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OUR CHRISTIAN CLASSICS.

IN the following pages the compiler must plead guilty to a certain amount of self-indulgence. It was his lot to be born in the midst of old books. Before he could read them, they had become a kind of companions, and, in their coats of brown calf and white vellum, great was his admiration for tomes as tall as himself. By and by, when he was allowed to open the leather portals, and look in on the solemn authors in peaked beards and wooden ruffs, his reverence deepened for the mighty days of the great departed; and with some vague prepossessions, his first use of the art of reading was to mimic an older example, and sit poring for hours over Manton and Hopkins, Reynolds and Horton. Indeed, so intense did this old-fashioned affection grow, that he can very well remember, when compelled to shut the volume and retire to rest, how night after night he carried to his cot some bulky folio, and only fell asleep to dream of a paradise where there was no end of books, and nothing to interrupt the reader. And although it is impossible to recall without a smile such precocious pedantry, the writer is grateful for tastes then formed and for impressions then acquired. Busier years have made those early haunts forbidden, but not altogether forgotten, ground; and now that, yielding to an irrepressible longing, he pays them a hasty visit, he will feel

himself less of the mere idler should the intelligent reader lend

him his company.

True, our excursions in these "old paths" must be very short; and it is not unlikely that treasures over which we have rejoiced as those that find great spoil may be regarded by others as great rubbish. It is even too possible that, on returning to well-remembered wonders, we may find the spell broken-the beryl converted into bottle-glass-the hoard of coins replaced by fairy money. But, like him whose childhood's home was beside some storied ruin, and who still finds a pleasure in revisiting the ancient nooks and crannies of what once was half his world-in screwing up the vertiginous stairs-in basking on the mossy pavement of the roofless hall—and in rousing up the echo which gave back the shouts of himself and his brothers a long, long time ago`; a benevolent fellow-traveller will forgive the enthusiasm with which he cannot entirely sympathise.

But two fears come over us. Our first, dear reader, is a fear that you will not have patience for our introductory number. And doubtless it is dry. But to make our survey of English theology anywise complete, there is need for these "origines sacra." The narrow keep or little sanctuary, which has subsequently expanded into a baronial castle or lofty minster, may be insignificant in itself, but it has an interest of its own. The lays and legends which formed the favourite lore of early English churchmen may not have much intrinsic importance; but every one will regard with mingled curiosity and affection the nucleus round which has arisen the mightiest fabric of Christian literature which any modern nation has produced.

Our other and greater fear is lest in these opening sentences, and occasionally hereafter, there should betray itself a sprightliness of tone offensive to sedate and thoughtful readers. We confess that when our task is agreeable,—and the present one is very much of a pastime,-and when those around us are greatly to our liking, our spirits are apt to rise. But even

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