to believe in the earnestness of anything which runs so much into the picturesque."

Ainsley." And yet there seems a natural tendency in the human mind to embody its most beloved truths in images. And how natural is this! A thought once embodied in worthy imagery is saved from evanescence and recorded for ever. Imagery is a language of its own, by which we represent our truths-which might else die away-both to ourselves and others. And, surely what we two have settled to be true in the education of the young, is true also in the education of a community in any new or valuable ideas. We have seen that the imagination is the realising faculty-the power by which the mind lays hold of conceptions with distinctness and vividness. If you would plant your ideas deep in the soul of society, you must plant them, I am convinced, not only in the understanding, but also in the imagination. I verily believe, that one reason why so many of our English thinkers have made so little impression on the multitude is because they have refused the service of the imagination. But, let me remind you that the imagination is not only the realizing faculty, it is also, if we may use the expression, the affective faculty. Sir J. Mackintosh represents the moral sentiments as being in contact with the will-so we may represent the imagination as being in immediate contact with the emotions. The imagination is the portal through which, most especially, truths seem to find their way to the emotions. How often have we noticed together that there is scarcely any truth that has not to recommend it, very much besides its logical harmony with other ideas-that property which appeals only to the understanding. It has beauty, and grandeur, and mystery, which can be expressed only by images appealing to the imagination. How often have you said of the prosaic purists who would have us state our ideas in mathematical baldness, that they of all writers were the most untrue to truth, because they represent it as it never really offers itself to the properly awakened mind. Truth is surely the treowth, that which is trowed by the whole mind; and that is but a beggarly expression of it which causes it to be trowed only by a limited portion of the mind. As well might an acoustician pretend to convey a fitting conception of sounds by omitting to let their sweetness fall upon the ear, and, causing the eye or the touch to count the different vibrations of the strings

which produce them-as a thinker, to convey the wholeness of truths by sin ply presenting them to the logical faculty, forgetting the properties which can be known only through the imagination."

Marsden." Yes; but is there not a great difference between explaining one's meaning by imagery, and explaining it by tangible and visible forms?"

Ainsley." What is the difference, my dear friend? Such a tangible and visible form is but an image realized, perpetuated."

Marsden." But this opens the door again to the whole doctrine of symbolism. We shall be back into the middle ages directly."

Ainsley." It opens the door indeed to the doctrine of symbolism. It shows us that when we have real, living ideas which we delight to express-to perpetuate-to present again and again, to ourselves and others, we may adopt the help of outward symbols."

Marsden.- 166

But then, what limit do you perceive to this use of symbolism?"

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Ainsley. First, that the idea thus recorded be a great one, worthy of a symbol, and then, that the symbol be a beautiful one, worthy of the idea-really helping, and not encumbering it. Now, much that is called symbolism, in the present day, will appear to us to be wanting in both these conditions. The ideas it pretends to symbolise are often neither great nor true; and where they are both, the symbol is often trivial, far-fetched, and strained,-like the images of a bad poet, rather vexing and dissipating the mind, by detaining it away from the greater reality to notice the frivolous illustration."

Marsden.-"And is there not this danger in figurative illustration in general-that it distracts the mind from the reality signified, and leads it to rest satisfied in amusing itself with the form which signifies? Remember what Milton says: Then was the priest set to con his motions and his postures, his liturgies and his lurries, till the soul, by this means of overbodying herself, given up justly to fleshly delights, bated her wing apace downward and * * * * her pinions

now broken and flagging, shifted off from herself the labour of high soaring any more.'

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Ainsley. I certainly discern the danger; it is a danger

which belongs to the use of all language, or expression of ideas, whether prosaically verbal, figurative, or symbolic to the senses. There are always cold, narrow, trivial minds, which are stopped at the surface, caught slaves to the expression-the mere critics and dillettanti of form. And there are literary as well as religious formalists; and of the former, grammatical and logical formalists are as numerous as the formalists of taste and imagination. But must we, then, be faithless to the interests of noblest and most earnest minds, by depriving truth of its worthiest and most powerful expression, lest, peradventure, the shallow and little mind should idolize the expression? In ancient times the All-teacher did not shut men out from the sight of the sun, and moon, and stars, and all the other bright emblems of his nature, though there was danger-nay, certainty-of some worshipping these instead of the reality which they signified. The only way to prevent formalism is, not to annihilate the form, but to endeavour so to penetrate the mind with the idea represented, that it shall be too much possessed thereby to be led astray by its mere emblem."

Marsden." You seem to have thought much on this subject, and, I must confess, I have till now never considered it. Your doctrine does seem to flow out of our accepted principles. But, tell me, is it possible, think you, to do as you would attempt, and put a new meaning into old forms?”

Ainsley." Undoubtedly, when those forms are found to offer themselves as fit illustrations of our present living ideas. The forms of nature which every poet seizes to his use were pre-existing forms, created, the utilitarian will say, for other uses than poetic images. And the very forms which Christianity has used for ages were pre-existing in other religions or modes of social life, and were retained and modified because they were, consciously or unconsciously, found to express new ideas and feelings with which men were labouring. The forms of Gothic architecture, for instance, were the result of the mingling of different pre-existing styles and arrangements; yet that result was seized and developed by the Christian or, if you will, Catholic mind, as in some way or other harmonious with its own faith and worship. So we, if we are wise, may seize the forms which history has worked out for us that we find embody our ideas-and make them our own. Now this is what I want. In our religion there are too

many forms which have now no meaning, their old one having dropped out. We are mere mechanical imitators of the past, unable to enter into the ancient meaning of our forms, and yet putting no meaning of our own into them. Now, whatever forms we find existing that seem to offer themselves as fit symbols of our present living ideas, these I would have us retain and use; but all which have lost their ancient, and show no fitness for modern meaning, I would have us at once abandon. It seems to me there is one grand idea of our present deepest religion which fully expresses itself by the cathedral form, with its outer and inner courts, and that is the progressiveness of our higher culture,-that religion, or devotion, is its highest stage, and can only be effectually reached by passing through previous stages of moral and intellectual discipline. The form beautifully embodies the one all-harmonizing idea, which some of us have, and which the age wants, to inspire and guide its new educational life, namely, the inseparable unity between true education and religion. Another idea which may fitly embody itself in an edifice rising distinguished by grandeur and beauty, far above the ordinary structures of our daily uses, is the grandeur and beauty of the work of culture and worship above that of every other work of our human life."

Mr. Marsden was silenced, if not convinced, by his friend's reasoning, and by his aid the schools and the cathedral were erected.

The buildings in which the common work of the school was conducted, were placed just under the brow of the steep hill. They were hidden from view as you stood at the cathedral, but were reached in a walk of a few minutes by a descending path through shrubs, and trees, and ivy-clad rocks. Arrived there, you beheld another beautiful building in the Tudor style. The large court or play-yard in front was divided by a parapet from a descending slope laid out in lawns, walks, gardens, and shrubberies, terminating in Ainsley Park, which extended for another mile down to the river. To the right lay a deep and well wooded glen, where the walks wound beneath deep shades, by the side of a rushing brook, and then round a lake up to the parsonage on the opposite brow. Here resided Mr. Marsden, to whom Lord Ainsley had transferred the newly-created and well-endowed living, as well as the management of the whole educational institution.

CHAPTER II.

ELWOOD, a young student of education, whom the reader may regard as the reporter of this history and of the subsequent lessons, had long yearned for an opportunity of visiting the temple, and studying the education there given.

At last, with the needed leisure, there came an invitation, through the kindness of a mutual friend, from Mr. Marsden, to spend some time at his beautiful parsonage, visit the schools and the cathedral daily with him, and receive from him whatever assistance he could render in explaining the whole idea of the temple, and the principles on which the education connected with it is pursued. Elwood arrived at Ainsley parsonage after a long day's travel, but, nevertheless, soon forgot all sense of fatigue in the conversation of his interesting host. He found him nearly what he had anticipated-still in the prime of life, somewhat tall, and when standing, rather thin, but appearing when sitting, from a slight stoop, and considerable breadth of shoulders, somewhat larger than he was. His forehead was slightly bald, and his face, the delicate, though not sickly face of the thinker. There are some faces that seem to make one better by looking upon them. Mr. Marsden's was one of those. It was neither handsome nor striking, but in those large, quiet, dreamy eyes, on those lips, round which there seemed to hang some melancholy shadow of the past, there rested such an unworldly air of elevated thought, that it seemed to lift the beholder up into some quiet Sabbath region above the common level of our daily life. Yet, was not that countenance always grave. At moments there would break over it the light of the most genial humour, as its possessor mingled with more serious talk many a lighter turn and wittier illustration. There is surely, scarcely any greater delight in the world than these rare intercourses with superior minds, when we find ourselves in the presence of that master thought that has long solved our problems, worked out for itself our suspicions, and can, therefore, at once understand and answer our greatest difficulties. Such rare delight was the privilege of Elwood this evening, while he listened to those deep, soft,

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