INTRODUCTION.

FEW PERSONS, I fear, will be predisposed to welcome with favour a book of controversial dialogues by an unknown writer. Dialogue, especially when it is used for purely dialectical purposes, is felt to be almost consecrated ground-associated, as it must ever be in the minds of cultivated men, with the profound speculations of the Academy, and with numberless winning graces of style and manner. It is proverbially dangerous for any but a magician to presume to touch a magician's wand; and I should not, perhaps, have ventured to face so great a risk, if I had not been fortified by the consciousness, that I am merely a bonâ fide reporter, not a composer, of dialogues. I did not choose my costume, it was chosen for me. The religious views which are here examined, were first presented to my mind in friendly conference; and whilst I have no reason for supposing myself capable of writing a sustained theological treatise, I know that I can reproduce with fidelity the substance of discussions at which I have been present, and in which I

have myself borne a part. Whether these conversations are worth preserving at all, is another question. My deliberate judgment is, that they are; that they throw a useful light upon some theological problems which now-more, perhaps, than at any previous timeabsorb and divide thinking men; and, above all, that they involve trains of thought which, if honestly pursued, must lead up to definite religious conclusions of vast practical importance.

It will, I fear, be necessary for me to say a few introductory words about my dramatis persona, but they shall be very few.-In 1859 we were all undergraduates at Oxford, in our third year. Our meetings were frequent-deriving their main attraction from the interest we took in discussing the various theological opinions which, at that time, exercised a powerful influence over the thoughts and reading of many young university men. In these discussions Basil, who was preparing for holy orders, represented the highest type of modern Anglicanism. Max and Leonard were allies. Unlike Basil, they were both in search of a creed. Earnest and honest, with a constitutional shrinking from all irreverent scoffing at sacred things, and with a deeply rooted conviction that life without God in the world is nothing but spiritual death, they were still doubters, qualified, it may be, by drill and training for the highest service in God's army, but without a leader, and without a flag. As for myself, I

was supposed to represent the old-fashioned Churchman. of fifty years ago; but I took a very small part in the debates, and, therefore, gradually came to be regarded as a sort of moderator,-a person to be addressed, and, if possible, convinced, but whose chief raison d'être was the want of somebody to listen, to keep order, and to see that every one had fair play.

Upon the breaking up of our life at Oxford, my friends and I went on different errands. Basil, of course, became a clergyman, and, faithful to the colours by which he had stood so manfully at Oxford, joined that section of the Church which is popularly called Ritualistic.' For some time he has been the Rector of a large, ill-paid incumbency in a manufacturing town, and has distinguished himself, even amongst Ritualists, by the splendour with which he celebrates the offices of the Church, and by the selfsacrificing devotion with which he abandons both himself and his limited income to the service of the poor. Leonard is at the Bar, where his career has from the first been one of signal success. Max also went to the Bar, but was tempted to leave it by the offer of an important post in the Civil service. Out of his office his name is seldom heard, for he has buried himself in obscure quarters at the east end of London, and there he lives upon one-tenth of his income, devoting the rest of it, like Job in his prosperity, 'to deliver the poor when he crieth, and the fatherless, and him that

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hath none to help him; to redeem him that is ready to perish, and to make the widow's heart sing for joy.' My own way of life may be imagined, when I confess myself to be what is commonly called a man of fortune;' but I am relieved from the imputation of idleness by some self-imposed duties, and by various literary tastes and avocations.

It is unnecessary to state what the circumstances were which, after a separation of twelve years, brought us once more together. Suffice it to say, that during last summer my friends were my guests at Canterbury. The scene of our conferences was either a seat under a cedar-tree in the garden of my house, or a bench, well known to Canterbury people, which, in the afternoon, lies pleasantly in the shade of the Cathedral. I should add, that, in the course of our discussions, we were often obliged to make references from memory to books which were not at hand. I have in all these cases looked up the passages in question, and given, in my reports, the exact words. It only remains to say that our first dialogue occurred in my garden, almost immediately after leaving the Cathedral, where we had spent some hours, and attended the afternoon service.

CONWAY MOREL.