of that troublesome faculty in man, woman, and child.  Poetry itself was, with most parents, a dram, to be given, like Dalby’s Carminative, as a pis-aller, when children could not possibly be kept quiet by Miss Edgeworth or Mrs. Mangnall.  Then, as the children grew up, and began to know something of history and art, two still higher cravings began to seize on many of them, if they were at all of deep and earnest character:  a desire to associate with religion their new love for the beautiful, and a reverence for antiquity; a wish to find some bond of union between themselves and the fifteen centuries of Christianity which elapsed before the Reformation.  They applied to Protestant teachers and Protestant books, and received too often the answer that the Gospel had nothing to do with art—­art was either Pagan or Popish; and as for the centuries before the Reformation, they and all in them belonged utterly to darkness and the pit.  As for the heroes of early Christianity, they were madmen or humbugs; their legends, devilish and filthy puerilities.  They went to the artists and literary men, and received the same answer.  The medieval writers were fools.  Classical art was the only art; all painters before the age of Raphael superstitious bunglers.  To be sure, as Fuseli said, Christianity had helped art a little; but then it was the Christianity of Julio and Leone—­in short, of the worst age of Popery.

These falsehoods have worked out their own punishment.  The young are examining for themselves, and finding that we have deceived them, a revulsion in their feelings has taken place, similar to that which took place in Germany some half-century ago.  They are reading the histories of the Middle Ages, and if we call them barbarous—­they will grant it, and then quote instances of individual heroism and piety, which they defy us or any honest man not to admire.  They are reading the old legends, and when we call them superstitious—­they grant it, and then produce passages in which the highest doctrines of Christianity are embodied in the most pathetic and noble stories.  They are looking for themselves at the ante-Raphaellic artists, and when we tell them that Fra Angelico’s pictures are weak, affected, ill-drawn, ill-coloured—­they grant it, and then ask us if we can deny the sweetness, the purity, the rapt devotion, the saintly virtue, which shines forth from his faces.  They ask us how beautiful and holy words or figures can be inspired by an evil spirit.  They ask us why they are to deny the excellence of tales and pictures which make men more pure and humble, more earnest and noble.  They tell us truly that all beauty is God’s stamp, and that all beauty ought to be consecrated to his service.  And then they ask us:  “If Protestantism denies that she can consecrate the beautiful, how can you wonder if we love the Romanism which can?  You say that Popery created these glorious schools of art; how can you wonder if, like Overbeck, “we take the faith for the sake of the art which it inspired?”