Macaulay could say: "They abound with passages compared with which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance. They are a perfect field of cloth of gold. The style is stiff with gorgeous embroidery. Not even in the earlier books of the Paradise Lost' has he ever risen higher than in those parts of his controversial works in which his feelings, excited by conflict, found a vent in bursts of devotional and lyric rapture."

To this period belong, among Divines, a Bunyan, a Baxter, a Barrow, a Reynolds, a Hopkins, a Howe, a Chillingworth, a Tillotson-and others of hardly inferior note-among historians, a Clarendon and a Burnetamong philosophers, a Hobbes, a Cudworth, a Cumberland, a Henry More, and the famous Locke. On the literary merits of these writers we cannot enlarge.

Bunyan, to his claims upon the religious world, by his practical and devotional works, and by the devotional and spiritual character of the immortal "Pilgrim's Progress," has in the latter work made himself a name of the highest literary repute-at one bound, without education or learning of almost any kind, taking his place among the greatest names which adorn the national literature itself. I need not add my meed of praise to the Pilgrim's Progress," or point out its peculiar merits. It is the only allegory of any length that can be read without weariness, and that never fails to interest. There is nothing in poetry almost superior to many of its passages. It shines with a celestial beauty more than even the Paradise Lost.' The allegory is marvellously sustained, and yet with a simplicity as if Bunyan was telling a story of every day occurrence. Baxter has a wonderful copiousness, a marvellous realizing power of treating a subject, and a directness and force that will not let you off. Barrow is the greatest reasoner, and most discussive thinker, of theolo gical writers. His survey is vast, and he has an eye that takes in every object, the minutest in the field of vision. Reynolds is majestic; Hopkins intense; and terribly carnest; Howe throws the finest lights upon Scripture, that surprise by their novelty, and impress by their beauty; while he makes intellect so blend with the word that they interpenetrate, and result in a beautiful and mingled radiance. Some one said: if you wish to reason well, give your days and nights to Chillingworth. Tillotson is the thoughtful, practical, orator-carrying the charm of some of the idiomatic writers we have reviewed into the pulpit. His matter is more ethical than evangelical or theological. Clarendon has fine historical portraits, and is regarded as a thoroughly reliable, and generally an impartial, historian. Burnet is gossipy, but faithful and conscientiousheavy but interesting. Of the philosophic writers we may not speak: their literary characteristics are absorbed in their philosophic-Evelyn wrote some treatises on natural history-chiefly on Forest trees: he was the first scientific landscape gardener, and his own estate of Sayes Court set the first example to England of this delightful art. His diary, accidentally discovered among his papers, and published so late as 1818, is of great value even in a historical point of view, and is a sort of mirror to the characters and manners of the age. To treat such writers in such a summary or superficial way were unpardonable, were it not necessary with the space at our command, and with the peculiar object we have in

view. We perhaps, however, owe an apology to Prose for giving such prominence to Poetry-but as we have seen Poetry is more of an Art than Prose, and may fairly invite criticism, while Prose may afford to despise it, or at least regard it with an exalted independence. Prose, however, becomes an Art in the hands of an Addison, and from his time has fairly come within the province of the critic.

THE MYSTERY AT THE CHATEAU DES ORMEAUX.

BY J. G. BOURINOT, Sydney, Cape Breton.

TEN years ago-the exact date is a matter of no importance-I was living in the pleasant and picturesque city of Quebec, and among the acquaintances that I made soon after my arrival was the Abbé Letellier. He was connected with one of the educational institutions of the city, and was considered one of the best scholars in the colony. To him I was indebted, not only for numerous facts respecting the early history of Lower Canada, but for many interesting details of the manners and customs of the French Canadians. Under his guidance Quebec and its suburbs became as familiar to me as the old town where I was born. Even now whilst I write, I can see the tin-roofed buildings creeping up the sides, or nestling at the foot of that noble promontory, which overlooks the dark waters of the river that carries to the ocean, many hundred miles below, the tribute of the great lakes of the West. Again am I bathed by the mist of the lovely fall of Montmorency, tumbling in one mighty leap from the rocks, nearly three hundred feet above, or I am " coasting" down the sides of the immense ice-cones which are formed at the foot, and afford so much amusement to the pleasure-seekers of jovial Quebec, during the months that the Frost King holds the country in his icy grasp.

But I must remember that I have not sat down to describe the social or natural characteristics of the old capital of Canada. I have a short story to tell, not connected immediately with Quebec, but with a pretty village which is situated, a short distance from the city, on the St. Lawrence. Soon after my introduction to the Abbé, I stated that it was my intention, at the earliest opportunity, to visit some of the old French villages and see the habitant in his own home. Thereupon the Abbé very kindly offered to give me letters of introduction to some friends of his own, at the village in question,—which is called, like so many others in Canada, after one of the Saints so numerous in the Roman Catholic Calendar-and assured me at the same time that there I would see the habitant, very little altered from what he was last century when he came under the dominion of Great Britain Before I had availed myself of this offer, the Abbé called on me at my lodgings, and stated that it was his intention, two days later, to take a trip into the country, and that he would be very happy to have me as his companion. I gladly accepted the invitation, and made all the arrangements necessary to accompany him at the time agreed upon.

Early in the morning of a fine September day, when the sun was just rising above the surrounding hills and lighting up the tin roofs of the city so that they fairly shone, I was seated in the Abbé's study, a cosy apartment well lined with books in French and English. We soon took our places in the "Caléche❞—a sort of gig—of which the Abbé was to act as driver, and were on the point of starting off when a gentleman crossed the street quickly and handed my companion a letter, saying something at the same time in French, the purport of which did not reach me. I recognized him immediately as a young man who

had assisted me on one occasion in copying some old historical documents which I had hunted up in the Legislative Library. He had been introduced to me by the librarian, but I had forgotten his name. He was a first-rate penman, and had not only copied but translated the papers in an admirable manner. He was very young-not more than twenty probably-and some-how or other it struck me, when I noticed his retiring, subdued manner, that he was oppressed by the sense of some recent misfortune. I had intended questioning the librarian respecting him, but something occurred to prevent me carrying out my intention.

I had given you up," said the Abbé. "A moment later you would have missed us. With these words the Abbé bade the stranger adieu and touched up the horse. As we passed rapidly over the rough pavement towards the gate leading to the country, my companion observed:

"That young man has friends at the place to which we are going. Indeed he was, at one time, high in the favour of the Seigneur M. de Guercheville; but some differences have unfortunately occurred between them."

By this time we had passed through the gate and the Abbé's attention was directed to something else. We went through the pretty village of Beauport and caught a glimpse of Montmorency sparkling in the morning sunlight. The country through which we drove was dotted by neat villas and churches with their tapering spires and quaint ornaments; but the farms appeared mostly of small size-one of the results, in fact, of the Seigniorial system which had been abolished a few years previously. In several places we saw by the wayside little crosses where, at that early hour, devout habitants, chiefly women, were kneeling. We met many of the natives-the men in red shirts or blouses, and the women in caps and stiff homespun dresses. The villages consisted of one-story, whitewashed, red-roofed houses, most of them clustered round the church and the Cure's residence. Now and then we would see a large, pretentious-looking building of stone or wood, surrounded by tall Lombardy poplars, maples, or noble elms, and giving the idea of comfort and wealth. These generally belonged to the Seigneurs who so long exercised feudal rights over the country, and are still the wealthiest men in the rural districts.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at our destination, which was a large village prettily sequestered by the side of a small stream just where it joined the St. Lawrence. The largest houses were mostly of stone, and some of them gave the evidence of age-indeed the Abbé pointed out several erected immediately after the fall of Quebec. The Chapel was a fine edifice of gray stone, with a lofty steeple surmounted by a cross, and ornamented by an old fashioned dial and some curiously carved images in niches on cach side of the entrance. Only a few persons were moving about, but we could see the farmers busy at their barns, storing grain, or taking the cattle to water. As we drove we could see the Château des Ormeaux, the residence of Seigneur de Guercheville-a large, square building, over-shadowed by magnificent elms which gave the place its distinctive name.

At my request the Abbé left me at the house of a habitant, while he

went on to the College of the Curé-a pretty little building, almost covered by grape vines and Virginia creepers, and within a stone's throw of the Church. A Frenchwoman of middle age-with a goodhumoured face-received us with a courtesy and promised the Abbé to do her best to make us comfortable. Then my kind friend left me with the understanding that he would see me early the next morning.

I was soon at home in the snug, though certainly plainly furnished cottage of Jean Baptiste Marmontel, who also kept the Post Office of the settlement a fine evidence of his integrity and respectability. His knowledge of English was very meagre he could read it very well, however—and I found it more agreeable for both of us to fall back on my own stock of French, which had received large accessions since my arrival at Quebec. As the evening passed we were perfectly friendly with one another, and I heard all the news in the village.

As we sat chatting, a bright-eyed, rather pretty girl came in, and the old man introduced her as his youngest child.

"Oh, father," she said, soon after entering, "do you know what I've heard at the Château. Marguérite says some of the servants declare that the building is haunted-music and strange sounds have been heard, several times, in part of the house where nobody has been living for years."

"Old wives' fables, child."

"Stephanie and Marguérite both heard the music the other nightThursday, I think."

"They're both silly girls," replied the old mau, " for filling your ears with such nonsense."

The young girl, however, appeared still to have her own opinion on the subject, and followed her mother to another part of the house, to tell her more about it in all probability. The old man then became very communicative and told me many things concerning the Château and its inmates. M. de Guercheville was evidently more feared than loved by the people of the district, who still looked up to him as their great man. His only daughter, Estelle, on the other hand, was an undoubted favourite to use the expressive language of these simple folks, she was une ange," both for her personal beauty and her amiable qualities. Another favourite was one whom the habitant called Raoul, and from what he said I conjectured he was the young man I had seen that morning.

"But what is the reason," I asked, "that Raoul never comes to the Château?"

Raoul

"Ah, Monsieur, it is a strange story. He was, you must know, the son of a notaire, who long managed the estates of the Seigneurie; his mother died when he was only a few months old. As he grew up he was a great deal at the Château, and was much loved by Madame, who was a kind, gentle lady-she died eighteen months ago. and Estelle were playmates from an early age—just like a brother and sister; and when his father died he became an inmate of the Château, and was brought up as one of the family. He was educated by M. LeCure, who is a great scholar, and then was sent, at his own desire, to study law in the office of an avocat at Quebec. Now it is reported