e devices--to devices which to a looker-on
appear uncandid if not insincere,--in order to patch up a truce between
their reason and their faith. This insincerity is the blight of the
present age. It is far more serious than indifferentism, or than the
open mockery of the 18th century philosophers. So long as it lasts, no
deep, general religious regeneration will be possible. Be it remarked,
however, that Signor Fogazzaro himself is unaware of his ambiguous
position; being still many removes from Jowett, the typical Mr.
Facing-both-Ways of the epoch.

VII

In conclusion, we go back to the book as a work of art, meaning by art
not mere artifice, but that power which takes the fleeting facts of life
and endues them with permanence, with deeper purports, with order and
beauty. In this sense, Signor Fogazzaro is a great artist. He has the
gift of the masters which enables him to rise without effort to the
level of the tragic crises. He has also a vein of humour, without which
such a theme as his could hardly be successfully handled. And although
there is, by measure, much serious talk, yet so skilfully does he bring
in minor characters, with their transient sidelights, that the total
impression is that of a book in which much happens. No realist could
exceed the fidelity with which Signor Fogazzaro outlines a landscape, or
fixes a passing scene; yet being an idealist through and through, he has
produced a masterpiece in which the imagination is sovereign.

Such a book, sprung from "no vain or shallow thought," holding in
solution the hopes of many earnest souls, spreading before us the mighty
spiritual conflict between Medievalism still triumphant and the young
undaunted Powers of Light, showing us with wonderful lifelikeness the
tragedy of man's baffled endeavour to establish the Kingdom of God
on earth, and of woman's unquenchable love, is a great fact in the
world-literature of our time.

Cambridge, Massachusetts,

April 25, 1906.

THE SAINT

CHAPTER I. LAC D'AMOUR

Jeanne was seated by the window with the book which she had been reading
open upon her lap. She gazed pensively into the oval sheet of leaden
water slumbering at her feet, at the passing clouds, casting their
ever-changing shadows on the little villa, on the deserted garden, the
trees of the opposite bank, the distant fields, on the bridge to
the left, and on the quiet roads, which lost themselves behind the
Beguinage, and on the slantin