exercised, if not by doubts yet by theories, which never would square with the facts of the world. All this is quite opposed to the spirit in which the author of Tom Brown' writes, and to the sort of character which he extols. It is hardly less strange to make Dr. Arnold a patron saint of athleticism. His letters often refer to the Rugby amusements, but they give no proof that he took the sort of view of them which is taken by Tom 'Brown.' On the contrary, the exuberant animal spirits of the boys filled him with a sort of sorrow. He seems to wish that they were chastened by some sterner influences.

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"When the spring and activity of youth,' he wrote, is altogether unsanc-'tified by anything pure and elevated in its desires, it becomes a spectacle that is as dizzying, and almost more morally distressing, than the shouts and gambols of a set of lunatics. It "is very startling to see so much of sin combined with so little of sorrow. In a parish, amongst the poor, whatever of sin exists, there is sure also to be enough of suffering; poverty, sickness, ' and old age are mighty tamers and chastisers. But with boys "of the richer classes, one sees nothing but plenty, health, and youth; and these are really awful to behold, when one must feel that they are unblessed.' No one would discover from the book under review that these were Dr. Arnold's feelings; or if they were, that its author shared them.

The view which it takes of Dr. Arnold's character leads us to the remark that Tom Brown's Schooldays' has one claim to attention which is quite independent of its relations to Rugby or to its master. It represents, not only fairly but favourably, a school of feeling rather than thought, which, though small, is becoming very influential in the hands of zealous and eloquent teachers. It is a school of which Mr. Kingsley is the ablest doctor; and its doctrine has been described fairly and cleverly as muscular Christianity.' The principal characteristics of the writer whose works earned this burlesque though expressive description, are his deep sense of the sacredness of all the ordinary relations and all the common duties of life, and the vigour with which he contends for the merits of simple massive unconscious goodness, and for the great importance and value of animal spirits, physical strength, and a hearty enjoyment of all the pursuits and accomplishments which are connected with them. We entirely agree in the truth and importance of the first and last of these opinions; nor do we think that many persons would dissent from them when they are stated categorically. They are closely connected with the whole Protestant conception of life; and we do not think that Englishmen as a body are fairly chargeable with their neglect or denial.

The propriety of Mr. Kingsley's admiration of simplicity and unconsciousness strikes us as more questionable. Indeed, constantly as the words are used by a certain class of writers, we are not quite sure that we understand what they refer to. If we were perfect members of a perfect world, we might be unconscious of our own perfection; but, as things are, we hardly see how a man can be unconscious of goodness unless he is dead to its antagonism to vice. Such a person is like nothing so much as a man who with a keen eye for darkness is insensible to light. As to simplicity, we are equally puzzled. We understand what is meant by a massive understanding. Bacon's mind was massive; Hooker's was massive; that of Hobbes was pre-eminently massive. But in what sense were they simple? The facts of life are far too complex to be embraced by an understanding which only recognises a few broad divisions. Many most essential distinctions are to the last degree refined. How would the simple understanding discriminate between pride and vanity, or between pride and self-respect? How would it deal with the Bank Charter Act, or apply the theory of rent unfolded by Ricardo? Are the writers with whom Mr. Kingsley himself is most intimately associated remarkable for simplicity? Mr. Maurice is almost his alter ego, but would any human creature reckon the gift in question amongst the many virtues of that excellent person? If simplicity means something which can be predicated of the sort of mind which produced the Theological Essays' and the Kingdom of Christ,' it fairly baffles our comprehension.

Whatever may be the truth upon these subjects, there are very various ways in which it may be taught; and we fear that that which Mr. Kingsley has invented, and which the author of "Tom Brown' has followed up, is open to very grave objections. It consists of writing novels, the hero of which is almost always drawn in the most glowing colours, and intended to display the excellence of a simple massive understanding united with the almost unconscious instinct to do good, and adorned, generally speaking, with every sort of athletic accomplishment. If, as we suppose, it is Mr. Kingsley's object to invigorate the minds of his contemporaries, to make them simpler, stronger, and more manly, we do not think he is taking quite the right course for that end.* His novels are calculated to produce an artistic admiration for simplicity and vigour, rather than simplicity and vigour themselves; and these things are not only

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* Our observations apply principally to his novels. The Village 'Sermons' are written, we think, in a somewhat different spirit.

independent of, but are to a certain extent opposed to, each other. Nothing is more common than to admire the qualities in which we are deficient; and as Jeffery Hudson, in 'Peveril of the Peak,' is constantly envying every one a few inches taller than his neighbours, we should fear that the grand simple giants in 'Yeast,' 'Alton Locke,' and Westward Ho,' would be particularly welcome to the febrile, irritable, over-excited part of the generation to which they are addressed, and we do not think that such reading would be likely to calm or to brace their nerves. Nothing can do that efficiently but strong exercise of mind and body, and abstinence from the stimulants appropriate to each. Mr. Kingsley's novels are powerful stimulants, and lead their readers not to take exercise but to dream of taking it. He is a man of whom we wish on every account to speak with the respect which is so justly due to his genius and to his kindliness, but we are bound to say that the intellectual gifts which his novels display are very unlike the simple athletic understanding, and the calm self-possessed good sense, which he rates so highly. Compare Mr. Kingsley's speculations with Butler or Bentham; compare his political and social disquisitions with Cobbett, and the difference between massiveness and ingenuity, strong thinking and strong feeling, are very curiously illustrated. Even the characters introduced into his novels are not really strong. Their massiveness usually shows itself principally in their muscular development. We cannot think, for example, that a man who, like Paul Tregarva, is driven to the verge of madness by the spectacle of the state of the poor in England, is entitled to be called a strong character. In Two Years 'Ago' there is a simple-minded Scotch soldier, who is the virtuous giant of the book, yet he has so little force of character as to let the heroine make an utter fool of him. A chance word from her changes the whole course of his life; and after her marriage, he carries about with him an affection for her which he has not the force to overcome, and which makes him welcome death in the very flower of his age. Such a man is essentially weak, whatever may be the breadth of his pectoral muscles. Subtract the physical force from any one of Mr. Kingsley's heroes, and he loses all his character.

The praise which Mr. Kingsley lavishes on athletic accomplishments is, we think, rather overdone. No doubt his books contain much evidence of a very vigorous appreciation of the pleasures of such pursuits, but they are not quite natural. They read like a constant reiteration of the assertion that a man may be able to walk a thousand miles in a thousand hours, and also to appreciate the Neoplatonist philosophy. Tom Brown' certainly

does not err in this respect. Every line of it tingles with animal life; but it, as well as Mr. Kingsley's books, is open to the objection that, not content with asserting the value of bodily strength, it throws by implication à certain slur on intellectual strength, which, when all is said and done, is much more important. No doubt strong muscles and hardy nerves are of incalculable importance, but they derive that importance from the mind, of which they are the servants; and though Mr. Kingsley would willingly admit this, and probably means his books to imply it, we do not think they would convey this impression to an ordinary reader.

In 'Tom Brown' this failing is exaggerated. Compare it with 'Frank' or 'Sandford and Merton.' The very first lesson which little Master Tommy is taught in the last-named book is to dig and to walk; and Harry Sandford's combat with the bully, Master Mash, is as spirited as the fight between Tom Brown and Williams: so, too, Frank's father carefully teaches him to ride and leap, but neither Day nor Miss Edgeworth allow their readers to forget for a moment that riding, walking, and boxing, though admirable things, are only means, and not ends. A boy might really infer from Tom Brown' that he was only sent to school to play at football, and that the lessons were quite a secondary consideration. If we are right in thinking that the works under consideration are liable to these objections, the fact is a curious proof of the way in which people contradict themselves, for there can be no doubt that severe mental labour requires the rarest and most enduring form of bodily strength namely, strength of the digestive organs and nervous system.

Having, however, exhausted our criticisms, we must conclude as we began, by giving our hearty thanks for a very charming book. It is one which does great honour, not only to the author and to Rugby, but to the school of fiction to which it belongs. We heartily congratulate Mr. Kingsley on a disciple who reproduces so vigorously many of his own great merits, and who sympathizes so ardently in feelings which we do not entirely share, but which are generous even in their defects.

VOL. CVII. NO. CCXVII.

ART. VII. · Mémoires et Journal sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Bossuet. Publiés pour la première fois d'après les Manuscrits autographes de l'Abbé Le Dieu, et accompagnés d'une Introduction et de Notes par M. l'Abbé Guettée. 4 vols. Paris: 1856-57.

THE appearance of these Memoirs is singularly encouraging to all authors who are waiters upon fortune and aspirants to posthumous fame. The Abbé Le Dieu evidently thought well of them: he read them to this person and to that. One praised the style, another the choice of facts, another the lucid order; and the Jesuit Père de la Rue, who used them in the funeral oration which he pronounced over Bossuet, even declared them to be eloquent; and now at length, after a century and a half, the manuscripts have found a publisher. The Abbé Guettée, a liberal Catholic and a firm Gallican, the author of an industrious history of the Church of France, has gone through the duty of editing these documents,-an undertaking which he has conscientiously discharged, subjoining many useful notes, and prefixing a judicious introduction.

The Abbé Le Dieu, who may now be known to posterity as the author of these Memorials, was for twenty years the private secretary of Bossuet, the confidant of his thoughts and labours. The life of Bossuet contained in the Memoirs appears to have been composed partly from notes taken from Bossuet's own lips and partly from personal observation; the Journal is a diary kept by the Abbé himself. Cardinal de Beausset had both Memoirs and Journal before him, and so filled three volumes with the somewhat pompous history which bears his name. M. Floquet too, in the three volumes which he published on Bossuet's early life, has added little to the facts here related.

The Abbé's Journal, however, only extends over the last four years of the life of the prelate; indeed the last volume and a half contains events subsequent to Bossuet's death,—the dissatisfaction which the next M. de Meaux gave, the petit fripon as Bossuet called him, who did not know even how to say mass-the great dispute about the deanery-details about the publication of Bossuet's works- how the furniture of the next bishop was better than that of Bossuet--church separations, and the affairs of the synod. The Abbé had little notion of artistic grouping or selection: he turns his reflecting-glass round in every direction, and notes down whatever it takes in