THE glory of the Crystal Palace has passed away, although the sparkling dome still glitters in the sunshine, and its flags stream gaily in the fresh breezes which whisper through the surrounding foliage, and the whole of the magnificent structure strikes the eye of the stranger with wonder and awe; yet, to the inhabitants of these isles the idea has become so familiar as to have lost a portion of its charm, and the fickle public, like children tired of a new toy, are anxious now to pull to pieces the plaything which, a short time ago, afforded them so much amusement. Such is the evanescent nature of human enjoyment; such the caprice of the many-headed monster. Well, let them settle the question as they please; we care little whether the iconoclastic Chief Justice or Lord Brougham carry the day. The sight, in all the splendour of its meridian glory, was a rare one. There have been spectacles, perchance, rendered more attractive by the force of historic associations, but there never yet was one so deeply calculated to strike the mind of the spectator with mingled emotions of the deepest interest-the interest which belongs to the near and to the distant, to the past and to the present, was concentrated within that resplendent dome. There were trophies gathered from every nation, trophies prouder than any ever won by the sword; dusky men, who prayed to strange gods in strange countries far away, were there with their bales of quaint merchandise, smoking the calumet of peace with spruce tradesmen from Manchester. There was the blade of Damascus frosted with gold, beside "the plain useful article" from Shef field. There was sculpture, the brightest beauty of informed life, and near the breathing graceful marble the printing press and the loom, the triumphs of art and the nobility of labour, the poet's dream of inspiration wrought into life, and the result of the swart mechanic's toil, stood there in touching contrast. But our readers may ask, what has all this to do with the subject of our present paper? Patience, and they shall know. The attractions of

that dome of glory have subsided, the pomp and splendid pageant have passed from its crystal walls; the beautiful spirit of mellow autumn is breathing its richness upon woods and fields, and the trees that waved in the fulness of their summer foliage around the graceful edifice are dropping now their leaves, as if in sympathy with its departing splendour.

We, therefore, in this pleasant time of year, when the world puts on her autumn glory, when sunshine and shadow, like the joy and sorrow of human life, fleet in succession over the fields -we, the DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE, raise for the world an EXHIBITION of our own. In the airy halls of our realms of thought, the mind may wander fancy free: though our long façades and spacious galleries glitter not with precious gems, nor flaunt with tapestry or cloth of gold, we have yet attractions which will interest the world when the great palace has,

"Like an unsubstantial pageant faded, Left not a wreck behind."

We have fairer gems gathered from all quarters of the globe; the intellectual treasures of every country of the earth are rifled for the entertainment of our guests; and over the whole shines with steady, serene, and unfading splendour, a light beneath whose lustre even the ray of the great Kooh-i-noor must wane pale, for it is the light of our NATIONAL

GENIUS.

The staple article produced by the writers and the manufacturers of fiction, for there are two separate and distinct classes, is, we think, upon the whole, improving. In some respects we can scarcely compete with our more brilliant and lively continental neighbours, but in others we are vastly superior. The old flimsy fabric called the fashionable novel is well nigh worn out. Although it has been supplanted by a healthier and more vigorous kind of article, it has yet left traces, prejudicial traces, upon the literature of England, which are not yet wholly effaced. New writers of much native genius and inherent power, who have

had, it may be, no better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the manners and customs of the classes above them, still resort to those well-known pages as to an encyclopedia, whence they may acquire, and having acquired, reproduce the necessary information. To this we owe the apparition of the stock nobleman who may be found lingering still in the realms of fiction; the card-playing dowager with her rouge and diamonds; the aristocratic beauty given to flirtation; with other like phenomena. We are also, no doubt, indebted to it for the names which still occasionally meet our eye. Why cannot the writers of the middle classes, from whose labours the literary market is, for the most part, supplied, stick to the Smiths, the Browns, and the Joneses, with whose melodious patronymic their ears are familiar, instead of trying it on with the Chellastons, the Havilands, and the De Montmorencies, with which they delight to garnish their pages. We think, we may be, indeed, heretical in our opinions, that Mr. Smith, the opulent cotton-spinner from Manchester, with napkin spread across his "fair round belly," looks quite as well, leaning back in his leathern arm chair, and holding his glass of old crusted port between his eye and the sun, as young Lord De Courcy, of the Guards, capering about at Almacks, to the PostHorn Gallope, in waxy moustache, white tie, and gold waistcoat.

The

artist may know Smith, and, therefore, may be able to present us with a faithful likeness. He knows nothing of De Courcy, except through the medium of Mrs. Gore, or writers of her stamp. The less, therefore, he says about him manifestly the better for all parties concerned. What we have just hinted at is, beyond all question, a source of faults which are still discernible in our fictions of the day. If we turn to our continental neighbours, we have defects of another kind, which, if not equally unpalatable to the great mass of the reading public, are quite as much so to any reader of taste and refinement. What must ever render the German school of romances unpopular in these countries, is their extreme tendency to periphrasis, which

is too often conveyed in long detached sentences, the meaning of which frequently cannot be got at until we reach the final word. There is but little development of the world or of human nature ever visible in their pages, which smell so strongly of the lamp, and are evidently the production of retired and secluded men, whose wont it is to compose a novel upon the inspiration supplied by the tobacco pipe, having crammed for the occasion, we don't mean the pipe, but their own heads, with a sufficient stock of marketable ideas. If we turn to the French, however objectionable many of their romances may be in point of moral or of taste, they have at least one decided advantage over those of their contemporaries, in being generally the composition of men of the world, who, mixing largely in society, have thereby acquired that keen insight into the human heart, that penetration and knowledge of the springs of human nature, which can alone qualify any writer to be eminently successful in the field of fiction. But we must open up our wares for public inspection without further preface. Places aux dames! the lady shall lead the van.

When we first glanced at the titlepage of these volumes, we took it for granted that the story contained within their pages bore direct reference to the great question which at the time of their appearance was agitating the public mind; and we anticipated some new and startling illustration of the power of priestcraft, applied to a sensitive and shrinking nature, for the purpose of extorting some great concession, likely to be beneficial to the interests of the Holy Mother Church, the scene being laid in our own times. But upon scanning the contents of the book, we discovered that, in some degree at least, our impression was erroneous, for that the story we are now about to bring before the notice of our readers was in point of fact an historical romance, founded upon a period of our history which is fraught with the deepest interest, and that it illustrated the career of one of the most daring and ambitious spirits that ever exercised an influence over the fortunes of England. Nor, although seven centuries

have passed away since those strange and eventful times, is this story without a moral, which may be applied with irresistible force to recent transactions. In sketching the career of Thomas à Becket, in describing the upward course of that unscrupulous and daring adventurer, much of the secret history of the machinations of the Church of which he was the ostensible representative in these realms, must necessarily be laid before the public eye. Truth is stranger than fiction; but the fiction which is founded upon historical truth has not only a double charm, but an intrinsic importance, of which it is impossible to overestimate the value.

The career of the ambitious churchman is interwoven, however, with that of a being of a far different nature. The story of the sorrows of the Fair Rosamond, over whose short life Becket exercised so important an influence, forms an interesting contrast. two pictures hang side by side in the dim old gallery of past traditions. Here they are, touched by the hand of genius, invested once more in the hues of life and reality, breathing from the

canvass.

The

The story opens with a picturesque description of the external aspect and social condition of England at that period when monachism flourished in the country. We learn the startling fact that there were, in the twelfth century, more than a hundred thousand human beings immured within the walls of convents throughout the land. The architectural taste of the Normans was everywhere visible in the innumerable castles, churches, and abbeys; in the immediate vicinity of which was to be found the only luxuriant and flourishing cultivation which the country had to show. Elsewhere ruin and desolation only were visible, whole districts lay uncultivated, farmming was neglected. The predatory incursions of the Welsh tribes, and the insatiable avarice of the Church, had paralysed the exertions of the labouring classes; no man cared to sow that which it was only too probable would be reaped by some other; industry had ceased to exist. The minds of men, enslaved by bigotry, could be moved by the influence of superstition alone. The crusades had drawn away the greater number of the principal landed proprietors, who abandoned

their estates to the mismanagement of careless or dishonest agents, having previously swept off everything that could be turned into money, for the purposes of their rash and reckless expedition.

Such was "merrie England" during the regime of the "ancient faith." Passing from this sad picture, which is drawn with no common power, let us turn to the portrait of Thomas à Becket, the Prior of the Convent of Severnstoke, as he ambles forth on his mule upon one of his earlier diplomatic errands:

"His light and active figure was admirably adapted for exercise and toil, and he sat his uncouth steed with a grace not the less remarkable that his great height made it a matter of some difficulty. His splendid and well-proportioned figure was not to be concealed by the long robe of brown cloth girded round his waist, while the hood, which constantly fell back, gave to view a countenance not only regularly handsome, but striking and picturesque. His forehead was singularly high and broad, with masses of rich black hair curling closely around it; the crown of the head alone being shaven. His eyes were very long, large, and dark, but always seemed half closed, perhaps from the constant habit of looking downwards. It was only in speaking that the velvet softness of their eastern hue could be perceived; but when excited they flashed out with a brilliancy not to be surpassed. His nose was high and straight, and his mouth and chin well cut and defined, and expressive of great firmness. The foreign appearance of father Thomas might, in some degree, be accounted for by the fact of his mother having been born in the east, but he himself was a native of England. Much care was already written upon that brow, although the prior was still a young man; but ambition is a wearing passion, and no gown of serge or shirt of hair ever covered a breast more madly heaving with ambitious hope than did that which enveloped the tall and supple form of the Prior of Severnstoke. None could behold in him the mere ordinary mortal, nor could his holy garb thoroughly endue him with the meek and lowly air befitted to his calling.

"There was in him more of the soldier than of the priest, more of the statesman than the book-worm; and perhaps yet more than either, of the gay and chivalrous character of the Norman knight, though tempered down to strict outward decorum, for very careful was the holy fa

ther of his earthly reputation. Through it he had attained his present position, but he had still much to gain. To rise to the highest honours is the natural wish of every aspiring nature, the dream of every ambitious mind; but with him it was more than a desire, more than a dream, it was a determination. He felt that the destiny of man lies mainly in the will of man, and to work out the dictates of that resolute will he devoted every energy of his soul. His strong and comprehensive mind never wavered; he anticipated the success he was resolved to attain, and the confidence this sentiment inspired was a first step towards his end."

The career of Becket is traced, step by step, from its commencement up to the close, with great minuteness. He had arisen from the humble grade of a benedictine friar to be the prior of a monastery of considerable importance. While occupying this comparatively humble position he took care to recommend himself to the favourable notice of his superiors, by a rigid and scrupulous attention to the routine of his daily duties, and at length acquired such a reputation for sanctity, discretion, and intelligence, that he was selected as a negotiator to superintend the arrangement of differences which had broken out with the Welsh, and by means of which the whole kingdom was at that time distracted. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was conferred upon him, and by a sedulous study of the character of the king, with a complete subservience to his will upon all occasions, he at length obtained so complete a mastery over the mind of Henry as to become the real ruler of England. The danger by which the realm was then threatened from the turbulent and ambitious spirit of the Church of Rome is thus powerfully described :

"At the bottom of the king's heart lay a desire even more ardent than the others, namely, in some measure to control and humble the power of the Church. The task was difficult, to an ordinary mind it might seem impossible; but the spirit and determination of the king did not quail before the gigantic undertaking. The authority of the Church was almost unlimited; her riches were enormous, and her dependants innumerable. The legate of the Pope had, in fact, more power than the king; and the sagacity of Henry soon showed him that openly to defy a body which could answer that defiance by an ap

peal to Rome to hurl her thunders at his head, was not the way to establish his authority. So long as this power of appeal existed, and the clergy had their separate laws, by which alone they would consent to be governed, he felt that he was not secure in his own kingdom. The abuses of the power of the Church had risen to an intolerable height; the rapacity of the priests, only equalled by their tyranny, was incredi ble; and the darkness of the age encouraged the superstition of the masses, aud daily added to the ecclesiastical despotism. The people were kept in profound ignorance; the nobles were too much addicted to pleasure and to war to have leisure to learn; therefore, the only cultivation of intellect existed amongst the priests, which gave them complete dominion over the minds of

men.

All this was perfectly understood by Henry, whose powerful mind, far in advance of the times in which he lived, not only discovered the evil, but likewise the remedy. To proceed with caution was his first object; to lead where he could not controul, his design. It was for this reason he had applied to Theobald to send him, from among the sons of the Clergy, one in whom he could confide, and with whom he could live on terms of intimacy; and it was precisely for the contrary reason, to consolidate that power which Henry was bent on undermining, that the wily churchman had chosen the prior of Severnstoke, as a man whose great and varied abilities, deep subtlety, and daring courage, marked him out as a powerful defender of his order, and a worthy opponent of an intellect so elevated as that with which Henry II. was gifted."

The hold which this wily minister contrived to secure over his master was soon employed in furthering to the very utmost the designs of the Pope; but in carrying out his master's interest, he never, for a single instant, appears to have lost sight of his own. Pensions, emoluments, and honours of all kinds were heaped upon him, until he rose at last to a pitch of grandeur and magnificence to which royalty itself seemed to hold only a subordinate place. Then it was that, backed by the authority of the Church, he boldly threw of all allegiance to the king. Availing himself of the first pretext that offered the prospect of an open rupture, he defied the royal authority, in the very presence of the ministers of state, and declared openly that the Roman Pontiff was the only king and master whose authority he acknow