had, and with its novelty of course much of its effect. Let the writer work

it as he will, he cannot accomplish much, even by the greatest success possible in the case. But in the instance under review, the author has not done the best that might have been done. The material was flimsy and threadbare, but that should not excuse such a careless piece of patch-work as is presented to us. We cannot take the time and space to describe the parties or detail the means by which the infant is stolen away, and kept hidden from the long-continued search of its nearly heart-broken parents. It must suffice for us to say, that the diabolical scheme was insufficient in motive and absurd in plan, and was only executed by going through improbabilities so strong as to look exceedingly like impossibilities. So much for the very transparent mystery of the story.

The other reason for the more particular detail of the parting interview between the lovers is, to show by example what we must pronounce a graver fault in the book before us. It is, that in the few love passages which it contains, the lady gives much more direct and decided expression to her feelings of preference than is either delicate or decorous; in fact, that she gets quite ahead of her lover, who is placed in the false position of being the consenting rather than the pleading party. The consequence is, and must be, that the reader's feeling is decidedly tinged with disgust for the lady and contempt for her lover. The closing scene of this kind, between Henry and Louise, is even more remarkable than the first. At this point in the history, the mystery of Louise's birth has been cleared up, Henry has attained the station and the success in business for which he had been striving, and the book has grown to the required size. Things being thus convenient, both the heroine and the author seem to get impatient at some misconceptions which had hurt the hopes of poor Henry, and made him rather backward in speaking his mind. Fortunately the lady of his love is not troubled with such diffidence. She unhesitatingly takes the initiative; first breaks through the reserve, and then takes and keeps the lead in a courtship which might be a