At first it is withheld, then, the heart striving to keep aloof, was conquered.

"A groan burst from Walter's lips; he threw himself at the feet of Father Campian, and poured forth the whole tale of his temptation and his suffering."

The father counsels him to fly, and he is on the point of consenting.

"But a sudden memory came over him, and for a moment overpowered him. He saw float before him a radiant face, with golden tresses falling on the fair neck; he heard the low tone of sweetness, in which she confessed her love; he felt once more the touch of the arm that had twined round his own but yesternight; his Constance, his beautiful one, his own!

"Walter was all unmanned.

"Campian looked at him with tenderness; he put his hand into his vest, and drew forth a small and finely carved ivory crucifix; he held it before Walter's eyes.

"Behold the Captain in whose army thou hast enlisted, my

son!"

Then he presses a secret spring, and shows to Walter an image of the dead Saviour, and tells him it is a fancy of his own, to have the image of death in Him who is the Giver of Life, before his eyes. He says,

"This is what upholds me when I am like to faint under the burden of temptation, when alluring hopes and fair ambitious would draw me away from His service. I go to kneel, not by His cross, but by His grave, and bury myself and my proud heart beneath the folds of those linen garments.'

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Walter's eyes were fixed on Campian, with wonder and reverence. He saw the pale wan face glowing, the deep set eyes radiant with light and love, as he gazed on the image of his Master's sufferings.

"Father,' said Walter, suddenly, I, too, will love Him best; I, too, will lay at his feet every hope and vision. I will die with Him; will lie down in the tomb with Him, and forsake all. Hear me, father, in your presence I vow it' and Walter pressed his lips to the image of Christ, which Campian held.

"Silently the priest blessed him, and received the vow."

And so ere the freshness of that vow has failed, the hero leaves the lady of his love, his fatherland and friends, and goes across the sea to learn the science which shall number him with the noble army of martyrs. Meanwhile Constance marries a Protestant nobleman, and

Isabel, the sister of Walter, becomes an apostate, and accepts the hand of Vicount Regnier, Beauville's heir. The Earl dies on the very day of the wedding, and Isabel becomes Countess of Beauville. So ends the first part.

In the second, the author developes what has been her dominant idea. Tyborne, with all its attendant horrors, is brought before our view, and, as we have before said, in vivid, though unexaggerated colours. Walter de Lisle returns a priest and Jesuit to Thoresby hall, the seat of an old Catholic family of the same name. There he is pursued by penal law persecution, but through a happy, though not over comfortable concealment, he escapes that time, and reaches London. Then comes a well drawn scene between him and his perjured sister. Her husband discovers it, and with deadly vengeance employs some of his minions to hunt out his brother-in-law. At the altar of God whilst giving the Holy Communion to the faithful gathered together by stealth in that "upper chamber,' Walter is taken. The description is admirable, and with her usual happy adroitness, the author has introduced the fact told by Challoner, in his life of George Nappier, priest, of that miraculous concealment of the consecrated pyx. But the chapters describing the torture-room, the trial, and "justice under good Queen Bess," and "Tyborne at last," are the chief features of the little work, which we only wish had been three volumes instead of one.

We give a short extract from the ninth chapter, as being a graphic example of the many scenes enacted in those days.

"In the centre of the room there was a large hoop of iron, which opened and fastened with a hinge. Walter was made to kneel on the pavement, and compress his body as much as possible. One executioner knelt upon his shoulders, while others passed the hoop under his legs. They then pressed the victim's body till they were able to fasten the hoops over the back. This done, they began to question the sufferer. One word, one name,' went on the tempter; and the reply was only a low moan, and sometimes the words would come out, Jesu, Jesu.' The blood gushed plentifully from Walter's nostrils, and the governor turned away in horror. Eliot went on unconcernedly.

"Tis thy own fault. the recusants whom thou free.' 'Dear Lord and me.'

Answer me but one word-the names of hast received to confession-and thou art master,' said the martyr, remember

One more extract we must give from this admirable "Sketch ere we conclude. It is again a happy adaptation of facts from the lives of missionary priests. The bill of indictment against Walter de Lisle has been read in court, and the prisoner is desired to answer guilty or not guilty.

"Walter attempted to obey, and to raise his right hand as he proclaimed his innocence; but his arms were so benumbed by the constant wrackings, that the effort was unavailing, and his hand would have fallen back had not Arthur Lisle, who was standing close beside the bar, leant over, and, taking the hand, so abused for the confession of Christ, he reverently kissed it, and then raised his arm as high as possible. Not guilty,' said Walter. I protest before God and His holy angels, before heaven and earth, before the world, and this bar whereat I stand, which has but small resemblance to the terrible judgment of the next life, that I am not guilty of any treason whatsoever.'

6

"What!' exclaimed the Bishop of London, wilt thou deny thou art a priest ?'

"Oh! my lord,' said Walter, looking at him, 'surely it becomes not one bound, as you are, to forward religion only, to interfere i a cause of life and death!'

46 6

To this the bishop made no answer; but, turning to the judge, exclaimed, 'A bag was found among the prisoner's effects; in it were a Roman Breviary, and a paper of faculties to hear confessions, and also to say Mass either above or below ground.'

666

Pray you, my lord,' said Walter, was my name mentioned in this paper you speak of; for if not, it surely is no argument against me?

"That is nothing to the point,' answered the Bishop, hotly; say out at once, art thou a priest or no?'

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'Suffer me, my lord,' answered Walter, 'to demand first one question of you, are you a priest?'

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"No,' said the Bishop.

"No priest, no bishop,' replied Father de Lisle.

"I am a priest,' replied the bishop; but not a massing priest.'

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But,' returned Walter, if you are a priest, you are a sacrificing priest, for sacrificing is essential to priesthood; and if you are a sacrificing priest, you are a massing priest, for what other sacrifice have the priests of the new law, as distinct from mere laics, to offer to God, but that of the Eucharist, which we call the Mass? If, then you are no massing priest, you are no sacrificing; if no sacrificing priest, no priest at all, and cousequently no bishop.'

The story now rapidly draws to an end. Walter de Lisle goes to Tyborne, and in imitation of his Divine

Master, reconciles a common malefactor who is condemned to die with him. Constance, Duchess of Bertram, the early, only earthly love of the martyred priest, whom he had renounced for the love of the Crucified, becomes a Catholic, and dies in the sacred retreat of a religious house. Isabel Regnier, too, finds mercy ere death numbers her with those who " once were.

We close the book, and say again, "it is too short." There lie, we feel convinced, hidden amongst unpublished manuscripts, old legends, and family traditions, a mine of material for bringing to light the iniquities of Elizabeth's reign. We read novels by the dozen, and weep our eyelids red over characters and scenes that never knew reality. The lies that are woven into romance by Ainsworth, James, Sinclair, and a host of novelists, are suffered to pass as true, are credited by the majority of Englishmen, and sucked down like honey. There have been no martyrs but Bible-readers, and Tyborne is a name unknown. And in these days when the religion of our forefathers is struggling into more vigorous life; now that mens' minds are rousing to a knowledge that popery is not darkness, that Protestantism is not built upon a rock; in these days when such minds boldly confess to the truth they have accepted, and draw down upon themselves all the odium, the suffering, slighting, ridicule, aye, and persecution that is the portion of Catholic converts, it is good to be reminded by histories like Tyborne, that "such as these have lived and died." The author has done a good work, and we thank her for it; too slight, too brief, may be; but it is the germ of what we hope may yet bud into fuller blossom on some future day.

NOTICES OF BOOKS.

I-The Life of Sir M. A. Shee, P. R. A. &c. By his son, M. A. Shee, Esq., of the Middle Temple, Barrister at Law. 2 vols. London: Longman and Co., 1860.

This work is dedicated most appropriately to the president and members of the Royal Academy; for, in truth, its chief importance is derived from its interesting narrative, occupying more than one half of the work, of the elec

tion of Sir M. A. Shee, as the president, and of the struggles of this great academy, and its vigorous (and we trust permanent) rescue from the spirit of misplaced economy, which, during nearly the whole of his career, portended its ruin. The intimate connexion of the Royal Academy with the person of the sovereign, and the indication of the Royal will by the appointment on the very morning before his election of his great rival to the office of Sergeant Painter to the king, render the selection of Mr. Shee, a Catholic artist, as creditable to the tolerant independence of the members, as it was to their judgment in the choice of the right man in the right place. The judicious character of their choice is fully established by the documents which are selected and published in the work before us; and they will well warrant a very careful consideration; and cannot, we think, fail to prove that Sir Martin may fairly be called the preserver of the academy. The zeal, spirit, ability, and perseverance with which he fought their battles are beyond all praise, and will be worthy of all imitation, should it unhappily ever again become necessary for this great institution to stand on the defensive. Another merit of our author is that he does what is, we regret to say, only tardy justice to the memory of the eminent architect, Mr. Wilkins, in regard to the construction and architecture of the building in Trafalgar Square on what the late Sir Robert Peel most aptly described as the "noblest site in Europe.' It is clearly established that the low appreciation by parliament and the government of the claims of art which thwarted the genius and crippled the resources of the architect, is alone responsible for the miserable failure which now taxes, and we trust successfully, the reconstructive powers of our more enlightened age. Were it not for the portions of the work to which we have referred above, we question whether the life of Sir M. A. Shee supplied sufficient materials for a biography of permanent interest. We greatly doubt whether his reputation as an artist, or poet, or private gentleman, entitled him to be estimated above a moderate average; and excluding his ministerial duties as President, the incidents of his career do not possess more than an ordinary character. To the literary execution of the work we fear we can award only a small modicum of praise. The author has certainly failed as a writer of terse and Saxon English, and has not