picturesque and impressive. The sun brimming the building with an atmosphere of gold, the silver columns of the fountains raining into their tazzas with an unceasing musical cadence, the brilliant hues of the summer dresses of the ladies, the hum of conversation, the tread of a thousand feet, the solemn strains of Handel and Mozart magnificently thundered forth from Bevington's superb organ,

"While fifty voices in one strand did twist Their vari-coloured tones, and left no want To the delighted soul, which sank abyssed In the warm music-cloud;"

and at intervals the exhilarating symphonies of an efficient orchestra, materially enhanced the aspect of a scene of surpassing animation and splendour, and affected one with a pleasure altogether independent of the imposing vision around them.

So far we believe this exhibition has commanded a financial success adequate to its noble aim, and to the enthusiasm and patriotism of its projectors. Certainly the denizens of the metropolis and its environs have not been tardy in availing themselves of its advantages, and when the facilities of access are greater as regards cheap railway and steam-boat excursions, the influx of visitors from the provinces, the sister kingdoms, and the Continent, will, doubtless, be found commensurate with its attractions and deserts.

LITERARY NOTICE.

E. M'M.

"THE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER."
99*

If the large amount of unlimited praise which may happen to be bestowed upon a work is to be taken as a fair criterion of its success, we think that the author of "The Rector's Daughter" has every reason to be satisfied with the success of his new work. It has, in fact, received so much praise from the press, and that under every point of view-its style, plot, language, and delineation of character-that little more is left to us than to endorse the favourable sentiments of our contemporaries, and cordially recommend the book before us to the notice of such of our readers as may not yet have seen it. We can confidently say of it that it is a book which they may safely put into the hands of their children, for, coming as it does from the pen of a clergyman, as might be expected, it does not contain a word or sentiment which can offend the most fastidious mind. At the same time we can say for it (and this is more than we can affirm of all books that may be pronounced merely safe), that it will interest and amuse, and, more than all, edify. In a review of the work before us from the pen of a contemporary of established ability and

"The Rector's Daughter," a Tale; by Rev. THOMAS POTTER, Author of "The Two Victories," etc. James Duffy, Dublin and London. 1861.

talent, he refers with as much truth as discrimination to the force and vigour with which the Rev. Mr. Potter has seized upon the vast debateable ground which lies open to the writer of Catholic fiction, between the sensual and the ethical. As an ordinary rule, religious novels are about the most stupid things under the sun, and there are very few of us who are gifted with perseverance enough to wade our weary way through them. On the other hand, we certainly tremble to place most of the current literature of the day in the hands of our children, beginning and ending, as it does, with the mere animal passions; having the excitement of these passions for its one sole scope. Between these two extremes lies open a broad path to the Catholic fictionist. It is one upon which comparatively few venture; but when one who is duly qualified to do so, does make the venture and comes out of it successfully, we rejoice, not only for the success of the enterprising author, but for the boon which has been conferred upon our body. The work before us is pre-eminently of this character. Recognizing God and His connection with the events of every-day life, and speaking of His action upon the lives of men as an ordinary thing, there is, nevertheless, in "The Rector's Daughter" no parade of religion, no forcing of moral sentiments and devout sayings down our throats, like a pill, a gilded pill, perhaps, but still a pill. Founded upon fact, blent with only so much of fiction as was necessary to form, polish, and give enchantment to the links of the narrative, we are certain that few of our readers who have once taken it up, will be able to lay down this charming volume until they have reached the end. The narrative is wonderfully true and vigorous in its delineation of character; and describes with terrible accuracy the remorse springing from a conscience wounded with the worst of all evils the abandonment of faith. When we say that it is a model of easy, graceful, and classical composition, we are saying no more than was to be expected, holding, as its author does, the chair of literature in our great Missionary College of All Hallows. We have seen an exception taken to one part of the work, where the author interrupts his story in some degree, and introduces an imaginary critic. This may be a matter of taste, but, at all events, our author follows the example of no less an authority in the matter than Thackeray, whose writings are full of episodes of the same kind.

"The Rector's Daughter" is brought out in Mr. Duffy's best style, and forms a valuable and elegant addition to every Catholic family circle, or library. We trust that its success will be such as to compel its author soon to issue a second edition of his work, and encourage him to continue his labours in the cause of Catholic literature, where we shall be delighted to meet him again, if circumstances allow him to persevere in the path on which he has entered.

No. 14.

THE MINISTER PLEADS FOR HIMSELF-MARIA WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE, AND NOT FOUND WANTING-THE PROJECT ACCOMPLISHED.

THE next day the minister dressed himself with more than usual care. On surveying his face in the glass, he ould not avoid remarking that his features, as well as is whole person, had become gradually more attenuated, notwithstanding the extreme care which he had taken, especially at the request of his family, of his declining health. The deep lustre of his eyes was startling, but on this occasion he attributed it to the hopeful and consolatory intelligence which his father had brought him the day before. His temperament, at once timid and enthusiastic, was not such as qualified him to wrestle successfully with the cares and disappointments of life. His organization was too refined and delicate for that. As it was, it would be difficult to see a more striking or interesting figure than his; the predominant expression of his features was that of benignity and thought, saddened a good deal into a character of care that sometimes seemed mournful. Indeed, we might almost say that ever since his rejection by Maria, his manner, ap pearance, and whole figure, had become the ideal of deep and profound sorrow.

Another point for observation in connexion with him, was the extreme whiteness and delicacy of his hands. They had, indeed, been always beautiful, but of late they became more soft,-far whiter than usual, and of a burning heat, and sometimes his pale complexion became so flushed, that he appeared the very picture of health.

On approaching Mrs. Brindsley's cottage, he felt his moral strength gradually abandoning him; his heart palpitated with excitement, and his very limbs grew feeble under him. He paused several times, and was about to return home and ask his father or brother to accompany him, at least to the house. He would have given any thing for some adventitious assistance. But although his resolution was weak, his reason was strong, and on reverting to the confidence in his success expressed by his father, he felt ashamed of his timidity, and

VOL. III.

1861.

resolved to advance. On getting within a few perches of the house, however, he paused again, and would probably have returned, were it not that Mrs. Brindsley happened to come out for the purpose of driving away some young calves, that had come in among the flowers which she cultivated in the front garden. Having seen him standing as it were irresolute, she spoke to him, and with much kindness asked him would he not come in and rest himself? This encouraged him, and on approaching her she shook hands with him, and brought him into the the house. It would seem as if preparation had been made for this visit. The work women were not within, and Mrs. Brindsley herself, as she told him, was going into the town to make some purchases. "Maria, however," said she, "is at home, and will entertain you, Mr. Wallace."

Now all this corroborated what his father had intimated, and we need not say that whilst it gave him courage, it also agitated his heart with still greater tenderness for the object of his melancholy passion. After having introduced him and Maria to each other-for although near neighbours, they had never yet spokenMrs. Brindsley put on her shawl and bonnet, and left them together. Many a description has been given of such situations, and of the mutual embarrassment under which the lovers labour for want of knowing what to say, or how to break the ice of ceremony on such trying occasions. As it was, Wallace became the hue of death, and Maria, from pure compassion, commenced the conversation.

"Mr. Wallace," said she, "I hope you have not been unwell since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, now a good many months ago. I think you look somewhat paler and thinner than you did then."

Wallace's voice betrayed his emotion as he spoke"Yes," he replied, "I have not been well; that is, I can complain of nothing in the shape of sickness or of any positive complaint, but I have not been happy; I have had much care pressing upon me-here-" he added, placing his white but sickly-looking hand upon his heart. "I have contracted a great disrelish for society; I take a melancholy pleasure in leading a lonely life; perhaps it is wrong, but it is not without its pleasure, although that pleasure is indeed a mournful one."

Maria perfectly well understood him, but she felt that the shadow of the unfortunate young man's melancholy was, in spite of her, falling upon her spirit.

"But you have your sacred profession and its duties, Mr. Wallace; ought they not to cheer you, and to engage you in such a way, as to occupy your mind, and

D

prevent it from dwelling upon anything that might cause you pain ?”

"Do not allu le to that, Miss Brindsley," he replied, 66 oh, do not. There is when as a minister of God I feel how unworthy I have become of the office."

"You!" she replied, "why, sir, I cannot plead ignorance of your well-known character, nor of the hidden benevolence and charity for which your name is proverbial. You may consider it hidden, but I assure you it is not. If you have any private care, surely it cannot be such, I should hope, as to affect your happiYou who make so many others happy, ought certainly to be happy yourself."

ness.

"It might be so, Miss B.indsley, if my heart were in my office, but indeed, I can scarcely speak upon this subject; I am like a house divided against itself. I often think I have never been designed for the ministry, and that I have, without due consideration of my own disposition and character, only intruded myself into it. If I had known as much of my own heart at an earlier period as I do now, I don't think I would ever have undertaken duties which at present I feel myself incapable of performing with an undivided spirit."

Maria could not help admiring the strange candour with which he exaggerated the morbid and ideal shortcomings of his public duty-shortcomings which she knew existed only in his own distempered imagination. ller interest and her sympathy with the unfortunate gentleman increased every moment, especially when she saw the timidity with which he avoided as long, it would seem, as he could, the very object of his visit there.

"But could you not seek spiritual support from some of your brother clergymen by consulting with them as to the care that oppresses you, or rather could you not seek support from the Author of all comfort? It must be a serious thing that so deeply oppresses your spirit."

"It is a serious thing, Miss Brindsley, because the happiness of my whole life is involved in it. I know not what I would say, nor how to say it. I am inexperienced in the proper manner of approaching a subject on which I feel depends either my life or death. Miss Brindsley-Miss Brindsley, have compassion on me! Do you not understand me?"

This sudden appeal to her compassion, uttered ia such a voice of profound sorrow and wretchedness, completely overcame her. His earnest enthusiasm, joined to a spirit of such touching and melancholy pathos, moistened her eyes in spite of every effort to the contrary; she could not speak.

hilate. You owe me some reparation, for you have, I fear, although unconsciously, withdrawn me from God. I cannot banish you either from my heart or imagination. You possess a double hold upon me; yet what efforts have I not made to forget you. This is not a subject for reason, because it is a subject of the heart, which never reasous. If I have erred in loving you, oh forgive and pardon me, for you see by those tears what I have been made to suffer, what I am suffering for it; say you will only forgive me, for, I think, of all men, I am the most unhappy."

Maria could not hear this agony of her unfortunate lover without emotion; her tears flowed copiously, but she knew not, in fact, how to reply to him.

"I know not what to say," she returned; "it is a dreadful task to me to deprive you of hope, or to weigh such a gentle and affectionate heart as yours down with sorrow; but alas, Mr. Wallace, I can give you no consolation."

"Oh, do not say so!" he replied, deeply agitated; "consider that the happiness, perhaps here and hereafter, of a fellow-creature, depends upon your word. Look at my wasting figure, and you may easily conjecture what I have suffered. Despair will kill me-kill me slowly, and so much the worse. Indeed, it is not so much for your love I plead as for my life, for I feel that the one is bound up with the other. Oh, could you but only love me!"

"My dear friend," she replied-" for I will call you so let me assure you that you have my respect, my esteem, my affection as a sister; but, alas, I cannot give you my love, although, as you see, I can give you my tears and my sympathy for this unhappy attachment, by which I feel so much honoured. Now, hear me, and collect yourself; where is your fortitude?"

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Alas, I feel that I have none; under the influence of this passion I am like a reed shaken by the wind." "Well, even so, but you must endeavour to regain some moral strength."

"How can I do so if you refuse me your love? Think of what I have lost by it, and of the desolation of heart which will shatter and prostrate me if you withhold it. I am pleading for the welfare of my soul now as well as for my life and happiness. Think I say of what I have lost by it; my spirit has been withdrawn from the sacred mission which I entered into with perfect sincerity; my heart, as a minister of God, has been alienated from the fold that has been entrusted to me; it is elsewhere it is with you. I am, as it were, an apostate from the faith, for your sake, and in what a dark position is this for a man who has undertaken the discharge of such high and holy duties to stand. Reflect, then, that this dreadful struggle is wasting my life, sapping the very powers of my existence, and all because my unhappy heart is fixed upon you. But oh! only give me your love, and I will return to the fold which I am neglecting, to those duties in which my spirit is not; yes, I will return to them with an ardour which will compensate for all I have omitted. Restore me to my mission, restore me to my health, pour the

light of gladness upon my heart; I beg, I entreat you, have compassion upon me and save me!"

"I have-I have compassion upon you," she replied, seizing both his hands, "but my compassion is all I can bestow. Now, hear me," she continued; "you imagine that your unhappiness is great, perhaps mine is You know not what I may even now greater still. suffer on my own account, neither can I disclose it to you, although if I did, it would reflect no dishonour on myself. I am not only unhappy, but wretched. My love I cannot give you, because it has been bestowed upon another, who would return it a thousandfold, if I accepted his. This, from the best motives, I have refused to do, and by this sacrifice to a sense of what is right, I have sealed my own misery for life. You, my dear friend, have not, then, all the sorrow to yourself."

The poor young man placed his hands upon his temples. "I care not," said he, "I have not heard you, I have not understood you, but I feel that I am desolate. Ichabod, the glory of my mission and of my life is departed, and my place shall soon know me no more. He rose to depart, and as he was about to go, she seized his hand and said: Farewell, my dear friend, farewell-you may yet be happy; as for me I never

can."

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He shook his head mournfully, and repeated the words, "Ichabod, the glory of my mission and of my life has departed; I am desolate ;" but he added, looking upon her with such a look of sorrow as smote her again to the heart; "Might I ask, before I leave you, one last favour?"

"What is it, Mr. Wallace? if I can with propriety comply with it, most assuredly I will."

"It is not for the sake of memory," he added; "you are there for ever, but some slight token that I might look upon as coming from you. You gave me your tears this day—I will often give you mine. You would not refuse me what I ask?"

In an instant she started up, and getting a pair of scissors which lay on a little side-table, she went to a looking-glass, and dishevelling her luxuriant head of hair, she cut off a tress, and tying it into a knot, said: "Keep this for my sake, Mr. Wallace, and remember me as one who respects, esteems, and admires you, and who would love you if she could, and who now says, that you are worthy of a better love than hers."

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He took her hand whilst his tears fell fast,-and he looked upon her. Might I kiss your hand ?" said he. "Here is my cheek," she replied, "for the first and the last time ;" and he kissed her not without tears, with a delicacy which showed that he understood the chaste and compassionate spirit in which the favour was offered.

After he had gone Maria sat down and wept, but her tears were not all for him.

When poor Wallace returned home, his face had the shadow of death on it. His father and brother approached to hear the result of his visit; but he waved them away with his hand, and sitting down, placed the other over his eyes, exclaiming as before,

"Ichabod, the glory of my mission and my life has departed; I am desolate !"

His father and brother felt that it was no time to disturb or intrude on Lim. They consequently retired to another room, where his affectionate brother said to the old man, "Father, my brother's heart is broken; I read it in his face," and he burst into tears.

This episode of sorrow we may as well close here. He never recovered the shock of his disappointment. Decline, which was hereditary in the family, had been secretly at work before the occurrence of this melancholy interview. He wasted away, week by week, gradually and slowly, until, at the expiration of about seven months afterwards, this melancholy young man, so full of promise, so accomplished, so learned, and so eloquent, laid his head down in the bloom of youth, but in a spirit of calmness and resignation, and was freed from those cares and sorrows of heart which laid him low. The tress he had received from Maria was, at his own request, placed upon his heart, where he had always worn it, and buried with him.

Some weeks had now elapsed, and Maria's damask cheek began to exhibit evidences that the "worn" was "feeding" on it. True it is that the fair but sorrowful girl"pined in thought," but with her usual firmness aud energy, she devoted herself with assiduity to the labour of life allotted to her, and by this means-the best-known preservative against care-she grappled with the deep anguish which was consuming her. One day she was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Clinton, who called, as she said, to have some private conversation with her. This intimation made the colour to come and go on her cheek, and her heart to palpitate so violently, that she thought her powers of respiration were about to be suspended. Mrs. Clinton at once observed her confusion, and said:

"Don't be alarmed Maria; I am about to speak to you as a friend."

"You have always been so to me, madam,” replied Maria.

"Well then," proceeded that lady, "I am about to ask you some questions, which I trust you will answer me candidly and fully."

"I shall certainly do so, madam," replied Maria, "if the questions regard only myself,"

-h?"

"You became acquainted with my son in A"It is due to myself to say, that I did not become willingly acquainted with him; I did everything that the circumstances under which I was placed enabled me, to decline any acquaintance with him. It was forced upon me altogether against my will; and it was to avoid the acquaintance you allude to that I am here to-day."

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My son offered you marriage?"

"He did, madam; but I declined that also."

"This I think strange," observed Mrs. Clinton; "upon what principle did you reject a proposal which most young persons in your condition of life would have seized on with eagerness?"

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Simply, madam, because I was in that condition