famous as the chief governor of Dulwich College), being probably unaware of Mr. Moore's offer, tastefully proposed to "hang theology and get to work at once." This was done; and accordingly Mr. Moore declined to pay the thousand pounds. It is unnecessary to say that the clerics were ready to do any amount of prayer, &c., when it was found that Mr. Moore stuck to his point. Altogether, Mr. Moore's life offers nothing for our contemplation or imitation. He worked hard, made money, liked to associate with bishops and parsons, and to take the chair while Dr. Percival, Dr. Jex Blake, or the Archbishop of York were making speeches; gave away liberal sums of money, and was perhaps rather intolerant. We see no use in writing a big volume about such a career, unless it encourages apprentices to read how much money a lucky man can make. For our part we do not consider the wealthy trader class one that it is necessary or desirable to increase or to imitate. There is not a thought or phrase of Mr. Moore's that is worth perpetuating; and, excellent man as he was, we regret that he has occupied so much of Mr. Smiles' useful time. 30 short. In Ellice Hopkins' Life of the eminent Aural Surgeon, James Hinton, we have a most admirable record of the life and thoughts of a deep and cultivated thinker. James Hinton's life extended from 1822 to 1875, and was only too He did not amass a large fortune, nor did he wish to do so. A scientific man, in full work as a practising surgeon, he yet gave the best strength of his mind to philosophy, and true religion was the main subject of his thought. The editor has, with wisdom and good taste, drawn largely upon his letters, as the best authorities for a picture of the man. As it is a book with which we wish the thoughtful reader to become acquainted, we shall say nothing of it except that it is to be read; and we cannot enforce this advice better than by a few extracts. On the Atonement, in 1851, he writes : : "I don't pretend to understand the nature, &c., of the atonement, or to wish you to believe one thing or another about it, but I sincerely trust you wont adopt other people's opinions on that subject. Hold your own opinion on that subject and all others, and don't let any one's logic shake it. Nothing is easier, and, in my opinion, nothing is falser than that kind of liberality in which Mr. appears so to rejoice. . . . I have been as liberal as any man, and know what it means. Examine the doctrine, if you please, as thoroughly as you like, but I hoped I had convinced you before now that logic can prove anything. If Mr. can raise a thousand insuperable objections to the commonly received views of the atonement, I will be bound I could raise at least as many against any other." In 1865:- "The other thing I wanted to say to you was in reference to your expression, It is such a terrible thing not to believe.' I don't think it is. To my feeling it is not true-as you mean it. It is often not terrible, but most right 30"Life and Letters of James Hinton." Edited by Ellice Hopkins. London: C. Kegan Paul & Co. and good not to believe. . . . Nothing is 'terrible' that is the true and legitimate result of our best trying, and that truly expresses our nature. "I find the Bible the secret of all truth; all I truly know I derive from it; and yet I would say to every man, Don't believe the Bible if you cannot see clearly that it is true. Deal truly, boldly by it.'" Hinton would have been persecuted by the authorities of almost every sect that has ever existed, if it had had the power; and yet almost any sect of Christians would gladly claim him. He was indeed a man far above sect, and will be respected and admired by many who do not hold his views. Mr. G. W. Abbott puts forth a volume of "Reminiscences of the Life of an Octogenarian.' The words on his title-page, 66 first series," imply that there is more to come. We would fain cry, "Hold, enough!" The venerable autobiographer's revelations consist almost exclusively of old anecdotes and theatrical memoranda. The book is dull and absolutely valueless, and might have been written by a boy of eighteen, who had a file of a theatrical paper and a Joe Miller. 32 Dr. Reinhard Mosen sends us a brief sketch of the life of his father, the dramatist, Julius Mosen.' It is an interesting little with modesty and good taste. paper, written Mr. Hope's book on the "Heroes of Young America,"*" is a book for boys. As far as it attempts to make our rising generation acquainted with the history of that country with which their chief concern will be, we welcome the book. We could, however, have wished that Mr. Hope had spent a little more toil and criticism on his labours, in which case he would have said less about Capt. John Smith and the Princess Pocohontas of Brentford. THE BELLES LETTRES. HE first story of "The Cheveley Novels" has come to an end. We have had to read through much nonsense in the shape of novels, but such nonsense as "The Modern Minister" we have certainly never before encountered. "Ouida's" high-flown nonsense is bad enough by itself, but when, in addition to "Ouida's" nonsense, we have the sentimental nonsense of Bulwer Lytton, the worst comic nonsense of Dickens, and the writer's own original nonsense, we must certainly have arrived at the very worst novel ever written. Once or twice we have suspected that the whole story was a hoax, and that the writer was simply trying how much absurdity the British public would 31 Events in the Life of an Octogenarian." By George Washington Abbott. London: Remington & Co. 32 Julius Mosen, eine biographische Skizze." Oldenburg: Schutz. 33 "The Heroes of Young America." By Ascott R. Hope. London: Edward Stanford. 1 "The Modern Minister: The Cheveley Novels." Edinburgh and London: William Black wood & Sons. Parts X., XI., XII., XIII. 1878. swallow and the reviewers praise. Of the story we can really give no account. Sometimes the writer reminds us of Wilkie Collins, sometimes of Miss Braddon, but chiefly of "Ouida" and Bulwer Lytton; but always in their very worst style and most extravagant moods. Sometimes we have wondered whether "The Modern Minister" could possibly be meant as an elaborate satire upon the popular novelists of the day. Certainly, if "Ouida," Wilkie Collins, Miss Braddon, and, we may even add, Mr. Anthony Trollope, wish to see their own worst faults and extravagances, they should study the pages of the first of "The Cheveley Novels." This, however, is certainly not the author's intention. He evidently knows what the uneducated middle-class public like, and he gives them plenty of their favourite reading. Comment upon a book like "The Modern Minister" is useless. Whether critics praise it or not, it will be followed by some other story equally pretentious and silly, and that again by another, until the tale of "The Cheveley Novels" is exhausted. We need not, however, be surprised at the success of such a book as "The Modern Minister." Within the last twenty years a new class of readers, composed chiefly of the daughters of successful middle-class people, wealthy tradesmen, merchants, and manufacturers, has sprung up. They are totally uneducated in their tastes, but they are frantic to read anything about so-called high life. They take in "Society" journals, collect the autographs of the nobility, and rush wherever a great person, that is, a titled person, is to be seen. These are the people who delight in such a book as "The Modern Minister." And as long as such people exist "The Cheveley Novels" will continue to be written. The author of "Culmshire Folk" most decidedly made his mark on the literature of the day by that book. He at one step took rank amongst the leading novelists; and he obtained his place by what may be called fair means. His book possessed no meretricious attractions. Its merits were of an honest kind, truthful descriptions, quiet humour, good sense, and no small power of character drawing. "John Orlebar, Clerk," is, however, a most distinct advance upon "Culmshire Folk." It is a novel which touches-slightly, it is true, but still very plainly-upon the great religious and scientific controversy of the day. This, however, is done in the most guarded manner. The various types of clergymen are fairly, and we must add, most charitably represented. The hero of the story, John Orlebar, the Broad Churchman, is no immaculate being. He fails more than once both to control his temper and even his hand. Canon Grimshawe, the type of all that is narrow-minded and hateful in the modern Evangelical school, is no mere target at which the author may fire his sarcasms, but a living human being, such as we have, unfortunately, too often encountered in the country. Good, conscientious Bishop Friselle, too, is excellently drawn, and might, we think, stand as a very good likeness of a certain well-known Church dignitary. Nor must we forget "John Orlebar, Clerk." By the Author of "Culmshire Folk." London: Smith, Elder & Co. 1878. amongst the parsons that most terrible of beings, the she-parson, as represented by the Bishop's wife. The laymen, too, are sketched with equal observation. First of all comes Pakenham, the country doctor, with his sterling common sense. But a man like Pakenham is even more rare amongst country doctors than Orlebar amongst country rectors. The country doctor is, as a rule, far below Pakenham's standard. We fear that there are few country doctors who could hold their own against the rector in the way Pakenham does in the second chapter, and who would dare to tell him plainly: "You, the clergy, have bent your backs, and bowed your heads, whilst the great wave of scientific knowledge has swept over you, and left you stranded" (p. 21). Amongst the other characters we must not forget Twinch, the rascally attorney. He is decidedly the most genuine villain whom we have for a long time met in fiction; and we cannot compliment the author too highly for such a thoroughly original study. With him, too, may pair off his old clerk, Suall, a character also evidently taken from life. Then we have a number of delightful minor personages, of whom we only just catch glimpses; but glimpses sufficient to show us the truthfulness of the author's drawing, such as old General Vernon, who, when Bishop Friselle expresses a hope that they may both meet his lodge-keeper in heaven, replies: แ On my soul and credit, I'd rather not. I-I-I'd very much prefer being down with the lower orders here in this world" (p. 149). Nor must we forget the chorus of villagers, who utter such wonderfully witty things. The only fault we have to find is that their sayings are a great deal too witty. We have seen many churchwardens, waywardens, parish clerks, and sextons, both sober and drunk, and in every stage between those two states, but we have never heard them utter such brilliant sarcasms as stud the pages of "John Orlebar." In fact, their sarcasms in real life generally take the practical form of flinging some article at one another's heads instead of producing anything out of them, except it be a curse. It was George Eliot who first set the fashion of making rustics speak in epigrams, and of representing their village pothouses as a kind of Socratic symposium. Her example has been followed by Mr. Hardy and other novelists, until the rustic is now represented as a brilliant wit instead of the dull, loutish sot which he really is. For our own part we think that there is much to be said in favour of General Vernon's objection against meeting such people in heaven or anywhere else. In "John Orlebar," however, the village clerk is wittier than the witty rector himself. When the rector turns a donkey out from feeding in the churchyard, he is met with such a knock-me-down sarcasm as this from his clerk: "He is a miserly screw who would not give even Nebuchadnezzar a mouthful of grass when he wanted it" (p. 48). When a subscription was got up to buy a horse and carriage for the rector, the clerk pulls out a halfpenny and declares, "If that coin would purchase for Orlebar the reversionary interest in the fiery chariot that took the prophet up to heaven, he wouldn't give it" (p. 54). As far as our experience goes, ninety-nine village clerks out of a hundred could not spell reversionary, much less give an explanation of its meaning. However, we shall not quarrel with the author of "John Orlebar" for being too witty. It is, indeed, a rare fault. But we would point out to him that such a really smart dialogue upon the efficacy of prayer as at pages 50 and 51 is to a certain extent lost, from an artistic point of view. A slightly different setting would have given it a higher value and quality. Further, we certainly have never met with any rustics who entertained the slightest doubts about the efficacy of prayer. Scepticism of this sort is really confined to the educated and scientific classes. As knowledge increases, and the fact that the world is governed by law is recognised, the value of prayer for rain or for fine weather, or recovery from sickness, will, we have no doubt, be called in question by even the bucolic mind. But it is "long cry" to such a state of things. The fact, however, that such a question should be raised in a novel like "John Orlebar," shows which way the wind is blowing. Throughout the book there are passages which very clearly indicate that the scientific explanation of nature is fast gaining ground upon the old theological conceptions. A novel like "John Orlebar," in which the writer knows his ground well, and in which there is no animosity displayed against the clergy as clergy, is far more likely to set men's minds thinking than the most elaborate attack upon the Church. How light the writer's touch is may be seen by the following description: "The Bishop said grace, placing his hands lovingly over the covered dish, as though he were about to confirm it" (p. 130). Equally happy is the way in which, on the next page, the Bishop talks of John Bunyan as "a tinsmith," feeling that the word tinker is hardly suitable for episcopal lips. Again, too, how happily, in a moment of irritation, the Bishops says, a few pages further on, of Canon Grimshawe: "If he'd keep out of print I wouldn't so much mind. Like Demosthenes, he carries a dose of poison about with him in his quill; but, unfortunately, he does not, like Demosthenes, kill himself with it" (p. 134). The individualities of all the clergy who come to the palace are all characteristically hit off. We are, however, sorry to see one or two old clerical jokes introduced. The author has no need to borrow from anybody. In conclusion, we would recommend "John Orlebar" to all our readers, not merely as an amusing story, but as a thoughtful study of some of the most important religious questions of the time-questions which are every day growing into greater and greater importance, and which cannot long be evaded by the clergy. John Orlebar himself feels this, and he resigns holy orders because "the old breastworks will not stand the on-coming assault" (p. 288). Novels seem to be more abundant than ever this quarter. If the quantity has increased, the quality certainly has not improved. "Like Dian's Kiss" is a sentimental story, which however, improves as it proceeds. Far better is Mrs. Hunt's "The Hazard of the Die." 3 Like Dian's Kiss." A Novel. By "Rita," Author of "Vivienne," &c. &c. London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington. 1878. 4 "The Hazard of the Die." By Mrs. Alfred W. Hunt, Author of "Thornicroft's Novel," "Under Seal of Confession," "This Indenture Witnesseth," &c. &c. London: Hurst & Blackett. 1878. |