success.  In the more densely peopled districts, and amongst the middle classes especially, the failure of the thing was often most ignominious.  No sooner were the candles placed upon the “altar” than the congregation began to thin; and by the time the “obsolete” rubrics were all admirably observed, the priest faultlessly arrayed, the service properly intoned, and the entire “spiritual” machine set in motion, the people were apt to desert the sacred edifice altogether.  It was a pity, doubtless, that, when such admirable completeness in the ecclesiastical, equipments had been attained, it should be found that the machine would not work; that just when the Church became perfect, it should fail for so insignificant an accident as the want of a congregation.  Yet so it often was.  The ecclesiastical play was an admirable rehearsal, and nothing more.  Not but what there are many priests who would prefer a “full service,” and an ample ceremonial in an empty church, to the simple Gospel in a crowded one; like Handel, who consoled himself with the vacant benches at one of his oratorios by saying that “dey made de music sound de ner.”  And, in truth, if we adopt to the full the “High Church” theory, perhaps it cannot much matter whether the people be present or not; the opus operatum of magic rites and spiritual conjuration may be equally effectual.  The Oxford tracts said ten years ago, “Before the Reformation, the Church recognized the seven hours of prayer; however these may have been practically neglected, or hidden in an unknown tongue, there is no estimating what influence this may have had on common people’s minds secretly.”  Surely you must agree that there is no estimating the efficacy of nobody’s hearing services which, if heard by any body, would have been in an unknown tongue.

I repeat, that the people of England will never yield to Romanism, —­unless, indeed, it shall hereafter be as a reaction from infidelity; just as infidelity is now spreading as a reaction from the attempted restoration of Romanism.  That England is not prepared at present is sufficiently shown by the result of the recent agitation.  Could it terminate otherwise?  Was it possible that England, in the nineteenth century, could be brought to adopt the superstitions of the Middle Age?  If she could, she would have deserved to be left to the consequences of her besotted folly.  We may say, as Milton said, in his day, to the attempted restoration of superstitions which the Reformers had already cast off; “O, if we freeze at noon, after their easy thaw, let us fear lest the sun for ever hide himself, and turn his orient steps from our ungrateful horizon justly condemned to be eternally benighted.”  No, it is not from this quarter that England must look for the chief dangers which menace religion, except, indeed, as these dangers are the inevitable, the uniform result of every attempt to revive the obsolete past.  The principal peril is from a subtle unbelief, which,