stance being selected so as to reflect in the most biting manner on the inhabitants of the city. The first,thing,' he says, 'which does not edify me, fishes, in your conduct is, that you devour one another. I confess that you have your excuse in the actions of men. Let a man be in trouble, the solicitor devours him, the solicitor's clerk devours him, so does the notary, so does the sheriff, so does the advocate, so does the commissioner, so does the judge; he is devoured before he is sentenced. If a man dies, he is devoured by his heirs, by his creditors, by his legatees, by the commissioners of orphans, by the lawyer, by the physician that helped to kill him, by the grave-digger, by the bell-ringer, and by the priest that sings the service; the poor man is not yet in his grave, and he is already devoured.' Thus he proceeds; and in like manner, while lecturing the fishes for their folly in being taken by a hook, he does not forget to justify them by the hook which the spiritual enemy of man baits for his soul, and by the eagerness with which it is swallowed."

We are really quoting almost too freely from a contemporary periodical; but the Remembrancer gives us so many charming specimens of Anglican "pulpit eloquence," that we cannot forbear taking one more. It is an anecdote from the writer's personal recollections:

"We were once spending a Sunday in Lent in a country parish, where the clergyman was of the old school, and not a bad specimen of it. In the morning he requested us to preach, with a special injunction to be as plain and simple as possible, 'because,' said he, 'my people are very ignorant, and require the most elementary teaching. Accordingly, we endeavoured to comply with his wishes, and hoped that, in some degree, we had succeeded. 'It was not so bad,' said our friend, as we walked home from church,' but still not quite so plain as I could have wished. If you will listen to me in the afternoon, I will endeavour to show you the way in which I think that such a congregation ought to be addressed.' After such an invitation, when the worthy rector ascended the pulpit, we were— as the saying is-all attention, and heard him begin, nearly word for word, in the following manner: To those who will consider the harmony which reigns in the various accounts dictated by inspiration of Christ's Passion, confirmed as those accounts are by the antecedent testimonies of Prophets on the one hand, and by the concurrent testimonies of the Epistles on the other, it will appear in the highest degree probable, that our Blessed Lord was not an impostor, but was in reality what He gave Himself out to be, the Son of God.'

And now for our reviewer himself. He is so acute, so well-informed, and so sensible, and possesses so keen a perception for the ridiculous, that we opened our own eyes with amazement when we lighted upon the following sentence,

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uttered evidently in the most serious earnest: "Every one who has studied the ritual and the calendar of the (Anglican) Church, must have speedily convinced himself that its whole aim and design is to be dramatic!" The italics and the note of admiration are, of course, our own; but what accumulation of typographical astonishment can express one's sense of the inimitable coolness which could utter such a sentence as this? A serious refutation is out of the question. We can only suggest to this clever and observant writer that, after all, the peculiarities of the Medieval Church are not altogether extinct among men. He must not imagine, because the peers, colonels, spinsters, and churchwardens of Belgravia are furious against the very mild resuscitation of Mediævalism which has recently taken place at Knightsbridge, that the faith and the system which produced Venerable Bede, Peter of Blois, and St. Antony of Padua, is not bearing its living fruits even in this degenerate city of London. There is a Church in England whose bishops do not denounce the proceedings of their clergy as 'histrionic," while reviewers under their jurisdiction rejoice to believe that their prayers are "dramatic." Mediæval Christianity is not yet a subject for ecclesiastical archæological institutes; nor need a man go very far who wishes to vive" the days gone by. The only "revival" that is needed is in the opinions and feelings of those who would fain be the children of the middle ages, while they are really the slaves of the 19th century. The faith of Bede and Antony and Vieyra needs not reviving, for it has never died. Those characteristics which our reviewer finds so excellent in the Mediæval preachers and Saints, he may find both taught and practised even in Rome's latest preachers and Saints. If the editor of the Christian Remembrancer has not taught him that the very name of Liguori is synonymous with all that is unscriptural, crafty, stupid, and unspiritual, we would recommend him to study a certain essay by that modern bishop on apostolical preaching and the true way of converting souls;* and in the published sermons of the same saint he will find precisely those very merits of unity of subject, simplicity of style, and abundant use of the Holy Scriptures, which he has remarked in the great preachers of ancient times. The Remembrancer has contrasted the number of Scripture quotations in sermons by the Catholic Guarric and the Protestant Newton. We open at hazard the volume of St. Alphonsus' sermons for every Sunday in the year, and take the first that presents itself, namely that for the first Sunday in Lent, on the text, "Thou shalt not. * "Lettera ad un religioso amico, ove si tratta del modo di predicar all' apostolica con semplicità, evitando lo stilo alto e fiorito."

tempt the Lord thy God." As it stands, the slowest preacher could hardly be a quarter of an hour in delivering this sermon; but it contains not less than twenty-seven quotations from different parts of the Scriptures. If the ingenious writer on whose reflections we are remarking will himself take this sermon of St. Alphonsus the next time he is at a loss for a discourse, and preach it, with the omission of two or three quotations from the Fathers, in order not to make his audience suspect the presence of either Popery or Puseyism, we have no doubt that he will, for once at any rate, be congratulated on having made himself perfectly understood, and on having preached a most awakening, instructive, and scriptural sermon.

Indeed, we think that Anglican preachers who are at a loss for sound, simple, and practical sermons, cannot do better than avail themselves of this series by St. Alphonsus. We can assure them, without banter or insincerity, that they will find them far more useful than any thing they can obtain from Protestant sources. Of course they will have now and then to omit a sentence or two about some Popish saint, or some quotation from the Fathers, or a reference to the doctrines of Invocation, Purgatory, and so forth. The general subjects of the sermons will suit them admirably. Out of the whole fiftythree, there are only three on subjects which they will not approve. These three are on Confidence in the Mother of God, on Sacrilege in Confession, and on Obedience to one's Confessor. All the rest are on topics which the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Exeter would agree in considering "scriptural." At the end of the edition which lies before us-a thin quarto printed at Bassano in 1841-are four additional sermons on St. Joseph, on the Annunciation, on the Dolours of Mary, and on the Clothing of a Young Nun, which of course would hardly be counted "scriptural.' But they might be put aside, or cut out and burnt, lest perchance any impertinent or curious eye should light upon them. The rest we seriously recommend to the attention and use of every one who, whether truly or erroneously, believes himself called to feed the flock of Christ with the pure Word of God.

DUBLIN PALACE "FICTION."

Quicksands on Foreign Shores. Blackader & Co.

IF Archbishop Whately has not yet succeeded in converting all the world to believe in him as their "guide, philosopher,

and friend," it is certainly not from any lack of self-recommendation, or any deficient estimate of the benefits he is formed to confer on mankind. He has recently been favouring us with one of his most characteristic specimens of Whatelyism, in the shape of a volume of Remains of the late Bishop Copleston, in which he has quoted himself, either propria motu or through the Coplestonian trumpet, to the truly Whatelyian amount of forty-one times, once to the extent of three pages, and again to the extent of nine pages! What, we may ask, had Copleston done to Whately that he should serve him thus?

The Archbishop now comes forth in a newer light, warning us from the "quicksands on foreign shores" by editing a novel. At least we think we cannot possibly be in error in attributing the editorship of this very wise production to any personage of minor importance; and certainly, if Dr. Whately does not edit, he patronises it with the full force of his name and reputation, by permitting the editor to date his preface at the "Palace, Dublin." We feel confident, however, that the story enjoys the advantage of archiepiscopal editing, for its introduction can come but from one hand. It announces that the editor "does really confer a benefit on society in undertaking to edit the tale contained in this volume, the first of a series which the publishers intend to offer to the public, with a view of meeting the demand for light reading by a safe, agreeable, and beneficial supply; one altogether suitable to the requisitions of a Christian community, under the title of great truths popularly illustrated." As it is not every day that novels come forth thus recommended, it may be worth while to inquire what that supply of light reading is likely to be which Dr. Whately considers safe, agreeable, and beneficial. We have accomplished the task, and proceed to give our readers the results of our labour through these Dublin Palace "quicksands."

Mrs. Courtney, a widow lady left in comfortable circumstances, is ruined by the villany of the family lawyer. This lady is the authoress's ideal of a worldling, although to our mind she approaches much nearer the heroic type than the saint of the story. The late Mr. Courtney left his very sensible relict, in addition to an easy competency, three daughters, Agatha, Clara, and Emily. The eldest of these, as the etymology of the name imports, is expressly designed as an embodiment of ideal perfection. Clara is a sketch of the same idea in a slightly deteriorated form; and the youngest, Emily, stands before us as the prototype of the Protestant prodigal.

Mrs. Courtney, unable to live as she has been accustomed in money-worshipping England, casts about for a change of

residence. The south of France enjoys her preference. The novel opens at an inn, at which the family rest on their road to St. André in Languedoc. Mrs. Courtney is a woman of the world, and is represented as possessing a considerable stock of common sense, yet she is described as in a condition of deep disappointment at finding that it is winter in Languedoc. She desponds at seeing snow and at feeling an east wind in that southern latitude in the dead of winter. Agatha, too, feels desperately lonely, although she has a "Protestant version" in her bandbox.

After surmounting the disappointment of not meeting with "groves of myrtles, and maize-trees beside every cottage, and people playing on guitars," the family reached St. André. Here Agatha distinguishes herself in arranging cups and saucers and looking for lodgings; our authoress apologising for her conduct by adding, that her heart was not free from the earthly cares that had of late been more particularly her portion, but was set on those better things over which earth has no power." Having engaged apartments and a helping girl," Agatha took off her cloak and bonnet as she spoke, and then drawing a chair close to her mother, whispered something with a half apologetic air, and on receiving a somewhat reluctant Yes, my dear,' took up a Bible from the table." Clara pretended that she "was just going to ask for a chapter." Little Emily, true to her infantine simplicity, "yawned." Mrs. Courtney "listened with a kind of cold respect until the duty was over, when her spirits rose considerably." We confess that we agree with the latter lady, that "her poor mother-in-law made Agatha as strict and tiresome in her ways of thinking as she was herself."

In a few days the family settled down in lodgings. But, alas! a live priest occupied apartments beneath the same roof. The story would have come to nothing if the family had hurried out of the house, as St. John did out of the bath, lest the same roof should spread over himself and a heretic. So there they stayed. But when the urbanity of manners and real charity of the priest won the admiration of Mrs. Courtney and her daughter Emily, Agatha became alarmed. "Indeed Agatha could not but admit that a person less anxious for society than her mother might find much pleasure in that of so intelligent and well-bred a person as the Abbé proved to be." When the goodness and bonhomie of the priest have excited a deeper feeling in her mother than seems advisable, she hints to her mother, "You are hardly up to the company of strangers yet." When this does not produce the desired effect, she goes more openly to work, and observes, "One