ASYLUM CHRISTI.* WRITTEN from a liberal point of view, the

story bearing the above title deals with the dangers and persecutions which, during the latter part of the seventeenth century, environed the Huguenots of France, and by massacre, flight, and exile

• Asylum Christi : a Story of the Dragonnades. By Edward WIWI% M.A. It vols. London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington.

lost her so much of her best blood and so many of her stoutest hearts. The Dragonnades, as these impolitic persecu-

tions were called, drove vast numbers of "heretics " to the shores- of our own country, where, under the sympathetic rule of the- new Protestant Government, they found that refuge and protection

which won from them a new and grateful name for England— perhaps the proudest and most royal she has ever borne,—Asyluna Christi. To these refugees, and to the manifold talents of brain and hand which they introduced into our commerce,. the England of to-day is indebted for a large portion bOth of her present population and abundant industry, and it must therefore be remembered that the events recounted in the story before us are of national concern to English readers, and should not be regarded as belonging to foreign history, or as affecting interests apart from those of our own country. Romances drawn

from the times of the " Grand Monarque " are usually limited to chronicles of Court intrigues, political cabals among the fine gentle- men, squabbles for the right of the " tabouret" among the fine ladies, and an occasional excitement over the expulsion of a minister or the disgrace of a favourite. But the author of Asylum Christi cares nothing for life and incidents of such a nature ; he takes his theme from the truer and deeper history of the

heart of the nation, a history embodied in the progress of thought, of moral freedom, and of liberty of conscience, to obtain which Norman gentlemen made themselves poor, and the untrained bands of the Cevennes mountaineers fought to the death against the armies of the King. Events such as these leave their mark upon humanity and have an application for at time. It was lack of sympathy which emptied France of her-

middle-class during the Dragonnades ; it is lack of sympathy which ever impels all religious or social persecutions ; lack of that divine faculty which sees with the eyes of others, feels with their hearts, and if need be, abases itself to the level of their comprehension, not that it may lower itself, but that it may be- just with them. The demonstration of this truth must, we think, be the moral purpose of the present book, and those of its readers who see deeper than the mere recital of adventures will not• fail to discover that the spirit of the recital differs widely from that which animates most writers upon the Huguenot• persecutions. True to the principles of toleration, Mr. Gilliat„ although naturally enlisting interest on the side of the suffering

Protestants, represents so fairly the motives and religious opinions actuating the Catholics, that however strong may be the reader's. national predilection in favour of the Reformed faith, he will find reason in the pages of Asylum Christi to regard its opponents leas with anger than with sorrow. The Jesuit of the story, Father Beretti, schemer and persecutor though he is, is not the vulgar- Jesuit of most novels, but a well-bred, scholarly gentleman,.

whose virtues are his own, and whose faults are the faults. of his Order ; the Bishop of Coutanoes is as kindly and good-humoured an ecclesiastic as any spiritual peer on our own Bench ; and the two principal Catholic ladies.

introduced into the narrative are charming conceptions, drawn with rare delicacy and intuition. The single English character,

a young Protestant lady named Ethel Digby, is a noble specimen of true and refined womanhood. • In her the author shows us Kow-

a woman may and should be at once brave and tender, frank and modest, light-hearted, and of serious mind. Fearless in the right place and at the right time, ready and able to do gallant

deeds from which even men recoil, she has a gentle heart, and never displays her courage or her skill at the expense of a fellow-creature's pain. She is the girl to gallop out- alone on a bare-backed war-horse, through the rising tide of a

treacherous coast, in order to rescue a stranger who is sinking in the quicksands a quarter of a mile away,—an act full of deadly peril, undertaken for a purely unselfish end, but she is not the girl to let a thoughtless young " militaire " fire upon a living- inoffensive animal for sport or for display of prowess. We give quotations from the two passages in question :—

" Ethel did not kneel,—she could not pray just then. Once she looked to the brave Gustave, once to the menacing tide, as if she were measuring the space and comparing it with the time ; then she turned impatiently as if seeking some one with whom she could devise a means of rescue, and as she turned, she saw below, within the walls, some of the dragoons' chargers standing unsaddled, and fastened to the wall by their halters. As quick as thought she had unfastened two of the- horses, mounted one, and led the other at a trot down the narrow street

and out of the gates The dragoons hurrahed ; the two horses pricked up their ears at the familiar battle-cry, and laid themselves out at racing pace across the sands Marie was in a flutter of mingled pride and fear on her friend's account, and so earnestly did she throw herself into the situation, that, without knowing it, she clutched the Comte's arm tightly as she leaned forward over the wall. She has dismounted !' was the general cry of the crowd, whose excited *nerves were strung to their utmost tension. ' They have mounted the

stranger behind the Anglaise ; now, gallop for it !' Splash, splash ! gallop and splash ! through the first curdled waters of the flowing sea. They can hear the brave charger panting; only the pool to cross now, and she will clatter through the gates and up the paved street ! But there is a rush on the walls, people running to see if the charger will go willingly through the deep water. It was above his knees when ho started, but many a full wave has deepened it now. See ! she pulls him up as he nears it, for she ihas noticed the different look of the water—not foaming and bubbling, like the shallow waves she has come through, but still and green, and slow-swelling waves rise and fall upon its bosom. She pats his shoulder and speaks to him,—it is English ; but be puts one ear back. The breathless crowd above can hear her speak, then with slow determined foot he plods on knee-deep,—up to his gi.ths. Ha! a great swell rising from behind lifts him from his legs. 'Lean 'forward !' shout the dragoons. She has clutched the mane. That last wave has carried her away almost, but the water grows shallower, and in a moment Du Hamel and a score of his fellow-soldiers have sur- 'rounded her, and lifted her down all dripping, blushing, laughing !"

A splendid deed, graphically told. And here is its pendant :— " As usual, Du Hamel found himself close to Ethel and Marie, who with the rest had hurried out. The lieutenant was loading his piece, in case the creature should come near enough to be shot As it rose on the top of each long wave it presented a good mark for the sportsman, though the rapidly falling shadows somewhat blurred its outline. Du Hamel raised his carbine. Do not shoot, monsieur ; is it not a dog ?' exclaimed Ethel, grasping the young officer by the arm.

It is easy to take away a life. I always marvel how it is that you men are so fond of destroying innocent creatures, it seems to me, if you will pardon me, a childish cruelty.' The lieutenant bit his lip. When shall I learn to please mademoiselle ? I am for ever being taunted with my folly. Diable ! I will try and perform some Action which a man should do.'"

There is a delicacy of intuition and a true appreciation of nubility in the conception of Ethel Digby which may serve as a lesson to not a few modern depictors of feminine character. The writer, we think, must somewhere have met with such a woman, and he thas justly preserved her portrait for the world.

There are throughout the book many indications that its author possesses healthy instincts of sympathy with Nature's humbler 'children, and that he is not afraid to own their common brother- 'hood with man. In one of the early chapters of the first volume, an aristocratic stag-hunt terminates with the following pretty tittle episode, the moral of which is sufficiently obvious to render comment unnecessary :—

" As the Sieur's horse clattered on the stones that paved the road in front of the house, there was a momentary hush of voices, caps were doffed and curtseys dropped ; then an old man, stepping forward, ex- plained, in a hurried manner,—' Excuse me, monseigneur, we are selling off to-day when what do we hear but your lordship's horn sounding over the hill-side, and then tout-a-coup comes your lordship's stag, right into the centre of the ring, knocks down the salesman, and vanishes into the farmhouse ! Ah ! monseigneur, male c'est si drOle 'Et apt as? The stag,—where is it now ?' asked Cornelli. 'Ah, the stag ! that is what I was going to tell monseigneur: At the mention of the Count's name there was a stir of surprise. Andre was about to answer, when an upper window was flung open in the old farmhouse, and a grey- beaded old man, attired in black, and wearing large Geneva bands round his neck, leaned half-out, and waving his hand said, in a deep, quiet voice, 'It is I, monseigneur, who have shut the door against your huntsmen, and have hitherto saved the life of a poor hunted beast. In the Name of the God of Mercy, I ask you to deliver from death a crea- ture that bath shown wit enough to fly for shelter to a human habita- tion.' A scornful laugh burst from the bystanders, the huntsmen gave vent to indignant murmurs, the Count do Pontorson uttered an oath. Ethel looked at the Sieur, and seemed to plead for the stag. The gamins were muttering between their teeth, 'A bas les pcateurs ! ' This saved the life of the poor beast. De Cornelli, glancing round with flashing eyes, ordered silence, on pain of instant imprisonment Hunts- men, draw off your dogs. Monsieur le Curd, your plea for mercy is heard. Monseigneur, I am sorry the day's sport has come to so sudden a termination, but you will allow that we have given you a good gallop.'"

And again, when Henri Guillot, the hero of the book (by the way, is not " Guillot " the old French form of " Gilliatt," and can the author be writing a family history ?) revisits the deserted and ruined home of his banished Huguenot friends, one of the sights which there meet his eyes is thus touchingly described :—

" Moving away. I missed the hound Maintenon. I gave a low whistle, and he answered use with a whimper. ' Mon Dieu!' said I, he has found something,' and I ran back to see what it was, and there, to be sure, I found him licking something that lay upon the ground. I stooped,—faugh, what a sight ! There lay, drenched in gore, poor old Richelieu, his tongue out, his eyes bloodshot. Methinks he recognised ray voice, for he just flapped his tail once on the ground, and twitched his ears back,—aye, a dog's welcome ! It moved me sorely that I could do the old hound no service, yet 'tie something when you lie wounded to death to feel the gentle touch of a hand you know, and Richelieu seemed to appreciate my sympathy. Nay, Ethel, I do not wonder that you weep ; I myself felt the tears rise as far as my

throat, but I choked them down. Come, Mz intenon,' said I, ' we must leave the poor fellow !' And much ado I bad to draw him away ; he was for ever trotting hack to give his old playmate a last lick. Truly,' thought I,' in the love of the brutes must be re- flected the mind of God ! Dens est animus brutorum; as your dear father used to say ; and Richelieu was no heretic,—what did the fiends want to shoot him for?"

Such little touches of sympathetic feeling as these, in a book dealing unavoidably for the greater part with scenes of heartless slaughter and havoc, have a singular beauty of relief, as though, in the midst of a discordant battle of sounds, one should touch a single harp-string and sound a thrilling chord of unexpected melody. And these evidences of tenderness are the more valuable and interesting, because, as the whole style and manner of the work itself amply testify, the author of Asylum Christi is no mere sentimentalist, who has developed his heart at the expense of his bead, but a ripe scholar and historian. Yet so airy and playful a scholar is he, so full of quips and cranks and sly quaint- ness, that his Latin epigrams and his classical allusions, plentiful though they are, carry with them no air of obtrusiveness, no sus- picion of pedantry. If the present novel be, as we imagine, his first adventure into the realms of "light literature," it is a book of remarkable promise, and indicates the possession of a power and vitality on the part of its author which, in due time, may lead him to a high position as a reviver of that difficult and therefore neglected branch of art, historical romance.