If this parallel, or contrast, be not particularly lucid, we must patiently await its commentary. At all events, the Neologians have no cause to despair; nay, scepticism is looking up. The infidel's commodity rises in the market. Three hundred years, and the labours of modern writers have done much for its cause. For this we have a com~ petent witness. Infidelity itself," "is writes Mr. Newman (p. 28), in a different, I am obliged to say, in a more hopeful position, as regards Christianity." Such a result might reasonably have been expected from recent efforts; and we cannot doubt that the new theory of composing lives of saints, after the manner of Butler or Scarron, and giving us Hudibras in a martyrology, must have proved highly effective. great step has also been taken in the discovery (p. 73), that men may pass from infidelity to Rome, and from Rome to infidelity, "from a conviction in both courses, that there is no tangible intellectual position between the two." Moreover, illustrious examples are not wanting to keep changers in countenance; they only require developing. "St. Augustine was nine years a Manichee; St. Basil for a time was in admiration of the Semi-arians; St. Sulpicius gave a momentary countenance to the Pelagians; St. Paula listened, and Malaria assented, to the Origenists." (P. 245.)

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If, therefore, this ingenious author should at a future time perceive his Romanism developing into Neology, he will only have to treat his present essay, as he has handled his former lectures on the superstition which he now professes; reverting

with momentary self-reproach to his association with Dr. Wiseman and his reverence for Trent, and heaving a deeper sigh for his earlier abode among the corruptions of Protestantism, its fellowships, and its friends.

Do we write these things of a learned and an eloquent man, without feelings of poignant regret and commiseration? We do not. Such a capacity, so strengthened by exercise, so brightened by reflection, so enriched by labour, who might not honour; and for its enchantment and its obscuration, who can refuse to mourn? If his mind be viewed only on that side which intellect illuminates, it will be found to be full of beauty and light. His sermons contain thoughts that Hooker might have brooded over, and images that Augustine himself might have loved. He touches the most familiar object with a pencil, that gives life as well as colour. If he animates new ideas, he adorns old. How happy is the comparison of baptism to the "effect of the sun's light in place of twilight, removing the sameness or the dulness of the landscape, and bringing it out into all sorts of hues, pleasant or unpleasant, according as we profit by it or not." And who will not lament that the writer of these admirable remarks upon the value and use of excited feelings in religion, did not ponder over them with his own eyes, and endeavour to practise the lesson which he taught ?—

"When sinners are first led to think seriously, strong feelings usually precede or attend their reflections about themselves. The view of their manifold sins, their guilt, &c. breaking upon them, strikes, astonishes, agitates them. Here, then, let them know the intention of all this excitement of mind in the order of Divine Providence. It is not religion itself, though it is accidentally connected with it, and may be made the means of leading them into a sound, religious course of life; it is generally designed to be a set-off against the distastefulness and pain of doing their duty. Learn, therefore, to obey promptly these strong feelings, and as it were, the graceful beginnings of obedience-graceful and becoming in children-but in grown, spiritual men ludicrous and unseemly, as the

↑ Sermons, vol. vi. p. 77.

to whom the discipline of our universities is intrusted, to warn their flocks of the dangers that surround them. We say their flocks, because it is in that relation that every tutor in holy orders is bound to regard his pupils. They have not discharged their duty when they have lectured on Aristotle. We call upon them to point out the misery of even the slightest deviation from sincerity and plain dealing. We demand of them, in the name of the fathers and mothers whose children they hold as sacred deposits, to repudiate the fearful heresy that, in certain cases, a lie is the nearest approach to truth.* Let the Jesuitical and non-natural sense of signing the Articles be designated by its proper name; let the inexperienced and venturous footstep be deterred from attempting to glide over the frozen stream upon the smooth polish of a sophism by the warning "DANGEROUS!" written in the largest letters of experience.

Lastly, we call also upon the young men themselves-those to whom the poison is administered with the most engaging seduction - to take heed unto their ways. Circe

has other transformations than those of the companions of Ulysses. Esteem for bright talents, wide attainments, or unblemished sanctity, must not be suffered to conciliate favour for the theories or the doctrines which they are employed to recommend.

The words of Mr. Newman.

No piety can extenuate, however genius may embellish, a fraud. Ålready the voice of earnest admonition has been raised in that cathedral, where most especially it ought to be heard.

"I am sure," are the words of Bishop Wilberforce," that a more deadly blow could not be inflicted on our Church than that the people, of whose character, thank God, sterling honesty is the distinctive feature, should have reason to suspect that their clergy believed one thing while they taught another."

Every bond of union with such a party ought to be resolutely and immediately broken asunder. Friendship, habit, kindness, personal advantages, what are these to an uncorrupted heart and a conscience void of offence? Under cover of our own betrayers, Rome advances. Not a moment ought to be lost. Let the separation from the Jesuitism of Pusey and the developement of Newman, be instant and complete. Severe crises demand decided measures.

If private sympathies still weigh down and detain the struggling disciple, if the anchor, encumbered by drifting weeds, will not rise to the hand, then one course only remains, and that is to cut the cables and prepare for action at the signal, which ought now to be making from every high place of education throughout the kingdom,-"ENEMY AT SEA."

My first trip to Paris was made inI have forgotten the year, but it was one in the reign of Catalani, who swayed so long and well the sceptre of the stage, it was the second season of her glory and the first night of "La Tentation de Saint Antoine;" and I made my way through a crowd whose pressure is still in my recollection to the overthronged pit of the Italian Opera. There was no other spot in that vast and splendid edifice where even standing room might be found; for I had come late, and the house had been filling for the last three hours. There I stood, surrounded by half Paris, in an atmosphere of at least 120° Fahr., with scarcely room to breathe, and sundry English suspicions crossing my mind at times touching the safety of my pockets and their contents; but all the crosses and trials of the hour were lost and forgotten as the curtain rose in the rich music and gorgeous scenery of that queen of operas. Now presenting the arid expansion of an Egyptian desert,-its sands, its ruins, and its pyramids, clothed with the burning glory of a southern sunset; and then the luxuriant garden of an Oriental palace, rich in fountains and in flowers, at one moment shewing in the depth of their regal darkness the court and councils of the for-ever-fallen; and the next, with harmonies not all unworthy of their harps, displaying the angel choirs that walk on rosy heights beside the fount of day; and then the dweller of the trackless sands himself, the deeply tried and the strong of purpose, what shapes of beauty, and what forms of fear rose around his worldforgotten solitude, and what voices filled the waste, till, above all, like a crowning glory, swept the still unrivalled tones of Catalani, singing the final triumph of faith and

virtue.

"C'est magnifique, monsieur!” said an elderly, but very intelligent-looking Frenchman at my side, as the last burst of enthusiastic applause gradually died away. The speaker

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCV.

Ah, not all," said my new friend, with a look far exceeding in its gratification that with which the first waiter at Mivart's contemplates a golden douceur, [and, readers; I have seen no deeper delight;] but he added, with patriot pride or vanity, "Monsieur knows we have always the best things in Paris." I, of course, assented, and he went on in a graver

tone.

"What a sombre thing it is, after all the late brilliancy, to see the curtain fall! It is strange, monsieur, but I never witness that circumstance without recurring to a singular story well known in my youth, and to which I was actually an eye-witness some years before the revolution." This preface roused my curiosity, for the love of strange stories had followed me from childhood, and, as might be expected, I was earnest in requesting my new friend for the tale. "The house is emptying slowly," said he," and as we will not get out easily for at least half an hour, take a scat beside me, for, thank our stars, there are seats to be had now, and you shall have it, such as it is."

Down I sat accordingly, and some two or three persons who had lingered like ourselves to avoid the

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general rush, came and did likewise, and the Frenchman proceeded :

"I was just fifteen, and it was Christmas time in the year 1787; my friend, the young Marquis de Marigny, had invited me to spend some time with him at Versailles, and I was nothing loath to exchange the discipline of the Jesuit college for the court festivities, which were at that season peculiarly attractive. Never, indeed, had the gay Christmas time been more joyously celebrated in that courtly city: nobles poured from the provinces, and strangers from the frontier. Balls, theatres, and concerts, of the most brilliant description, succeeded each other more rapidly than I can remember; and all was glorious to me, for it was almost my first taste of life; but Christmas-day at last arrived, and its evening was devoted to a magnificent masquerade, given at the palace on a scale of extraordinary liberality; all comers, in fact, were welcome, and as there was little scrutiny and much disguise, the company were extremely numerous. My friend and I, of course, were there; but we had agreed on disguising ourselves from each other, in order to test our respective powers of recognition. I had arrived late in the garb of a brother of St. Francis, and for some time perambulated in vain the apartments of that apparently interminable palace; but amongst all their motley groups of well and ill-disguised figures I could not discover the marquis.

"Hours had elapsed, and I had grown weary in the fruitless search, when in one of the most crowded saloons, I was suddenly accosted by a Benedictine nun in the usual masquerade style, Holy brother, what is your opinion of these profane and worldly amusements ?'

"I was about to reply, when she added in a whisper, Turn to the apartment called the Rose Cabinet on the right, where you will find the Marquis de Marigny, and tell him that the play in the Rue de Savonier is about to commence.'

"Before I had time to inquire the meaning of her message, the nun was lost to my sight among the evermoving multitude; but I still recollect that the voice, though unknown to me, had a very unfeminine sound,

and who that nun was I have never since been able to discover. However, I soon found the Rose Cabinet, a small and beautiful apartment of Marie Antoinette's own choosing, and so called because its ceiling was or namented with a rich painting of the Eastern Feast of Roses, whilst the floor and walls represented in their carpet and tapestry the riches of summer's garland in every possible variety, from the deep purple of the African to the fading snow of the funeral rose.

"Within it I found seated on a low divan a group who seemed to have retired for social conversation; but various as their disguises were, I knew them all; for in the ease of the moment they had taken off their masques. The Duke of Orleans was there like a knight Templar, clad in armour; and Madame de Genlis, no doubt, with her usual complaisance to his taste, habited as a dame of the twelfth century; beside the lady stood her pupil, the duke's eldest son, as Cupid, with wing and dart; and Madame Elizabeth, in the humility of her taste, wore the garb of the Sisters of Charity; whilst a Turkish sultana, who still wore her masque, sat conversing with an ancient Roman citizen, but well I knew that his tones were those of De Marigny.

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