wear, but I give it to Gran, as it decorates her much; from Mima and Hessie beautiful black and gold pins, which dress me at once, and dangle and ring in the most enchanting way, they are a noble votive. From dear Mrs. Jones a bottle of real eau-de-cologne, from the Cologne shop. Mrs. Jones came last night and had cocoa with us. She then took me back to your aunt Matilda's, where I had coffee, and your aunt Matilda and I went to the Philosophical Institution, where a very objectionable man delivered what I thought a trite and pompous lecture. I dare say I was wrong. We have dined, dear Chick. That dark den without a fire is incompatible with appetite, but in every respect economical! The streets are greasy and dirty; we think of a cab to do a little calling in. Your Gran wants to get out. She is so well, and so amused. Her activity is tremendous. I must not be too late for the post. Your D. and C. [Debit and Credit], dear, I passed on to Mima, as your uncle B. had given me a copy. All the newspapers I have seen speak favorably, but there will be no profits.

How the woman reveals herself in this letter! The little things which make up a woman's life, told with a touch so graphic; the heartiness which gets out of every petty incident its fullest value; the racy diction; the love of animals; the fond, anxious tenderness for the mother; the swift, incisive estimates of people; the humor which plays so kindly; the almost careless mention of her own literary work; the wise counsel to the young girl, so gentle and unobtrusive, yet weighty, there is a volume of homely philosophy in the little sentence about order. And everywhere, we see a strong and gracious spirit, doing its service and learning its lesson amid the humblest cares, which love and fidelity ennoble.

A life so faithful and so full as this, shall we expect to find at its heart a contentment with its lot? Or is

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there something not given to it, some deep want which being bravely borne prepares for a gift held in reserve by Heaven? At a later time, the woman gives us a glimpse into her deepest life in these years, she is writing of a time in 1856, when with her mother, improved but not yet restored, she had gone for a while to Keswick in the Lake country. "I remember so well one day that summer; alone, under the dark shadow of a yew-tree on the hillside, whence one saw beneath one the rocks and the river of sweet Borrowdale, I remember so distinctly a mental struggle. I never had any other than one ideal of happiness, love intensely felt and returned. Do those who really care for love care for anything else? I never did. But I believed that for me that one ideal was not intended. My life had had its vicissitudes of feeling and imagination. I thought that the future had no great joy for me, only duties. I desired, I prayed, to be satisfied without personal happiness."

CHAPTER XV.

66 THORNDALE."

THE thoughts long brooded in silence and in solitude were given to the world at last. "Thorndale, or The Conflict of Opinions, by William Smith" was published in the autumn of 1857. This book did not fail of an audience. By its beauty, its profound thought, and its rare union of piety with open-mindedness, the attention of the intellectual world was caught. Eminent critics on both sides of the Atlantic discussed and praised it. The day of its special fame was perhaps brief. But it may be said to have won a permanent place in literature. It was one of those books which exert an influence beyond their fame, which enter as a potent factor into many minds, and find at least a few devoted and life-long lovers. As a mirror of the higher phases of the age's thought, it may have in after times a monumental significance.

"Thorndale" is a book of some six hundred pages. The closeness of thought in every paragraph, the wide range of topics, and the subtle interblending of diverse elements make it an almost hopeless task to justly epitomize its contents. Yet it is a book which needs both interpretation and comment.

Its most distinguishing characteristic is the union of the religious temper and the finest sensibility with an impartial, receptive attitude toward the most various theories of the universe. Materialist, theist, Catholic, and evolutionist receive an equally candid hearing. The verdict on some points and those sometimes of the highest interest appears to be left undecided.

The work to which the reviewer is called is to resolve and recombine the elements of the book; to distinguish between its substantial contribution to thought and those traits which are wholly subjective and personal; and to trace the lines of a harmony arising out of the conflict. To do this seems to be in fulfilment of one of the book's closing suggestions; "I think I could have brought into harmony what seems at first a mere conflict of opinions, and shown that every genuine utterance of thought, whether from Cyril or Seckendorf or my poor friend Montini, might have some place assigned it in a large and candid view of our progressive nature, and the position we, in this century, occupy in the great drama of human history."

Clarence, who utters this sentence, with Cyril and Seckendorf whom he mentions, and the Charles Thorndale to whom he speaks, are the chief personages in the story. Cyril is the representative of youthful doubt passing into fervent Catholic piety; Luxmore embodies the poetic, imaginative temper, unconcerned about creeds; Clarence, a landscape painter, is the sweet-natured and rational enthusiast for human progress; and Seckendorf - by no means the least attractive figure-is a robust GermanEnglish physician, who voices "the spirit of denial ". incredulous of spiritual entities and social Utopias, but with a vigorous grasp on the present concrete world. Thorndale writes in the first person; the book consists of his Diary, some chapters of reminiscences, a series of discussions among the group of friends, and an expanded statement of belief by the one to whom Thorndale inclines most favorably. Thorndale's slight autobiography bears small resemblance to the history of William Smith. But the opinions which Thorndale expresses as his own may be taken with little qualification as those of the author. The various speakers are also in the main personifications of different phases of the author's own thought. It is

the debate in his own mind which he pictures in the form of conversation in the Rhigi inn or by the lake side. We have to look below the surface of the book's narrative, to find the real clue to the progress of the thought, and then to construct for ourselves a synopsis of the results reached. The proper starting-point is the story of Cyril, which we have ventured to take as representing in its early portion the experience of William Smith, and as such have already quoted. It is the natural starting-point of a mind bred under a dogmatic Christianity, and roused to inquiry. But, for the next step, we are not to follow Cyril into the Catholic Church, but to accompany Charles Thorndale as he wanders through England in his youth a disappointment in love serving in the story to send him forth into the world. He sees and ponders the miseries of the poor.

I am passing along a highroad. It is in the north of England, amongst some of the most beautiful scenery we possess. A stone wall skirts the road, just high enough, as is so often the case, to conceal all the prospect from the pedestrian.

Within that wall, pacing the soft turf by the margin of the lake, or standing in mute contemplation of the scene, was a gentle lady, who, from the studied simplicity of her dress, evidently belonged to the Society of Friends. She was absorbed in the beauty around her. One felt that her spirit reflected all the peace and serenity of the scene. Placid, contemplative, pious, I could almost read her thoughts. "Will heaven be very unlike this?" I hear her murmur to herself. "Can it be very much more beautiful? Can I, should I, hope for a scene more lovely to meet the angels in?" Such, I feel persuaded, must have been the tenor of her meditations.

Without that wall, on the hard highroad, came by, at the same time, a cart drawn by a miserable horse. It came slowly enough, yet clattered noisily along, as the wide shafts swayed to and fro against the sides of the starved beast that drew it. Beside the cart walked a ragged woman. With one hand she held on by the shaft, that she might be partly dragged along; the